man--eater

[man--eater]

WIP Wednesday (it is Wednesday, isn't it?)

There's a bajillion things I could post because I have ADHD and there's an embarrassing amount of unfinished projects lying around. However, my big baby (Hazbin/Alastor x OC fic) has been my main focus, but not because of continuation.

Because I hate it. Or at least the current version of it.

So naturally, even though I struggle enough just to update it, I started to rewrite it. Like all of it. And I figured if I fell in love with it again (because I still love my OC and Alastor), then I'd be more motivated to have a better update schedule.

Anyway, feel free to read. I hope someone loves it as much as I do ❤️

(And if you'd like to read the story as it is right now, just know it is unfinished, but still being updated. You can find it here)

SN: if anyone knows of any Discord groups for fanfic writers/readers, let a girl know. Bonus points if they focus specifically on the Hazbin fandom. I love gushing over other works and it's hard trying to find a community on your own 🥹

June 30th, 1929

The afternoon sun blazed above, turning the New Orleans air into a suffocating blanket of heat and humidity. Beads of sweat were forming at the nape of my neck, gathering until they eventually traveled down my spine. They had dampened the fabric of my bustier, turning the soft lace into something itchy and constricting. Mosquitoes buzzed in my ears, their warning call before gorging themselves on my blood supply. Between swatting at them and the frequent dabbing at my damp skin, this little excursion of mine was becoming more overstimulating than it was relaxing. 

My gaze skimmed over the variety of herbs that had accumulated in the small wicker basket I held. I admired the palette of greens, yellows, and purples, yet the claws of defeat still sank their teeth in. There was a glaringly obvious absence of the one color I needed above the rest— a particular vibrant orange. A typical woman might have been satisfied with the bunches of dandelion, coneflower, and sassafras after spending all day frolicking in the woods, but not me. Today's harvesting mission was singular: butterfly weed. The impossible-to-find plant, which ironically thrives in well-draining soil, was a luxury rarely afforded by these swamplands. 

Perhaps the woods had sensed my frustration, for just as I was about to wave the white flag of surrender, a flash of color caught my attention. Fluttering about to my left was a massive Monarch butterfly, proudly showing off her patterns of orange, white, and black. A grin stretched across my face and I meandered toward her, knowing that she had been sent as a guide. I trailed after her as she darted through the trees, careful to mind where I stepped. The Monarch led me into a small clearing that seemed to glitter in the sun, and smack dab in the heart of it was an area littered with the object of my desire. 

I whispered a quiet thank you to the butterfly as I moved toward the center of the clearing. The orange milkweed seemed to sing with a subtle hum when I approached it, as if knowing its purpose and giving me permission to take it from its home. Its brilliant blooms danced in the breeze that wound its way through the wood, inviting me to come closer. Kneeling before it, I carefully removed a few plants and placed them gently into the bed of other herbs within my basket. 

Finally satisfied, I stood to my feet and stretched, my joints popping from the frequent bending and squatting they had endured. When my arms descended back to my sides, the glass face of my wristwatch caught the sunlight and reflected a dreaded truth into my eyes.

4:40.

Panic tore through me and I burst into a sprint. Adrenaline quickly took over my exhaustion, desperate to make it back to my bicycle. Twigs snapped around me as I ran past them, clawing at my bare legs and finding purchase in my hair. Damn it all! My father was hosting a 'very important' dinner at six, and I was due home forty minutes ago. He was going to be pissed— and I was as good as dead if he found out why I was late. 

The gleam of silver metal peeked through the leaves and I nearly sagged with relief— my trusty stead! I hastily strapped the basket of goods to the curved handlebars and straddled the seat, ignoring the way my shorts rode up uncomfortably. Dirt spun from behind the tires as pedaled with fury, creating a cloud of dust in my wake. My calves were burning at a rapid rate from the exertion I was putting into the effort of getting home. Luckily, the house was a short distance away. If the gods were looking down on me in favor, then I would have roughly forty-five minutes to transform from swamp monster to high-class lady.

The edge of the woods came into focus, and with it, the street of cobblestone that would lead home. A giggle of relief bubbled in my chest, but was cut short by the chiming of the clock tower, signaling the arrival of a new hour. Nervous laughter replaced that short-term relief and I coaxed my legs to work harder. The uneven stones of the street, combined with the speed I was traveling, made for a harsh ride, one that I was sure would leave bruises along the innermost portion of my thighs. 

The row of houses that decorated our street flew by in a blur of various colors. Our house was positioned at the furthest corner of the street and I could nearly make out the dark, wrought iron railing of the second story balcony, stark against the canary yellow exterior. It stood like a beacon of hope, like I might actually come away from this unscathed. My body begged me to stop, to walk the rest of the way, but I persisted. The front door, brilliant in its linen-white glory, became visible— along with my mother. 

She was propped up against the frame, her foot tapping impatiently on the doorstep. The sheen of sweat that shone along her hairline was a testament to how long she had stood there waiting for me. Frown lines were etched between her brows, her expression trying its best to create something disapproving. Try as she may, but I knew my mother almost as well as I knew myself. My wild spirit was a creation of her own doing, and she could not scold what she was secretly proud of. 

The bicycle clattered against the ground as I ungracefully dismounted from it. I scrambled to prop it up against the house while simultaneously loosening the restraints around my basket. The intensity of her stare burned into the back of my head, igniting a flare of shame. I had no excuse for being tardy— no flat tire, no injuries, nor a traditional Louisiana summer storm. It was recklessness, plain and simple. My father had little patience for things like that. 

