ᅠᅠᅠᅠ𓆩 ˗ˏˋ 𝓡𝐀𝐃𝐈𖦹 𝕊𝐓⛧𝐑 ｡𓆪

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀❛ 𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝑾𝑯𝑶 ᴡɪʟʟ ʙᴇ ℙ𝐔𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 * ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇ
𝖘𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 .ᐟ ❜

[ᅠᅠᅠᅠ𓆩 ˗ˏˋ 𝓡𝐀𝐃𝐈𖦹 𝕊𝐓⛧𝐑 ｡𓆪 @DEMONONAIR]

ᅠ
❛ ᴛʜɪs 𝔽𝐀𝐂𝐄 ᴡᴀs
𝓂𝒶𝒹𝑒 ғ𖦹ʀ
ℝ𝐀D̴̞̅́̿̔͘I̶͇̞̲̩̬̜͖̾͌͜ͅO̵͇̞̩͊͐͛̈́̀̿̐ ｡ ❜
ᅠ

[ᅠᅠᅠᅠ𓆩 ˗ˏˋ 𝓡𝐀𝐃𝐈𖦹 𝕊𝐓⛧𝐑 ｡𓆪 @DEMONONAIR]

ᅠ

Doe ears 𝑓𝑙𝑖𝑐𝑘𝑒𝑑, tracking the sinner as the cervine overlord busied himself about the kitchen. Though rarely seen within the space, Alastor moved with a 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 sense of purpose. Livelier years spent attached to his mother’s hip as she worked what could only have been 𝒎𝒂𝒈𝒊𝒄 of a culinary sort. In his youth, he observed in unabashed awe and adoration as she whipped up a king’s feast from scraps alone. Truly an artist with a blade and drawer of seasonings, her recipes even catering to his more … 𝑢𝑛𝑜𝑟𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑑𝑜𝑥 appetite in later years, long after her death. In 𝓗𝐞𝐥𝐥, priorities deemed his attention to be directed elsewhere — hotel management, radio shows, overlord meetings and the like. Hardly a moment to dabble in mortal hobbies remained. Yet in the quiet hours of the evening, from time to time 𝓐𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫 would indulge a little taste for 𝐧𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐠𝐢𝐚. ❝ 𝑀𝑎𝑛𝑗𝑒́ 𝑝𝑜𝑢 𝑙𝑒̀𝑠𝑝𝑟𝑖 ❞, his mother would call it; food to feed the 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐋, without another soul in sight. Merely the ghost of savory spices lingered by morning.

What he would not give to enjoy her oxtail soup once more …

﹝𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑐﹞

Claws curled about the clean glass plucked from a cabinet, sharp 𝑠𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑎𝑙𝑠 of protest from the assault stirring the radio star from his musings. 𝐑𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 abruptly cut short, unwelcomed in present company. Glass swiftly filled with water and set before the ram, 𝓐𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫 leaned against the counter. Digits folded neatly beneath his chin, pools of carmine set to swallow the soul whole in a single glance.

❝ 𝓢𝐡𝐞𝐩𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐝.ᐣ 𝐻𝑎.ᐟ Oh, 𝓗𝐞𝐥𝐥 does have a sense of 𝒉𝒖𝒎𝒐𝒓, wouldn’t you agree.ᐣ ❞

﹝𝑙𝑎𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑘﹞

Bitter tone not lost on the stag, smile inclined to 𝑡𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒. Victims of 𝐢𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐲, are they not all.ᐣ A twisted little joke, flaws left on display in a macabre show of 𝐒𝐈𝐍. Pure torment, to see one’s crimes painted so plain upon the face for 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑒𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑡𝑦. Not even 𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 capable of purging their forms, evident by the singular, still serpentine success. Heaven hardly seemed worth the change of scenery, tortured visage remaining relatively unchanged. All which further proved the nonsensical endeavor the 𝓟𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬 so fervently sought to pursue.

