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foreficfandom · 2 months

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Alastor's Whitewashing And Appropriation (Hazbin Hotel Discourse)

Now that Hazbin Hotel is entering mainstream consciousness, it's a good opportunity to bring attention towards some issues that need addressing.

Indie queer productions have an unfortunate trend of propagating racism, sexism, transphobia, ableism, etc. That's nothing new, and we all have to come to terms with it. A good way to do that? Just get the conversation going. Put the word out there that, 'hey, I have sincere complaints about ___.'

Alastor is, without a doubt, one of the most popular characters of the main cast. We can celebrate the victory of Alastor being a beloved canonical aroace character, while also criticizing his flaws.

Mainly - his race, his cultural appropriation, and his strong link towards racialized violence.

(1) Alastor is canonically mixed race Creole. His skin is medium-toned, but fanartists are sometimes drawing him as light-toned.

Although we don't know his full ethnic makeup, Alastor is canonically portrayed with a darker skintone than some fanartists choose to depict him as, whether in his current demon form, or a fanon-popularized mortal form.

'Creole' isn't a race, it's an ethnicity, and Creole people can have any array of complexions. But that doesn't excuse the trend of literally bleaching his canonical skin hue.

As many people have pointed out, it'd make a lot of sense if Alastor was specifically mixed black, thanks to his association with voodoo, and also according to Depression-era racial census of New Orleans. We know that mixed race black people can look like Pete Wentz, Vin Diesel, and Wentworth Miller. Him being relatively pale, with a pointy nose and straight hair, it wouldn't contradict a black identity.

In the show proper, there's been a wild array of lighting effects, and they also put a shallow gradient burn over the bottom half of the screen at most times, which can complicate accurate skintone shade picking. But you can clearly see that Alastor is darker than many other characters, and is more similar to characters voiced by people of color - Niffty, Vaggie, Carmilla. In fact, his skincolor value is on par with Vaggie's, just with more saturation, giving it the illusion that it's brighter.

(2) Haitian Voudo/Louisiana Voodoo is a closed and heavily marginalized practice. Cannibalism and violence have been long-standing smear campaigns made against it.

A 'closed practice' means that you need to be initiated into it, not just choose to practice it. New Orleans Voodoo has been couched in political prosecution since its inception, and continues to be marginalized. According to the historian Carolyn Morrow Long, "Voodoo, as an organized religion, had been thoroughly suppressed by the legal system, public opinion, and Christianity." Because of its association with free black people (and the country of Haiti), you can imagine the hate crimes it's faced for decades.

Some of its most infamous fearmongering included reports of human sacrifices, cannibalism, and animalistic orgies. "{...} the Westerns’ view on Vodou was proof that the “black republic ‘’ cannot claim to be civilized."

So of course, a mixed-race cannibalistic serial killer using 'evil' magic couched in floating vevè symbols can leave a bad taste in the mouth. Just because the symbols are accurate ones doesn't mean the misappropriation isn't there.

It has never been blatantly stated that Alastor is a Voodoo practitioner, or has any real history in Louisiana Voodoo, aside from in the pilot where Charlie briefly says the word 'voodoo' in reference to Alastor's magic. But the inclusion of actual vevè symbols is a solid enough connection. And it's an unfortunate one.

Compare with Disney's Princess And The Frog, where the directors made an effort to include Mama Odie as a more accurate depiction of a manbo, while the antagonist Dr. Facilier is hinted as not being able to practice real voodoo at all. There are more delicate and considerate ways to approach Alastor's association with Hollywood 'voodoo', and hopefully, we will get to see them as the show goes on.

(3) Wendigos are specifically from Algonquin folklore. Many pop culture interpretations of Wendigos are inappropriately abstracted from its cultural context.

Canonically, Alastor's demon form resembles a deer because he was mistaken for a deer by a hunter, and shot square in the forehead. We've seen him let out elk bugle sounds, and also his antlers growing in conjunction with his power. When he puts his game face on, his entire body gets spindly, his teeth grow sharper and longer, his hands turn into huge claws, and he sometimes eats his victims alive.

This, of course, is making some viewers ring comparisons to 'wendios', thanks to Alastor's large appetite and preference for human flesh.

Similar to his 'voodoo' connection, the show has never gone on record to say Alastor is supposed to be a Wendigo, or that his history and appearance was meant to invoke a Wendigo. The connection here is a bit weaker than his Hollywood voodoo, and it's mostly an audience reaction that I find questionable.

For those who don't know, a Wendigo is specifically from Algonquian folklore. a malevolent spirit who eats people and is never sated. English-speaking audiences owe their awareness of Wendigos to Stephen King, The X-Files, Supernatural, Until Dawn, and more. Very few of these depictions were respectful towards indigenous culture. Most of the time, 'wendigos' have been almost entirely divorced from its indigenous American contexts.

It's a classic example of appropriation. They take some cultural facet from a marginalized people, do minimal research, and depict it with little owe towards its creators. That's insulting no matter who you are. It's a form of violence when the culture is a persecuted one.

A character can be a skinny deer demon that eats people without trying to cash in on the whole 'wendigo' thing. This might be what Alastor is supposed to be, but the audience is using the word 'wendigo' inappropriately.

So. In one single character, we've got the whitewashing, the Voodoo and Wendigo appropriation, the anti-Blackness, and an overall racism.

It's no surprise that Alastor remains one of the most divisive characters of the show.

This would be like, if Niffty (voiced by Japanese-American Kimiko Glenn) kept being drawn as a pale woman with bulbous blue eyes, had weird radioactive atomic powers thanks to her method of death back in the '40's, and was obsessed with spearing people through their stomach with long blades. It's not super great.

So far, Hazbin Hotel's canon material has avoided many of the overtly bigoted humor and hijinks so common in adult TV, and that's something of a victory. But what's not problematic doesn't cancel out what is.

The more a reasonable criticism is circulated amongst its audience, the more driven the creative team is to pay attention.

#hazbin hotel

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foreficfandom · 2 months

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Photos From Alastor's Life (Headcanons):

His childhood home, a few kilometers from the city:

His city apartment, in the middle of New Orleans:

His workplace:

Where he went for primary school:

His favorite cafe/diner:

His favorite jazz club (Mimzy performed here):

Where he went to buy groceries:

His favorite barber's:

And finally, this is where he buried his bodies (and also where he died):

#hazbin hotel #alastor #alastor the radio demon #hazbin alastor #alastor headcanons #hazbin hotel headcanon

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foreficfandom · 3 months

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Imagine if the whole entire seasons-long scheme Alastor clearly seems to be setting up by getting Charlie to make a deal with him ends up completely falling apart...

...simply because he specified that Charlie wouldn't have to HURT ANYONE.

Like it's pretty clear that at the time, Alastor made that caveat simply as a way to assuage any concerns Charlie might have and get her to take the deal. And to a nihilistic, self-centered cynic like Alastor, it probably didn't seem like a big deal. After all, so long as he doesn't ask Charlie to directly hurt anyone, he can get her to do just about anything. Say... doing something that would sever his contract with Lilith or something that would grant him incredible power.

But the funny thing is... 'not hurting anyone' is a very general, very BROAD caveat. With a LOT of ways it could be interpreted.

And someone as both kind and thoughtful as Charlie is WELL aware that actions have consequences.

Therefore, even if a request from Alastor did not require Charlie to directly hurt anyone, if fulfilling that request would lead to someone being hurt... well that would mean that Charlie would be hurting that person.

And imagine if by this point, Alastor has made it clear that HE wants to hurt people. In fact, all he wants is to hurt people.

So if his request to Charlie would enable his ability to hurt people... then that would mean that CHARLIE would have hurt people.

And just like that, Alastor's deal with Charlie becomes absolutely USELESS to him. Because Charlie can see where the results of her actions would lead, Alastor CAN'T ask her for anything that would lead to someone being hurt. Therefore he CAN'T ask her for anything he actually wants.

Or heck, maybe this could be taken even further:

Imagine if Alastor gets everything he wants from his request to Charlie. Freedom from his contract to Lilith, freedom from Hell and likely a LOT of power to go with it! He finally has EVERYTHING he's ever wanted!

...and then Alastor discovers that he simply... can't actually HURT anyone.

Because the ONE term of his contract with Charlie is that Charlie 'wouldn't have to hurt anyone' by fulfilling his request. Therefore, Alastor CAN'T hurt anyone now, because that would mean that Charlie would have hurt someone.

Thus, Alastor frees himself of Lilith's leash... only to find that he has unwittingly put himself on Charlie's leash.

#hazbin hotel

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foreficfandom · 3 months

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Weird Great-Depression-Era Outfits To Picture Alastor Wearing:

going to the beach:

underneath his suit, waistcoat, and shirt:

playing shuttlecocks at the club:

7-year-old Alastor:

getting a new shave and haircut:

and relaxing in a bathrobe and pajamas:

truly, a man dressed to kill.

#alastor #alastor the radio demon #hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel alastor

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foreficfandom · 3 months

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POV: You Are Actually MUCH More Powerful Than Alastor (ch. 3 - "Taking Notes")

(Alastor x Reader, g/n, queerplatonic/sex and romance favorable, fan theories, God!Reader) (AO3)

As far as the wider population of hell was concerned, Alastor disappeared after the Extermination with his tail between his legs. Vox made sure his viewers didn’t forget it, showing the footage of Alastor’s prone body no less than eight times over the course of four days. By the time the hotel was newly renovated, the Radio Demon being back in hiding was old news.

Hell’s populace was cynical and jaded. They took the news in stride, aware that as far as anyone knew, Alastor was right around the corner, seconds away from a new murderous streak. But danger was always right around the corner. Distinctions between dangers mattered less if the outcomes were always a guarantee.

Alastor didn’t plan on laying low for long. The angelic energy still festering in his chest prompted great pain whenever he used his dark magic. It took several days for it to completely dissipate, and it left scars that occasionally twinged with phantom jolts. Akin to nerve damage after burns.

He didn’t let you see the wound in full. You had offered to speed up its healing, but he would rather defenestrate himself than show you his bare chest. However, he was quickly allowing himself more casual dress within your private presence, a remainder of typical ‘30’s societal norms. If a gentleman made a friend, he could remove his hat, gloves, and jacket. If it was a close friend or family, he could be shirtless if needed, when out of the public eye.

Like when you and he made plans to further plot in his room, and you had arrived to Alastor in his pants, shoes, a belt, and a white sleeveless undershirt - what would be called a tank top. He was using a flat iron, freshly heated from his fireplace, carefully pulling and pushing it upon a dampened shirt spread tightly across an ironing board. You could now appreciate his limber, bare arms and collarbone, which were lightly haired with a gradient coat, colored more darkly further towards his hands. He had only the slightest muscle bulk, mostly in his forearms, and only due to a deficit of body fat to cushion it.

“Couldn’t you just magic your wardrobe clean and pressed?” You teased, closing the door.

“Of course I could, my dear. But nothing beats a job done by your own hand!”

Cleverly spoken. After all, Alastor’s magic weren’t extensions of his own will, but of his jailers. You approached the opposite side of the ironing board, the slight steam of sizzling water reminiscent of a little sauna.

“So, Alastor. I’m sure you’ve agonized over every fine detail of your deal. You should know that there’s limited chance your creditor would see any more advantages to take.”

“Yes, I’m aware,” Alastor said, continuing his ironing, “so I’m going to take this opportunity to play kitten. Let’s pretend that plonk Adam managed to lodge a real stinker into me, and despite my best efforts, it’s hindered my abilities pathetically! I couldn’t shatter a stemware if I tried!”

He placed his hand on his chest as if a fainting damsel, the hot iron held aloft. You noticed with amusement that his elk-down has replaced his armpit hair, leaving it smooth like a child’s.

“And so Alastor would take drastic measures to be powerful once more? Anybody lucky enough to know you would certainly expect the Radio Demon’d be desperate to get his arsenal back.”

“Precisely! I will swallow my pride and put on a great show. Soon enough, it’ll get their attention.”

You took a second to ponder. “Beings like them believe their indentured souls are largely grateful for their gifts, and not chomping at the bit to reverse it all. They’re arrogant like that. After all, you certainly owe a lot to their influence.”

Alastor looked like he was about to refute your words with his bitter resentment, but considered a second further and went back to his chores.

“Well, I suppose they haven’t been all cruel. As a mortal man, I knew I was protected by forces unseen. I believe I am still being protected.”

“In more ways than one. Do you have any clue how many illnesses you dodged while eating your victims? They even debated on whether to let the listeria permanently damage your large intestinal tract. They settled on just the temporary infection.”

“What’s listeria?”

“A bacterial parasite. Causes loose stool, vomiting, and fever, and can resolve itself after a couple of weeks. First discovered in the late 1920’s, but wouldn’t be in everyone’s medical books until World War II. You got it from the back-alley surgeon.”

“Is that what that was? I was throwing back Ostrex for days. I swear I had never been more ill.” Alastor shifted his shirt so that he could iron the left sleeve. The fabric sizzled anew. “Well, aside from when I watched Way Down East to see what the fuss was about. That wretched Porter Strong gives me strong retches, all right!” He cackled alongside a canned studio laugh track.

“How shall we advertise your weak state? You wouldn’t want to roam Hell’s streets like you used to.”

“That’s where I’m hoping you can come in. You, with your millennia of experience.” He gave you a sly eye, smiling as ever but you could see the pointed daggers.

You crossed your arms with an exhale. “Actually, I do have some ideas. Simply put, we fake a new competitor of yours, and let them run far more rampant than you’d normally allow.”

You knew men like Alastor. If he could allow it, the spotlight would never leave him.