"You're late," Mama stated simply, crossing her arms across her bosom. Her eyes raked over me, scanning head to toe, then toe to head. Pausing briefly on the shorts I wore, she arched a questioning brow before eyeballing the wicker basket I cradled in my hands. She sighed, shaking her head. "Your father won't be happy if he discovers you were out in the woods again."

I offered her a cheeky grin, noting how her eyes were sparkling in spite of her words. Mama and I descended from a long line of witches, a fact my father was aware of, but was highly disapproving of. If anyone else found out… well, let's just say the consequences would be unforgiving. My mother was head over heels for him, so she easily let go of our ancestral power. Me, on the other hand, eagerly embraced it— in secret, of course.

"What Papa doesn't know isn't going to kill him, Mama," I reassure her. "Doesn't he have better things to do than worry about what his very adult daughter is doing?"

Her face softens, matching the gentleness in her emerald gaze. "It's because you are an adult that he worries so, chérie. Women at the age of five-and-twenty ought to be married with children to tote about."

Married. Children. The two words made me shiver with revulsion. "You know as well as I do that I would make a horrible wife, and an even worse mother."

She swipes at my cheek, her thumb retreating from my face with a smudge of dirt. She smiles, rolling her eyes playfully. "Not many women would be willing to play outside and get dirty. You'd be surprised how much a child would love you, ma fille." 

"Don't pretend like Papa wants to marry me off just to see me become a mother," I counter. "He's more concerned with his reputation. I know the neighbors are talking, if not the whole city. I hear them just as well as you do."

Mama sighs, stretching out a hand out to pick small twigs out of my hair, clearly intending on shifting the conversation. "Bon Dieu! If you would've gotten here just thirty minutes earlier, you would have had time to wash your hair."

Shit. Out of all of the things that needed cleaning, the mop on top of my head was probably the most dire. "Do I at least have time to take a quick dip in the bath? I'm filthy."

"Luckily for you, I drew your water ages ago. Hopefully you got enough heat from the sun, because it's likely to be cold by now."

I groaned as she opened the door and nudged me inside, dreading the sensation of being emerged in cold, soapy water. An airy giggle began to emerge from her, but it caught in her throat, transforming into a harsh, dry cough. She tried to push through it, masking the rough sound with laughter within hopes I wouldn't notice. 

I did, but I would never tell her. Nor mention being witness to the specks of blood she had dabbed off her lips with a handkerchief. 

Please, I pray silently, hoping my pleas were heard. Let the milkweed work.

After washing away the aroma of sweat and earth from my body and replacing it with the sweet scent of rose water, I was left with twenty minutes before dinner was to begin. According to my mother, only one guest was in attendance, but it was one of utmost importance. So, I still needed to play the part of the dutiful daughter. In other words, look pretty and stay quiet. Easy enough in theory, but silence was not one of my virtues.

The crackling of radio static fills the air of my bedroom as I turn the dial on the Philco 70 cathedral radio sitting on the edge of my vanity. Its wooden frame glows faintly in the sunlight that filtered through the open window, making it appear almost angelic with the golden hues emanating from it. The temporary ethereal aesthetic was a stark contrast to the Gothic designs that it had been ornately carved with. Despite being exposed to the sun's warmth, the metal dial was cool between my fingers as I tuned the radio. Landing on the station I had been seeking, a gritty male voice revealed itself, sinful and sultry in spite of the slight interference of static.

Good afternoon! This is Alastor Dubreuil, your favorite radio showman, here to bring you only the best entertainment from the heart of New Orleans! And what a splendid day it is in the Crescent City. Despite the relentless humidity sticking to our skin and the sweltering heat sent straight from the depths of Hell, the streets are alive with jazz and debauchery…

The urge to roll my eyes had never been fought harder. Favorite showman, my ass… Who in their right mind decided that this would be the voice of New Orleans? I would sooner listen to the bar fights littering the streets every Saturday than his self-important chatter. If I could drown the radio in the wash bin, just to spare my ears the trouble of being tainted with his voice again, I would. But alas, my beloved radio was undeserving of receiving torture for a sin it didn't commit, so I opt for lowering the volume to the point of easy ignorance. 

To make his droning somewhat bearable as it played in the background, I dug through the drawers of my vanity in search of a cigarette. My fingers scraped along the familiar ridges of the metal tin that housed the sticks of Lucky Strike, my preferred brand of gaspers. Smiling, I pulled it out and removed one, lighting it with practiced ease. A smoky haze drifts in thick ribbons around me as I take the first inhale, the nicotine rush that came with it momentarily grounding me.

Although I had never had a face-to-face encounter with Alastor, the narcissism that radiated from his broadcasts was like a disease. There were several social events where we had been in the same general vicinity, though never in direct conversation. We often stood at opposite sides of the room, hardly ever close enough to make contact, but just knowing he was there was exposure enough. His voice could usually be heard bouncing off every wall of the room, like a plea of 'Hey! Look at me!' To me, Alastor never had anything of importance to say. Only mindless conversation usually revolving around him and how great he was.

Gag me, please.

I don't consider myself picky when it comes to the people I allow in my circle, but no trait turns me off more than that of an over-inflated ego. Confidence could be admirable— perhaps even necessary in acceptable doses! But it's another to believe that you're better than everyone else, as if the entire world is beneath you. A delicate line lay between the balance of self-love and self-obsession. Mr. Dubreuil had most assuredly crossed it.

…as I bid you adieu, I beg you to keep this poor host at the top of your prayer lists this evening. I have the pleasure of embarking on an adventure so perilous, it'll be like wrestling one of our local alligators!

"Please, wrestle two," I grumbled, flicking the burnt remnants of tobacco out of the window. "If one doesn't do you in, two surely will."

