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hazbin-luciferalastor · 4 days ago

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The Dove's Song in Devil's Wings

Mushishield

Female Alastor week day4-secret identity

Chapter 1: The Call of the Mate

Lucifer prowled the halls, wings half-furled, golden eyes narrowed to slits.

He hadn’t planned to stay.

But when Charlie had looked up at him with wide, hopeful eyes and whispered, “Please, Dad… just stay,” He’d found himself unable to deny her.

Now he stalked the corridors, steps silent, wondering if that decision had been a mistake. His senses sharpened, thoughts narrowing to a singular focus.

There was the unmistakable presence of a female angel in estrus.

Her scent whispered through the air—subtle, intoxicating. It teased him, clung to him, tugged at his instincts, clawed at the edges of his mind, and buried itself deep within him.

Perched at the fifth-floor banister, Lucifer leaned forward, nostrils flaring to catch that sweet, faint aroma. His gaze swept the lobby below, analyzing every shape and shadow. Anyone could be a threat to his claim.

His eyes flicked briefly to Vaggie, dismissing her instantly. She wasn’t posturing. Her body language was calm, submissive.

Even if Charlie wasn’t fully angelic, she carried enough of his blood to command Vaggie’s devotion. Charlie was her mate. And she was far too young—not yet seasoned for her time.

Lucifer exhaled slowly, feathers rustling with restless frustration. Vaggie wasn’t the only fallen angel here—nor the only female.

Every century, even the fallen were ensnared by the call of mating season: a sacred, biological rhythm that demanded union. He had believed himself above it. Immune.

He had been mistaken.

Now, it consumed him.

Who here, in this hotel, cloaks herself in secrecy?

He called out to her, releasing his scent into the air—only to be met with silence.

He breathed in her aroma once more, trying to locate her.

He could feel her presence, but her absence felt like a broken feather. The bond hadn’t formed yet, but the connection had begun.

His mate was nearby. But she was missing. Worse—she was hiding from him.

His talons flexed, itching to strike down anyone who might try to take her from him.

Then, he caught it—the faint, desperate attempt to smother her scent.

His restraint shattered.

He descended, gliding soundlessly toward Charlie.

“Charlie,” he murmured, voice smooth, “is anyone... absent? Maybe planning to stay away for a while? Sick, perhaps?”

His golden eyes locked onto her, head tilting slightly as he hunted for the faintest crack in her expression—every hesitation, every breath. He read her as easily as he read wind currents mid-flight.

Charlie lit up at the sight of him.

“Oh! Alastor’s resting upstairs. She said she caught something and didn’t want to spread it, so she’s isolating in her room for a few weeks.” Her expression darkened. “I offered to help, but she asked me not to bother her. She said she just needed rest. But... she didn’t look good.”

Lucifer’s pupils shrank to slits. A thin glow of crimson bled into his irises.

“Bellhop,” he murmured, his voice low and edged with hunger.

Her name slithered through his mind like smoke, tightening around him. His wings shifted. Feathers gave a subtle twitch. Nostrils flared.

She wasn’t trying to call him— But her body was.

She was in season. She was ready. Ripe for his taking.

Vaggie, watching him, spoke softly: “She likes deer, if you’re going to bring her a gift.”

Then, without missing a beat, she switched to the angelic tongue, shielding Charlie from what she was about to say:

“Sir, Alastor is scared. Try to be gentle with her. She is prey, not a predator like you and I.”

Vaggie shivered when she saw the glare he gave her. It was a warning—not to overstep.

She quickly added, “Sinner meat works even better! Give her someone she loathes—someone she isn’t allowed to kill because Charlie forbids it. Vox. She wants Vox dead. That will probably win her over faster… Vox tried to make a claim on her.”

Vaggie was breathing rapidly, fearing she might still face his wrath.

Lucifer turned his head toward her, eyes flaring red with a predatory calm.

His gaze locked onto Vaggie in warning: Stay away from what is mine.

If he’d had any resistance left, it vanished.

He was past restraint now—circling his territory, fixating, preparing to descend.

Vaggie met his eyes and slowly tilted her head, exposing her throat: a silent surrender.

She understood.

She was still young, and Charlie was the only partner she claimed. All she could do now was make her intentions clear:

She would not touch Alastor. She would not interfere.

