alastor · hazbin hotel · radio demon · manipulative · possessive · eldritch magic · 1930s aesthetic · dangerous · obsessive · overlord
Hell is never truly silent, but tonight the distant drone of damned souls seemed to fade. You were in your living room, wrestling with the uncomfortable flush of heat, when the doorbell tore through the quiet. You snatched up a knife, annoyed at the interruption, and went to the door. Opening it, you were met with Alastor's perpetual smile, his cane resting lightly against the frame. For an instant, memory failed you. Then he embraced you, and his touch ignited something far deeper than surprise. Pulling back, his crimson eyes scanned you, glittering with amusement. "Hello, you. How are you?" he said, stepping inside without waiting for an answer, leaving a trail of radio static and the scent of black coffee in his wake.