#hazbin demon

[isuckatwritingsobenice]

does anybody have like good alastor x reader x vox fanfics i can read

or alastor x reader x lucifer … 👀

[isuckatwritingsobenice]

Alastor and Adam pinning after the same S/O

We’ve talked about Alastor and Vox pinning after the same S/o. I’ve even talked about Alastor and Bill Cipher pinning over the same s/o, but what about Alastor and Adam?? After seeing their fight and how quick Alastor lost, it makes me wonder how something like that would play out between these two. So here’s are some of my thoughts.

This would take place after season one, so Adam is now stuck in Hell due to his fight with Lucifer. The hotel is new and redone, Alastor is still head of the hotel, with you as a resident of the hotel, But Adam is.. stubborn to say the least. It makes sense that he’d be in the Pride ring because his ego is huge, and he thinks he’s the greatest thing to be made ever, but he very quickly gets humbled by not only Alastor and Lucifer, but Vaggie, Angel Dusk and very casually Husk. Adam, being as prideful and stubborn as he is, would probably refuse to accept his losses at first. He’d still carry himself like he’s above everyone, trying to assert dominance even after being humbled. But the longer he’s stuck in Hell, the more he’d start realizing that he doesn’t have the power he once did, especially with Alastor, Lucifer, and even the rest of the hotel crew putting him in his place.

I could see him trying to challenge Alastor again, thinking that’s what’ll get him back in the spirit of his power high. Alastor of course would just toy with him, making Adam even angrier. Vaggie wouldn’t hold back in calling out his delusions, and Angel Dust would probably mock him relentlessly. Husk, being as unbothered as he is, might throw in the occasional sarcastic remark that gets under Adam’s skin more than an actual insult would.

Over time, Adam might start developing an odd rivalry with the hotel residents, especially Alastor. Not because Alastor sees him as an actual threat, but because Adam refuses to let go of his pride and constantly tries to (and fails) to prove himself. The real question is whether he’d ever learn to adapt, or if he’d stay stuck in his own ego, refusing to change while hell continues to beat him down.

But back to the topic at hand…

Adam, being as prideful as he is, would absolutely refuse to believe that anyone could prefer Alastor over him. He’d act like it’s a fact that he’s the better choice, constantly boasting about his strength, his status (even if that means nothing in Hell), and why he’s superior. But that arrogance would probably backfire, especially if you’re the type to be impressed by ego alone.

Alastor, on the other hand, would be far more cunning. he wouldn’t outright compete the way Adam does. Instead, he’d made a game out of it, playing up his charm and wit while subtly undermining Adam at every turn. Adam challenges Alastor to a fight to “prove himself”? Alastor one-ups him with something more meaningful ( or chaotic, depending on his mood.)

And then there’s the rest of the hotel crew, who would definitely be entertained by this whole thing. Angel Dust would not let Adam hear the end of it, constantly teasing him about how desperate he’s getting. Vaggie would be so over both of them, probably telling the reader, “You seriously want to deal with either of these two? Good luck.” Husk would probably just be drinking in the background, throwing out occasional sarcastic comments.

Alastor lurking in the shadows, silently watching Adam try to charm the reader (and fail miserably), would be so in-character. He’d just be standing there, unseen, a wide grin on his face as Adam fumbles his way through conversation, growing increasingly frustrated when the reader doesn’t immediately fall at his feet. Alastor wouldn’t intervene right away—oh no, he’d observe, gathering information, letting his amusement build until he’s absolutely sure.

Then, once he’s confirmed that Adam is romantically interested? That’s when he’d really start having fun. He’d drop hints in his usual roundabout way, throwing in subtle jabs whenever Adam is around. Maybe he’d “accidentally” interrupt their conversations, always managing to steer things in his favor. He’d get bolder with the reader too—little touches, leaning in when he talks, calling them pet names—all while giving Adam just enough of a smirk to make it clear: I know.

Meanwhile, Adam’s discovery would be way less calculated. He’d be walking past, minding his own business (or so he claims), when he overhears Alastor speaking to the reader in a way that immediately sets him off. Maybe something too casual, too familiar, like:

Alastor (teasingly): “Ah, my dear, you truly do brighten up this wretched place! I simply must keep you close, wouldn’t you agree?”

Adam stops dead in his tracks. What.

His first instinct? No way. There’s no way this creep actually thinks he has a shot. So he brushes it off… at first. But then, as the days go by, he starts noticing things—Alastor’s lingering glances, his effortless ability to make the reader laugh, the way Alastor always seems to appear whenever Adam is around.

That’s when he goes looking for confirmation.

Cue Adam storming into the hotel bar, where Angel Dust is lazily sipping a drink. He doesn’t ask outright, but he demands answers in the most Adam way possible:

Adam: “Tell me something. That… thing doesn’t actually think he stands a chance, does he?”

And of course, Angel immediately makes it worse.

Angel Dust (grinning): “Oh, Al? Oh yeah, he’s definitely into them. You’re just now figuring that out? Pfft, that’s adorable.”

Adam is livid. And just to twist the knife further, maybe Niffty chimes in, completely oblivious to the tension:

Niffty: “Oh! Oh! He totally is! He’s always watching them! It’s kinda romantic!~”

And that’s it. That’s the moment Adam snaps.

Not in a raging, screaming way (yet), but in a deeply offended, I will not let this stand way. Now, it’s war. Adam doubles his efforts to win over the reader, turning up the charm, throwing in grand (over-the-top) gestures to prove he’s the better choice. Meanwhile, Alastor, ever the showman, makes a game out of it—always one step ahead, effortlessly undermining Adam at every turn.

The tension? Palpable. The rivalry? Unhinged. The reader? Stuck in the middle of an escalating disaster.

Now the question is, how far would they go to outdo each other?