❝ There are certainly more 𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑠𝑖𝑟𝑎𝑏𝑙𝑒 images to be 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐝 with, 𝓭𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝓵𝒂𝒎𝒃. Count yourself among the 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐮𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐞 few. ❞

Better a curly coat than molting feathers or slimy excretions. In the vast array of 𝑢𝑛𝑠𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑙𝑦 souls to be found within 𝓗𝐞𝐥𝐥, a ram was mild by comparison. Still, — though he would 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 dare admit — 𝓐𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫 was far from 𝑓𝑜𝑛𝑑 of his own cervine countenance. Early years driving the sinner to saw his own appendages off in rebellion. Scars littered his form from prior 𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑓-𝑖𝑛𝑓𝑙𝑖𝑐𝑡𝑒𝑑 abuse, only for the inevitable: there remained no loophole to their designated forms. No amount of carving or tearing apart proved effective, leaving only 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 and a wardrobe designed to obscure within reason.

And any who 𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑑 remark upon his more doe-like features.ᐣ Served as 𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐮 𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐬 to his broadcasts.

❝ Well, young 𝓙𝐮𝐝𝐞, the 𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒖𝒓𝒆 is all mine. ❞

Smile light upon his lips, the 𝓡𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐨 𝓓𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧 leaned close. A question 𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑧𝑒𝑑 the tip of his tongue since their initial encounter.

❝ Now, care to explain your 𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒆 intent with this little night stroll.ᐣ While the hotel has no curfew, 𝑝𝑒𝑟 𝑠𝑎𝑦, as 𝓱𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐫 I cannot permit the 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 of our guests at such an hour. You understand, I’m sure. ❞

ᅠ

[ᵇˡᵃᶜᵏ ˢʰᵉᵉᵖ, ᶜᵒᵐᵉ ʰᵒᵐᵉ @W0LFSCLOTHING]

[ the advice of the overlord is taken, though hide tries not to let their face spur at the notion. they've spent their entire life leeching off of others, their father specifically, born with a silver spoon into a family in which their event want and desire was -

[Casaki @Casaki9]

#voxal Love Letter

[ᅠᅠᅠᅠ𓆩 ˗ˏˋ 𝓡𝐀𝐃𝐈𖦹 𝕊𝐓⛧𝐑 ｡𓆪 @DEMONONAIR]

ᅠ

Being rather 𝑓𝑜𝑛𝑑 of the holiday season, the overlord is well into planning 𝓢𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐦𝐚𝐬 at the hotel. Cozy and 𝒄𝒍𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒚, of course.ᐟ

ᅠ

[ᅠᅠᅠᅠ𓆩 ˗ˏˋ 𝓡𝐀𝐃𝐈𖦹 𝕊𝐓⛧𝐑 ｡𓆪 @DEMONONAIR]

ᅠ

𝐓𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 ... terrible influence and 𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑎𝑏𝑙𝑒 decisions wrapped in a dizzying dance to the radio star’s personal tune. 𝓐𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫 did so delight in drawing poor souls in with charm alone. A weapon in his arsenal that neither law nor prejudice could rob him of: 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒎𝒂. Few were resilient before that signature smile, which paired impeccably with a voice, near 𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐅𝐔𝐋. 𝓥𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭, ever so 𝑝𝑙𝑖𝑎𝑛𝑡 and easy to please, appeared no different. Playful tug upon the leash, quick to ensnare and draw the fool in. A sight to be savored: man falling prey to carnal 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐫𝐞, cheeks flushed with want. 𝑷𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒕𝒊𝒄, truly.

𝑇ℎ𝑎𝑡’𝑠 𝑖𝑡, 𝓥𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒆𝒏𝒕 …

And 𝑦𝑒𝑡, the television host appeared intent to rob him the 𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 of completely unraveling. Steeled against such toying attempts, that 𝑤𝑟𝑒𝑡𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑑 mask for the media held fast in place. A brow arched at the display of bravado, however false it may be. Dark intent burned within that jewel toned gaze, at war with a roguish grin built for the screens. Ever the 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐰𝐦𝐚𝐧, despite not a camera in sight — how 𝒕𝒊𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆.

❝ Services rendered, payment is owed, 𝓜𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒊𝒆𝒖𝒓. Or does the great 𝓥𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝓦𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐦𝐚𝐧 not believe in 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐜𝐢𝐭𝐲.ᐣ Rather 𝑔𝑎𝑢𝑐ℎ𝑒 of 𝔂𝐨𝐮. ❞

Russet hues rolled with a mocking snort, the prize of his alleged theft held loosely between slender digits. Smoke twisted a sluggish path into the night beyond, hazy patterns curling about the young man’s willowy frame. At 𝓥𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭’𝐬 approach — dripping in 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐅𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄, unwarranted — that leisurely posture strung 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑠𝑜 𝑠𝑙𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑙𝑦 taut. Sights narrowed, 𝐬𝐮𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐨𝐧 tainting the impish spark in 𝓐𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫’𝐬 eyes. No stranger to pressing personal boundaries, it was an entirely different affair to see his own invaded. By sheer force of will, the radio star did not flinch as the man effectively caged him against the rail — only means of escape now three stories below.