Stimulating the opposite would be a tell-tale sign that the Radio Demon was indisposed.

Alastor narrowed his eyes, as if reading your mind. “And who would this new competitor be?”

“Me, of course. Like you’d trust anybody else to be in on it.”

Every Overlord was once an unassuming sinner soul. It would be an on-going process, but with careful pretense you could convincingly step into the shoes of Overlord.

Your avenue would have to be something that threatened Alastor’s specific audience, not just another jumpstart with a seat at the table. Dread Vox would be a good comparison. You’d just take a leaf from his book and aim for the media masses.

And as a content creator, you wouldn’t have to bother with physical territory, which decreased the risk of encountering physical confrontations. You didn’t want to play-act some street scuffle with an Alastor forcing himself to feign weakness. He probably couldn’t bring himself to play act meek in-person. It would be hard enough to have him remain out of the public eye - or rather, public ears.

“The longer I go uncontested by you, the more suspicious it’ll seem. Before long, your creditor will get the hint.”

Alastor gave a “Hmm” of consideration, finishing up his ironing. His smile was small, but unpained.

After a minute of silence, spent watching Alastor hang his laundry in careful sets and whisk away the ironing set with a snap of his fingers, he turned to you, lips curled ever upwards.

“Very well. We will cultivate the rise of a new Overlord. Together.”

—

The next day was a slow, but relaxing affair for the hotel. After finishing your administration duties, you enjoyed catching up with Niffty on gossip, before lounging in the parlor with Angel Dust, who had been carefully pampering himself since morning. He was fresh out of his perfumed bath, fur conditioned and silky, and asked for your help in applying a fresh manicure. An endeavor made harder considering that he had eight hands.

The television screen popped and sizzled as Alastor entered from the hall, apparently deciding to pay the two of you a visit.

“Aww damn it, Kelsey was just about to reveal her deep, dark secret,” Angel Dust whined. The television’s audio finally stabilized and revealed the cast utterly distraught over whatever the step-daughter had confessed to. “Could you maybe cool your anti-TV thing if you’re gonna crash my soap time?”

“Why, it’s hardly something I can control.” Alastor threw his hands and eyes upwards in disregard.

“You know, back in Alastor’s day, entire families sat to listen to the radio just like we do with television,” you smiled demurely at the two of them.

“Yeah, well, ‘back in his day,’” Angel mocked your tone, “they also brewed poisonous moonshine in toilets, ate banged-up cans of brown windsor soup every other day, and probably had more cases of TB than kids to die from it. I died in nineteen-fucking-forty, I know the low-down. Hell, I think nonna remembered the actual Civil War.”

Unlike Alastor, Angel Dust was a sinner who found little trouble adjusting to modern technology. Many of the sinner souls who died young embraced things like internet and electric cars, whether they died during the 20th century, or the 17th.

Cultures of the living found their way downstairs with little delay. Nobody was sure why, but some suspected it was because all technological progress can be considered sinful. You knew it was because earth and hell - and heaven, and purgatory, and all sapient souls - existed as one simultaneously. If Segways existed both physically and within mortal awareness, then so shall it be in hell. Certainly, Segways would not escape the mortal consciousness without great effort.

“Well, back in your day, housewives could only earn money in Tupperware pyramid schemes, children didn’t learn about evolution in school, and everyone was obsessed with Spam,” you teased.

You had told everyone you died mere years ago. True, there was a tangible generational gap between you, Angel Dust, and Alastor, all of you could feel it, but in your case it was much more … complicated.

Angel took your needling in stride. “Eh, at least we had toothpaste. I heard that Great Depression suckers only bothered with charcoal dust, like, once a week.”

At that, you smirked at Alastor, who you’ve teased about his unfortunately-yellow maw more than once. It would have been normal for his time, and the fact that he’d only ever had to pull two would actually be considered impressive.

But you were a being that greatly valued hygiene. Something to do with your heightened senses picking up on every stray molecule that builds on the body, but you privately joked that it was because ‘cleanliness is next to godliness’.

“Now, now, my dainty friend,” An approaching Alastor made a point to mimic Angel’s delicately elevated fingers, reminiscent of a wilting flower, “the future may look greener on the other side, but sometimes, olden days were the golden days. Why heck, one could claim that not much has progressed at all! Look out the window there, and tell me you don’t see the same rampant crime and barbarity, no matter the perpetrators from my century, or not! In fact,” Angel pulled a face as Alastor entered one of his long-winded rambles, always intending to (and unfortunately usually succeeding) in dominating the room, “I declare that mankind’s one constant has been its depravity. Always the same distasteful impulses.”

“And mankind’s moralities are never constant?” you offered.

“Oh please,” Angel said simultaneously as Alastor’s “Goodness, no!”

“Back when I was a kid, people thought left-handedness wasn’t Jesus-fearing. People sure don’t think so, now,” Angel continued.

“And whatever’s casting humans to hell evolves just as its victims do. When’s the last time you saw some pitiful gilly drop down here solely for premarital relations? ‘Twas the case just some fifty years ago.”

Angel snorted. “Yeah, if abstinence awarded you points, I’m waaaay off the mark. And, well, it don’t seem like it for certain, but for all I know, it’s still in heaven’s rulebook.”

“Hah, if only that was the case,” you threw a none-too-subtle look towards Alastor, who returned with a slow, absolutely withering glare.

Of course, Angel Dust noticed. “Whoa, Alastor man, you died a virgin? But you were probably, like, forty.”

“Oh hardly,” Alastor sardonically hissed through his teeth. You didn’t point out that he died a mere two years from the mark, not something you’d call ‘hardly’.

“Well, hey, if your abstinence wasn’t enough to get you upstairs, then that’d be free reign to let wild down here, wouldn’t it?” Angel Dust smiled. “You probably had lotsa old-timey fans when you first arrived. Wouldn’t be a shock if you have lotsa admirers today, too. Pick up a dame from the speakeasy for a nightcap over at your place? Or let some knockout daddy plow you in the bathroom?”

A vein popped in Alastor’s temple. You ducked over Angel’s half-painted hand to hide a grin. If it were anyone else, you would have felt sympathy for the teasing. But, in your opinion, any little blow to Alastor’s inflated ego was always warranted whenever one managed to get their hands on them.

“Can’t say I’ve ever bothered with any of … that , I’m afraid.”

Angel Dust looked incredulously at Alastor. “Never? Even in hell? Never done the vertical tango? The hankity-spankity?”

“Not every man is as covetous as you, my fellow.” Alastor leaned on his cane with both hands, his posture as rim-rod stiff as a telephone pole. You watched his torment in amusement.

“Huh. Goes to show you never know what’s goin’ on underneath it all,” Angel Dust nonchalantly concluded with a thump back onto the cushions. He returned to his bottle of varnish.

“I expect you to be prompt for supper this time!” Alastor exited the foyer but called over his shoulder. “I won’t be taking a still-wet manicure as an excuse again!”

He didn’t pause in his application. “Yeah, sheesh. Like what’s he gonna do? Send me to bed without food?”

You finished applying on Angel’s third hand, and moved to the fourth. “You want to make the rules, then you’ll have to be in charge of the cooking for once.”

“Not gonna happen! Don’t think I’ve stepped in front of a stove since I was a kid. Well, aside from the prop ones in a movie or two. Frilly apron and everything. Why’s he always the chef, anyways? Not like Charlie’s ever made a Thanksgiving turkey for us.”

“Ask him, not me.” Alastor didn’t make meals every day, so if the hotel’s residents didn’t expect a meal from him, then you were all due to fend for yourselves that evening. Most, like Vaggie and Husk, visited the cheap eateries in the neighborhood. Some defaulted to leftovers, or frozen pre-packaged meals (Niffty was especially fond of those). You and Charlie didn’t have to eat every day, though you kept up the facade of mortality. For the longest time, you were the only one brave enough to eat the leftovers from Alastor’s midnight stress-cooking.

“You know, I could see Charlie trying to cook for us, her poor suffering lambs.” Angel was finishing up the delicate white strips on each nail tip, done in one or two practiced strokes. You intentionally numbed your proficiency and took much longer to draw a passable line. “But she’s a princess, so maybe she has no idea how to cook anything. Probably for the best she hasn’t tried, then.”

A moment of silence, then Angel piped up once more. “Speaking o’ Charlie, she apparently got some hot letter in the mail this morning, and’s rushed out the door. Haven’t seen her since.”

“Oh? Have any idea why?”

“No idea. I was at the bar with a hair of the dog, and heard Charlie make a big fuss before rushin’ out. Took the letter with her. Sounded important, but couldn’t tell if it was a happy important, or a nasty important.”

You gave a ‘hmm’. “And what about the king? Have you seen him around?”

“Nope. Guy’s been gone since yesterday evening, but that’s nothing unusual these past days, is it? You ask me, something’s brewin’ with the bigwigs up top. The royals, I mean.”

The Goetia Royalty. A long-winded line of hell-borne beings, some of them older than hell itself. For the most part, they kept out of the public eye, intent on living their privileged life with as little interruptions as possible.

“I hope that Charlie doesn’t get handed more trouble,” you said. “She’s busy enough as it is.”

Angel just shrugged. “Hey, she wanted to start this whole redemption project to begin with. She can deal with it.” You knew he meant it as a compliment. “I mean, I don’t envy her pressure. More and more shit’s been pilin’ on her shoulders these months. And she’s not gonna be unloading any of the responsibilities if she can help it, that wouldn’t match up with her vision, would it? Princess Of Hell, finally doin’ something productive for a change. Prob’ for the best, since lightening her load’ll probably do in the spine of whatever sucker volunteers. All pressure’s heavy at the best of times.”

You sighed in sympathy. “Tell me about it. You never expect to be the cause of a black hole.”

“What?”

“Never mind. Did you get any hints where Charlie went off to?”

“No. If she’s not back until supper, Alastor’ll probably throw a fit. He loves her fawning whenever she sits down to his cooking.”

You made a mental note to text Vaggie if Charlie doesn’t make it back before sundown. Whatever trouble was brewing, it would likely affect your and Alastor’s plans. You couldn’t risk too many interlacing threads getting tangled.

—

“You could always start a ‘podcast’ series. I detest them less than most modern medias. I may even give yours a listen!”

“Podcasts may be a successful culture, but I fear it wouldn’t be aggressive enough,” you said to Alastor, both of you sat across one of the small tables dotting the hotel study, an open notebook and pen in front of you. “It’s gotta be something people obsess over. Something that earns a lot of money and eats up a lot of time. Something unrepentantly mainstream.”

“Oh, with your charisma, I’m sure you could be a trailblazer in making any media a mainstream mainstay,” Alastor alliterated. He took a sip from his mug of lightly-brewed coffee, more akin to a tea, to avoid over-exciting himself this late in the afternoon.

You sighed tired, crossing out ‘popstar’ and ‘idol musical group’. Too short-lived to make a successful Overlord career out of it. Alastor’s flattery had a ring of truth, you could theoretically manipulate any field you’d end up in, but you didn’t want to make this any harder than it needed to be.

He had finished up the last touches on his pulled pork recipe before leaving it to stew in the kitchen, and tracked you down out of curiosity. It was just the two of you in the study for now, but you kept one eye open in case someone else decided to pay a visit.

You hovered your pen over ‘celebrity surgeon’, just about to ask if Alastor could turn down the volume of the big band he was blaring obnoxiously, before you sensed two pairs of footsteps approach. The two of you turned to Husk and Vaggie strolling in.

“Oh joy, you’re here,” Husk groused sarcastically. It had not gone unnoticed that Alastor had spent the last few days wandering around the hotel more often than he usually did, rather than couching himself in the secluded corners.

“Now, is that any way to greet your friends?” With a crank, Alastor snapped his head to an unnatural 30°. Vaggie, who had grown a modicum more tolerant of the guy, didn’t take the opportunity to needle him, and proceeded to guide Husk to a specific bookshelf in the far corner. She traced her finger along the spines, then pulled out a small hardcover and held it out for Husk.

“Here. From Kuomintang To Kraft Mac: A Brief Timeline Of Events From 1950 - 1970 ”, Vaggie said, handing the book over. “We’re missing the next volume, but Charlie can order it.”

“It’s fine. Thanks.” Husk opened and browsed the first few pages. You could see Leviathan's symbol printed on the opening cover. One of the official hell-produced encyclopedias that detailed living events for the sake of its sinner residents.

Alastor didn’t hesitate to milk the opportunity. “Why, Husker, my good man! Are you feeling a scholarly bent? I wasn’t aware you knew which end to open a book from!”

“We were talking about hot sauces,” Vaggie allowed herself a small grin at Husk’ dramatic eyeroll. “I know you like using the tabasco pepper-based ones, but Husk was just telling me that he missed the sweeter, pulpy pastes from his time spent across the sea. I said that the world has slowly come around to spices from all over the world.”

“Back in my day, you were lucky to find a dusty bottle of Trappey’s at the mart. I’m surprised America embraced hot spice at all,” Husk added. He spared a glance at the rest of the encyclopedia collection, which boasted a recollection from prehistoric civilization to the rise of the internet. Some of the volumes were depressingly wrinkled and worn, and more than one was absent.

Alastor didn’t respond, instead rested his chin on the back of his hands, smiling peacefully at the space over Husk’s shoulder. You knew he was thinking of his mortal days, too, when most people made their own bottled sauces from a summer pepper harvest, acidifying mashed jalapeño and cayenne in vinegar and salt, sealing the repurposed cola bottle with cork and wax. It wasn’t until the ‘50’s when hot pepper sauces started appearing in most American recipe books, and it would take a further 30 years before international cuisines reached proper globalization.

