Alastor's NSFW Alphabet
I saw this BEAUTIFUL NSFW alphabet for Alastor and I just had to do my own! How i write Alastor is VERY ooc so I don't wanna see any comments saying "Errmm...thats now how hed act.." (I also make him demisexual so don't come for me) WARNING: Very worshipful Alastor, FemReader! Lots of praise
A — Aftercare
Alastor treats aftercare like a sacred ritual—something he cherishes as much as the act itself.
He’s breathless, trembling, still buzzing with leftover hunger… but the moment she melts under him, his whole demeanor softens into something tender, reverent, and unbearably gentle.
He kisses her thighs first, every time.Slow, loving little pecks traveling up her hips, like he’s thanking her body for letting him near it.
Then he pulls her onto his chest, holding her so tightly she can feel his heartbeat sprinting.
His voice?
Low, warm, still edged with leftover static as he whispers,“My darling… thank you. Thank you for letting me adore you.”
He rubs her back with those big, elegant hands she loves so much, humming old jazz under his breath until her body fully relaxes.
And god—if she’s shaky or overstimulated?
He gets feral about making her comfortable: water, a warm cloth, her favorite pajamas, carrying her if her legs don’t work.
He won’t drift off until he’s absolutely sure she’s safe, warm, and tucked under his arm.
B — Body Part (His + Hers)
His: His Hands
He knows.
Oh, he knows how she looks at them.
Those long, elegant fingers?
The ones that wrap around her waist, her throat, her hips—The ones that can snap a demon’s spine but turn gentle the second they touch her?
He absolutely uses them on purpose.Trailing them along the inside of her thigh just to see her breath catch.
Tilting her chin up with a single finger.
Spreading her open with palms that feel too big and too gentle all at once.
He loves that she’s obsessed with them.
It feeds the possessive part of him in a way nothing else does.
Hers: Her Breasts
He is insane about them.
Not just the shape, not just how soft they are—but how responsive they are to him.He’ll bury his face between them, nuzzling like a man starved.
He’ll squeeze them from behind while kissing her neck, just to feel her arch back into him.
And when she gasps?
When her breath stutters because his thumbs brushed her nipples?
He grins.
That wicked, lovesick, ruined grin.
He talks to them, too.
Soft little praises like:
“Aren’t you just perfect… look at how you react to me, my sweet.”
He’s obsessed.
C — Cum
Alastor is surprisingly neat… unless he’s lost control.
Most of the time, he prefers finishing on her stomach or thighs—just so he can watch it drip down her skin.
He gets entranced by the sight, voice going airy and shaky when he breathes,“Beautiful… you look exquisite like this.”
But when he’s especially worked up?
When she’s been teasing him, praising him, or riding him until his voice breaks?
He’ll cum inside her with this guttural, breathless moan.
His ears go flat, his hands lock on her hips, and he presses his forehead to her chest like he’s praying.
He shudders through it, overstimulated and overwhelmed by how tight and warm she feels.
And afterward?
He stays inside her as long as she allows, arms around her waist, quietly panting against her skin.
D — Dirty Talk
Alastor is poetry dipped in filth.
He speaks like he’s whispering forbidden scripture against her throat.
His voice stays smooth, rich, honey-thick—but the words?
Absolutely depraved.
He never shouts.
He purrs filth.
“Look at you… trembling on my fingers like you were made for them.”
“Spread wider for me, darling. Let me see everything that’s mine.”
“You’re doing so well… give me just a little more.”
And when she’s the one in control?
When he’s beneath her, flushed and breathless?His dirty talk becomes worship.
“Please… keep going. I want all of you.”
“My beautiful girl… you undo me.”
“I’m yours. Whatever you want, say it—take it.”
He never stops talking.
He can’t.
The more he loves her, the filthier he gets.
E — Experience
Alastor is… shockingly inexperienced where it matters.
Yes, he’s had flings.
Yes, he’s touched bodies before.
Yes, he technically knows how things work.
But those encounters were shallow, hollow, emotionless.
He didn’t care about them.
He didn’t want connection, only distraction.
