Can we get some juicy headcanons for Sub! Alastor x Dom! Fem! Fallen! Angel! Reader?
I'm talking about a Reader who's known in the hotel for her unnerving quietness but super heavy, commanding presence. That kinda vibe really piques Alastor's curiosity at first. But then he finds out she's actually a very dominant woman, and he's totally, surprisingly, a sub to her which he absolutely HATES. Please!!!!
✧ Headcanon: ✧
{Sub! Alastor X Dom! Fem! Fallen! Angel! Reader! (SFW)}
✎ That's a very specific ask anon 😭😆 I've never done this before :3
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✦ She's the quiet storm of the Hazbin Hotel, a fallen angel whose presence is a heavy, unyielding force. She speaks little, her movements are graceful and deliberate, and her eyes hold an ancient weariness. Everyone feels her, a constant, low thrum in the hotel's chaotic energy. Alastor finds it utterly captivating and deeply irritating.
✦ Alastor, being the master manipulator he is, tries to prod, to provoke, to shatter her serene facade. He’ll use his charmingly menacing flirtations, laced with veiled threats and power plays, expecting her to blush, recoil, or lash out. He wants a reaction, any reaction, to confirm his control.
✦ This is where it gets good. Instead of falling into his trap, she turns his own game against him. He'll lean in, whispering a suggestive threat, perhaps something about "making her sing." She won't flinch. Instead, a slow, knowing smile might grace her lips, or her eyes will gain a glint of genuine amusement.
✦ Picture this: Alastor has cornered her, perhaps in a quiet hallway, attempting one of his more intricate verbal traps. He’s leaning in, expecting her discomfort. She just looks at him, unblinking. Then, with a speed that belies her usual grace, she reaches up, her fingers deftly grasping his bowtie.
✦ She tugs. Not aggressively, but with an undeniable authority that forces him to bend down, his perpetually stiff posture breaking as he's pulled closer. His face, for a split second, shows genuine shock. He's never been handled like this, not by anyone in Hell, certainly not by someone so quiet.
✦ Her face is now inches from his, her eyes boring into his own. Her voice, usually soft, drops to a barely audible whisper, rich and resonant, carrying an undeniable heat. She's not flustered, not threatened; she's utterly in control. "Oh, Alastor," she might purr, "you have no idea the songs I could teach you to sing."
✦ Then, just as quickly, she releases his bowtie, stepping back with a serene, almost innocent smile. She turns, her heavy presence now flowing away from him, leaving him standing there, perfectly still.
✦ Alastor is left utterly, completely frozen. His signature wide smile is still plastered on his face, but it's rigid, unseeing. His static flickers wildly, betraying his inner turmoil. He's not just surprised; he's livid. Humiliated. The sheer audacity, the effortless flip of the power dynamic, the fact that she dared to make him bend. He hates it, absolutely despises it, and yet... the memory of her proximity, the taste of her own manipulative game turned against him, sparks a terrifying, undeniable thrill deep within his chaotic core. He's been bested, and he hates being bested, but he cannot deny the unexpected jolt of excitement.
✦ His mind is a whirlwind of furious thoughts. Insolent! Arrogant! Every fiber of his being screams in protest. He's always the one in control, always the one pulling strings. The idea that someone could so effortlessly, so casually, reduce him to a startled deer is an affront to his very existence.
✦ Yet, beneath the volcanic rage, a tiny, insidious spark ignites. A thrill. A challenge he hadn't anticipated and, to his utter disgust, a part of him finds undeniably stimulating. It's the thrill of the chase, but turned on its head. He's not the hunter here; he's the one being… teased. And it infuriates him, yet also makes his blood sing in a way it hasn't in decades.
✦ From that moment on, his fascination with her deepens into a full-blown obsession. He can't get her out of his head. He analyzes every interaction, every quiet glance, every subtle shift in her posture. He’s determined to break her, to get a reaction, to reassert his dominance. But every attempt is subtly, frustratingly, countered.
✦ He'll try to orchestrate situations where she must rely on him, only for her to calmly handle it herself, or perhaps give him a silent, almost amused nod of thanks that feels more like a dismissal than gratitude. He'll offer her "help" with hotel duties, framing it as benevolence, but it's always a subtle test of wills. She'll accept, but with an air that implies she's allowing him to assist, not needing his aid.
✦ There are moments, to his absolute horror, when he finds himself responding to her unspoken commands. A silent look from her when he's about to make a scene, and his static might dim. A subtle gesture towards a task, and he'll find himself moving to do it, only realizing after the fact what just happened. He'll snarl internally, his smile straining, but the deed is done. It's like she's trained him without him even realizing it.
✦ He hates the feeling of being submissive, of having his power curbed. He hates that she can see through his performative menace. But the truth, the truly galling truth he would take to his grave, is that a part of him is becoming addicted to the challenge, to the rare jolt of adrenaline she ignites, and yes, to the infuriating way she makes him feel completely out of control. It's a profound violation of his nature, and yet, it's undeniably exciting.
