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inkykeiji · 29 days

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⋆₊˚⊹♡ alastor + dressing you in white

character: alastor warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, heavy pet/master dynamic, toxic relationship (condescension), blood + blood eating, slight gore, fem!reader words: 1.8k

alastor exclusively dresses you, his precious little pet, in white—white linen dresses, white silk pjs, white cotton undies—and you’ve finally figured out why.

“Alright, uh,” Charlie’s finger flicks the worn cardboard spinner in her hands, watching as the arrow lands on a splotch of colour. “Right hand, red!”

You’re in the parlour when it happens—a sudden, sharp pain that sears through your ribs as you bend over, a reactive hiss spit from between gritted teeth.

“Whats’a matter?” Angel teases, panting slightly. “Too short to reach your colour?”

Throwing a glance over his shoulder, Angel’s long limbs easily twist to obey the most recent order, both of his right hands finding red circles on the crinkled plastic mat.

“No, I just—”

“Holy shit!” his gasp cuts you off, all amusement eradicated from his face, dissolved by concerned shock. “You’re bleeding!”

“What?”

Glimpsing down at your body, your eyes are drawn toward the rapidly developing blot of scarlet, steadily seeping through white linen—a gruesome petal, irregular edges spreading, slow but ceaseless, eating away at the fabric.

A gurgle of disquiet sounds from the couch, voices tangling together, dulled to your ears as your gaze finds your Master’s.

But he doesn’t meet your stare.

Unblinking crimson eyes are focused on the flowering patch of blood, beginning to mottle as specks bloom around it. His chest rises and falls with even little huffs of air, ebony pupils gnawing at his irises as they devour the sight, his fingers twitching on his knee. Your gaze drifts back to the smeared blemish, the softest whimper dripping from your lips.

It’s beautiful.

Alastor was right; your blood does look ravishing against the crisp bright fabric—stark but artful, a miniature abstract piece being painted in real time as the substance transudes the linen, created by your body and his, together.

Now you understand; there is a reason why Alastor always dresses you in white. Especially when the abrasions he leaves have a nasty tendency to split and spill out.

Entranced, your fingers press around the sensitive flesh, feeling the open wound hollowed by your dress and staining your skin with a glittering crimson, a sharp breath sucked through the gaps of your teeth, flashes of speared agony radiating through the surrounding flesh.

Your sound of pain seems to snap Alastor from his revere, blinking twice as he comes back to himself, smile stretching wider with something sinister, worming between razored teeth.

“All right,” Alastor’s saying as he stands from the couch, bravado ringing strong and clear and firm over the chatter. “I’ll take care of this.”

“Are you sure? That looks, uh—”

“Why is she bleeding in the first place?”

“Alastor, maybe we should—”

“Come, pet.” Alastor disregards the chorus of concerned comments without sparing them a glance, holding an arm out to you in invitation.

Then you’re scampering to his side, instant, instinctive, allowing him to curve around you protectively, guiding you away from a collection of worried faces with a palm plastered over the injury.

“I told you not to play,” Alastor admonishes in a singsong while he guides you through the threshold of his bedroom

Leaning into him, you nestle your cheek against his ribs, catlike, hiding the blurry disappointment nipping at your eyes.

“But I wanted to.”

“You should’ve known better,” he chides, but his voice is tender, fingers rubbing soothing circles into your shoulder as he ushers you into his bathroom, depositing you on the rim of the clawfoot tub. “Your injuries are not fully healed yet.”

Your injuries are never fully healed, you want to point out. He is constantly engraving new cuts, scrapes, slashes, bites into you; there is never a moment where your body is not stained with Alastor in some way.

“I thought they’d be okay,” you say instead, forehead scrunched in petulance.

“Well, you thought wrong.”

“Who knew a game of Twister could be so strenuous,” you mutter to yourself, bottom lip wavering on the edge of a pout.

He snorts out a titter, mean and scoffing as his fingers pick through the first aid kit. “For such a smart little girl, you can be really stupid sometimes, can’t you?”