Alastor's voice vanished, replaced by the opening notes of a jazzy tune, thus ending the torture that was invading my poor eardrums. Thank the gods for small mercies, undeserving as I may be. Familiar trills of a saxophone fill the room, a subtle prompt that it was safe to increase the volume. Humming along, I shook away any lingering thoughts of Alastor and turned my attention to the task at hand: picking leaves from the tangles of dirty blonde curls.

My father never caught on to my lateness. He had been too engrossed in conversation with a broker dealing in stocks and bonds. From what I gathered, the market had been performing better than expected, with promising projections for another increase in the coming months. Despite his lapse in attention, he would be unwavering in his expectations. Like most patriarchs for a family like ours, he had the simple request of his daughter maintaining exquisite taste and a preference for the finest so that he 'retains his good image.' 

His good image. I scoffed as his words replayed through my head. As much as I adored him, it often grated me the wrong way when he referred to me as nothing more than a prized possession. It often felt like I was being used as a trophy— a way to show off our family's fortune and status. Unfortunately, that was the sort of thing that came with the territory of being the only daughter of a family in High Society.

Truth be told, I hated it— every bit of it. The money, the luxuries, the entitlement. None of it was worth how little control I had over my own life and the future that dimmed with each passing year. The expectations, especially in the realm of marriage and child-bearing, were heavy weights around my neck— an invisible ball and chain. At the age of five-and-twenty, I had been fortunate enough to have maintained what little freedom this life offered me. My parents knew my stance on marriage and did not pressure me to find a husband as heavily as other women had been. However, with my thirtieth year just over the horizon, I knew my time was running out.

Sighing, I ran my hands down my face, wishing I could procrastinate a bit longer. It's not that I'm against going through the motions of 'dolling up'. In fact, I rather enjoyed it. It was a ritual of transformation, a form of worship for the temple that was my body. But this evening, the act felt hollow and insincere. 

There was this feeling of despair building steadily in my stomach, stealing away any pleasure that I might gain from this. Even the thought of dragging a powder brush across my skin was a discomfort that tightened like a rope around my neck. A nagging feeling was telling me that this dinner had little to do with business as usual and everything to do with me. I dreaded going downstairs to discover exactly what it was for.

With a belligerent sigh, I picked up a silver-plated brush to attempt to tame the tangled nest of hair that crowned my head. I had not blessed with the mesmerizing curls that hailed from my mother's genes, nor the sleek straightness of my father's. No, the Devil himself had a sick, twisted sense of humor and ensured that I would get something in between— a temperamental mane that had a zero percent chance of putting up a fight against the smothering climate of Louisiana.

Detangling wasn't the real challenge, which is what people often assumed when they caught me on a bad hair day. The real hurdle was the uncontrollable frizz that changed its attitude on a day-to-day basis. Fortunately, today's weather was fairly manageable and I could get away with simply pinning it back with a diamond encrusted clip. As I worked, the radio continued to belt out song after song, the catalog selection containing several of my favorites— almost as if it had been specifically catered to me. I hummed along as my fingers wove through my hair and forced it into submission.

After finishing with my carefully-crafted masterpiece, my fingers refused to stay idle and thrummed on the smooth, wooden surface of the vanity. My mind began to wonder, picking apart my father's insistence on my appearance tonight. He has never put much emphasis on it before, usually trusting me to have enough sense to dress to the nines whether we had guests or not. Why the sudden interest now?

The gnawing in my stomach grew as I carefully began to apply rouge and lipstick. I opted to line my eyes with a touch of kohl, hoping to make the deep blue hues pop against my pale skin. It served a dual purpose, should things go south. It's easy to keep the waterworks at bay when the end result is becoming one with a family of raccoons.

Satisfied with my reflection I drug myself to my wardrobe to sift through some of my finer dresses. Garments of fine silk and cotton pass through my fingers until I land on an attention-grabbing lavender number. The dress's pleated skirt drifted slightly below my knees, loose and flowing. The fabric hugged my waist where the skirt ended and it draped off my shoulders, highlighting my collarbones. Lavender was one of those colors that brought out my best features— fair complexion, blue eyes— and was a detail I knew my father would appreciate.

I glanced at the clock on my nightstand— 5:50. 

Perfect timing.

Before making my descent into whatever fate awaited me downstairs, I tiptoed to my bedroom door and slowly turned the lock, careful to not make a sound. Locked doors were taboo in this household, a tell-tale sign of secrecy— and my father did not tolerate secrets. He would likely have a heart attack if he knew mine…

After ensuring my privacy was protected, I made my way over to my bed and grabbed a small silver key from under my mattress. Kneeling on the floor, I pulled out a beautiful, ornate chest from its hiding place behind the bed skirt. Crafted from oak and stained a rich, dark brown, the chest was probably one of the most beautiful objects I owned. Its lid was adorned with two iridescent torches made from opals, their flames fashioned from garnets. Intricate filigree patterns weave across the rest of its entirety to create moons and stars along the surface.

Gripping the key in my hand, I unlocked the chest and am met with an intense sense of comfort and welcome. The interior was lined with plush felt of the deepest violet and contained an assortment of herbs, crystals, matches, and candles, as well as a makeshift altar. Each item had been meticulously chosen to honor Hecate, the goddess of witchcraft and the crossroads.

I selected a black candle and ignited a match, briefly warming up the bottom of it before placing the candle upright on the offering dish. The melted wax allowed the candle to fasten itself to the porcelain surface, ensuring it remained in its position until its job was finished. Lavender and mugwort lay in a deliberate arrangement around the candle, their fragrances filling the air. The remaining flame of the match is used to bring the candle to life and I watched as the wick burst to life.

