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degen-fics · 13 days ago

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Show Them What They'll Never Have

[Alastor x Reader] Rating: E Tags: exhibitionism, semi-public sex, dom/sub, light bondage, edging, possessive sex, praise & degradation, dirty talk, no aftercare CW: degradation and dirty talk include references to imaginary situations regarding free use and dubious consent

---[read on ao3]---

Alastor has a laundry list of rules and expectations for you, both in and outside of the hotel, and you always do your best to follow them. They're quite simple, straightforward requests, all of which boil down to one basic concept: Don't do anything stupid. Don't be reckless, don't put yourself in dangerous situations, don’t do anything to warrant extra attention, and above all else, don't be stupid. If you're questioning what falls within those limitations, use your pretty little head and ask yourself, “what would Alastor say?” Not ‘do,’ because your will-they/won't-they partner usually resorts to methods beyond your current capabilities, but ‘say,’ because you ought to know him well enough by now to answer that question for him.

Suffice it to say, you have no idea what's riled him up this badly. You came back well before dark and all in one piece. Nothing was stolen from you. There aren't any new marks of questionable origin anywhere to be seen. And yet, Alastor was waiting for you right as you returned. Back straight, fingers drumming against his microphone, smile perfectly in place, all with the sharpest, most unforgiving glare you've had the pleasure/misfortune of seeing across your lifespan and beyond. He hadn't even given you a moment's pause to react, opting instead to grab you by the wrist and forcibly drag you up the stairs.

After getting shoved into his room and verbally assaulted with various ways of him asking ‘what were you thinking?’ Alastor finally hits you with a command that makes even less sense.

“Strip.”

“What?” You gawk at the sheer audacity, instinctively crossing your arms over your body. “I’m sorry?”

“I told you to strip, darling. Undress. Disrobe. Take your clothes off. My word,” he clicks his tongue, “you really have misplaced that head of yours.”

You point at your head. He rolls his eyes. Come on, that was an Alastor-tier joke, one for the textbooks, and he doesn't even entertain the idea of faux amusement. Knowing better than to question his reasons, you tug your shirt off in one swift motion.

Only for him to throw it right back into your face.

“Ah ah ah, let's not be hasty now!” Alastor clasps his hands behind his back, expectant and daring you to undermine him again (somehow). You recoil from the shock and nearly stumble into the wall, your shirt tangled in your hands as a pair of obscenely frigid hands shove you forward. Apparently his shadow has some sort of wardrobe-related vendetta against you too. “Eyes on me, dearest, and do take your time with this.”

Eyes on him, yeah, sure - he looks livid. Nothing turns you on quite like an old deer man with smoldering resentment and a quick temper. “What’s your deal?”

Smack!

You wince as the shadow tentacle snaps right at your feet, and in that moment, you realize how you fucked up today. Take a second and look at your shoes; They're cute, right? Just a basic pair of strappy sandals, open enough to show off your at-home pedicure, and pairing quite nicely with the rest of your ensemble. All color coordinated with your flowy skirt and flimsy top.

Apparently, Alastor thinks you should cook yourself to death. Summer in Hell? Put on the parka, darling. He already lets you get away with showing your ankles every third day of the week, don't push your luck and expose your entire knee to the general public. What you're saving in sunscreen you can spend on hospital bills after incurring heatstroke in the obscenely hot and humid afterlife.

“The fucking cactuses are dying, and you want me to carry around a ruler to make sure I don't scandalize anyone with my shoulders?” You balk. “What else was I gonna wear?”

“Something modest enough to keep your chest out of view and your underwear hidden. But if you want to make a spectacle of yourself, by all means!” Alastor snaps a comfy wingback chair into existence, settling into the plush upholstery with his legs crossed like he's the up and coming king of the pride ring. “Go on then. Make a show of yourself.”

Well, that's a problem. Not that you're uncomfortable undressing, no; he's seen you naked more than you've seen him shirtless, and Alastor's never been shy about his appreciation of your body. Any part you hate, he loves; nudity’s easy. It's the demand for a demonstration that throws you for a loop. You don't do stripteases. The only dance you know by heart is the macarena, and even if you supplement that with a few zumba moves, you’re pretty sure it’s not gonna paint a pretty picture. You take your sweet time tugging your shirt back on, and–

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake.”

–Alastor hates it when you drag your feet.

So he drags you out of the room. Literally. Scoops up your forearm and jerks you through the hallways, giving you an extra tug whenever you stumble over your feet. The surroundings become less familiar with every sharp turn and sudden descent, floors blurring underfoot as Alastor impatiently slings you over his shoulder and strong-arms you down the stairs. Never giving you time to find your balance, grumbling under his breath when you fail to match his stride.

“Keep up. You’ve tested my patience long enough.”

“You see dear? Horribly impractical, that outfit of yours. You can hardly walk.”

“Whoops! Clumsy girl, tripping over her own two feet. How many times has that flimsy skirt of yours flipped over now?”

“Fear not, my dear! We’ll solve your problems in a flash.” Ba-dum-tiss. Laugh track.

You find solace in the tepid glass Alastor shoves you into, quick breaths bleeding over the surface like water on a canvas. Gradually, your vision clears, and oh, you hate what you see. Foot traffic stays relatively quiet around the hotel, much to Charlie’s chagrin, but it doesn’t change the fact that Alastor has one of your arms trapped between your back and his chest, his knee and thigh serving as a blockade to make damn sure you can’t slip away.

“Now, now, take a deep breath and relax.” A long, foreboding claw traces the length of your face, gliding with calculated threats and the promise of something far worse than public humiliation should you disobey. “Since you had such awful stage fright with me, I figured we’d do this in a more comfortable location for you.” He swipes your hair behind you, his lips teasing the shell of your ear. “You did want people to notice you, after all.”

“That,” a grunt of pain and something a little more embarrassing interrupts your train of thought, “isn't what I wanted.”

“Oh? It was a need then, was it?” Alastor chuckles behind closed lips, throaty and knowing damn well what he's doing to you. He sees it in the way you shift on your feet, the minute squeezes of your thighs. “Does my darling girl really need so many unworthy eyes following her beautiful body around town? Hm?” An arm snakes around your waist, the tickle of his fingertips inching underneath your blouse in wispy steps. “Sinners land here for all sorts of reasons, dear. What if you'd attracted the wrong sort of attention?”

Alright mister slut shamey rape culture fuckface, that's unfortunately a fair point. Assault in Hell is a daily occurrence, and the bystander effect might as well be the apathetic onlooker effect when it comes to abhorrent decision making.

“You wouldn't let that happen,” you choke, stifling a half-pleasured moan as he shoves his bodyweight against you. “You're too possessive.”

“Yes, I am. And yet, despite knowing this, you choose to throw caution to the wind and garner all sorts of unsavory stares and let people entertain their depraved thoughts. Impulse control is a rarity down here, my sweet. You know better.”

You do know better. You know a lot of things, really. Don't test Alastor's patience, don't question Alastor's decisions, don't tell Alastor his jokes belong on popsicle sticks, and whatever you do, don't let Alastor see how much you enjoy being treated like a–

“Stupid girl,” he sneers.

Well, that, yeah; you were going more for the ‘desperate attention-loving bitch who needs to be put in her place,’ but ‘stupid girl’ kind of fits too.

“Did you really think you could get away with this?” Alastor's grip tightens, his gloved claws kneading at your forearm with precision. “Wearing this…” He clicks his tongue, walking his fingers up your thigh and scoffing at your stifled giggles. “Miserable excuse of a skirt, and that blouse, oh dear,” he sighs, “it's awfully translucent, darling. Although…”

You're stuck between a rock and a hard place. Glass panes warming under your skin, Alastor practically sinking into your shadow, his lips hot against your exposed neck. “I've always been fond of you in red,” he murmurs. You shudder at the leathery sensation of his lips grazing your ear. “And you let everyone else have a look before I'd even had the chance.”

Your conscience, the tiny angel on your right, mutters something about the ethics of public exposure; redemption not found in wanton displays, the morality of getting fucked in the eyes of strangers. The devil, though, presses fluttering kisses along the length of your jaw; a perfectly silent siren's song promising more than the temptation of Heaven.

“Redemption is a fickle thing my dear! How are we to know where the line is drawn when every single sinner comes in so many shapes and sizes?” Alastor hovered over you in mock concern, jovial in his one-sided banter. “I suppose you could hazard a guess, but where's the fun in guessing for salvation when you could be reaping the guaranteed delights of Hell? Why gamble on a dream when your fantasies are right here?” He cupped your cheek. “Heaven may have its virtues… but it won't have me.”

You'd never been so scared, and you'd already been in Hell for weeks.

“Choose wisely,” he'd whispered. “You won't be able to take this back.”

Alastor can't fuck you against the pearly gates, so really, redemption’s pointless. You whimper, craning your neck to let the devil on your shoulder creep closer. The hand on your thigh slides closer to your panties, your breath hitching when a claw traces over the lacey detailing. Your voice eludes you, your lips delicately parted as if to wait for the protests that will never come.

“Now why would my precious thing make such a mindless decision, hm?” Fingers weave between locks of your hair with a slight tug. “You know I prefer having the first look, just as much as the last. Why deny me the pleasure, darling? We could have torn this off of you ages ago if you hadn't pranced off into the unknown. Look at you.” Alastor cradles your chin, letting you focus on your warped reflection. You own a mirror, for fuck's sake. Apparently you forgot how to use it. “You're begging for attention the moment you step outside.”