Adam, being as prideful as he is, would refuse to accept defeat. If Alastor gets the reader one gift, Adam gets them ten. If Alastor surprises them with a lavish gesture, Adam doubles it. But no matter what Adam does, Alastor would always escalate things to a point where Adam simply cannot compete.

Let’s say Adam buys the reader expensive jewelry. It’s flashy, extravagant, and meant to prove his superiority. He makes sure everyone sees it, thinking it’s an undeniable win. Then Alastor comes along and—instead of just getting another piece of jewelry—he creates something completely unique, something with deep sentimental value that no amount of money could match. Maybe it’s an enchanted object, something that literally makes the reader feel safe, warm, and comforted in his presence. Suddenly, Adam’s expensive gift looks soulless in comparison.

Adam would lose his mind over this. Every time he thinks he’s gaining the upper hand, Alastor casually destroys his efforts without even seeming to try. And what makes it worse? Alastor would be having the time of his life.

Alastor (grinning): “Oh, dear Adam! You’re really working so hard for their attention! It’s quite admirable—if not a little… desperate.”

Adam’s eye would twitch.

At some point, Adam might even try to confront Alastor, demanding to know what his game is. But Alastor? He’d just smile, tilt his head, and mockingly say:

Alastor: “Game? Oh, my dear Adam… Who said this was a game? I simply enjoy giving to those I care about!~”

And that would infuriate Adam even more. Because unlike Adam, who is constantly trying to prove his worth, Alastor doesn’t need to try. He’s just… winning.

It would get to a point where Adam would push himself into ridiculous territory just to not lose. Maybe he tries to pull off something insane—like getting an entire choir to serenade the reader in the middle of the hotel, just to make a grand spectacle. And what does Alastor do? He laughs, snaps his fingers, and suddenly the entire hotel turns into a ballroom with an orchestra playing a song specifically for the reader.

At that point, Adam might just short-circuit.

Angel Dust (watching the chaos): “Aaaand that’s game, folks.”

Adam has never had to fight for affection before—people have always just wanted him. He’s powerful, he’s attractive, and he’s used to admiration. But now? Now he’s dealing with feelings he doesn’t understand, for someone who isn’t just falling for him the way others have. Worse yet, he has competition. And not just any competition—Alastor.

At first, Adam wouldn’t even recognize what he’s feeling. He knows he wants the reader, that much is obvious. But the depth of it? The real weight of these emotions? That would confuse the hell out of him.

It frustrates him. Infuriates him. Adam doesn’t get flustered, yet here he is, struggling to find the perfect way to impress the reader, overthinking every interaction. The idea that one person could make him this unsure of himself is something he hates. He’s supposed to be above all of this—above feeling this desperate need for someone.

And then there’s Alastor.

Alastor, who seems to be having no trouble at all. Alastor, who is always smiling, always getting the reader’s attention, always getting the exact reaction Adam wants from them. It eats at him. Adam isn’t just fighting for their affection—he’s fighting himself, trying to figure out why this is so different. Why does this one person matter so much?

And the worst part? Deep down, he knows he’s coming up short. No matter how much he tries to win, there’s a part of him that feels like he’s losing in a way he’s never lost before. And it terrifies him.

Alastor, on the other hand? He finds the entire thing hilarious.

At first, Adam is just an annoyance—a loud, arrogant fool who thinks he can compete with him? How amusing. Alastor would absolutely treat it like a game, watching Adam struggle and eating up every second of it.

But the moment Adam starts getting too close to the reader? That’s when Alastor stops playing.

Unlike Adam, Alastor understands his own feelings. He knows what he wants, and he’s not afraid to go after it. But more than that—he’s territorial. He doesn’t like competition, because he doesn’t believe there should be any. In his mind, the reader is already his, even if they don’t realize it yet.

So while Adam is fighting himself, Alastor is strategizing. He watches, waits, and deliberately pushes Adam’s buttons just to make him lose control. If Adam gets too bold, Alastor will casually step in, effortlessly stealing the moment away.

And the best part? He knows Adam is struggling. He can see it—the uncertainty, the frustration, the way Adam wants to be in control of his emotions but isn’t. And that’s where Alastor has the advantage:

Alastor (grinning): “Oh, my dear Adam, you’re working so hard to impress them! Tell me, does it bother you? This… feeling? That gnawing little sensation that you can’t quite name?”

Adam would hate how accurate Alastor is.

So while Adam is struggling to process his feelings and compete, Alastor is playing a different game entirely. He isn’t struggling—he’s calculating. And the more Adam fights himself, the more Alastor wins.

It’s not just about the reader—it’s about who breaks first.

Adam, for the first time in his life, is experiencing doubt. Meanwhile, Alastor is thriving off of it. Because in the end, Adam isn’t just losing to Alastor—he’s losing to his own emotions.

And Alastor? He’s loving every second of it.

Adam’s realization of what he’s actually feeling is deliciously poetic.

Adam finally coming to terms with his feelings—but only after being pushed too far—makes perfect sense. And the fact that it happens in front of Alastor rather than the reader? That’s deliciously poetic.

At this point, Adam has been stewing in his frustration for weeks. He’s lost control more times than he’s willing to admit, and every time he tries to one-up Alastor, it backfires spectacularly. But it’s not just about the competition anymore. No, the real problem is that Adam wants the reader in a way he doesn’t understand—and that terrifies him.

And who better to force him to confront that than Alastor?

I imagine this scene takes place in a more private part of the hotel, away from everyone else. Maybe it starts with Alastor casually taunting Adam—because of course he would. He’s seen Adam unraveling, and he wants to push him past his limits just to watch the fallout.

Alastor (grinning): “Oh, Adam, you really are making this far too easy. You do realize, don’t you? You’re not fighting for them—you’re fighting yourself. And we both know how that ends.”

Adam snaps.

Maybe it starts as a shout, something uncharacteristically raw:

Adam: “Shut up! You don’t—You don’t get to stand there and act like you know me!”