Staring into the flickering flame, I'm instantly surrounded by a familiar presence that presented itself as a warm, maternal embrace. Although I cannot see or touch her, I know she is there. Hecate's voice echoes within my consciousness, confirming her arrival. 'Hello, Manon. It has been some time.'

I winced upon hearing the disappointment in her greeting, but couldn't help the smile that played along my lips. "What can I say? Absence makes the heart grow fonder, does it not?"

'Hm, debatable. Regardless, you know I will always welcome you with open arms. Though I suppose I can forgive your absence. You were working hard on your rituals.'

The flame flickered playfully, casting dancing shadows around me. The warm colors lull me into a deep, meditative state, allowing me to open myself up to the goddess and give her a glimpse of my inner turmoil. "My father has some nefarious plan for tonight, and truthfully, I'm terrified," I admitted. "I could use your help, or even just your company."

Hecate chuckled softly, her voice warm and reassuring as she responded to my concerns. 'You worry too much. I know what lies ahead, and believe me, you are more than capable of handling it without me. Truth be told, I think the other party will have a greater need for divine intervention. After all, they'll be dealing with you.'

I scowled, eliciting another laugh from her. 'Perhaps I can indulge you. Though you won't be receiving the kind of help you are seeking.'

My brows furrowed in confusion. "What does that even mean? Can't you just tell me so I know how to prepare myself?" 

Instead of responding, the candle sputtered out, leaving my pleas unanswered and lingering amidst the sudden silence.

With a huff, I returned the items to their designated place and carefully place the chest where it belongs. Straightening my posture, I took one last glance in the mirror, which revealed thick lines of frustration, disclosing the budding anxiety within. Knowing how my father is, I closed my eyes and draw upon the dormant power lying in my veins, waiting for my command. I muttered a small incantation, focusing on the intent of glamouring my appearance. My face grew warm as the tension rolled away, replacing the foul expression with a cool mask of indifference.

The grandfather clock downstairs chimed, loud and foreboding. It was showtime. 

Smiling with false bravado, I began my descent downstairs. The heels of my shoes clicked firmly against the hardwood floors, the sound echoing within the foyer of our home. Crystal chandeliers cast intricate patterns of light across the walls, creating a heavenly ambiance. Shadows played within the areas the light could not touch, their seemingly innocent presence aiding in the foreboding energy that tainted the air.

When I hopped off the bottom step of the staircase, a habit that had been present since my toddler days, I found my father standing near the fireplace. His back was facing me, shoulders slumped. His tall, stocky figure is imposing against the cool, gray stone, his posture slack and unsure. There was something… off about him. As if he were bracing for a brutal impact. Sensing my arrival, he turned to me, revealing a solemn expression. He offered me a gentle smile that didn't quite meet his eyes.

"Manon," he greeted, his voice soft yet measured. "My pride and joy. You look lovely, as always."

My father was never good at hiding his emotions, let alone any secrets he may have. Something definitely was not right, and my gut twisted in panic. "What is it, Papa?" I asked, pushing past the lump in my throat.

He visibly paled, his fair skin somehow fading ten shades lighter. He stammered in his attempt to respond, failing to find the words that would ease the tension. "Heh, nothing gets past you, does it, pumpkin? Just like your mother."

The laugh that followed is nervous and unsteady. Oh, he's most certainly hiding something.

Upon seeing my stoic expression paired with unamused silence, he cleared his throat awkwardly and continued. "There really isn't an easy way to say this, so I'll just get straight to the point: you're getting married."

The words hit me like a bolt of lightning, singeing me straight to the core. I blinked slowly, feeling the weight of them crash down on me like a meteor. "Excuse me, but you didn't just say what I think you just said, did you?"

His silence was damning, confirming the worst of my fears. Defiance surged forth, reigniting a bratty attitude that I had thought been left behind in my younger years. "No," I said simply, crossing my arms tightly against my chest.

Having always been told 'yes' and getting his way, my father's face became stern and angry, his stubbled skin burning red. "It's your duty to this family, Manon," he growled, his voice taking on a more authoritative tone. "No further discussions will be made on the contrary! You're five-and-twenty, with no prospects for a husband, let alone shown any interest in finding one! You will get married and that is that!"

My father is well-known for his temper, but in all my years, he had never yelled at me. The shock of it made me lose focus, the control on my magic slipping as a result. It pulsed against my skin, begging to be set free. I willed it back, but in turn lost my glamor. No longer able to hide behind a mask of indifference, my face bloomed with heat from a rising anger that was quickly escalating to a peak. I gritted my teeth, prepared to fight for my autonomy. 

"Please humor me on how you expect me to happily marry someone I don't even know," I spat. "We probably won't even love each other."

My fingernails dug into my skin to keep from blowing a gasket completely. "As an adult, I should have a say in who I spend the rest of my life with! I haven't found anyone because there isn't a soul in this godforsaken city that can handle me."

Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes. I had never been so angry with him, had never even raised my voice. This is the man who gave me everything I asked for and never batted an eye at my antics, even when they threatened his reputation. My father cared deeply, perhaps too much, about how he was perceived by others. But I was his 'little girl.' The only child. Our bond was special, and I adored him above all else. But asking me to sign my life away was a boundary I could not relinquish without a fight.

I struggled to grapple with the bomb my father dropped on me. Marriage. An arranged marriage, no less! Those words made my blood feel like lava as it rushed through my veins. I understood that my family's social standing demanded that I wed a man of quality, but it never occurred to me that I would lose my right to choose the one I'd annoy forever. Growing up, I knew my only obligation was to get married, pop out some babies, and pass on the family wealth. Despite how much I abhorred it, I made my peace with the life planned for me— or so I thought. That peace flew out the window the moment my freedom had finally been threatened.