Outside feels like Death Valley plunging into a recently erupted volcano. He should be glad you're wearing anything at all. Not everyone grew up on the edge of a Louisiana bayou where humidity and heat went together like two codependent and enmeshed siblings from a fucked up family. Well, my dear, when I was a young lad, I had to walk fifteen miles uphill with nothing but the sweltering sun to keep me company on my way to the market. Shorts hadn't even been invented yet, and–

“Ah. Perhaps that's what you wanted all along. Attention.”

If he didn't have it before, he has it now. Your breath catches in your tightening throat as Alastor slips a hand under your shirt. Browsing, per se, aimlessly scraping his fingertips over your back, occasionally toying with the straps of your bra. Goosebumps pop to the surface, your body betraying any chance of a lie to insist that no, this wasn't for attention, it was for his attention and your comfort.

“Is that it? My devoted darling wants to be ogled by the masses?” Look at him, that obnoxious smirk stretched proudly over his face; lookin’ mighty punchable if it weren't for, y'know, the glass. You're trying so hard to avoid your own doe-eyed reflection– fuck, you really let him get to you. You close your eyes, but Alastor, true to form, is relentless in his pursuits. “Touched, perhaps?”

Touch me, your body screams, your core shaken at the debauched imagery flipping through your mind’s eye. Rough demon hands, silky sinner claws, promises of torment and torture as you're dragged away by a group of nobodies. A terrifying narrative outside of your imagination, but when you're copiloting Alastor's story… God, you need him to touch you.

“I'm truly the last to understand the thrill of the hunted, but you…” Alastor lightly tugs at the hem of your attention-seeking shirt. “You've thought about it,” he murmurs. “Dreamed of it.” You're too busy savoring the rush of cool air to yell at him for slicing up your top, expertly avoiding your skin with the traced promise to come back for blood if you misbehave. “The rush that comes with being sought after, the excitement of finding out just how far you can go until you're snatched up with nowhere to run…” Alastor pulls your hair back, skating another nail over the front of your neck and sealing your fate. “Poor darling… her legs aching, lungs ablaze, quivering at the mere thought of what happens when a new set of hands graze her skin.”

You gonna refute that? That's not what I wanted, you… Uh oh. Already out of insults. Can you hear that? The shattering of your ego as that lewd little moan squeaks past your lips? You're fogging up the glass, you know; Niffty won't be happy.

But you're gonna be high on endorphins and oxy, so eh, fuck the smudges. Let that heat blossom in your chest. Let it slink down closer to your core and pool in your panties. Let Alastor spin his twisted tale and regret not having a tape recorder nearby.

“Oh, darling… such a mindless and naive fantasy of yours. Imagining that anyone down here would follow your little script. The people out there won't hesitate to chew up and spit out a beautiful creature like yourself.” Alastor runs his hands over your silhouette as he takes advantage of the height difference, easily keeping you down with one leg between yours. “They'll beat you and bruise you in all the wrong ways. They'll break your bones and bleed you dry. They'll take everything they want without apology, without permission.”

Technically, Alastor has permission. You gave him a free pass to initiate whatever sort of physical touch he wants, citing the rarity of such an occasion and how willing you'd be to take him up on any offer. Kisses here and there, sometimes a hug from behind; there have been a couple nights where he's slipped into bed with you just to cuddle (according to him, you looked awfully cold, nothing more). Still, he slips in a short beat, busying himself with invisible doodles across your neck.

There's not a chance in Hell that you're gonna stop him.

“And despite everything, you keep those dreams alive, don't you, my dear?” Alastor slides down one of your bra straps. “You like to imagine the perfect group of sinners snatching you up and dragging you to a safe, secluded place. A trio, I presume?” The smirk in his voice rings true. “To fill you up in every possible way. And you'd kick and scream as if that isn't exactly what you want.”

Mental note: Ask Alastor if he has the capacity to read minds or peek into your dreams. The details are scarily uncanny.

“Tell me I'm wrong,” Alastor slips his hand back under your skirt, fingers fluttering over every edge and seam of your panties.

“You're…” Your breath shakes. You're an incredible liar on a good day. Alastor’s making today better than good. You're an awful liar on a great day. “You're wrong. I'm not that fucked in the head.” You're missing that signature slant of sass, and holy fuck, do you sound pathetic and small without it.

“Oh?” He grins, a finger sliding over your clothed slit. You stifle a gasp and immediately give yourself away, trying in vain to grind against his hand. “You know better than to lie to me.”

Rewarding bad behavior doesn't exactly send the right message, but you're not complaining. If he wants to rub your clit through your damp underwear, by all means, rub away. You bite back mewls and sighs, failing to hold still.

“You're picturing it now, aren't you, you twisted thing. Pinned to the wall by a brutishly gentle pair of hands, another lowlife pulling your hair…” You hear the slight dip in his voice, and the moment he drops the static and his tone, it occurs to you that you might have the slightest of voice kinks

“If you don't shut that whiny mouth of yours, we'll give you something to choke on.”

Jesus tapdancing Christ, anatomy is cruel. You can't wriggle your way onto his fingers. Each time your ass tries to back into his hips, he stops you with little effort and a smaller chuckle. If arousal could kill, you're nearing the apex; the emptiness hurts. The half-assed teasing isn't enough, and Alastor knows it.

“I've heard your fake cries before, my pet, and you'd give them exactly that. The weak thrashing, the passionless begging. They'd be gullible enough to fall for it, and you'd welcome them with your legs and mouth wide open.”

A gift from god - your god - descends from the stars. Finally, Alastor taps into what little good-natured spirit he has, tearing your panties with calculated hunger.

“Don't you want more of a challenge, darling?” He coos, plunging a lone finger into your slicked slit, his thumb finding purchase atop your swollen clit. “Where's the fun in playing games you'll always win?” Squeaks and moans try to penetrate your lips, one kept threaded between your teeth. You don't know what part of the hotel you're in, and if Alastor doesn't care about the stranger peering up through the window, he'll give even less of a fuck if any of the residents hear you. You care though. Kind of. You're still building your reputation, damn it.

“Unless, of course, you're that desperate to have each of your pretty holes filled all at once. Oh, how you wound me… I've provided you with such entertainment before. Am I not enough? Or are you simply that hungry for more than one cock at a time?”

Alastor plunges a hooked finger into your cunt, the sudden sensation biting at your lips and begging to be heard. To sing his praises. To ask for more. To reward him for all the wrong reasons.

“Imagine my rage. The way I'd stalk the streets in search of my sweetheart.”

“Fuck…!” You groan, grinding down on his explorative fingers.

"My sweetheart.” A second squirms in, casually reaching for your g-spot. “My darling.” A third, fuck, the stretch feels so good. “My precious pet.” Four bunched up fingers, almost enough to feel as thick as his dick, but god damn it, you want the real thing. “Only to find her sprawled on the ground like some pay-to-fuck whore, choking on one cock and getting fucked by two more.”

Nothing has ever sounded as beautiful as the clattering of Alastor's belt buckle.

“Called so many vile names - such a good slut, she likes it, see? You want to come on my dick, pretty lady? Ohhh, that's it, yes, scream for daddy, pretend someone will save you. We'll send you home with cum dripping down your legs, and you'll just want more, won't you?”

Dirty talk was not on the list of skills you'd written up for Alastor. Certainly not this flavor, at least. There's quite a difference between ‘ oh, sweet girl, you look beautiful when you gag on me, you know you can ask for more if you'd just behave and beg like a good girl should,’ and, ‘you want to be used, don't you, you sick little thing, you'd enjoy being passed around like some dumb little doll, having all that cum smeared over your face and thighs, just to have me put you in your place.’

You’re not complaining, even though he sounds furiously facetious and all but spits out each toxin-coated taunt.

“Oh, I would paint the walls with their blood. Defiling what's mine… they don't know how fragile you really are.”

You don't have porcelain bones or old man hips. Your body hasn't been deteriorating since the fucking Harding administration. You take papercuts like a champ. You aren't as weak as you look.

And you have no shame - your thoughts are just that. Garbled nonsense torn into scraps of coherence as Alastor swirls his thumb over your clit, your panties digging into your dampened skin. See, you have every reason to wear this outfit, it's fucking hot. You grin through a blissful grimace and let Alastor continue to believe he's your lord and savior, every complaint fizzling out on your dry lips.

“I’m the only one who knows how much you can take, when to test your limits, when to stop… it's why you've never asked me to. But with those creatures you like to imagine?” Your pussy quivers in time with his laughter. “You'd be an utter wreck by the time I arrive! Oh, how I'd loathe your cries of relief. Your tears are only precious when they're shed for me, and me alone. To find you violated and broken… Those wretched creatures would be my sloppiest work.”

Ah, romance really is dead. Died and went straight to Hell. Your heart would thump out of your throat if you didn’t just lock eyes with a disheveled sewer rat-looking sinner through the fogged window. He jumps when Alastor’s other hand connects with the glass, the panels vibrating with a sort of rage that only serves to make you that much hornier.

“Picture it, darling. The sheer anger, the vitriol, my laughter harmonizing with their anguished screams.” A low chuckle vibrates against your back as your head dips back into his collarbone, your mind falling victim to the heavy haze of fantasy and Alastor’s finger fucking. “How does it feel, knowing that I wouldn't just kill for you? That I'd sooner watch my standards plummet into the ground, just to keep you safe.” He gently pushes your hair out of your face, guiding your gaze back to your captive audience.

