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[ @burningfeathersx ]

✔ Indie Biblical OC!Lucifer; 23 yrs. experience. 15+ yrs this character. ✔ Open/Multi-Verse ✔ OC & Canon Friendly ✔ Flexible Narrative Style; para/script/long/short/whatever ✔ Mun & Muse of Age ✔ Open to all types of character relationships, even negative ones.

He was pleased at Alastor's approval for the scent, preening a bit at the praise. "I'll write down which ones I used, you might be able to find a perfumer down there to make something for you. I've tried making my own a time or two, but I wouldn't say it's a talent of mine." He liked scents, nice perfumes, colognes, but distilling them from scratch wasn't something he had found the patience or focus for.

René appreciated the time Alastor took to think it through, and smiled more earnestly at the request. He nodded, continuing to strip his shirt off once Alastor joined him in methodical dishevelment, similarly folding it and setting it aside. "Agreeable. I'll ensure if I do have anything to say, it will be florid and detailed in its praise." He supposed some level of self-consciousness may well exist, being changed so by death, though Alastor certainly didn't seem outwardly bothered by it.

His trousers and boxers followed suit, set away from any potential splash zones. He only had a few scars, ones acquired before or during his first death: two round burn marks on the back of his neck, about an inch in diameter each; the ragged line of scarring across his throat from where Clemenz had bitten him and René had subsequently been stitched up; some claw-like marks on his left hip that went down onto his thigh; and the puckered stab wound a little below his solar plexus from where he'd been stabbed by a bayonette during his first death. It was the only one to leave a permanent scar.

He perched on the edge of the bath, at ease with his own nudity, and dipped a hand in to test the temperature; a little hot, but in the pleasant way that a bath should be, and would allow it to cool to a more gentle warmth as they sat.

The revelation of Alastor's body did have his attention, but René did ensure he wasn't leering. A quiet appreciation, as if admiring a sculpture, letting his eyes trail over fur and the contours of flesh as it was revealed.

Hands steadily undoing the clasps of his shirt and pulling it off to then set aside, Alastor was not in much of a hurry. His body mottled in scarring and the massive brand emblazoned on his back, he was doing his utmost to not paint them as worth paying much attention to. But beyond that, Alastor too had a few large spots along his hips, a red stripe along his back leading up to the fluffy tail which was slightly bristled in response to being so exposed.

"I was of average height, thank you," he quipped absently as he completed the disrobing, clothing all set neatly aside as he took a moment for his own wandering gaze. Rene's body was similarly appealing - but Alastor was not going to ogle. He was not the sort, too preoccupied with stepping carefully on pointed hooves to the edge of the tub to find purchase. He had never been one to appreciate tiled floors, no matter how necessary they were. Hooves made it far too easy to slip and slide (as he'd done quite a few times after first descending into Hell.)

He'd been in the middle of settling into those bubbles on the other end of the tub before his ears caught the sudden shift into the flow of French that Rene began to grace him with, eyes locked squarely onto the vampire as he carried on.

He'd said complimentary, sure, but he'd not anticipated the near bombardment of overly saccharine sentiments in the form of such poetic rhythm. It was clear that he was significantly flustered, but he would have to use the heat of the bath as an excuse, glancing away after a moment with a scoff.

"One might think that you were after something with all of that fluff," Alastor hummed, his gaze returning to look at Rene sidelong. An arm came up to rest along the edge of the tub as he gave a stretch of his lanky legs and sharpened hooves. (They needed a bit of trimming, but he'd not quite had the time lately.)

Not even Vox had ever made such an effort to impress or otherwise woo him.

...Dangerous thinking. Maybe.

In the shroud of the bubbles, at least, he did not feel quite as exposed.

If he sent any more texts trying to explain himself, he'd probably come off as whiny and annoying and Alastor already barely tolerated having a modern phone in the first place!

Just as he was ready to sulk some more, the presence of the other overlord did not go unnoticed, but Vox still startled by Alastor's voice.

"Mother FU-!"

Vox swerved his chair around and squinted at Alastor, crossing his arms while trying not to look like he was self conscious about his very clearly messy depression cave.