✦ She, meanwhile, is fully aware of the effect she has on him. She sees his internal struggle, the rigid smile, the flickering static that betrays his inner turmoil. A faint, knowing smirk might occasionally touch her lips when his attempts at dominance backfire spectacularly. She's not malicious; she's simply living in her truth, and he's reacting precisely as she expects. She finds his outrage… charming.
✦ She starts, subtly at first, invading his personal space. Not in an aggressive way, but in a way that forces him to acknowledge her, to feel her heavy, quiet presence. She might linger a moment too long when passing him, her arm brushing his, or settle into a chair unusually close to him during a hotel meeting, her scent —something akin to old parchment and cold moonlight— filling his nostrils. He'll tense, his smile becoming even more strained, but he won't move. He can't.
✦ It begins with fleeting, seemingly accidental touches. A hand on his arm to "steady" him when he nearly bumps into something (which he absolutely did not). A finger brushing his cheek as she "adjusts" his misplaced monocle. These touches are feather-light, almost imperceptible, yet they send a jolt through him. He hates the invasion, the casual familiarity, and the way his own skin prickles under her touch. His static goes wild, but he's frozen in place, utterly mortified by his own involuntary reaction.
✦ This is where the real subtle trauma begins. She'll occasionally, when he's being particularly "compliant" (read: gritting his teeth and restraining himself), reach out and give a light, almost absent-minded pat to his head or cheek, perhaps murmuring a soft, "Good boy, Alastor." in that deep, resonant voice of hers. It's done with the same casualness one might bestow upon a well-behaved pet. Alastor's eyes will widen, his smile will stretch taut, and every instinct will scream in outrage. He wants to incinerate her, but he's so caught off guard, so utterly violated by the casual condescension, that he can only sputter static. The phrase "good boy" will haunt him.
✦ She starts finding his furious, frustrated reactions amusing. Not a loud, boisterous laugh, but a low, rich chuckle that rumbles in her chest, sometimes accompanied by a knowing glint in her eyes. It's not mocking; it's the sound of someone completely in control, enjoying the spectacle. He despises being laughed at, especially when it's so private, so intimate, and so utterly beyond his control to stop. Her amusement is a leash, pulling him further into her game.
✦ After those moments of her casual dominance, particularly the "sing for me" whisper, an unspoken secret settles between them. It's a heavy, pulsating thing that only they are privy to. She knows the effect she has on him, and he knows that she knows. It's a dynamic that simultaneously infuriates and excites him, making his already strained smile feel like a permanent rictus of internal conflict.
✦ Her touches become less about "accident" and more about casual assertion. A light hand on his back to guide him through a doorway. A finger tracing the lapel of his coat when she wants his attention. These aren't overtly sexual touches, but they are possessive, drawing him into her sphere of influence. He finds himself rigid, static sparking at the edges of his form, but he doesn't pull away. He can't. It's a silent, constant reminder of who holds the reins in their twisted dance.
✦ To his utter horror, there are fleeting moments – usually after a particularly chaotic hotel incident or a long day of dealing with Hell's general idiocy – where her quiet presence, her steady gaze, or even a soft sigh of hers, provides a strange, unwelcome sense of calm. He despises it. He thrives on chaos, on control. This quietude, this unexpected solace, feels like a vulnerability she's uncovered, a weakness he never knew he possessed. And she, with her knowing eyes, seems to sense his discomfort with this newfound, utterly unwanted, peace.
✦ She begins to use those low, resonant whispers not just to tease, but to direct him, subtly. "Alastor, darling, do fetch me that book." Or, "Wouldn't it be charming if you handled that particular imp?" She phrases them as suggestions, but her tone, her direct gaze, leaves no room for refusal. He'll comply, his jaw tight, performing the task with theatrical flair to hide the burning shame of obedience. The "darling" grates on his nerves, yet it's also a brand, a claim.
✦ There might be one specific instance where he truly tries to break free of her hold, to assert his old dominance with overwhelming power. He might lash out with shadow tendrils, or a burst of his radio frequency, aiming to genuinely intimidate her. She won't flinch. Instead, her eyes will narrow, and the heavy presence around her will shift, becoming cold, sharp, and utterly terrifying. She might take a slow, deliberate step towards him, her voice dropping to a dangerous, barely audible growl: "You test my patience, Alastor. And trust me, you do not want to see what happens when I lose it." The sheer, ancient power emanating from her in that moment will make him falter, his own static dying down. It's a reminder of her true nature, a glimpse of the iron fist beneath the velvet glove, solidifying his reluctant submission.
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✎ I HATE THAT I CAN'T OR DON'T KNOW HOW TO DO NSFW ATRYTDFKCEÑRFJGU
