#⛤ hellooo! is this thing on? testing! testing! ⛤ answered

[radi0activesmile]

@the-smallest-star asked: Gritt's crawling. Oh lawd he crawling.

"Ah-ah-ah, where are you headed?"

He's quick to drop his microphone (which, fortunately, vanishes into the ether rather than clanking to the floor) in order to scoop one adventures infant imp into his arms.

"I'm afraid you're not licensed for travel~"

[radi0activesmile]

Dances and Balls starters

@arachn0philia asked: "I didn't recognize you at first in that suit."

Alastor laughs warmly at the statement. "I don't blame you! White certainly isn't my color~" White. No tatters, tears, nor stitches. It's as far removed from The Radio Demon's typical calling card as one can get. He turns, offering a respectful bow to the familiar voice. "But I thought it fit well with the theme of the evening~"

[radi0activesmile]

@themosthatedbeingg asked: A flock of rubber ducks appears suddenly with a chorus of ominous quacks and leaves behind a Vinyl records of 1920’s Jazz music and one duck shaped furby in Alastor’s room before leaving

He should have expected this.

Operative word being should. And yet. He didn't.

Still, the ducks have him snickering, and when they vanish, he's quick to pick up the duck-shaped Furby. With an amused grin, he sets the little creature beside his control panel and picks up the record. Hm. He'll have to give this a listen tonight.

A snap of his fingers summons a piece of parchment and an old fountain pen, on which he quickly jots down a thank you note (yes, he's a murderous, sadistic, manipulative Overlord, but that's no reason not to be polite.)

Votre Majesté, Thank you for the additions to my collections! I'll keep my new feathered friend in the radio tower until I find room for him on my organ. I will give the new record a listen tonight.

- Alastor

Sealed in an envelope, a snap of his fingers teleports the letter to Lucifer.

[radi0activesmile]

@the-smallest-star asked: Gritt exited Patch's room, leaving him with the king for now. He hadn't exactly told Alastor why he'd asked Lucifer to come… but he was going to now. He took a seat beside him, his tail flicking as he looked at the floor. The announcement would be going out shortly. "… You and Patch were right, in different ways. Patch is taking my place. He wants to… he's always wanted a chance to make a difference." He raised his head a little, looking at Alastor, "I'm sorry, for making you worry. And hurting you. No one is taking me away from you. Lucifer even clarified that Patch only takes orders from him." While Gritt didn't tell Lucifer why they asked, for the Kings sake, Gritt wasn't about to abandon his family. Alastor had been there for him at his worst. He was his dad.

Alastor sat in the waiting area. While he had legal documentation linking him to Gritt, he had no such connection to Patch; thus, he didn't feel right peeking in on the little chef until he was willing to take any old visitor off the street.

There's a soft whirring from Alastor as he flips through different types of waves: Cell signals, radio waves, electromagnetic waves. He's always listening... and, while he knows Opal has no reason to lie, he isn't certain she's entirely correct. Mafiosos have a way of making things look like accidents. It's a phrase so commonly associated with them that it's become cliche.

Could Crimson have had something to do with this?

Even if he didn't... whatever talk he had with Gritt certainly didn't go his way, and thus, he's most certainly planning some way to make Gritt regret his decision.

That whirring slows when Gritt takes a seat, and as the imp looks down at the floor, Alastor places his hand atop his son's head, giving his hair a light tousle. "I told you before, you owe me no such words."

He hadn't realized just how backed into a corner Gritt had been-- nor how many different forces were backing him into said corner. Gritt felt as if he had no choice, and Alastor can hardly be angry at him for making a decision he didn't truly have a choice in making. He can't even be angry that he learned the information second-hand days after the decision was made... that was orchestrated. Gritt was purposefully kept busy, purposefully kept away from him.

They might have bestowed upon Gritt a title, but he was nothing more than a pawn in a game that even the king himself doesn't seem to realize is being played.

As his hand drops back to his side, his ears tweak forward affectionately. "Is there anything I can get for you? Something to eat? A change of clothes? Coffee that doesn't taste like disease and regret?"

[radi0activesmile]

@top-shelf-tender asked: “How do you feel about committed relationships?”

Ask my character "How do you feel about ______?" Can be an idea, person(s), place, or thing, and they'll have to answer honestly.

@top-shelf-tender asked: “How do you feel about committed relationships?”

"You know I'm old fashioned~ I've never seen much of a purpose in a relationship that isn't committed."

With that being said, he hasn't seen a great deal of purpose in relationships since his death.

"If you're not committed to your partner, you're just two people occasionally sharing a meal or a bed, don't you think?"