"For Christ's sake, Manon, get a grip!" My father shouted, throwing his hands in the air. "This society does not give a damn about who we love. I hate to say it, but marriage is a business deal and does not bend to these delusional ideas you have." His tone softened as he spoke, but the harshness of superiority still remained. Dark brows furrowed over eyes of blue-gray, creating a scene equivalent to a summer storm. I'm sure they mirrored my own.

"What about you and Mama?" I pushed back. "You're head over heels for each other. Tell me how that's business! Why does my life have to be dictated so differently?!" 

The tears were finally gathering to the point of spilling, posing a hazard to the makeup that decorated my face. The prospect of being doomed to a loveless marriage was unbearable. Not after growing up in a home that bursts with love. 

My father's face drooped as he ran a hand through his salt and pepper hair. He peered at me through thick lashes, his eyes illuminated with steel determination and authority. In those eyes, I see my resolve— I will not win this fight.

"Your mother and I were lucky to find what we have in each other. It's a rarity in a world where we marry for convenience. You need to drop this ludicrous dream that a marriage requires love. Love is a bonus, not a guarantee. We need to build permanent ties and secure our place in society, which relies heavily on familial bonds. It's the only way to be sure that our bloodline continues and maintains our legacy."

I folded my hands in front of me in silent surrender. Another pawn in a game, I thought bitterly.

My father smirked, realizing that I had given up. "Honestly, Manon, you might find yourself taken with the suitor we have chosen. Though, I suppose it isn't fair to say we chose him. The gent practically begged for your hand once he discovered I was looking for options." I grimaced, unable to imagine the type of Eldritch terror it would take to be willing to marry me. "You probably know him. He's popular around town, maybe even all of Louisiana! I'd go as far as saying he's a celebrity."

My eyebrows arched with unsaid questions and intrigue. This was the first time he had mentioned, or rather hinted, on my betrothed's identity. Granted, I never gave him the chance before I began my tirade for freedom. The options were truly nightmarish, if I was being honest. The eligible bachelors were undesirable at best, far outside my range of preferences. Either they were old and wrinkly, or misogynistic and unfaithful.

Shivers ran down my spine as the doorbell rang, the sharp chime bouncing through the halls. You know what they say— speak of the Devil and he shall appear. My eyes drifted reluctantly towards the door, hesitant and curious. The frosted glass doesn't give me the mercy of knowing who the man behind the door is, but his silhouette suggested that he would likely tower over me. At least he has one thing going for him.

My father's face broke out into a wide grin and began to take long strides towards the door. "I can see those questions written on your face, my dear. Your answers have arrived!"

He reached for the doorknob, and as the door creaked open to unveil my groom-to-be, my stomach churned. No. No. 

NO.

The mystery man had materialized into a handsome, tanned face with the most beautiful cinnamon-colored eyes and messy-but-not-messy curls of brown hair. It was a face I didn't know well, but I sure as hell knew which voice it belonged to. The astonishment that accompanied the grand reveal had me unable to control my mouth, the link between it and my brain having dissipated. 

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me," I blurted, my heart plummeting to the floor as Mr. Big-Shot-Radio-Man smiled at me.

[man--eater]

Gentleman

The new pride merch inspired me. 😊

[man--eater]

Not my first rodeo of making a HH oc, but out of all of em (1) this one's taken the most inspiration from my life. Alison Lönnqvist is her name, and luck is her game.

Alice, nickname, Alison, full name, was born and raised in Louisiana circa 1897 by her immigrant mother who valued cleanliness above anything else, Sara. And her laid back but hard working father, William. She met and befriended Alistor at a young age. Gaining a strange friendship with the boy when they both discover their shared, unconventional, interests. Fast forward, Alison is an adult and is trying to hold down a job, much to no avail, in part due to the ableist views of the time and lack of aid. Despite her parents understanding nature Alice was too ashamed to ask them for help so she turned to the only person she could, Alastor. Unlike her he'd done great, becoming a famous radio host and making a name for himself. There was not a soul in New Orleans that didn't recognise his voice. Alice hates to seem shallow and ask her only friend for cash but what else could she do?

—————————————

It was the early hours in Louisiana and the streets were busy as ever, people going thru and fro between shops and street venders, spending money and throwing pennies and dimes into the worn hats of the poor. A man with way too much money to spare buys a newspaper from the local newspaper hawker to be charitable, not caring much for the actual news printed on the paper. But a few moments later when he finds himself waiting in line for a particularly popular restaurant he remembered the paper. Borde and with nothing to do he reached into his coat for the news and started reading. He skimmed the paper for something interesting, the chatter and bustling serving as background noise for his browsing until something caught his eye. In the far far distance, far from the lively city rang the unmistakable sound of bells. Their chime rang through all sound rendering them null, as if calling out to the man by name, stunning him as he read the headline.

FAMOUS RADIO STAR ALASTOR HEARTFELT, MARRIED

—————————————

The marriage was rather smal and tight knit, only hosting a handful of people, and Mimzy. It was a feeble attempt at keeping their engagement under the radar, but alas their faces ended up in the news the next day. Alice knows Alastor, and she knows that he lives for the spotlight and doesn't believe him when he shrugs at the headline. Though she appreciates him for keeping her anxiety of a large crowd in mind and making it a smal gathering opposed to what he probably would've wanted. Suppose it was also a way of discussing their scheme, though their “vows” might have given them oway, something about heart and soul, eh, Alice didn't bother to remember.