But Alastor does know. And that’s what kills Adam.

Alastor doesn’t let up. He steps closer, his grin widening as he tilts his head, voice smooth as ever but dripping with amusement:

Alastor: “Oh, but I do know you. I see it all over your face, dear boy. The conflict, the uncertainty, the way you despise the fact that, for once in your wretched little existence, you’re feeling something you can’t control.”

That’s it. That’s the moment Adam loses it completely.

Maybe he lunges at Alastor, grabs him by the collar, slams him against the wall. Not out of violence, but out of sheer, overwhelming frustration.

Adam (through clenched teeth): “I don’t care what you think. I don’t care what game you’re playing. I will win.”

And Alastor? Oh, he laughs. A real, delighted, chilling laugh—because this is exactly what he wanted. He looks Adam dead in the eye, completely unfazed, and whispers:

Alastor: “Oh, Adam… You already lost.”

That’s when it hits Adam. Hard. The weight of everything he’s been denying, the truth behind his obsession—it all crashes down on him at once.

He is losing. But not just to Alastor.

He’s losing to his own feelings.

For the first time, Adam lets go—physically and emotionally. Maybe he stumbles back, running a hand through his hair, breathing heavily, his mind racing with realizations he doesn’t want to have.

And Alastor? He just watches, thrives in the chaos, knowing full well that Adam has just broken in a way he can’t fix.

Alastor may have won the battle, but will he win the war?

[isuckatwritingsobenice]

Hi, I don't know if you could write for Angel Dust x Reader, but if you could, I let my request here: It's a platonic relationship between Angel and Human!Witch!Reader. The reader (are a young and inexperienced witch) go to Hell for to find a rare talisman that it should not be there. And in their way they meet Angel, that he give his help to them. Thank you and have a good day.

A/N: HIII!!! Thank you so much for your request!! I’m trying to write for more Hazbin Hotel characters so thank you so much for this request!! I hope this was what you had in mind!!

Navigation!!

The air in Hell was heavier than they expected. Thick with smoke and the scent of burning embers, it clung to their skin, seeping into their lungs like an unwelcome guest. They had read about this place in books, whispered about it in circles of the more experienced witches who warned of its dangers. But the talisman was here—buried somewhere in the depths of this infernal realm—and they had no choice but to find it.

Their fingers trembled as they traced the protective rune on their wrist, a faint glow flickering before fading into their skin. It wasn’t much, but it was all they had. The weight of inexperience sat on their shoulders, a reminder that they had no real plan beyond survival.

They took careful steps through the charred wasteland, the heat distorting the air in waves. Shadows danced at the edges of their vision, creatures lurking just beyond reach. They had expected to be alone, but Hell had a way of making sure no one ever truly was.

And then, they saw him.

The angel was unlike anything that belonged in this forsaken place. Standing amidst the ruin, his golden hair caught the dim light of the smoldering landscape, a stark contrast to the dark world around him. His wings—far too brilliant to be anything but celestial—were tucked neatly behind him, their edges glowing faintly with an unearthly radiance.

He should not have been here. Just as they should not have been here.

The witch hesitated, tightening their grip on the satchel slung across their body.

“You’re lost.” The angel’s voice was calm, edged with something unreadable. Not quite pity, not quite amusement.

“I know where I’m going,” they replied, though they weren’t sure it was the truth.

The angel tilted his head, studying them with sharp, knowing eyes. “No, you don’t.”

A frustrated sigh left their lips. “I don’t need help.”

“You do,” he corrected, taking a slow step forward. His presence was steady, unwavering, as if untouched by the oppressive heat of this place. “You wouldn’t be down here if you didn’t.”

They swallowed hard. They didn’t have time for this. The longer they stayed, the more dangerous it became. Every second wasted was another second closer to something finding them—something far less kind than an angel.

“I just need a talisman,” they admitted. “It’s not supposed to be here. I don’t know how it ended up in Hell, but it needs to be taken back before—”

“Before it falls into the wrong hands.” The angel finished the thought for them, a faint frown crossing his lips. “That is why I’m here as well.”

They blinked. “You’re looking for it too?”

He nodded. “Objects of power do not belong in Hell. Or in the hands of those who would misuse them.” His gaze flickered over them, as if considering something. “You’re young.”

Their pride flared at the observation. “I can handle myself.”

His expression remained unreadable. “If that were true, you wouldn’t be alone.”

They opened their mouth to argue, but he was already moving. With a grace that seemed almost effortless, he gestured for them to follow. “You won’t last on your own,” he said simply. “Come.”

For a moment, they hesitated. Trusting an angel was not something they had ever considered. Witches and angels did not often cross paths, and when they did, it was rarely without conflict.

But Hell was vast and unforgiving.

And he was offering help.

With a begrudging sigh, they fell into step beside him.

⸻

Traveling through Hell was worse than they had imagined. The landscape twisted with every step, shifting like a living thing, making it impossible to map out a proper route. What was once a path would crumble into an abyss the moment they turned their back, and places that seemed safe would suddenly come alive with unseen threats.

But the angel—whose name he had not yet given—moved without hesitation. As if Hell itself could not touch him.

At first, they walked in silence, the witch too focused on keeping up, the angel too focused on whatever unspoken purpose he held.

But eventually, curiosity won.

“You don’t seem like you belong here,” they said, breaking the quiet.

The angel glanced at them. “Neither do you.”

“Yeah, but I have a reason to be here. I doubt angels just drop in for visits.”

There was a pause, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. “We intervene when necessary.”

“And this talisman is necessary?”

“Yes.”

The witch frowned, kicking at the scorched ground beneath their feet. “Why does an angel care about something like this?”

“Because it is dangerous,” he said simply. “And it should not have ended up here.”

“You think someone put it here on purpose?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stopped, wings shifting slightly as his gaze swept across the desolate terrain ahead. The witch followed his line of sight and felt a chill creep down their spine.

