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londondungeon2 · 1 month

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SOMETHING I AINT GONNA FINISH BUT

ITS 7562 words so i at least have to share some of it; main is @rel124c41 if u want to read finished hazbin works lmao, this'll be the only non-twst thing on londondungeon, i just want it out of my computer so badly

tags: nudity, blood and gore, referenced torture, pining and yearning, imp servants, hc on what alastor's radioshow might be like, and unfinished *jazz hands*

“You did not need to do that.”

The Radio Demon’s broadcast tower sits like a knife plunged into the Earth. A spindly warning to the Pride Ring that something was looming always, far up above but no less dangerous. Annoyed, you risk the odious climb and challenge The Radio Demon with those words.

The expanse of his shoulders deflect the interruption quite well. He neither flinches or turns at your voice. Steadfast in his broadcast, the reaction that lets you know he heard you is a flick of his left ear tufts. His voice does not waver. Alastor speaks devote into the vintage pyle microphone head:

“- wish our dear librarian the best with removing the basilisk out of the children book section of her bookshop. Remember! Do not look it in the eyes, lest you value that your organs are inside your skin.

“Now, the Postmaster would like to extend a proper thank you to everyone who participated in yesterday’s Blood Drive. Blood drives are an essential part in the mailing process. Through the genetic makeup of your blood, the Postmaster will be able to send you articles tailored to your taste. Today, a deep voice sludged out of the mailbox in front lawn of the post office, crying ‘Blood, feed me more blood, BLOOD!’ and then end up coughing out some thick black liquid, one eyewitness says. The Postmaster looks forward to another successful Blood Drive. Please consider giving us your blood! He says!

“Now listeners, it appears that I have a guest in the studio.” You straighten up at Alastor’s words. He is still facing his machines. Mentally, you prepare. A handful of times you have been leashed into his broadcasts because you visited him at an inconvenient time. This time you will put your foot down as you have an important matter to discuss.

“So, here is an early sample of the symphony your dear Radio Demon has been constructing. Let us indulge in music together! I leave you with these parting words: If at first you do not succeed, look around and find out who is trying to sabotage you with telepathic interference. It is someone you knOW.”

His voice distorts in his last sentence. A few dials on his desk jolt back and forth in pain. Around him, a red fog spins for a moment then dissipates with the last of his words, before he clicks a button.

The symphony … good, that is what you were looking to discuss. It is what prompted the words: you did not need to do that. You step closer, folding annoyed arms, as Alastor rotates his chair to face you. A symphony is by definition an elaborate musical composition and Alastor’s orchestra meets that definition, though in an entirely sick way.

You know you are clear to talk when Alastor sends you a wide, welcoming smile. You fly into it: “What you did was completely unnecessary and insulting. Do you think me impuissant? I expect an apology, not a gloat. Alastor –”

“Come now. I was only acting in an amicable way.”

“It was out of line. It was demeaning to my image.”

“It was a gift,” Alastor says, eyes imploring you to understand despite the permanent stain of a smile on his face. You bristle at that and glare over his shoulder at the playing symphony.

In the arms of an elongated shadow, almost a romantic pose, lays a dead body. The dead body once had a name but it is void with its death. Though it still heavily holds the resemblance of the person’s name despite the gore massacring it.

Alastor’s shadowman plucks at the cello strings embedded in the jam pink throat. Her feather bridal robe is stained in gore, spilling over the studio floor in wet clumps. Her crown is gone and her legs are bent in unnatural directions. The bridge of a cello sits stabbed into her ribcage. When certain strings are plucked, a different reverbing scream sings from them – the C chord is a fearful scream, the D chord is a wet teary scream, the G chord is an angered cry, and the A chord is a begging please. Glassy jade eyes stare unseeing at the ceiling, snail-trails of mascara streaking down. She is not the first demon you had seen Alastor butcher into an instrument but her presence still pricks at you, causing anger and indignity.

“What a gift,” you deadpan.

“Don’t look so wary. She is not worth your time.” Alastor’s shadowman plucks a lengthy D chord, reminding you of the presence of mascara on her gaunt face. “Truthfully, I do not understand the hostility I am being subjected to.” If Alastor ever cried, it would be crocodile tears.

“It is not that she is dead that is causing me strife. It is because you killed her.”