So when he’s with her?
He’s lost.
Not clueless — just overwhelmed.He knows how to touch.
He knows how to make someone come apart.
But caring?
Actually wanting to please?
Actually trembling at the thought of disappointing her?
That is new.
And it terrifies him in the sweetest, most devastating way.
He watches her like a student watches scripture.
Memorizing every shiver, every gasp, every pattern of her breathing.
He wants to learn her perfectly, to know her body better than she does.
And because he’s so invested, so eager, so affected by her?
He ends up being incredible.
All instinct sharpened by obsession.
He doesn’t want to be “good at sex.”
He wants to be good for her.
F — Favorite Position
Alastor loves anything where he can see her face.It ruins him how expressive she is.
Every twitch of her mouth, every flutter of her lashes, every soft little gasp—He drinks them like sacrament.
But his absolute favorite?
Her on top, straddling him, riding him until his composure shatters.
He loves the way her hips roll, how her chest bounces, the control in her hands when she pins his wrists above his head.
He loves looking up at her, flushed, panting, his ears twitching with every downward grind.
And he adores how it forces him to admit how weak she makes him.
He tries to keep his smile sharp, his voice teasing—but it always dissolves into breathless moans and worshipful murmurs.
Seeing her take what she wants from him?
It destroys him in the most beautiful way.
G — Goofy (Are they goofy during intimacy?)
Alastor?
Not goofy.
Not even by accident.
He doesn’t make silly comments, doesn’t laugh, doesn’t break the mood.
He’s intense.
Focused.
Locked in.
But—with her, occasionally, something strange happens:If she laughs?
If she makes a teasing joke or giggles because he accidentally kissed her too hard or fell forward when his knees gave out?
He smiles.
A real one.
Soft, warm, fond.
He’ll murmur, “You’re adorable…”
and press a kiss to her cheek or jaw before diving right back into worshipping her like nothing happened.
He isn’t goofy.
But he indulges her goofy.
And secretly loves when she lights up in the middle of something heated—it makes him fall even harder.
H — Hair (Down There)
HIS
He is very…old-fashioned.
Meaning:
Yes, he has hair down there.
Dark, soft, curly, definitely matching the color of his “drapes.”
Not wild, not unruly—He’s naturally tidy.
He trims only when it becomes inconvenient.
He doesn’t shave.
He would never fully remove it.
It feels unnatural to him, too modern, too sterile.
The hair sits low and neat around his base, soft enough that she likes nuzzling against him there, which drives him insane.
HERS
He LOVES when she’s natural.
Loves it.
The moment she mentions shaving?
His ears tilt back like she just threatened herself.
He’ll kneel between her thighs, hands spreading her gently, voice firm but reverent: “You’re perfect as you are. Don’t take a thing away from me.”
Hair, no hair—she’s always gorgeous to him.
But her natural state?
That’s his favorite.It feels intimate.
Real.
Her.
He’ll press his cheek between her thighs, inhaling her scent, loving how warm and soft it all is.
The idea of her shaving makes him pout.
He doesn’t like the thought of anything altering her body in a way she doesn’t want—and he’s far too obsessed with every inch of her just as it is.
I — Intimacy
Alastor treats intimacy like it’s a holy experience.
Not sex.
Not fooling around.
A ritual.
He’s the kind of man who cups her jaw like she’s made of stardust, presses his forehead to hers, and breathes her in as though her scent alone is enough to keep him alive.
He kisses slowly, deliberately—like every kiss is a vow.
His touches always start soft.
Fingers tracing her hips, her ribs, her thighs.
Mapping her again and again, like he’s terrified he’ll forget the shape of her.
And when she moans?
When she sighs into his mouth?
His whole body melts.
He whispers things like:
“You’re everything.”
“Let me love you… let me take care of you.”
“I need you—more than breath.”
He becomes vulnerable only in these moments.
Only with her.
He lets her see him stripped of the persona, stripped of the smile—just a man who loves her too much.
J — Jack Off (Do they? How often?)
Oh, he does.
For her.
Only for her.
He never touched himself before truly wanting her.
