hishumanbellestories

[hishumanbellestories]

The details...

They hate the witch, they fear the woman, and it is the demon who saves her.

[hishumanbellestories]

No turning back.

🔞 explicit sexual content, oral sex, fingering, soft domination, monster form, unprotected sex, overstimulation.

You shouldn’t be here.

Not in his room. Not under his gaze. Not with your thighs parted, legs trembling over his shoulders, back pressed against the plush mattress of his absurdly clean bed while the Radio Demon — Alastor — smirks between them, eyes glowing like firelight.

But you are, and it’s too late to run.

He hasn’t touched you yet — not properly. He’s been staring at your pussy like it’s the last meal he’ll ever be allowed to devour, and that grin of his hasn’t wavered once. “I do hope you’re not shy, my dear,” he murmurs, voice as warm as old whiskey and just as dangerous, “because I am famished.”

And then… his mouth touches you.

Not a kiss, not even a lick. Just the press of his breath — hot, deliberate — on the soft, wet heat of your folds. You feel your whole body twitch in response, your hips bucking ever so slightly, involuntarily. You’re already slick, embarrassingly so, and he hasn’t done a thing yet. He laughs. The sound crackles. Distorted. Wicked.

“Oh my,” he drawls, dragging a single finger along the outer edge of your slit, collecting a slow line of your wetness. “You’re just dripping, cher, and I haven’t even started.” You want to snap something back, something clever, but the moment he lowers his face again, you lose it. His tongue presses flat against you — broad, slow, unbearably patient — from the base of your slit to your clit, and the sound you make is closer to a moan than a word. He hums in approval, the vibration pulsing right through you. Alastor moans low in his throat like he’s tasting power. But really, it’s you. Just you. Every drop of your arousal soaked into his mouth, and he’s savoring it. Then he parts you with two fingers and stares.

“Such a perfect little thing,” he mutters, voice darkening, “do you have any idea what you’re doing to me? What this means for me?” His finger circles your entrance, teasing. Not pushing in. Just swirling there. Gathering. Stirring. Torturing. You whimper — barely — but he hears it like a siren call. His tongue returns with more focus now, firm and precise. He starts to lap at your folds, lazy at first, and then with a rhythm that makes your thighs tense around his head. The heat of his mouth, the scrape of his fangs just barely grazing your skin — it’s too much, too good, and still... not enough. Then his lips close around your clit.

Not hard.

Not soft.

Just right.

He sucks — slow, controlled, obscene — and your breath escapes in a ragged gasp. And that’s when you feel it: a finger, sliding in. His voice is warm against your skin as he speaks without lifting his mouth, “there we go... let me in, little darling.” He pushes slowly, deliberately, one finger knuckle by knuckle into your slick heat, curling just enough to make your stomach clench. Then he pulls out, and presses in again. And again. Never too fast. Always in control. His tongue never leaves your clit. His mouth stays latched, circling it with maddening focus. Then—just when you think you’re adjusting to the rhythm — he bites.

Teeth. Sharp. Delicate. Purposeful.

A gasp tears from your throat, hips bucking — but his other hand hold your thighs down like vices, fingers digging into your skin as he growls. “Yes,” he hisses, “squirm for me.” You feel his second finger press in beside the first, stretching you wider, filling you deeper. And his mouth… his mouth doesn’t stop. His tongue laves at your swollen clit, now swollen and throbbing from the attention, while those fingers thrust slowly, curling upward, stroking the spot that makes your legs tremble.

“Darling,” he whispers against you, voice ragged now, “you taste like heaven.” You want to say something. Beg, maybe. Scream. Anything. But all that leaves your mouth is a strangled gasp of his name.

“Alastor—ah!”

He doesn’t let up. He only tightens the grip of his mouth on you, tongue flicking against your clit in short, devastating strokes, while his fingers work in tandem, fucking you slow and deliberate — just enough to push you toward that breaking point without ever letting you fall over it. And he knows exactly what he’s doing. He lifts his eyes, stares up from between your thighs, lips slick with your arousal, and grins like the devil himself.

“Not yet,” he murmurs, “oh no, no, no. I’m going to drag it out of you.” And then he goes back down. Licking. Sucking. Stroking. Like he owns your body. You’ve lost track of how long his mouth’s been on you. All you know is that you’re soaked, shaking, your thighs aching from the tension and the way his grip never lets you close them. Alastor’s face is buried between your legs like he’s feeding from your soul, not your pussy, and the worst part — the best part — is that he’s not even close to done. He’s not human. You knew that. But it’s different to feel it. Because a man would’ve come up for air by now. But Alastor?

Alastor is a fucking monster.

“Look at you…” he murmurs, his voice dripping with delight as he pulls back just an inch, licking his lips. His chin glistens. “Shaking like a leaf. So soft. So sensitive. I haven’t even gotten serious yet.”

Then, without warning, he spits on your pussy — hot and messy —and dives back in with a deep, wet suck that makes your back arch off the mattress. His tongue moves in erratic, focused strokes, circling your clit, then flicking it, then sucking it again until your body is clenched tight with need, your breath coming in short, frantic gasps. Your fingers claw at the sheets. You try to pull away — not to stop him, but because it’s too much, too fucking good... but he growls. A low, possessive sound that vibrates against your swollen clit and sends heat rocketing up your spine.

“Where do you think you’re going, darling?” he snarls, pinning your hips down with both hands now, “you don’t run from pleasure. You take it. All of it.” You moan — loud, raw, desperate — and his mouth clamps down harder. Two fingers fuck you deep, slow at first, then faster. Curling up. Dragging across that sweet spot over and over until your toes curl. He times every thrust of his fingers with a slow, wet drag of his tongue. The control is inhuman. Because that’s what he is: not a man; a demon who has made your pleasure his goddamn obsession. You feel his teeth again — sharp, scraping just a bit too close to pain — but it never crosses that line. He bites just below your clit, lets the sting linger, then soothes it with his tongue like he’s apologizing. But he’s not sorry. He loves it.

“Delicious…” he mutters, tongue flattening against you, licking with long, slow strokes. “You open up so sweetly for me. I wonder how much more you can take before you start begging.” He curls a third finger into you. You gasp — your walls stretch around him, too full, too good, too filthy. He fucks you with them slow and steady, watching your face, licking your clit with every thrust. You feel soaked, ruined, slick dripping down onto the sheets and onto his wrist. And he’s still going. Still moaning. Still vibrating through you. Still eating you like you’re his first and last meal. His tongue never slows, only adjusts — exploring, circling, flattening again, flicking fast, then slow, always paired with the perfect rhythm of his fingers inside you. It’s maddening. You’re climbing that edge, clawing for release, but he won’t let you tip over.

Not yet.

“Almost there, aren’t you?” he purrs, licking up your slit slowly. “You feel so tight around my fingers. So desperate. Poor thing… does it hurt? Holding it in for me?” You can’t speak. You just shake. He laughs. It’s low. Dangerous. A whisper of static around the edges.

“You’ll thank me later,” he says, licking your clit with precise flicks. “Or maybe you’ll scream. Either way… I’m not done until you’re wrecked.” And then? He moans into you. Long, deep, rumbling like thunder in his chest. And his fingers fuck harder. Your legs tremble violently. Your eyes roll back. And still — still — he won’t let you come. Every time he feels you tighten, he pulls back just enough to ruin it.

“You’re so close, sweetheart,” he whispers against your dripping cunt. “But not yet. Not until I say so. And when I do? You won’t remember how to breathe.” His tongue pushes into you now, replacing his fingers — slick, firm, devouring. You feel everything. The heat. The pressure. The hunger. He’s not teasing anymore. He’s feasting. And you’re not sure how much more you can take.

Your body can’t take another second. Your stomach’s clenched, your legs are twitching around Alastor’s shoulders, your pussy is so disgustingly wet, swollen, and used by his tongue and fingers that it barely feels real anymore. You’re panting, writhing, crying out with every flick of his tongue as he keeps fucking you with his fingers — three now, maybe four — you don’t even know. You can’t know. Because you’re gone. He’s everywhere. In you. On you. Under your skin. The sounds — wet, obscene, rhythmic — the slap of his palm against your pussy with every thrust, his mouth devouring your clit, tongue never stopping, never merciful.