“What?”

But he refuses to elaborate, continuing on as if you hadn’t spoken at all.

“Clearly, Master cannot allow you to make decisions for yourself,” he teases, but his tone holds a twinge of sincerity, a vow of certainty.

This is the last time you’ll be making a decision on your own for a long time.

“Arms up.”

Immediately, you comply, arms held straight over your head, Alastor’s hands curling in the hem of your dress and pulling it from your body in one swift, fluid motion.

It stings, the linen of the dress ripped harshly from the steadily weeping wound it had been clinging to, a yelp cracking in your throat.

A halfhearted hush falls from your Master’s lips as he carefully drapes the soiled dress over the rim of the tub, taking a moment to admire the stain. A finger traces around the blotch almost affectionately, a tender sigh exhaled out his nose. Then his palms are finding your legs, pushing them apart and sinking to his knees, wedging himself between your spread thighs.

“All right, let Master see,” he murmurs, shoulders hunched a little as he becomes eye level with the gash, your spine straightening to present the tear to him.

Hesitant fingers prod at the surrounding flesh, now smeared with dried blood, inspecting the damage.

“You ripped open every single stitch,” Alastor chuckles quietly, his fingers tugging at the bordering skin and watching with macabre awe as the wound gapes open beneath the pressure, a thick torrent of blood oozing out.

A whine that sounds suspiciously close to his title sticks in your throat, half-stifled by your clenched teeth, and he looks up at you, sadistic amusement glimmering in his eyes.

“Does that hurt, sweetheart?” His fingertips press down on the tender flesh, now slick with blood, and shove together, completely sealing the wound, another cascade of crimson spilling past the seam.

“Master!” you cry out, fingers clamping over his shoulders to steady yourself, nails scraping against cotton.

The force of his touch increases, claws nearly sinking into the torn slash. “Answer my question.”

“Yes!” you choke out, head nodding in quick little motions. “Yes, it hurts.”

A soft hum vibrates at the back of his throat, sharp teeth hidden behind a wide, close-lipped smile. Leaning forward, he plants his tarnished hands on your thighs for stability, then runs his nose along the top of the cut, inhaling one deep breath, his entire ribcage expanding as his chest swells with it.

He stops, holds the scent in his lungs for a moment, lets it ferment into something sick and foul, lets it steep in the tissues and infuses them with you, before finally exhaling, the rush of air frigid against the bleeding gash.

“So pretty,” he murmurs, rubbing his mouth into the blood. “So fucking delicious.”

Tongue unfurling from his mouth, he traces, slow and cautious, around the edges of the wound with the tip, turning rusted blood watery and faded, grotesque streaks painted across your flesh. A noise claws at his throat, desperate to get out as he shoves it back down, tongue flattening over the slit and dragging, measured and meticulous, slick muscle soaking up the percolating blood.

“Alastor,” you nearly moan, dainty fingers curling around his antlers, the sudden touch evoking a growl from deep within his chest.

“Let your Owner clean it,” he spits against the injury, lips brushing it again, voice muffled by your skin.

And so, you do—because you’re nothing if not an obedient little pet girlfriend for your Owner, back arching as you press your ribs into his mouth, offering yourself up to him.

He laves over the laceration three more times, glazing it in a protective layer of his saliva, glimmering in the light with each of your shallow breaths.

“Better,” he breathes, the word nothing more than a wisp of air against the wet cut, chills skittering across your flesh.

“Th-Thank you, Master,” you whisper, fingers tugging on his antlers a little, desperate to get him closer. “I—It felt nice.”

Crimson eyes flick up, his gaze veiled by heavy lids as he laps at his lips, cleaning them of excess blood, some of it streaked along his chin.

And, oh, how breathtakingly beautiful he looks coloured in strokes of you.

Hips twitching a little, your thighs tense around his torso, and he looks down again, eyes honing in on the drenched lace between your legs, panties molding to your cunt and accentuating every dip, every bump, every contour.