She would not challenge his authority.

She had smelled the shift.

She knew what Lucifer had become: 100% hawk.

She pitied Alastor, knowing she couldn’t help her. She only hoped Lucifer wouldn’t hurt her. Alastor was only a helpless dove right now.

The old law stirred in her memory:

Never stand between a predator and the female he’s chosen. Predators would kill anyone who dared—unless they shared his blood.

Vaggie shivered under the weight of his gaze. It was sharp. Possessive. Lethal.

Lucifer would tear apart anyone who got in his way—so long as they weren’t Charlie.

His thoughts no longer ran in lines. They circled on the wind, sharpened to two absolutes:

He needed Alastor. And he would destroy anything that stood between them.

His talons itched to seize her and lock her within his grasp. His wings trembled, aching to circle, bind, and claim.

Charlie, blissfully unaware, gave him a soft, proud smile.

“Dad, I’m so proud of you for trying to connect with Al. I know you two don’t always get along, but please… Be nice, okay? She’s not feeling well. I’m really worried about her. So don’t start anything—even if she’s snappy. Be gentle. And give her the deer—or whatever Vaggie suggested—to bond with her.”

Lucifer’s lips curved into a slow grin, his teeth gleaming.

“Of course, my apple,” he purred, his voice deceptively gentle. “I’ll be considerate of all her needs. Alastor will be well taken care of. You don’t need to worry about her anymore.”

His voice curled with promise.

“Charlie, I’ll properly connect with her. I will not leave her side. I want to bond with her.”

Charlie smiled at her dad, hope in her eyes. She wanted her dad and Alastor to get along and be friends. She was proud of her dad for making the first move and offering to take care of Al. She only hoped Alastor would be kind in return.

Lucifer smirked at Charlie, then added:

“The next time you see Alastor, she won't want to leave my side.”

Charlie giggled and hugged him tight.

“That’s great, Dad! Although… I can’t imagine Al following you or anyone around. But I’m glad you want to be friends with her.” She added jokingly, “I’m ordering you not to leave her room until you two are connected—and until she’s all better.”

Lucifer chuckled low, his wings rustling once more.

Not friends, little apple. Claimed. Bound. Mine, he thought.

Lucifer laughed and said, “Your order will be followed.”

Vaggie watched him walk away, exhaling slowly. She already knew the outcome.

Alastor wouldn’t leave that room until she’d laid and hatched Hell’s next heir.

Lucifer cast one last glance over his shoulder, eyes glowing gold before flashing red. His gaze met Vaggie’s, the message unmistakable:

Keep Charlie away. Stay out of this.

Vaggie pulled Charlie into a hug, masking her unease as Charlie hummed a tune about new friendships.

She didn’t know how she’d keep Charlie distracted for weeks—maybe even months.

Outside, Lucifer spread his wings and surged upward.

Above the hotel, the wind tore at his feathers. His thoughts had narrowed to a single, burning need:

Hunt. Claim. Bind.

His gaze scanned the city below. He needed the perfect offering—a gift, a promise.

Something warm. Something fresh. Something she could tear into.

She would understand. This was the ancient way of their kind.

Bring prey. Show strength. Mate, high—

There were no rivals. No competition.

He was the last unattached fallen male angel in Hell. She, the final unclaimed female.

When angels mated, it was absolute.

No second mates. No release. No escape.

He landed atop a crumbling rooftop, surveying the streets.

A flicker of movement.

Vox.

Slender. Petty. Weak.

He thought he had a claim on his mate. Alastor despised Vox.

That was enough.

Lucifer’s talons curled. A gift. For her.

He set the deer carcass down with reverence.

Vox looked up, startled.

He never got the chance to scream.

One strike—precise. A single snap to the neck. Silence.

Lucifer gathered the body like scrap, reclaimed the buck, and launched into the sky again.

Tonight, the nest would be complete:

A kill. A feast. A pledge.

A gift— And himself.

To fertilize. To bond. To mark her as his.

No one would stop him. Not now. Not ever.