But after falling in love?
He can’t stop.
If she’s asleep beside him, smelling warm and sweet and perfect…If he’s replaying her sounds, her expressions, the way her thighs wrapped around his waist…He will bite his knuckles to muffle his moans and stroke himself slowly under the covers.
He imagines her—her soft gasps, her body opening for him, her nails in his back.
He cums quietly but violently, whole body shaking, whispering her name like a prayer.
And afterward?
He always turns toward her, kisses her shoulder, wraps an arm around her waist, grounding himself.
He feels guilty every time.
Not for doing it—but because he didn’t want to wake her.
K — Kinks
Alastor has…so many.
But they all orbit one thing: serving her.
Taking her apart piece by piece until she’s shaking and breathless and covered in his devotion.
His biggest ones?
• Oral fixation (on her)
We’ve already established in previous fics he spends HOURS between her thighs.
He loves her taste like a starving man loves food.
He loses himself in it—eating, kissing, sucking, moaning into her until she’s crying.
• Praise / Worship
He talks to her like she’s divine.
He praises her body, her reactions, the way she falls apart on his tongue.
He purrs when she praises him back.
• Subtle Submission (but only to her)
He would never kneel to anyone else.
Ever.
But for her?
He drops to his knees without thinking, without hesitation.
He likes when she tells him what she wants.
He likes giving it.
• Possessiveness (sweet, not cruel)
He doesn’t want to own her life.
He wants to own her pleasure.
He wants to be the only one who knows how to make her gasp like that.
• Body worship
Her thighs.
Her breasts.
Her stomach.
Her pussy.
Her everything.
He touches her like she’s a miracle.
L — Location (Favorite places to get intimate)
Alastor’s favorite place isn’t a location—it’s a position of vulnerability.
He loves her in his lap.
Anywhere.
The bedroom, the couch, the kitchen, the radio booth, -if she’s in his lap, straddling him, close enough he can smell her perfume and kiss her throat…He’s gone.
But specific favorite spots?
1. The Bed
Because he can take his time.
Hours.
Slow, deep, controlled movements that leave them both shaking.
2. His Armchair
Where she rides him while he grips her hips and helplessly begs for more.
Nothing makes him unravel faster.
3. Leaning her against a wall
His mouth on her neck, his hands everywhere, grinding slow and heavy while whispering sinful things into her ear.
4. Anywhere private with a door he can lock
He’s possessive—he wants her sounds to belong to him alone.But no matter where they are, if she climbs on his lap?
He’s instantly hard.
Instantly devoted.
Instantly hers.
Q — Quickie
Quickies with Alastor are rare…but when they happen?
They’re devastating...
A typical Alastor quickie goes like this:
She kisses him.
Just a kiss.
Soft, needy, wanting.
His ears shoot up. His tail wags.
His breath stutters like she just sucker-punched him with desire.
He’ll grab her waist, push her back against the nearest surface—a wall, a counter, a locked door—and growl:
“Don’t tempt me unless you’re ready.”
Because once she gives the slightest nod?He loses it.
He pulls her panties aside, not off—one of his favorite quickie things—and pushes into her in one slow, sinful stroke.
The pace is brutal.
Controlled, but deep enough to leave her breathless, legs quivering.
He doesn’t kiss her lips during quickies.
He kisses her throat.
Her shoulder.
Her jaw.
Wherever he can bury his moans.
He cums fast—not because he lacks control, but because she makes him insane.
Afterward he’s shaky, panting into her neck, hands gripping her hips like he’s afraid she’ll disappear.
Then he straightens her clothes, kisses her forehead, and whispers:
“You make me lose myself, darling…”
And he looks like he wants to bend her over.
R — Risk (How risky do they get?)
Alastor doesn’t do “public” risk.
He refuses to let anyone hear her sounds, or see her undone, or even suspect what they do together.
But private risk?
That’s his weakness.
He loves:
• Being almost caught
Not by strangers—but by someone knocking on the doorwhile she’s already crying into his shoulder, full of him, trying to stay quiet.
