Yandere Toons x Reader: An Anthology of Headcanons and Scenarios

Alastor (Platonic Scenario - "Yuletide Blues") (Hazbin Hotel)

Warnings: Alcohol Use (Bourbon), Past Death, Mention of Blood, Violence, Christmastime Setting, Mention of Car Crashes, Implied Stalking, Mention of Smoking, Emotional/Psychological Manipulation, Toxic Mindsets.

A.N. - The artwork is illustrated by Ashley Nichols.

The clacking of the typewriter, sputtering with each elongated thought and ebbing into the intermittent punch of a lone key when the thoughts dried like an old well, filled the café in a droll melody. A pair of dimly lit candles sat upon opposite corners of the table, illuminating the backs and bottoms of wooden chairs and counters that still bore a fair resemblance to the trees from which they were carved. Crisp air wafted through the crevices in the front door, tinged with the aromas of incense and autumn leaves. It brought a shiver to the areas of your skin not protected by a dense coat, and you shook like a dog fresh out of a lake.

Shadows pranced across the walls in the form of exaggerated shapes, bobbing with the periodic flickers of the candles but too wide and tall to be accurate reflections of anything real. The howls of a midnight wind, swirling past the shop in flimsy gusts and rattling the doorknob like a customer who had been denied entry, competed with the baritone of a long-dead blues singer emitting from the pocket of darkness nearest to the exit.

The voice was made scratchy and distant by the needle of the record player as the disc spun in an imperfect circle. Entering the café was akin to stepping off the street into a different era, one where the jazzy songs of big bands played out of every radio in town and zoot suits were the fashion craze of the decade.

The gramophone imbued such spirited music with a timeless quality as if, within the dusty confines of the shop, the present that existed outside its doors was a separate world that need not be faced if one only chose to look away. Moonlight poured through the glass in a solitary wave and cast a milky glaze across the furniture and floorboards. It was a sombre sight, which enhanced the particles of dust, dirt and dandruff floating in the air like snowflakes.

After a period of watching the blank page, waiting for a burst of inspiration that was teased but never fulfilled, you stood and pulled the needle away from the disc. Silence overtook the building like a plague. Fidgeting and deliberating, your gaze drifted until an old radio caught your eye. You carried it to the edge of your table and lowered it onto the wooden surface with tentative care, a soft thud echoing in the desolate café. Dust clung to the instrument like a coat of fresh paint, yet it fell easily to the sway of your hands as you batted off an array of cobwebs.

The whims of the radio held an inexplicable degree of personality as though it obeyed a timer or cycle that dictated what genre of blues would radiate from it at certain times of the day. When you approached the door to leave, the music became soulful and would abruptly change songs in a flurry of static and overlapping stations to do so. When the jingle of the bell announced your arrival, chipper tunes flooded the café in the spirit of breakfast waiting to greet you in the morning.

No sooner had you turned the knob when the device hummed to life at a startling volume. "Greetings to all you early birds! We here at WWL radio come to you with this news bulletin, just-in!" boomed a Transatlantic voice wrapped in static and vitality. The dial wagged across the length of the frequency range - hovering at one before darting to the next - as if struggling to choose, but the voice did nary so much as stutter for even a moment.

Finally, it settled on the 833.3-AM frequency. "Today marks the sixth anniversary of a fried chap stumbling into an early grave on our very own Bourbon Street." Letting your hand slide down the end of the table, you returned to your seat and raised your arms to begin typing. "You heard right! Six years ago today, a New Orleanian put on the ritz and bumped off a local ragamuffin." As the sound of keys clacking underscored the buoyant inflections of his voice, the announcer broke into a carefree chuckle. "You know what I always say, laissez les bon temps rouler!"