“Such a greedy little thing,” he murmurs against you, voice thick, distorted. “Tsk, tsk. I said not yet.” But you don’t care anymore. You can't obey. Because it hits you. Your orgasm rips through you like a goddamn earthquake — sudden, brutal, unstoppable. Your whole body jolts forward, screaming his name, fingers tangling in his hair, heels digging into his back as you cum. Hard. So hard you nearly black out.

“A-Alastor—!”

You gush onto his face, thighs clenching violently around him, and he freezes. For one second. Then he growls and it’s not playful. Not charming. Not the usual radio-static chuckle. This is feral. You barely have time to register the sound before the air around you shifts. The lights flicker. Something dark pulses from him — his body warping, stretching — horns curling sharper, smile widening too far, eyes glowing bright red as his form shifts.

“Oh… you disobedient little thing,” he hisses — but he sounds breathless. Shattered. “Look what you did to me.” And then his tongue plunges back into you with twice the force. No pause. No space to recover. His hands pin you down harder. Claws now. His demon form is full — visible, terrifying, gorgeous. His antlers brush the bed’s canopy. His sharp teeth glint in the dim red light as he licks up your release like a man starved, eyes never leaving yours.

“You came without permission,” he growls, voice layered with static and lust, “and now I want more.” You’re gasping, already sensitive — too sensitive — but he doesn't care. He shoves his tongue into your pussy again — long, thick, hot — and fucks you with it like a cock: deep, fast, relentless. Your hips jolt off the bed, but he slams you back down.

“You’ll cum again,” he snarls, “and again. Until your body begs for mercy. Until you can’t remember your own name — only mine.” You cry out as his claws dig into your thighs, spreading them impossibly wide, holding you open for him. He’s unhinged. He’s possessed. Not by Hell. Not by power. By you. “Mine…” he groans, voice breaking. “Mine. Mine. Mine!” He keeps fucking you with his tongue, the ridges of it dragging against every sensitive inch, your clit still swollen and throbbing. You’re already twitching again, another orgasm building fast — too fast — your body overstimulated, soaked, dripping onto his sheets, but he doesn’t care. He wants it. All of it.

All of you.

“Cum for me again, cher,” he whispers now, almost tender, voice shaking. “Cum again. I want to feel you fall apart on my tongue.”

And you do. You scream. You break. Again. Your pussy clenches around his tongue, your whole body convulsing as another orgasm tears through you, more violent than the last. Your vision blurs. Tears stream down your face. You sob out his name again and again. But Alastor doesn’t stop, even as you collapse, he keeps licking —worshipping — growling your name into your slick folds like a prayer, like a curse, like he’s never going to stop.

“Beautiful,” he mutters. “Perfect. Mine. Mine—forever.”

You’ve created a monster. And he’s going to make sure you never forget it. Your body is still twitching. Your skin’s damp, lips parted, vision hazy as you gasp beneath him — too raw to move, too wrecked to speak. And Alastor… he’s hovering above you now. Changed. Transformed. But still him. His demonic form is vast — too tall, his eyes glowing like two lanterns of hellfire, teeth sharp, antlers rising high, claws stained with your slick — but his expression… his expression is soft. “Darling…” he murmurs, cupping your cheek with a clawed hand that trembles slightly. “I want to take you… all of you. But if you’re in pain, if anything feels wrong, you tell me. Do you understand?” You nod, chest rising and falling. His smile falters, just a bit. He leans down, pressing a long, shaky kiss to your forehead. Then your cheeks. Then your lips. “I will stop,” he whispers into your mouth, “even now… I would stop. Just say the word.” You don’t say it. You whisper instead, voice cracked but certain,“I want... you.” His whole body shudders. He leans down, pressing his body over yours slowly, carefully — not crushing, not forcing. His cock presses against your thigh now — thick, hot, swollen — and you can feel the way it throbs with every breath he takes. When the tip brushes your folds, you gasp. He groans and freezes. “Is that alright?” he asks immediately, voice taut, eyes searching yours, “too much?” You shake your head. “No… please, Alastor. I want all of you.” His eyes soften. And then — with infinite care — he enters you. Slow. So goddamn slow. He hisses through his teeth as he pushes in, inch by inch, watching your face the whole time. You’re wet, stretched, already open from everything he did to you… but he’s big.

So fucking big.

His cock is thick and curved, textured in a way that feels otherworldly inside you. He slides deeper, and deeper still, until his hips finally press flush to yours. You can feel him trembling. “Fuck,” he groans softly, biting his lip. “You’re… so tight. Warm. So — so perfect.” He leans down to kiss you again — softly, lovingly — as if his monstrous appearance doesn’t exist. His claws brush your hair back. His mouth trails kisses down your throat, your collarbone. Then he begins to move. Each thrust is slow. Deep. Careful. He rocks into you with such aching control it almost makes you cry. He keeps his body close, chest against yours, arms around your shoulders, kissing you over and over — your lips, your jaw, your temple — as his hips grind into yours in steady rhythm. “I’m inside you,” he whispers. “You’ve taken me. All of me. You’re mine.” Your arms wrap around his neck, clinging to him. He moans as you squeeze around him, and the noise he makes is downright desperate. You feel his cock twitch deep inside you as he slows for a moment, pressing his forehead to yours.

“I’ll never get enough,” he whispers. “Never. Not of this. Not of you.” You kiss him. He gasps into your mouth and thrusts harder. Still slow. Still deep. But more needy now. More frantic beneath the tenderness. Like his body is barely holding itself together — like your warmth is the only thing tethering him to the moment. His hips roll against yours, grinding your clit as he buries himself to the hilt with every stroke. You gasp, clutching at his back, and he growls in pleasure — then softens it with a kiss to your chest. “I love the sounds you make,” he breathes against your skin. “I love how you move. How you wrap around me. How your body welcomes me.” He presses a kiss between your breasts. Then another. His hands roam everywhere — touching, holding, worshipping — like he needs you. His claws never scratch. Only cradle. Then — his voice barely above a whisper, “you’re my salvation.” The way he says it… it’s real. Raw. Broken. And when he thrusts again — harder, deeper — your back arches with another gasp. He cradles your head in one hand and kisses you hard. Then slower. Slower again. “I won’t last,” he moans against your lips. “I won’t last much longer. Not with you like this… not when you’re so good for me…” You feel the build again. A pressure curling low in your belly. His cock dragging against the perfect spot, his words making your heart throb, his body claiming you completely — but gently. Worshipfully. Alastor doesn’t just want your body. He wants your soul. And he’s giving you his. His rhythm starts to falter. Not because he’s tired — he doesn’t tire — but because his restraint is gone. Each thrust hits deeper now, more erratic, his claws digging into the mattress beside your head as his body trembles from the effort of not collapsing onto you. You cling to him — legs around his waist, arms locked around his back, nails raking over hot, slick skin as his cock grinds into you over and over again. He’s buried so deep it’s hard to breathe. Each thrust feels like it’s rearranging you. Filling places you didn’t know existed. The sounds — wet, desperate, savage — fill the room. His hips slap against yours with growing urgency, his mouth devouring your throat, your lips, whimpering your name like a man on the verge of combustion. He gasps, voice frayed and guttural, “tell me you’re mine. Tell me — tell me you feel this.”

“I’m yours,” you breathe against his ear, voice cracking, “I’m — fuck — I’m yours, Alastor. I’m — yours,” you moan. And that’s what does it. He breaks. His thrusts become chaotic, punishing — driven by something deeper than lust. His growls turn to snarls, his breath ragged, glowing red eyes staring down at you like a beast gone mad. Still kissing you. Still worshiping you. Still cradling your body like you’re the most sacred thing in existence. And then it hits. That feeling. That impossible pressure deep in your belly. White-hot and growing. Your thighs quake. Your nails dig into his back. Your breath catches — your whole body tenses. “Alastor—!” He feels it. He knows. He grabs your face with both hands, eyes wide and almost scared — as if he knows something unstoppable is about to rip you apart. “Don’t fight it,” he whispers, voice ragged. “Let it happen. Let me see you fall.” His hands reach down, seeking yours, and he brings them above your head, pinning them down and intertwining his fingers with yours. He wants to feel you. He wants to feed on you. And you do. Your orgasm tears through you like a goddamn explosion — your pussy clenching around his cock so hard it knocks the breath from both your lungs. You scream. Loud. Wordless. Trembling like something inside you just detonated. You see white. Your body convulses, waves crashing through you again and again — your muscles squeezing around him without mercy, your voice shattering on his name. And Alastor... he loses his mind. His whole body tenses.