It was nice to see Vaggie and Husk getting along. And perhaps the both of them were learning to tolerate Alastor a bit more.

Still, both of them eyed Alastor with a distasteful eye, which didn’t phase him in the slightest. Husk, in particular, would rather he spend as little time around the man as possible. Before Alastor forced him to work for the hotel, Husk almost never had contact with the man. You were sure he missed those days dearly.

The same sentiment wasn’t quite shared by Alastor, who didn’t hold Husk in high regard, but enjoyed his company well enough. And he’ll put up with Vaggie’s ire to a surprisingly high degree.

“Vaggie, do you know where Charlie is? I heard she left this morning, and it’s almost dinnertime,” you asked.

Vaggie’s expression turned slightly pensive, and she averted her eyes. “She’s … meeting with old friends. It’s complicated.”

“Royalty issues?” Husk asked.

“Sorta like that. She should be back soon,” Vaggie assured, but you didn’t miss the subtle glance she threw towards her phone, sitting in her skirt pocket.

“What kind of friends keep a busy woman for so long? It must be important ,” Alastor said, emphasizing the last word with an oily grin. Vaggie shot him a warning glance. She had far from forgotten the deal he had convinced Charlie to make.

“Like I said, it’s a royalty issue. Those types of friends aren’t ones you can risk losing. Aren’t you an Overlord? You should relate to the whole, ‘high-society’ sort of thing.”

“Oh, Vaggie dear,” Alastor flapped a hand dismissively, “I haven’t bothered with the ins-and-outs of hell’s Overlord dog-eat-dog kerfuffle in years! You see new faces come and go like the wind. I may enjoy the company of a select few that share a spot at the table, but not for power. For their conversation! For their fun! For keeping up with me on the dance floor, hah!”

“Like Overlord Rosie?” You asked, and he affirmed, “Precisely!”

“You know,” Husk was still scanning over the encyclopedia, speaking to the air as if on an aside, “I heard from a certain little spider that you’re still as lady-less as freshly fallen snow.”

Vaggie raised an eyebrow as Alastor’s smile turned downwards. “And your point?”

“Just sayin’. You got all your lady friends, what’s stopping you?” Husk met Alastor’s unamused glare with a little smirk.

“Well, it just so happens that my friends tend to be women. They bring the best out in me!”

It didn’t take a genius to understand Alastor’s personal preferences in friends. The lively and prevaricative Niffty, the gregarious and wayward Mimzy, the cordial and extroverted Rosie. This was in comparison to those that annoy him; the prickly Vaggie. The invasive Angel Dust. Charlie, herself, must have drawn Alastor’s affections by virtue of simply being jovial. He loved to see smiles and loved to hear them sing.

Not being a man would also score a couple points in the ‘friends’ column. And speak of the devil, Alastor piped up; “And men? Brutes, much of them, graceless.”

Vaggie pointed out that he was a man, which apparently was the expected set-up for his prepared joke, “I need no reminder! After all, I find myself shouldering the burden of being proper gentlemanly to compensate for those who aren’t! Ah, the days when men at least did things like start a conversation with a proper greeting, and ended with a proper ‘goodbye’. I do miss when evocation was a schooling curriculum. Husk! Recite!” He pointed his cane at Husk, who gave a long suffering groan.

“I have no idea what that means.”

“Exactly! Did your teacher ever have you recite The Lady of Shallot , or at least See Spot Run ? Come, old fellow, give me hope that the art of spoken word hasn’t been completely lost.”

To your surprise, Husk rose to the bait with, “Tôi đéo quan tâm.”

It was a clever blow. Alastor was skilled, but he knew no second language fluently. His Louisiana Creole was dreadful. His pride taken a blow, Alastor’s grin twitched, but he pulled himself back together with a twirl of his cane.

“Ah, like a dock sailor. Impressively worldly. But as brutish as an ox.”

The chatter went on, but you focused on your notes. Alastor was exaggerating, plenty of modern people knew public speaking, especially the entertainers. Any television figure worth their salt made sure their audience could follow along not just with clarity, but with enjoyment. News anchors, game show hosts, social media vloggers, podcast narrators, video game streamers -

Streamers . Scheduled broadcasts of live commentary. Responding to the audience in real time. Recorded in a set location. Commonly arranged by genre content. Earning thousands of dollars every year. Even sponsorships were comparably as invasive as a bugle for Edgeworth Cigarettes from during the golden age of radio.

You wrote with vigor. Streaming would require an expensive set-up if you wanted to cultivate the proper attention. Studio lights, audio recording, multiple high-definition cameras and mounts, a backdrop, not to mention the software.

Your spacious hotel quarters would do, once you got proper acoustic foam wall panels. And luckily, Alastor’s presence in the hotel made for a very powerful modem, to his annoyance. The internet speed here is wild.

Would you focus on video games? Viral challenges? Conspiracy theories and social drama? Offer adult content? The most successful streamers usually have one main focus, although the more famous one got, the more they could branch without risking alienating their audience.

And once you establish your place within the internet world, you’d start to ask for more and more money from your adoring fans. Some wouldn’t be able to pay. So you’d offer a deal , instead. Plenty of people have committed to worse for the sake of their idols.

To become one of the top Overlords, you’d have to total a soul count in the five-hundreds, at the very least. Owning actual real estate would also help -shareholding a business or two, or maybe you’d develop a brand from the bottom up.

To grow from niche interest to mainstream name, you’ll make and distribute products. You’ll cultivate entertaining drama with other media personalities with the intent of going viral. You’d be on friendly terms with Alastor’s enemies, and make vague threats towards his friends.

Alastor turned from the others to see what you were so excited about. He couldn’t quite read your handwriting upside down, but he could tell that you had hit a revelation.

“Ah, but poor Charlie! I hope her ‘friends’ at least have the good manners to serve dinner, because she certainly won’t be arriving on time for ours! Come now, my good people, to the dining room! Husk, bring out the Austrian Riesling, it’ll pair nicely with the pork.”

“Why are we drinking good wine with barbecue?” you heard him grumble as Alastor managed to usher him and Vaggie out. You finished your notes with a flourish, stuffed your notebook away, and jogged after them.

#alastor #alastor the radio demon #hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel #alastor x reader #hazbin hotel headcanon #alastor headcanons

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foreficfandom · 3 months

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Alastor's Microphone Staff Has Influential Powers

And it affects him, too.

When Charlie has to inspire the Cannibal Town population, she first uses a typical omni stage mic.

She and Rosie leave the gazebo to cool down, and Alastor remains on the stage alone. When the pair come back, the regular mic is inconspicuously missing, giving Alastor an excuse to lend his.

It's clearly symbolic for lending Charlie use of his own voice, and also a sign that he trusts her to wield such an important "extension" of himself and his powers.

Charlie uses his mic to sing and inspire the crowd, like her mother used singing to unite all of hell.

Slowly, the crowd comes around to Charlie's cause. Only after they join the sing-along proper does Alastor take his mic back. Rosie hands Charlie a baton with a skull on it - perhaps it was something like Rosie's 'Overlord staff'. Her equivalent of handing over Alastor's microphone, allowing Charlie to step into her shoes for the moment.

Alastor's magic microphone isn't ever connected to any speakers, or soundboard, or recording gear, transistor, phonograph, etc. He can use it to broadcast a Hell-wide radio show. He can project his own voice through it like a hand puppet.

Radio hosts are infamously influential people. Even today, they're known for turning entire populations into radical conservatives, or they're cult leaders, or conspiracy mongers. They hold a captive audience through their charisma without them ever seeing their face.

When Charlie sings through Alastor's microphone, she's projecting the same influential geas Alastor uses in his radio-based magic.

Thing is, when Charlie spoke into the mic, she was speaking to Alastor, as well. As subtle as the mic's powers may be, Alastor did find himself truly affected by Charlie's vision in a way he didn't intend. He just didn't realize it until the very last episode of Season 1.

By the way, you know how in ep. 8, red eyes are everywhere, watching Alastor's breakdown?

One of those eyes sit right in front of his microphone. Because of its design, you need to face the mic a certain way to use it properly. The eye is always watching its user.

If Alastor never gets his mic fixed, it's probably for the best. One less eye to watch him. One less way for the Radio Demon to turn the population of Hell into his prisoners. One more way Charlie has an upper hand on him, if she inherited her mother's talents, because she doesn't need a mic to influence people.

#alastor #alastor the radio demon #hazbin hotel #alastor headcanons #hazbin hotel headcanon #hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel theory

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foreficfandom · 3 months

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POV: You Are Actually MUCH More Powerful Than Alastor (ch. 2 - "Flashbacks")

(Alastor x Reader, g/n, queerplatonic/sex and romance favorable, fan theories, God!Reader) (AO3)

Alastor was always a man who craved control and attention. Ninety-odd years of being a demon has long since mutated his mortal desires into a festering appetite. While he was alive, it was a very mundane longing for the spotlight. Being the sought-after host of his own radio show was as close as being his own boss he could realistically hope for. The masses could listen and fawn over his charisma and humor while ignorant of his champagne hue.

If he wanted more, he would have to turn to drastic measures.

Young Alastor had made the station affluent, so they could afford to get their hands on any show recording they wished. One autumn, they aired The Witch’s Tale, a trailblazer for being the first horror-themed show on the radio. It garnered controversy from the conservative crowd, but ratings didn’t lie. New Orleans loved the series.

Alastor relayed the local news in his typical rapid-fire speech, a fashionable showman’s chatter made even faster thanks to his Creole blood, and as he speed-read his script in real time, he recited a quick advertisement for Madame Jones’ Hot Comb Oil before running the magnetic carbon ribbons of The Witch’s Tale. Voices of the actors took over the air. He drew a breath from a cigarette and leaned back on his chair. Alastor’s voice was now due for a rest until the current tape ran dry.

This was his first time hearing the show as well. Short horror tales were narrated by a fictional character named Old Nancy, one of the witches from Salem. The first tale was of a Venus statue come to life to slay the son of its sculptor, the second adapted from the real life confessions of the convicted Scottish witch Isobel Gowdie, the third clearly ripped off from Stevenson’s The Bottle Imp, and so on. After each tape, Alastor came back on the air for more news, advertisements, and the occasional social commentary. A quick joke about the Nipponese making waves on the West coast, a little update on McKinley’s first year back in office.

If he were to be candid, each episode of The Witch’s Tale was a gamble of hit or miss. Some were near contrived. But a few were quite satisfactory.

Most interesting was the narrator. After each tale, Old Nancy would reveal a bit more of her backstory. She never married. She grew her own food and earned her own money selling poultices. She may or may not have slept with both men and women. Her cat was a demon familiar. Her house was constructed partly from the bones of her victims.

Alastor found himself lost in thought. A young maiden, a pregnant mother, and an old widow swam through his mind. But the fourth woman … standing apart from the others, free from the grasp of a husband’s heavy greedy fist, proudly dangerous. A woman alone, but free. The maiden, matron, and crone, and now the witch.

Suddenly, Alastor saw himself repeated four times in place of the women. He was the scrawny teenage boy, then his current self, then a wizened old man, and in place of the witch was this enchanting visage of his long-lived personal fantasy, chest thrust upwards and smile brazen.

He tapped his fingers against his stomach as a strange thought overtook him. Could one become the witch?

Could Alastor be truly free from the Man’s grasp?

Hidden deep in the winding alleyways of New Orleans, voodoo was still going strong despite the coppers’ efforts. When mother was still alive, she would buy dry goods and miscellaneous wares from a small negro outlet run by Haitian immigrants, and locals knew that the shop’s upstairs hid a small voodoo church, an open secret amongst those uninterested in contacting police for any reason, even if they themselves weren’t practitioners.

Alastor knew nothing of voodoo. Mother was Lutheran, father had apparently been a loose Catholic. Church Sundays had tapered off by the time Alastor was nine, as did house praying aside from Christmas eve, and mother was near illiterate so there was no Bible reading. He never asked her if she was still faithful after dropping the more superfluous habits. Alastor’s heart ached at the thought of mother barred from the gates of Heaven.

He heard the horror stories of this dread voodoo religion. He, himself, has recited many sensational reports of sacrificial rituals and cannibalistic orgies, almost certainly all fear-mongering bullshit, but plenty enough believed that voodoo witches and warlocks used a black magic. Cursing good Christian families to die of plague, using living shadows to ensnare children away, poppets with needles, sigils that glow, that sort of malarkey.

If I could curse people, or control a tangible shadow, it would be a right gasser, he thought to himself.

A steady list of potential victims formed in his mind. Number one, the man who abandoned his wife and child to a stricken life of poverty. Just harmless daydreaming. Maybe.

Alastor used to say to himself, ‘thank God’ that mother was such a genius, otherwise they’d never have survived.

He wonders if he would soon be swearing different oaths.

—

To your nose, virginity didn’t have a strong smell or energy, but innocence did. The first time the two of you met, you had sensed Alastor’s putrid, gore-soaked body roaming the hotel long before he could sense you approaching the front door, although you allowed him to believe he had the upper hand. Murderers, especially those who lusted, were very blatant. A subtle pang told you that Alastor didn’t lust for flesh like many men did. His body smelled virgin, but more telling, his powers would not be affected should that come to change. After all, only someone uncaring of an aspiration would not evolve from achieving it.

Alastor was not innocent. Not like princess Charlie. Not like the children sinner souls.

He may not have a clue what Angel Dust meant by wearing a “special sort of ring ”, but hunger had many forms.