There were a lot of discarded empty take out boxes, energy drink cans and the like strewn about. Not exactly caring about cleaning up after himself. Clothes weren't looking much better. His suit jacket had been discarded and he was still a little damp from his earlier swim in the shark tank when he couldn't even be bothered to fully dry off.

"Could've warned me you were coming over, you know, I might've...I dunno, attempted to call someone to clean up," he muttered at the end, screen dimming.

"Look, after everything went down, I was delegated to fixing everything and what Vel and Val don't have time to deal with. They're essentially running my side of the company on top of their own. I have to prove to them I can still do this. Bring my approval rating back up. Even if I have to stay in the shadows for who knows how fucking long -"

Vox knew he was rambling, a bit too high strung in the moment while trying to defend himself. He brushed back at his antennas, chuckling nervously. "I'm back up ten percent. So it's working! People are trusting me again, because I get the work done. I always get the work done."

He was behind on emails. They were always fucking endless. But Alastor was here. His eyes flickered, bordering on manic.

He'd anticipated catching Vox off guard. It was a bad habit to simply pop in when he so felt like it. But his hands were not empty - he'd brought along a pair of coffees and a small bag of dark chocolates and a few other sweets along with him, stepping closer as the television seemed to rattle on with his explanation and excuses. Alastor set his goodies down and leveled a stare at Vox as he carried on, breathing out a steady exhale.

"I don't think me warning you would have made much of a difference," he said.

The radio demon's ears set back against his hair as he moved to the bag that he had brought, plucking from it a small chocolate bar. This one was a milk chocolate - not quite his tastes. But then, it was not for him.

And he offered it to Vox.

"I don't need a drink. I need you to take a moment to breathe. Or whatever it is that you do." Fans. Whatever it was.

"Eat this."

Vox rubbed at his screen to work away some of that eyestrain of a headache. He'd downed a few pills with his coffee earlier, but they'd only taken some of the edge off.

For now, he supposed, he'd click away from the cameras and pull himself away from company emails and HR bullshit from Val's side to stay focused on the conversation.

[txt] no of course not. I haven't visited anyone in person-person in months, really. I've had visits to ME, but...I think you're the first one to have caught on.

Alastor did not care much about the logistics of the holograms. He'd hear about it later, surely, snuffing in frustration at the stupid phone in hand before deciding to not respond. Instead, he gathered a few things for himself and paused, however briefly, to inform Husker that he would be absent, for a time.

An undetermined amount of time that he would not elaborate on.

But the next time Vox heard from him, it would be very much in person, the swell of inky shadow finding its way to Vox's proverbial dungeon in which he'd secluded himself. Alastor had not bothered to dress himself in any real formal manner, knowing that it was only Vox who would see him, having pulled on a rather over-sized blue-grey hoodie for the sake of comfort.

Probably for the best. Once he made himself present in the screen-filled room, he could sense that this was not the time nor place to expect formality anyway.

[txt] makes it so i can practically be everywhere at once without stressing out. I've been working ever since I got my body back, I can't leave my room without everything going tits up.

[txt]: I am worth more than a phone call.

Huffing to himself, Alastor wanted to be irritated. But the last bit of Vox's second message was enough to give him some significant pause. He'd never thought the other to be so timid about returning to form.

It was enough to throw a few red flags in the back of his mind.

[txt]: You're not avoiding me specifically?

As the deer's ears perked noticeably, Vox's eyes settled on the red of the Radio Demon's pretty helpless to look anywhere else. Vox engaged in the staring just as well, unable (or maybe unwilling) to break the connection, and only feeling more confused when Alastor suddenly elected to break the spell, stepping away.

It was more than a bit pathetic how quickly he was falling for these wiles again, but again Vox wasn't keen on self reflection in that moment. He just wanted to enjoy this for all it had to be- his first time feeling a little bit less than shit after the epic storm from last month.

Maybe Alastor was right and the clothes had something to do with it. Or maybe it was something else.

Finally, he slides into the view of a mirror hanging not too far away, even though the glass is as dusted and warped as most mirrors in Hell, he can see the look is a classic, not all that different from how he used to dress himself. Which was something to consider.