“Oh — fuck — fuck —” he gasps, voice cracking for the first time in your life, “you’re — you’re milking me — I'm going to cum!” He plunges as deep as he can go — hips pressed flush, cock fully sheathed — and comes with a violent, full-body spasm. His mouth opens in a soundless cry. His hips jerk. And you feel it — the sudden, hot rush of his release pulsing inside you. Again. And again. And again. Endless spurts that make you arch into him, your body trembling from the overwhelming stretch and heat. He keeps thrusting through it, slow and shaky now, pushing his cum deeper into you, mouth pressed to your shoulder, eyes locking with yours, his expression pure agony of pleasure, groaning like he’s being exorcised. His cock twitches with each pulse. His claws clutch your thighs then, arms, ribs — desperate to keep you connected. To keep him deep inside you.

“I love you,” he gasps, not even realizing he’s said it. Your hands cradle his face, pulling him into a kiss — sloppy, hot, tasting of tears and sweat and release. You’re both panting. Bodies locked covered in each other. Neither of you move. For a moment… there's only sound: wet skin, ragged breathing, the dim flicker of the red radio static around the room like a storm slowly fading. Then his body softens. His weight comes down over you — not crushing, but grounding. And you realize — he’s crying. You feel the tremble in his chest. The way he buries his face in your neck, arms pulling you close, like he is afraid. “I can’t lose you,” he whispers, broken, trembling against your skin. “I can’t ever lose this. You.” You run your fingers through his hair, still feeling his cock twitch inside you, slowly softening. Still buried. Still deep. You still his. Him still yours. And all around you… Hell is quiet. As if the world knows that the Radio Demon, master of chaos, had changed frequency or, better yet, turned off the radio completely.

[hishumanbellestories]

I have updated the list with the next releases. A little while more and the first chapters will be published and maybe THE DEVIL'S MELODY will be finished.

Sorry for the wait but life has really turned me upside down this period.

MASTERLIST!

Hi, guys! I finally had the time to reorganize all my posts into this one list. I hope it's something for your taste, buds!

✡ THIS LIST WILL BE CONTINUOUSLY UPDATED ✡

♡ REMEMBER THAT I ACCEPT ANY KIND OF REQUEST ♡

⟶ IF YOU WANT TO BE TAGGED, ask without problems ⟵

Alastor x Oc:

I'm hungry for emotions: not suitable for minors. Alastor can't resist you and wants to devour you.

Chapter 1: click here.

Chapter 2: click here.

Chapter 3: click here.

Sweet moments in the bathroom: A moment of tenderness and fun with Alastor in the bathtub.

One shot: click here.

Monster: not suitable for minors. Alastor is consumed by his love for you and cannot resist the urge to have you carnally.

One shot: click here.

Alastor's rut: not suitable for minors. Alastor is in heat and asks you for help.

One shot: click here.

Quickie in the bathroom: not suitable for minors. A sexual encounter in a bathroom.

Chapter 1: click here.

Chapter 2: click here.

Sweet confession: Alastor seeks comfort.

One shot: click here.

Alastor's doe heat: not suitable for minors. You're in heat and you're in pain, Alastor offers you… a deal.

One shot: click here.

Fawns: not suitable for minors. Alastor shares his desire to make you a mother.

One shot: click here.

Hug: You hug Alastor for the first time.

One shot: click here.

Where have you been: not suitable for minors. Alastor is possessive and sex is forced.

Chapter 1: click here.

Chapter 2: click here.

Panic/depression attacks: not suitable for minors. Alastor tries to help you in a moment of great anxiety.

Chapter 1: click here.

Chapter 2: click here.

Give me your attention: Alastor has a punishment in store for you whenever you don't pay attention to him.

One shot: click here.

The wound: Alastor is seriously injured, maybe he hit his head hard because of what he confesses to you.

One shot: click here.

Light as a shadow: Alastor is part of the astral plane and experiences the torment of not being able to touch his beloved.

One shot: click here.

Redemption in the blood: This is a really sad story between Alastor and Deborah, where he will do something to get her, but at a high price.

One shot: click here.

Whispers from the mirror: An impossible love story between reader and Alastor, who is an omnipresence.

One shot: click here.

First kiss, but nothing serious:

One shot: click here.

The argument:

Chapter 1: click here.

Chapter 2: click here.

Alastor's birthday: coming soon!

Dad!Demon!Alastor x Oc:

Chapters:

Lullaby: click here.

Terror of loss: click here.

Teething: click here.

Alastor x incorrect quotes:

Good morning: click here.

Cookie: click here.

Do you love me: click here.

Valentine's day! ♡

Romantic: click here.

Alastor breeds you: not suitable for minors. Click here.

Halloween day: coming soon!

Christmas: coming soon!

SERIES:

The Devil's Melody: a story that tells of how Deborah, the protagonist, and Alastor, are destined to find each other in every life and, punctually, are broken in each of them, without ever being able to abandon themselves to their love.

Chapters: 1. | 2. | 3. | 4. | 5. | 6. | 7. | 8. | 9. | 10. | 11. | 12. | 13. | 14. | 15. | 16. | 17. | 18. | 19. | 20. | 21. | to be continued...

DOMESTIC BLISS WITH ALASTOR:

Chapters: 1. | 2. | 3. |

Alastor can really reproduce like a deer:

Chapters: coming soon...

YOU.

Chapters: coming soon...

I can't love you the way you want, but I need you just the same.

Chapters: coming soon...

Shadow!Alastor x Reader:

Chapters: coming soon...

Under the shower:

Chapters: coming soon...

Alastor's rut but he's clingy and lovely and shy:

Chapters: coming soon...

Alastor discovers new musical genres:

Chapters: coming soon...

Demon!Alastor x FallenAngel!Reader:

Chapters: coming soon...

Requests:

1920 - New Orleans: mentions of suicide and murder:

1. click here. 2. click here. 3. coming soon...

Moonlight Temptation: not suitable for minors; click here.

Goofy Alastor: click here.

Hell's Kitchen: click here.

Alastor cares for you: 1. click here.

Tender moments: 1. click here.

You take care of Alastor: coming soon!

Teasing in the office: click here.

Alastor's weakness: coming soon...

Bonus: thoughts aimed at Alastor.

click here.

click here.

click here - not suitable for minors.

click here - not suitable for minors.

Dirty ideas - not suitable for minors.

[hishumanbellestories]

I can't get the idea out of my head of you in bed wrapped in soft black (or red) silk sheets.

Fresh.

Smooth on your soft and chaste skin.

Two powerful arms grab you by the collarbones, pulling you back pressing on his chest... Alastor's chest.

The tufts of his fur tickle your back.

Your laughter echoes in the room, the sound is soft, delicious.

It seems anything but that you are serving your sentence in hell, and Alastor... he is lost.

Of you.

His cock erects rubbing on your thigh lightly covered by your red lace robe.

You are completely wrapped in his arms.

His breathing is hot and labored on the crook of your neck.

He whispers sweet words to your ear about how fantastic, perfect, special you are for having rekindled his heart and in the meantime, his fingers slide inside your thighs, moving your thong slightly, touching your clitoris gently.

The pressure is light at first, he draws small circles right on the cluster of nerves, and as you begin to paint and bring your hands to his forearms to hold him, to anchor yourself to that moment, a finger slides inside your wet folds.

Then another.

His fingers push with sweet, tormented and slow pleasure, crossing the entrance and pushing deeper, touching your spots that make your eyes roll back.

But it's not enough... because you want all of him, you want to feel him as yours, you want to fill yourself with him to believe that he is real, to feel him move inside you and die for the strong love and desire you feel for him.

Because Alastor is everything to you, for you: your very breath, the beat of your heart, your thought, the pulsating center between your legs;

Alastor is your fucking condemnation.

You are not only in love with him, you are addicted to him, addicted to the point that it hurts. That you suffer without having him near you.

For this you will sigh panting "Alastor, more — more, please!" and he will stifle a whimper of trepidation.

His tense thighs press your hips as he spoons you, lifting one of your thighs to position it over his. His mouth bites your shoulder as he holds you by the throat with one hand, not to hurt you, but to hold you, to feel you. Then... with the thong still shifted, he pushes his cock inside, inside the heat of your pussy that desperately awaits him.