“To keep what's mine,” he whispers, teasing his clothed erection against your ass, adding pressure to your swollen, begging clit.

Eloquence eludes you. “Oh god…”

“There's no god here, darling. Just me.”

Just Alastor. Him, your God; your sacrifices are the blood of fictional attackers, your hymnals nothing more than salacious moaning and the chants of ‘yes sir.’

Hallelujah, you’re about to come.

Alastor must feel you clenching around his fingers, because he’s already slowing down despite your groans of protest. A punishment, you figure, and most certainly not the fun kind. He coos and whines in mocking; aww, poor baby, my sweet darling didn’t get to come, oh, the humanity of it all! Yeah, he knows the teasing’s making it worse; he probably secretly loves the way you’re grinding against him in silent plea. Alas, he’s still as stone.

“I don't enjoy sharing, dearest.” A finger curls dangerously close to your g-spot, knees buckling at the mere thought of his merciful graze. “I don't enjoy the image of you moaning around someone's cock and coming on another’s.” Heat caresses your inner thighs, cooled in an instant by shadowy wisps frolicking over your bare, dampened skin. Fuck, what you wouldn't give to have one of those Eldritch tentacles slither through your slit right now. Alas, they do nothing but tease, winding up and around your thigh just enough for the whispers of a shadow to brush perfectly out of reach. “I find no joy in imagining you strewn out and begging them to stop.”

Okay, no sharing, got it! Your teeth bury into your tongue, stifling songs of depravity as your hips desperately try to angle closer to the goddamned snake-like tentacles, always perfectly out of reach. Slithering in peals of imaginary laughter, demanding you to beg and promising nothing in return. You try to press your thighs together to no avail, and just when you finally want to crack and cry out for mercy, your god answers you.

“Do you understand?” Alastor whispers into your neck.

Never in either life has a moan left you so breathless. Just one gloved finger to your clit, and your knees buckle, more of your glistening body hoisted up against the window for support.

“Those pretty words and beautiful faces are meant for me.”

Oh, the wicked irony. You're two seconds from babbling out a half-baked retort when his hand slips around your mouth. He knows you too well.

(When did that happen?)

“I share what's mine when I see fit, and you should know better than anyone that my generosity has its limits.” Alastor lands a kick to your ankle, just enough to shove your legs open wider, to grant him easy access; to put your arousal on display. Such generosity!

Through the haze of it all, you muster up the strength to crack open your eyes, lashes heavy with stray beads of sweat and tortured tears. God, you just wanna come already; the ache only grows, festering into a heat so unbearable you're damn near ready to challenge the Radio Demon to a 1v1 hand-to-hand match. Win, and you can finally find release; lose, and you're put out of your misery (assuming he'd knock you out).

But which situation allows for more permanent humiliation: Losing a doomed fight to an overlord, or losing yourself to said overlord in front of a startlingly large crowd just outside the hotel? A dozen nameless faces peer up at you, a haze of lust and shock blanketing each sinner as others double take and join the tranced fray. Alastor's rich, low laughter prickles through your ears and down your back, a sadistic sort of glee twisting his grin into a beacon of maleficent pride.

“Not a step closer,” he hisses. “They will never see all of you, nor will they ever touch you. This…”

Whoever made this glass should patent it ASAP. Alastor's teeth nip at the sensitive flesh of your neck, fraying every nerve and severing your connection to your body; you go limp into the squeaking, shaking, never breaking window. Rays of sunlight heat the glass, beating into your flushed skin as Alastor's own warmth grinds against your ass.

“...belongs to me.”

A taut, needy cry rasps through your dry throat as he drags another finger over your soaking wet slit. Your hips barely have a chance to respond before he's shoving you into the translucent barrier, a reminder that you're on stage, you need to behave now, lest you tarnish his dazzling reputation for being an absolute hardass. You grit your teeth as his same finger outlines your thigh with an insulting squeak; maybe, just maybe, there isn't enough fog for people to tell what's going on, and they don't know he's essentially playing forensic psychologist to your dead soul.

“My my,” Alastor drawls, “who did that, I wonder?”

“You.” You're ready to admit defeat. So many sinners randomly loitering outside the hotel is bound to rouse suspicion, and while you harbor an odd sense of trust that you wouldn't get kicked out over this, you do know you'll struggle to wear this badge with pride. There's a whole book about scarlet letters already, and you're not itching to write the modern day sequel. “You did, sir. I'm…” You swallow the lie - or is it your pride? - and groan in agonized arousal. “We should go.”

“Ohh, don't try and argue with me now. Not after all you've said you wanted!”

Whether adrenaline or sheer stupidity, your arms scramble for freedom, twisting and pulling despite the rapid streaks of pain shooting through your limbs. Alastor's claws burst through his gloves, razor sharp assets demanding stillness the moment they rest atop your bare skin, hairs all on end in reply.

The tentacles bound around your thighs squeeze and pull your legs further apart, and somehow, the air feels cool against your hot, slick skin. Your panting breaths fog the glass at your lips, forearms uselessly splayed above your head in surrender.

You won't fight him. Not when he's crackling and crunching in and out of his truest form, static blazing through your skull, green glow bouncing off the walls. You've seen him before, the full him, the entire radio demon; he might be your “hear me out,” but he's still absolutely fucking terrifying.

A normal radio demon arm wraps around your waist, the other hand cupping your chin, guiding you back to your audience. There's… more than twenty? Fuck, you're not in the right headspace to count, and Alastor's reflection serves as too much of a distraction from the others.

He wears possession beautifully, even in the throes of rage.

“Let them look, dearest.” The arm at your waist trails down, down, down, his half-clothed erection throbbing for attention against your ass. “I want them all to know who you belong to…” Two fingertips come knocking at your entrance, and whether you welcome the solicitors or not, they're coming in. Slowly, claws retracted, the side of his palm grinding into your swollen clit. “Show them what they'll never have,” his fingers dive into you, hooked beautifully towards the exactly right spot, “make them live in fear of so much as looking at you the wrong way.”

You can't handle much more. You've been on the edge of orgasm and the last wall now for far too long, gawked at, ogled, pointed at, the object of more than one thirsty imagination.

He's going to kill them, you know. Every single sinner down there watching you get finger fucked by the radio demon is going to die at the same hands being used to get you off. Alastor is going to fucking kill people for you, and he's the one who set them up.

The audacity of this old man to be so ridiculously sexy.

“This is mine. You're all mine. Every inch of your body, every moan, every twitch, they all belong to me.”

You can't even manage a nod. Your legs tremble, still plenty spread and held in place by his tentacles alone. Any and all words turn to jumbled mush as your orgasm builds, rising higher than you thought possible, the fire in your core hotter than a goddamned summer's day in Hell. You feel the thick, slick juices dripping down your thighs, and the amount of precum Alastor's left on your butt doesn't help matters. You want more of him. You are his; he should be yours.

You yell behind closed lips, whimpering, far too empty for your liking.

“Say it.” Alastor thrusts you against the window with his bodyweight. “Tell me who owns you. Tell them who they'll be answering to if they ever lay a hand on you. I want everyone to hear you scream my name. Mine, and mine alone.”

“Fuck, I-I'm gonna come, Alastor…!”

“Louder, dear.”

“I need your cock, Alastor, please!”

“Louder,” he seethes against your ear, sweat dripping from his forehead to yours. “I won't remind you again. Let them hear you, and you can have what you want.”

Falsettos everywhere cower in fear and envy. Alastor's name doesn't tumble from your lips, it fires out at railgun level speeds and doesn't show signs of stopping. And why would it? Why would you stop screaming his name at the top of your lungs? He just shoved his dick into you. You're full in mind, body, and soul; mostly pussy, but the others apply. You have the radio demon fully submerged in your cunt, the tip of his cock grazing against that lovely spongy spot that only sends you into the same sound-barrier shattering cry of his name. The pain when he rams into your cervix - something you detested when you were alive - dismantles something within you, and you crumble and come all over again.

“My name sounds so divine on your lips,” Alastor smirks into your neck, nipping less and less gently with every kiss and peck. “Such a beautiful voice, and all for me.”

Catching your breath feels like a dream lost on a shooting star. When he talks like that, like a goddamned suave and chivalrous gentleman from circa 1920-old, you lose yourself. Helpless, an immediate victim to the charm of questionable authenticity. Automatically, your muscles tense, cunt tight against his dick as the whispered praise nestles into your brain and down to your clit. You reach for this wrist, and he's quick, immediately tending to the pleading nub the moment your fingers graze his pulse.

Tears gather in your eyes, mourning all the lost orgasms that fell to his hand in the Great Pane Edging of 2024.

“Go on dear. Come for me again.”

No one needs to tell you twice. It almost hurts, each spasm steadfast and unyielding, and for a brief moment, your screams vanish. Voice lost to the vast ocean of silky arousal dousing his dick and your thighs, his deep laughter your only tether to the present.

“There you go… good girl…”

“Fuck,” you hiss, choking on air as a tiny orgasm splinters off from the ebb of lust. It dissipates just as quickly, as does your pride, because really? That's all it takes? One non-filtered, static-free murmur of the most overused title?