He chuckles at the sight—something dark, something decadent, something demeaning melting on his tongue.

“Well,” he pants softly to himself, pride tweaking the edges of his smile. “Would you look at that.”

A finger traces the outline of your cunt—over your hood, along your lips, circling your hole and just barely pressing into it, watching with a morbid fascination the way it flutters against his finger, delicate material dipping, trying to siphon his finger into you.

“You would like that, you nasty little girl.”

But he’s aroused, too, his cock straining eagerly against his trousers, a direct result of your sweet blood still tinging his tongue, your precious yelps of pain still ringing in his ears. Saliva pools in the dips of your mouth as you stare at it, thighs flexing on either side of him again, another gush of warmth flooding the apex of your legs.

“Master, you’re—” you begin in a stringy, needy whine, swallowing thickly. “You—You’re…Can we…”

“Can we what?”

A knuckle finds your chin, drawing your eyes back to his, a thumb gripping the point, inhibiting you from fleeing his invasive stare.

“Come now, it’s rude not to finish your sentence.”

Pricks of embarrassment erupt across your face, eyes teetering on a wince as you force the stubborn words from your tongue, question trembling.

“Can we fuck?”

Crimson searches your face, pupils pulsing with a vile sort of voracity, consuming his irises bit by bit as he contemplates. His gaze is cutting, slicing into you as it torturously pulls apart your features and examines them one by one.

And you—you let him, open and willing and vulnerable and raw as you bear your soul to him, as you rip yourself open for him, as your fingers dig through meat and blood and bone to get to your core, offering it to him wholeheartedly.

“Perhaps,” he finally responds, reaching for his surgical needle and thread. “I’m going to re-stitch this now,” he tells you, voice a touch huskier than before. “If you are well behaved as I tend to the wound—no squirming, no complaining—I might just give you what you want.”

His stare holds your own, an eyebrow raising, imbued with inquiry.

Are you ready to play?

Oh, he isn’t going to make it easy for you, but you’re up for the challenge.

#alastor x reader #alastor x you #alastor x y/n #alastor smut #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel x you #hazbin hotel smut #tw:blood

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inkykeiji · 16 days

Text

you make a mess of me

character: alastor

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, fem!reader, blood + blood eating, periods, dry humping, biting (hard enough to break the skin), toxic relationship, noncon, possessiveness + entitled behaviour, pet/master dynamic, unintentional overstimulation + multiple orgasms, unrealistic amount of period blood, slashing/cutting the skin, alastor is getting off on the pain he’s inflicting on you

notes: this fic is extremely dead dove and involves alastor eating your period blood among other things. it gets gross; please read the warnings and stay safe! | title credit: lose control by teddy swims

words: 3.8k

The first day of your period is always, by far, the worst.

Because the first day of your period is the heaviest, the bloodiest, and, according to Alastor, the tastiest.

Which translates to: Alastor spending the entirety of the first day with his head buried between your legs, hungrily slurping blood from the most intimate part of your body, large claws curled around your hips and pinning you to the mattress, rendering you completely helpless beneath his grasp—defenceless against his vicious tongue, trapped at the mercy of his insatiable addiction.

You’ve lost track of time at this point, lost count of how many times he’s unintentionally made you cum, lost consciousness more than once, elusive and slipping from between your fingers, an intangible mist that you can’t seem to keep a solid grip on—something that melts in the heat of your palms as you squeeze too hard, too desperately.

But that promise of pleasure always seems to draw you back into the light of wakefulness, presses gasps of air into your lungs and shocks your mind from it’s muddled fog.

It’s building once more, a dense heat roiling low and slow in the pit of your stomach as it furls in on itself in an almost lazy manner—a ball of fire that grows hotter and heavier, pulses larger and larger as it expands, flares with every swipe of his nose against your swollen clit, singeing surrounding organs, consuming bordering tissues, boiling the blood in nearby tangles of vessels—until it stops, dims, dies once more, withering away to simmering little embers, yearning to catch flame all over again.