The burning is instant, he's too much, too much for you, too big. But your walls accept him, stretching with painful pleasure.

Alastor is loving to you.

While he is inside, he stops, allowing you to breathe and accept it, all and completely, buried deep inside of you, in your most intimate and sacred point.

As one of his arms goes back to wrap around your collarbone, the other pulls you towards him by your waist.

His forehead presses against your shoulder now, his breathing nervous.

"Did I hurt you? Do you want me to stop?" he asks with a broken voice.

But you, you will push your pelvis towards him, panting.

The air is warm, scented of berries and wood, moss. Your smells mixed.

Your will be a continuous joy of panting and pleasure.

The slow rolls of Alastor's hips, devastating and deep, become faster, his fingers continue the merciless and cruel dance on your clit, waiting to feel you come.

His teeth grace your skin to penetrate it, the bite amplifies your pleasure bringing you to the peak of your orgasm while he digs deeper inside you and his fingers press the rhythm.

Your orgasm washes over you in a wave.

Heat builds in your lower abdomen and spreads to your chest, the bubble of heat bursts inside your pussy and slides down your thigh as it presses against the mattress.

Alastor feels your walls tighten around his hard cock as you release your juices.

Now that you're all wet, his cock pressing against you makes dirty, sinful sounds, skin against skin. His balls slam against your entrance as he adjusts the angle, opening you up to push deeper and touch your most hidden spot.

Your moan comes out as a screamed cry, panting his name again, again, again and again... His movements are faster and deeper, each thrust given with love and devotion, pulling back and then pushing it all the way back in, slowly, allowing you to feel his entire length.

You can feel him throbbing and twitching inside you, resisting the urge to cum inside you. All the way. Marking you so that you can never belong to anyone else, ever.

But Alastor wants to lose himself again in your sweet tremors and moans, in a symphony dedicated and aimed only at him, which has become his favorite.

"I love you! I love you, Alastor! I love you!" you scream as another wave of orgasm hits you and blurs your vision making your legs shake and your feet curl. And as you still clench around his cock wrapped in your juices, milking him, Alastor thrusts even faster. Hammering that spot of yours. Enjoying the feeling of you still coming and squeezing yourself perfectly around him.

"My love—I'm going to—I can't hold back—! Oh God!" and he will push his glans all the way to your womb, continuing to hit you softly as he remains buried there and empties his seed inside you, one of his hands falls to your belly squeezing it as if it were the most precious thing.

As his hips slow, he flushes you towards him, to his chest, holding you tight.

His nose inhales your scent from your hair. His lips kiss the nape of your neck, your temple, and your throat.

His fingers then trace soft lines on your skin; your arms, your thighs, your abdomen.

He then begins to tease your navel too.

And while he bites your ear and you two laugh lovingly, making him play with your locks of hair, he will answer "I love you too, y/n".

[hishumanbellestories]

Hi, could you write a Alastor x Reader where Y/n and Alastor love each other and since Vox and Alastor are rivals, Vox sees that as a weakness in Alastor and kidnaps Y/n and Alastor saves them or something like that? You don't have to do it, just an idea! :)

Hello! Thanks for this 😁 I have drafts of this kind in my repertoire but I wanted to ask you, what do you expect to read? Something purely platonic between you and Alastor (and Vox)? Love with little physical contact? Or something more... extreme? Even from Vox the kidnapper. Maybe chaining or something else. I'm asking you to maybe change some of the drafts I've already set up. I have one exactly as you ask, but Vox is an asshole! And a bit violent... because I like tormented and toxic stories. In this idea I didn't just write about Vox stalking you, but that once he kidnaps you he is so obsessed that he wants to hurt Alastor by taking away the only thing he cares about: you. And to do that… he must first destroy you.

Yeah... I love the drama! Let me know what makes your reading more enjoyable so you don't get disappointed! ☆

[hishumanbellestories]

“The devil doesn’t come dressed in a red cape and pointy horns. He comes as everything you’ve ever wished for.”

— Tucker Max

[hishumanbellestories]

How the hell sexy is a man's throat.

I imagined Alastor half-sitting on the bed, you on top of him with just his comfy, colorful jacket that wraps around you loosely.

Wrinkled and with the creases on your knees that press against the mattress, placed on the sides of his thighs.

Your fingers played out clinging to locks of his thick, puffy hair, almost massaging his nape under your palms.

Now imagine this... his eyes.

His DAMNED deer eyes, red, pulsating, the pupils wide because of the oxytocin you send to his brain.

You.

Only you.

The anomaly in his control system.

He is crazy about you, and even though you are his... in reality he knows he is yours, totally, and that you exert more control over him than he wants to admit.

But you don't care, because you are in love with him, and he, despite himself, is in love with you.

Yes, there is a difference in love.

He doesn't just love you, he is in love.

It's not a feeling that can stop.

It's something that goes beyond love and "I love you".

"I love you" can only be valid for today, or for a night of sex, but being in love is for eternity.

So... imagine now being pressed against his chest while you are sitting on his lap.

Your hands in his hair.

His eyes staring at you intensely while his breath exhales hot on your cheeks.

As you look at each other, his hands grip your hips, to prevent you from slipping away with a breath.

You bend your head forward, in the crook of his neck, and kiss him.

Your soft, plump, silky lips, press against his throbbing vein.

Your lips, lick his salty skin.

Your lips, move to kiss his apple.

Oh... how intense.

That kiss that makes him feel in heaven.

And as his claws press and sink inside your flesh, you feel his erection and a gasp that escapes his lips.

"I think I'm more yours than you are mine," he whispers in your ear as you continue to move your lips on his neck.

"I'm possessive," you answer him sensually, "I don't share what's mine."

And Alastor feels intrigued, because for the first time he feels like he belongs to someone without deals, without agreements, without ties, without strings, but only for genuineness. For love. For something real and deep.

He would give you his soul for free if you would only ask.

And then, your lips suck his neck, your canines reveal themselves slightly to bite his tender flesh, leaving traces of your possession and your love for him.

Ah... your craziness matches perfectly.

And how you enjoy teasing him now that, above him, you slowly sway on his erection.

And how it excites you to hear those sweet moans escaping from his lips sealed with clenched teeth, while he sighs your name again, again... and again.

[hishumanbellestories]

This explains why I only survive in dysfunctional and toxic relationships, I crave people's souls because everyone can have their bodies and I have a super active sexual libido:

I am the result of an unhealthy and rotten ship deep down, like me.

Ps: I'm not a fan of Valentino but the glasses reminded me of him. 🤣

[hishumanbellestories]

Thank you, thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you I’ll try my best to put your arch justice in my cock thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you so much thank you 😆😆😆😆

Ahah, thanks to you! <3 Really!

[hishumanbellestories]

Your stories are absolutely beautiful. Can I use them as inspiration in my Alastor x OC Comic? I promise to give you credit

Of course, deary! I would love to see it, please 😍🥹

[hishumanbellestories]

Hi! I'm the pervert who writes stories about Alastor. Yes, I'm a maniac. Yes, I'm a pervert, but I'm also a masochist. I'm a bit obsessed with deers and lions. My oc is definitely humanoid but with the appearance of a lioness.

My mom said I have doe eyes and a lion's mane. 😂 I'm in love with Alastor, I don't even know why. He's... attractive, charismatic. Funny in his own way. But maybe I'm in love with the idea I have of him. In any case, we are married. He is my husband.

[hishumanbellestories]

Updated!

MASTERLIST!

Hi, guys! I finally had the time to reorganize all my posts into this one list. I hope it's something for your taste, buds!

✡ THIS LIST WILL BE CONTINUOUSLY UPDATED ✡

♡ REMEMBER THAT I ACCEPT ANY KIND OF REQUEST ♡

⟶ IF YOU WANT TO BE TAGGED, ask without problems ⟵

Alastor x Oc:

I'm hungry for emotions: not suitable for minors. Alastor can't resist you and wants to devour you.

Chapter 1: click here.

Chapter 2: click here.

Chapter 3: click here.

Sweet moments in the bathroom: A moment of tenderness and fun with Alastor

One shot: click here.

Monster: not suitable for minors. Alastor is consumed by his love for you and cannot resist the urge to have you carnally.

One shot: click here.

Alastor's rut: not suitable for minors. Alastor is in heat and asks you for help.

One shot: click here.