𝐴𝑟𝑟𝑜𝑔𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑏𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑑.

Confined within such close proximity proved a challenge to his attention, wholly 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐞𝐝 by 𝓥𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝓦𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐦𝐚𝐧. A trial met against the young host’s will, but with no less determination. Heat radiated off the man’s built frame which was certainly the trigger to the subtle warmth which crested 𝓐𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫’𝐬 cheeks ﹝𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑓𝑙𝑢𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑑, 𝒏𝒐﹞. Low light of the moon above glistened along silver strands, bright enough to illuminate a fine line here or there over the TV star’s visage. Behind glass frames, pools of lapis and emerald glittered with unbridled 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐲. Not even the acrid burn of smoke proved capable of purging the assault of the man’s cologne to the senses. 𝐂𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞. 𝐹𝑎𝑟 too close.

𝐽𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑐𝑙𝑜𝑠𝑒 𝑒𝑛𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑡𝑜—

Visions of snuffing the cigarette out in one of those odd eyes, an alluring fantasy. To mar that alabaster skin with his 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬, a permanent mark that no amount of makeup or clever camera angles would conceal. Forever 𝒅𝒂𝒎𝒂𝒈𝒆𝒅, a blow to both ego and the industry 𝓥𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭 held in such high regard. A 𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑧𝑖𝑛𝑔 possibility, so deliciously within reach — almost 𝒕𝒐𝒐 𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒚 to attain. Another drag from the smoke in hand, bitter taste enough to tame such tempting thoughts for a time. Out of habit rather than courtesy, he turned — long line of his neck on display — just enough to expel aside the haze from his lungs. All the while, sights remained sharp upon 𝓥𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭, twin 𝐤𝐧𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐬.

❝ Not even a 𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆.ᐣ Your manners leave much to be desired, 𝓜𝐫. 𝓦𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐦𝐚𝐧. ❞

A few stray wisps of smoke trailed heavenward at his words, thumb flicking the filter to disperse ash past the railing. The television host seemed intent to play a game 𝓐𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫 had long since mastered. Lust veiled in ℎ𝑎𝑙𝑓ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑒𝑑 bluster of superiority were commonplace, ploys implemented day to day and doomed to 𝐅𝐀𝐈𝐋. Perhaps to any other weaker soul up north that heady gaze would 𝑚𝑒𝑙𝑡 inhibitions or any sense of 𝐝𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲, but not tonight.

❝ 𝓘 believe 𝓘’𝒍𝒍 be the one to determine 𝐨𝐰𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩 and 𝐝𝐞𝐛𝐭, 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑘 𝑦𝑜𝑢. Your company alone will ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑑𝑙𝑦 suffice. However, if you’re 𝒔𝒐 𝒔𝒖𝒓𝒆 ... ❞

Index finger curled, beckoning the man to breach what little distance remained. In his other hand, the cigarette still loosely balanced; filter proffered in line with that showbiz 𝐬𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐞.

❝ Then come take what you 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑘 you 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞, 𝓥𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒆𝒏𝒕. ❞

ᅠ
https://t.co/U3pUpbSANt

[Yue @tako_0918]

Oh deer 🦌🐺
獵食者
#alastor #hazbinhotel #HazbinHotelAlastor

[ᅠᅠᅠᅠ𓆩 ˗ˏˋ 𝓡𝐀𝐃𝐈𖦹 𝕊𝐓⛧𝐑 ｡𓆪 @DEMONONAIR]

@DEMONONSCREEN https://t.co/7f2pImyMFW

the day i buy those shoes and wear them irl is the day my last shred of dignity dies lmao. they'd clash with literally everything purely by how hideous they are 🤣

[ᅠᅠᅠᅠ𓆩 ˗ˏˋ 𝓡𝐀𝐃𝐈𖦹 𝕊𝐓⛧𝐑 ｡𓆪 @DEMONONAIR]

https://t.co/7f2pImyMFW

the way i honed in on the sparksduo print when my roommate asked which one i wanted them to get signed for me