[radi0activesmile]

@poisonedspider asked: zip, sender needs receiver's help to zip up the back of their dress. (he WOULD)

Alastor watched with a raised eyebrow as Angel tugged at the zipper of his dress. Certainly someone with four arms (incredibly long arms at that) should have no trouble handling such a debacle, and yet, the struggle continued.

Was this some new-fangled way of flirting with him? One that he in no way understood? Why else would the arachnid not stay in his room to fight with his ensemble?

He supposes he should nip this in the bud before it goes on any longer. "If I may, my dear fellow?" He asks before rising to his feet and walking the short distance between the two. "Turn around."

Upon taking a look at the troublesome zipper, he took note that there actually was something jammed in the zipper's teeth: A small tuft of white fur. Ah. Perhaps this struggle was real after all. "One moment~" A crook of his finger causes the impeding white fluff to vanish, and with it gone, the dress zips together rather seamlessly.

"There~ Now. Where are you off to in such a glad rag?"

[radi0activesmile]

𝐋𝐘𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐒 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐔𝐍𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐏 𝐃𝐘𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐂𝐒 

@arachnoheaux asked: ❛ i’m ready to die holding your hand. ❜

"Oh, no, my dear! I've no intention of letting either of us die. You and I are going to burn this world down brick by brick for the rest of eternity!"

With that said, he quickly steps over to take Ani's hand. "But, if such a day comes that we meet our demise, your hand in mine is the only way I will accept it!"

[radi0activesmile]

Dove shows Alastor a video from an old Jim Henson movie, "This is an example of a muppet...."

"It's absolutely hideous!"

"Where can I buy twenty?"

[radi0activesmile]

@queen-of-prophecy asked: "Oh my." The arrival of the Goetia, tall and luxuriant, stepping through a glowing portal with presents and parcels hanging from each of her six hands, was unexpected. But her eyes were lit with amusement as she spotted the hotel's host, giving a chuckle. "Could it be that you're the infamous host of the hotel here?"

"Oh-ho! So you've heard of me!" The stag says as he quickly trots the last remaining steps down to the hotel's parlor. Normally, such words wouldn't earn such a reaction; however, Alastor can feel the magic in the air; he can also catch the scent coming from the woman before him: She is not a sinner. Most sinners are aware of him. She, on the other hand, is a Goetia, and, from what he's gathered, they don't do a great deal of business with sinners.

He quickly steps to her, stopping roughly a foot away and offering a respectful bow. "Alastor," he begins, "a pleasure to be meeting you, your grace!" Her hands are full, it would be rude for him to shake one. "Quite a pleasure! Do you need a hand with those bags of yours?"

[radi0activesmile]

@siempreminta asked: "MMMMMMMMEEEEEEEEEEEHHHHHHHH!"

"Meh!"

[radi0activesmile]

the-smallest-star asked: Gritt hasn't seen a trial like that before, Blitz hadn't even been allowed to speak up. It had been awful to watch, and now he was waiting for his brother to come back to the hotel, leg bouncing anxiously.

Generally, Alastor made himself scarce when the hotel's television was on. Vox made it clear that he could watch his nemesis through screens, and that was hardly a headache Alastor wanted to deal with on a daily basis; however, extenuating circumstances were clearly present this time around. Since Patch was forced to be a part of this, and Gritt was watching, Alastor stayed close-- albeit, he didn't take a seat on the sofa properly until the trial was concluded. Having Vox's obnoxious face pop up to goad him during the trial wouldn't do.

He did stay in the parlor, merely out of the direct line of the screen. Occasionally his body would flicker, and the portraits and potted plants around him would warp and distort.

What was playing out before them was nothing more than a lynching: An act meant to spread fear amongst an inferior race, serving to maintain supremacy of the superior through fear. That imp would have been put to death without even the chance to state his case were it not for the sheer luck that the superior creature he was involved with saw him as something more than a whipping boy.

And, of course, this bird of superior race was spared. His life has value. What value, exactly? Alastor couldn't begin to tell a soul what that bird did aside from sit in his castle. His value came from the body he was born into, the very same way that imp's lack of value came from his red skin and horns.

They would see Gritt the same way. It didn't matter that the young man looking at the television was worth more nearly as much as every soul in that courtroom combined. His value was placed at next to nothing because he was born with red skin and horns.

"Interesting that no one batted an eye when he said he was a hired gun," the stag muses as he takes a seat beside his son, offering him a cigarette from an antique cigarette case. He already has a cigarette of his own between his teeth.