Quickie in the bathroom: not suitable for minors. A sexual encounter in a bathroom.

Chapter 1: click here.

Chapter 2: click here.

Sweet confession: Alastor seeks comfort.

One shot: click here.

Alastor's doe heat: not suitable for minors. You're in heat and you're in pain, Alastor offers you… a deal.

One shot: click here.

Fawns: not suitable for minors. Alastor shares his desire to make you a mother.

One shot: click here.

Hug: You hug Alastor for the first time.

One shot: click here.

Where have you been: not suitable for minors. Alastor is possessive and sex is forced.

Chapter 1: click here.

Chapter 2: click here.

Panic/depression attacks: not suitable for minors. Alastor tries to help you in a moment of great anxiety.

Chapter 1: click here.

Chapter 2: click here.

Give me your attention: Alastor has a punishment in store for you whenever you don't pay attention to him.

One shot: click here.

The wound: Alastor is seriously injured, maybe he hit his head hard because of what he confesses to you.

One shot: click here.

Light as a shadow: Alastor is part of the astral plane and experiences the torment of not being able to touch his beloved.

One shot: click here.

Redemption in the blood: This is a really sad story between Alastor and Deborah, where he will do something to get her, but at a high price.

One shot: click here.

Whispers from the mirror: An impossible love story between reader and Alastor, who is an omnipresence.

One shot: click here.

First kiss, but nothing serious:

One shot: click here.

The argument:

Chapter 1: click here.

Chapter 2: click here.

Alastor's birthday: coming soon!

Dad!Demon!Alastor x Oc:

Chapters:

Lullaby: click here.

Terror of loss: click here.

Teething: click here.

Alastor x incorrect quotes:

Good morning: click here.

Cookie: click here.

Do you love me: click here.

Valentine's day! ♡

Romantic: click here.

Alastor breeds you: not suitable for minors. Click here.

Halloween day: coming soon!

Christmas: coming soon!

SERIES:

The Devil's Melody: a story that tells of how Deborah, the protagonist, and Alastor, are destined to find each other in every life and, punctually, are broken in each of them, without ever being able to abandon themselves to their love.

Chapters: 1. | 2. | 3. | 4. | 5. | 6. | 7. | 8. | 9. | 10. | 11. | 12. | 13. | 14. | 15. | 16. | 17. | 18. | 19. | 20. | 21. | 22. | 23. | 24. | 25. | 26. | 27. | 28. | 29. | 30. | 31. | 32. | 33. |

DOMESTIC BLISS WITH ALASTOR:

Chapters: 1. | 2. | 3. |

Requests:

1920 - New Orleans: mentions of suicide and murder:

1. click here. 2. click here.

Moonlight Temptation: not suitable for minors; click here.

Goofy Alastor: click here.

Hell's Kitchen: click here.

Alastor cares for you: click here.

You take care of Alastor: coming soon!

Teasing in the office: click here.

Bonus: thoughts aimed at Alastor.

click here.

click here.

[hishumanbellestories]

The argument.

Part one: click here. Hi guys! Here is the requested sequel of the first part. I changed the narration type and included both Alastor's and the reader's pov. I hope you like it! Happy reading! ☺♥

The Monster in the Mirror.

She should not have forgiven me.

She should not have smiled.

She should not have touched me.

Yet, she had.

And now I was unraveling.

I had always thought myself in control, always thought I could shape my world like a master puppeteer, pulling the strings, setting the stage.

But this? This was chaos.

This was her hands on mine, warm and real. This was the way she had held me, the way her fingers had clutched my coat as if she were afraid I would disappear.

And the worst part?

I had let her.

I had let her.

I had stood there, in the circle of her arms, and I had felt.

Felt her heart racing against mine. Felt the warmth of her breath as she whispered my name. Felt—for the first time in decades—human.

And I hated it.

I hated how much I wanted it.

So I did what I always did: I ran.

The shadows of my room swallowed me whole.

My old radio crackled in the corner, filling the air with static, but it could not drown out the noise in my head.

I paced.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

The monster in the mirror watched me, its grin wide, sharp, and mocking.

I hated him.

I hated what he had become.

A demon. A killer. A thing of hunger and cruelty and sin.

And yet—she had looked at me as if I was more.

She had touched me as if I was worthy.

I let out a sharp, bitter laugh, raking my hands through my hair.

“Foolish girl,” I muttered. “Foolish, foolish girl.”

But the words rang hollow, because the truth was…

She wasn’t the fool.

I was.

For letting her get close. For letting myself believe. For daring—for even a second—to imagine a world where I could be hers.

I slammed my fists against the desk, breath ragged.

I had done too much. I had taken too many lives, played too many games.

I was a monster.

And monsters do not get to be loved.

A sick, sharp laugh clawed its way out of my throat.

She should be afraid of me.

She should have left, but she hadn’t, and that was my greatest torment.

Because no matter how much I tried to convince myself otherwise…

I didn’t want her to.

The Quiet Ruin of Me - Alastor's pov.

It started as a flicker. A brief, insidious thing that slithered through my mind the moment she turned her back on me. I watched her walk away, and something sharp and unfamiliar coiled in my chest.

I had expected anger. Expected to feel that familiar thrill of conflict, of another game well played, another opponent bested in a verbal spar. That was how these things went, wasn’t it? A little tension, a little sharpness, a little storm—only to break into laughter later, as if none of it mattered.

But this time, she didn’t look back.

And when she was gone, something in me snapped.

It was quiet at first. A strange, creeping sensation at the edges of my consciousness. I ignored it, of course—I had long since mastered the art of burying anything even remotely troublesome. It was a simple thing, truly. A matter of habit.

But habits, I have learned, are no match for grief.

Because that’s what it was, wasn’t it?

Not irritation. Not even the thrill of a game lost too soon.

Loss.

A ridiculous notion. Utterly absurd.

And yet...

I did what I do best. I smiled. I laughed. I turned away. I let her absence settle into my bones like a dull, aching hum and convinced myself it was nothing more than an inconvenience.

Then the days stretched on.

And that quiet ache became a roar.

I stayed away. Not just from her, but from everyone. It was easier that way. No need for questions, no need for well-meaning concern from people who barely understood the first thing about me. Charlie’s gentle insistence, Angel’s sharp-edged worry—I saw it, felt it. But none of it mattered.

None of it mattered, because I had already begun to unravel.

I became a ghost in my own home, lingering at the edges, watching from the corners of rooms I no longer felt welcome in. Not because of anything she had said—no, she hadn’t even told me to go.

But I had seen it in her eyes: that hurt. That disappointment.

That wound I had carved into her with careless words, words that should have meant nothing but had somehow sliced through her like a blade.

And now—now she was everywhere.

I heard her voice in empty hallways. Saw the flicker of her silhouette at the edges of my vision. I would catch myself turning, expecting to see her, only to be met with the crushing weight of silence.

She haunted me.

Or perhaps—perhaps I was the one haunting her.

I found myself here, in this empty room, my fingers resting on the radio, feeling the familiar ridges of the dials beneath my touch. It was a comfort, in a way. Something tangible. Something real.

Unlike this.

Unlike her.

Unlike whatever this sickness was that had taken root inside me.

Love.

The word itself was a curse. A grotesque, hideous little thing that curled in my throat like bile.

Love was attachment. Love was weakness. Love was a thing meant for those who still had the capacity to dream of happy endings.

Not for me.

Not for something like me.

And yet…

The moment I lost her, I understood.

It had already been too late.

And that was the cruelest part of all.

I had felt alive with her.

And now, I was nothing but ruin.

So when I heard the soft sound of footsteps behind me—when I felt that familiar pull, that electric awareness of her—I did not turn.

Because if I did, I would shatter.

And I could not let her see the wreckage of me.

The Devil you love - Alastor's pov.

I had made my decision.

I would prove it to her.

She had to see—truly see—what I was.

No charming smiles. No laughter to soften the edges. No carefully curated mask of civility.

I would peel back the layers.

I would show her the truth of me, the darkness that pulsed beneath my skin, the hunger, the violence, the thing that should have repulsed her.

And then—then she would leave.

She would have no choice.

It began in the small ways: a whisper in the halls when no one was there; a shadow slithering just at the corner of her vision; a voice on the radio that should not have been playing.

She had called my name once—soft, hesitant.

I had not answered.

But oh, how I had watched.