“I would have killed her anyway!”

Your eyes narrow and sneer at Alastor’s jovial exclamation. Jovial as if those words would erase all your shimmering anger. “Yet, you killed her when she was in the midst of threatening me. Do you not see the problem with that?”

“Not particularly!”

Finding your anger to be mounting up, you release frustration through your fists. Leather gloves on your hand whine with the force. “Young people like you never do.” You find a floating speck of dust in the corner by the antler coat-rack to glare at. “It is meaningless having conversations sometimes.”

The grin on Alastor’s face wilts at your eyes’ motions, never leaving though. He is unsure why that sentence hit him so hard. He placates, “I am sure that this one incident is not going to do the damage you think it will. There might be some rumors, yes. Some bull sessions but nothing that should cause you worry, I assure!”

You ruminate on that. The Radio Demon has been going after strong, minacious Overlords since his manifestation. This could be overlooked rather easily; or, it could be scrutinized to death until they point at you, declaring you under contract with the Radio Demon. You never make contracts.

A beautifully haunting cry of please I’m sorry aaaaah plays in the studio and you almost judge that Alastor is using his monstrous instrument to actually apologize to you. It is as close to guilt you will get from Alastor. With a sigh, you relent.

“Make sure if you are going after Overlords, it is not the one I am trifling with.”

“Ab-so-lutely dearie! A slip up on my part! Now, I do believe this musical number has gone on quite long enough.” You nod your agreement at the double meaning. As long as he heeds your words, you two are quite done talking for the day. You make a move to leave and a single red claw rises in a ‘one second please’ motion. “Though, I do have quite interesting news to report for today. I would not mind an extra ear in the studio.”

Suspicious eyes narrow, the orange eyelashes of yours tightening down. Your interludes often cause him to scheme up something, and you already have one foot rotated towards the trap-door to escape that scheme. “I’m sure that I can hear it all on my radio at home.”

“But, (Name), this is where the magic happens! The piece de resistance of radio broadcasting! I urge you to join me.”

“Alastor.”

“I would be most honored.” He even slides a few inches on the couch to make room for you. His shadowman manifests an inky black bow, wisps of dark magic curling and congealing into a solid tool. With a presenter flourish, the shadow runs it across four ivory strings. A harmonizing AAAAHHH and EEEEEEEE and AAAAAAA and PLEASEEEEE billows up in the studio. “Most honored,” he repeats through the discordance of that one long, screeching note.

What do you have to do today? A trip to the market to restock the refrigerator or a visit to the tailor? The answers to those are: no and no. Alastor’s grin grows as he watches you, all his yellow teeth on display, as you struggle to find an excuse to leave. It is really important that you restock on that blend of tea that a guest of yours liked in case he dropped in unexpectedly – ugh, who were you kidding?

“I’m not here to participate; I will listen and nothing more,” you say, squeezing yourself onto the couch. Your posture is impeccable and you fold gloved hands in your lap with sophistication. “Nothing more.”

With the expression of a cat who got the cream, Alastor turns back to his broadcast station. His fingers piano across his mechanical instruments, changing frequencies with flips of switches and pushes of buttons. Technology is such a headache for you that you wilt away from watching him.

The shadowman finishes his performance as Alastor finishes with his soundboard. In a passive motion, the last notes of the symphony dies and the throat of a previous Overlord grows as quiet as a cemetery. Alastor … does not pick up the paper on his desk.

Before you can process that, he is speaking animatedly into his cane, “Dear listeners, I would like to announce a very special guest who will be joining me on our broadcast. Hell’s Beldam, an apostate to God, your favorite Overlord, (Name).” You glare as he holds out his cane to you, silently urging you to say hello to his listeners.

♫♪.ılılıll|̲̅̅○̲̅̅|̲̅̅=̲̅̅|̲̅̅○̲̅̅|llılılı.♫♪

The first time you ate meat that came from a more intelligent source of flank, it was to appease Rosie. You still remember how she held your trembling wrist, tender like a mother, and guided a fork of a prime cut a human’s tendon joint to your quivering mouth. Soft, gentle words whispered to you: if you wish to survive, you must adopt a paleolithic diet and attitude, love. You have a much steadier hand now as your fork and knife glide through the maroon filet.