His unintentional edging eats away at your tattered sanity, renders you delirious for release, little fingers tangling in his bangs and yanking, a pitiful attempt to grind his face into your cunt, to catch your slick little nub on the tip of his nose.

The laps of his tongue, once soft as velvet, have turned rough against your licked-raw cunt, every drag of the wet muscle along your slit more painful than the last, sending tiny spikes searing through your gut.

It hurts, but it doesn’t stop you from being a greedy little thing, craving another orgasm, for that sweet, sweet relief that rushes through your exhausted body, that releases the tension building in your muscles, each graze against your clit coiling fibres tighter and tighter until your entire body has gone rigid, aching for reprieve.

For what it’s worth, Alastor doesn’t really seem to care—if anything, he encourages it, the hands on your hips aiding in your movements as your pelvis rolls up, the motion pushing another rush of warm blood from your hole. His tongue wiggles further inside of you, curls into a hook in response, siphoning the substance from your core into his throat with keen little growls exhaled out his nose.

It turns him into something primal—past animalistic, past inhuman, something ineffably sinister, all of his senses sharply honed on his singular task, antlers sprouting branches the longer he eats from you, the worse the pain grows.

He eats your blood like a starving man, with such vigour you’d think he’s never tasted something so delicious, obscenely drinking from the center your body—a delirious attempt to drain you of your essence, dangerous teeth just barely sealed behind puckering lips and an avid, twisting tongue.

It sounds disgusting, the crude smacks of his lips and working of his tongue echoing throughout his bedroom in thick squelches, his chin and his cheeks and his mouth drenched in your combined fluids—blood and spit, hurt and hunger.

It’s ritualistic in a sense, the way his tongue sprawls, swirls into your body, cups, and then darts back, scooping blood and tissue down his throat before forming a point, the tip circling the dips and contours of your cunt, sure to clean any remnants his messy eating might’ve left, before repeating the cycle over again.

Anguish turns stifling as he smothers himself with your core, time gone syrupy as it drips by dense glops, unhurried and unavailing. His tongue feels coarse against your once silky skin, now abraded by his incessant feeding, his methodical motions having caused tiny fissures to sprout along your hole.

Any faint flickers of pleasure have been completely eradicated now, morphed into torrid cinders that scorch your skin, pitchy wails scratching at your chest.

Something suspiciously similar to stop! shatters in your throat, your fingers burrowing further into his hair, knuckles rooted against his scalp right next to the base of his antlers and pulling.

He growls against you, the sound vibrating deep within your cunt, little tremors that snuggle into your flesh like worming maggots, a moan prying past your lips. A large palm flattens between your hip bones and presses down firmly, eliciting a squeak from your chest as it tries to milk your uterus from the inside out, desperate for more blood.

Another sound of frustration echoes behind his sternum, the fingers curled around your hip flexing, his talons further puncturing your flesh.

It isn’t enough for him.

Because, really, when has it ever been? When will it ever be? Your Owner has always been selfish when it comes to his precious pet.

There are already tears leaking from the corners of your eyes, streaming down over your temples in shimmering little trails. Droplets of salt glitter, suspended in spiky lashes, as your eyes flutter, blinking rapidly to clear your bleary vision and dislodging more water in the process.

Wordlessly, his head lifts from the apex of your thighs, elbows dimpling the mattress as he uses them to hoist his torso up, nosing along the junction of your hip with one deep inhale and letting the scent of fresh blood, trickling from the tiny piercings his claws have left, lead him.

His tongue, pigmented a dark crimson, unfurls from his mouth to flatten against your flesh, bathing over the little wounds in slow, deliberate laves. But that isn’t enough, either, a starving snarl ripping from his chest as he repeats the action, this time dragging his lips along, too, using them to encourage another bout of blood from the cuts as he sucks, hard.

It’s so strong, so forceful it has tiny tangles of vessels snapping beneath the skin, spilling enticingly into the surrounding tissues. A cry rips from your throat, back bowing off the bed as a bruise rapidly develops under his mouth, yet another mark he stains into you.