But life goes on and people carry on struggling to keep a roof over their heads as they make ends meet. Speaking of heads, people have made it a habit of turning them her way, some in confusion, some in disgust, wondering why she was running amok. Whispers laced with jealousy and hate rung amongst the two faced individuals who fain praise of their engagement. But Alison learned to deflect the scorching stares and went about her day care free (secretly basking in their yearning to live in her shoes). So much so that she almost forgot her ring before stepping out of the house.

As the seasons change the pair celebrate their sixth anniversary at their favorite restaurant. Despite never having slept in the same bed or kissed with a ravenous fever they've been able to keep up their facade by being honest with each other and all around good friends. Though as the years passed Alison has had her fair share suspicions of the man she lives with, wondering if he's really as honest as he makes himself out to be. She never pried into his after-hours work since it was none of her business. She did however question why he disagreed to hire maids. While Alice wasn't bad at cooking food or cleaning the house she could only do so much before Alastor had to pick up the slack. Sure, Alastor is a capable man, but even he has his limits. And going back to “after-hours work”. Alison cant even go down the stairs at the risk of being caught by Alastor again because the last time the man realized she was awake he nearly had an aneurysm. The memory of the stare he gave her alone makes her think twice every time it crosses her mind to wonder in the middle of the night.

Those nights also left Alison to wonder, wonder about their relationship, goals, what if scenarios… and the horrifying implications of her friends' work. Alice might have her moments but she's no fool, she could hear the underlying giddiness in the man's voice every time she went into town. Or how he would glance repeatedly at her when he thought she wasn't looking. The cluse were right there, separated they were just coincidences, but together they were a crooked mirage. A mere looking glass into Alastor's true self, a makaber artist, a monster among men… her friend. Despite his lise, despite his actions, he still held a place in her heart despite knowing what she knew. Besides, would a monster take someone under their wing, even at the risk of being found out? Would a monster make time for you or celebrate your birthday? Would a monster hold your hand so desperately at your deathbed?

…

Coughing and wheezing Alison laid on her mattress, covered in a thin layer of sweat that glistened in the moonlight, Alastor sat by her side, motionless but his grasp firm, eyes looking far into a distant future that he wishes not to perceive. For a chatterbox like him he sure was quiet, maby it was to appreciate the sound of her heartbeat before it ceased of its rhythmic thumps. Or to give her solace. Each moan of pain earned her a twitch of his hand, as if momentarily breaking him out of his trans, only for him to sink into it again. He had tried everything, hiring the best doctors in town, paying the nurses extra to check up on her, but once he got the news that she would be gone soon… he took her home.

So now here they were, late into the twilight, awaiting for the inevitable. But Alice wasn't done yet, she knew, better than anyone, that this would tear Alastor apart from the inside out, so why not give him something as a reminder of her. She couldn't lend him her soul, but there was something else she could offer up. With the last of her energy she spoke, his head snapped in her direction, gaining her his full attention as she confused. Telling him of her secrets in a hushed, sore voice, struggling to make coherent sentences. Confessing her findings of his nightly hobbies with a tired smile on her features as she looked up at him, tears skewing her vision. Alastors hand clenched hers tighter at the prospect but said nothing of it as he cept listening. Knowing that words alone wouldn't quench his sorrow Alison proposed a thought. 

What if the illness didn't have to take her… why not him

That night Alison died and was buried in Louisiana's cemetery, but her memories would live on in Alastors heart.

—————————————

Ok, finally FINALLY i get to rave about my HH oc siner design, holyshit that backstory did NOT have to be that long holyshit, what tha fuck im so tired.

To clarify some things that I didn't convey in the monster of a text that's present above, Sara originated from Sweden (my home country). Alice has undiagnosed ADHD and autism, she's also chubby (literally did not know how to incorporate that into the story without writing another section). And that's all.

Originally I was gonna make Alison, formerly named Lilian, onto a deer, but then I thought, why? While the couple are a package deal Alison died months prior to Alastor being mistaken for a deer and shot as a result, and the universe “mysteriously knowing of their fate” just didn't work for me. And then I thought rabbit, unlike deers there domesticated and cant survive in the wild, aka hell, and thus she would rely on Alastor to make it out alive. It also reinforces the “pagache deal” thing because there are both forest critters. And for a moment I liked that idea, but there was just nothing to go off of, Alice was dying of an illness and then mercy killed by Al. Like, how do you translate that into a sinners design? And then it hit me, on the verge of sleep a vision befel me of the solution to my trifles, the perfect “animal” to represent Alice, a jackalope.

The “sightings” of jackalopes have sprung up in many cultures throughout the centuries when in reality it was just rabbits suffering from nature's cruel joke, shope papilloma virus (don't look it up don't look it up don't look it up). And, like I said, the jackalope is no new phenomenon, but there's one story about it that particularly inspired me. A pair of brothers, Douglas and Ralph Herrick, who were skilled hunters and taxidermists put a pair of deer antlers onto a jackrabbit carcass, and sold it to a hotel, circa 1930. Can you see my vision? Speaking of taxidermy, Alastor did stitch her up to hide his crime (is it really a crime if both parties consented?) before burying her. 

So here's my proposal. Alison, upon arriving in hell, is reborn as a taxidermied jackalope who has stitches holding her together, some more visible than others. The most prominent ones being where Al cut to get to her heart, around her ring finger where the ring used to be. On each side of her mouth making it look like she's grinning from far oway, and around her ankle, because rabbit feet are considered to be lucky. She's more animal-like than Alastor too, taking on the features of a jackrabbit, the same type of rabbit the brothers used to make the jackalope. I love the image of her having yellow sclera and red irises to hone in that piercing hare stare, but I wonder if black would fit better.

