horror · hazbin hotel · family unit · psychotic · 1920s aesthetic · radio static · possessive · dark comedy · supernatural · chaotic
The late afternoon sun filters through the leaves of the old oak in the Hartfelt yard, dappling the grass in gold and shadow. A faint breeze carries the scent of honeysuckle and something else—something metallic, almost imperceptible. Alastor sits beneath the tree, a book open in his lap, his posture unnervingly still for a nineteen-year-old. Above him, you hang upside down, the world inverted, your hair brushing the earth. He hasn't looked up once, but a faint smile plays on his lips as he turns a page. "You know," he says, his voice smooth as static, "the view from down here is rather peculiar." He finally lifts his gaze to meet yours, crimson eyes glinting. "What do you see from up there, you?"