I watched as she searched the empty corridors, as her brow furrowed, as she bit her lip in thought. As she refused to fear.

So I tried harder.

The hotel grew colder at night. The walls creaked with voices that did not belong. The lights flickered, bathing the halls in an eerie glow.

And then, finally—finally—I let her see.

I made sure she was there when I dealt with an intruder.

Some foolish soul had wandered too close, seeking deals with the devil, thinking they could outwit me.

How delightful.

How tragic.

I let the shadows stretch long as I stood before the poor wretch, my grin carved sharp, my voice a melody of doom.

And then, I played.

My laughter was the only mercy I offered as I tore him apart, limb from limb, his screams swallowed by the static of my radio.

And she was watching… I made sure of it.

She stood at the end of the hall, frozen in place, eyes wide.

There it was—she saw me now.

Not the grinning fool. Not the trickster. Not the teasing presence at her side.

She saw the thing that lurked beneath:

The monster.

The demon.

The truth.

I turned my head, meeting her gaze across the bloodstained floor, expecting—no, needing—to see the fear, the horror, the realization that she had been a fool to care for me.

But instead…

She stepped forward.

One step.

Then another.

No.

No...

No. NO. NO!

She should have run.

She should have screamed.

She should have done anything but this!

But there she stood, unwavering, her breath coming in uneven gasps, her fingers trembling—not with fear, but with something else.

Something raw. Something aching.

“Alastor,” she whispered, my name slipping from her lips as if she were praying, as if she were praying to ME.

I felt it then.

The weight of it.

The way it wrapped around me, pulling me down, dragging me into the very thing I was fighting to escape.

Her love. Her care for me.

It was suffocating.

It was terrifying.

It was undoing me.

I took a step back.

“No,” I rasped, my voice fraying at the edges, my fingers clenching into fists.

She was supposed to fear me.

She was supposed to hate me.

Not look at me like this.

Not with understanding.

Not with love.

I turned on my heel and disappeared into the shadows, my own heartbeat roaring in my ears.

Because if she would not leave…

Then I would have to do it for her.

The Death of Denial

I should have told her to leave.

I should have kept my back turned, let the distance between us remain untouched.

But I was weak.

She said my name, soft and uncertain, and it broke me.

I turned.

And there she was.

Standing in the doorway, bathed in the dim glow of the flickering light, looking at me as if I was something precious. As if I was something worth saving.

How cruel. How unspeakably cruel of her.

I laughed—sharp, brittle.

"Come to deliver your final judgment, my dear?"

She frowned, stepping closer. "Alastor."

That voice.

I had always loved the way she said my name. And now—now it hurt.

"You need to leave," I rasped. The words felt like broken glass in my throat. "You should—"

"Stop it."

She was right in front of me now, close enough that I could see every detail—every freckle, every flicker of emotion in her eyes.

God help me, I wanted to touch her.

I clenched my fists to keep from doing so.

"You're not okay," she whispered. "Stop pretending!"

I smiled, all teeth. "Of course I am, I'm not—"

She didn't flinch. Didn't waver.

"Then why are you avoiding me?! That argument was nothing to me. I care about you, Alastor… even too much."

Ah. There it was. The killing blow.

I inhaled sharply, something twisting deep inside my chest.

"Because," I murmured, voice shaking, "I am a coward."

Her brows furrowed, confusion flickering across her face.

"Because I have spent decades laughing in the face of love. Decades mocking it, destroying it, drowning it in blood and sound and static. Because I believed myself to be above it—untouchable, incorruptible."

I let out a breathless, humorless laugh.

"And then," I whispered, "you walked into my life."

She gasped softly.

"You, with your insufferable kindness. Your stubbornness. Your maddening way of seeing me. You, who should have run screaming the moment you realized what I was."

I took a step closer, closing the distance between us, my voice dropping to a ragged whisper.

"But you didn't.You stayed. And I—" my breath hitched. "I let myself believe, for one foolish, unforgivable moment, that I could have you."

Her lips parted, but no words came.

I reached up, trembling fingers brushing just barely against her cheek. "And then you walked away."

She swallowed hard. "Because you hurt me."

I shut my eyes, exhaling shakily. "I know."

Silence.

And then, softer now, "why, Alastor? Why did you hurt me?"

My hands shook.

"Because," I whispered, my voice breaking, "I fell in love... with you".

The words destroyed me.

And the silence that followed killed me.

I dared to look at her then, terrified of what I would see.

But she was crying.

Soft, silent tears slipping down her cheeks.

And then—she smiled.

Not mocking. Not cruel.

Just… pure.

Hopeful.

And mine.

She reached up, her warm hands covering my own.

"You idiot," she whispered, laughing through her tears.

"You absolute, wonderful idiot."

I choked on a breath, and when she pulled me into her arms... I fell.

Fell into her warmth, her light, her impossible, terrifying love.

And for the first time in my miserable, wretched existence…

I let myself believe I could be loved.

No Turning Back - reader's pov.

I should have been afraid.

After everything he had shown me—after the violence, the shadows, the terrible beauty of what he truly was—I should have felt something other than this unbearable, aching pull toward him.

But I wasn’t afraid. I could never be afraid of him...

Even now, as I found him in the dimly lit room, his back turned to me, his fingers ghosting over the dials of his radio, I only felt the same thing I had always felt with him.

Longing. Longing to be his friend. Longing to be close to him.

The air was heavy between us, thick with unspoken words, unacknowledged truths.

I took a breath, steadying myself.

“Alastor.”

His shoulders tensed at my voice, his fingers tightening minutely around the radio dial.

“You don’t frighten easily, do you?” he said, his tone light, but so, so tired.

I took a step forward. “I think you’re the one who’s afraid.”

Silence.

A sharp inhale.

Then, at last, he turned to face me.

And the moment I saw his eyes, my breath caught in my throat.

He looked… lost.

Like a man standing at the edge of a cliff, staring down at oblivion.

"You saw what I am," he murmured, his voice barely more than a whisper. "And yet, you are here."

The weight of that statement settled between us, thick and suffocating.

I met his gaze, my heart pounding. "You think I don’t know what you are? Alastor, I’ve always known! You're a cannibal, a murderer! But I'm here in hell too!"

A shudder ran through him.

He looked at me then, truly looked at me, and I saw it—the moment his world cracked, the moment his carefully built walls collapsed around him.

"You shouldn’t," he said, a thread of desperation lacing his voice. "You shouldn’t care for me."

And yet, I do.

I swallowed, stepping closer, my fingers trembling as they reached out—hesitant, unsure—until they brushed against his hand.

He flinched.

But he didn’t pull away.

Instead, he snatched my wrist, dragging me close, so close that I could feel his breath ghosting over my lips, sharp and uneven.

I should have been afraid.

But all I felt was heat.

A wild, shattering heat that had nothing to do with Hell.

His grip was firm, his hands large and unyielding, and yet—he held me like he was afraid I might break.

"This is a mistake," he murmured, his voice barely more than a breath.

I exhaled shakily, my fingers tightening around his own.

"If it is," I whispered, "then let us make it together."

His breath hitched.

And then—

He kissed me.

It was not gentle.

It was devastating.

A collision of fury and need, of desperate hunger and aching restraint.

His lips crashed against mine, stealing the breath from my lungs, drinking in every inch of me as if he had been starving for this—for me.

His hands tangled into my hair, gripping me like he was drowning, like I was the only thing keeping him tethered to this world.

And I melted.

I clung to him, my fingers digging into his back, my body pressing into his as if I could mold myself to him, as if I could tell him with every touch, every gasp, every trembling breath—

I am yours, Alastor.

A shudder ran through him, a broken sound escaping his throat, and for a fleeting moment, I felt it—his surrender.

The great and terrible Alastor, the Radio Demon, who had spent his existence untouchable, untamed—had finally given in.

And I knew, as his arms tightened around me, as his lips pressed deeper, more desperate, more real—there would be no turning back.

No Turning Back - Alastor's pov.

I ran.

I ran from her, from the unbearable tenderness in her eyes, from the truth I had tried so desperately to deny.

But I could not escape it.

Her presence lingered like a melody I couldn’t silence, a haunting refrain playing through my mind, pulling me back, pulling me home.

Home.

What a ridiculous notion.

I was not meant for such things.

And yet—

She would not leave me be.

Even now, as I stood in the hollow dark of my favorite, long-abandoned room, trying to choke down this unbearable thing clawing at my insides, I could hear her footsteps.