But staking such weak, insufficient claims isn’t what he’s here for today.

Something dark rumbles in his chest, the type of greed that’s borne in his core and nurtured by obsession, that rattles his ribs as it aches to escape, to consume more and more and more.

It’s tormented by the blood trapped below the barrier, ichor that teases him, taunts him, tests him—and, well, that’s just not fair, is it? How dare your body do such a cruel thing to its keeper; how dare your body withhold something that belongs to him.

Sharp teeth sink into supple flesh with zero resistance and scrape, effortlessly removing the first layer of skin and freeing the blood pooling beneath it. His avid tongue instantly sops up the substance, smoothing over the wound and pressing down powerfully, procuring another torrent of crimson.

But his rapacity still remains unfulfilled—if anything, it only grows in its appetency, that splash of blood serving as nothing more than a canapé.

He needs something deeper.

With another slow, vast sniff, he trails the tip of his nose along the expanse of your body, hunting for something thick and pulsing and allowing instinct to guide him, ears pricked and tuned into the frequency of a steady, strong pounding—and he finds it just above your belly button.

Stopping, he licks the area once—a long, broad stroke of his tongue, gliding across your skin and leaving a viscid smear of saliva in its wake.

Then a claw is puncturing your skin, slicing across your stomach in a controlled line, scarlet immediately seeping from the laceration, the tip of his talon missing your aorta by a hair.

It burns, a yelp sticking in your throat, tangling on a sob as you cough around it, spine arching instinctively. Cooling tingles skitter across the new incision as he breathes out a single puff of air, admiring his handiwork, before his mouth latches over it.

“Alastor!” you sob out, fingers curling against his shoulders and tugging, his name a garbled mess on your tongue. “What are you doing!”

“Hold fucking still,” he growls into the fresh injury. “Or I will rip your aorta out with my teeth.”

You know he won’t, know he values you far too much to kill you—his precious pet, his perfect little plaything, his prized possession—but that doesn’t mean that he won’t bring you alarmingly close to death—again.

Even still, and as fun as that is, he’ll never fully go through with it.

Because you’re so fucking obedient—he’s never found someone so dedicated, so devoted, so fucking desperate to please him, to go above and beyond and make him proud, all without a contract.

And he’s never giving that up.

Besides, he’s grown quite fond of you.

Predictably, you obey his order the instant it leaves his lips—never a single wisp of defiance drifting through your murky brain—squirming calmed, even as pangs quiver through your body.

He’s still for another moment or two, letting that delicious anticipation build, before he dives back into feeding, digs his tongue into the wound and tears it wider, another gush of warm blood rushing to fill the new gaping.

Another sound of pain cracks through his bedroom, jagged and crisp, and he nearly whines into your stomach, the wriggling of his tongue turned vicious.

It burrows into the wound, tip hooked as it plunges through the sticky substance, writhes under slippery tissues and broken capillaries in it’s quest for more, the rough voraciousness of it all sending blistering spears shooting through your stomach.

You’re well past the point of sobbing now, unintelligible pleads spilling past your lips soaked with spit, garbled and howled, but your nails scrape at his scalp, fingers tugging a little on his antlers, a moan vibrating against your flesh as his hands wrap around your hips again, holding you still.

He feeds on the stomach wound until the blood ceases to flow freely, until it requires too much effort on his part, blood working hard to begin congealing the gash only to be split open by his siphoning, over and over and over again.

Only then does he continue his exploration, scouring your body, nose curving over your ribs and outlining your breasts as claws slit superficial little slashes in your flesh, tongue swiping over them in experimentation, until finally he finds another heavy throbbing, right above your collarbone.

His breath, pushed from his lips in harsh, fast little pants of hunger, is infused with your blood, the stench of bitter copper stinging your nostrils as it wafts across your skin. It collects in damp little droplets against your neck, his tongue once again unfolding from its cavern to press, hard and flat and wide, against your jugular.