“I'm – oh God what the fuck?!” Your knee jerks upright, a spread of spiderweb cracks unfurling under your duress. Breaking you simply isn’t enough, apparently; Alastor craves chaos, paid out in flakes of glass and shards of what little you have left to offer. How he glosses his fingers over your used and abused clit fast enough to imitate literal vibrations bends your realm of understanding, but fuck it, you can’t care. Not when you’re squealing and moaning within an inch of your life, your hips bashing against his in your futile attempts to save yourself the embarrassment of dying via overstimulation. Strained cries tear through your throat, and Alastor takes the shortest of breaks not for you to catch your breath, but to flick glittering specks of glass from your thigh, because he’s a gentleman. You’ll bleed when he wants you to. “Fuck! Fuckkkk!! Ahh-Alastor?!”

“Oh, my dear,” he coos. “You didn't truly think I was finished with you, did you? No no no.” Alastor’s cock spasms inside you, a teasing twitch accompanied by a feathery shudder of a breath against your ear. “What sort of punishment would that be? Stopping now would only encourage such deviant behavior.” A familiar and deeply personal scent tickles the edges of your nose, the hand that once fed your greedy cunt now positioned at your lips, lazily drawing your mouth open with one slender finger. “Ah, there she is…” Alastor swallows his own songs of sin, exhaling slowly, ravishing your neck and still brilliantly massaging your clit as you suck and lick at his fingers.

“Go on,” he mutters against your rapidfire pulse, smirking against your flushed neck, “tell them how I make you feel.”

Hot, you wanna shout. Sheens of sweat and drool and copious amounts of your slick coat your skin in an iridescent glow, pearlescent tears drawn out by an overdose of feel-good chemicals and whatever else Alastor makes you feel. Words of finely wrapped praise done up in silks and leather tickle the back of your throat, washed away by the lewdly grotesque moans and screams stifled by his fingers on your tongue and your throat gone dry. Your limbs do the rest of the talking, a dazzling speech on Alastor's capabilities as a brutal and unforgiving menace of a lover, dominant ‘til the very end and beyond the finishing numbers.

Orgasms four and five split through your core almost back to back, a sixth fluttering out, limping behind as your vision starts to blur, your consciousness lost to a sea of unknown, nameless faces getting off to your obvious blissful torment.

“Eyes open, sweetheart,” Alastor commands in what might be the most unsettlingly soft whisper you've heard fall from his lips. “You’re so beautifully pathetic when you're fighting to keep those pretty eyes open for me.”

“Too much…” You rasp against the battered window.

“It might feel like too much right now, but you'll miss it before long. Wishing you didn't feel so empty…” Alastor heaves a breathy laugh when you clench around his dick, refusing to let him slip out until he's used his cocksleeve to its fullest potential. You can handle a little more load, and he knows it; needs to exploit it, thrust his hips in painstakingly slow measures, loving the exhausted yelp you manage with every deep touch. “Daydreaming about having me, taking whatever I can get my hands on, calling you all those delightfully pretty names you pretend to hate.”

Not pretending. Your lips move, but you can't utter a sound. You can't argue. You're a fucked out mime with neuropathy at this point.

“One last look at them, dearest.” Alastor guides you by the chin, centering your gaze on the blurry crowd. “Remember them fondly,” he smirks. “They’re your victims, after all. Your very first, no less.”

You assume you're meant to feel disgusted. Turned off and grossed out on a moral level or something like that. But all you feel is warmth. Heat. It's hot. You melt into Alastor's arms, and manage a weary nod.

“And as long as you're mine,” he adds with one final thrust, bursting into you with a gravely, half-stifled growl, “they won't be the last.”

All this over an outfit you wore to beat the heat. Lesson learned: Get the Alastor seal of approval before you leave the hotel in anything that isn't a wetsuit or a parka. Or do, and get royally fucked for any passing sinner to see. Tough argument here to be made.

“If you'll excuse me moment, darling,” Alastor pats your head, “there's a quick errand I need to run, and time is of the essence!” Of course it is, and of course he looks like he just finished getting done up for the day. Not a hair out of place, no wrinkles in his clothes, and his belt’s already securely fastened around his slutty little waist. You’re a mess, but he’s got places to go and souls to reap, so you’re gonna have to deal for now. “Now go lie down and relax. Don’t get too comfortable though.”

You’re absolutely gonna fall asleep, but okay.

“You’re keeping every last drop of me inside of you until I return.”

But you were gonna sleep!

“Since I do prefer to keep my belongings orderly and safe, you know.”

You’re messy and shaky and exhausted beyond comprehension, and even still, the warmth cascading through your chest lights up just enough willpower to try and listen to him.

“And remind me again,” Alastor cups your cheek, “who is it you belong to?”

You. You have to mime it, your voice still an echo of its original state, but sliding your hand over his chest delivers the message just as well. You wonder, briefly, if he feels that same abstraction of warmth as you do right now. And if he does, is it because of you, or because he has a couple dozen souls to tear apart? Perhaps it doesn’t really matter, since he’s killing them for you. Right now, you are his, and what’s his is his alone. No one else will have it. No one else will have you. You will, however, be demanding that he shares his bed and all of its comfy accessories, himself included, because that sort of sharing is caring, and deep down, you get the feeling that he cares. A lot.

If the tormented screams from downstairs are any indication, then you just might be right. And if you can hear them from up here, they probably heard you too! Hell yeah! Alastor must be so proud. You sure are. You’ll question why later on; right now, you’re getting people killed, and that means Alastor cares. Passionately, violently, and all for you.

#alastor x reader #alastor/reader #alastor x you #alastor/you #alastor x y/n #alastor #hazbin hotel #hazbin fic #ao3 fic #myfics #reader insert #reader fic

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oceantornadoo · 1 year ago

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toxic but in love fwb!simon with some hurt/comfort

“i know your gala is important, si, but can’t you come? just this once i just want-“ you were wringing your hands, twisting them into unfamiliar shapes as you argued with simon, your situationship. you two were always like this, pushing and pulling at the boundaries of your relationship. moon and tide, destined to move each other but never close enough. “we’re not dating an’ i have a work thing. can’t come.” he shrugged nonchalantly, turning his head so he couldn’t see the pleading look on your face. instead, he pushed himself off your couch and reached for his jacket by the door. the silence in the air turned sour, some dark ugly thing created by him. his heart was a dead thing inside his chest, unable to muster a beat or two for you. he wanted to. a want so deep it ran in his blood, turning him cold. “fine. see you in six months or whatever.” your voice was stony, bitter. you reached for the tv remote and unpaused the show you two were watching, trying not to care about the sounds of him lacing his boots and grabbing his keys. you were done, done with this tug of war. you felt his stare drill through the side of your head as he put on his mask, the final bit to his ensemble. he might think that’s what got him named ghost, but it was really this, this act of playing human when he just didn’t care. he was a poltergeist in your life, knocking things out of order but refusing to show when it mattered. you were done.

one night later and here you were at your first art show, the debut of your career. dressed in your fanciest attire, second glass of champagne in your hand as you tried to network your way through the room. your feet ached from your shoes and there was an itch in your back you couldn’t quite reach, but you put on your best smile as another potential buyer went on and on about their summer in the hamptons. simon wasn’t here but it was fine. the tears you had been swallowing back for the past thirty minutes were just tears of joy at your accomplishments, nothing more. you thanked the buyer and turned the corner, finishing off your glass as you took a much needed break. suddenly a hush went over the crowd, a slight silence broken by a small quip. the room went back to normal but you went to check it out anyways, hoping it wasn’t someone making a bad comment about your work.

you arrived at the entrance and almost passed out at the sight before you. four men-no, machines, dressed in full military regalia stood in front of you. soap and gaz were already working the crowd while price was entertaining one of your donors, but your eyes were focused on ghost. ghost, who traded his balaclava for a more crowd-friendly medical mask, stood in front of you with a bouquet of carnations and a bottle of wine. you approached him slowly like you would a skittish animal, taking patient, methodical steps. “read carnations are for celebrations.” he said, almost sheepishly, as he mechanically thrust the bouquet towards you. you took it out of instinct, eyes still focused on his. “you came?” you said unbelievingly. simon was here, simon brought his friends, simon brought you gifts? he had to have been drugged or something. there was no way. “you called.” he answered, breaking out of his awkwardness. “‘m sorry for yesterday. knew i was coming, jus’ gave you a hard time. had to celebrate my girl’s first show.” your mouth dropped at that. my girl. “but…but we’re not dating?” you took a step forward, the rest of the room falling away as his gloved hand touched your cheek, brushing back the wrinkles on your forehead. “d’ya want to, lovie? was at this gala all night, thinkin’ bout how fun it would’ve been to have you there with me. makin’ fun of all those puffed up generals.” you let out a small chuckle and his back straightened, encouraged by the sound of your laughter. he loved the sounds of your laughter, your drunk giggles and your loud snorts. most especially he loved the sharp barks of surprise you made, the ones you gave when something or someone made you happy without expecting it. like now. “yes. if you’re sure.” the foggy emotions in your head were finally clearing, letting in the sun. his warm eyes caressed your face, pride evident in his face. “‘m sure.” he sealed it with a kiss to your forehead, not wanting to be unprofessional at your work event. simon felt something in his chest. maybe a heartbeat. maybe he had one after all.