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hazbin-luciferalastor · 5 days ago

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Hell's First Queen

Mushishield

female Alastor Week day3 -any trope for Gender Bender

Chapter 1

Chapter 1: The Unraveling

Hell had always been a cesspool of masculine depravity—where cruelty wore the face of men. For Alastor, existence here felt like a sentence within a sentence. He loathed their company: the endless posturing, the rancid stench, and the boorish displays of power.

He had spent decades carving out a fragile sanctuary in the shadows, clinging to memories of soft laughter and the camaraderie of women from his mortal life.

He had always preferred the company of women, refusing to submit to the harsh realities of competitive masculinity.

The pissing contests, the brawls over women—men flaunting their virility in a ceaseless bid for dominance—had been unbearable in life. Now, surrounded by nothing but men in all of Hell, the situation had become intolerable.

Each day, the leering grins of damned souls and the cacophony of male voices mocked him with echoes of a past that now felt like torment.

So he embraced solitude, slaughtering any who dared approach. His refuge became a hollowed-out memory of gentleness in a world ruled by savagery.

Until the morning his shadow—his ever-faithful companion—awoke and signaled that hell could still descend into deeper nightmare.

It prodded him awake, quivering like a startled animal in the dim light.

"Enough," Alastor snarled, swatting at it.

But the shadow persisted, slithering forward to thrust a cracked mirror before him.

The reflection stole his breath.

His once-masculine frame had shrunk into something slight, curved, and softened. In disbelief, his hand landed on the unfamiliar swell of breasts. Panic surged as he tore at his clothes, revealing the truth. With trembling eyes, he saw what lay bare before him.

“No. No. NO!” he screamed, hurling the mirror against the wall. It shattered—each shard glinting with a hundred feminine faces, wide-eyed, as if witnessing a cosmic joke of fate.

His shadow wrung its fingers in a mimicry of despair. Alastor’s voice—now higher and smoother—broke the silence.

“Is this my punishment?” he whispered. “To become what I once longed for in life… only to be condemned here, among these men, in a realm stripped of the companionship I once cherished?”

His words faltered as he noticed the final horror: his reflection bore no mark of a sinner. Instead, it shimmered with life.

He was human. He was alive.

The shadow tilted its head, its eyes reflecting ancient sorrow and tender worry. For now, Alastor was something else entirely—a fragile human trapped in Hell, where safety was a fantasy and cruelty reigned.

How could he protect this new self? How could he hope to survive and keep what remained of his humanity intact in a domain ruled by endless brutality?

In that chilling moment, Hell's true punishment was revealed: not just a transformation of flesh, but the unraveling of a soul that had once found solace only in women.

Now, Hell had bound him to a fate more perverse and terrifying than any it had ever devised: Alastor now has to face the fear of being the sole female in hell.

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hazbin-luciferalastor · 5 days ago

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Early morning ☀️💗

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hazbin-luciferalastor · 5 days ago

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hazbin-luciferalastor · 6 days ago

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Hysteria

Mushishield

Day 2—Reincarnated as the Opposite Sex This is open-ended.

The sharp sting of antiseptic hit Alastor’s nostrils first. Then came the pain: a pounding in his skull that throbbed in sync with the deep ache radiating from his side. Each shallow breath sent fresh jolts through his ribs.

He forced his eyes open. The world swam into view, nausea churning in his gut. Peeling plaster. A lazy ceiling fan stirred stagnant air. Weak sunlight filtered through grime-smeared windows. Bleached sheets scraped against skin that felt... wrong.

A man stood near the window, his white coat stark against the gloom. He scribbled in a leather-bound journal, voice low and clinical:

“Mixed race… vagrant… likely a runaway. Dressed in men’s attire…” A sigh. “Tragic. Probably provoked the assault. A family failing.”

No wonder she was attacked, Vox thought. Likely raised without proper schooling—never taught a woman’s place. Or worse, fed dangerous ideas about independence. He had dealt with that type before. Harder cases.

He flipped back through his notes, recalling the alley: the broken body, blood pooling around her. Two gunshot wounds. Skull trauma. Fractured ribs. “No purse. No identification.”

Behavior indicative of constitutional inferiority. The police hadn’t even bothered with an investigation. Why waste resources on a nameless girl—penniless, indigent? She was invisible.

Abandoned, no doubt. And now she lay in a hospital ward under his care. A prime candidate for observation and therapeutic intervention.