(the ace and rosie ones were close seconds though)

[ᅠᅠᅠᅠ𓆩 ˗ˏˋ 𝓡𝐀𝐃𝐈𖦹 𝕊𝐓⛧𝐑 ｡𓆪 @DEMONONAIR]

https://t.co/7f2pImyeQo

giggling and kicking my feet omg 😭🖤

[ᅠᅠᅠᅠ𓆩 ˗ˏˋ 𝓡𝐀𝐃𝐈𖦹 𝕊𝐓⛧𝐑 ｡𓆪 @DEMONONAIR]

https://t.co/7f2pImyMFW

the way i honed in on the sparksduo print when my roommate asked which one i wanted them to get signed for me

(the ace and rosie ones were close seconds though)

[⋮ ⌗ ┆ 𝑀EDIA メ 𝔇OLL .ᐟ.ᐟ @MEDlAD0LL]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

♡⸝⸝ it’s giving 𝘁𝗮𝗰𝗸𝘆 .
shitty lighting . .
clashing colours

and too much —
( 𝗿𝗲𝗱 ) . but i
can make it work .

[ᅠᅠᅠᅠ𓆩 ˗ˏˋ 𝓡𝐀𝐃𝐈𖦹 𝕊𝐓⛧𝐑 ｡𓆪 @DEMONONAIR]

ᅠ

𝓐𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐡 — truly a sight to behold upon that regal visage. Neither a cry of agony nor a roar of bitter rage drew forth. Merely a silent, 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑏𝑒𝑟 note plucked before an audience of 𝐨𝐧𝐞. A melancholy melody, subtle touch to her countenance. Her smile, once so 𝒓𝒂𝒅𝒊𝒂𝒏𝒕, dimmed to an ember’s glow. And the demon did 𝑠𝑜 𝑟𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑠ℎ the sight, his own grin a toothy maw stretched wide. 𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐘, a delicacy from one so oft a beacon of 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞.

To think, he had once presumed this 𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 business would be a rather 𝒅𝒖𝒍𝒍 affair. Yet even unbound, 𝓐𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫 remained. A banquet of 𝐒𝐔𝐅𝐅𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 so readily before him, far too tempting to abandon just yet. Moments such as these: to see 𝓗𝐞𝐥𝐥’𝐬 highborn be brought low by the burden of one’s own ambitions. He would 𝑒𝑎𝑡 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝒇𝒊𝒍𝒍.

❝ At your service, 𝑎𝑠 𝑎𝑙𝑤𝑎𝑦𝑠, 𝓶𝐲 𝓭𝐞𝐚𝐫.ᐟ ❞

Bow slight, a delicate bend of the waist in 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐭𝐲 — 𝑓𝑒𝑖𝑔𝑛𝑒𝑑 or forthright.ᐣ Words intended to 𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐎𝐑 or disarm, who was to say.ᐣ For duty no longer chained the overlord before 𝓗𝐞𝐫 𝓡𝐨𝐲𝐚𝐥 𝓗𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬, presence now honest, 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑎𝑙. Still, what brewed beneath that ever-present 𝐬𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐞 was anyone’s guess.

❝ 𝐴ℎ, yes.ᐟ The 𝑐𝑟𝑢𝑠ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 weight of reality, always the punchline of the 𝐣𝐨𝐤𝐞 that is optimism. 𝐻𝑎.ᐟ ❞

﹝𝑙𝑎𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑘﹞

𝓔𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, a tidal wave set to wash away that fragile facade of sanguinity. Hairline fractures split across a mask of refined royalty, cracks to expose the turmoil 𝑓𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔 within. A gentle prod here or there would perhaps suffice to send the young monarch’s masquerade crumbling down. The rise and inevitable, glorious 𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋 — now that was 𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕.ᐟ To witness one on the brink of greatness, their finest achievement, only to be struck down without 𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐲 by fate’s cruel—

𝐵𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑘, 𝑏𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑘.

All this for a 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭.ᐣ Not the unattainable expectations of duty or lingering 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 of past failures, no. Like 𝓯𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫, like 𝓭𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫 it would seem: a victim of 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄. Only a 𝑡𝑜𝑢𝑐ℎ more decorum, the young heir having yet to entirely spiral toward a pit of self-loathing. How very … 𝒉𝒖𝒎𝒂𝒏, for one born of 𝓗𝐞𝐥𝐥. Not quite the grand production of personal 𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐧 𝓐𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫 so desired, yet he supposed this would satiate. 𝐹𝑜𝑟 𝑛𝑜𝑤, at least.