—

thought of the “you came? you called” tiktok audio with this one. currently on my period so y’all will only be getting emotional stuff for the next couple of days 🫶

#simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #fluff #ghost call of duty #fwb simon #tornadothoughts #cod 141 #toxic simon riley

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seeingivy · 2 years ago

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method acting (completed) ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

actor!eren x actor f!reader

method acting is a very powerful skill. using your own personal, physical, emotional self and pouring it into the character on the screen makes for a powerful performance. except when it's you and eren - you're not sure where the acting starts and real life begins.

read on ao3

the method acting playlist!!

content: actor!au, childhood friends to lovers, enemies to lovers, it was always you trope, fluff, HEAVY ANGST (i'm serious. people were ready to hang me at the stake please be warned), miscommunication (even more sorry), CELEBRITY DRAMA, taylor swift songs and smau at some parts!

triple threat

the ensemble cast

the time of your life

award show etiquette

new year's day

historic wins

the softest kind of love

sick with sadness

the sound of the applause

the met gala

ribbons release

lacy, oh lacy

my love, mine all mine

the third act

it's time to go

funeral

all too well

the new romantics

lovesick

fine line

the beach

speak now

tolerate it

all american bitch

style

better than revenge

sofia

sweet nothing

see you soon

long story short

extra blurbs, after the end of the story!:

daylight

narc

standards

the alchemy

extras (method acting fan casts, tracklists etc.):

debut tracklist

lover girl tracklist

ribbons tracklist

the lucky one tracklist

valedictorian tracklist

birds of a feather tracklist

pls comment on this post or any of the chapters if you want to be added to the taglist <3

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abitirish · 1 year ago

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Let's leave aside the ideology for a moment and focus on the crimes against language.

This fuckwit is trying to say "Blue Lives Matter". Let's take it backwards for dramatic effect.

The last word on his costume is "ábhar" [AW-verr], which does indeed mean "matter", but only in the sense of "subject matter" or "topic". In the English phrase, it's a verb indicating it's important to you, in which case you could just say "it's important to me," or "tá sé tábhachtach dom".

The middle word on his outfit is "chónaí" [KHO-knee], which does indeed mean "lives", but only as a verb, like "he lives in New York". In the English phrase, it's a plural noun indicating more than one life. In Irish, you'd be better off using a word like "saolta" or even just "daoine", meaning people.

The first word on his delightful ensemble is "gorm" [GURR-im].

You'll like this.

The Irish word for blue is "gorm". That should be straightforward enough, but the Irish word for "black people" is "daoine gorm", which literally translates as "blue people" but it means "black people", possibly because there are (non-racist as far as I am aware) diabolical connotations for the concept of "black people" unrelated to people of African heritage. Moreover, there is no sense in Irish for "blue" meaning "police".

What this slogan is actually saying is "blue resides subject", and even that is gramatically awful, with all the meaning pertaining thereunto. The only way this absolute car crash could possibly have happened is if three different people were each given responsibility for one word of the slogan, they did it on different days, using different translation methods, and put the whole thing together without communicating in any way.

#Gaeilge #Irish #language #black lives matter #translation

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maream-zaream · 2 months ago

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Don’t know if this is still going on, but here’s a (kinda) quick drawing of Ink in that one haori in that post by @letsatomicbanana !

Additional notes under the cut (be warned though it’s a lot lol):

So when I saw the post I ended up reverse image searching the photo in order to see in what context this haori and hakama would’ve been worn in (though it didn't really matter in the end, as I just ended up drawing Ink painting on their sleeve). Just to like get an idea of what kinda thing I wanted to draw Ink doing in it and stuff, as well as just to get a better idea of how it’s supposed to look when worn. Now, for this specific one I’m not entirely sure, as since it seems to have been reposted on like a bajillion different websites, with many of the ones listed in the search not being in English. So needless to say, no clue where this thing came from!

However! My search wasn’t for naught! From the list of suggested links from the Google search, one was for a haori and hakama set from a rental clothing company called “Keio” (I think… keep in mind I’ve still been using google translate since the website was in Japanese lol). The specific outfit in question was this:

Now, this looks very similar to the one Banana posted, so I’m going with the assumption that the two outfits were probably made for similar purposes. Especially since not many adult haoris are made this these kinds of intricate designs (at least none that I could find). Anyways, this ensemble was listed under clothing one could rent for their child to wear for the Shichi-go-san (literally “seven-five-three” in English) Festival.

((Now quick disclaimer for the following: I am not Japanese nor any sort of expert on Japanese culture and history! As such, take the following with a grain of salt and I very much encourage you to look more into this festival on your own, as learning about this holiday was quite fun and informative and I would be 110% be happy being corrected for any misinfo, whether that be in the tags, reblogs, or any other method most preferred! Also, I've listed the websites I used here at the end of this post for y'all to check out after reading, apologies though for no footnotes.))

Continuing: During Shichi-go-san, parents bring their children of ages three, five, and seven to visit a Shinto shrine to celebrate the children’s growth and to wish or pray for good fortune. Why these ages? Glad you asked! It’s because three, five, and seven are considered auspicious ages in East Asian numerology, with this also making the date this festival is held— the 15th of November— especially lucky! It’s also interesting to note how the festival was originally exclusively done by the aristocracy and samurai families, though the tradition spread to the common people by the Edo period (1603-1868), though how the festival is currently held evolved from the Meiji era (1868-1912).

Now for the actual visit itself, traditionally five year old boys wear hakama and haori like the one pictured above (as traditionally this was the age that first allowed them to wear hakama in public), with seven year old girls going wearing a kimino with an obi (similar reasoning to the aforementioned boys; seven was the age where girls would traditionally begin wearing obi). For the three year olds? Girls may wear a hifu (a type of padded vest) and both genders seem to be able to wear hakama kimonos (take the three year olds dress stuff with a grain of salt though, not 100% sure on it lol). Also interesting to note is how in the past the age of three was the last year that parents kept their kid’s head shaved before allowing it to begin growing out more, though this practice of hair shaving seems to have fallen out of fashion around the 1800s.

In more modern times, many of these aspects are still upheld (except obviously the aforementioned hair shaving) during the Shichi-go-san festival, of now of course though with the modern addition of parents taking this opportunity to get lots of photos of their kids in formal attire lol. Additionally, parents also often get their kids some chitose-ame (longevity candy)—a type of sweet hard candy—after the shrine visit!

Slightly unrelated, here’s a quick sketch I drew of Ink eating this candy cause I thought it’d be funny:

He is NOT getting his rental deposit back (…is that a thing? Idk I’ve never rented clothes before lol)

ANYWAYS, I just wanted to put this stuff down cause I found learning about this festival really interesting and thought it to be relevant with the whole Japanese-attire thing lol. And again, don’t be afraid to correct me on anything and/or add your own additions to the info written above!

List of sources:

Tsukihana

Kids Web Japan: Shichi-go-san

Japan America Society of Greater Philadelphia

Wikipedia page for Shichi-Go-San

Have a great rest of your day/night if you got this far!

#ink sans #my art #talking #oh my god I spend wayy too much time on this #utmv

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targaryenrealnessdarling · 1 year ago

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A Duet of Fire and Fate

Part Two | Series Masterlist

Summary: the monotonous days of practice are starting to grate, but made more complicated by the pianist's lingering words | Word Count: 4.3k~ | Warnings: sexual tension 😘

“Aemond, darling, please…” Alicent pleaded behind the closed door of his bedroom, her worried, motherly voice muffled through the thick frame, “it's not the end of the world, love, okay?”

He'd been in the exact same spot for several hours, his knee bouncing irritably and impatiently. He closed his eyes, as if trying to put on the image of being completely calm. But his hands were clasped painfully, fingertips sore from practice, and he could barely hear his mother through the door anyway, with the large headphones pressed to his ears, with the uncomfortable sting of the cello raking into his brain.

His heart was racing with stress, playing the same bit of ‘Cello Concerto' over and over again, trying to find the part where Otto had incessantly pressured him to perfect it. Wrong timing. Wrong tune. Incorrect finger placement.

Each time he stumbled over the same tricky passage, his frustration mounted. The melody was supposed to soar, but all he could feel was the grinding pressure to not mess up, to not let Otto down, to not disappoint his mother who believed so fervently in his talent.

Where in others, he witnessed nurture in the form of pride, loving gestures and unconditional support. He could see no merit in it. Love to Aemond was tight and oppressive, and weighty on his shoulders.

The door to his room creaked open slightly, and his mother’s voice, muffled and distant through the noise-canceling headphones, attempted to break through the barrier of sound. "Aemond, dinner," she called, her tone gentle yet persistent.

He barely glanced up, giving a slight shake of his head. The outside world, even the simple call to dinner, felt like an unwelcome intrusion.

"Aemond, please," she tried again, her voice firmer now. A choice of tone usually reserved solely for Aegon. "You need to eat. You’ve been at this for hours.”

Aemond cradled his cello gently between his knees, the hum of the ensemble drifted in the air, each musician fine-tuned to perfection with scales and snippets of melodies to practice. But despite this, Aemond found his thoughts elsewhere, his memories blurring into his current reality, where a new challenge in the form of the pianist had emerged.

With every draw of his bow across the strings as if he were an artist gliding a paint-slick brush over canvas, Aemond found his concentration fragmenting. His thoughts were pulled back to the pianist’s effortless expression, her ability to blend technical mastery with palpable emotion. A stark contrast to his own methodical, disciplined approach.

She irked him. She intrigued him. Two feelings which should not hold hands in Aemond's black and white reality. Every single thing his musical education had deemed secondary, she challenged. In the brief moments where he could witness her artistry himself, her performances always lingered, whereas his own, for all its precision, rarely achieved.

“Focus, Aemond.”

Otto's chide was soft and yet audible to everyone. It echoed a long and tired reminder of years past. And he found himself unable to pull back the glare that his own grandfather shot first down the bridge of his nose.