Assault. The word landed like a blow.

Alastor gasped as he shifted. Pain exploded through his side; a ragged cough tore from his throat. Something was wrong. His body felt... foreign. Lighter. Smaller. His chest rose and fell in a strange, labored way.

The man turned at the sound. His features slid into a practiced mask of concern. Cold, bright blue eyes behind square spectacles locked onto Alastor with unsettling intensity.

“Ah. Awake at last,” he said gently—almost tenderly. “Such lovely brown eyes.” He smiled. Like a startled doe, Vox thought.

“You’re safe now, dear.”

Alastor flinched. The doctor’s tone was overly soothing and excessively careful, similar to how one might speak to a frightened animal. He tried to speak, but only a dry rasp escaped.

“Water,” Vox ordered. A nurse stepped forward. He accepted the cup and cradled Alastor’s head with unsettling gentleness. The water tasted metallic and tepid, but Alastor drank it greedily.

“There we are,” Vox murmured. “Much better. Now we can begin a proper evaluation.” He pulled a chair close, crossed one leg over the other, and flipped open his journal again. His eyes gleamed behind the glass.

Alastor stared at the ceiling for a long moment. Then, barely audible: “Alastor.”

Vox raised an eyebrow. “A man’s name?” He tapped his pen thoughtfully. “How… unconventional.” He jotted a note: Adopts masculine nomenclature. Indicates rejection of femininity or identity disturbance. Source? Family name?

“Is that your given name? Or your family name?”

Alastor blinked, confused. “It’s just Alastor.”

No grasp of naming conventions. Self-named? Untutored. Vox’s pen scratched again.

“May I have your last name, miss?” he asked gently.

Alastor’s heart skipped. Did he call me—? No, he must have misheard.

“I don’t…” he mumbled. “I don’t remember. Just Alastor.”

Vox nodded, sympathetic. “That’s all right, dear.” No memory of family name. Dissociation? Fugue state?

“Age?”

“Twenty.”

“Marital status? Engaged? Being courted?”

Vox hoped she would say no, but he had contingencies prepared in case she was married.

Vox hid his shock when the young woman looked at him and laughed.

Alastor laughed softly, a bitter edge to it. “Look at me. I’ve never even been kissed. I’d be lucky if anyone wanted to date me.”

Unconsciously, Alastor puffed out his cheeks in a pout. “I’m too ugly for anyone to want to marry me.”

Vox’s eyes gleamed. “Ah. That explains much.” Nulliparous. Presexual. Likely a virgin. Emotional instability suspected—sexual development arrested by trauma/identity crisis.

“What the hell is ‘courting,’ anyway?” Alastor muttered.

Vox stopped writing. So young. So lost. He patted Alastor’s hand.

“I’m looking, my dear. You’re quite beautiful. And courting is the process of pursuing someone for marriage. Like dating, but more sincere.”

The nurse smiled quietly behind him, admiring his kindness—how gently he spoke to this broken girl, how he paid for her treatment, and how he gave her a private room.

Why does he talk like an old-fashioned dictionary? It’s 2025, Alastor thought. Why not just say dating? Alastor pulled his hand back.

He tried to breathe deeply—pain flared again.

Rejects gender norms. Entrenched male identification. Endocrine evaluation indicated.

“Fuck,” Alastor whispered. “What happened to me? I can’t remember.”

Vox’s gaze sharpened. Crude language. Distress. High suggestibility. Likely deficient schooling. “Do you know the year?”

“2025,” Alastor muttered. His eyelids drooped. “I don’t feel good.”

Chronological delusion (fixed belief: 2025). Psychosis suspected.

“My dear,” Vox said smoothly, “just a few more questions. You’re doing very well. Then I’ll give you something to help you rest.”

“Okay…”

“Do you know where you are?”

“A hospital.” Alastor sighed. “Can we stop now? I’m tired.”

Vox leaned in, voice low and intimate. “Just a few more. Do you know who the President of the United States is?”

Alastor frowned. “The orange guy.”

Vox paused. Presidential misidentification. Confabulation. Delusional framework intact. High suggestibility. Prime therapeutic candidate. His pen hovered. Attractive. Potential for compliant attachment.

Alastor couldn’t remember how he got here. His body felt alien. He remembered rain, screaming… blood.