"So, you really liked how I looked back then, huh?" he adopted a teasing tone as he stepped into the shoes he'd been permitted to select before giving Alastor his requested turn, arms spread to the sides as if to indicate 'go ahead, look at me'.

"How long have you been pining for me?" he couldn't help giving another jest about it all.

Alastor's refusal to be pulled into the other's stare was the main reason why he'd eventually put space between them once again. If he were not careful, he would have found himself staring for a lot longer - and that would have given further insight into his own state of mind regarding this stupid exchange.

That was the last thing he needed.

The clothes were indeed reminiscent of the style that the television had worn, once upon a time, when Alastor much more closely aligned him with his actual name. When he, in the radio demon's mind, was much more Vincent than Vox. And being called out on it made his fur bristle at the back of his neck, his brow furrowing in a dull and slightly tense look at the other.

"Hush, you're going to wrinkle the fabrics," he stated plainly, as if either of those things had any correlation to one another. Avoidance - good at it in his years of practice. But if Vox truly understood that there were quite the number of things Alastor harbored beneath the surface of his flesh, then he was not so sure the other would be joking so cavalierly about it.

Not the time, not the place. If ever.

Instead, he turned his attention back down to himself, plucking slightly at the ridiculous shirt he was still wearing.

"Now I feel underdressed. Must I continue to wear this?"

"I guess it was kind of like a tracker. He always seemed to know where we were, what we were doing, even what we were thinking." Valentino hadn't really put all the pieces together until he'd become an Overlord himself. Understanding how powers manifested made a lot of things from his past look different in hindsight.

"But sometimes it would just hurt." His expression tightened. "It'd sting our insides." The thought alone nearly made him gag. He quickly flapped his hands in front of himself as if physically trying to shake the memory away. Just thinking about the sensation made his skin crawl. The faint wriggling beneath his flesh, the feeling of tiny legs moving where nothing should have been moving at all. It still made him sick.

"I know it's probably gone," he said after a moment. "It probably disappeared when he died." His shoulders lifted in a small shrug. "It seemed kind of similar to your little..." He gestured vaguely. "Guys. The little shadow people you make." Whatever they were called. "So logically, I know it's probably not still there. But there's still a part of me that's scared it is. And I need a real answer, not a probably."

The hurried way in which Valentino began to press was probably not anything he should not have expected. It seemed, in much the same way that he himself would have jumped at the chance to have his brand entirely burned from his flesh to free him from its oppressive grasp, the moth was just eager to be free. If not of the thing itself, then of the lack of knowledge as to whether or not it was actually there.

Alastor could not find any real reason to delay, if that were the case, meeting Valentino's gaze as he found it fixed upon him.

A brief bout of silence was what he could offer, at first, thinking through logistics.

"A blade, obviously. Big. Sharp. First aid - because I'm not especially interested in seeing you bleed for longer than is strictly necessary. I'm not a healer - I can't rush the process by which your flesh will knit back together afterwards - and I'd rather you not suffer through a full death if I can help it."

Care offered in his own way, even if it felt a bit clinical to speak of.

"Beyond that... a comfortable place to be. A bed, if you don't mind the sheets on it being sullied. And then an angelic blade. Separate from the one I'll be using to cut into you. That, I will use to destroy anything that does remain." It would have to be holy. To ensure that it did not make any sort of return.

"...You're sure you want to do this?"

The reaction to the back got a bark of laughter from him.

"It is rather ridiculous, isn't it? But, well. I needed to make sure you'd fit." Not to mention himself. It was a little over 7 ft in length for the inner part of the tub.

"Don't worry, Alastor, I wouldn't let you drown. But yes, I'll keep it reasonable."

He nodded along at the suggestions for scents, discarding cloying rose and vanilla from the options available. Their drinks were already heavy on the citrus, but a little bergamot would be suitable. Cedarwood. A little almond, for a complimentary hint of sweetness. And a mix of amber, sandalwood, and fig that René gave a pleased hum to after sniffing before adding it to the bath. The bubbles were foaming nicely, the scents starting to mingle in the air as the hot steam buffeted around the room.

"I think that should do it, but if there's anything else that calls to you, feel free to add it in."