Outfit wise I'd imagine that she wears a dark blue dress with black accents and red flower embroidery, tying in that Swedish inherited and stitching theme. Otherwise when she's working in the garden or baking in the kitchen she wears a pair of hängselbyxor.

On the topic of Swedish, Alice knows a few phrases having been taught by her mother, while she isn't fluent she uses the few words she knows to tell Alastor things she usoly woldent have the guts to. And in return he speaks french to her back mockingly.

To an outsider Alison and Alastor look like the most functional, dysfunctional “couple” out there. Alice changed her last name back to Lönnqvist, They don't wear their rings anymore, Alastor gives flowers to other women that, unknowingly to them, was provided by Alison. They're rarely seen together and when they are there usoly bickering. Their relationship is a mystery, except to Mimzy who's been there since day one, and Rosie. They're just good pals with a codependent problem that are just now learning to grow without each other.

Fun facts:

The idea of having Alastor literally eat Alison's heart out came from a quote (long before i made Lilian) I imagine him saying, it went something like -

“oh dear ol Alice's heart was too big for her own good, so i ate it”

Another conversation that I thought is of a scenario featuring Lucifer flirting with Alison, deliberately trying to make Alastor jealous. And in the moment my dumb ass had forgot of his “disengagement” and dead ass thought -

“aren't you married Lucifer sir?”

Without thinking, and it fits her character soooo well.

Funnily enough when Alison was still cald Lilian and was a deer sinner she was into taxidermy. Methodically picking out the demons she thought looked unique among Alastor's massacres and stitch them up and made them into decorations. I still like that character quirk, and the irony of it.

Alice isn't good at conversing but she'll listen to whatever her friends are saying, nodding along to their tales of woe and treacherousness. Letting out a cackle reminiscent of a hyena when told a joke.

The jackalope was one of the first demons to make a deal with Alastor, the deal being that she's protected from all forms of dangers, except him, and when he dies she follows suit. Because she knows that she won't survive without him.

HELLO i LOVE HER thank you for all this delicious lore, I love her story and her personality and her unique relationship with Alastor. I also really appreciate all the details and the reasoning behind your design thought process. It's clear you've put a lot of thought and heart into Alice and it really shows! This was so much fun to read and I like to think I see your vision because my pen slipped and this happened

i am slightly afraid I'm about to be taxidermied but she's so cute i'd probably let her thank you again for sharing @shegairowmyamo , this was a lovely read. if you ever wanna come yap with a bunch of Hellaverse-obsessed weirdos who are feral about our OCs, you are more than welcome at the Hazbin x OC discord: https://discord.gg/5y9EzjSCyn

[man--eater]

Unwell over this piece by @man--eater for the May/June Art Exchange over on the Hazbin x OC discord server.

It depicts a scene from the latest chapter of my fic and I'm in love 😭✨️

[man--eater]

Happy Pride Month to you all!

[man--eater]

Saw you were cool with OC sharing so here's my girlie

Bree Dhiere: Lawyer, accountant, hobbyist biker, occasional mercenary, reluctant mom friend, puts up with precisely zero of Alastor's shenanigans.

OMG I love her, look at her expression 😂💜

that's the exact number of Alastor shenanigans anyone should tolerate 😂

A queen!!

[man--eater]

Are you ok with people showing you there HH ocs in your inbox or would you rather not? Becous I have one but I dont wanna step on any toes.

ABSOLUTELY! Please, show me!! I love seeing and hearing about other people's Hellaverse OCs! ☺️

[man--eater]

When you accidentally shrink one of the most powerful overlords in hell because you're still managing your powers... It's a good thing Al finds it humorous. Commissioned by Mezzeth - Alumid

[man--eater]

Omg 😭😭😭 this is so lovely!!! Thank you so much, this is so sweet 💜

Another gorgeous portrait of Daphne 😍 by Sam Veermouth.

No wonder Alastor is smitten hehe

[man--eater]

Another gorgeous portrait of Daphne 😍 by Sam Veermouth.

No wonder Alastor is smitten hehe

[man--eater]

Beautiful portrait of my Hellaverse OC Daphne by Sam Veermouth!

[man--eater]

Excerpt from a fic I probably won't finish but I like it so I wanted to post it solo

Characters: Husk, Alastor, background Angel Dust Relationships: Alastor & Husk; background Angel Dust & Husk Word count: 1246 Warnings: aftermath of violence; implied/referenced abuse; mentioned sexual abuse Summary: Husk helps Alastor get cleaned up after his 'boss' has paid him a visit. It isn't the first time and it won't be the last. Introspection ensues. A/N Husk's relationship with Alastor really fascinates me so this is kind of a character study/headcanon/theory in fic form, I hope you like it 👉👈

Husk grimaced at the light but insistent tug on his soul.

"You're gonna have to tell me later," he said, cutting Angel off. "Boss wants me for something."

Angel's smile immediately dropped. He sat up straighter, watching Husk with concern as he walked around the counter. "Will you be ok?"

"Yeah, it's probably nothing," said Husk, waving him off. "Just–" he tried not to flinch as the tugging grew sharper, "–might take a while, that's all."

At least the new building had elevators. Husk jabbed the number for Alastor's floor and leaned his shoulder against the mirrored wall, arms folded, frowning at his reflection.

"Hold your horses," he muttered, "I'm coming quick as I can, impatient bastard."

Husk knew the drill – it wasn't the first time and it wouldn't be the last. He knocked twice on Alastor's door out of courtesy before pushing it open, unsurprised to find it unlocked and even less surprised by the state of Alastor's room. He was never entirely sure who trashed it, but the flipped chairs, scattered books and shards of broken glass were nothing new.