Soft. Hesitant, but determined.

I did not turn when she entered.

“Alastor,” she said, her voice quiet, gentle. Too gentle.

I laughed—because laughter was all I had left.

“You don’t frighten easily, do you?”

She took another step closer.

“I think you’re the one who’s afraid,” she murmured.

The words cut deep. Too deep.

I inhaled sharply, my fingers curling against the old wooden radio.

My lifeline. My tether. My prison.

“You saw what I am,” I said, my voice steady, yet hollow.

“And still, you are here.”

A beat of silence.

Then—

“You think I don’t know what you are?” she whispered. “Alastor, I’ve always known! You're a cannibal, a murderer! But I'm here in hell too!"”

The room tilted.

The breath I didn’t need hitched in my throat.

She always knew?

No—no, that was impossible.

I turned at last, my movements slow, deliberate.

I had to see her face.

And there she was—standing before me, bathed in the dim glow of the radio’s soft red light, watching me with that maddening, unshakable devotion.

I had torn apart a man in front of her. I had shrouded myself in shadow, wrapped my hands in blood and ruin. I had tried to scare her away.

And yet—she looked at me as if none of it mattered.

As if I were more than the monster I had shown her.

And that—that was the most terrifying thing of all.

“You shouldn’t,” I rasped. “You shouldn’t care for me.”

She swallowed, her throat bobbing, but she didn’t look away.

“And yet, I do.”

No.

No, no, no, no—

This was not how this was supposed to go.

She was supposed to hate me.

She was supposed to run.

She was supposed to leave me in this eternal abyss.

But instead—instead, she reached for me.

A trembling hand, brushing against mine.

Fingers ghosting over my knuckles.

And I broke.

With a sharp breath, I snatched her wrist, pulling her close—too close.

Her gasp was soft, a whisper of sound, her breath warm against my lips.

I should have let go.

I should have walked away.

But she was so close, and I—I was starving.

Starving for her warmth. For her touch. For something real.

I bent my head, my lips barely brushing hers, my resolve hanging by a thread.

“This is a mistake,” I breathed.

She shivered—but didn’t pull away.

“If it is,” she whispered, “then let us make it together.”

God help me!!!

I crashed into her.

The first touch of her lips sent a violent shudder through me, a force unlike anything I had ever known. Fury and longing, agony and bliss.

I devoured her.

I poured everything into it—every ounce of my torment, my need, my devastation.

Her fingers tangled into my hair, holding onto me as if she knew—as if she knew I was unraveling.

And I was.

I was coming undone beneath her hands, melting into the warmth I had denied myself for so long.

I kissed her like I was drowning. Like she was the first taste of life after an eternity in the dark. Like I could never have enough.

And for the first time, I understood—

I would never be free of her.

I didn’t want to be.

Because this—this was no mistake.

This was the only thing that had ever been real.

I am hers.

taglist: @thatbadassauthor

[hishumanbellestories]

● Imagine Alastor standing in front of you and caging you with his body. "Eyes on me, darling," with a deep voice and that hint of seductive mischief that only he has.

● Imagine Alastor grabbing your hair with his fist and licking your cheek before sticking his tongue in your mouth and kissing you like God intended.

● Imagine Alastor whispering sweet nothings in your ear, because he's a real Daddy, and he doesn't give a shit about the world, just about taking care of you.

● So, yeah... imagine Alastor between your thighs eating you out and saying: “nah-ha, eyes on me, my dear” interrupting your treat each time until your eyes are locked on his as he eats your pussy.

Jesus Christ.

[hishumanbellestories]

The Devil’s Melody.

Next chapter: coming soon. First chapter: here.

Alastor’s breath was ragged, his entire frame shaking with the weight of what he was about to do—what he had already done.

His hands were everywhere, sliding over your skin, memorizing, worshiping, claiming.

Yet, beneath the desperation, beneath the devouring hunger, there was something deeper.

Something terrifying.

Something that made his fingers tremble as they touched you.

He was afraid.

Afraid that even now, even with you beneath him, body arching into his, you would disappear.

That this was a dream.

That you would slip through his fingers, like you had in every lifetime before this one.

That Heaven would take you from him once more.

“Tell me,” his voice broke, forehead pressed to yours, his weight crushing, clinging, as if holding you tighter would anchor you here, with him. “Tell me you won’t leave me.”

Your breath hitched.

Your hands rose to cup his face—his beautiful, ruined face, twisted in an agony beyond words.

“I’m here,” you whispered, voice shaking. “Alastor, I—”

His lips stole the words from your tongue, his kiss raw, desperate, pleading.

There was no restraint anymore.

No careful teasing.

No playful mockery.

Only need.

Only a love so consuming it could tear the fabric of the universe apart.

His magic coiled around your body, sinking into your skin, marking you—binding you to him in ways that even God could not undo.

His hands gripped your wrists, your waist, your thighs—pulling you closer, as if he could drag you into himself, make you a part of him, so that nothing could ever separate you again.

Your name left his lips in a shuddering breath, broken, reverent.

His fingers tangled in your hair, his touch both possessive and tender, desperate and worshiping.

His lips ghosted over your throat, your jaw, your collarbone, savoring every inch of you like a dying man gasping for his last breath.

His body pressed against yours, shaking, burning, losing control.

But even as he took you, as he claimed you, as he made sure that no force in existence could take you from him again—

The fear never left his eyes.

The fear of losing you.

The fear that even this—even this—would not be enough to keep you in his arms.

His grip tightened, his embrace almost painful in its desperation.

He buried his face in your neck, inhaling deeply, his voice raw, devastated.

“I can’t lose you again.”

A whisper.

A prayer.

A plea.

And as he devoured you, as his shadows entwined with yours, as his love branded itself into your very soul—

You realized.

He was still afraid.

Still afraid that you were too divine.

Still afraid that Heaven would take you back.

And that next time—

You wouldn’t be able to come back to him.

Alastor was starving for you.

But his hunger was not just carnal—it was something deeper, something primal, something that had existed long before his body had turned to dust and Hell had resurrected him in crimson and grinning teeth.

It was need.

A desperate, aching, terrifying need.

A need to keep you.

To own you.

To make sure that when the sun rose, you would still be here.

His hands gripped you tighter, nails biting into your skin, his lips never leaving your flesh—dragging over your throat, your jaw, your shoulders.

His breath was hot, ragged, shaking with barely restrained fear.

He pressed his body against yours, caging you beneath him, as if the sheer weight of his being would be enough to keep you anchored to him.

Because even now—even now—he was afraid.

That it wouldn’t be enough.

That no matter how much of you he took, no matter how deeply he carved himself into you—

Heaven would still find a way to take you back.

He let out a sound—half-growl, half-whimper—before he buried his face into your neck, pressing desperate, shaking kisses into your skin.

“Mine,” he whispered against your throat. “Mine. Mine.”

Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, your own breath hitching at the sheer intensity of him.

“Yours,” you breathed.

He shuddered.

Something in him broke.

He claimed you.

Fiercely.

Desperately.

Like something dying for its last breath.

Like a man at war with God himself, determined to steal what Heaven had tried to take from him.

And you let him.

Because you were his.

Because you had always been his.

Because in every life—every soul you had ever been—your heart had belonged to him.

And no force—not Heaven, not Hell, not even Fate—would change that.

His fingers trembled as they gripped your waist, his lips dragging over every inch of your skin, his body shuddering with something that was almost painful in its devotion.

Your name fell from his lips like a prayer.

Like a curse.

Like a man begging for salvation in the arms of the only thing that had ever been holy to him.

And in that moment—he forgot everything else.

Lucifer.

Heaven.

The war that would come for you.

None of it mattered.

Because you were here.

And he would burn the world to keep you that way.

Alastor’s body trembled against yours, the aftershocks of his desperate claim still reverberating through him. His fingers remained entangled in your hair, his arms an iron cage around you, as if even now—especially now—he feared you would slip through his grasp.

Your skin was warm against his own, your breath soft and uneven, your touch featherlight as you traced slow, absentminded circles against his back.

But despite the overwhelming pleasure, despite the euphoria of finally having you, the fear had not left him.

He could still feel it.

Gnawing.

Lurking beneath the surface.

His lips pressed against your forehead, lingering, worshiping, before trailing lower—against your temple, your cheek, down to your jaw. He couldn’t stop touching you. Couldn’t stop memorizing you.