Practice ended how it often had, disappointed and dejected. He could no longer think of her or the words she'd said in their last encounter without feeling the frustration thud in his heart. After all, could the skills she so easily spoke about even be learned?

He longed to see what she saw, how she felt when she played.

The route back to Aemond's apartment was mentally tiring, and the frustration that usually ebbed away with every step, somehow lingered, and permeated throughout his body. For some time, playing the cello had not been met with accomplishment, now more often than not, met with a long and exhausting sense that he could be better.

That is what Alys had said as well, a few weeks ago, when she'd packed up the rest of her things, still pink in the face from Aemond's lips and tongue having pleasured her between her thighs to completion. The difference between her attitude and her parting words almost gave him emotional whiplash.

“I can't be the one to distract you. Not when you need to focus. Not when you have the opportunity to be great.”

Her voice was firm. And there was no room for argument or rebuttal. When Alys said something had to be how it was, that was it. Aemond had watched silently, scrubbing a hand over his face at the closed door of his apartment. He wanted to argue that if Alys had in fact cared that she'd be distracting him, her lack of presence would be just that.

How often now had he been sinking between her thighs, just to think of something else?

He never thought himself a sex addict, and yet the idea of going so long without it, with the show yet months away, made him angry to think how affected he was by it. This was hypocrisy the likes of his brother, Aegon, would love to shove in his face, he just knew it.

The stone square that choked the Grand Sept was speckled with light through the trees, rustling in a manner some would have found comforting. Couples kissed near the fountain, artists drew for money, set up with a view of the Sept while onlookers watched with joy, and children tripped and squabbled through the various nooks that had once marked the spot of a great dynasty.

This was where he waited, taking in the view and the gentle, somewhat melancholic lull of people's lives go past him without a blink. It was an hour before he'd have to traverse back the way he came for his personal booking, to practice the pieces he so desperately wanted to perfect.

During the day, his phone was off. Nothing was more important than what he deemed his life's work.

With a soft sigh, he sat on the wall, watching the square empty as afternoons drew in, his seeing eye following longingly at a brother and sister, who must have had the same age gap he and Aegon had, chasing one another on the cobbled path. Their squeals of glee and bright, happy faces stirred something heavy in his chest.

Had he ever felt as carefree as that. Had he ever felt like a child. Or had he been a grown man for so long.

His thoughts drifted to his own childhood. He would stand stiff and rigid at recitals, looking out to the expectant gaze of his mother, her burning pride gazing into him. There, there was no room for carefree joy akin to the brother sister chasing each other through the square. His childhood, if it could be called that, was dominated by routine and scales, not play and abandon.

He glances at the golden ticking hands of his watch and with a heaved sigh, lifts his cello case to trudge back along the cobblestones to the music school, feeling the familiar pull of responsibilities. Yet, something about the moment nagged at him, a sense of loss for experiences never had, for a childhood spent in service to a future that demanded everything.

With a heaved sigh and another trudge through the now darkened halls of his music college, Aemond pushed open the door, expecting a deep, sullen and wooden silence. Only to be greeted, or rather, whatever the negative version to being ‘greeted’ is, by the sound of the delicate, light twinkle of piano keys.

He watched at first with a sense of both unease and interest as she played, her face partly hidden by the locks of hair that had fallen between her concentrated brows. He couldn’t even really see her playing, but could feel the sensitivity of her fingers on the black and white keys, the piece melancholic.

Aemond willed the crease between his brows, attempting to feign disappointment between his awe.

“You’re in the room I booked.”

Her eyes pierced the darkness between the opening of the grand piano, searing a memory into his mind through her vibrant gaze. At first, she seemed surprised at not being alone, and then her features settled, and he saw the wrinkles at the corner of one of them that made it clear that she smirked at seeing his annoyance.

She stood and closed the lid with a soft thud, pulling her bag over her shoulder, “yeah well unless you want to try moving a grand piano?” she smirks, raising one eyebrow as if daring him to reply.

Aemond exhaled sharply through his nose, setting his cello case against a nearby chair, conceding the point without words.

“Didn’t think so,” she replied in a jokey manner, smiling down as she organised her sheet music into a neat satchel bag at her side.

While she wasn't looking, he found himself watching her, for no particular reason. There was something about the way she moved, the confidence she exuded even in the simplest of actions, that intrigued him. It wasn’t just curiosity about her attire or a superficial interest, he found himself wondering about the depth of her character, about the source of her fearless demeanour. If his stolen looks were not to see what she was wearing today, then perhaps to see if he could glimpse into her soul for just a moment, to see where she got her fucking audacity from.

He sat to prepare his cello, running his middle finger over the bow strings, the density of them feeling somewhat satisfying against his calloused tips.

“You’re not going to lecture me about how I need to… ‘make love to my music’, or some shit like that?”

She chuckled softly, a sound that seemed to resonate a little too deeply within him. “What you do with your cello in your alone time is none of my business,” she quipped without looking up, her voice light yet laden with a hint of mischief.

“Hmm.”

The air between them was charged with an unspoken tension, a dance of mutual curiosity and veiled interest. As she packed up her things, Aemond found himself unwilling to break the moment, his usual reserve shaken by her presence. There was something about her, a boldness, an unapologetic embrace of her own talent and identity, that challenged him, that made him question his own guarded nature.

As she slung her bag over her shoulder, ready to leave, she paused, glancing back at Aemond who was methodically preparing his cello. A thought seemed to strike her, and her eyes lingered on him, curious and considering.

"Actually, do you mind if I stay a bit longer to listen?" she asked, her tone casual but with an underlying sincerity that caught Aemond off guard.

Aemond felt a mixture of apprehension and pride swell within him. He was used to accolades and audiences, but her request felt different, more personal, more significant. His initial instinct was to guard his practice, a time he usually kept private, a sacred space where he perfected his art away from prying eyes. Yet, something about her frank interest, devoid of any apparent ulterior motive, piqued his own curiosity about how she might perceive his music.

He was so taken off guard, as he was so often by her, that he forgot to say anything and simply nodded. He positioned his cello, settling it between his knees, his back straightening as he prepared to play. The invitation was extended on his terms, yet internally, he acknowledged a desire to impress her, to validate his approach and perhaps, to challenge her own musical opinions.

Her posture was relaxed, but attentive, as if she at least wanted to offer him the respect of knowing she was listening wholeheartedly. As Aemond drew the bow across the strings, the first notes resonated through the room, rich and precise. He chose a piece that showcased his technical prowess, a complex Bach suite that required meticulous control and deep concentration.

As he played, he found himself increasingly aware of her presence in the room. Each note was not just played for the sake of practice but as a demonstration of his skill and dedication to his craft. He watched her reaction out of the corner of his eye, her expressions subtle yet revealing. She seemed genuinely absorbed in the music, her earlier playful demeanour replaced by a focused seriousness that matched his own when he played.

The last draw of his bow brought those guarded walls back up again, the same ones that usually came tumbling down when he felt that in the throes of playing, feeling as if he was alone, were so easily crumbled. When the last note vibrated into silence, Aemond allowed himself a moment to gauge her reaction fully. She had leaned forward in her chair, as if she wanted to see his technique closer.

“You play with such precision,” she almost whispered, so quietly he strained to hear them. As if the words hadn’t been for him at all.

He wasn’t certain how to place her review, negative or positive. And it aggravated him that even in her criticism, she was aggressively neutral.

"Precision is crucial," he responded, his voice steady but his mind racing. He ached to say more, but alongside fearing he would appear defensive, he was unsure whether he wanted to invite criticism from her.

She paused, considering his question, her eyes locking with his. "Precision is your strength, no doubt," she began, her voice gaining confidence as she spoke. "But music, at least to me, also needs to breathe, to have a life of its own beyond the notes on the page. Your playing is impeccable, but it feels tightly controlled, almost constrained."

He quashed the rising irritation, or at least as much as he could, forcing himself to consider her words from a place of growth rather than confrontation. "So, you're suggesting I let go a little?" he asked, watching as she smiled at his confusion.

“Maybe,” she said lightly, “allow it the freedom to surprise you. Control you. You might find you like it.”

He couldn’t help but dissect the slight flirtatiousness in her voice. And yet it was almost gentle, a stark contrast to the sharpness he was accustomed to in such discussions.

She broke the silence that seemed to bulge between them, “do you like it?”

His mother watched him eat, her gaze laden with a mix of pride and concern. The clink of cutlery filled the brief silences as she finally found the words.

"Do you enjoy it, Aemond?" she asked, her voice soft yet carrying weight. "The cello, I mean. Do you actually enjoy playing?"

Aemond paused, his fork suspended in mid-air. It was a question that had lingered at the edge of his consciousness, unvoiced and unanswered. Did he enjoy it, truly? Or had it become merely a vehicle for his ambition, a pathway that he had been set upon rather than one he had chosen?

"It sometimes feels like the only thing I know how to do," he admitted, and for someone so often so sure, his voice wavered.

His mother’s hand reached across the table, her touch warm against his. "Music should be a source of joy, not just a pursuit of perfection," she reminded him gently. "It’s a gift, Aemond, meant to be cherished as much as honed."

Aemond paused, the question catching him off-guard. "Do I like what?" he asked, unsure if she was referring to her suggestion or something more implicit.

She bit back a small smile, and yet it still wormed its way onto her face, “losing control.”

Her question, laced with a hint of playfulness, hung in the air, and Aemond found himself momentarily lost for words. He was unaccustomed to such directness wrapped in…flirtation?