“-- and we should have a delivery for that sweet girl in the next week or so. Franklin, you tell her that I want her eating but the most wrinkled brains and most youthful muscles during her pregnancy. None of that cheap stuff for that sweet thing. And I know her husband can foot the bill. Now, there’s an idea … feet … where’s my?”

Lifting a forkful to your lips, you watch as Rosie twirls around in the open doorway. She pats her hips twice, frustrated and glancing around her bedroom. You were once surprised that Rosie conducted meetings in her personal chambers – just a testimony to how friendly the Overlord is. Finding her notepad, she starts to scribble on it and return to the doorway.

All you watch now is the plumes of pink and black feathers on her hat as they sway with her animated motions. “Franklin! Franklin! How does pinkie toes wrapped in crescent rolls; a rendition on pigs-in-a-blanket! Franklin? Franklin!” You startle when the Overlord takes her fist and pounds it on her door. “Franklin, please, tell those girls to turn down the radio!”

She turns to you, apologetic in her gestures. “Those sweet girls. I thought they would tire of it after the first quinquennial but they’re still going strong with it.”

You smile warmly, still chewing on your previous bite. Those girls were very devoted in their attendance to The Radio Demon’s broadcasts. Gathered amorously around the radio in the parlor, you amusedly watched their shuffling bodies push close to the radio wires, blushing prettily behind delicately painted fans, before you went up to Rosie’s. Once, a brave girl aged about fifteen gave you her fan – a scene of carnations and butterflies painted on it – and politely asked you to get a signature from The Radio Demon on it. When you returned it, you swear stars lit up her eyes.

You go in for another bite as Rosie turns back to peeking her head outside the door. She listens for either Franklin’s voice or the decreasing volume of the radio. Still Alastor’s voice stays strong, sultry and theatrical, as if he is personally standing in the downstairs parlor talking to everyone.

“Christ on a cross,” Rosie curses, a delicate hand touching her cheek in surrender. She steps back into the room, scribbling away and closes the door behind her, allowing you two privacy. “Now, do not get me wrong, (Name), that young gentleman is charming but to have all my best girls acting so cockeyed. It’s tiring.”

Rosie finishes with penning her meal idea and sets it on her dresser. A white curl of hair is tucked behind her ear and a sigh escapes her. You offer up your condolences, “Maybe you just have to wait for the decade instead of the quinquennial to pass. I’ve seen those girls switch fancies like a woman with her shoes.”

At least this time you get a small chuckle instead of such despondent looks or sounds. Regaining herself, her teeth make an appearance, springing up into a flashy smile. In a look of thoughtfulness, she puts a finger on her chin. “Perhaps you are right. Though, can we say the same for you?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” you defend, knowing exactly what she means. This is the exact situation you were hoping to avoid until that cursed man had to swoop in where he was not wanted.

“All I am saying is that Alastor’s voice is not the only voice that I’ve been hearing in my emporium. Speaking of which,” Rosie pulls a letter from her pocket. “Helen wants to know if you can deliver this to Alastor. Little lady has been bitten by the love-bug like an implanting tick! I believe he struck up a conversation with her at the tailor.”

You gracefully take the love letter. The plain white letter has Radio Demon written on its front in elegant scripture and … oh, that is a nice touch … and is fixed together with a wax stamp of a buck’s head with golden antler. Green and gold are a refined color combination. “If I run into him, he will surely receive it.” With a snap, a flame runs itself up the love letter, consuming it and vomiting it out on the desk you have at home.

“If I run into him, they say,” Rosie repeats with a giggle. She takes her seat and folds her hands over her lap. “I will then assure Helen that her letter will see Alastor within the week.”

“Climb off it.”

“Oh I most definitely will not!”

“Rosie.”

“You know that you are the only living and willing guest that has ever spoken on his broadcasts. Though, I’m not too sure if the screams he has playing in his ether are living or not. Certainly not willing though!”

“I am not so willing either. I come to discuss business, he pulls me into his broadcast. I go to get a bite from the street, there he is with his microphone.”

“Oh so the shoe is on the other foot. He is smitten with you?”

“No one is smitten with anyone.”

Rosie remains unconvinced. “Dear, you know love is my speciality! If you ever need a listening ear or some advice, you just tell Rosie and I’ll –”

You try to burn harshness out of your throat, truly you do. Despite your best efforts, the words that you say next are coated in hostility wrongfully aimed at the cannibal. “It’s not love. It will never be love. Especially not with me.”

