I desperately need a spoiled Rich brat x Alastor smut LIKE THE THOUGHTS I AM HAVING ARE NOT IN THE BIBLE
Call Me Princess
Warnings: Explicit sexual content, dom!Alastor, brat!reader, light degradation, praise kink, edging, power play, biting, slight bondage, overstimulation. 18+ ONLY
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The first time you met Alastor, it was because you demanded it.
You were bored—dreadfully so—lounging on velvet chaises in your ridiculous penthouse suite that overlooked the smog-drenched skyline of Hell. You had every material thing your blackened little heart could desire: diamond-studded heels that sliced the throat of angels, gowns stitched from siren song, a custom-built closet big enough to house your entire entourage—and not a single soul worthy of entertaining you.
And so you told your assistant—some half-baked incubus you kept around to make your morning coffee and look pretty in tight pants—to fetch you someone interesting.
“I want someone... dangerous,” you purred, twirling a cherry between your fingers. “Not one of those try-hard imps or washed-up sinners with daddy issues. I want someone with bite.”
That was how Alastor, the infamous Radio Demon, ended up standing in your drawing room, a foxlike smile on his face and a cane in his hand.
“Oh-hoho! My, my, what a curious little creature you are,” he said, voice buzzing with static charm. “Summoning me like a common cabaret act. You must either be terribly brave... or terribly foolish.”
You tilted your head, already smiling. “Why not both?”
You were used to men simpering before you, licking your heels for the chance to taste your skin. Alastor did not lick—he snapped. His teeth were sharp, and he never let you forget it.
“You know, darling, there’s a certain kind of beauty in your arrogance,” he drawled during one of your little ‘afternoon teas.’ “It’s positively radiant—like watching a canary preen itself in a lion’s den.”
You licked crème brûlée from a golden spoon, meeting his crimson eyes without shame. “And yet you keep visiting, Alastor. So what does that say about you?”
He leaned in, uninvited, and placed his hand on your bare knee—his touch light, but his smile heavy with meaning.
“Why, it means I enjoy the taste of danger... as much as you do.”
Flirtation with Alastor was never innocent. There was always a blade beneath the velvet. A tension that pulled tauter with each conversation.
You weren’t sure when it shifted from idle amusement to obsession.
Maybe it was the night you attended Valentino’s masquerade, and Alastor cornered you in the garden, pressing you against a stone cherub while the moon cast silver over your skin.
“You like the attention, don’t you?” he murmured, his breath ghosting over your ear. “Wearing that little thing... parading yourself around like a spoiled debutante.”
You tilted your chin, defiant, heart pounding in your chest. “I am a spoiled debutante.”
He chuckled darkly, cupping your face. “Then let me ruin you, princess.”
But he didn’t kiss you—not yet. That was Alastor’s game. He’d bring you to the edge and then disappear like smoke, leaving you wanting, aching, furious with desire.
You started dressing just for him.
Scarlet silks that matched his eyes. Black lace gloves he’d once said made you look like sin wrapped in satin. Pearls he called ‘pretty little lies’ strung around your throat.
He noticed. Of course he noticed.
“You do so enjoy playing the temptress,” he said one evening as you reclined on your chaise, legs crossed just so, a glass of red in your hand.
“And you do so enjoy watching,” you replied.
“Guilty.” He grinned, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
Tonight, there was something different in him—more static in the air. His smile was strained, teeth too sharp.
“Careful, sweetheart,” he said, cane tapping against the marble. “You’re walking a very fine line.”
“And what if I want to fall?” you asked, voice low, eyes lidded.
He was at your side in a blink, grabbing your wrist, pulling you up until your body was flush with his. His gloved hand slid up your waist, over your ribs, stopping just beneath your breast.
“You think you’re ready for what I’d do to you?”
You leaned forward, brushing your lips just short of his. “Try me.”
You never quite made it to the bedroom.
Alastor pinned you to the wall of your own dressing room, lips ghosting over yours, his body caging you in. You moaned as his fingers dragged your hem up, baring your thighs to the cold air.
“You’re trembling,” he murmured, amused.
“I’m excited,” you snapped.
He laughed, then pressed a kiss to your throat—hot, open, possessive. “Spoiled little thing,” he purred. “You want everything handed to you, don’t you? Even this.”
“No,” you breathed. “I want you to take it.”
That did something to him. His pupils blew wide, a growl rippling from his chest. In a blink, you were spun around, cheek pressed to the mirrored wall, his body firm behind yours.
“So eager to be manhandled,” he crooned, hiking your skirt up further, gloved fingers sliding along the lace edge of your panties. “Tell me, princess. Do you like being touched by monsters?”
“Only if they know what they’re doing,” you rasped.
Alastor chuckled darkly, his lips brushing your shoulder. “Darling, I invented the art of ruin.”
He didn’t give you release that night. Oh no.
After winding you tighter than a violin string, Alastor left you panting, aching, dripping, while he smoothed his gloves and smiled like he’d just enjoyed a fine meal.
“Pleasure must be earned, pet,” he said, straightening his waistcoat. “And you, I’m afraid, have been very naughty.”
You threw a vase at him. He laughed like you’d gifted him a rose.
The next time you saw him, you weren’t wearing much of anything. Just a silk robe and a pair of diamond earrings.
Alastor stepped over your threshold with a smirk, eyes drinking you in.
“Planning to seduce me with luxury again?” he asked.
“No,” you said, stepping close, gripping his lapels. “Planning to break you.”
That was the moment everything snapped.
He shoved you back against the wall and kissed you—really kissed you—for the first time.
It wasn’t gentle.
It was teeth and tongue and punishment, the kind of kiss that branded your soul. His hands explored every inch of you like they’d been starved. Your robe hit the floor. His coat followed.