“Losing control?” he repeated, his mouth feeling a little dry.

“Mmhm,” she hummed, “you hold the reins so tightly. Might be liberating to loosen…or even let go, once in a while?”

The atmosphere between them seemed to thicken, the words ‘losing control’ echoing not just through the room but through Aemond’s thoughts, disrupting his usual composure.

Aemond shifted slightly, the concept of loosening his grip, both metaphorically on his music and literally in his life, seemed to resonate deeper than he anticipated. "And you think that's something I need?" he asked, his voice lower, the hint of a challenge lacing his words.

She didn’t move an inch, but her presence seemed more pronounced. The subtle scent of her perfume mixed with the mustiness of the old practice room created a contrast that was oddly intoxicating. "Isn't it?" she countered softly, her gaze steady on his.

The air between them was palpable now, her every word pulling at something he usually kept well guarded. His heart beat a rhythm almost too pronounced, mirroring the tension that seemed to pulse through the space.

Clasping her bag closed, she stood, "Music is about feeling, about passion. It’s not just the notes, but the spaces between them, the breaths, the moments of surrender.”

Aemond’s response was caught in his throat as he absorbed her words, her proximity, the undeniable tension that seemed to dance around them like the very music she spoke of. How the hell did she do that?

She allowed herself a cheeky smile, one that reached her eyes so quickly that with those alone he would know she was amused, “maybe you should surrender to it sometimes.”

A part of him wanted to dismiss her words, to reinforce the walls he had built around his methods and beliefs. After all, she was the face of his competition, a symbol of the school he had been conditioned to outperform. Yet, the way she spoke about music, with such a raw, inviting passion, made it impossible to ignore the pull he felt towards her ideas, towards her. The rivalry was supposed to be clear-cut, a battle of schools and skills. But with her, it blurred into something messier, charged with an undercurrent of something he couldn’t quite name but felt all too powerfully.

It was a dangerous mix.

To admit she affected him would mean opening a door he was adamant to firmly keep shut tight. One that could lead to complications. Not even in terms of the competition. But for his prized discipline. She watched his expression to her words closely, her eyes reflecting a glint of knowing. He desperately wanted to hate her for it. To remind her that she was no better than him simply because she wasn’t plagued with the need for perfection like he was. That she, beyond the walls of the music school she seemed to haunt, could leave her instrument within them. Whereas Aemond was forced to carry his cello on his shoulders, to support its heavy toll on him, and that every step he took, it took more.

It seemed like she was going to say more, as her lips parted. But as quickly as they did, they closed softly again, and that enigmatic smile returned.

Fuck her.

When Aegon had been in his early twenties, he’d moaned and groaned on the sofa, his phone slobbed to one side, complaining that the girl he was currently texting was verbally edging him. Aemond had merely grimaced, finding his brother's frustration more amusing than relatable.

But now he felt that aggravation of it. The fact that she knew he was hanging on every word, and still chose not to say anything, to leave thoughts dangling in the charged air between them.

She gave him a final nod, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken words and tensions that lingered, then turned and walked away. It was only when she was halfway down the hallway that the perfect response sprang to his mind, but by then it was too late. All he could do was watch her retreating form disappear into the dim, wooden corridor.

In that moment, Aemond felt like a modern-day Eurydice, fading into the shadows, but with a twist, this time, Eurydice longed for Orpheus to look back. Aemond knew that if she turned, if she offered him one last look, it would mean stepping back into a narrative filled with complexities and perhaps inevitable loss. Yet, he craved that backward glance, a sign that their fleeting connection meant as much to her as it did to him, even if it meant returning to the shadows.

Aemond tried to refocus on his practice as he returned to the solitude of the music room. He played mechanically, his usual precision present but the soul of the music notably absent. The strings didn't sing; they just spoke in monotonous tones. With more than half of his allotted practice time remaining, he packed up his cello, and resisted the urge to hurl it across the room.

Driven by a need for something more tangible, more human than the cold wood and strings of his cello, Aemond left the practice room abruptly.

No more than 15 minutes later, he stood at the smirking figure of Alys Rivers, leaning against her door frame, arms crossed and wearing delicate lacy sleepwear, as if she could supernaturally anticipate that he would come to her.

Her eyes gleamed with a mix of amusement and satisfaction, seeing him slightly dishevelled, a rare break in his usually composed demeanour.

“I don't want to fucking hear it.”

Alys, unfazed by his sharpness, raised an eyebrow and smiled wryly, stepping aside to let him in. Her reaction was more teasing than concerned, her amusement clear in her casual posture.

"Where?" Aemond's voice was blunt, his usual grace undercut by a barely contained frustration.

"The bed," Alys responded with a flick of her head toward the bedroom, her smirk deepening as she watched him stride ahead.

As he passed her, she couldn't resist adding, "Need some instructions, or do you remember the way?"

Aemond didn't respond, his back to her as he moved into the bedroom. Alys followed at a leisurely pace, her demeanour confident, almost cocky. She leaned against the doorframe, watching as he shed his jacket with quick, jerky movements.

Alys pushed off from the doorframe and walked over to him, her steps deliberate. "Something's happened-," she said, reaching out to smooth the crease between his brows with her thumb, her touch light but insistent.

He caught her wrist, his grip firm. "I said I don't want to fucking hear it," he retorted, his voice low and strained.

Alys met his gaze, her expression partly unreadable. "Okay," she conceded, pulling her hand back gently. She gestured towards the bed. "Show me what you need.”

As Alys led him toward the bed, Aemond followed mechanically. His movements were automatic, driven by habit more than desire. Pulling her hips towards him and slinging her legs over his shoulders was like second nature at this point. Alys was warm beneath him, her body responding in all the familiar ways, her breaths, her touches, her sighs all scripted from past encounters. Yet, as Aemond moved with her, his mind was elsewhere, disengaged from the act.

The room was silent except for the soft rustle of sheets and the muted sounds of their closeness, but inside Aemond, a storm was brewing. The physical motions were all correct, but the emotional undercurrents were misaligned, leaving him feeling even more isolated as they moved together. Alys seemed not to notice, or if she did, she chose not to address it, caught up perhaps in her own interpretation of their actions.

Afterward, as Alys settled beside him, her breathing even and content, Aemond lay awake, staring at the ceiling. She was close, yet he felt miles away, trapped in a cycle that provided physical release but no real solace.

Sensing his detachment, Alys’ voice broke through the silence, “you okay?”

Aemond didn't answer. Instead, he gently disentangled himself from her and slid off the bed. His movements were smooth but distant, as if he was pulling away from more than just the physical proximity, leaving the bedroom without so much of a backward glance at Alys, barely wounded from his dismissal, naked in bed. Alys watched him go, her expression resigned. She remained silent, making no move to follow him or press him further.

In the living room, Aemond walked straight to the mini-bar and poured himself a drink, his hands mechanically tilting the bottle, the familiar clink of ice soothing his frayed nerves. He took a deep sip, letting the liquid burn down his throat, hoping it would wash away the disquiet clinging to him.

As he turned, his gaze fell on the grand piano sitting under the low light in the corner of the room. It was an elegant piece, one that Alys had long forgotten, now sitting idly and out of tune. The dust gathered in its crevices spoke volumes of its neglect, a stark contrast to the careful maintenance of instruments at his own school.

The piano, much like himself tonight, felt abandoned, left to stand as a mere piece of furniture rather than the vibrant instrument it was intended to be. Compelled by a sudden urge, he approached it, his fingers running along the cool, smooth surface of its keys, each one silent and stiff from disuse. Aemond pressed a key tentatively, listening to the dull thud that echoed back, as if to taunt him.

For a brief moment, he considered the task of tuning it, of bringing it back to life. It seemed a fitting metaphor for what he needed himself, a realignment, a correction of the discord that had crept into his own life and art.

As Aemond's fingers wandered across the piano keys, his thoughts meandered back to the pianist from the opposing school. She had described music as a living entity, one that breathed and moved, pulsating with the emotions of its player. This concept lingered in his mind as he contemplated the neglected piano before him. He wondered how she would react to such a forlorn instrument. Would she feel compelled to restore it, to draw breath back into its worn frame and let it sing once more?

Just as he secretly hoped she might rekindle something within him, a spark long subdued under the weight of discipline and expectation.

General Taglist: @aemondsfavouritebastard @bellstwd @blackswxnn @blairfox04 @buckybarnesb-tch

@castellomargot @emmaisafictionwhore @hb8301 @jamespotterismydaddy @justbelljust

@minholy223 @mochi-rose @natty2017 @nenelysian @primonizzutto

@qyburnsghost @randomdragonfires @risefallrise @thelittleswanao3 @theoneeyedprince

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deterioratingpisces · 2 months ago

Text

The Vampire Armand, high school drama teacher from hell.

He always chooses plays that are wildly inappropriate for the age range of his students. "Today we begin rehearsals for A Streetcar Named Desire! What? It’s about family!"

He takes his work way too seriously and expects nothing short of perfection. A forgotten line or missed cue is treated as a personal betrayal.

He refuses to call it “the school play.” No, it’s always referred to as The Production. Like it’s a Broadway masterpiece, and he treats it as such.

His punishments for lateness or lackluster performances are absurdly theatrical. A student misses their mark? "Congratulations, you’re now the understudy for the curtain!"

For every performance, he overdresses like he’s about to win a Tony. Rather than show off high schoolers' work to a room full of parents who’d rather be anywhere else in the world.