That finally snaps Rosie out of her teasing. Her warmthful attitude is watered down and a fretful hand rises over to her black lips. Uncomfortable, you try to shrink away from those regretful eyes. You pick up another bite you had cut off the filet, chewing furiously. Rosie tries not to make it obvious but it is fruitless. Her eyes conveniently fall down to the sight of your plate, the space where your hands sit and thus, in addition, to your ungloved digits, your wedding band. The inscription is on the inside of the band, never revealed to any Overlord or Sinner, the words sweetly engraved: Two bodies, one heart.

“(Name), I’m sorry.”

You swallow. The raw regret in her voice feels like a high-pitched whining frequency in your ear, causing you to wilt. You fold your hands over one another, hiding your wedding band from sight. Orange eyelashes flicker with all the insects and bugs of emotion crawling over your skin. “Can we simply turn matters of discussion towards what I came here for?”

“Of course,” Rosie breathes out. She picks up the folder on the table, leaving her own plate untouched for the time being. A bit of rustling and fluttering distracts you. “Here … and here.” Rosie sets down the papers.

“The population of Cannibal Town is 2254. Since the last monthly visit of yours, only three people have died. Leroy D., Ruth T., and Mieszko M. – Leroy was eaten by his wife, Ruth ate a bad spleen and she got food poisoning, and Mieszko got killed in the crossfire of a turf war. We welcomed one new Sinner about a week ago. This gentleman named Wayne, from California, was a serial cannibal. He actually has this funny –” Rosie wilts under your look. She admends her previous gossip by continuing, “Ahem, and this is the population of Cannibal Town as of now. 2254. No less and no more.”

“No strange sightings or break-ins?”

“None for this month.”

“No rumors of anything suspicious?”

“Not for what you are looking for, dear,” Rosie says apologetic.

“No one has seen anything out of the ordinary? No unfamiliar persons at all,” you press.

Rosie only gives you a gloomy shake of her head. Forlorn, you rest your forehead onto the hand resting on your knee, a sigh escaping you like stubborn smoke. You actually have to take a moment to yourself, crawling away into the realm of your mind.

With Extermination coming so close … You two were two separate bodies but joined in your hearts … If anyone knew he was alive, it would be you. Yet, despite that connection that twines you together, you have not been able to locate him. His second pulse rested in your ribcage, a bit weak but still there. Rosie moves to put a hand to your shoulder as she sees you slip into a cavern of dark thoughts but stops when she remembers that you hate being touched. You have to find him.

“Thank you, Rosie.” You open one eye, ignoring the fullness of your waterline, and give her a sad smile. Her hand hovers but never lands. “I appreciate that you do this for me.”

“No worries, (Name). Cannibal Town is close knit after all. I promise if I see anything, you will be alerted first.”

It is a foolish but friendly effort of her to try and quench the fire in your eternal, damned soul.

♫♪.ılılıll|̲̅̅○̲̅̅|̲̅̅=̲̅̅|̲̅̅○̲̅̅|llılılı.♫♪

The heartbeat of soft pittering rain joins the consonant voice on the radio. Your umbrella (material eaten like a leaf under the consumption of a caterpillar) sits by the doorway, leaking the residue of acid rain onto your carpet. You hear another noise too: the steady flow of a turned on faucet. One of your servants is already washing the cherries in preparation. Shredding your ebon cloak, you venture into a home that is intruded by an uninvited guest you cannot ask to leave.

At least turn on the lights, if you invite yourself in, you think. You raise a finger up, sparking the flames inside lanterns as you go. Like fireflies awoke, they stirred in your presence. You enter the parlor when he is dramatically sitting in the shadows. A thespian until death and beyond.

On the radio, surprisingly in harmony with the acid rain pounding outside, the voice of thespian narrates: “Road crews have shut down all streets in all directions due to an ongoing turf war. So if you are looking to go anywhere, do NOT.”

You have another dramatic thespian to deal with though, separate from the Radio Demon. A finger of yours points skyward and a spark leaps off it, the three-tiered rings of candles on the chandelier stirring to life. You fix him with a vexed look, eyes narrowing.

You close the heavy doors behind you. Trapping him in there with you. Trapping you in there with him.