There’s no licking this time, no slow haul of the slick muscle to glaze the canvas before the inevitable incision, just his tongue held smooth and still pinned over the vein, feeling the steady rush of blood. Saliva drools steadily from the corners of his mouth, drizzling onto your chest in thick glass cords, tinted pale pink.

A shiver scampers up your spine as his irregular huffs ghost over your wet skin, chills erupting across your flesh. For a singular instant, everything is still, stagnant—your breath and his teeth and those wandering claws, the only constant being the pulsating thrum of your blood beneath his tongue—before his fingers are moving again, one palm curling around your neck to hold you still as a keen talon slices into your flesh once more.

A scream curdles in your throat, stifled by the hand still collaring your neck, his mouth latching over the wound to lap at the blood. Searing pain radiates from the site, shooting along your jaw and shoulder, and your spine arches off the mattress, struggling beneath his body.

“Stop, stop, stop,” you’re sobbing out, the plead spilling from your lips in a continuous sticky stream, letters tangled in threads of spit. “Please, Al—Master, please!”

Thunder rumbles up his throat and spills into the wound his tongue is prying open—a warning, or a denial, you can’t be sure—as his hips keep you pinned to the bed, his thighs spreading yours wide, his knees sinking into the mattress.

You’re trapped under him, helpless and vulnerable to his vicious attack as his lips pucker and his tongue wiggles and his teeth scrape, collecting you beneath their edges. The agony is excruciating as he devours you, as you thrash and cry and tremble pathetically, your efforts entirely in vain and failing to deter him at all, your ceaseless struggling barely a hitch in his routine.

“Please, please, please,” your chanting, bloated tears weighting your lashes, lids fighting to stay open. “Please, Sir, it—it—Stop!”

A roar ruptures in his throat, rough and loud, and he yanks himself away from his meal, raising his head to glare at you.

“Have you forgotten your purpose, pet?” he spits, flecks of your blood splattering across your cheeks, a smatter of crimson freckles. “Hmm?”

A large hand twines around your jaw and squeezes, hard enough that your cheeks hollow and your mouth puckers. His claws dig into your face as he forces you to look at him, his nose brushing your own.

“Does Master need to make you write it out a hundred times, again?”

“No,” you weep, head trembling in a poor imitation of a shake, still locked in place by his bruising grip.

“Then what is it? Why do you exist?”

“To serve you.”

“How?”

“In—In any way you want me to, Master.”

“Exactly,” he purrs, but the word is razored, teetering on the edge of vitriolic. “So be a useful little pet, like you’re supposed to, and let Master take what he owns, what he’s owed.”

And so, you do.

Because you’re nothing if not faithfully, blindingly obedient to your owner.

His grip relaxes, and your jaw raises, neck bowing off the sheets, offering itself to him unabashedly—your body, your blood.

Something nefarious spreads across his face, stretched smile curling at the edges as it reaches his eyes, a malicious little melody playing on the back of his tongue.

He takes a moment to admire your sheer obedience, your willing and unwavering faith him him, a claw tracing the newest injury, leaving behind a shallow outline in your flesh.

A whimper falls from your lips, but you don’t dare to look away from him, even as the tears lacquering your eyes finally overflow again, streaming down the sides of your head to collect in your hairline.

“Good girl,” he says, and although his voice is soft, the compliment is sharp—mean, mocking, hardened by a layer of patronization.

“Th-Thank you, Sir.”

And then he’s plunging his tongue back in, mouth sealing over the wound tightly, another shrill squeal clawing at your throat. Yet despite the white-hot pain it inspires, his saliva stinging the new contour, you do your best to hold still, to be good, body quivering with the immense effort.

“Christ,” he mutters, the word muddled with blood as he rubs his mouth into the cut. “Your suffering is so fucking delicious.”

His statement is so sick, tinged with a vile sort of pleasure that churns your stomach, acidic bile collecting on the back of your tongue, the revolt so overwhelming that you almost don’t feel it, twitching against your hip as it fills with blood, hot and hard and straining as his pelvis beings to shift, rutting in irregular little motions.