• Doing things someplace forbidden
His radio booth during off-hours.
His office during a meeting break.
A locked storage room in the hotel.
Anywhere that feeds his possessive streak:
“Everyone is wondering where she is…and she’s here, on my cock, moaning into my neck.”
S — Stamina
Endless.
Truly endless.
He doesn’t get tired.
He doesn’t get winded.
He doesn’t soften easily.
He can keep going long after she’s shaking and overstimulated—but he never pushes her beyond what she wants.
He doesn’t just have stamina…he has control.
He can hold off his orgasm for as long as she needs, even if he’s trembling, even if he’s gritting his teeth and panting against her skin.
But when he finally lets himself cum?
It hits him hard.
His whole body shudders, his ears flatten, his breath stops, and he buries his face in her neck like he’s trying not to cry from how good she feels.
He recovers fast.
Too fast.
Within minutes, he’s kissing her inner thighs again, murmuring:
“One more. Just one more, please…”
And it’s never just one more.
T — Toys
Alastor doesn’t need toys.
He doesn’t want them for himself.
But he will use them on her—if she wants, if she asks, if it adds to her pleasure.
He’s very picky, though.
• He only uses things that let him watch
A small vibrator on her clit while he fucks her slow?
Yes.
Watching her hips jerk as he holds it in place?He groans for that.
• He refuses anything that replaces him
No penetrative toy is allowed inside her unless his fingers or cock are also there.
He wants to be the center of her pleasure.
• He likes holding the toy against her
Because he feels every tremor of her thighs.
Every shiver.
Every clench.
And he watches her face fall apart with this proud, possessive hunger.
• He never uses restraints
He wants her hands free.
He wants her to hold him, claw at him, grab his hair, wrap around him—he wants to be touched while he ruins her.
• His favorite toy?
A bullet vibrator between her thighs while he eats her out.
He holds her down, tongue deep inside her, while the toy makes her scream.
And he moans like he’s the one being overstimulated.
U — Unfair (How much do they tease?)
Alastor teases in a way that feels designed to break her sanity.
He doesn’t tease to withhold. He teases to make her need. To make her beg. To make her so desperate she can’t think in full sentences.
His favorite torture?
He gets her close. SO close. Rubbing his thumb over her clit in slow, devastating circles, tongue sliding deep inside her, hips grinding gently against her inner thigh…
Right as she starts to gasp and grip his hair—
He pulls back just enough. Only enough to stop the peak. Not enough to relieve her.
And while she’s trembling, whining, reaching for him?
He kisses her thigh and whispers, voice low and wicked:
“Shh… don’t rush. I want you to fall apart properly.”
He teases with control, not cruelty. He wants her shaking, panting, ruined by the time he gives her what she wants.
The payoff is always worth it:
When he finally lets her cum? He holds her down and devours every second of it, moaning like he’s tasting heaven.
V — Volume (How loud are they?)
Alastor:
He’s quiet— but not because he’s stoic. Because he’s trying not to lose control.
He growls. He pants. He moans into her neck with broken restraint. Every sound from him is deep, sharp, raw.
He talks a LOT— low, breathless, teeth-gritted pleasure:
“That’s it… mmh—right there…” “You feel… incredible…” “Hold onto me, darling… gods—”
When he gets close, his voice drops into a dangerous, shaky whisper that gives her goosebumps.
He only gets truly loud if she’s on top, grinding down on him just right— then he actually swears, breathless and undone.
Her?
He’s obsessed with her being loud. He lives for her cries, her moans, her begging, her breathy little gasps.
If she tries to hide her sounds?
He pins her hips and growls:
“Don’t you dare quiet yourself. Let me hear you.”
Because her pleasure drives him insane.
W — Wild Card
Here’s the feral part nobody expects:
He loves breeding her.
Not the fantasy of children— the instinct. The possessive, primal need.
He fucks her harder, deeper, rougher when he’s close— hands gripping her thighs, hips snapping, voice low and vicious as he moans into her ear:
“Take it—take all of it—take every drop—”
He loses all control when he cums inside her. He buries himself to the hilt, shaking, panting, holding her hips down so she can’t move, like he needs to spill every last bit as deep as possible.
