Alastor Shirtless Novels & Stories

"We are on a tropical island—I thought a Hawaiian shirt and a pair of shorts would suit me." I shake my head at him, covering my twitching lips with my hand. "Please, lose the shirt—blue doesn't fit you, neither do the bright flowers on it." "Lose the shirt, huh?" "Yeah," I look up at him, craning my neck. "Pick something—"I trail off, blinking when I notice the shirt is gone, and... Azrael's ripped torso is on full display, naked to the eye, literally. My heart is pounding. I knew Azrael was good-looking, but my entire body is tense from seeing his muscular body under the sun.

Alim threw the ring in the far corner of the room giving it a disgusted glance and turned to me. Before my mind could process anything he was undoing his shirt. As the shirt left I noticed his stomachal and chest muscles. Their curves and curvatures were more than evident. The thin shirt I was wearing followed next and shattered into pieces on either side of my form. I gave a sigh of wailing but it went unnoticed.

“I meant your fire show earlier. To be honest, it was more dramatic than I expected.” Sasha could’ve squint her eyes at him or gape at his words, realizing they have double meaning. But she all ignored it when she saw precisely who stood before her. “You’re shirt—why are you shirtless? And why are you here?!” Sasha couldn’t help but blush at his presence, at the seductiveness radiating from Alain’s face down to his torso. “Is that a problem?” Her throat bobbed, looking behind him and then whirled around her apartment, scanning and checking for someone or something. “No.”

came a reply from the other side, and Lysa helped me open the door, whispering to me "I hope you survive his punishment." Instantly, my fear increased and I held my breath as I drag my feet into the room. Unlike before, Alister's room was bright, and he sat on his throne-like chair watching my every move intently. He was wearing a black long-sleeved shirt with black trousers and he held an unlit cigarette between his lips. "I see you're still wearing the dress from last night, although I was a little hesitant to put it on you because I was afraid it wouldn't look good, it does look good on you," Alister removed the cigarette from his mouth as he spoke.

he looked down at my green oversized shirt. “It’s not that bad,” I replied breathlessly. “It is. Get that green thing off,” he said roughly, tugging on the hem of my shirt and pulling it up over my head. My nipples hardened as they came in contact with the cold air. I wasn’t wearing a bra because there was no point in wearing one, not with him around at night. Alessio’s eyes darkened, looking at my exposed chest. “Take it off for me,” he pointed his head to my thong. Then he leaned back as if he was watching a show.

“I’ll probably stand on my own feet, even. I’m a dance floor hazard.” “No, I mean, only one of us needs to know the steps. You can stand on my feet,” Alastaire says, pointing down at his feet, clad in roman style gladiator leather sandals, which I assume is to match the white toga-ish thing he has going on with the angel costume. “Trust me,” he says. “Hitch a ride. It’ll be fun.”

--Alyssa-- The Alpha King stood there shirtless, his chiseled muscles glistening under the soft glow of the room’s lighting. I stood just a few feet away, clutching my towel tightly, desperately trying to maintain some semblance of modesty. His gaze roamed over my body, making me feel exposed and vulnerable.

the Head Elder's voice echoed through the hall. I produced the photograph showing Wyatt's defiled mating mark. Next to the sacred silver totem, Valerie's personal sigil was a clear and damning stain. A collective gasp went through the hall. "This is the gravest blasphemy against the Moon Goddess!" one of the Elders declared, slamming his hand on the table. "Alpha Wyatt, what do you have to say for yourself?" Wyatt shot to his feet, his eyes pleading with me. "Elders, it was a moment of weakness. A mistake. I am willing to have it burned away. Immediately."

The door opens a while after, revealing an eleven-year-old boy in a black top and a matching pair of khaki trousers- Derek. “You look sad?” I ask, taking his backpack off his shoulders. “Didn’t you have fun with Scott?” “You’re late. Again,” he mutters, maintaining the annoyed look on his cute little face. “They had fun,” Sofia informs, joining us outside. “Thank you,” I smile. “And by the way, you look terrible.” I look at the blue short-sleeved gown I have on and can't help but agree with her. It has some stains here and there making it look even worse than it originally was.