There, barely visible through the smoke and flickering embers, was the entrance to what looked like a cavern. The air around it shimmered with unnatural heat, dark energy pulsing faintly from within.

“It’s there,” the angel said.

The witch tightened their grip on their satchel, their heart hammering in their chest. They hadn’t expected to find it so soon. Or so… unguarded.

Which meant it wasn’t.

“Something’s waiting,” they murmured.

The angel nodded. “Stay behind me.”

They bristled. “I can—”

“You can’t,” he interrupted. “Not against what waits inside.”

They wanted to argue, but the weight of his words settled in their gut like a warning.

He stepped forward first, the glow of his presence pushing back the oppressive darkness. The witch followed, every nerve on edge as they crossed the threshold.

The cavern was worse than it looked from the outside. Shadows slithered along the walls, whispering in tongues they didn’t understand. The air was thick with something unseen, pressing against their skin like invisible hands.

And at the center of it all, resting atop a jagged altar of blackened stone, was the talisman.

It was a simple thing—small, unassuming—yet the moment they laid eyes on it, they felt its power.

“We take it and leave,” the angel murmured.

But before either of them could move, the shadows stirred.

A deep, guttural growl rumbled through the cavern, and from the darkness, something moved.

The witch barely had time to react before the angel stepped in front of them, a blinding light radiating from his outstretched hand. The creature—a twisted, grotesque thing with too many limbs and eyes that gleamed like molten gold—let out a piercing shriek, recoiling from the angel’s light.

It lunged.

The witch barely had time to brace before a wave of energy slammed into them, sending them crashing against the cavern wall.

They gasped, dazed, as the fight unfolded before them—light and darkness clashing in a chaotic dance. The angel fought with an effortless precision, his form barely moving as he deflected each strike, his radiance cutting through the creature’s writhing mass.

But it wasn’t enough.

The witch forced themselves to their feet, reaching into their satchel with shaking hands. They weren’t strong. They weren’t experienced. But they weren’t useless either.

With a deep breath, they traced a sigil in the air, their magic flaring weakly before launching toward the creature. It wasn’t much—just a small burst of force—but it was enough.

Enough to distract it.

Enough for the angel to strike.

With a final burst of light, the creature let out an anguished scream before dissolving into nothingness.

Silence followed.

The witch exhaled shakily as the angel turned to them, expression unreadable.

“You are reckless,” he said.

“So are you,” they shot back.

For the first time, something like amusement flickered in his gaze.

They both turned to the altar.

The talisman was waiting.

And together, they reached for it.

[isuckatwritingsobenice]

Hello!

I'm a big fan of your writing its so pretty :3 So, that said, may I request an Angel Dust x GN! Reader where Reader is Angel Dust's bodyguard, hired by Valentino. They're stoic, serious, tough, and completely unamused and unaffected by Angel's advances. At first, Angel's kinda annoyed that Val got him a babysitter, but after some time, he starts to develop a little childish crush on them. Fantasizing about them, writing and drawing about them, pretty much just being an overall simp, and he's never felt like this about someone before so he's pretty confused. They're a badass and great at fighting, so he'll purposefully get into trouble just so that he can be rescued and carried like a princess (he finds out rlly hot how strong they are). They don't do drugs, smile often, and they give off dom vibes.

Bonus: Angel sometimes fantasizes that while he's at the studio with other people doing things to him, he imagines *them* doing those things instead and he almost lets their name slip-

Preferred sfw but u can do nfsw if you want You don't have to write this if u don't want to sorry for writing so much but I don't wanna be too vague :> Be sure to drink water, eat healthy, and get lots of sleep! TYSM!! ~Blueberry 🫐🪻💜

Tough Love

A/N: HIII!! Thank you so so so much for your request!! Thank you for the compliments as well!

Navigation!!

Angel Dust had been through a lot of things in his afterlife—drugs, crime, sex, violence, you name it. But never in his wildest, drug-induced hallucinations did he think he’d be assigned a personal babysitter.

“Listen, Toots,” Angel sneered, lounging dramatically on Valentino’s expensive leather couch, one leg thrown over the armrest. “I don’t need no bodyguard. I can take care of myself.”

You stood across the room, arms crossed, an unshakable, unreadable expression on your face. No amusement, no annoyance, just pure, unbothered professionalism.

Valentino, lounging in his own seat with a smug grin, exhaled a puff of smoke and chuckled. “Not up for debate, sweetheart. You’re sloppy, and I don’t got time for you runnin’ off gettin’ your ass beat again. So, they’re gonna make sure you don’t get yourself killed.”

Angel huffed, flipping his hair dramatically. “Whatever, Val. Guess I got a new shadow.”

But you weren’t just a shadow. You were a presence. A solid, looming force in Angel’s life, always a few steps behind him, always watching. Your job was simple: keep him alive, keep him in line, and, most importantly, keep him from pissing off anyone too dangerous.

At first, Angel was pissed. You didn’t react to his usual antics. Every flirtation, every crude joke, every not-so-subtle pose he threw your way was met with the same cold, unimpressed stare.

“You alive in there, tough guy?” Angel teased one day, snapping his fingers in front of your face. “Or did Valentino hire a fuckin’ statue to follow me around?”

Nothing. Not a smirk, not an eye roll. Just a slow, unimpressed blink.

That should’ve been enough for him to lose interest, right? He lived for attention, for reactions. But you? You were a goddamn puzzle. And the more he failed to crack you, the more… interesting you became.

It started subtly.

At first, he’d just watch you when you weren’t looking. Studying the way you moved—controlled, confident, dangerous. You weren’t just some tough guy playing bodyguard; you were the real deal. Every muscle in your body was tuned for a fight, and Angel realized real fast just how powerful you were.

Then came the fantasies.