“So, we just come in uninvited now, Zestial?”

Zestial ignores you. He takes a loud sip of his tea, his four neon green eyes focused on the radio. His legs are elegantly folded and he looks as deadly as a weapon left unattended in the house of an alcoholic. His presence is perfumed with the scent of nightmares.

The Overlord has already set up his chess board, his side black and your white. Some residues of souls trapped in the pieces cause them to shift from an eggshell to an ivory white or from violet-black to charcoal. The rooks are particularly restless it seems, their imprisoned souls leaking through the pointed tips of their pieces and shaking on the board.

On the radio, Alastor animatedly speaks, his voice almost cracking boy-like in his enthusiasm.

“He is good for thou,” Zestial says, nodding towards where the radio sits above your empty fireplace.

“I have indulged in this subject one too many times this month. Not again.”

To you, he is not good for you. He is a dog playing around in the forest of wolves, ignorant of the biological differences. He is going to get a reality check of one these days and find himself making a deal that will metamorphosis into his own hands being shackled. Just like Husk.

You shift when the door of the parlor is knocked upon. You know that you told your servants to always obey the whims of a guest, but you always like to be there to medicate between the three volatile imp brothers and Zestial. “Enter.” You are relieved to see it is Lucius who opens the door, bowl of water-dotted fruit in hand.

“Master.” The oldest of the three brothers bows deeply at the pleasurable sight of you. You can pick up the tiniest hint of relief in his voice too. He extends the bowl out of you, “I have the cherries that Sir Zestial has asked for.”

“Thank y–”

“The boy can deliver it to thee himself.”

You snatch up the bowl before Lucius can even register the words. If you were a porcupine, quills would most certainly be raised. Austerity paints your voice.

“You are dismissed. Tell Agnar and Mars to go to their bedrooms and set up a light novel for me.” You two break apart as you turn back to Zestial, glaring. As soon as the door is closed, you say, “You know that a hair harmed on them is the equivalent of you attacking and threatening me.”

“There was no such thing.” Zestail sets down his saucer of tea. You eye it, wondering which one of the imps had to serve him. You mourn not coming home sooner as Zestial picks a cherry out of the bowl you set down. Taking a seat, you listen to his amends, “Thou employs a capable collective.”

“They’re not for sale.”

“Not a collective thee would seek company in.” You eye the board silently. “I believe we hast started out on the wrong foot. The Angelic Extermination is encroaching.”

♫♪.ılılıll|̲̅̅○̲̅̅|̲̅̅=̲̅̅|̲̅̅○̲̅̅|llılılı.♫♪

Corinthians 6:18.

Flee from sexual immorality.

After years and years and years, the night was still vivid in your head. The names and faces of your parents had dissolved through the sieve of time, irrelevant. You kept that night’s memory tight to you, shielding it away from the assault of time, remembering and remembering, reliving and reliving it so you would never forget it. Cauterizing a thousand images of that night into yourself until it was all you knew and breathed: the feel of him inside as you took him against his will, the softness of her as you forced a knife up and up into her womb, the warmth of blood as you offered yourself to whatever deity would listen to the bleats of a lamb, begging for their justice.

All other sins a person commits are outside the body,

You knew blood intimately. Squished juices of it flowed down your inner thighs. You collapsed into your mother’s arms, trembling and worrying over what the apple-red liquid meant, until you were taught this experience was an experience all women knew. You learned the taste of blood. In dizzying motions, it swam like a tadpole in your mouth until you spit on the kitchen floor, mouth dripping with it and apologies. You felt the satisfaction that came from drawing blood from someone else. In and out his stomach. In and out her vulva. The liquor of life spilling out, you knew it intimately.

But whoever sins sexually,

Lucius prepares the light novel. He cleans the tools and tightens the straps. When you eventually descend after your meeting with Ziestal, he offers you a baselard, a short sword, first. The weight of it is tangible in your hand, reliable and non-slippery like memories or blood. You may have been cursed with a putrid body but she got dealt worse.

Sins against their own body.

♫♪.ılılıll|̲̅̅○̲̅̅|̲̅̅=̲̅̅|̲̅̅○̲̅̅|llılılı.♫♪

“A love letter to keep you warm during Extermination,” you smile, offering up the letter to Alastor.

