I Decided To Make A Color Version Of The Art After All...

Finally finished! Most likely there will be an acrylic stand with this art... And, oh gods, I can finally work and draw again. :")

Finally I can show it in full!

Well... I still love these two very much. Yes.

One of the orders. I'm slowly giving away commission.

Wow I love Anna Cliff! So like are they just friends with Al or...? If you don't mind

Ahaha, I don't mind such questions!

In fact, before death, they were actually just friends.

According to the AU story, Al was like an older brother to Anna, since they met at a very young age. (Alastor was 10 years old, Anna was 6 years old)

However! Due to the fact that Anna found a way to hide from Alastor who she was already in Hell… And after death, slightly different feelings came. Sympathy, resentment, surprise, etc. However, also because Anna outlived Alastor by seven years in the world of the living, her character underwent great changes after his death. And it was this factor that played a role in the fact that, in fact, already in death they partially got to know each other anew, discovering not only the good, but also the bad sides of each other, which they did not even suspect in life.

I finished the art for my AU for the Hazbin Hotel. And maybe I'll start working on it properly. But who knows, as they say.

Brief explanation - this AU was written back in April-May 2024. So some details and things may not match the reality of the Hazbin Hotel canon and leaks. Please keep this in mind.

Anna Cliff is a character who was supposed to be Alastor's childhood friend and outlive him by 7 years.

So far, I don't know if it's worth covering this AU in a wide format, since there are moments in it that are at least quite cruel. Also, a small part needs to be rewritten, since I missed some details, if we talk about the actual state of affairs in New Orleans in the 20-30s. That's how things are.

Excerpt from the art (Many thanks to my friend for helping with the translation from Russian to English.)

Beneath the torrent of freezing rain, her eyes no longer held any expression. That one moment kept returning — the instant where life could be cleanly divided into before and after. That damn phone call from the police, and the hollow, skeletal conversation that followed. Yes… it all started there. It was nearly ten. The smell of a dinner gone cold lingered in the air. Anna glanced up at the wall clock, her irritation rising with each passing minute. Where was he? He had promised to come hours ago. Had it all been for nothing? Jumbled thoughts, tinged with unrest, were interrupted only by the maddening ticking of the clock — sharp, repetitive, strangely in sync with a growing sense of dread. It was getting harder to breathe. The tips of her fingers were going cold. Stop. She stood up so suddenly — as if to physically shake off the pressure — that the rickety chair toppled over, crashing to the floor, its fall drowned in the staccato rhythm of rain against the glass. “Shit…” The word left her lips too fast to even register. She exhaled sharply, crouched down with a faint pop in her knees, and fumbled to lift the fallen chair back into place. Her fingers trembled uncontrollably — numb, as if she'd just plunged her hands into a bucket of ice water. A bad sign. Still, she tried to push the thought aside, forcing herself to sit back down by the decaying frame of the window. The windowsill needed repainting — the paint had cracked, peeling in ugly splits… and somewhere in the corner, there was clearly mold. The smell always grew stronger when it rained. The shrill ring of the telephone made her flinch. Something inside screamed. Not just anxiety — a howling premonition, thick and brutal, turned her limbs to stone. For a split second her body refused to respond. But then Anna lunged forward, her shoes clicking sharply against the floor as she rushed toward the receiver. She lifted it — the metal frame rattled faintly in her hand — brought it to her ear, and said in a low voice: “…I’m listening.” “Is this Anna Cliff?” The voice was rough, male, laced with static and something colder. “Yes. And you are…?” “Commissioner Ernest Müller. May we speak with you?” And then… everything dissolved into fog. The conversation was brief. There wasn’t much to say. They simply told her that the dearest, most irreplaceable person in her life… was dead. Accidentally shot. Killed outright — like a wild animal — a bullet straight to the forehead somewhere deep in the woods. But Anna already knew. She knew the spot. Because for years now, she’d known his terrible secret. The one where the charming radio host became a nocturnal avenger — killing, hiding bodies, and carrying out silent justice. In those rare, quiet moments when they spoke about it, she had always voiced her concern. He would only laugh, half-joking, saying he didn’t believe in judgment — not in Hell, and certainly not in Heaven. How fitting. Just last week he’d turned 33. The age of Christ. And now — dead. Just like that. Tears blurred her vision. Her heart was pounding wildly, the rhythm spiraling out of control as the call ended. It had to be a mistake. A horrible joke. He’d walk through that door any moment now, grin sheepishly, and say it was all a lie. That he was fine. That it meant nothing. She looked at the door. Sniffled quietly. Nothing moved. Silence. Thick and suffocating, broken only by the rain. The truth sank in only when Anna saw his body. That pale, lifeless skin. That calm expression. That perfect, circular hole in his forehead. It hurt. God, it hurt. And then something else crept in. Slowly. Not the night — but the dark. Not sleep — but shadow. The kind that doesn’t cover the eyes, but devours the soul. As though inside you, there is a path of lit candles — and the darkness comes, and blows them out, one by one. Until there’s nothing left. It took nine days. From the moment of the call — to the moment it swallowed her whole. She whispered apologies to him in the night, hoping he could hear. Asked for forgiveness — for not stopping what

had bloomed within her, unnoticed. For letting that poisonous flower — a dark red lily — grow in the last corner of her soul where light still dared to flicker. And now it, too, had gone dark.

The drawing was made in ASK. The question was to draw a character in the clothes of an artist. Now everyone will know that I dress in hoodies with holes. x)

Once my partner and I were drawing children Charlie and Alastor. Actually the daughter that I came up with. X) I completely forgot about her, to be honest. Maybe I should draw Alastor and Rosie's baby the same way?

I rarely talk about this in detail, but somewhere around April 2024 I had my own AU. And the funniest thing is that it wasn't even supposed to go into romance. But "glass"… In general, it was supposed to be a pretty sad story. True, there were several moments where, according to the original idea, this AU was supposed to work against the background of the main story. However… Considering the leaks of parts of the second season, I think I'll make it completely abstracted from the main plot. Because the holes in the plot and motivations now irritate me. :с

Heya what's the best and worst thing about drawing radiorose?

Hmm… I wouldn't say that there is anything bad in the process of drawing. But there is another moment - slightly unpleasant skirmishes with representatives of other ships. Only this, perhaps, could be called something bad, but indirectly. (Although sometimes I get terribly confused about which side Alastor's damn monocle should be on, because in the process I often mirror the image to check it xDDDDDD )

The best thing is to enjoy the vibe of this couple. I really like RadioRoses as a dynamic - so many ways to develop. But most of all, I probably fell in love with this ship exactly when I played as Rosie in RP. (From there, I got a whole wagon of headcanons for her and Alastor.)

I like to draw their emotions, touches, I like the fact that everything can be taken both into something more romantic and into something with a taste of drama.

I really like watching other artists of this ship and recently even got to meet one in person, which I am very happy about, since we both draw art in black and white.

Honestly - I love drawing RadioRoses. I sincerely love all those who create their works based on them. And I am sincerely glad that this small ship, for the most part, is full of wonderful authors who are good both as creators and as people. And, the most favorite thing about RadioRoses is the opportunity to meet and communicate with those who love the same ship. To communicate about what can be, to draw inspiration. I have never regretted that this is one of my favorite ships.