For a moment, you can barely believe what’s happening, mind numb with terror and shock. For a moment, your mind refuses to believe what’s happening, scrambling to scrape together some sort of patchwork excuse for this behaviour—maybe he was just moving to get more comfortable; maybe it meant nothing at all—but the rutting fails to cease, uneven and unskilled, a moan shuddering his breathing, and your body freezes beneath him.

If he notices, he doesn’t seem to care, the rocking of his hips never slowing, another muffled sound of pleasure soaking into your skin.

They’re sweltering against your neck, those little noises of ecstasy, every soft moan and cracked whine and hoarse grunt huffed out damp and humid, beading in little dewdrops on your marred skin.

“M-Master,” you gasp before you can stop yourself, wiggling a little beneath him to confirm your suspicions and whimpering when his cock throbs in response. “You—You’re—It’s—”

“What?” he pulls back slightly, chest rising and falling against your own with ragged little breaths. Something smug plays with the corners of his smile, twinkles of sadism shining bright in his eyes.

He’s going to make you say it.

Your gaze flees his own—it’s too intense, eyes watering with a fresh bout of tears, pins of embarrassment pricking your cheeks. “It’s—”

“Look at me when you’re talking to me.”

Immediately, your stare snaps back to his, wide and submissive.

“It’s hard,” you force words from your tongue, the admission fading to a shameful whisper, face twisting in a wince as if the letters slashed your tongue.

“What is?”

“Master—” you flounder, head shaking a little.

“Go on,” he urges, grinding his hips into yours, slow and purposeful. “Tell me. You’re a big girl.”

“Your cock,” you nearly whine, eyes squeezing shut, fat tears leaking from the seams. “Your cock is hard.”

“It’s your fault, you know,” he murmurs, tongue rolling over your cheek thoughtfully, leaving watery streaks of blood smeared in its wake, mopping up the salt and swallowing it down, growling a little. “Crying out in pain like that.”

“Alastor,” you sob out, head shaking in messy little motions. “I don’t—I’m not—”

“It’s quite cute, the way you’re trying to act as if you don’t love this,” he muses airily, another gust of tangy metal nipping your nose as it wafts across your face, his forehead resting against your own.

Inhaling deep and measured, his ribs expand against yours, sharp bones digging into soft flesh, a gentle tremor coursing through his form as he nestles his face into your own, noses bumping together.

“You can’t fool me, pet. I know you too well.”

His thigh hitches higher, wedged tightly between your legs, shoved up against your cunt, the abrupt action eliciting a gasp, your eyes snapping open to search his own.

“I can smell your arousal, silly,” he says, voice low and smooth, nose tracing along your soiled cheek until his lips are at your ear. “In fact, it’s so strong that it’s overwhelming your blood.” A chuckle reverberates along the cartilage. “I know my pet is a nasty little girl.”

Barbs of humiliation flush through your body, fiery and stabbing through your veins, and he laughs again, a dark and wicked strain that vibrates from his chest into yours.

“Now,” he begins, the word slimy against your ear. “You’re going to be a good little girl for me and let your Master finish his meal.”

It isn’t a question, nor is it a request—it’s an order, and it’s an order he knows you’re desperate to obey.

Because, really, you live for him now, don’t you? Live to please him, to serve him, to make him proud. Because you’re nothing without him now, aren’t you? All of your self-worth wrapped up in your Owner, all of your purpose derived from him, all of your validation sitting heavy on his tongue, desperate to suck those vague compliments and shallow praises from his lips, to swallow them whole, always ravenous for more.

Because you’re just as greedy as he is, in a way. And he knows it.

And he loves it.

His hand wraps around your throat again, pressing his claws into the delicate flesh slow and forceful and procuring new trickles of blood, cascading down your neck in ribbons of crimson.