That done, René would get back on his feet, looking around the room before proceeding to a wooden cupboard, where he found matchingly oversized, very fluffy towels, as well as a pair of hotel bath robes, which he'd set on one of the counters within reach of the bath. There was already a clean and seemingly slightly affixed mat on the tiled floor in front of the step up into the bath to help them avoid slipping after exiting.

And then he was turning off the water, the level at what he approximated would sit at roughly chest height with both of them in there, and started undoing his shirt before he paused and turned, chest bared down to the navel.

"Right - even side by side, I tend to forget that this height is not quite the average here." Everyone in Hell was always so massive - it had simply become the norm. Seeing himself back on Earth, trying to navigate the doors and walkways build for those who were a foot or more shorter than he was something he had to get accustomed to. But he could appreciate the forethought, anyway.

Patiently, as he sipped at his drink, he watched with some interest as Rene cobbled together the combination of scents in the form of the bubbling wash, and before he could really harbor any uncertainties about the mixture, the mingling smells reached him in a pleasant waft, and he nodded contentedly.

"That's nice. If I could bottle that combination, I'd like to imagine I'd try to find something similar back in the city," he mused absently, leaning back against the countertop nearest to the sink. The towels and robes that were produced seemed similarly luxurious - and he'd been about to appraise them verbally when the question was posed, and he briefly faltered.

How did he feel about it? Alastor took a moment to think it through before realizing -

"I've no problem with nudity as a general rule," he decided, one of his ears giving a light flick. "Though I would appreciate if we do not deign to wax poetic about specific traits unless it's strictly complimentary." Satisfactory? Maybe? He did not need to hear any pity for his scars, the brand upon his back, nor wry commentary about his... extra nipples. Ahem. If one could even see them.

"I think that's more than fair."

His ears flicked as Stagtooth's blood splattered. His new acquaintance was clearly far more used to this sort of life, and did not find it frightening.

Precious turned his back for a moment to tiptoe over to the leftover herbs and cobwebs from a shrunken pile. He carefully picked up the last of the cobwebs and stepped forward to carefully wrap it around Stagtooth's bleeding ear, like he had seen done by the medicine cat. He reasoned that the injury would have to be further treated at the camp, but at least it would not stain Stagtooth's fur entirely red until they made it to the safety of the camp.

"Here," he said, once satisfied with his first-aid.

"...I don't think Rockstar's demeanour is becoming of a leader," the kittypet snuffed once he let Stagtooth take the lead, and he was certain they were outside the earshot of the departed Airclan cats. "He reminds me more of a self-righteous kit than a respected warrior."

No matter how strong Rockstar clearly was. Sir Precious glanced towards Stagtooth. He was so big, and yet Rockstar was even larger.

"I am glad we were lost in your clan's territory instead."

Although most of the cats were still suspicious of him and worried about the growing bellies of his kittens, they had all shown mercy towards Sir Precious. Even Swiftwing, short-tempered as she was. And Morningstar seemed like a good leader. A bit distant, perhaps, but not uncaring.

Stagtooth was, regrettably, unable to keep the small smirk of amusement from his features at the other's expression of obvious horror. It had to be quite the jarring shift of realities for the kittypet, he thought, knowing that even he, as a rogue, had found clan skirmishes to be more than he'd truly understood them to be when he'd first arrived. A kittypet must have found it relatively barbaric.

But he decided against outright mocking or making a joke of the other's reaction, instead remaining where he was so that Precious could step over with the cobweb to wrap it against his long, ripped ear. The webs would soak up most of the blood - though it wouldn't do much for the sting. Stagtooth was not the sort to complain about pain.

He could certainly complain about Rockstar, however, snuffing irritably.

"He's big-headed and arrogant. He was not always the leader of Airclan. But after their last leader went missing, he stepped in to take over. I'm not even certain he was the deputy at the time." Stagtooth's lip curled, slightly, for the obvious skirting of the warrior code he'd tried to invest himself in enough to find a place in his own clan. He'd not put much stock in it once upon a time - but now, he knew of its general importance.

"It's better that you were," he agreed. "I'm not sure they would have done much more than chase you off, had they found you."