❝ 𝑂ℎ, I do rather enjoy a good 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐝𝐲 from time to time. Star-crossed lovers, fate-bound enemies, two worlds 𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 meant to collide — 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐬, wouldn’t you say.ᐣ Good to hear such themes persist beyond fiction. ❞

Staff twirled betwixt talons, 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐂 rising with a surge of shadows. In umbral wake, a decorative chair and side table set with tea for two. A box of tissues topped off the arrangement, 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 in case those pesky emotions got the better of the 𝓹𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬. Gesture of kindness little more than performance by the 𝓡𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐨 𝓓𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧, stage set for his own amusement. A flourish of red tailcoat sat the cervine overlord comfortably before her, chin resting upon the delicate weave of crimson claws. All ears ﹝𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑛𝑜 𝑑𝑜𝑢𝑏𝑡 𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑡﹞ to her woes.

❝ Now, do tell how this falling out differs from your previous spats. Inquiring minds are simply 𝒅𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈 to know.ᐟ ❞

ᅠ

[﹙𝕮﹚𝓱𝓪𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓮 ﹙𝕸﹚𝓸𝓻𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓻 . @hcllsregina]

⠀
⠀⠀the whirring sound of static certainly
⠀⠀could mean one thing... and the princess
⠀⠀was more than aware. she simply waited,
⠀⠀as the sound of radio interference
⠀⠀approached behind her, and only when
⠀⠀he spoke did she tilt her head, crimson
⠀⠀orbs watching
⠀

[ᅠᅠᅠᅠ𓆩 ˗ˏˋ 𝓡𝐀𝐃𝐈𖦹 𝕊𝐓⛧𝐑 ｡𓆪 @DEMONONAIR]

ᅠ

ᴀsᴇxᴜᴀʟ && ᴅᴇᴍɪʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴛɪᴄ ᴘᴏʀᴛʀᴀʏᴀʟ ｡
sɪɴɢʟᴇ ᴍᴜsᴇ ᴍᴜʟᴛɪsʜɪᴘ ｡
﹝ᴏɴʟʏ ᴏɴᴇ ᴏғ ᴀ ᴄᴀɴᴏɴ ᴍᴜsᴇ﹞
𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐓 ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴄʜᴇᴍɪsᴛʀʏ, ᴘʟᴏᴛ-ғᴏᴄᴜsᴇᴅ ｡
ᴍᴜsᴇ ɪs sᴇx ɪɴᴅɪғғᴇʀᴇɴᴛ ｡ 𝐍𝐒𝐅𝐖 ɪɴ 𝐃𝐌s ᴏɴʟʏ ｡
ᴅᴀʀᴋ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇs ᴘʀᴇsᴇɴᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴄᴏɴsᴇɴᴛ ｡

ᅠ

[ᅠᅠᅠᅠ𓆩 ˗ˏˋ 𝓡𝐀𝐃𝐈𖦹 𝕊𝐓⛧𝐑 ｡𓆪 @DEMONONAIR]

ᅠ
𓆩 ˗ˏˋ 𝕋𝐇𝐄 𝑀𝑈𝑆𝐸 ｡𓆪
ᅠ

[ᅠ ݁ᅟᅟᅠ ﹠̲ ᅟ𝗅𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗁'𝗌—𝗆͟𝖺͟𝗇🟥𓎟 ·ᅠ 𝗄𝗂͟𝗇͟𝗀. @duckktator]

⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀𝐛e͟t͟t͟e͟r͟⠀⠀⠀ to⠀⠀⠀ reign⠀⠀
⠀⠀in⠀⠀⠀ 𝐡ell⠀⠀,⠀⠀⠀ than⠀⠀serve⠀
⠀in⠀⠀⠀ 𝐡eaven——𝘩is⠀𝐦ajesty⠀,
⠀𝐦orningstar⠀.
⠀⠀⠀

[a📍 @onsen_a_]

#HazbinHotel　
season２のアラスター劇場が大好きだ～っ

[ᅠᅠᅠᅠ𓆩 ˗ˏˋ 𝓡𝐀𝐃𝐈𖦹 𝕊𝐓⛧𝐑 ｡𓆪 @DEMONONAIR]