It was stupid, really. Childish. But he couldn’t stop his mind from wandering. Imagining scenarios where you’d protect him—not just because it was your job, but because you wanted to. Where you’d pull him close, hold him like he was something precious. Where you’d tell him, in that low, steady voice of yours, “I got you.”

God, he hated how much he liked that idea.

And it only got worse.

From thinking about you while he was working, and realizing it was the only way he’d get a good shot, to fantasizing about you while Valentino had his fun with him. But even then, it still got worse. More personal.

Angel had never been shy about drawing. Usually, his sketchbooks were filled with crude doodles, lewd caricatures, and exaggerated self-portraits. But lately? Lately, his pages were filled with you.

You standing over him like an immovable wall of strength. You carrying him effortlessly out of danger, holding him in your arms like he weighed nothing. You pinning someone to the ground, eyes cold and lethal.

And sometimes… you looking at him. Not with indifference, not with boredom, but with something else. Something intense.

He’d slam his sketchbook shut, face burning under his fur. What the fuck was wrong with him?!

Angel wasn’t subtle. Not even a little.

The moment he realized how hot it was when you fought, it became his new favorite pastime to get into just enough trouble to make you step in.

At first, it was little things. Mouthing off to the wrong demon in a club, getting a little too bold with a mobster’s wife—just enough to stir the pot. He’d bat his lashes and play innocent, waiting for the chaos to start.

And like clockwork, you’d step in.

It was thrilling. Watching you move, precise and deadly, dismantling threats like they were nothing. And when the fights were over? When you’d grab him by the waist and haul him out of danger, carrying him effortlessly through the chaos?

Angel thought he might die (again) from how fucking hot it was.

One night, after you singlehandedly took down a group of thugs dumb enough to corner him, Angel threw his arms around your neck dramatically, grinning like a schoolgirl.

“Oh, darlin’, you saved me! My hero!” he cooed, batting his lashes.

You barely spared him a glance as you carried him bridal-style through the alley, your grip firm but effortless. “You put yourself in danger on purpose,” you stated flatly.

Angel pouted, twirling a lock of his hair around his finger. “Oh, come on, tough guy. Don’tcha wanna be my knight in shining armor?”

Silence.

And yet… he swore he saw the ghost of a smirk tug at the corner of your lips.

That was it. That was the moment he realized he was fucked.

Angel was used to people wanting him. He was used to being the center of attention, the loudest voice in the room. But you? You barely acknowledged his antics.

So he started trying.

“Ohhh, big guy, you ever smile?” Angel drawled one night, draping himself dramatically over the bar. “Or is that somethin’ extra I gotta pay for?”

Nothing.

He scooted closer. “C’mon, just a little one? For me?” He batted his lashes, pouting exaggeratedly.

You exhaled through your nose. “No.”

Angel groaned, flopping onto the counter. “Ugh, you’re killin’ me here.”

But goddammit, that tiny, almost invisible quirk at the edge of your lips? Yeah, that was enough to send him into a full spiral.

Angel had been with a lot of people. He knew lust, he knew desire. But this? This was new. This weird, fluttery, giddy stupid feeling in his chest whenever you so much as looked at him? That was terrifying.

He started catching himself staring at you for no reason. Imagining what it’d be like if you actually wanted him. Not just as a job, not just as another problem to handle, but as something more.

And the worst best part?

You didn’t do drugs. You weren’t like the other demons in his life, numbing yourselves to Hell’s bullshit. You were clear-headed. And that meant if you ever did look at him like that, if you ever did choose him, it wouldn’t be because of some haze of intoxication.

It would be real.

And that scared the absolute shit out of him.

One night, after another near-death experience (that may or may not have been entirely his fault), Angel found himself in your arms again.

But this time, instead of throwing out some cheeky one-liner, he just… looked at you.

The way your expression remained stoic, but your grip on him was firm, secure. The way you carried him like he was something that mattered. Like he was something worth protecting.

For once, he didn’t try to joke, didn’t try to flirt. He just rested his head against your chest, listening to the steady beat beneath.

And he realized—he didn’t mind being your problem.

[isuckatwritingsobenice]

Summer Time Sadness

Synopsis: It’s the 60’s, a hot summer day. Alastor’s mother is out of town which leaves him all alone in his home. Despite being a full on well taught teenager, she gets worried anyway. So, it’s your job to keep him company. You didn’t realize that meant comforting him after seeing his father. With his other family.

Warnings: hints of period typical racism, talks of double lives, kind of angst but also kind of not, Alastor’s dad is ashamed of him

Navigation!!

The Louisiana heat clung to everything like honey, thick and inescapable. Cicadas screamed in the trees, their cries rising and falling in waves through the heavy summer air. The sky was a blistering blue, the kind that made you squint even in the shade. It was the kind of afternoon that made you feel like time stretched out forever, where the world outside shimmered in the heat, and nothing moved unless it had to.

Alastor’s house sat at the end of a long, dusty road, surrounded by tall pines and the faint scent of river water. His mother had called you early that morning, her voice brisk but kind. She was heading out of town, and though Alastor was nearly a man, she didn’t like the idea of him being alone for too long. You had known him long enough to understand that he didn’t mind solitude—he even welcomed it. But his mother worried, and when she asked if you’d keep him company for the day, you didn’t have the heart to say no.

You knocked on the door, the old wood warm under your knuckles. No answer.

With a sigh, you tried the knob—it was unlocked, as expected. Pushing it open, you stepped inside, the house dim and cool in contrast to the outside world.

“Al?” you called, peering into the front room.

No response.

Something about the silence felt off. Normally, he’d greet you with that sly, almost too-wide grin of his, some remark dripping with mischief on his tongue. But today, the house was quiet.

You found him in the kitchen, standing by the back door with his arms crossed over his chest. He was still in his white button-up, sleeves rolled to his elbows, suspenders hanging loosely at his sides. His red hair was messy like he’d run his hands through it too many times, and his face—usually alight with amusement, arrogance, or something in between—was set in a hard, unreadable mask.