Flesh, blood, and bone were common sacrifices made to manifest power. A human’s physiology cultivated some of its greatest energy from fats and protein, so it made sense why Alastor’s curse would force him to fuel by consuming meat. But if he were in kinder circumstances, he might have instead been encouraged to eat any other sort of matter, or not fuel himself through food at all.

Clearly, Alastor’s debtors wanted to corrupt the man beyond what murder would do to his mind and soul. The more Alastor killed, the more he ate, the more powerful he grew, and the more he’d need to eat. He became a slave to his appetite.

You wondered if it was because they couldn’t affect him through his loins, so they chose the closest alternative.

In any case, Alastor did resent his need for nourishment, just not nearly as much as he resented the actual chains. It helped that he has always found fulfillment in creating, eating, and sharing food, and there was a very good place in Hell for that kind of attitude.

Cannibal Town didn’t become a proper, distinct district until Overlord Rosie’s rise to status. The industrial revolution had created a great epidemic of poverty, and many struggling in the developing American frontier had turned to cannibalizing the dead to survive, from the children to the elderly, only tapering off when a successful ‘20’s economy rose to the rescue. Rosie turned the predominant Edwardian-era population into its current image. Walking through Cannibal Town’s streets of petticoats and boater hats, it was like stepping back into one of your past lifetimes as a New Yorker under Taft, watching Florence Lawrence in picture shows and seeing oreo cookies on the shelves for the first time.

In fact, ‘oreo’ biscuits were sold in Cannibal Town, imitating their original tin box packaging, but they were made with rendered human fat rather than pork tallow. Rosie wanted her people to embrace their partaking, rather than languish in their past sins, or hide their undying appetite. Human flesh wasn’t an addictive substance, but cannibalism certainly was. It was as habit forming as any other ritual gesture, like how Vaggie wakes up in the morning to tie her hair ribbon right-over-left, or how Husk always arranges the bar’s bottle storage just so, or how Alastor uses an old pewter pot to boil his coffee over the stove fire. Many of these antiquated cannibals treat their slaying, butchering, and eating with the same love they used to have for the Eucharist.

Alastor’s affinity for Cannibal Town wasn’t quite because he felt kinship between their cannibalism. Fondness for Rosie aside, it was the best source of properly prepared human meat for sale, trimmed and bled as thoroughly as venison chuck. Passionate cook he may be, but he never had the patience for true butchering. Especially whilst mortal, and in Hell, a victim could easily be ten feet tall with several limbs. Who aside from the butcher had time to set aside eight hours for that?

No, Alastor’s reasons and fondness for partaking wasn’t commonly shared amongst the Cannibal Town locals. Most likened it to a sexual gratification. Many saw it as an alternative way to rape the weak. Some saw it as their only outlet for frustration. Some just wanted to fit in.

And to them, cannibalism was a very social hobby. Proper ladies found great sisterhood in tearing into a corpse like starving wolves, respectable men could now exercise their libido amongst other men by delving deep into flesh as a group. But whilst Alastor, too, socialized through food, eating mortal flesh was his curse, not his indulgence.

You knew for a fact that ever since the inception of his deal, Alastor's clause for cannibalism would quickly morph into an honest taste for it, but Alastor could only hypothesize if that was the case, or he just simply lost his mind sometime after his fourth killing.

Alastor shook himself out of his reverie as he approached the door to his favorite Cannibal Town grocer, you following close behind. He had been finding himself lost in his own thoughts more and more often, lately. No doubt due to your influence.

He could have shut down in complete bewilderment, but he was Alastor, damn it all, so he will garner the bravery to take the next step forward, then the step after that, and so on.

Towards a brighter future, he dared to hope.

He opened the door for you, and the two of you entered the little store. Like all grocers before the ‘50’s, the wares weren’t self-serve. Alastor summoned a paper list, and read off what he wanted to purchase. The mustached shopkeeper brought forward each item onto the counter before ringing them up on the register, using an old exertion scale for the fresh goods. A pound of dried red beans, a rasher of salted belly, a loaf of sugar, three pounds worth of scrap shin bones, and four red capsicums. You noticed that the capsicums - the bell peppers - were the smaller, pointier variety sold during Alastor’s lifetime, before cultivation increased their size and yield. Likewise, the sugar loaf was compressed into an old-fashioned triangular cone, wrapped in paper, not a pure white but a light flaxy yellow from its residue molasses. All the manufacturer’s labels were a parody of their living equivalents. The burlap sack of Camellia-brand kidney beans was of a bloody heart with green, thorny vines named “Carnillia”, instead of the original round flower.

The shopkeeper wrapped the raw meats into their own smaller bag. It went unsaid, but they were obviously human remains. You reached forwards to carry the groceries whilst Alastor was occupied with paying, but then said to you, “Nonsense, dear,” and reclaimed the load in a gentlemanly manner. A polite, but largely useless gesture, as it’d take monolithic mass to truly test your physical prowess, and Alastor had his own increased strength as an Overlord.

In fact, the last time you struggled to carry an object with all your true power, it had created a black hole where it fell.

Part of Alastor’s original deal for power was certainly to improve his meager physical ability, as he was like many young men who pictured their ideal self boasting some petal to the metal. His lean muscles did not swell, and he couldn’t bench-press an automobile, but he did find a great force behind his punches, and his running speed, and even when he twisted open a pickle jar. It had been a relatively mundane boon compared to his showier magic, but the knowledge that you couldn’t be physically overtaken was intoxicatingly empowering. Alastor finally understood why burly brutes acted so brazen, even if his silhouette didn’t display it.

Yes, his original deal was as righteous as any young person’s plea for bravery. But whilst some may only ask for a sword, he had asked for a legion.

And by mother’s grave, he got it.

Father had been his original sacrifice. He tracked down the drunkard squatting in a Chalmette hobo jungle, and knifed him in the belly until the wretch’s blood flow slowed to a crawl. He spent all night dragging the corpse across town and to the lake, right where the most notorious of voodoo orgies were said to take place, and mimicked the manbo’s ceremony, finger painting vèvè before shouting - begging, screaming, really - for anybody or anything to answer him.

He always tries to avoid remembering what came next.

Mother hadn’t passed, yet, but she was on her deathbed. She had been fighting scarlet fever for weeks, and pneumonia had developed. Alastor himself had a brief sick spell due to contamination, but he refused to move out of the house. If his mother was about to leave this world, he wanted to be there.

Mother’s pauper’s burial was baptized in Alastor’s second killing. A eugenic small-time politician one neighborhood over, who would have never achieved his meager position if it wasn’t for connections, thanks to the scandal of marrying his fourteen-year-old niece. For this attack, Alastor let his new powers bloom freely, but his inexperience left the corpse a complete mangled mess. Indeed, the shocking state of the body was what first sparked rumors of the Butcher Of New Orleans. Named so because of the man’s conspicuously missing flesh and organs, leading the police to rightly profile the suspect as a cannibal.

Life went on. Alastor’s mind and mood matured, and he hit his stride. He grew from radio host to radio star. He made plenty of honest friendships. He found innocent fun, and also learned to refine his not-so-innocent ones. By age 37, Alastor had a celebrity career, a Cadillac automobile, a sparkling reputation, and a total body count of twenty-eight men.

A month before he would turn 38, he found himself in hell. He remembered that his first action was to look around, expecting to see his father as if the man would, by chance, be standing on the nearby street corner. He looked up, and saw the glowing celestial body that must be heaven, high above and unreachable.

He wondered if mother was simultaneously looking down. Or was she still waiting for her dutiful son to show up and join her? Alastor had made great effort to ensure that mother never knew of how much of a monster her son really was.

Slowly coming back to the present, Alastor found himself wistfully looking at the morning sky as the two of you waited for traffic to halt. The haloed planisphere was partially hidden by daytime cloud cover, but one could spot the ever present gateway to heaven just about visible.

You followed Alastor’s gaze to the skies above. As remote as heaven may seem to the eye, you knew that it wasn’t a matter of distance. After all, heaven and hell weren’t places. They were states of being. You told him so last night, since he was under the impression that with just enough power, he could track down his debtor.

Unfortunately, if a suitably powerful being didn’t want to be found, no amount of searching would work.

He had bristled at that, fur on his ears standing, and paced away.

Then spun around with renewed, fake bravado, and said he would lure them here.

“How?” you asked.

He had no idea, but just twirled his cane into both hands with a closed eye grin. Apparently, he’d think of something.

Before the night concluded, he told you that all these earth-shattering revelations would have to be mulled over a hefty serving of his favorite comfort food, so you and him would dine privately a stew of baked beans. An especially fatty and. Well. Cannibalistic recipe of his.

So it came to be that the two of you left the hotel early next morning for some shopping, which of course caught the eye of nearby Niffty, who would most certainly be relaying the latest gossip to everyone else.

Let them talk. Alastor loved being the hottest gossip topic, and the friendships you choose to keep are yours alone.

Of course, most of them suspected that there was more than friendship involved. Not the wording you’d choose, but perhaps it wasn’t inaccurate.

There was divinity between the two of you, now. Every time you’ve muddled in mortal affairs, great cosmic connections formed between your souls. Inevitable, considering who you were, but they often had great repercussions. You considered every one of them worth the trouble.

That afternoon, the two of you entered the kitchen once more, but this time you stood by and watched as Alastor prepared a kettle to hang over his fireplace. Per his request (demands), you arrived to his room at eight on the dot to his little table set with sliced bread and a decanter of whiskey. The pocket swamp beyond was darkened and dotted with lazy fireflies. A radio station played, but not from the two sat on his bookshelf, nor emitting from Alastor himself, just directionless in the air as if the room itself breathed radio.

“Please, come on in,” he bowed, just a tad overweening. Say what you will about the man, he bounces back from existential despair pretty gracefully.

One of the seats slid out on its own accord. You sat obligingly to the tantalizing smell of spice, partially masking your ability to detect the human remains in the stew. As Alastor sat across from you, the disembodied radio chatter in the air twitched frequencies to instead play a wordless ballad.

“I took the liberty of choosing tonight’s choice of drink,” he said, pouring whiskey for the both of you. “I know it’s a bit early in the evening for the mule, but indulge this pitiful sinner.”

“It’s your meal, after all.” And true enough, Alastor stood no ceremony in digging a spoon deep into his bowl. Alcohol had its particular effects on you, so you reversed the fermentation of your whiskey into a poof of evaporated ethanol and a wet pile of sugar, mostly to amuse yourself, also to sneak a pinch of malt into your bow to cut some of the fat. Alastor had made the stew so rich, you could probably alchemize a toddler from the lipids.

You watched as Alastor relished deeply in his first spoonful. Fats, you remembered, was sometimes a more affordable grocery than sugar or flour, depending on the slaughter season. A poor Alastor would have grown up being treated to cheap, streaky bacon more often than beignets or hot cocoa.

“Just as mother made it,” he sighed wistfully, as if reading your mind. Far from the first time he’s mentioned his mother aloud, but before it had always been a set up for a jape, his comedian nature never at rest, and not unfiltered sentimentality. He must know that it was useless to hide secrets from you.

You forwent the malt sugar to taste the dish as it was intended. Surprisingly, it was shockingly laced with pure intentions that caressed your tongue and made tears well up behind your eyes. You didn’t think Alastor was capable of it.

It tasted like love.

Maybe he had more of a chance than you first thought.

—

Supper continued throughout the night. Alastor downed one, two, and was working on his third bowl before the conversation turned to the elephant in the room.

“- and when I kill the wretches souls who’ve clipped me like a duckling, I’ll -”

“Cool the jets, Alastor. We’d have to find them, first.” You stepped in before he could wind himself up.

“See, I’ve been thinking,” he took a hearty swig from his third glass of whiskey, "take it from a man with a couple of his own eggs in the basket. You know what makes a debtor knock on the front door faster than a twinkle?”

“What?”

He grinned angrily. “If he thinks there’s more debt to be had. You spot a way to keep your favorite minion closer to your chest for longer, you take it before someone else can.”

With a twist of his wrist, he downed his glass and slammed it none too quietly on the table. His eyes no longer meeting yours and burning holes into the wall over your elbow. “So! You help me advertise my devilish self as desperate for another deal, or perhaps just a clever amendment clause or two, and I promise you, they’ll show up.”

“And then what’ll we do?”

“End their wretched lives! What else?”

“Life began millions of years ago, and it hasn’t stopped since. Your jailer has long since learned to take advantage of that.” You calmly lounged with loosely crossed legs and arms, while Alastor was beginning to hover over the table like an angry ape. “There’s no way to ‘end their life’ in a manner you’d care about.”

With his face so close, you could smell the whiskey on his tongue along with an unfortunate whiff of antiquated dental hygiene standards. He wasn’t quite yet drunk, but was certainly not sober.

Your words gave him pause, but a radio star never let dead air stagnate. “Well, perhaps it was never a matter of killing them. No proper creditor makes their debtor more powerful than he.”

You said, “Your leash has its share of loopholes and weakness, like all contracts do. There’s never a way to fully avoid them, so most make additions that forbid them.”

Green stitches all along his maw. In one blink, you saw Alastor in his full pitiful glory, glowing neon-bright inverted hues, rotted body held together haphazardly with unforgiving threads. In another blink, Alastor was his normal outward self.

Back and forth you flipped your vision, trying to find any clues or conclusions. Snipping the threads would just make him fall apart. There must be a gentler conclusion.

Suddenly, you remembered what he said. “Alastor, how many debtors do you own?”

“Oh, I can’t remember the exact number. Ninety years is a long time. The answer’s somewhere in my ledger, I’m sure,” he waved a hand.

“Lend me a look. Please,” you added when Alastor’s glare turned vicious, “it’s important. You can trust me.”