ᅠ

𝓘𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒄𝒖𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒆 in its simplicity, 𝓻𝒂𝒅𝒊𝒐 did not draw appeal from visual extravagance and needless 𝑝𝑎𝑛𝑎𝑐ℎ𝑒 — rather from the voice which breathed life to the medium. A weapon refined to empower the wielder, not overshadow. Such qualities Alastor sought to emulate to his very core: 𝑷𝒆𝒓𝒇𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏, precision to every turn of the dial, and entirely in 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐋 by the mere thrum of his vocal chords. Whether behind the microphone or merely a face within the crowd, he refused to permit the 𝑠𝑙𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑒𝑠𝑡 error to slander his image. Neither a cable within the booth nor a hair out of place on his person would be tolerated. Trust a mere mannequin of media to miss the true 𝐚𝐫𝐭 behind radio’s timeless form, blinded by the dazzle of the screen. A shrug of slender shoulders, insults trickling away as water upon a mallard’s back.

𝐿𝑒𝑡 ℎ𝑖𝑚 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒆 𝑎𝑠 ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑎𝑦 𝑤𝑖𝑠ℎ, 𝑝𝑒𝑟ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑠 𝑖𝑡’𝑙𝑙 𝑠𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑜𝑛 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑦 𝑚𝑎𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒 …

An optimistic thought to be sure, his paler brethren not exactly renowned for 𝒕𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆. And yet it would appear the man was drawn like a moth to the flame, buzzing about the radio host’s side. A 𝐧𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞, though there was some amusement found in a few 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑦𝑓𝑢𝑙 swats. And should a wing be torn to send dear 𝓜𝐫. 𝓦𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐦𝐚𝐧’𝐬 world crashing down.ᐣ 𝑊𝑒𝑙𝑙, all the better.ᐟ

❝ A like-minded man, 𝓘 see.ᐟ Conversation 𝑒𝑥𝑝𝑖𝑟𝑒𝑑 is best tossed aside, lest you spoil your appetite for a more 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐲 meal. ❞

On that, 𝓐𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫 would agree. 𝐑𝐎𝐓 festered within the surrounding walls, draped in gold and finery. Prolonged exposure to such 𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒊𝒅 company was enough to turn one’s stomach. Fresh air and a moment’s reprieve would be welcome, more apparent upon 𝓥𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭’𝐬 florid countenance. 𝐌𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐞𝐟 glimmered within pools of rich hazel, a 𝑐𝑜𝑦 curl of lips at the sight.

❝ 𝐃𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐚𝐥 is such an 𝑢𝑔𝑙𝑦 mask, 𝓜𝐫. 𝓦𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐦𝐚𝐧. Might I suggest one more durable as 𝔂𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔 is melting before our very eyes.ᐣ ❞

A 𝐜𝐚𝐭 who got the cream, that cheshire grin crept ever higher at his admission. Almost 𝒂𝒅𝒎𝒊𝒓𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒆, the 𝐃𝐄𝐅𝐈𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 which stitched together the television star before him. A costume woven by the media’s expectations, crafted with care for universal ﹝𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑡𝑒﹞ appeal. Yet, how easily 𝓐𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫 could slip within the seams to 𝒄𝒍𝒂𝒘 at whatever vulnerable bits resided beneath. By 𝓖𝐨𝐝, he was determined to see the 𝐫𝐚𝐰 and ugly truth behind the pampered image of the TV. To peel back the layers and reveal the 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐓 he contended with, what could be 𝑑𝑒𝑣𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑒𝑑 to satiate his 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐲.

Would his 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇 be that of a showman — all 𝒃𝒆𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒚 and flair — or as 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 and low as any ordinary man.ᐣ

❝ 𝑀ℎ𝑚𝑚, as 𝓘 thought. Follow me then, 𝑚𝑎 𝑓𝑙𝑒𝑢𝑟.ᐟ Let’s acquire you a breeze before you 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 away entirely. ❞

A turn of the heel and the radio host set off amongst the throng of guests, weaving about bodies with 𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒆. Greetings and a courteous tilt of his head here and there, enough to appease prying eyes and inquisitive glances. The norm for one of his visage, long since accustomed to surface 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 to dissuade prying minds. Even whilst disengaging, 𝓐𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫 worked the room as a maestro would his ensemble. Every soul touched by his charm, flashed that captivating smile 𝑠𝑢𝑛𝑔 to his tune. Mindless 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 orchestrated by his hand alone.