You two collide at the butcher shop, famished for a bite. Relenting to his whims, you let Alastor excitedly point out his favorites for this week’s selection, the shark teeth in his mouth moving a mile a minute. You even let him tip up your chin to hand feed you his concoction of summer sausage, honey pineapple mustard, and farmhouse cheddar slices. If he has a tail he is hiding, it must have wagged fast at your praises over his food combination. With both of your baskets full, you two left the butcher shop, your youngest servant following. Then, you presented him with Helen’s love letter.

His red eyes widen considerably. Behind the both of you, your servant is having a similar reaction, staring like he is a blind man gifted sight. A buzz of static drips into the space between you and Alastor, his gloved hand dipping down to collect the letter.

“How kind of you, (Name). I suppose all is forgiven?”

“For the matters of the Overlord? Yes. I can put that behind us as long as there is not a repeat of events.”

“Good. I would hate to disrupt the delicate balance we have,” Alastor mutters. He is starting to observe the letter, checking its front and back. The gold and green wax seal is very classy, nice touch, (Name). Though, your hand must have cramped at the end because the front does not look like your handwriting. Also Radio Demon? Why not Alastor? “We have to tread so carefully in our waltz.”

You laugh at his words, making the demon wilt. Alastor? Careful? He was completely without any tact and his fake humanitarianism was like an ill-fitting suit with buttons bursting at the seams. You see right through him. He was a man excited and overjoyed with his eternity, hungering for it. Between laughter, hand up to cover your smile slightly, you say, “Oh yes, of course. We have to be very careful.”

Alastor sours at your words. He had meant to sound poetic, not comedic.

He puts his thumb over the edge of the envelope, letting shadows consume it and leave it on the couch in his radio tower. He is a bit anxious about what you wrote to him. Fixing his suit, he admonishes, “We should always be cautious in a world such as this. Ah, just at midnight, we will have a rainstorm of death approaching us!” Alastor gestures a hand out to the red pentagram in the sky.

“Yet, I assume you will be out in it, broadcasting?”

“Rain or shine, I go where entertainment is, dear!”

“Like a moth to fire.” Not entirely cautious despite your previous statement, you think fondly.

THIS SECTION IS UNFINISHED AND WILL NOT READ SMOOTHLY

“Precisely!” His yellow teeth are whet in his snarling black gums. “Why, I am a bit mournful to not be up there as the Cold War goes on – why, that would have been quite a broadcast! I just read in the papers that those brave men upstairs have tested this thermonuclear device about a few thousands miles off the coast of Hawaii. A workshop of bombs made by idle hands – how novel!”

“Do you think the Soviet Union will fire first?”

“One can never be too sure with these things. It is a dime throw!” Alastor materializes a dime, weaving it between his ebony hands and red claws. “Heads or tails?”

“To what?” You watch the dime in his hand (...)

“Why, to see if we will survive this Extermination and live to greet 1951?”

That seems to sober you up considerably. (...)

“As they say, beware an old man in a profession where men usually die young.”

“I taught you that phrase when I introduced the two of you.”

“My apologies. As the Belam says, beware,” you whack him on the shoulder and both of you share a laugh. (...)

THIS SECTION WILL CONTINUE SMOOTHLY

♫♪.ılılıll|̲̅̅○̲̅̅|̲̅̅=̲̅̅|̲̅̅○̲̅̅|llılılı.♫♪

“Helloooo! Anybody home?”

The fire enveloping the Belam’s house raises itself up like the fingers of a child, pitching to reach the out-of-reach candy on the top shelf. Relentless and acrimonious, it burns in a glowing wave of white and amber, a warning to not come close. Alastor challenges the roaring fire with those words, arms crossed behind his back and his imprisonment of cheer present on his lips.

Ignoring or ignorant of his presence, the fire does not stir beyond its usual waving and billowing pattern. It continues to chew on the mansion exterior, from the window trims to the roof gable to foundation. Alastor had anticipated – or more correctly, was looking forward to – some reaction, perhaps a forceful flare of flames as it grew in size. The fire continues, devoted in the motions of burning, not wavering into less or more strength.

Somberly, Alastor removes a hand off his cane. Exuding droplets of your door knocker climb down the wood like snot. It is still slightly usable. Alastor wraps his hand around the soft ring of metal hanging from the lion’s mouth. He lifts it up. Slippery metal indents to his hand’s shape and, as he goes to knock again, the door is suddenly opened.