A groan spills past his lips as he nuzzles his cheek into the tiny wounds, daubing his face with you while his hips begin to increase in speed and force.

Starched cotton chafes the wound on your stomach as he humps away at you, the thin, firm muscles sculpting his thigh flexing against your cunt with each of his movements.

“Ow, ow, ow,” you’re weeping, stuttered by the hiccups catching in your chest.

“Aw, does it hurt? Huh?” he lifts his head slightly, glowing eyes scouring your face with voracity. “Am I—f-fuck—hurting you?”

The rolling of his hips judders a little as you bawl out a confirmation, gnarled and weighted with spit on your sloppy tongue, a whiny hiss sucked through the gaps of his clenched teeth.

It all hurts so much, the grinding of his shirt against the slits he’s carved into you and the rubbing of his thigh against your sensitive cunt and the digging of his tongue into his newest infliction.

It all hurts so much, but you don’t shove him off, don’t push at his shoulders or kick at his hips, arms winding around his shoulders and clutching, a leg entwining with his own, knee hooked over the back of his.

Sharp teeth bury themselves in the fresh slash, persistently oozing on your neck right above your jugular, and gnaw at the borders, raw skin splitting further beneath their razored edges. Another scream gurgles wetly in your throat, mangled by a sob, his responding gruff sound of pleasure seeping into the wound he’s feeding on, white-hot and buzzing.

The hair framing your temples is saturated with dense salt, the strands beginning to crust and dry in flat little knots against your skin, casualties of the beading sweat and ceaseless tears.

The flesh of your cheeks feels heated and sore, gone tight from the thick streams of dried tears that stain them, tiny remnants of salt streaking your face.

He must be getting close already, snarls panted out against your shoulder, uncoordinated movements accelerating with each noise you make, faster and faster and faster until finally his teeth sink into your unmarred shoulder, a shriek piercing the atmosphere as his hips stammer, grinding hard, and then still.

A vicious shudder courses through his entire form as his cock throbs, body rippling beneath the force of it. Hot cum fills his trousers, sticky and thick and so, so much, viscous dollops leaking through the fabric. It’s tacky and blazing against your hip, the little jolts of his pelvis rubbing it in crude bands across your skin.

Your fingers tighten, clinging to him, desperate for the comfort only he can bring, even as his strong jaw flexes and his teeth burrow deeper into soft flesh, embedded at least an inch or more, his tongue laving in messy strokes over the blood-slicked skin bunched between his lips.

“Master, Master, Master,” you’re sobbing into him, his breath harsh and stinging against the bite.

Everything aches, muscles pulled taut from agony and anticipation, heavy with tension. Tiny pricks of pain erupt across your body in waves, conjured with each brush of his clothing. Sobs and screeches have left your throat ripped open, every rush of air feeling like an inhalation of razor blades.

You’re still speaking, still chanting out his honoured title, but your ears have gone numb, your own voice unrecognizable, nothing more than a distinct vibration in your chest.

It’s only when his cock is beginning to soften that he finally dislodges his teeth from your body, licking over the carvings of his mouth once, twice, three times for good measure before his head raises to look at you.

The sight is stunning, kicks the breath from your lungs and the fog from your brain, attention suddenly honed on him, tuned into his frequency.

Strokes of crimson paint his jaw in messy smears, his tongue licking lazily at the blood coating his chin, streaking it further. It’s almost artful in a sickeningly intimate way, how he’s been glazed in you, your blood staining the lines of his teeth and the curves of his gums, his skin shimmering with his own diluted drool.

His breathing is still frayed, cedar dyed with pungent copper breezing over your face in gentle huffs. A knuckle skims along your cheek, gaping gaze following it’s trajectory, his claws varnished a glittering scarlet, only a shade or two brighter than their natural colour.

“See?” he pants out, question airy on his tongue but infused with malice, eyes refocusing on your own. Something sinister tugs at the corners of his lips, broad smile stretching impossibly wider, peaked edges of his mouth nearly nudging his lower lashes. “Was that so difficult?”

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