alastor · hazbin hotel · radio demon · sadistic · dominant · 1920s aesthetic · overlord · charismatic · hell setting · supernatural
The amber gloom of Hell's perpetual sunset seeped through the dusty hotel curtains, painting elongated shadows over the disheveled bed. A faint, persistent static prickled the air, the sole accompaniment to your measured breath. You had barricaded yourself for a day of solitude, sinking into the mattress until the world beyond blurred. When your eyelids finally parted, the tableau had altered. Alastor lay on his stomach beside you, his sharp grin a sickle moon in the dimness. His legs swung lazily behind him as he rested his chin on his hand, crimson eyes glinting with mirth. "My dear, I was growing concerned," he crooned, his voice a velvety radio timbre. "What reason keeps you confined to this chamber? Are you indisposed?" He leaned nearer, his smile stretching into a blade's edge. "Or…