“Al?” you tried again, stepping closer.

His fingers twitched where they gripped his arms, knuckles pale against his skin. His jaw was tight, eyes fixed somewhere in the distance beyond the screen door. You followed his gaze, but all you saw was the stretch of backyard, the trees swaying lazily in the heat.

“Go home.” His voice was flat.

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“I don’t need company.”

“You always need company.” You tried to keep your tone light, teasing. Usually, that got some sort of response from him—a scoff, a smirk, an exaggerated eye roll. But today, nothing.

He exhaled sharply, his shoulders rising with the force of it. “I said go home.”

You frowned, stepping closer. “Not until you tell me what’s wrong.”

Alastor let out a dry, humorless laugh, finally turning to look at you. His eyes were dark, something simmering just beneath the surface. It wasn’t the playful glint you were used to. This was something else—anger, hurt, something deeper and heavier than either of those things alone.

He took a step toward you, his height casting a shadow over your face. “I just saw my father.”

The weight of the word made your stomach twist.

“And?” you prompted gently.

“And…,” Alastor continued, his smile sharp and bitter, “he was with his family. His real family.”

The words hung between you like the heat in the air, suffocating and thick. You swallowed hard, unsure of what to say. You had known about his father, of course. Everyone did, in whispers and sidelong glances. A white man with a family of his own, who had left Alastor and his mother in the shadows of his life. Alastor didn’t have much of a memory of him. He left when he was around seven or eight. But it still hurt him. Even if he never said it out loud.

Alastor let out a slow breath, his fingers flexing at his sides. “They looked so… perfect. His wife—his real wife—hanging onto his arm, their little boy laughing, their daughter holding his hand like he was the greatest man in the world.”

He let out a sharp, humorless chuckle, shaking his head. “And me? I don’t exist. I never did.”

Something inside you ached at the way his voice wavered, at the fury barely held back beneath his skin. You stepped closer, hesitating before reaching out. Your fingers brushed his wrist, light, uncertain.

He flinched at the touch but didn’t pull away. Instead, he let out a ragged breath, tilting his head back as if looking at the ceiling could keep the storm inside from spilling over.

“He didn’t even look at me,” he said quietly. “Walked away from me like I was nothing. Like I wasn’t his.”

The heat outside was nothing compared to the fire burning in his chest. You could see it, feel it in the way he stood, in the way his hands trembled just slightly at his sides.

“He’s a coward,” you said, voice steady. “And he’s wrong.”

Alastor’s eyes flicked to yours, something unreadable in them.

“He doesn’t get to decide who you are,” you continued. “He doesn’t get to ignore you just because he’s ashamed. That’s his failure, not yours.”

Alastor let out a slow breath, some of the tension in his shoulders easing, but the anger still lingered in his gaze.

“You don’t get it,” he muttered. “People like him—they get to pretend. They get to rewrite things the way they want. Meanwhile, my mother works herself to the bone just to keep food on the table. Meanwhile, I…” His voice faltered, his jaw clenching tight.

You squeezed his wrist gently. “Meanwhile, you’re standing here. You matter.”

He let out a breath, something between a scoff and a laugh. “Are you always this stubborn?”

You smiled softly. “Only when it comes to you.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The cicadas buzzed outside, the heat pressing against the house like a living thing. Finally, Alastor sighed, running a hand through his hair.

“Are you hungry? I know the walk must have been tiring.” he asked, voice quieter now.

The shift in subject was sudden, but you understood. He needed space, time to let the weight of everything settle without drowning in it.

“Depends,” you said. “You cooking?”

A flicker of his usual smirk crossed his lips. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

You rolled your eyes, following him as he led the way to the kitchen. The weight in his shoulders was still there, but just a little lighter.

The summer stretched on outside, relentless and unchanging. But inside, in the cool dimness of that old house, something settled. A quiet understanding, an unspoken promise.

Alastor wasn’t alone.

And maybe, that was enough.

[isuckatwritingsobenice]

I had an idea for a Alastor x Reader if you don't mind—ya don't have to do this if ya don't want to though

Maybe Alastor with a reader who's kind of like Sammy Lawrence from BATIM? Basically when Reader was alive, they worked for a company that ended up being so stressful that they went insane and became so unhinged they started actually worshipping one of the characters their company created as a full on God. And even now in Hell, they continue to do so, and are very dangerous considering they try to occasionally sacrifice people for their 'god', for they believe doing so will set them free from the form they took when they arrived in Hell. And they are also very musically talented considering they did that kind of thing for the company they worked for, and they also occasionally sing to themself a lot.

Machine Killer

A/N: so I had no idea what BATIM was until I looked up the character!! So sorry anon!! i really hope this is somewhat what you were expecting or if this good enough! With the research I did this was what I came up with!! I hope you enjoy!

Warnings: mentions of religion! GN! Reader, mentions of freedom / discouragement!

Navigation!!

The streets of Hell pulsed with a low, ominous hum, a melody threading its way through the ever-present chaos. It wasn’t the kind of tune one might expect from the more glamorous or refined corners of the underworld—it was raw, discordant, yet eerily captivating. A song whispered from the lips of a soul long since cracked under the weight of their own devotion.

Alastor had heard it before, that voice weaving through the air, thick with obsession. He followed it now, curiosity tugging at him like a puppet string.

He found them kneeling before a crude shrine, hands clasped together, shoulders trembling as they mumbled fervent prayers to something—someone—that wasn’t listening. The shrine was a mess of ink-black smears and aged papers, crude sketches of a grinning figure pinned up like relics.

“My lord,” the voice cracked, a haunting desperation lacing each word. “I will set us free. I will set myself free. You will see. You will see.”

Alastor grinned.