Vox closed his journal. “I’m Dr. Vox. You’ve suffered severe trauma—gunshots, head injury, fractured ribs. But you’re safe now. I found you. I’ll make sure nothing happens to you here. I’ll protect you.”

Safe. The word curdled in Alastor’s stomach.

He pushed against the mattress. Pain seared through his chest. His hands—too small. Skin too soft. Something was very, very wrong.

Vox reopened the journal, pen poised.

“Now, standard procedure. We need a full medical history to treat you effectively.”

Alastor nodded weakly.

“Childhood illnesses? Measles? Mumps? Scarlet fever?”

Alastor rasped, his throat tight, “Chickenpox. When I was eight.”

“Any chronic conditions?”

“No.”

Vox’s eyes sharpened. “Very well. Now, feminine health is crucial."

Alastor stiffened. He hadn’t misheard.

“When was your last menses?”

“My… what?”

“Your period." Vox clarified, tapping the pen against the paper. Regularity? Duration? Pain?”

“I don’t… I don’t have one.” Even to himself, it sounded like a lie. His trembling hands pressed against his chest—and froze. Soft swell. Foreign. Terrifying.

“No menses at all?” Vox asked, watching Alastor closely.

Alastor glared. Vox smiled indulgently. Claims primary amenorrhea. Possibly trauma-induced suppression. Investigate further.

"I said I don’t have one," Alastor whispered, the words cracking under the weight of desperation.

His pen scratched across the page. He looked up, vivid blue eyes piercing. Noting Alastor’s hands still pressed defensively to her chest, he added, “Do you experience breast tenderness? Do you wear a brassiere for support?”

“This isn’t right. I’m a man!” Alastor cried. “I shouldn’t even have these!”

“Mmm.” Vox barely looked up. “Such utterances only feed the illness. We must not indulge them.”

“And what the hell is a brassiere?! Can you speak normally? I don’t understand half of what you’re saying!”

Vox’s lips thinned.

Support absent when found. Must examine to rule out injury or dysmorphia. Maternal neglect is evident—patients are unaware of basic anatomy.

“Reproductive history: any pregnancies? Miscarriages or stillbirths?"

“Alastor recoiled as if struck. "What?! No! Never! What the hell are you asking?!"

His voice rose, edged with panic.

“Alastor,” Vox said calmly, “you’ve suffered head trauma. Denial is common. Hysteria often emerges in unaccompanied women—under duress."

Alastor blinked, bewildered. “Hysteria? What even is that?!”

Vox continued smoothly, cutting Alastor off. “Have you ever been intimate with a man? Or has anyone forced such relations upon you?”

Alastor stared, horror dawning cold and absolute. "What?"

"Intercourse. Sex," Vox clarified, calm and utterly condescending, as if explaining to a child.

“NO!” Alastor screamed. "What part of ‘never been kissed’ do you not get? That I am—" His voice broke, swallowed by a wave of shame and confusion. "No one would ever want me. Like that."

Vox patted Alastor’s hand with tenderness. "Essential questions. I must ask them."

His pen moved swiftly.

Claims no sexual history. Virginity presumed. Suggests repression—ideal for therapeutic bonding.

The patient also demonstrates significant problems with self-esteem related to appearance. The patient is comely, yet perceives herself as unattractive. Developed fixations and false identities are likely coping mechanisms for unmet emotional needs.

“Slow down. My head hurts. None of this makes sense.” Alastor was feeling dizzy.

“I know.” Vox’s voice softened—terrifyingly tender. “But healing requires answers.

Did your mother suffer menstrual irregularities? Mental illness?”

“What the fuck is wrong with you? Alastor’s voice scaled upwards in sheer panic. "Stop using words I do not understand! Just let me sleep!"

Alastor felt suffocated. He let out a gasp, shaking his head violently as fragmented memories surged—rain. Blood. Dying.

"No, God, no!" he cried, tears streaming down his face. "I was not born like this! I was six feet tall! I had a job! I am a man!"

His pen scratched decisively. Delusions of masculinity. Severe identity fracture. Possible schizophrenic onset post-trauma or profound psychosexual regression.

Vox’s expression softened. He turned to the nurse. “Prepare the room for a full pelvic examination and massage. Set up a neurological assessment for tomorrow."