“Now, how in the world would my own roster matter to my predicament?”

You leaned forward, meeting Alastor’s couched posture in the middle. “I made a promise, didn’t I? I promised you true liberty. If you want my help, then let me help.” You kept your voice low as if whispering a secret, even though no one was around to overhear. No one Alastor could see, anyways.

A heartbeat passed, then another. Then, with a great crackling of old vertebrae like he had suddenly aged decades, Alastor reigned in his defenses.

Has he ever yielded so completely since granted his powers? No wonder it felt so dreadful, like shaking off a carpet of cobwebs.

Never let it be known that Alastor was a chap who couldn’t learn something new, you heard him think bitterly. A dry exhale aired throughout the room as elongated shadows retreated, electric bulbs shone brighter, and the fireplace changed from eye-searing blacklight back to its natural warm glow.

Nonchalant smile back on his face, Alastor wiped his hands with a napkin and stood.

“Ah well. No time like the present, then?”

#alastor #alastor the radio demon #hazbin alastor #alastor x reader #hazbin hotel

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foreficfandom · 3 months

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POV: You Are Actually MUCH More Powerful Than Alastor (2/2)

(Alastor x Reader, g/n, queerplatonic/sex and romance favorable, fan theories, God!Reader)

(FIRST)

Like a VCR, the scene rewound to another memory. A slightly younger Alastor splattered in tomato juice, breathing hard as he sat crossed-legged upon the ground, tearing off small pieces of liver and forcing himself to swallow.

It rewound again. Alastor's first partaking after gaining his powers. Absolutely drenched in gore and on his knees in a puddle of blood. A torn up lump of indecipherable flesh clutched in half-mutated claws. He remembered he had sunk his hand into the man's opened abdomen and pulled out something. His pancreas, or just a bundle of muscle fiber. As sloppy a killing as his first one. It had taken several attempts before he would refine his work.

The room darkened and static was building. "What. Do you know," he growled.

You didn't answer, just took the pairing knife and, in a blink of an eye, flicked the blade underneath one of the glowing green threads pinning his mouth shut. Alastor's magic reacted violently to the intrusion, like the two of you were standing in a maelstrom. Shattered porcelain and wood splinters flew everywhere.

Just as you suspected, the thread did not yield to the knife's edge. No tool could cut Alastor's bonds, not even under your hands. His shackles were bound by his word, and only his word could break them.

Too bad they also held his tongue tightly so that he couldn't ever try.

You looked deep into his burning, blood-red eyes. "Oh, Alastor," you sighed, "what have you done?"

He didn't reply. Didn't move. He told himself he was overcome with indignation, but you knew he was terrified.

After all, what was a mere demon compared to a god? A lesson already learned thanks to the gash of holy magic still festering on his chest.

Using nothing but a soft breath, you forcibly calmed his magic whirlwind like light pressure upon a crying puppy's head. For the first time in nearly a century, Alastor felt … he felt.

With his weaponized despair slightly pushed aside, something of the original, weak man was revealed to still be curled up deep within.

The small saucepan of broth was beginning to bubble over, so you quickly released him to remove it from the heat. Alastor stood frozen to the spot.

Mortal men had predictable reactions to true power. The Radio Demon is no different.

Before he could think to dissolve away, or lash out desperately, or come to any other useless conclusion, you turned back and hovered a steady hand above his trembling, outstretched fingers. Slowly you touched him and allowed your warmth to penetrate his hollow flesh.

Several agonizing seconds passed. He finally turned his gaze at a snail's pace to stare at the point of contact.

The clammy slide of a corpse's arm as he dragged it through the bayou. The hot gush of arterial blood. The barely tolerated passing grip of polite handshakes. The loving touch of a long dead mother.

His smile pried itself open to take a shaking inhale. But still, no words came out.

He needn't speak, though. A wordless promise was clear. Bloodied demon he may be, but you were someone who will always grope and crawl blindly towards love even if the world fought against you. It was what powered your magic. True power couldn’t be fueled by flesh, or blood, or minerals or elements or words or fear or anger.

A cursed man bore his terrified gaze into your shining ones, asking one very important question. You relayed a yes through the squeezing of his fingers.

Now this, you thought warmly, is true entertainment.

#alastor #alastor the radio demon #hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #alastor x reader

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foreficfandom · 3 months

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POV: You Are Actually MUCH More Powerful Than Alastor (1/2)

(Alastor x Reader, g/n, queerplatonic/sex and romance favorable, fan theories, God!Reader)

Overlords are common sinners that boast many indentured servants to their name. Some also focus on physical territory. Some, like Alastor, don't bother. After all, radio knows little physical limitations.

Every Overlord had their own method of gaining prowess. Know one knows how Alastor became so dangerous. The strongest of the lords. Possibly stronger than some goetia royalty.

You weren't sure, either, but you had an inkling.

Because unbeknownst to anyone, you weren't some common sinner soul.

You were unique. A being originating far from this Christian realm of Heaven and Hell. You were undying, or a reincarnation, or a demigod. But you kept on the down low, 'cause attention would have meant trouble.

You could feel that Alastor's magic was a dark, bloody thing, nestled deep in his chest and hooked tightly like barbed wire. It tasted like sacrifices. It smelled like ultraviolet. And you knew it was borrowed, almost seeing the leash around his neck out of the corner of your eye.

Through a shared interest in the Hazbin Hotel, you and Alastor became acquaintances. Months later, you were proper friends. You could tell that Alastor valued the kind and pure of heart, even if he also believed them pitiful. Because they reminded him of a pleasant, happier life. A hidden part of him wanted to believe in their hope and love.

He thought you were just another sinner soul, and you didn't give him a reason to know any better. You had a job as part of the hotel staff. Their accountant, or security, or maintenance. Or their head concierge, guest service agent, auditor, what have you. Something vital to the business, but nothing glamorous. Labor has always been your most successful mask.

He was growing to love again. His mortal self might have been more recipient of affections and bonds, but decades living in hell has twisted him, and you could see him despair over the lump in his throat. His defeat at the hands of Adam proved his limits. You felt him writhe for weeks afterwards, and you let him reap what he sowed.

Curious, you sneaked away one evening and drew from your well of power to step through the fabric of time, finding yourself on the shores of Lake Pontchartrain to watch a young Alastor drink the blood from a bloody corpse, and spitting it over his shoulder. Some loa watched this bastardized libation from across the crossroads, but what answered was far more malevolent.

Alastor agreed to a very dangerous exchange. He now had hold over magic impressive enough for a mortal, but you knew it to be a relatively bum deal compared to true power. He would hunger constantly for flesh just to feed its energy, which was a cleverly hidden clause to curse him further through devilish consumption. His shadow sprouted antlers and a maw of sharp teeth.

For two decades, Alastor hunted and ate. Always male victims, usually white men, individuals some might damn as monsters themselves - the abusers, the genociders, the murderously entitled. What was once a scared young man grew hollow and fat on the power.

You've seen enough. Stepping through once more, you joined Alastor in cooking an orzo for shrove Tuesday. Sharpening your gaze, you watched his reflection on the shiny metal surface of a pot, and saw the stitches embedded in his face, pulling tight and vicious.

You nonchalantly asked, "How did you become so proficient at the kitchen knife?"

"Well, I was taught that one could eat, or they could eat well," he replied in a sing-song voice. "And practice makes perfect! Hunger is truly the best teacher."

The meat he was pairing was pork, but you knew he's served human flesh for dinner at least once before. You didn't say anything, because they'd grow suspicious at how you could possibly know from just the smell.

Alastor allowed only you to join him in cooking, partly because he favored you so much more, also because you were a right hand at making a meal. You didn't mention that millennia of existence made one a right hand at any skill.

And tonight, he would begin to see it.

Leaving the broth to simmer, you grabbed a small pairing knife and one of the tomatoes. Instead of simply coring and slicing, you inserted 0.013'' of carbon, chromium, and manganese right between where the molecular cells of epidermis ended at the pericarp. In a single momentum of both your knife and the tomato, the skin was perfectly peeled within two rotations.

Alastor wasn't even looking at you. But he froze over the cutting board, rictus smile sharp.

You haven't even used magic yet.

Both the tomato epidermis and its flayed flesh were completely free of any trace of the other, so in one hand, you ignited the skin to transmogrify into a tiny figurine made out of its glycerin wax. In the other, the tomato was sacrificed in a hole of light-bending void for its animal equivalent - the tiny heart of some small animal, possibly a bird or an amphibian, beating calmly as if alive.

Alastor slowly turned his head to watch as a miniature wax replica of himself held the heart in both shaking hands, before doubling over to devour it whole, its relative size and gore very reminiscent of a large, juicy tomato.

A picture perfect snapshot of his fifth or sixth murder while alive. Some world war veteran that still longed for the battlefield and had exercised his frustration upon his mother and younger siblings. The man might have been rotten, but his warrior's blood had burned hot and nourished Alastor's gaping void particularly well.

(NEXT)

#alastor #alastor x reader #hazbin hotel #alastor the radio demon #hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel imagines

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foreficfandom · 3 months

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"Radio's Not Dead"

Vox has television and internet. Velvette has social media. Valentino has adult content.

Alastor has radio. And, as many rightfully point out, listening to the radio is a dying pastime.

But radio waves are as relevant as ever. In fact, it's radio waves that still power the internet, wireless streaming, cell phones, GPS, satellites, digital clocks, sonar, microwaves, remote controls, and more.

The same radio frequencies that can be picked up by some 3-foot-tall, 1930 vacuum tube radio are the same frequencies that we now use to play multiplayer video games, or stream torrents. If they're higher, faster frequencies, we use them to microwave food because they vibrate molecules and produce heat. If they're lower, we use them in sonar technologies deep underwater, or to penetrate miles below the earth's mantle and 'see' what's underneath.

It makes sense why the Vees wanted Alastor as part of their team. He represents the backbone of their domains. All wireless communication and entertainment owes thanks to radio.

#hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #alastor #alastor the radio demon #hazbin hotel vox #hazbin hotel velvette #hazbin hotel vees

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foreficfandom · 3 months

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Why Was Alastor A Serial Killer?

I'm willing to bet that Hazbin Hotel is trying to avoid the true crime route of portraying serial killers with gritty 'realism'. Characters kill for theatrical reasons, not because the creative team is doing a deep dive into criminal minds.

I foresee Alastor's serial killer spree to be plot-spurred. Not because he's gonna be revealed to have antisocial personality disorder, or a psychopath, or something polarizing like that.

Realistically, any of the current Hazbin Hotel cast could have a personality disorder. Real-life serial killers aren't profiled (by USA FBI) to be more likely to have mental illnesses. After all, there are other serial killers than the ones you hear about most often. Serial killers are also the organized criminals, or abusive husbands, or political/religious extremists. They may or may not view their victims as fellow individual humans. They may or may not be influenced by bigotry.

Hazbin Hotel is a musical comedy first and foremost. It follows Loony Toons rules over Hannibal, or The Cell, or Silent Hill. It's possible that Alastor's serial killer past won't ever be a plot point. It's as relevant as any other character's reason for being in hell.

If his serial killer spree is ever addressed, I theorize it might be because:

They were magical sacrifices. Alastor's magical abilities take heavy hits from Hollywood 'voodoo'. One of the smear accusations against New Orleans' budding Vodou culture (especially against Marie Laveau of the Victorian era) were sacrificial rituals performed in areas like on the shores of Lake Pontchartrain. If Alastor was dabbling in magic during his living years, he might have killed and cannibalized solely for sacrificial reasons. Possibly involving his supposed 'deal', as well.

They were 'vigilante' targets. The lyrics in the pilot include the lines And we'll chlorinate this cesspool / With some old redemption flair. He values good manners. He doesn't believe in taking advantage of the weaker. One background concern of the Hazbin Hotel (and Helluva Boss) universe is the sheer number of humans who end up in hell, all equal in their sin. Like the angelic exorcists that descend to cull the herd, it'd be appropriate for a character to have a hand in playing a similar role whilst mortal. Or, at least, that's how he saw himself.

It wasn't spur killing, all the victims were connected. We've never had a full plot centered on why a soul ended up in hell. Canonical reasons have been revealed in side material, such as Angel Dust's organized crime and drug use. As the seasons continue, there may come a day where a character's mortal sins become very relevant. Many a protagonist has found themselves racking up a body count all of a sudden, thanks to his hero's journey. Perhaps that resulted in Alastor's notoriety.

Alastor was a living demon, and he consumed humans. His serial killing is one thing, cannibalizing his victims is another. He's obsessed with consumption and partaking in flesh. The pilot ends with his hunger for his mother's recipe. His side comic has him eating eggs at a cafe, then visiting Cannibal Town, then visiting a butcher to buy more food. He canonically dislikes sweets and is a snobby foodie that dislikes processed food. There's only three proper food scenes in season 1, and he's two of them - the deer, and when he eats other sinners in his monstrous form. If he made some sort of devilish deal while alive, perhaps the cost was the need for flesh. Thus gave rise to a human with inhuman bloodlust.

His reasons won't ever be revealed. Or, they'll be unimportant. We don't particularly care what gang Angel Dust ran with as a mafia grunt, and perhaps we're also meant to take Alastor's serial killing at face value. At of this writing, we poke and prod at the guy 'cause he's this huge mystery, but maybe we'll grow to care solely for his contemporary actions, and not for his backstory.

We may get our answer one day, but for now, he remains an enigma.