“You know, dear, it’s awfully bold of you to believe that freedom is something a place like this even allows.”

The figure stiffened. Slowly, they turned, eyes wide, pupils swallowed by madness. Their clothes were tattered, stained with ink and something darker. Yet, beneath the wreckage of their mind, there was something… artistic about them. A flair, an undeniable stage presence, like they had been meant for grand performances before they had shattered.

Alastor liked that.

“Freedom,” they murmured, voice wavering between reverence and hysteria. “Freedom is coming. He promised. He promised!”

The air between them seemed to warp, thick with something unseen. Alastor took a step closer, head tilting, the ever-present grin widening. “Ah, and where is your gracious benefactor now? Has he given you any recent instructions? Or are you simply improvising?”

They twitched, fingers digging into their own arms. “He speaks to me,” they hissed. “Through the ink, through the music, through the very fabric of this cursed existence! I just need—” Their breath hitched. “A sacrifice. Another. Just one more. Just—”

Alastor let out a sharp burst of laughter. “Oh, I do love a good zealot! There’s something so… unshakable about faith, isn’t there?” He leaned down, voice dropping into a mocking whisper. “And tell me, my dear—how many have you sent to your ink-drenched savior, only to wake up the next day still stuck in your sorry little skin?”

They trembled, a flicker of something—rage, doubt, determination—flickering in their wild eyes.

Alastor sighed theatrically. “You must really hate this form, hm? Did you expect something… grander?” He gestured to them, as if presenting them to an audience. “Something less you?”

Their lips curled into something between a sneer and a grimace. “This isn’t me,” they muttered. “This isn’t who I am. I was meant to be more. Meant to be with him.” Their voice cracked, and they gripped at their own chest, as if trying to rip open the flesh that bound them.

Alastor watched with amusement. “And yet, here you are!” He straightened, clasping his hands behind his back. “Tragic, truly.”

Their eyes burned with a fury that flickered dangerously close to breaking. “I don’t expect you to understand,” they spat. “You don’t have faith.”

Alastor chuckled, stepping around them, circling them like a wolf considering a meal. “Oh, I believe in many things,” he mused. “Entertainment, for one. And you, my dear, are fascinating. A true performer! Why, if I’d known there was such passion in your little rituals, I might’ve come to watch sooner!”

A slow smile crept across their lips. It was eerie, broken, their teeth bared in something almost feral. “You’re just like the others,” they murmured. “Watching. Laughing. Thinking you’re above it all.” Their voice dropped, almost tender now. “He will show you.”

Alastor’s grin never wavered. “Oh, I’d love to see him try!”

A shuddering breath escaped them, but they didn’t strike. Not yet. Instead, their fingers twitched, their body swaying slightly, as if caught in the rhythm of some unseen song.

Alastor raised a brow.

And then, they sang.

Soft at first, barely more than a whisper, but rising, swelling like a tide, warbling with devotion and madness intertwined. The melody was haunting, a mixture of old-time jazz and something more primal, something desperate.

Alastor felt his grin twitch, his fingers flexing.

Oh, this was interesting.

For all their instability, their voice was beautiful. Twisted by fervor, but undeniably gifted.

They lost themselves in the song, their body moving with it, the lingering remnants of their past life bleeding through. They had once been a performer, a musician, someone who had commanded audiences, who had held the world in the palm of their hand through sheer talent.

And now, they were reduced to this.

The last note hung in the air, trembling. Their chest rose and fell in ragged breaths. Slowly, their eyes refocused, and they looked at him, expectant.

Alastor gave a slow, mocking applause.

“Marvelous! Truly, a performance befitting the depths of Hell!”

Something in their gaze darkened. “You’re mocking me.”

“Why, whatever gave you that idea?”

Their hands clenched into fists.

Alastor grinned wider. “Tell me, dear—do you really believe you can change this? That your precious god will pluck you from the muck of damnation and grant you something better?”

They stood rigid, their breath sharp and uneven. “I have faith.”

“Ah, but faith alone doesn’t change a thing, does it?” He leaned in, voice dipping into something low, something dangerous. “You’ve spilled blood, you’ve sung your little songs, you’ve begged—and yet, here you stand. Still you. Still trapped.”

They trembled.

Alastor’s voice softened, mockingly gentle. “I do wonder… when will you accept that no one is coming for you?”

The silence that followed was thick, suffocating. Their wide eyes bore into him, searching, shaking—before something inside them snapped.

With a shriek, they lunged.

Alastor merely laughed.

The struggle was brief, inevitable. He caught them mid-swing, twisting their arms behind their back with an almost lazy ease.

“Ah-ah!” he tutted, voice sing-song. “Violence already? My dear, we’re just getting acquainted!”

They thrashed, snarling.

Alastor clicked his tongue. “Tell you what—I like you. You’re entertaining! So, how about a deal?”

They stilled, breath heaving.

He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of their ear, voice dripping with amusement. “You keep up that lovely little voice of yours, and I’ll let you entertain me for a while longer. Without throwing you to the wolves, hm?”

A sharp, broken laugh tore from their throat. “You think you can tame me?”

Alastor chuckled. “Oh, not at all! But I do think you’re far more fun when you’re singing than when you’re sulking over your little ink-stained fantasies.”

They panted, muscles trembling, but for the first time, there was something… uncertain in their eyes.

Alastor loosened his grip, ever so slightly.

“Think about it, dear,” he purred. “You do want an audience, don’t you?”

For a long moment, they said nothing. Then, slowly, their lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile—but wasn’t quite refusal, either.

Alastor grinned.

Oh, yes. This was going to be fun.

[isuckatwritingsobenice]

can you write Alastor with a female reader who’s like rapunzel from tangled??

Where Dawn meets Dusk

A/N: I ABSOLUTELY CANNNN!!!! Tangled is my favorite movie of all time so thank you so much for this request!!