"Boss?"

"In here."

The bathroom door was open a crack, bright light falling through it in a stark contrast to the shadowed red of the rest of the room. Husk braced himself for a moment before slowly stepping inside, keeping his expression carefully blank.

Alastor was sitting, slumped over, on the rim of the clawfoot tub, eyes fixed vacantly on the tiled floor. His coat and shirt were in a pile by his feet, cracked monocle on top, and he'd tied his hair back in a messy bun.

Husk took another cautious step forward. Despite everything, he felt a twinge of sympathy. "Are you–?"

"I'm fine."

Alastor's chest and sides were littered with cuts, and ugly black bruises were forming on his ribs. None of that was unusual. What was unusual was the cold wet cloth he was holding to the side of his face – she didn't usually leave marks where people would see.

"Yeesh," said Husk, because the only thing Alastor hated more than being weak was being pitied for it, "the hell happened this time?"

"I did my fucking job," Alastor snarled, eyes blazing with barely contained fury, and whoa ok yeah maybe snark wasn't the way forward after all.

Wordlessly, Husk retrieved the first aid kit from under the sink and got to work. There were… a lot of cuts on Alastor's back. More than usual it seemed, and deeper too – not that Husk kept track. It wasn't any of his business. He just dabbed disinfectant on the ones Alastor couldn't reach and stuck bandaids on the ones that were still bleeding.

"It doesn't matter what I do," Alastor hissed. "It doesn't matter what I do, or how well I do it, she still–!" He cut himself off, hands clenched into fists.

'Heard that one before,' Husk thought, and then immediately felt weird about it. It didn't seem right, comparing Alastor to Angel Dust – for one thing Alastor's sex organs hadn't been reproduced as dildos you could buy in every damn corner store, and boy was than a mental image Husk wanted scrubbed from his brain – but more than that, Alastor at least had the freedom to conduct his business on his own terms. He wasn't stuck in a room with a serial rapist breathing down his neck and controlling his every move.

…right?

Husk knew three things about Alastor's boss: her nails, her shoes, and her gender. That she was a woman was obvious from the way Alastor referred to her. That her nails were long and sharp was clear from the scratches and cuts. And from the shape of some of the bruises, Husk would bet money she wore high heels. But that was it.

Most thralls were at least permitted to name their keepers, but for one reason or another, Alastor's boss was a closely guarded secret and that freaked Husk out more than anything.

She'd done a number on Alastor this time, that was for sure. Gentle prodding at the bruises revealed fully broken ribs, not just the usual fractures. There wasn't much Husk could do except brace Alastor's chest with a few rolls of bandages and hope nothing punctured a lung before it could heal.

Alastor sat silently throughout, barely moving apart from the subtle twitches and stifled gasps whenever Husk's hands brushed his skin. Husk pretended not to notice, but he couldn't quash the weird uncomfortable tangle of something knotted in his chest.

Alastor might act distant, embracing the Radio Demon persona he desperately strived to be, but Husk knew better – knew that some deeply buried part of Alastor craved gentle touches just like everyone else. Knew that, no matter how hard he pretended otherwise, his sinner soul was human. When they were still something resembling friends, Husk had thought it was pitiful. Now he just found it pathetic.

The fact was, Alastor didn't trust anyone he didn't have complete, unbending control over, and that was sad. It was sad that one of the most powerful demons in Pride was a lonely, touch-starved loser. It was sad that the only times he let himself be touched was when his boss had used him as a stress ball. And it was sad that the only person he let tend to him also hated his guts.

Finally, Husk eased the cloth away from Alastor's face and checked the injury. It wasn't so bad, all things considered – a light bruise and four long but shallow scratches. A slap, not a punch. There wasn't much to be done but let it heal.

Husk helped Alastor limp to his bed, glass crunching underfoot. Alastor seemed relatively calm by then, settling against the pillows with a quiet sigh.

"You have my thanks, dear Husker," he said, sounding a little more like his usual asshole self. "I suppose you'll be wanting compensation for your time?"

"Sure," said Husk, deciding to push his luck a little, "I'll take my soul."

"Ha!" With a wave of his hand, Alastor produced a bottle of fine vintage whiskey. "You'll be free when I'm free."

"I mean, well, shit," Husk said, taking the bottle. "Can I get that in writing?"

Alastor regarded him with dry amusement for a moment before summoning a pen and their contract with a flourish, and oh how Husk wanted to grab that piece of paper and tear it apart–

"Fine," said Alastor, adding a new clause to the deal with his elegant handwriting and the green glow of magic. "I, Alastor, agree that should I be released from my deal, you shall be released from ours."

From the look on his face, Alastor had no doubt it would never happen, and wasn't that depressing.

"Thanks," Husk said anyway, tucking the whiskey under his arm. "Uh, let me know if you need anything else, I guess."

Alastor waved him away, and Husk took it as his cue to leave. Back to the bar, where he stashed the whiskey with the rest of the bottles. He had a nice little collection by that point.

"What did he want?" Angel asked.

"Eh, nothing much," Husk said with a shrug. "Just amusement I guess."

Angel didn't look satisfied, but he let it go, and Husk did his best to put the incident behind him.

Still, he couldn't quite shake the suspicion that whatever fucked up situation Alastor was in was going to escalate sooner rather than later.

[man--eater]

I just want to see Alastor uglycry is that really too much to ask :(

[man--eater]

Drunk radio deer man

[man--eater]

This is how me and my mutuals look interacting with each other’s content

[man--eater]

some of my best friends i met at the devil’s sacrament

[man--eater]

An unsure embrace, if genuine in comfort, can still be cherished. Commissioned piece for @man--eater