Startling a bit, he is quick to flick the liquid metal off his gloves, wanting to be presentable. Alastor grins wider as the innards of your humble home are revealed to him. Is he getting further than Zestial did, he wonders with excitement.

The first sign that anything is amiss after the Extermination is the wound on Zestial’s face.

Ah. Perhaps not, he thinks as he locks eyes with one of your imp servants, brows creasing.

Alastor tries to rack his mind, smile strained. He has been in your lovely presence many times. With you often comes a shadow. However, the shadow has three variations without easily identifiable features such as diverse horn shapes. All your lousy, low class company shared the horns of a hebridean sheep – an obnoxious, gross shape. Which one is this? With his height, he might be –

Before Alastor can guess, the imp speaks. He has his arms crossed over his chest, glaring up at the taller demon. “The Master is not receiving guests at this time, Radio Demon.”

Oh, it is the one who does not like him! Lucius!

Cheerful at his gained knowledge, Alastor says boisterously, “Now now, dear chump, that is no way to send away unwanted company! Why, I elect for a much firmer tact!” A black gloved hand wraps around Lucius’s arm, squeezing above the elbow.

“By using physical strength, we notice a change in power dynamic. Then, we should work on your voice. The Master is NOT–” Alastor’s voice drops into a dark static octave, “receiving guests at this time. Emphasize, young man; it is the key to conversing as I have found in my time as a radio host. The most powerful instrument we have is our voice! And, to respond to your statement (because conversing clearly is key too!), I would say –”

Alastor suddenly pulls, causing Lucius to stumble as his palm is inches away from the porch’s foundation. Alastor uses that praised emphasis in a non-verbal way, gaining a few inches in height. His lanky body stretches unnaturally, the corners of his mouth grossly inching up. “I am coming in, no matter what your Master says, you fucking, insignificant IMP.”

Letting Lucius drop to the ground, Alastor laughs and steps in, having fun. He takes the hand that was behind his back and brings it to his front, smiling at his cane. Finger on the pulse point of the pyle microphone, the Radio Demon calls over his shoulder, “Firm tact next time!” Now will that little stunt bring you out or will he need to do more?

“Where is your Master, Lucius?” Alastor asks breezily into the heat radiating off the burning walls. As he walks, he sends glances around the mansion.

His luxurious stroll grinds to a halt when the cool touch of a weapon hits his nape. If pouting were a possibility, his lips would be pulled into the most childish frustrated pout. Lean body twisting, he sends a glance over his shoulder to see Lucius holding a gun to his throat.

“Exactly what I was talking about! Firmer tact!”

Alastor’s tone is like a father proud that his son has adopted the correct baseball swing after numerous failed attempts. Lucius’s eyes narrow into a glare, amber sclera shining brightly and rivaling the glow of the fire eating your mansion’s walls. He hisses out his previous statement (“The Master is not receiving guests at this time, Radio Demon.”) as his tail whips up and down wrathfully.

The collective you keep is quite cute. He is still trying to unearthing how these three fearless, loyal brothers fell into your unfriendly hands. The oldest is especially fond of you; Alastor has wondered if you noticed the crush Lucius harbors towards you. If he takes a bite out of the ill-tasting imp, will that lure you into the opening?

“Now, Lucius,” the gun presses deeper into Alastor’s fourth cervical bone, “I think it is the right time to stop acting like I am unwanted company. You yourself have seen how your Belam looks at me.”

The gun is fired.

When a weapon is fired, a change of moods is often a natural following event. These said moods can turn even volatile when someone has previous history with being at the receiving end of a gun.

THIS SECTION IS UNFINISHED AND WILL NOT READ SMOOTHLY

The ‘X’ stamped on the center of Alastor’s forehead glows a vicious crimson. (...)

“They’re in the parlor,” Agnar interrupts. If the Radio Demon has not been burnt out, then it must be that some part of you wants to meet with him. He might not understand it but he is not enveloped in a cloud of envy like his older brother, thus he can see it perfectly and clearly. “The door is unlocked.”

Alastor turns, red sclera returning with a blink. His eyes upturn and a pleased grin tugs his features into something with a centimeter less malice than it held before. “Good dog,” Alastor says, and taps the head of his cane on Agnar’s shoulder.