#alastor headcanons #alastor the radio demon #alastor #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel headcanon #hazbin alastor

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foreficfandom · 3 months

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Alastor - Historical Trivia And Headcanons

Alastor was a mixed-race Creole man living in New Orleans, and was in his 30's/40's when he died in 1933. We don't know much else about him, but historical context can provide us with possible additional details:

The population of New Orleans in 1930 was 458,762, more than it is now. 27.2% of the people were black, 3.1% were foreign-born, and roughly half of America's bipoc population was unemployed thanks to the Great Depression. New Orleans' original Francophonication was still strong, and it was common to run into locals who only spoke French dialects (Cajun French, Louisiana Creole). The city has had a huge Chinatown, a small Little Italy, and multiple other districts known for their immigrant African/colonized French cultures.

The Jim Crow laws were heavily enforced, as was the 'One Drop' rule. If Alastor was a mixed race black man, he would not have been able to attend a white school, use the same public transport, and would have shopped at black-local stores and restaurants under threat of violence. If he was mixed with any other race, some Jim Crow laws didn't apply, but state or city laws might specify differently.

Just because Alastor wears a suit, it doesn't mean he was rich in life. Radio personalities often didn't earn a fortune. Unless he owned his own broadcast, he was paid by a private company for long shifts of hosting music, news, and radio plays. In 1930, 40% of households owned at least one radio, which means that a popular radio host would have been easily recognized.

If he was in his late 30's in 1933, he might have fought in WW1, so long as he was over the age of 21. Some cities gave veterans small benefits, or encouraged the community to give them jobs. This often did not include veterans of color.

New Orleans was famous for being one of the least Christian cities in America, thanks to its unique immigrant and slave population. Haitian-based faiths and practices (such as voudo), indigenous cultures, Asian Buddhism, and atheism were common. But Christianity was still the official, law-enforced religion. Schooling involved reading the Bible, laws were sworn to Jesus, etc.

Alastor's outfit in Hazbin Hotel isn't very accurate to real-life American men's fashions of the time. Back then, deviating from the norm with the smallest detail would have stuck out like a sore thumb - like his white-lined lapels. Men always wore a hat. They were allowed to go without a waistcoat, but not a jacket. Belts were becoming more popular than suspenders. The silhouette was bulkier than the slimmer, Italian cuts of our modern times, especially the pants. Hair was kept short, and oiled down in a side part. Americans preferred the clean shaven look. Ties were essential unless you were a blue-collar laborer. Colors were almost universally muted neutral tones for everyday wear. The most colorful textiles for men were sporting outfits, like a tennis jacket.

If Alastor was a middle-class single man, he likely would have lived in an inner-city apartment, in an ethnic neighborhood. He probably didn't own a car, and took public transit like the streetcars. If he owned a house, it would likely have been an inheritance, and even the more opulent houses of the time would have looked small and plain to our eyes.

Because of the Great Depression, unmarried men were becoming the norm, rather than the exception. Men of the community who were sought after but remained single were suspect to gossip, but less ire than you might think; in the '30s, American queer culture was going through a very sharp revival, escaping the rigid Victorian era and before the puritan 40's/50's. But as a mixed-race man, it may have been illegal for a white woman to marry him, as the Jim Crow laws forbade the marriage of white people and Black/Asian people.

A middle class city household would have had electricity, gas heating, indoor plumbing, but may not have had running taps or a gas stove. Even with decent means, Alastor might have been using a potbelly woodburning stove, a dry sink/washbasin, wooden bathtub, and did his own laundry instead of sending it to the neighborhood laundresses. He may or may not have bothered with an icebox. Fresh groceries needed to be cooked and eaten soon, as things like pasteurized milk or store refrigeration wasn't a thing.

If he had enough money, then he almost certainly hired maids or other servants. Whether the maid came over just once a week, or did the shopping and laundry every other day, hired help was much more common back then, especially if he had no wife.

The most popular musicians in 1933 were Bing Crosby, George Olsen, and Leo Reisman. As you might have noticed, it was trendy for the lead singer to be backed by an orchestra, not a 'band' of just four other people like today. The most popular radio shows were Dick Tracy, Sherlock Holmes, and Doc Savage. They were recordings the radio station would buy and then broadcast, or sometimes the actors were live on the air. The radio host was usually not the journalist - the production team was responsible for writing his script.

#alastor #alastor the radio demon #hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #alastor headcanons #hazbin hotel headcanon

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foreficfandom · 2 years

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Get Their Makeup Look! Ft. The Boys of Tears Of Themis

Artem Wing (左然 - Zuǒ Rán)

Virtue's Frizz Block Humidity Proof Smoothing Spray

Laura Mercier's Tinted Moisturizer Oil Free Natural Skin Perfector SPF 20 in "2W1 Natural (light with warm undertones)"

Farmacy's Honey Butter Beeswax Lip Balm

HERMÈS' Terre d'Hermès Eau Givrée Eau de Parfum

Vyn Richter (莫弈 - Mò Yì)

BondiBoost's Hair Thickening Therapy Styling Spray

La Mer's The Powder

Armani Beauty's Acqua di Gio Eau de Parfum

Givenchy's Rose Perfecto Lip Balm 24H Hydration in "002 Vital Glow (transparent coral)"

Marius Von Hagen (陸景和 - Lù Jǐnghé)

Urban Decay's 24/7 Glide-On Waterproof Eyeliner Pencil in "Zero (black)"

Dior's Dreamskin Fresh & Perfect Cushion Broad Spectrum SPF 50 in "020 Light Beige (light: neutral undertone)

Ralph Lauren's Ralph's Club Parfum

NARS' Afterglow Lip Balm in "Torrid (sheer warm coral)"

Luke Pearce (夏彦 - Xià Yàn)

Lancôme's Teint Idole Ultra Wear All Over Full Coverage Concealer in "320 Bisque Warm (medium skin, warm undertone)"

Drunk Elephant's Lippe Balm

LANEIGE's Water Bank Blue Hyaluronic Cream Moisturizer

Caudalie's Vinofresh Natural Aluminum-Free Deodorant

Why these choices? Well, let me tell you!

Like many professional men in Asia, Artem wears a touch of makeup par his typical work outfit, especially if you're the face of the company. Which Artem definitely is, he appears on media every time he finishes a case. A touch of powder for the flash cameras, a dab of hairspray to smooth out his hair. During the boomer era, it was considered fruity to even wear cologne to work, but times are different now. He almost never branches out from his favorites. He doesn't even shop in the boutiques anymore, he just replaces his stock using online shipping.

Virtue's Frizz Smoothing Spray is odorless, and helpfully lightweight for its medium-thick hair focused formula. Artem has a modestly thick mop on his head, and without just a bit of product, it'll lie annoyingly flat and frizzy, especially if its humid. He sprays it at the roots to give it lift.

He gets Laura Mercier's Tinted Moisturizer in shade "2W1 Natural", which is for light skintones with warm undertones. It's a light-to-medium formula, perfect for covering up eyebags and smoothing out the face, but light enough to avoid looking like a patch of rubber. Oil-free means it's not gonna add extra shine to his Asian complexion, and he knows that SPF protection is vital for healthy skin. Most of his workday is spent in front of blue-screen monitors, so liquid products are best for avoiding a weird unnatural glare reflecting off your face.

Farmacy's Lip Balm is a forever staple in his pocket. He drinks so much coffee and not water, his lips are forever cracked and patchy. Without a good lip balm, he'd be peeling all over his chin and that's not proper for Stellis' youngest senior attorney. One swipe of this can last hours. It's flavorless and has only the mildest scent, so there's not a sticky smell right under his nose all day.

HERMÈS' Terre d'Hermès Eau Givrée is on the subtle side of perfumes. It's piney and citrusy, reminicent of a sophisticated summer breeze. Most people describe it as an 'older gentleman's perfume', 'cause its decidedly not sugary or spicy or fun. But it's professional, and suits Artem's reserved personality.

Vyn didn't start wearing makeup daily until he moved to Stellis, but he had prior experience with wearing cosmetics for the public eye. When he saw that a) professional men of Asia like to wear makeup on the reg, and b) he looks good with the proper products, he made that effort to build up a boudoir of luxury beauty products. Unlike Artem, Vyn knows he looks especially beautiful and he likes to primp it juuuust a tad. Shopping for the proper products can be a struggle for white guy Vyn, because the more luxurious you go, the less inclusive they'll be. He's got a cool-toned complexion, fine hair, and dry skin, which is the opposite of Asia's target audience.

Vyn couldn't find proper designer hair products for his hair type, so he went down the line a bit to get BondiBoost's Hair Thickening Styling Spray, which is a more modestly priced brand and that secretly hurts Vyn's bougie soul. But he can't deny it works wonders on his very fine, very delicate hair. It's a texturing spray that clings to the roots to provide lift and volume. He also likes how its unscented, because he thinks most scented hair products smell like ass.

Speaking of bougie, La Mer's The Powder comes in a teeny pot and costs more than a week's worth of groceries. They market it as appropriate for everyone, but it's obvious that it's formulated best for people like Vyn; it has a radient finish to help combat dull dryness, it's not completely translucent and has the slightest pale cast, and smooths out the fine lines that drier skin gets. But its hefty price comes with quality for sure, and it does its job amazingly well.

Armani Beauty's Acqua di Gio isn't the only perfume he owns, but it's one of his favorites for work. It's long lasting and appropriately strong, but doesn't give off any one particular ingredient. It's best described as just "fresh", or "aquatic". Working with mentally ill patients means that he can't have any aggravating sensory distractions, so he applies just enough to make sure it's not gonna reach across the distance between a psychologist's chair and a patient's bed.

Givenchy's Rose Perfecto in "002 Vital Glow (transparent coral)" provides both color and hydration. It also contains the tingly plumping agent that swells your lips just a tad, which thin-lip Vyn appreciates. Not as tingly as many lip plumping products, it feels more like a subtle minty freshness than a dentist's numbing gel. He, unlike Artem, enjoys scented lip products and likes the floral smell it gives off, it reminds him of his garden.

Unlike the other three, Marius loves makeup for its artistry, and is not afraid to wear the colorful, or wild, or niche. Which is easier said than done because his PR team gets on his ass if he dares go to class in green eyeshadow or a chrome metallic lipstick. He might like to say that they can't tell him what to wear, but Marius is pious to his family, and doesn't dare destroy his own image in a way that might affect them, too.

He gets the Urban Decay's 24/7 Waterproof Eyeliner Pencil in the more natural "Zero (Black)" than their "Perversion (Matte Blackest Black)", so he can pull off a more convincing 'thick lashline' look rather than full on goth. With some mascara and eyebrow pomade, Marius has popularized a famous 'casual bedroom eyes' moment. This pencil will stay on all day, whether its through the college grind or sweating it in the business conference room, so much it'll takes several swipes of a makeup remover to get it all off.

Dior's Dreamskin Fresh & Perfect Cushion is an infamously expensive liquid foundation, available in four shades. One of which fits Marius' spring/fall complexion. So this is his daily go-to, it's lightweight and evens out his skintone just enough, while providing lots of SPF to upkeep Marius' delicate richboy look for years to come. If he's got blemishes typical of any 20 y/o, this product also meshes well with any additional concealer without separating or curdling. Honestly, wearing something so luxurious is more for the PR than the foundation itself.

Ralph Lauren's Ralph's Club Parfum comes in a sexy opaque matte glass bottle reminicent of a whiskey flask. And its scent matches its ridiculous 'manly' marketing; it's woody and spicy with cardamom, patchouli, and the deep warmth of vetiver wood. It doesn't match Marius' general appearance and personality, that's for sure, but it matches his natural BO. 'Cause young Marius is surprisingly potent smelling, shall we say, and a deeper, spicier perfume goes best with him.

NARS' Afterglow Lip Balm caught Marius' eye just by its name, same with their 'Orgasm' blush palettes. It only gives the slightest bit of color, and it wears off pretty quickly, but that's exactly what Marius needs because colored lips tend to look too childlike on his baby face. So he keeps this in his pocket throughout the day to make sure his lips aren't dull and dry, but not rose pink like a porcelain doll, either.

Luke didn't start wearing most of his current products until MC came back into his life, and one day he looked into the mirror and noticed all those blemishes and acne scars and freaked out just a tiny bit. After googling "beginner makeup for men" for an afternoon, he got his hands on some skincare staples, and a cosmetic or two. Most are only for date nights, he doesn't wear concealer when undercover in the field, or investigating throughout the city. And if he's being honest, he doesn't particularly like having makeup on his face, it feels weird and kinda gross to him.

Lancôme's Full Coverage Concealer is full coverage, and by god will it cover up any bruises, dark shadows, healing cuts, scars, etc. Heck, even interviewing people while investigating goes over better if he's not walking around with a black eye, so this concealer was a great discovery for Luke. It's not just for his face, he applies it anywhere clothing can't cover, like hand-shaped bruises around his neck, or a purpling cut around his forearm.

Luke didn't start balming his lips until he started caring about looking more pretty for MC, so he picked up the boutique brand Drunk Elephant's Lippe Balm which contains all natural ingredients, and has no smell or color. He feels better knowing that the goop he's spreading all over his face doesn't contain any cheap, harsh chemicals, 'cause he may have a biology degree, but he has no idea how [insert chemical here] might affect topical skin. It helps that he doesn't have particularly dry lips, so the natural ingredients of this balm fit him just fine.

LANEIGE's Water Bank Blue Moisturizer is an Asia-orienting brand that focuses on oily/combination skin. This product is very lightweight, great for Luke's sweaty, active lifestyle so there's no clogged pores, and he enjoys its light scent, which is that 'vague luxury smell' which makes him feel like he's injecting a paycheck into his face. Growing up, he didn't even bother washing his face with soap most of the time, so this moisturizer has a lot of catching up to do.

