△ on the air △

"Of course we don't want you to be miserable for the rest of eternity!" She exclaims assuredly- although it's unclear who this "we" she is referring to is, since her ancestors more or less designed this entire realm to impart as much terror and suffering onto the previously mortal souls trapped there for eternity.

"But since we have a lot more sinners checking into the hotel I think you're going to have to get used to people... ehh... fiddling with the settings a bit more."

She's uncertain that Alastor is going to like that answer, then lights up with a new idea.

Alastor could name any number of individuals who wanted him miserable for the rest of eternity, actually, but he decided not to mention it, staring at her with dull interest - until the mention of a coffee bar seemed to perk him up a small amount.

"Vaguely intriguing," he responded, watching her carefully.

"Unless you are intending me to play barista every morning. I might feel friendly enough to offer it on occasion, but I will not be hollered at by sinners looking for their morning fix."

Like an aloof cat, he was always looking for a means to get what he wanted without giving much in turn.

⨻ // I've grown a mouth so sharp and cruel / It's all that I can give to you, my dear / I will only break your pretty things / I will only wring you dry of everything //⨻

RADIOIACI ; an independent, non-exclusive, and canon-divergent roleplay blog for ALASTOR of HAZBIN HOTEL . dark themes such as gore, violence, and abuse . 18+ . est feb 2024 . penned by Pascall (they/them | 34 ) . ABOUT/RULES .

minimal effort."

He'd rather make his own. Which all led back to why Alastor was so cranky about his own cup of coffee being messed with.

Sighed after all that.

...You're alright, funny man. The wry commentary earned Worth a small snort of amusement.

"You're actually not that far off. From what I can remember, Gore Fountain was one of the holiday specials. And they sold it to you in a cup that looked like a severed leg. It has a tendency to cost an arm and a leg though. Especially the limited time offers."

His crank somewhat tempered, Alastor thought for a few moments.

"It's th' principle of th' thing. If I put beans in a coffee machine-- If I put beans in ANY machine... I should be able to have a nice cup of black coffee."

"High expectations, I see. There's a Hellbucks down the road if you are that interested in minimal effort."

“You’re acting like it was intentional on my part. I wanted a goddamn espresso. Didn’t see your fucking name on the machine.”

But fine. He’ll acquiesce to the demand, if a bit grumpily. Turning back to the machine and pressing a few buttons.

“What’s your usual order like. Gotta say, didn’t peg you as a coffee drinker.”

"Well now I'm going to have to emblazon my name upon it and everyone else will have you to blame for it."

Alastor sat back, however, eyeing Vox as he went to retrieve what had been requested.

"Oh yeah? My voice has the power to wrinkle fabrics now?" he scoffed, then, peacocked before the mirror for a few more poses, looking himself over with a speculative squint. The look was certainly a throwback.

Vox had always embraced the flow of time, including in fashion. In fact it was one of the trademarks he capitalized on, innovation, change, the bigger, brighter future. But he had to admit, the retro look was plucking at his sentimental side, and the turtleneck look was a classic for a reason.

"I guess it'll work," he begrudgingly allowed, lest Alastor start to get a big head about it.

Looking back at the Radio Demon with a sharpening grin that more resembled his usual demeanor, Vox looked over Alastor in the bowling shirt, all exposed arms, and bristling disdain.

"Your voice has the power to curdle milk, actually," Alastor offered in retort, eventually bringing his hands back to himself to observe Vox's little parade in front of the mirror. The radio demon didn't think that it was excessively outdated - perhaps by a decade or so, maybe, when the prospect of dressing for the office was a bit more warm and homely than the sharper, angular look of the modern age. Of course, he was certain that Vox might disagree and therein label the look as something from some lost age when the dinosaurs had roamed the Earth.

Dramatic as he was.

When Vox turned back to him, Alastor could only roll his eyes, permitting his fur to lay flat if only because he did not want the other to make an attempt to get one over on him. Speaking again, he was calmer this time, waving a hand dismissively.