THIS SECTION WILL CONTINUE SMOOTHLY

Alastor brushes past Lucius with a sycophant grin, static laugh track bouncing off him along the way. Well, it is an ideal turn of events that he does not have to harm one of your imp servants to get you to come out. The palpable glare bruising on his back tickles Alastor as his everlasting static feedback laughs and laughs.

He sends a few amused glances to the walls. Melting iron cascades down overheated lanterns and portrait frames hold nebulous black mouths in them. Perhaps, you heard it all. He did not know the extension of what you could do – were you engulfing this entire place or was there a physical form or mental consciousness in the parlor as your imp said? Wasting no time, he pushes open the entrance to that very room, thrilled to see what could possibly lie beyond.

The design is quite modern from what Alastor can make out in the covering curtains of fire you had thrown throughout your house. There is still that outdated chandelier from whatever time period he has yet to figure out. It now hangs down instead of up like congealing stalactites of silver.

His eyes draw down to the long table surrounded by one chesterfield couch and a twin set of club chairs. Blackened and concave like melted sugar. The back of the chesterfield blocks the fireplace which roars loudly. Alastor takes a moment to notice the radio above the crashing riptide of fire that your inglenook churns with. Melted, unfortunately. His eyes squint in displeasure. You lay nude and supine on the ground.

He knocks fruitlessly on the parlor door, announcing a presence already known. You do not glance away from the downturned blades of a chandelier liquefying into a reverse mirror of itself. Alastor steps in and you do not stir.

Come now, (Name), do not be such a bore. The Radio Demon steps into the room.

“Now, they say the best medicine is laughter! Though, that was snipped from a Proverb and we are, delightfully, trapped in Hell. Sooo,” Alastor sits on the table, crossing legs and holding his cane in folded hands “So I think the next best medicine is a bit of crying! Thus, may I suggest a night on the town, terrorizing the screams and tears out of Sinners and Overlords alike?”

You glance at Alastor, especially since he is holding out his cane’s head to you, waiting for a reply. The energy to muster up a glare or any form of reply is popping and crackling around the two of you. Thus, you stare silent at the theatrical man.

“Hello,” Alastor brings the cane to his teeth. “Is this thing on?” He taps it with a claw, pops of static thumping with each delicate hit. “No, I think I’m good! Excellent! (Name)!”

And with a sudden jerk, he spreads his legs and leans his body forward towards you, face hovering over yours. His teeth hang over you like a crescent moon, glowing. “If you would give me the pleasure, I would like to conduct an interview with Hell’s Beldam. Have you seen them around by chance?”

“…”

“Come now, dear. I am a radio host, not a comedian. And as a radio host, I rely on the conversations that I can have with my audience!”

Slightly dejected with your blank staring, he sends a scrutinizing gaze over your nude body. People change upon entering Hell. You were no different from him. An unknown being had taken the worst parts of your death and made them prominent in your physical form.

There is still an outline of where you end and the flame circling the house begins. One of your hands rests on your ribcage between the large globes of your breasts; the other with the wedding band lies across your forehead. Absent of a nose or a moving mouth, blank white eyes highlighted by orange eyelashes reveal the most expressions you can give. Your form is thin, the black of your ribcage is seen under the roaring fire that is your skin. Between your legs lies a thick, inhuman phallus and vulva – both separate human genitals. Your legs are shapely and curvy in that perfect feminine allure.

He is still unsure of what circumstance led to this being your physical form. The wedding band is currently the most intriguing part of you. He had no idea you were married. Mystery enshrouds even what your crimes could have possibly been in the living world –

“Radio Demon, what do you live for?” Your voice sounds like the crunching and popping of a thousand branches. It is distorted like you are trying to speak over a campfire that has grown too tall and too wide.

“Why! Entertainment, of course!” He spins back to a sitting position, crossing his legs and perfecting his posture. “I live for the Shakespearen entertainment of a stage! Divertissement, as the French say! Why I became an Overlord just for the very notion to be more entertained!”

“I live for revenge.”

#is it really a WIP if i will NOT FUCKING FINISH IT #alastor x reader #hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel x reader #alastor #hazbin hotel #WNIP #work not in progress #:) <3

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