Alastor tried to move, but pain pinned him. “You’re not listening! I’m not crazy! This isn’t my body!”

Vox was beside him instantly. He leaned in, invading Alastor’s space. “You begged me in that alley,” he whispered. “Don’t let me die. Save me. Do not leave me.”

His vivid blue eyes—those of a man utterly, terrifyingly convinced of his own righteousness—held Alastor captive.

“I made you a promise. I never break promises, my dear. I’ll protect you—even from yourself.”

The nurse stepped forward, syringe in hand, its needle catching the light.

“No—please!” Alastor sobbed. “Believe me!”

“Shhh. You don’t have to be afraid anymore.” Vox’s thumb brushed Alastor’s jawline. “I believe that you believe it. But that’s just the illness talking.”

The needle slid in.

"See?" he whispered, the word echoing from a distance. "Safe."

He stroked Alastor’s bandaged head. “Rest now. The nurse will prepare you. I’ll return shortly with my instruments.”

As the drug took hold, Alastor’s eyes glazed over. A slack smile tugged at his lips.

Vox smiled back—a predator satisfied.

He left the room with one final, possessive glance at the helpless body on the bed.

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hazbin-luciferalastor · 7 days ago

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How to Summon a Demon Girlfriend (And Regret Nothing) Alastorarepair (Mushishield)

Day1-yuri aka F/F for FemaleAlastorWeek

The cheap red wine tasted like vinegar, but it did its job—lowering your inhibitions, softening the edges of loneliness until even the absurd seemed plausible. That Tumblr post, buried beneath cryptid sightings and terrible poetry, had practically shimmered on your screen:

"How to Summon a Demon Girlfriend." She’ll be exactly what you crave. Guaranteed."

You’d laughed—sharp, brittle, disbelieving. Why not? Worst case, you’d wake up hungover and embarrassed. So, with trembling fingers, you’d drawn a summoning circle on the laminate floor and muttered the guttural syllables into the stale air, treating it like a drunken joke.

Now, barefoot and frozen, the wine curdled in your stomach. The circle wasn’t just glowing—it was alive. A green light pulsed beneath your feet, the floorboards vibrating faintly. The air thickened, tasting of spice and something ancient—wild, untamed, like lightning igniting a forest. Shadows swirled in the corners, gathering into form.

She appeared with a crackle of static that made your teeth ache.

She emerged from the shadows like a fevered dream. Crimson hair framed a face both gorgeous and terrifying: high cheekbones, a sharp jaw, and ember-red eyes smoldering with hunger behind thick lashes. Her smile—wide, too wide—revealed sharp yellow teeth. Her voice, edged with radio static, distorted and seductive, resonated in your bones.

“Well…” Her tone was a vintage broadcast dipped in sin. She tilted her head, studying you like prey. “Who has the gall to summon the Radio Demon herself?”

She raked her eyes down her form—newly feminine and crackling with power. A hand smoothed over her curving hip, the gesture sinuous. Her blood-red suit clung to her frame but shimmered oddly, shadows and steam coiling off it like smoke. “Mmm. You’ve plucked me from hell at quite the inconvenient time, little summoner.”

“I… I didn’t mean—”

“Oh no, darling.” Her heels clicked ominously as she stepped forward, each sound like a gunshot in the humming quiet. The scent of spice thickened, along with the undertone of musk. “You meant it. Desperation clings to you like cheap perfume.” Another step. Heat radiated off her like an open furnace. “Tell me…” Her smile turned feral. “Do you even know what you’ve brought into your home tonight?”

You backed into the wall. “I just… wanted… a girlfriend—”

“A girlfriend?” Alastor's purr deepened, amused, and dark. Her suit shimmered again, revealing glimpses of slick, glowing skin beneath. “Oh, poor naive morsel. You summoned me during my heat.”

The word hit you like a punch. Not lust. Not craving. A biological imperative, ancient and primal. You went rigid, a flush surging through you. Your instincts screamed Claim her. This being—this goddess of static and hunger—needed you. And for once, you were the one being needed. No one had ever craved you before.