Verbal abuse is a daily occurrence. Not modern, explicit insults, but long-winded, theatrical tirades that leave students more confused than hurt. “I can see the potential in you—it’s just buried beneath layers of mediocrity and despair!”

Don’t you EVER, under ANY circumstances, try to leave his rehearsal early. Your doctor’s appointment? Postponed. Your sister's in emergency surgery? Unimportant. A relative is on their deathbed? Armand will tell you, “The true death is the death of your commitment to art.” You’ll leave the rehearsal wondering if your life has any meaning outside of his production.

One time, a group of shunned students tried to start a revolution against him. They made the fatal mistake of trying to get him removed from his position. Rumor has it that, by the end of that semester, none of them were seen on campus again. Some say they transferred to other schools. Others claim they’ve been “reassigned” to a different universe, one where Armand reigns supreme.

Once, he made everyone meditate for an entire rehearsal. In complete silence. The only sound was the soft swish swish of Armand pacing in front of the group, whispering phrases like "Feel the despair of the character. Embody the void." It ended with him dramatically fainting in the center of the circle, causing everyone else to panic.

He tapes every performance and subjects the cast to endless replays to highlight their mistakes. He treats this like he’s coaching a national sports team. "Look at this moment. What’s that on your face? A smile? Was this a comedy? No. Try again."

If a parent tries to intervene in his unorthodox methods, he breaks them too. "Oh, you want this to be a fun experience for your child? Let me show you what happens when mediocrity is allowed to flourish." By the end, the parent is running errands for him alongside their kid.

You want to leave the production? Good luck. Once you're in, there is no turning back. You may think you’ve found a way out, but suddenly you have hooded figures following you at all times, dropping off weird newspaper cutout letters at your house, vandalizing your locker with big red letters that say “TRAITOR.” Eventually, you’ll come crawling back, begging for forgiveness.

His assistant is an eleven-year-old with a clipboard that he simply calls “Boy.” He frequently complains to him: “Boy, where’s my iPad?” “Boy, have you seen his delivery of the soliloquy? A piece of bread could convey more emotion.” “Boy, what’s your opinion on arson?” “Has anyone seen the boy? I need him to fetch something for me… yes, it’s my iPad.”

Sometimes, during breaks, they play Minecraft or Roblox together. He gets mad whenever the boy beats him at Dress to Impress, though. “There’s no way that shabby look beat my elegant ensemble!” Whenever he’s feeling extra petty, he even sends him to clean his office as punishment.

He makes a massive spectacle out of releasing the cast list: fog machines, backup music, extras in costumes, choreographed performances—an entire Olympian-level ceremony. "And now... THE LEAD! Drumroll, please!"

He regularly fights with other teachers for not prioritizing The Production. “Your physics test? How adorable. The Production is the only education they need.”

The props department hates to see him coming. He demands Broadway-level sets from students working with cardboard and acrylic paint. “What is this? A tree? I’ve seen more realistic trees in The Lorax.”

He forces other art teachers to produce props during their classes. Pottery class? Now they’re making urns for The Production.

If his stars are stuck in other classes, he silently enters the room and glares at the teacher until they release the student. “No, no, don’t interrupt your lecture on photosynthesis. The future of theater can wait.”

He’s got the headmaster under his spell, so don’t even think about complaining to them. You might have a heated argument about his dismissal of your class, but when you storm into the headmaster’s office, guess who's already there, sipping tea and laughing like they’re in on some inside joke? (Spoiler: They are.)

His biggest rival is the drama teacher at the neighboring school, Lestat de Lioncourt. They’ve been sworn enemies since preschool. Their rivalry began when they both applied for the lead role in their school play. Neither of them got the part and blamed the other for it.

He sends his 11-year-old assistant to sabotage Lestat in petty ways—keying his car, putting dark blonde dye in his silver shampoo, or mixing laxatives into his protein powder. Nothing is off-limit.

He does this especially as a stress relief whenever something goes wrong in The Production. If their lead actress breaks her leg, he’ll casually say, “Boy, I need you to go and see to it that Mr. Lioncourt’s car gets towed.”

He and Mr. Lioncourt always attend each other’s plays. Afterwards, they exchange viciously backhanded compliments: “Now this play really was something. You’ve got a way of making the audience think—mostly about leaving during the intermission.” “Your style of directing is so fresh—it's like you’ve never seen a play before.” “You must tell me where you get your costumes tailored. They were so captivating, I almost didn’t notice when half of your cast forgot their lines.”(They’d never admit it, but they are kind of best friends.)

When stressed, Armand retreats into the world of Just Dance. He’ll dash into his office, and before you know it, you’re hearing the unmistakable "Dannnceee" intro blast through the door. On days you hear "Rasputin" pumping from the cracks in the walls, run. Something's gone terribly, terribly wrong.

His idea of rewards for students is... baffling. A lock of his hair? A recitation of an original theatre piece in the school hallway? Or the ultimate honor: an invitation to witness his one-man show. "This, my dear pupil, is your reward: the privilege of experiencing true art."

One day, his students stumbled upon a recording of his one-man show. A surreal spectacle in which Armand, clad in a series of increasingly ridiculous wigs, argued with himself for three hours. The props? A lone chair, which he threw dramatically around, and a crumpled newspaper he swore was "crucial to the plot," but never actually read.

He has personalised, often insulting, nicknames for every student in the cast. If he’s feeling generous, you might get called “The Chosen One” or “The Future of Broadway.” If not... well, "The Prose Butcherer" might be on the docket. Or worse: "The Disappointment," which he says with a lingering stare.

Rehearsal speeches that drag on for hours. By the time he finishes, half the cast has nodded off, and the rest are wishing they had, too. It’s always the same: “The characters are in you, feel their pain... feel it!”

Production posters that look like they cost a fortune. Seriously, how does a high school drama department afford high-quality photo shoots? These posters are so professionally done, people are starting to ask if he’s siphoning funds from somewhere… somewhere.

Absurd warm-up rituals. Don’t even think about going on stage without going through Armand’s hour-long warm-up. This includes screaming into the void, contorting your body into poses inspired by ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics, and chanting lines from Macbeth in an attempt to "invoke the spirits of tragedy."

Pre-show pep talks that are mostly threats with a thin layer of encouragement. “I’ve prepared you to the best of my abilities. You’re not just actors... you are vessels for my vision. Fail me, and you will never know peace.” (He says this in the dark, under a single flickering lightbulb, to REALLY set the mood.)

At some point, they get used to his weird antics and emotional tirades. So much so that they get seriously worried for him whenever he doesn’t flip out when something goes wrong. When a prop breaks or someone misses their cue, the cast watches in horrified silence, waiting for the explosion. But when it doesn’t come, they look at each other, unsure whether to feel relieved or more terrified.

They try to figure out what’s wrong with him and find a way to cheer him up. Was he banned from his favourite Minecraft server again? Are things not going well at home? Maybe he’s just overexerted himself? They try to be on their best behaviour, tiptoeing around him like nervous mice to make sure they’re not the ones to make him suddenly implode. Then, just as they’re about to lose hope, Armand looks up from his iPad, elated, and announces that they’ve once again made it to the regionals. The cast collectively exhales in relief, unsure if this moment of joy is worth the emotional rollercoaster that led them here.

Questionable bonding experiences. "To get a better feel of your characters' emotional depth," Armand leads the class on bizarre excursions—abandoned asylums, the red-light district, or a graveyard at midnight. If anyone dares question the appropriateness of this, he dramatically sighs and mutters, "Art is not safe."

Once, they crashed a stranger’s funeral. All in the name of "studying grief and despair." Imagine mourning your beloved grandmother, only to see a group of teenagers with notepads, hovering over the casket and asking intrusive questions like, "How does this make you feel? On a scale of 1 to 10, how raw is the emotion?"

They were, unsurprisingly, kicked out. One attendee threatened to call the police, but Armand was prepared. As soon as the word “police” left their lips, one of the students screamed “SCATTER!” and the entire group fled the scene in an unholy frenzy, leaving the wake with half as many guests as before. They still talk about it as "the performance of a lifetime."

Afterward, they reconvened at a shabby diner to process the experience. Milkshakes and waffles were consumed in abundance (paid for by Armand, naturally, as “rewards” for their "artistic dedication"). The group debated whether true grief could ever truly be captured without disturbing the family, concluding only that they had to do it again, but next time, at a wedding.

Never mind the rough start the theatre group might’ve had at the beginning of the semester. By the end, they are all trauma bonded and have an undeniable soft spot for Armand. He pretends that he’s not affected by this at all because that’s just theatre, but you can still sense it from him. When he’s dressed in all black during the last school assembly of the year and hides his eyes behind sunglasses, you just know that he cares just as much.

A while ago I made this post called Daniel Molloy, marriage councillor from hell, and I had so much fun writing it that I had to do a sequel.

#iwtv crack #I just remembered that I had this in my drafts lmao #I think next I might do ‘LDPDL Branch Manager from hell’ or sth #fun fact: I actually had a school trip to the red light district of Hamburg. we got a tour and everything #a photography workshop in the red light district? it’s more common than you think #my friend and I still reminisce about this a lot bc wdym we were encouraged to take pictures of sex shops and brothels during a school trip #she saw our teacher trip over himself bc he was looking at a sex worker and didn’t watch his steps #I could give a full storytime on this but it was honestly pretty fun and interesting #interview with the vampire #the vampire armand #iwtv #devils minion

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