"I said I would let you pick the outfit - but I never did say that I had to be particularly enthused about it. Something a bit more fitting to my style would be preferable. But if you're not feeling interested in selecting something else, then I'll happily do so."

And he did not wait for Vox's response before turning to begin casually perusing once again, his tail giving a light sway from one side to the other as he indulged, a bit, in a shopping habit that he did not tend to feed into very often. A softer red pinstriped button-down, loosely fit and paired with a black sweater of its own, caught his attention soon after, and he seemed rather pleased as he plucked both from the rack to smooth hands over the fabric.

"Aww, you think I'm cute?" He'd waltzed Alastor right into that one. René smirked and lifted one hand up to cup his own cheek for a moment, demure in his enjoyment of the tease, flattered even if Alastor didn't mean it.

"Do you still have any of those posters? My own have long since crumbled or been lost, and these days it's not worth the attention to get more." Surveillance and communication made for a much more careful application of his less savoury indulgences, these days.

"I'm sure you'll find the right opportunity to put your name back up in lights, so to speak. If there's anything you can think of that I can assist with, you just let me know." He'd pat Alastor's knee gently, then take the demon's free hand in his, deciding that arm needed the massage treatment next as he enjoyed the mutual attention and the explanation of Alastor's Hell.

"I suppose that makes sense-- a shared culture and values make for easier bonds and protection down there, I imagine... Which of the areas do you frequent, or at least tolerate the most?" Not that René strictly wanted to actually die and go to whichever afterlife awaited him (most of the time, anyway), but, well. If he had to choose, obviously it would be the Hell that spawned Alastor in this form.

"That is curious, though-- so Hellborn demons and those who once were human don't intermingle? What is their purpose then, if you know?" Considering Alastor's hands were more occupied, René would spare one of his own from the massage to reach over and grab his own glass, bringing it to his lips, then exchanged it for Alastor's, figuring the demon was due to wet his whistle, and René might as well make himself useful while he was enjoying their mutualistic attention.

"Cute enough. Would you like me to cement the thought by slapping a collar and a leash on you?" Turning the tide of the comment to something that could be perceived as salacious, though he would certainly not expand on the thought to the point of clarification as to whether that was his true meaning. One never really knew with Alastor - he had plenty of chains in hand on a metaphysical level as it was.

"I don't have any of them, unfortunately. I think it would be rather uncouth for me to keep souvenirs of my greater days in Hell, as much as I enjoy reminiscing. I'm sure I could recreate one for you if you truly wanted something to memorialize." He smirked, amused by the thought. "In fact, I could make it truly massive. Large enough to plaster an entire wall with."

Joking.

Maybe.

Arm flexing slightly as Rene decided that the limb needed the same brand of attention, Alastor did not protest. His scars were a bit more prominent along his biceps and forearms, but as long as the other did not deign to mention them, he would not elaborate on their origin.

"The Pentagram has a few spaces that are worth stopping in. The one that I visit most frequently beyond the Uptown district - where the hotel is - is cannibal town. It's a bit dressed up in the remnants of the past. The Edwardian era, if I had to pinpoint it with a name. Days that I recall fairly well. And if you'd not guessed, it is where most of Hell's cannibalistic residents find their homes. They're a friendly, if toothy folk. But they tend to stick together. It's quite a delightful place, actually. And the only real place where you can find specific types of flesh-based cuisine, if you are so inclined."

His head tilted slightly as he tried to consider the further questions that Rene was asking, taking the glass offered and sipping at the liquor within.

"Hellborn and Sinners do mingle - there are any number of hellborn who consider the pride ring their home. But they tend to be in a more... subservient capacity. Hell's hierarchy is complex - and there are some rather clear castes of citizens, with some hellborn generally at the bottom. Imps and hellhounds and the like. Then there are sinners - with overlords, like me, among them. Above that are... hellborn royalty. The Ars Goetia, is what they are called. But I know very little about them and care very little beyond that. We've had one or two visit the hotel - but I see them as no different from any other guest, really."

Alastor exhaled, raising a brow at the other with some wry amusement.