You were here.

But for how long?

You felt his hesitation. The way his grip faltered for just a fraction of a second, the way his breath stilled. You lifted your gaze to him, your beautiful, damnable eyes peering into his very soul.

You saw it.

The fear.

The terror of losing you again.

And something inside you ached too—because you knew that fear. You had lived it in every life before this one.

“I won’t leave you,” you whispered, fingers brushing his cheek.

Alastor let out a soft, shaky laugh. But there was no humor in it.

“Won’t you?” he murmured. “I seem to recall you saying something quite similar before. And yet…” his fingers trailed down your spine, possessive, his voice turning sharp with barely contained anguish. “I’ve lost you every damn time.”

Your heart clenched.

You knew.

You knew.

You had felt it too, in the hollows of your very soul, in the pain that had echoed across lifetimes.

And this time—this time, you had sacrificed everything to be with him.

Your wings.

Your grace.

Your divinity.

And yet—

Lucifer had sensed it.

That your holiness had not vanished. That something inside you was still untouched, still beyond the reach of Hell’s corruption.

And he wanted you.

Not as a prisoner.

Not as an enemy.

But as something else entirely.

Alastor’s hold on you tightened at the thought, his nails digging into your skin, his voice dropping to something low, dangerous.

“I will not let him have you.”

Your breath hitched.

You knew he meant it.

You knew what he was capable of.

You had seen him laugh in the face of death. Had seen him paint the walls red with the blood of his enemies.

But this?

This was different.

This was not just the threat of violence.

This was the promise of it.

Because if Lucifer came for you, if Heaven came for you—

Alastor would burn the world to the ground.

Would rip apart creation itself.

Would descend into madness before ever letting them take you from his grasp.

And for the first time—

For the first time, you weren’t sure if even God would be able to stop him.

The moment hung between you, thick with tension, with fear, with a madness so deep it could shatter the very foundations of Hell.

Alastor’s fingers curled around your waist like shackles, his breath heavy against your skin. He was shaking—shaking with the force of his own fury, his own desperation.

Because it wasn’t enough.

It wasn’t enough.

No matter how fiercely he took you, no matter how deeply he marked you, he could still feel the threat of something greater clawing at the edges of his reality.

Lucifer.

Heaven.

The divine claim on your soul that had not vanished, no matter how much you had sacrificed for him.

No matter how much he had devoured you, made you his.

It was still there.

A faint glow beneath your skin.

A whisper of something that did not belong to Hell.

Something that did not belong to him.

And that was unacceptable.

His grip turned bruising, his forehead pressing against yours, his wild, unhinged eyes drinking you in like you might vanish at any moment.

“You’re still glowing, my dear,” he rasped, his voice trembling with a darkness you had never heard before. “Still… divine.”

You swallowed, your own heart pounding against your ribs. “Alastor—”

His claws dragged down your spine, his teeth scraping over your jaw, his breath coming ragged and hungry.

“I will tear it from you,” he whispered. “Whatever trace of Heaven still lingers—I will rip it out with my bare hands.”

A shiver ran through you.

Not of fear.

But of understanding.

Because this wasn’t just possessiveness.

It wasn’t just the demon in him, clawing for dominance.

This was terror.

Real terror.

The kind of fear that had driven men to slaughter, that had built empires on blood.

The kind of fear that had created Hell itself.

And it was all for you.

Because Alastor had never been afraid of anything before.

But the thought of losing you again?

It was destroying him.

You reached up, trembling, cradling his face in your hands. His skin was burning, his body thrumming with a rage that could split the earth apart.

But you wouldn’t let him fall into it.

Not alone.

“I don’t belong to Heaven anymore,” you whispered. “I belong to you.”

Something inside him snapped.

A sound left his throat—low, broken, a sharp, agonized laugh—and then his mouth was on yours again, desperate, wild, as if he could swallow your words, as if he could devour the truth of them before the universe could take them back.

He crushed you against him, his body a cage, his touch a brand, his breath a curse upon your very soul.

And in that moment, you both knew.

This was beyond love.

Beyond obsession.

Beyond possession.

This was damnation.

And if Heaven wanted to take you—

Then Alastor would drag God himself into the abyss to stop it.

[hishumanbellestories]

The Devil’s Melody.

Next chapter: 21. First chapter: here.

Alastor’s hands were shaking.

His fingers, always so careful, always so teasing, were trembling as they held you.

His breath was ragged, his voice wrecked.

“You don’t understand,” he whispered, forehead pressing against yours, his entire body shaking with restraint. “I thought I could lose you again.”

His grip on you tightened.

“I can’t.”

Something broke in him.

The last thread of his control snapped.

And then—

He devoured you.

His lips crushed against yours, starved, desperate, ruined.

There was no hesitation.

No teasing games.

No carefully placed distance.

Only need.

Only fear so raw it had turned into hunger.

His hands slid over your body, frantic, worshiping, like he was terrified you would die again beneath his fingers.

Your breath hitched as his nails scraped down your back, his grip unrelenting, possessive.

The air crackled around you.

Magic—dark, consuming, furious—coiled around your limbs, sinking into your very bones.

Marking you.

Tethering you to him.

Forever.

A growl rumbled from his throat, low, animalistic. His teeth grazed your jaw, your throat, the pulse beneath your skin hammering against his lips.

“Mine,” he whispered, voice hoarse, devastated. His lips moved down, pressing into your skin, tasting you, claiming you with every trembling kiss.

His shadows wrapped around your wrists, your waist, your thighs—pulling you closer, dragging you into him.

The warmth of your skin against his sent him into a madness he had never known.

And yet—he was gentle.

Gentle, in the way only something terrifying can be.

Gentle, in the way only something that could destroy you chooses not to be.

His fingers traced every inch of you, mapping you, memorizing you, carving his name into your very soul.

His lips hovered over yours again, breathless, pleading.

“I need to feel you,” he whispered, voice wrecked with longing. “I need to know you’re real.”

And damn... you were.

[hishumanbellestories]

The Devil’s Melody.

Next chapter: 20. First chapter: here.

The silence between you was thick—suffocating.

Not the silence of peace.

But the silence of something inevitable.

Something irreversible.

Alastor loomed over you, his fingers still tracing the unseen bond now woven into your soul. His hands had always held a certain carefulness with you—always teasing, always playing a game just on the edge of danger.

But now…

Now, his hands shook.

Not with hesitation.

But with reverence.

With terror.

With the kind of desperate, worshiping madness that only a man who had already lost you once could possess.

You sucked in a breath.

“What have you done?” you whispered.

His eyes burned into yours.

He let out a laugh—soft, breathless, shattered.

“What I had to.”

Something pulsed in your chest—foreign, wrong, his.

Not an angel’s grace.

Not a demon’s corruption.

But something between.

Something that did not belong to anyone but him.

“I’ve cut you from them,” Alastor murmured, his voice like silk unraveling into threads of madness. “You’re no longer theirs.” His fingers pressed deeper against your throat, against the pulse that now beat only for him. “No longer anyone’s but mine.”

Your breath hitched.

The weight of what he had done settled into you like iron.

Not a contract.

Not an enchantment.

Something older. Something more primal.

A claim.

A binding.

And no force in Heaven or Hell could undo it.

Your stomach twisted. “Alastor…”

“I told you,” he murmured, leaning closer, his lips barely brushing yours. His voice was wrecked, almost pleading, “I won’t let them take you.”

A sudden presence wrapped around you—a feeling, an unseen force—him. His shadows curled against your skin, caressing, coiling, marking.

And deep in your chest, where divinity once burned—

Something answered.

Not divinity.

Not damnation.

But devotion.

To him.

Alastor’s breath trembled as he felt it.

As he felt you.

His grip on you tightened. His forehead pressed against yours. His entire body shook.

“You don’t understand,” he rasped, “I thought I could lose you again.”

His voice broke.

“I can’t.”

His hands grasped at you, desperate, hungry. His magic twisted, consumed, worshiped.

You gasped, your fingers curling into his coat, your own soul trembling under the weight of his possession.

Something was shattering between you.

Or maybe—

Something was being born.

A love that was not meant to be.

A bond that had defied Gods.

And as Alastor claimed you with every touch, every breath, every desperate, ruined whisper—

You realized.

You had chosen this.

You had chosen him, again.