ââËâšâĄ alastor + dressing you
character: alastor
warnings: 18+ for mature themes (no smut) minors do not interact, fem!reader, pet/master dynamic, toxic relationship (possessiveness; reader is nothing more than a silly little doll for alastor to play dress up with), implied size difference, a hint of blood
words: 1.1k
Alastor is a creature of habit, a man of routine. He has his daily rituals, his rigorous schedules, his lists of tasks, all performed to perfection each and every day.Â
And Alastor likes to begin his mornings in a very specific way.Â
You know the procedure by now inside out, upside down, could recite it backwards, if he so desired you to.Â
By the time he wakes you, heâs already laid out your outfit for the day; intimates, dress, socks, accessories, all spread in an immaculate flat lay on his seldom-used bedspread.Â
You are always expected to adorn yourself with the garments heâs selected, to pull on each and every piece all on your own, fabrics lovingly caressing your exposed flesh as his gaze slithers after the material, leaving burning smudges on your skin.
But, of course, you can never do it all completely rightânot like Master can.Â
Because it always ends the same, this little morning sacrament: with Alastor fussing over youâstraightening out a bow, smoothing out a wrinkle, tugging up a sock, readjusting a sleeve.
There is always something wrong he has to fix, to make perfect.Â
And the finishing touch, the finishing touch is always for Master to add.Â
A leather collar, as red as his eyes and adorned with a heart-shaped tag, his name in an elegant scrawl engraved in the platinum. Heâs always so tender when he fastens it around your neck, after he has thoroughly approved of your dressing for the day, more tender than youâd ever thought him capable of; more tender than he ever is otherwise.Â
Itâs all just another way he claims you, degrades you, announces that you are hisâhis to decorate, his to desecrate, his to do whatever the fuck he wants with you.Â
That pretty little silver heart that rests so daintily against your clavicle, that rises and falls and glitters with each of your gentle breaths, will never let you forget that.Â
Today, as it is with most days, he has chosen a white colour palette.Â
Sitting in his usual armchair with his legs crossed, folded hands resting in his lap, he watches as you undress in front of him, left vulnerable and raw to his gluttonous glare. It stings, his gaze razored and slitting into your skin, prickling as it rakes over your unprotected form, leaving you feeling hypersensitive, overexposed, like heâs stripped away some fundamental layer and left you barer than bare.
Yet to the untrained eye, he would appear only mildly interested, possibly even teetering on indifferent, but you know him better than that.
You are not the untrained eyeânot anymore.
You know that the glowing in his gaze is brighter, bolder and more brilliant than normal as he sharply catalogues every actionâpretty silk slipped off, dainty lace sliding on.Â
You know that his pupils are abnormally large, having gnawed away at his irises in their attempt to consume the scene in front of himâa scene heâs witnessed a hundred times before; a scene he never tires of nonetheless.Â
You know that his smile, usually sharp and stretched, is a little bit softer around the edges, a little bit sweeter as it seals hungry teeth behind curled lips.
His chest swells and deflates with calm, even breaths, his unblinking gaze holding yours for a momentâin, out, in, outâand you stand still as a statue, waiting.
Such a good little pet heâs got himself.Â
He lets the moment linger for a little, basks in the exquisiteness of your obedience, allows that sweet suffocation of your compliance to grow until itâs nearly unbearable, until youâre struggling to keep stationary under his unrelenting stare, until the weight of it is crushing, compressing your ribs, flattening your lungs as you anticipate his approval.
Finally, he nods, and then, you begin.
First, the intimates; pure snow-white lace encrusted with tiny crystals, dainty material skimming your flesh in a faint caress, clinging to your supple curves as you fasten hooks and adjust waistbands.Â
Next, an ivory milkmaid dress, complete with cinched puffy sleeves and a sweetheart neckline, the corset top outlining the natural lines and bends of your torso, skirt flaring slightly at the hips and flowing into loose pleats around your thighs. Little white flowers detail the garment, embroidered in silk across the linen, blooming with each of your graceful inhales.Â
Then, a pair of white thigh-high nylons to garnish the outfit, adorned with tiny white polkadots, sleek and sheer as they hug your legs.Â
He doesnât miss the ripple of chills that follow after his eyes as they glide up your body, trailing the curled knuckles hooked in the band of your stockings. Nor does he miss the delicate shiver that dances up your spine, or the tensing of your muscles as you linger in limbo beneath his stare, anticipating his next order.
No, he witnesses it all.
And he smirks, huffing out an airy snort, your frame flinching with the sound.
âDoes my gaze make you uncomfortable, dear?â
âNo, Sir, of course not,â you respond immediately; well-trained, obedient.Â
âNo? Then why has your body gone rigid beneath my eyes?âÂ
âI justââ you begin, faltering a little, a small frown on your face.Â
Suddenly, he rises, stalking toward you calmly, both hands clasped behind his back. That infamous collar, held securely in his grasp, jingles with each of his steps, such a delicate sound for something so sinister.Â
Stopping an inch or two from your face, your head snaps up, the motion instinctual, eyes wide and subservientâsearching for guidance, awaiting your orders like the good little girl you are.Â
A palm wreathes around your jaw, points of his claws pressing into your cheeks as he forces your head up further, revelling in the soft pained yelp that hitches in your throat, tangling on a gasp.
âDo you feel like a piece of meat, on display for your owner?â
âY-Yes, Sir.â
Crimson searches your face, slow and scrutinizing, lids narrowing slightly as his smile sharpens.
âNothing more than a pretty little prize to be paraded around on my arm, proudly and in public?â
âYes, Sir.âÂ
Leaning down, he grinds his forehead into your own, inhibiting your gaze from fleeing his, neck bent at an unnatural angle as he looms over you. He stares at you for a moment, scarlet so bright it hurts to look directly into, so brilliant youâre sure itâll leave sunspots blotting your vision when you finally look away, but you donât dare to blink.Â
Slim fingers flex around your jaw, tightening, and his claws pierce your cheeksâshallow little pricks thatâll be unnoticeable in a few minutes, dots of blood rushing to fill the tiny dents. His tongue laves over each in a single, slow drag, wide and wet as it cleans the wounds and streaks his tastebuds with copper, sealing them with a thick salve of saliva before pulling away.Â
âGood,â he finally murmurs, the word a puff of breath wafting across your face, warm and woodsy. âBecause you are. And Master likes for his things to look presentable.âÂ
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