“I’ve had enough of your teasing,” he growled, lifting you like you weighed nothing. “You want to be a brat? Fine. But you’ll learn how I deal with brats.”
You laughed breathlessly, wrapping your legs around him. “Make me, Daddy.”
That did it. That broke him.
The static in the room spiked. Somewhere, the lights burst. But you didn’t care. You were too busy being pressed into the mattress, moaning his name like a prayer.
Hours later, you lay tangled in sheets and limbs, bruised, sore, sated. Alastor was beside you, shirt unbuttoned, suspenders hanging loose.
His smile was still there—but softer now. Less predator. More... pleased.
“You’re delightful when ruined,” he said, brushing a knuckle over your cheek.
You turned to him, smirking. “And you’re less insufferable after sex.”
He laughed, full-bodied and rich, and you realized... you’d never heard him laugh like that before. Not on the radio. Not with others. Just you.
“Careful,” he murmured, kissing your temple. “I might just keep you.”
You smiled, lazy and victorious, and curled closer to him.
“Good,” you whispered. “Because I’m not done with you yet.”
You didn’t sleep.
Alastor didn’t let you.
Every time your body began to settle, shivering under silk sheets and cooling sweat, he’d start again.
A touch on your inner thigh. A kiss behind your ear. A bite to the curve of your breast. A hand around your throat, firm enough to make your lashes flutter.
“Did I say you could rest?” he whispered, his voice slick and dark, like a phonograph whispering filth through velvet.
You whimpered, half-laughing, half-pleading. “You’re obsessed with me.”
“Oh, absolutely,” he purred, licking a slow line from your navel to the swell of your chest. “I’m positively possessed, darling.”
Your wrists were tied above your head with one of your own silk scarves, knotted too expertly for a man who claimed to “hardly dabble” in sin.
He hovered over you like a storm: teeth bared, grin permanent, pupils blown. A god of want. And he wanted you.
“Tell me something, pet,” he murmured, tracing a finger down your stomach. “When you dress like a whore, act like a brat, and look at me like I’m dinner... what exactly are you hoping will happen?”
“I was hoping,” you gasped, “you’d finally shut up and fuck me.”
The slap wasn’t hard. Not really. Just enough to shock the breath from your lungs. Just enough to make you throb.
Alastor leaned in, his hand tangled in your hair, his knee parting your thighs again.
“Oh, I am going to fuck you, sweetheart,” he promised, voice crackling like fire on old vinyl. “But not until you beg for it. Properly.”
Your pride screamed at you not to give in. You were a queen. A rich, spoiled, untouchable brat who’d never once begged for anything.
But Alastor wasn’t just anything.
He was everything you weren’t supposed to want. Wicked. Cruel. Clever.
And he knew exactly how to undo you.
He dipped two fingers between your thighs, groaning low when he felt how wet you still were. “Greedy little thing,” he said, curling them slowly. “Soaking just from a slap and a threat. You do love this, don’t you?”
You whimpered, rolling your hips into his hand.
He pulled away.
“Ah, ah. No touching unless I say so.”
You nearly sobbed.
“Please.”
Alastor stilled. His grin returned, slow and shark-like.
“There she is,” he whispered. “Say it again.”
“Please,” you said again, breathless. “Touch me. I—I’ll be good.”
He hummed approvingly, moving between your legs like a man starved.
“You’ve never been good a day in your life,” he growled. “But you’re mine now. And I take care of my things... even when they’re disobedient little sluts.”
He licked into you without preamble, his tongue talented, fast, merciless. You screamed—yes, screamed—as he devoured you like a man who hadn’t eaten in centuries.
Which, you supposed, was probably true.
You writhed against the ties, cursed his name, begged for more. But Alastor didn’t stop. Not even when your thighs shook. Not even when you came against his mouth with a sob.
You thought he’d pause. Let you catch your breath.
He didn’t.
He slipped two fingers back inside you, fucking them hard and deep while his lips stayed locked around your clit. The overstimulation burned. Your head rolled back. You came again, faster this time, messier, tears spilling down your cheeks.
“That’s two,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “And I’m not finished yet.”
“Y-You’re cruel,” you panted.
“Cruel?” he echoed, mock offended. “Darling, I haven’t even started.”
He flipped you onto your stomach, undoing your ties only to grip your wrists behind your back. You gasped as he bent you over, chest pressed into the mattress, ass arched.
“Such a beautiful toy,” he murmured, lining himself up. “Beg for it, princess.”
You gritted your teeth. He slammed in anyway.
The scream that ripped from your throat was broken, filthy. He bottomed out in one thrust, thick and stretching you open, no time to adjust. Just the raw, brutal sensation of being taken.
He didn’t hold back.
Alastor fucked like he did everything else—with elegance, flair, and terrifying focus. Each thrust was punishing, relentless, and perfect. He dragged cries from your lips, babbled praise from your mouth, slick heat between your thighs.
“Who owns you?” he growled, one hand in your hair, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise.
“You do,” you sobbed. “You own me, Alastor, please—please don’t stop—”
“That’s my good girl.”
He kept going until your legs gave out, until your voice cracked, until you were trembling and incoherent, drooling against your pillow.
Only then did he finally spill inside you with a guttural moan, hips stuttering, body collapsing over yours.
You woke in the crook of his arm, sore in the best way. He was already staring at you, shirtless, smoking something that smelled like cedar and burnt clove.
“You’re insatiable,” you muttered, half-asleep.
He chuckled, brushing a lock of hair from your cheek. “And you’re exquisite when ruined.”
You rolled over, straddling him, still naked and humming with bruised satisfaction. “So... are you finally done trying to teach me lessons?”