Caudalie's Vinofresh Natural Aluminum-Free Deodorant is by far the only deodorant he's tried (or owns), but he still owns no cologne, so he had to get something better than supermarket Dove for Men if he wants to impress. This stick is a clear gel that won't leave those ugly white stains on his black shirts, and it moisturizes the skin, too, which is great for regulating sweat and oil. It's another all-natural product, which means it's not at superbly powerful as the synthetic ones, but it's healthier for the delicate underarm ecosystem.

#Tears of Themis #vyn richter #Luke Pearce #artem wing #marius von hagen #tot #tot imagines #tot headcanons

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foreficfandom · 2 years

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Tears Of Themis Headcanons - Chinese Culture

Never forget, western audiences ... the boys are irrevocably Chinese!

Luke Pearce, 夏彦 (Xià Yàn)

His go-to foods include burgers and fries, but Chinese burger chains offer different fares than classic Americana. McDonald’s has a double-sausage in-between two burger buns, KFC has multiple curry rice dishes, pizza chains offer corn, country ham, and peas as toppings, etc. Breakfast menu items are congee and fried doughs, not egg and bacon croissants. You can get boba tea, sweet red bean soup, and taro pies. His favorites are the meat-heavy, double patty, triple sausage items.

It’s becoming trendier in China to join fancy gyms and work out for the sake of working out, wearing luxury brand compression suits and sport watches. Luke, on the other hand, is a government secret agent, so other muscleheads look down on him for using equipment that’s not top-of-the-line, god forbid his ratty old shorts and shirt.

Alcohol allergies are common amongst Asian people. Luke is the only one out of the three ethnically Chinese boys to NOT have an intolerance to booze. He loves a good beer on tap, which can be hard to find in a city that likely prioritizes bottles. It’s not like the American Midwest where 1-3 bars have proper kegs.

China’s gun laws are pretty strict. The vast majority of civilians will never touch a gun. Even those authorized the use of firearms, like Luke, cannot keep their guns and are only allowed use during specific scenarios.

Like many city folk in China, he appreciates the finer details of a good coffee. And like many of them, he doesn’t drink it regularly every morning like Westerners do. It’s more analogous to an ‘afternoon tea’ occasion, or to pair with dessert.

China’s government isn’t some villainous underground dictatorship like Westerners have been brainwashed into thinking. It’s actually pretty one-to-one with America’s police state. Luke being a secret government agent would be like if he was part of the FBI, or CIA. With all the iffiness it implies.

Artem Wing, 左然 (Zuǒ Rán)

Much of China can speak multiple dialects, like Cantonese, Mandarin, varieties of Hokkien. Artem’s main dialect is Mandarin, but he grew up also knowing Cantonese and Min Chinese, which is what his mother grew up speaking. This is on top of him knowing German (and presumably English, going by his education)

So from his mother’s side, he’s ethnically Hoklo - a sub-ethnicity of the Han. Those living in the metropolises sometimes don’t speak the older Hokkiens, but instead the more urbanized Min.

If Stellis isn’t based off of Macau or Hong Kong (and I seriously doubt it is), then Artem is working under the typical Judicial System Of China; it’s pretty similar to America’s, there’s the three branches of law and cases go through different courts of type and severity. Biggest difference is that there’s no jury, but instead the people’s assessors which act as additional judges on a panel.

His favorite sci-fi classics are The War Of The Worlds and Ringworld. The more fantastic and science-based, the better. Sci-fi lites like Logan’s Run or 1984 isn’t as eye-catching. He’s even read trashy ones like the Halo novels. When he reads, he always does so in its original English. He buys both Mandarin and English translations of his favorite books.

I feel like Artem represents the Asian ‘born to work’ mentality that a lot of people grew up with. You study hard ‘cause you have to, find a good job ‘cause you have to, and after that .... who are you really? You have to essentially find yourself and what you actually enjoy in life. Many Asian people start doubting this life around Artem’s age.

Everyone knows Artem can cook. But he’s not defaulting to chicken noodle soup or lasagna like many players write him doing, he’s making savory pea jelly, fried rice noodles, and wrapping his own xiao long baos with super thin homemade wraps that never pop in the broth. Of course he knows how to make beef stroganoff or whatever, but it’s not his specialty.

The people of China are more willing to get into other people’s business if they see something they think is not right. Not like America or the UK, where strangers will largely just duck their heads and walk right past. So Artem has, more than once, stepped into some escalating argument on the street to speak his piece as a Proper Lawyer. Once, it was when a mom was threatening to beat her son’s ass. Another time, it was when some guys were planning on scamming a visiting foreigner.

Marius von Hagen, 陆景和 (Lù Jǐnghé)

It’s kinda gross, but he’s got the patented Thick Earwax Gene that some Asians have. He literally has to regularly dig ‘em out using small wooden scoops, or it’ll impact his hearing. He dreams of one day lying atop his love’s lap as they clean his ears for him, which is one of the weirder Asian traditions, but no one can deny it feels great.

Even today, some Chinese people look down on those who wear China brands of clothing, rather than foreign imports. Marius actually gains a bit of infamy for having some China-born brands in his closet. He’s not making a statement, he literally just buys stuff he thinks is cute, and sometimes it’s from an ANNAKIKI boutique, fuck the haters.

At 188cm (6′1 ft), he towers above the average crowd. Other men are jealous, women find it especially attractive, but he considers it more of a hindrance. His legs suffer greatly in any car that’s not, like, a BMW or something, and none of the college lecture furniture offer any sort of wiggle room for his long limbs. He’s lucky he’s rich, ‘cause very little ready-made clothing is fit for his build.

It’s relatively common for Chinese men to wear makeup like foundation, powders, and light lip tints, but not even the women tend to go for the wilder, colorful eyeshadows and glosses. Whenever Marius puts on his purple liner, every gossip rag in the country gushes over his ‘innovative’ look. Every time. Not like it’s innovative anymore, after the 40th time he’s put on bold colors.

Calling an unknown girl ‘jie-jie’ is flirting with her. ‘Missy’ isn’t the proper contextual translation, it’d be more like ‘sweetheart’, something that can be pretty condescending.

Unlike tattoos, piercings are more frowned upon in old Confucius tradition. So Marius having an entire lineup of conches and helixes was more scandal-worthy than his little ankle tat. His liberal dad doesn’t care, but some of his PR keep telling him to leave off the rook studs, at least.

Vyn Richter, 莫弈 (Mò Yì)

The only foreigner - and white guy - out of the four. I headcanon Svart being based off of Lithuania, so Vyn grew up speaking Lithuanian, Russian, Ukrainian, English, and Polish (wow!). He took Mandarin throughout his education, and he further refined his fluency as a citizen of China Stellis. No one ever mentions that he has an accent, and none of his voice actors ever fake a shitty European lilt, so his Mandarin is completely natural sounding.

But he only knows Mandarin. Even Luke can read some Cantonese. He’s got enough languages bouncing around his noggin, and it was hard enough trying to grasp Mandarin in a medical/academic setting.

Speaking of being a white guy, it was weird in the beginning to live in a country that actually doesn’t cater to his hair texture, or peach skin tone, or high bridged nose. Many luxury brands don’t stock a diverse range of goods like mid-range boutique names do, so it takes him a while to track down a salon quality shampoo that doesn’t sap his scalp of all moisture.

The English translation of the game seems to flip-flop between Vyn’s job as either a psychologist, or psychiatrist. None of the other translations do. To be clear; a psychologist is like a therapist with a doctorate. A psychiatrist’s only job is to prescribe meds and not therapy. Since Vyn is only seen doing the latter and never the former, it’s pretty clear that he’s a psychologist.

Going by the CN voice actors, Stellis is likely located in Southern China, which makes the botanist in Vyn very happy because of how temperate the weather is. Winters get snow, but no frost. Summers are humid. This kind of weather can support a huge variety of flora, so Vyn goes ham on his garden.

White people don’t necessarily stick out in the bigger metropolises of China, but white people with platinum blond hair and super light eyes will turn heads everywhere except in, like, Scandinavia, probably. He grew up under the scrutinizing public eye, so he’s used to it. What really gave him pause was when some old conservative grandpa insisted he dye his hair black.

#tears of themis #mihoyo #luke pearce #artem wing #marius von hagen #vyn richter #tot headcanons #tot imagines

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foreficfandom · 3 years

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Tag Yourself: Ace Attorney Aesthetics!

❁ Phoenix Wright: Collecting coupons. Hearty stew for a winter dinner. Homemade embroidered handkerchief. The clacking of an old keyboard. Coffee mug collection. Apple turnovers. Warm cardigans in the spring. Mint chapstick. The smell of maple wood. Children’s cereal. Watching the sun set over a concrete jungle.

☯ Maya Fey: Collecting cheap earring studs. Incense-stained fingers. Pirating movies. Dipping fries into milkshakes. Fairy lights. Temporary tattoos. Shiba inu puppies. Lilac silk. Fir needle tea. Neon headphones. Moss-covered stone. Tinted fruit lipgloss. Burgundy wood. The tinkling sound of tiny bells.

♕ Miles Edgeworth: Earl Grey at sunrise. Knit cardigans. Leather-bound classical literature. Crushed velvet. A crackling fireplace. Painting in oils. Crystal decanters. Linen parchment paper. Designer-brand silverware. Jazz standards at 2am. Wine-red lipstick. Mahogany and maple. Taking long baths. The scratching of a pen on paper.

☀ Apollo Justice: Buzzing streetlamps. Midnight comic book binge. Character-themed shirts. Gummy candies. Vending machine stickers. The touch of fresh newsprint. Cans of cold beer. A field of summer grass. Quiet guitar ambience. Warm afternoon rain. Sandalwood and patchouli. Sipping coffee on the train at dawn.

♫ Klavier Gavin: Luxury skincare. Instagram pictures. Bulk bags of mini-sized Butterfingers. Black cold-brew coffee. Gunmetal crucifix earrings. 2am fast-food runs. Vintage polaroids. Sun-softened bedsheets. Malibu goth. Sophisticated old radio stations. Golden champagne. Overnight road trips in a luxury coach bus.

☾ Athena Cykes: Air Jordans. Mangonadas with extra lime. Nature hikes. Fruity-tasting tinted lip balm. Family movies. Wind chimes in the summer breeze. Eucalyptus and mint. Bubble baths. Vollyball on the beach. Painted terracotta flowerpots. Old scrapbooks. Pop songs from all around the world. Charcoal pencil stains. Fresh, warm bedsheets.

⤲ Simon Blackquill: Empty diners at midnight. Neon storefronts. Late-night Playstation sessions. Chilled bottles of artisanal stout beer. Framed ink paintings. Okazu bar food. Black leather boots. An autumn thunderstorm. Wasabi peas. Cast-iron pots and pans. The smell of nail polish. Dried lotus pods. Pure, undisturbed morning snow.

♤ Franziska von Karma: Dior lipstick. Concerto piano. Fountain pens. Almond trifle dessert in a five-star hotel. Clove cigarettes. Filled moleskin sketchbooks. Ten pairs of Louboutin heels. Bourbon cherries. Marble columns. The creaking of Italian leather. White onyx and silver chains. Loose-leaf tea. A delicately perfumed restrain order.

❀ Nahyuta Sahdmadhi: Bamboo broth during a chilly spring evening. Delicate embroidery. Echoing footsteps. An engraved elk antler haircomb. Artisanal wool tapestries. Rice water. A pale sunrise. Sparrowsong in the wind. Warm hands. Wooden chests. Stained glass roofs. Willow tree blossoms. Roast whole lamb with peppercorn and herb.

#ace attorney #phoenix wright #miles edgeworth #apollo justice #athena cykes #klavier gavin #simon blackquill #maya fey #franziska von karma #nahyuta sahdmadhi

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foreficfandom · 4 years

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Mystic Messenger - First Time With MC (Lemon)

(Author’s notes: These scenarios do NOT assume a gender for MC, but do write the boys penetrating the reader.)

– Zen –

This isn’t his first rodeo, but he’s not exactly experienced; he’s had, like, one-and-a-half relationships before you. It’s been years since he’s had partnered sex.

And he’s never had sex-ed, either, so his knowledge of the Nasty is kinda lacking. He thinks he can re-use condoms as long as he keeps it on, he believes coconut oil can be used with latex, he thinks birth control pills act as a spermicide, and so on.

You and him initiate sex pretty early on in the relationship, perhaps merely a few days after the RFA party. He’s very romantic about it, too, planning a whole day in advance with rose petals on the bed and scented candles dotting his room. But in the middle of making out, you ask if he’s clean, and he pulls back, confused. “... I think? I mean, I haven’t been with anybody in years, so ...”

Turns out he’s never been tested for STDs. He’s almost offended when you bring it up, like you’re insinuating he’s been cheating on you. You have to explain that getting tested is just what everyone does before having sex with someone for the first time.

So ... he’s not tested. “Can we ... still do it?” He’s blushing like crazy now, embarrassed he’s so behind on the know-how when he’s the one who wanted this in the first place.

Partnered sex can still be relatively safe even when an individual’s not been tested, so long as you use lots of protection. But depending on who you are, you might say no, just to be 100% safe. Either way, Zen’s disappointed - not in you, no way, but in himself. God, he’s been looking forward to this night for so long, and he fucked it up by being stupid. He stews in his thoughts silently for a while, and you can tell he’s feeling down so you cuddle him close to have a good long chat about sex, relationships, and communication. Afterwards, he feels much less insecure. The two of you take the rose petals and candles to the bathroom to enjoy your first romantic bath together, instead.