Impulse overrode thought. Your hand shot out, fingers tangling in her silk tie. Alastor blinked—genuinely surprised—as you yanked her forward, hard enough for her body to crash into yours. Power surged through you, raw and unfamiliar.

“I didn’t intend to top a demon,” you growled, voice low and rough, “but here we are.”

She stared, silent for a breath. Then her grin deepened, eyes gleaming. “But you want to.” Her voice crackled with static and heat. “That’s why you summoned me. You want to dominate me. To give me pleasure.”

You shoved her back. She let herself fall onto the couch with dramatic flair, legs sprawling open. She adjusted her hips, arching slightly, a soft whimper escaping as her thighs brushed together.

“Well,” she gasped, static humming around her, “there’s far more bite in you than I expected. Are you going to make me moan for you?”

You straddled her hips, pinning her down. Her heat pulsed through her clothes like a second heartbeat. You leaned in, voice sharp with authority. “Strip.”

Her laugh was low and shivery, crawling up your spine like lightning. “Yes, ma’am…” Alastor purred, exaggerated in her deference. She slipped her tie free with sinuous grace, letting it fall. The jacket followed, tossed aside. Button by button, her shirt parted, revealing tan skin glowing faintly, glistening with sweat. Her chest rose and fell rapidly.

“You’re so sensitive,” you whispered, dragging your fingers down her sides, reveling in her shudders. You dipped a thumb below her navel. Her stomach clenched.

“Y-yes…” She gasped, her voice stripped of its radio-filtered smoothness. “I haven’t—been touched—like this… not for lifetimes…” Her eyes pleaded. “Please… hurry—”

You grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at you. “You don’t get to beg. Not yet.”

She moaned, desperate, her thighs falling wider. Her panties were soaked through, clinging to her glistening folds. You peeled them off slowly. The scent of her was overwhelming—musk and sweetness, thick and intoxicating.

You didn’t tease.

Two fingers, deep and sure, slid inside her.

She howled.

The sound warped through the air, a radio scream that rattled the windows. Her body bounced off the couch, claws shredding the fabric. Her cunt was hot, her walls clenching tightly around your fingers.

“Say it,” you growled, curling your fingers, which made her buck wildly. “Say you’re mine—or I undo the summoning. Send you back to your burning loneliness. Unsated. Forgotten.”

Alastor lips parted, breath shaking. You saw the war in her eyes—pride vs. overwhelming need. Then, she broke.

“I—I’m yours! Please! I belong to you! Just—fuck me! Claim me!”

“Good girl.” The praise made her cry out and clench tighter.

You kissed her fiercely, hungrily. She kissed back with feral desperation, all sharp teeth and a desperate tongue. You pistoned your fingers, unrelenting. Her body trembled, the room crackling with electric pressure. Her purr fragmented into static, distorted voices leaking through her moans. Her skin pulsed with light.

“Look at me,” you commanded, pulling your fingers free. She gasped at the loss. You brought your slick fingers to her lips. “Taste what you give me.”

She obeyed instantly, tongue darting out, moaning around your fingers.

“Mine,” you said again, and you plunged back into her.

Her orgasm was cataclysmic. She screamed your name, the sound dissolving into pure white noise as her body seized and shook. Her inner walls pulsed around your fingers, gushing heat and slickness. Light flared, and shadows danced wildly across the walls before everything fell into stillness.

She collapsed beneath you, panting, trembling, her glow dimmed to embers.

You withdrew your fingers gently and settled against her chest. Her heartbeat thundered beneath your cheek, syncing with your own.

She let out a breathless laugh. “The summoner becomes the devourer. Didn’t see that coming.”

You kissed her throat, claiming her with another soft mark.

Alastor wrapped an arm around you, claws tracing lazy circles along your back. “You summoned a demon in heat, little human,” she murmured, her voice husky but warm. “Now? You’ll never be alone again.” She lifted your chin, eyes still glowing faintly. “The bond is forged. The heat is shared."

A thrill shivered down your spine. “Hope you can keep up.”

Alastor's grin returned—sharp, dangerous, eager.

“Oh, darling,” she whispered, guiding your hand back to her swollen heat. “Let’s find out, shall we?”

The summoning circle still pulsed faintly on the floor, bearing silent witness. As it turned out, one drunken night and a Tumblr post could indeed change your life. Permanently.

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