As they traveled back to the camp, the ginger tom did not seem much in a hurry, keeping back to walk alongside Precious while the rest of the cats soldiered on ahead.

"Some cats just want power. Territory. There's no real rhyme or reason except that they believe that their clan is superior. Or has more of a stake to claim." His nose wrinkled. "Rockstar has always been very staunchly in favor of filling his clan with only clanborn cats. No rogues. No loners. No kittypets. Not even if they had kin born in the forest. He's always been about purity. And I've no doubt that gives him the righteous belief that he has more right to the woods than any other clan."

As the trees parted and made way to the moorland, Stagtooth paused, his cobwebbed ear giving a small wiggle.

"Hm. Not bad. You might have actually made quite the medicine cat, were you intent on staying."

"An honest man? I hardly believe that..."

Gangle did look upset that the deer was acting in such little regard to this space. But, she said nothing to him in the end, she could always rebuild it all once he was gone. It didn't matter how much anything tore her down anymore. Given enough time she could get it all back. In-fact she could create it better next time. So her losing anything didn't matter! She could make it better, it was not a problem at all.

"That is one thing I suppose I could say to you at least. These drawings are all of my failures, but instead of throwing them away. I chose to still find a use for them. This is a dumping ground for my failings. But, instead of seeing it like that, I see it as making something new."

Gangle was very much a believer that even something seemingly useless and wrong could still be used and find meaning somewhere. A childish way of thinking maybe, but call it the dreamer inside her.

"Have I lied to you yet?"

A perfectly valid question! Alastor could consistently spin a weave of statements that sounded so truthful that he himself could believe them. Enough to convince anyone else that he truly understood his words to be reality. The subtle dare to refute him was posed, even if he had no adequate follow up to it, instead turning his attention back down to the drawings in hand.

"Your failings?" The little deer repeated, sparing another glance at her with a raise of a brow. "What constitutes them as failings? Because you didn't draw what you expected to draw?"

That was stupid, he thought, the paper in hand turned one way and then the next, before opening his mouth to lick the back of the page and stick it right back against the wall. If it was being used as a smokescreen to keep the place hidden from Caine, then fine. But he clearly did not understand whatever weight Gangle was placing on the things as a brand of negative reinforcement.

"Calling something a failing, especially in a creative medium, makes even less sense," he continued. "It's like taking a baby and telling it that it's a failure because it didn't stack the blocks in alphabetical order. Stupid."

Honest. But he stepped further into the space then, ears wiggling with his own developing opinions on their environment.

He'd thought everything 'Alastor' was original and inspired. Like the moon and the stars shone out of his fluffy ass.

In the present day the house looked even creepier, what with the decade of neglect and parts of the tower still poking out of the roof's shingles like a freaky exoskeleton.

Alastor's moment of raw honesty pulled Vox's attention even more, as he immediately clocked it for what it was. Vox held his tongue, following Al up to the doorstep, knowing it was better to just let the old man have this moment. He hadn't ever really been the best equipped for handling change. Even with that brief hesitation, Vox graciously let Alastor be, he wondered if the other might pay him the same courtesy had the roles been reversed.

Even if Vox had always embraced innovation, he was still the sentimental type. And he could relate to whatever quiet feelings were simmering behind Alastor's perpetual smile.

Vox followed him in, he was the shadow this time, quiet as a mouse, glancing around with a slightly cracked mouth, curious just as much as he was apprehensive. He followed Al to whichever room he wanted to go to without complaint.

Miraculously, other than that healthy coating of grime, things seemed mostly unchanged, as creepy and weird as the last time Vox had been granted entry (which was technically even longer than Alastor's time away). And Vox released a soft exhale of relief. Good to know nothing got past his monitoring system in the relatively short period he'd been forced to shut it down.

Then.

As if on cue.

...Well. It wasn't a complaint. But the sound of Vox sneezing definitely drew his attention, glancing over with raised brows.

"...I didn't know you could make that sound."