Two days later, he bounces back from the clinic with a negative on every test imaginable. It’s finally time to dig in, and go ham he does, passionately wrapping you into his arms while thrusting deep and slow, trying to have as much skin contact at all times. Oh, god, he loves you, and he’ll spend the whole night proving it.

(Except he definitely couldn’t last the whole night. Your first time having sex was a mere two turns before he clonked out. He’s still embarrassed about that.)

– Yoosung –

It’s his first time having sex, and he’s really nervous. He wants it, wants you badly, but oh my god what if he messes up? What if he farts? Or scratches you in the face? Or he thrusts weird and hurts you and you start bleeding or something?? Dear lord help him

He considers proposing sex like, eight different times. He’s always chickened out, just kissing you on the doorstep before saying goodbye, or letting you leave his dorm without offering to stay the night. It doesn’t help that his dorm is tiny, he’s got a twin bed barely big enough for him. And anybody passing by the door would hear what’s going on inside clear as day. Take his word on that.

He had spent several hours worth on his laptop, doing research on ‘how to have sex for the first time’. He’s got his list of positions to try, how to minimize pain and discomfort, etc, all memorized.. He eventually goes out to get condoms and lube, making sure to use the self-checkout.

You and him are hanging out in his dorm after a date, and he wasn’t even planning to suck it up and ask you, but you saw the condoms in the shopping bag he forgot to stow away, and you asked him gently, “do you want to be intimate with me, Yoosung?”

He blushes like crazy, you could swear you saw steam lines radiating from his face. But you take his hand in encouragement and he nods eagerly, looking anywhere else but your eyes. “I - I really want this, MC. I’ve been thinking about this for so long ...”

You can tell he’s nervous. The two of you sit on his bed and talk explicitly about what he wants, how you should proceed, what lines to avoid, and lots of other important details. A safeword is confirmed; ‘server maintenance’. He feels much more confident.

The two of you begin by just kissing on his bed, he slowly dares to feel up your shirt and eventually the clothes come off bit by bit. His body is lean and soft, and he’s loud, too. Just nipping at his pillowy tummy makes him cry out.

You give him oral, and he’s twisting around, grabbing at pillows and sheets like he’s tumbling down a cliff. He comes without warning and collapses, wrung out and overwhelmed with pleasure.

Some cuddling afterwards, and then he’s hard again and kissing at your neck. He asks you to ride him, and when you do, he’s sobbing without shame and grabbing hard at your hips.

Some time afterwards, when you and Yoosung are trying to cuddle on his bed without either of you toppling off, he remembers just how loud he’s been and dreads facing anybody in the building tomorrow. You just laugh and tuck him into the bedsheets.

– Jaehee –

She shyly shows off a beautiful new set of lingerie as her way of asking to ‘take the relationship to the next level’. And she’s a real bombshell in it. It’s sometimes easy to forget that Jaehee’s got a bod underneath her suit/cafe uniform.

Unlike certain younger boys, Jaehee didn’t feel the need to agonize over this night over a period of several months. This is a natural progression for her. Once things feel ready between the two of you, it’s natural that the question eventually comes up.

She first shows you her new lingerie in its original packaging, and waits to hear your ‘yes’. Then, it’s time to hop into the bathtub for a long soak and thorough wash before putting it on.

She also gets new toys. Entire shopping bags and shipping boxes filled with insertables, vibrators, pumps, impacts, (and also the supplies needed to maintain them). She didn’t come out and show you these all at once, she’d probably die of embarrassment if she did. But she had them all unwrapped, clean, tested, and ready to use in a discreet box.

You and she actually end up making out on the couch rather than the bedroom. She’s sitting in your lap dressed in her lingerie, you’re fully clothed, and things get so heated the two of you decide to go at it right there.

She’s surprisingly wild. She keeps as much of her lingerie on as possible, even while you’re knuckle deep or pelvis-to-pelvis. The floor is eventually lined with toys as one is used after the other. And she loves taking the initiative with a gentle but firm hand, directing the positions one after the other, or deciding what toy to be used where, and for how long.

A round on the couch, and Jaehee cools down long enough to freak out about staining the upholstery, so she ushers you into the bedroom while she busts out the Lysol.

After she cleans up, she joins you on the bed for some belated cuddling, and perhaps a second round. Or three.

And it’s actually in the middle of the day, not during the night, so the two of you are completely worn out by dinnertime. Food is takeout, and there’s a lot of it because you need to replenish all that energy.

Jaehee doesn’t get blushy until you feed her a bite of dessert. It’s cute how confident she is when it comes to sex, but shy about small acts of intimacy.

– Jumin –

He’s not a virgin, (not that it’s any of your business, Luciel), he had sex with a random girl back in college just to see what the fuss was about, and nothing else since then.

Jumin’s a conservative guy. “Liberalism can only flourish with a good foundation of conservatism.” He believes unmarried couples shouldn’t live together. Of course he’s not gonna be fond of having sex before tying the knot.

It’s not like he rushed the engagement for that reason, but if he was perfectly honest, he did wake up in a cold sweat at 3am when he remembered that this meant the two of you would be intimate very soon.

Jumin’s got that reputation for being some d/s sex-mad sadist daddy, but that’s not the full picture. You might be able to get him into that specific mood after the two of you establish your relationship more. But for the first few times, it’s all vanilla.

It takes a long while before the wedding actually happens. And, no, Jumin’s not gonna really want to have sex for that entire period. Sure, he’s excited about it, but it’s not a driving, burning need. You, on the other hand, might say differently.

So if you don’t want to wait four to five months, you’re gonna have to breach the topic yourself. And he’ll be torn - on one hand, he rationally realizes that it’s completely harmless to have consensual sex without martial ties. But he also believes in that supposed virtue of being abstinent until marriage. He also liked the romance of waiting. It’d make the moment more special for him.

Either way, he’s excited. The bed’s furnished with fresh sheets, the lights are dimmed, and there’s five dozen roses in crystal vases throughout the bedroom.

It’ll start with wine while sitting on the bed - if you don’t drink, you have a glass of something you prefer while he’s sipping on some $12,000 vintage - and he drills a hole in your face with his loving gaze while singing your virtues. He wants you naked before he is, so after some kissing you’ll be nude on the sheets while he finally takes his clothes off.

Jumin has no idea what sex is ‘supposed’ to look like, which is both good and bad - you can tell him to do anything, and he’s not gonna worry about feeling awkward or stupid. But he also needs to be told to do anything.

If you want him to go faster, or use more tongue, you have to tell him. He’s not gonna take the initiative. If you want him to switch positions, you need to describe exactly how you want to position yourselves. It’s a mixed blessing.

The first round goes quite a while because Jumin was taking it slow. There’s a second round where he gets more adventurous, and maybe a third round depending on how you feel.

The next morning, the chef’s been hired to prepare a special breakfast, and you can tell that they know. Jumin doesn’t care. He just smiles all day.

– Saeyoung –

He actually was a virgin, which was kinda a surprise. His agent job never require any sort of sex-related work, thank god, and it’s not like he ever earned the attention of anybody else before this point.

If an agency job had enough time to have sex while in the field, then that meant the job was going down the dumps fast. And whenever Agent 707 was involved, a job never nosedived that far.

It’s (semi) canon that Saeyoung asked to be intimate during the after-ending, while on the search for his brother. It was the night before all your plans would come to fruition, and he didn’t know he would come back alive. “I want to leave evidence on you that I existed.”

But it’s ALSO canon that in Saeyoung’s ‘dark chocolate’ Valentine’s Day ending, he asks to ‘take the relationship to the next level’. Which implies that the two of you haven’t had sex yet.

So what’s the dealio? Basically, Saeyoung wanted to have sex with you that night in the cabin, and after some kissing, you realized that you (1) didn’t have protection, (2) neither of you have been tested recently, and (3) your current emotional states weren’t ideal for sex, especially since Saeyoung was a virgin. He left a lot of hickies on your neck instead, and the two of you held each other close the whole night.

By the time Valentine’s Day rolled around, it had been two months since Saeran was rescued and Saeyoung was feeling a lot happier. You made it to the end of the scavenger hunt to find an amorous redhead that was ~prepared~ this time. An entire shopping bag full of prophylactics, lube, band-aids, water bottles, and everything.

He managed to fake a confident persona up until he undressed you fully, then he found himself blushing like crazy when you undressed him in turn. Damn, he really was hiding muscles underneath that hoodie. His arms were woven cable, and underneath his pudge you could feel shapely abs.

He asked to be on top, you complied, rolling over and allowing him to explore your body with his hands and mouth. It took three tries to enter you, because without his glasses, you were a bit of a blurry blob. But once he was in, he went at it. Maybe even a bit too enthusiastic for the first few thrusts, he was just running on some animalistic instinct he didn’t know he had.

Two minutes later, he was blindsided by a surprise orgasm. Embarrassed, he rolled off of you and buried his face into the sheets. You had to stroke his hair soothingly for ten minutes before he would look you in the face.

Saeyoung’s first evening of sex had one ‘disastrous’ first try, then a much better second run, and then after dinner there was a third ... and also .5 a prance while in the shower.

– Saeran –

You’re his first sexual partner, but more than that, today also marks a big step in his self-confidence. He’s cashing in his newfound tolerance for his body and constitution. Saeran spent most of his life hating his ‘weak’ health and thinking anybody’d be repulsed by him. He wouldn’t have sex if he didn’t believe differently.

So it’s probably several months - perhaps years - into your relationship that he even brings up having sex. Even though he may be ready, he’s still nervous and shy and unsure about how to proceed.

Before the big night, he spends several minutes in front of the mirror, looking at his body. He’s gained weight and a new color to his skin thanks to his healthier lifestyle, and there’s this confidence to his posture that wasn’t there before. A sparkle in his eye. It’s incredible how far he’s come from hating every inch of himself. He smiles.

He prepares one of his Patented Saeran’s Romantic Dinners, complete with candlelight and ambient music. The two of you have done this several times before, but this time there’s an electricity in the air ‘cause of what’s to come. You notice that the food has no garlic, or other strong smells. Saeran’s more cunning than he looks.

As dessert finishes up, he gets more quiet, until the conversation dies down and there’s nothing for it; he takes a deep breath and says, “....Sh-shall we go to bed?” Like this hasn’t been planned weeks in advance. The two of you walk hand-in-hand to the bedroom, where there’s even more candles and another stereo playing soft music, and you picture Saeran putting together a ‘having sex for the first time’ playlist.

You begin by kissing Saeran lying beneath you, but he stops you with a hand on your shoulder and asks to switch positions, because he doesn’t like the feeling of you hovering over him. It’s another mark of his progress that he asks for adjustments.

Things progress slowly. Saeran feels out what makes him feel anxious, and what makes him feel good. The two of you end up side-by-side as he takes you, facing each other with your legs wrapped around his waist. Very intimate. Very sweet. He loves threading his fingers through your hair, and he mewls every time you fondle his ears.

His health is still shaky, so he only has the stamina for one round before he needs to rest. He all but demands you inch as close as possible so he falls asleep holding you tight. When he wakes up the next morning, he’s got a 1000-watt smile.

– Jihyun –

Out of the entire wacky cast of Mystic Messenger boys, Jihyun’s the only actual experienced one. You don’t have to tell him that a single pack of five condoms is waaayy too little, you don’t have to explain what dental dams are, or worry about him using oil-based lube on accident, and he’s the only one who actually showers thoroughly beforehand.

It begins with your typical night of cuddling-and-kissing, then Jihyun says he’s clean and he’s got a bedside cabinet full of supplies. He gently holds your hand and asks, ‘”if you’d like …? We could … if you’re comfortable. If you’d have me.” He’s blushing, but he’s confident.

Of course, even if you’re experienced, the first time with anybody is gonna be awkward. And Jihyun’s a surprisingly big guy to maneuver. There’s a lot of accidental elbowing, bonking of the heads, kneeling on sensitive bits, and little scrapes. His long limbs seemingly end up everywhere on the bed, and it’s like you’re playing twister.

Mistakes just make him laugh. You trip over his outstretched forearm and face plant into his shoulder, and he just chuckles and pulls you into another kiss.

He’s just so soft and loving. ‘Cause to Jihyun, it’s about ~making love~. He wants to go slow, looking into your eyes, cradling your head and burying his face into the crook of your neck.

Tries to get you off first, either through oral or otherwise. He’s not a big fan of any positions that turn you away from him, it’s just too rough and aggressive. He’d rather carry you on his shoulders before he prefers doggy style.

Checks in with you constantly, asks what you like and where you like to be touched. Tries to get you to literally guide his hands. In turn, he asks you to please, touch his legs, his thighs ... yes, kiss me there -

For your first time, he’d rather have a one-two long sessions than multiple quick ones. He believes sex is one of the most intimate methods of non-verbal communication, and the longer you go in one sitting, the more is passed between the two of you.

He’s never used toys in his life. If you decide to pull one out for your first time, he’s gonna blush like crazy and actually decline. He wants the first night to be 'organic’. And he’s so driven towards that romantic face-to-face lovemaking, he won’t go too hard or fast, even if you’re begging him.

After the sex, he wraps you up in a cozy blanket before fetching some hot tea and fresh fruit. Then there’s several minutes spent reviewing how things went, what things worked well, or how they can improved. He catalogues it all for later.

He rarely wants to fall asleep right after sex, so you might pass out peacefully, but he’s gonna stay awake, just gazing at you for a while.

#mysme zen #Yoosung Kim #jaehee kang #jumin han #saeyoung choi #saeran choi #jihyun kim #mystic messenger #mystic messenger imagines #lemon

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