Afterward he kisses her belly, reverent and shaky:
“You’re mine…”
He’s not cruel. He’s not forceful.
But he’s feral when he finishes— and he loves watching it drip out of her.
X — X-Ray (What are we working with?)
This man is not small. Hell probably had to recalibrate its measurements for him.
He’s long. Thick. Heavy enough that she feels him even when he’s just resting inside.
Approx vibe?
Not pornstar absurd, but big enough that she gasped the first time. Big enough to stretch her beautifully. Big enough he has to go slow at first, whispering praise into her ear as she adjusts around him.
He curves upward just slightly— and he uses it like a weapon.
He knows exactly how to angle his hips to:
• hit that perfect spot • make her legs shake • make her back arch • make her gasp like she’s losing her mind
And the way he reacts to the tight, warm way she squeezes around him?
That’s what makes HIM tremble.
Y — YEARNING For most of his afterlife, desire was something he regarded with contempt. Carnal need was a fool’s chain, something lesser men clung to. He’d sneer at the very idea of craving anyone, much less in the sweaty, undignified way demons tended to.
But then she happened.
Now it lives under his skin like a fever he refuses to acknowledge—even to himself. A constant ache. A pull. A hunger with her name carved into its teeth.
Outwardly, he’s impeccable. Polished smile. Perfect posture. Voice smooth as a radio jingle. He’ll tilt his head, act amused, pretend he’s above all of this.
And then she so much as leans toward him. Brushes against him. Sighs his name under her breath. Gives him that look she doesn’t even know she gives—soft, trusting, wanting.
And it absolutely annihilates him.
His mask shatters instantly. His body locks up like he’s been shot. His pupils blow wide. His claws flex. His breath stops in his throat.
Because the moment she starts yearning? He doesn’t just stop hiding it— he stops being capable of hiding it.
He becomes feral in the quietest, most controlled way imaginable. Voice dropping low. Hands hovering near her hips. Shadow twitching like it’s begging to touch her first.
His need for her is constant—humiliatingly high now, embarrassing in its intensity—but when she shows even a hint of her own craving…
He’s done. Undone. Ruined. Hers. And he doesn’t bother disguising it.
He leans in. Corners her. Speaks against her throat. Tells her exactly what she’s doing to him in that velvet, unsteady voice he hates letting her hear.
He becomes the kind of dominant who trembles while he holds her down. Not because he’s afraid— but because wanting her this much feels like a sin even Hell should forbid.
Z — HOW FAST THEY FALL ASLEEP He doesn’t sleep. Not really. Two hours a night at most, and only because her presence makes his body quiet enough to slip into something like rest.
But her? The second she curls into him? He melts.
He’ll sit up against the headboard, arms around her waist, chin brushing her hair—intent on staying awake, listening to her breathing, guarding her like a predator with its kill.
But his body betrays him. Always. Every time.
As soon as she’s settled, warm against him, heartbeat steady and close… His eyes get heavy. His shoulders loosen. His ears droop. His voice softens until it’s not even a whisper, just breath.
And he fights it. Clings to consciousness with stubborn pride. He wants to stay awake and adore her. Watch her. Memorize her. Touch her hair. Trace her back. Kiss her temple every few minutes because he can’t help himself.
But give him five minutes— five— and he’s out.
Not sprawled, not snoring, nothing uncouth. He drifts off holding her like she’s the only thing anchoring him to this plane. Face buried against her shoulder, breath warm on her neck. Arms wrapped so tightly around her waist that she has to pry them loose if she needs to get up.
His shadows tuck themselves around the bed on instinct, a protective ring of flickering tendrils. He doesn’t command them— they do it because his sleeping self refuses to risk anything touching her.
And if she moves, even slightly? He wakes immediately. Not fully— just enough to check she’s safe, murmur her name in a low, dazed voice, and pull her back against him before sliding under again.
He sleeps like a lovesick creature chained to its favorite dream— deep, heavy, and impossibly fast… but only when she’s in his arms.