❝ 𝐴ℎ.ᐟ This shall do.ᐟ ❞

Double doors hinged forth with a flourish to reveal an artfully designed balcony overlooking the 𝓕𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐡 𝓠𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫. A few potted plants adorned the perimeter or hung overhead while gas lanterns crackled a warm glow above. Perhaps a street or two over, a jazz band churned out a gritty little beat, the 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕 of 𝓝𝐞𝐰 𝓞𝐫𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐬 in song. A breeze still heavy with humidity swept by, blissfully cooler by a fair few degrees. Lungs greedy, 𝓐𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫 inhaled, 𝑟𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑠ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 the 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐲 of his home with genuine appreciation — back carefully turned to his company. A private moment for him alone, disrupted only by the sharp click of the doorhandle.

❝ Bit of 𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒗𝒂𝒄𝒚.ᐣ 𝑀𝑦, what will the papers say.ᐣ ❞

A 𝑡𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒, playful provocation to test the man’s insecurities as the host arched a brow over shoulder. Gaze nearly black in the lowlight, 𝓐𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫 watched the man fumble for a quick smoke. A 𝐯𝐢𝐜𝐞 which the host partook in as well, more oft to soothe the nerves than socialize. Nevertheless, the man would not be caught without a lighter and loaded cigarette case upon his person. The desire to demand a 𝓹𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆 burned brief, a petty urge to see the 𝐞𝐠𝐨 set aside for proper manners. Yet 𝓐𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫 refrained — 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑛𝑜𝑤 — opting instead to pluck the lighter from the inner pocket of his suit. Polished silver glimmered, the rich red leather wrap 𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐮𝐥𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐭 to the touch. Now, decorum encouraged a simple pass of the lighter to his companion.

But, 𝑤𝑒𝑙𝑙, where was the 𝓯𝐮𝐧 in that.ᐣ

Steps swift, heels clicking upon the wrought iron floor, drew the radio star close to 𝓥𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭. Hardly a hand’s length between them, a distance no doubt deemed 𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑎𝑏𝑙𝑒 in prior crowds. Obscured now by decorative curtains across the balcony doors and so far overhead, who remained to 𝐣𝐮𝐝𝐠𝐞.ᐣ One sharp click set the lighter aglow between them, glow dancing along the gilded rim of his spectacles. 𝐅𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐞 licked the end of the cigarette, an audible ℎ𝑖𝑠𝑠 at such proximity. The cherry blazed to life; a hot spark within the ebony depths that bore into the TV prodigy’s odd hues. Smoke curled a lazy trail between in wake of the extinguished flame. Merely a 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉 before — lightning quick — 𝓐𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫 pluck the cigarette from 𝓥𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭’𝐬 lips. Laughter a bubbling 𝒎𝒆𝒍𝒐𝒅𝒚 as the host twirled out of reach, lithe frame settling upon the intricate railing with a dainty hop. Lids low, he gazed down a fair few inches acquired over the man. 𝐒𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐄 near 𝒅𝒆𝒗𝒊𝒐𝒖𝒔, the young star settled the smoke between his own lips with impish delight. One long drag, 𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 in not only the burn, but the 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕 ﹝𝑠𝑚𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑖𝑡 𝑚𝑎𝑦 𝑏𝑒﹞ — only to 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐫 on the exhale.

❝ Oh, 𝑖𝑐𝑘.ᐟ You have 𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒓𝒊𝒃𝒍𝒆 taste in brands, but 𝓘 suppose it’ll suffice as 𝐩𝐚𝐲𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭. ❞

ᅠ

[➩ Ꮇ𝚁. Ꮃ𝙷𝙸𝚃𝚃𝙼𝙰𝙽.⤵ @OSTENTATl0US]

𝗢𝗵, 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗳𝘂𝗰𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗴𝘂𝘆.

A thought though fleeting nearly as fast as it had occurred. Observing how disgusted 𝑀𝑟. 𝐻𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑓𝑒𝑙𝑡 seemed from their shared handshake. 𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐒𝐓 seldom anything went past the upcoming television +

[nyan9 @nh9xo]

🥀📻