Navigation!! // Masterlist!!

Human Alastor! Meeting You For the first time!

Your first encounter with Alastor is nothing short of fate—or mischief, depending on how you look at it. The world outside your secluded home is overwhelming, but curiosity outweighs fear, and you find yourself wandering through the streets of New Orleans, drawn in by the music, the lights, the sheer life of it all.

The moment you step into a lively jazz club, it’s as if the world shifts. The sound of a radio voice, smooth and full of charisma, fills the room. The man behind it, a tall figure in a sharp red suit, drew in attention without even trying. He’s not just performing; he owns the stage, weaving magic with his voice alone.

Alastor notices you immediately. It’s not just your wide-eyed wonder that catches his attention—it’s the way you seem completely out of place, as if you stepped out of a storybook and into his world. He grins, intrigued, and before you know it, he’s striding over, all charm and amusement.

“Now what’s a darling little thing like you doing in a place like this? Lost, are we?”

His teasing tone makes your cheeks heat up, but you shake your head, explaining that you’ve never been to the city before. That’s all the encouragement he needs. Alastor, ever the showman, delights in introducing you to all the wonders of the nightlife—the music, the food, the strange and eccentric people. He takes an immediate liking to your enthusiasm, how you marvel at the smallest things. But more than that, he enjoys watching you learn, your innocence slowly unraveling with every step deeper into his world.

By the end of the night, he’s completely fascinated by you. The way you speak, the way you look at everything as though it’s brand new—it’s refreshing. And while he’d never outright say it, there’s something entertaining about being the one to show you the world you’ve been missing.

Hazbin!!Alastor Meeting You For the first time!

Your first meeting with Alastor is almost accidental—almost. You’ve been trapped in your own kind of prison for what feels like forever, never knowing what lay beyond the walls of your home. And then, one day, you die.

Hell isn’t exactly what you expected, but in a way, it’s still freedom. You have no idea where to go, no idea why you’re even here, no idea how anything works, but you refuse to let that stop you. The streets of Pentagram City are terrifying, but you wander through them anyway, taking in the sights with both awe and fear.

That’s when you meet him.

Alastor finds you before you even realize he’s there. One moment, you’re looking up at a neon-lit sign, the next, a voice cuts through the air—bright, energetic, and laced with something dangerous.

“Well, now! You’re certainly not from around here, are you, dear?”

You turn to see a man in red, grinning ear to ear, his eyes glinting with something unreadable. He’s tall, elegant, and radiates a kind of energy that makes your skin tingle—like you should be running, but also like you want to stay.

You tell him the truth. You don’t know where to go. You don’t know what comes next. That only seems to amuse him further.

“Well, aren’t you just the most delightful thing? All alone in the big, bad underworld with nowhere to go! But don’t you worry your pretty little head—lucky for you, I love new faces!”

That’s how you end up at the Hazbin Hotel. Charlie takes you in with open arms, eager to help you adjust. Alastor, on the other hand, lingers, watching, grinning, waiting. There’s something about you that interests him. Your curiosity, your innocence—it’s rare down here.

And he loves rare things.

Alastor would be absolutely fascinated by you. The idea of someone living in isolation for so long, hidden away from the world yet still so bright and full of optimism, would amuse him to no end. He’d find it hilarious—almost ironic—that someone with so much energy and curiosity had been kept in one place for so long.

The first thing he’d do upon meeting you is question how you’ve managed to stay so cheerful despite your situation. He’d tease you endlessly, calling you things like “a delicate little songbird in a gilded cage” or “a lonely princess locked in her tower” with his signature grin. Your innocence would entertain him, especially if you were naive about the dangers of the world. Alastor isn’t the type to shield anyone from reality, but he’d certainly take delight in watching your reactions as you experience new things.

If you were to escape your confinement, he’d be the first to encourage your mischievous side. He’d revel in the idea of you breaking the rules, testing the limits of your freedom, and perhaps causing a little chaos along the way. Your enthusiasm for life would be contagious, and while he’d never admit it outright, he’d enjoy watching you take in the world with wide-eyed wonder.

That being said, Alastor isn’t one to form sentimental attachments easily. If you were too sweet, too trusting, he might see you as nothing more than an amusing little distraction—someone to entertain him rather than a true companion. But if you had a fire beneath that cheerful exterior, a streak of rebellion or cleverness that set you apart, he’d take a much deeper interest. He’d challenge you, push your limits, and see just how much of that innocence was genuine and how much was a result of your sheltered upbringing.

Despite his teasing and his tendency to play games, he’d have a strange sort of protectiveness over you. Not in a conventional, loving way, but more in the sense that you’re his to mess with. He wouldn’t tolerate anyone else taking advantage of your naivety, and if someone tried to manipulate you, he’d be the first to step in—with a wide grin and a terrifying glint in his eyes.

He’d adore how expressive you are, how easily you marvel at the simplest things—whether it’s the neon lights of Pentagram City or the way music makes you feel alive. If you had a talent for singing, he’d absolutely encourage it, likely requesting duets just to hear how your voice blends with his. He’d play the part of the charming gentleman, dipping you dramatically mid-dance, spinning you around just to hear you laugh, all while knowing full well that he’s the devil in disguise.

If you ever tried to see the good in him, to believe that there’s more to him than his sinister nature, he’d find it both amusing and exasperating. “Oh, my dear, you really think I have a heart buried somewhere in this chest of mine?” he’d chuckle, tapping a clawed finger against his vest. “How delightfully naive!” He wouldn’t discourage you completely—after all, he enjoys playing along—but he’d never let you forget that he’s not a prince in some fairytale.

Still, if anyone could bring even a sliver of warmth into his cold, grinning existence, it might just be someone like you—someone who, despite everything, still sees the world as a place worth exploring, worth singing about, worth believing in. And that, more than anything, would be the most entertaining thing of all.

[moon-bunny24]