Or... if he had, it had been so long that he did not remember, shrouded in things he'd tried to bury as best as he could, only for them to be resurfaced in the previously dark and dingy hall. Now, there was little escaping them as Alastor turned back and away, beginning to step down the walkway, the wooden planks beneath his feet giving faint creaking sounds with every stride. It was not so downcast that he was concerned about any holes opening up beneath them, but the place was certainly in wanting for care.

Remaining silent as he allowed muscle memory to take over, the radio demon drifted into the largest of the rooms - a living area with a large, rather plush looking sofa, only dinged with age, but otherwise in tact. Shelves filled with books lined the walls, with half of the space occupied by a large writing desk. On the surface of it were scattered old papers and notes with his own handwriting and scribbles, settled next to bits and pieces of old equipment and wires that would no longer function, he wagered; the only real evidence that his radio broadcast had been run through the house before he'd made short work of ripping it up before he was forced away.

The shelves too bore signs of some slight mess. As though he'd shuffled through a few things before abandoning hope of taking anything with him. Trinkets and old radios sat here or there, with a few objects that remained half-hidden as bookends -

A few things that Vox had likely given him over the years.

Alastor chose to not acknowledge them.

Instead, he breathed out a small sigh.

"Should have told Niffty long ago to come and clean this place," he muttered. "Surely, I should have some sort of feather duster around at least."

"Think of this as, perhaps, practicing your scales, then?" he suggested with a snort, extending the musical metaphor. "You're already here, after all, though obviously you can just whisk yourself away with that magic of yours whenever you wish."

Hardly as if René could stop him, if he were inclined to.

"Darling, you can play whatever your twisted little heart desires; we both know you have good taste in music, at least-- you wouldn't let yourself be otherwise." René slid alongside the demon after the drink was poured, letting himself build into a brighter, more energetic mood. One hand brushed briefly against Alastor's hip, a fleeting touch, and half a silent tease at how tall he was as a demon in comparison.

René took a sip, letting the decadent taste of sweet oranges and summer sunshine wash over his tongue, a quiet and involuntary groan coming from his chest. "Now that was an excellent choice of vintage, Alastor," he commended, clicking his glass against said demon's before he was pivoting away, shoes and socks hastily discarded before he made it into the bathroom.

The tub was almost monstrous, clearly either meant for company or as an extreme show of luxury. Deep, set with contours, it clearly had some form of spa capabilities, and was surrounded by thoughtful little amenities like space for drinks and food, there was a wood and porcelain table that could fit over it, and the hotel had seen fit to equip the space with candles, oils, bath salts, and a little chest of different hair and body care products.

Frustrated as he was, Alastor was determined to not permit his uncertainty to usurp the entirety of this exchange. If Rene were not going to put emphasis or drawn out conclusions weighted upon their words or conversation, then... the radio demon would need to similarly brush it aside and simply permit what happened to happen. So he gave his head a brief shake to loosen the tension that might have settled in his ears - and his shoulders - and followed the other towards the bathroom with his own drink in hand. The touch had been at least some semblance of reassuring that he did not feel compelled to reel back or find it offensive.

Perhaps, he even enjoyed it. Just a bit. Owed entirely to Rene's cavalier attitude and intelligence, more than likely.

He'd been about to say something about the drink he'd selected, but the sight of the tub stole the subject away, his ears lifting once more in some surprise for the sheer size and exuberance of it.

"This is a pool," Alastor said after a moment of staring, drifting closer to further inspect with interest. He himself had always preferred baths - his hooves were not fantastic at getting purchase in slick, slippery showers. This was almost intimidating in comparison to his copper-lined, smaller tub at the hotel, however. "Let's not fill it so deep that I might feel like I could drown."

Though he spoke it lightly, there was some trepidation there, too.

He had never been a fan of deep water.

"Anything too strongly floral or sweet, I think, would not suit. My typical go-to's are much more... woodsy. Amber and bergamot, mainly. But I like other things like... pine. Some citrus. Things like that." Natural-occurring scents that reminded him of the marshes and the bayou. Fitting for himself and his own sense of masculinity that thrived on a more animalistic input like scent.

Perhaps he was standing, very slightly awkwardly nearby as he nursed his drink, trying to determine exactly what he could get away with in terms of undressing without being... Presumptuous.