"But I suppose he wasn't really on trial for attempted murder. He was put on trial for thinking he was worth touching a book used by the s̴͉͉̀̾ũ̵̦̕͜p̷̟̗͆̏e̷͉̿r̶̨̝̈́ï̷̠̰ŏ̶̦r̷̟̾̎ race."

[radi0activesmile]

@top-shelf-tender asked: “You’re drivin’ me up the walls, and the worst part is, you’re not doin’ shit that should make you drive me up the walls in the first place. You exist, and suddenly I can’t act right or think straight. It’s fucked.”

Alastor glances over his right shoulder... then his left. No. There is no one else in the room. He didn't walk in on a conversation. Husk is speaking to him-- though, considering his tone, and how honestly he's tearing his soul out of his body... Alastor knew that.

Though... he did want to draw subtle attention to how out-of-left-field this declaration was.

"Would you care to elaborate on what driving you up the walls means?"

As if he doesn't know. He simply doesn't wish to reveal his hand until he's positively certain. These matters need to be handled delicately, you know.

[radi0activesmile]

@themosthatedbeingg asked: “.. hey um.. thanks for the soup the other night , it was good ..” he’s nervous about something and gives Alastor a bloody box. Inside would be a fresh arm and rib meat of a sinner, he went hunting it seemed . “You said you liked your food raw so . Here ..” He doesn’t give gifts often unless your Charlie or his sins .

"Hm?" Alastor glances over his shoulder from his place on the sofa. He seems to be tinkering with an old radio. Ah, look who's visiting again.

"Ah, yes. Next time, I'll add spices. Stomachs tend not to agree with going from days of straight bread to cayenne pepper and onion powder."

He looks at the bloody box, his eyebrow raising slowly. Is it his turn to ask what the ulterior motive is?

He sets the radio down and peers inside, his never-fading smile growing by a small margin. His static hums as he taps his finger against the bloody tissue before licking his finger. "1970s Russia?" He asks, chuckling softly at his own joke (that's only partially a joke.)

"You didn't have to return that favor, you know. I cooked because I enjoy cooking," he casts his gaze towards the box. "And since I don't often cook for myself~"

[radi0activesmile]

@qveenofgluttony asked:

To say he was surprised would be an understatement. He had never spoken to Gluttony's Queen nor her daughter; although, there are radios all throughout Hell. It's possible they're aware of him, and he's made it no secret that he's quite the fan of formal affairs. They're timeless, after all.

Folding the invitation delicately back into its envelope, he tucks said envelope into his coat.

He should get to work on finding a plus one.

[radi0activesmile]

@sparkinglove asked: [ shelter ] sender uses their body to shield receiver from danger (from Charlie)

This wasn't the first time a small group of angels had slipped back down to Hell since Adam's demise, but it was the first time they had struck in the dead of night.

Alastor didn't sleep. It was a vulnerability he simply couldn't afford, and thus, he spent most of his nights in his radio tower, hosting a late night show or writing a radio drama to air during next week's broadcasts.

The angels' arrival was signaled by the sound of shattering glass from down in the parlor, a sound that turned Alastor's tranquil expression to one of excitement as he fell into his shadow.

He purposefully rises up in the midst of this little invasion, his tendrils peeling from his back and wrapping around the necks of the angels closest to him, flinging them against the walls of the hotel before jerking their limp bodies down to the floor, where they were impaled by his microphone. Since the metal of the mic itself was forged from angelic steel, it's the only way to guarantee these obnoxious things don't come back to be a bother again.

Occupied with those in front of him, Alastor doesn't appear to be aware of the angel diving down from above, not until a flap of their wings alerts him, and he raises his microphone to--

-- find himself on the ground, noble blood dripping down mere inches from his hand. With a sneer, he turns to see Charlie, a fresh puncture wound dripping from her shoulder... and the angel that attempted the aerial maneuver lying on the floor with its neck twisted in quite the unnatural position.

He snarls as he rises from the ground, his neck snapping as he surveys the parlor. It would seem that was the last of them.

"... Might I ask what that was about?" He asks, his smile tight and eyes narrowed. "That nearly struck your heart, you know."

[radi0activesmile]

Leave an object in my ask and my muse will react to it being given to them.

@botanikos asked: The prince drops a bunch of berries, a cascade of them, but one by one. Blueberries and blackberries, and Grimberries, to be specific.

One. Two. Three.

Ten... eleven... twin.

Alastor counts as the berries rain down, one by one, and bounce onto the ground below. His shadow stretches out in order for its face to be right beneath the collection of falling berries before opening its mouth.

Alastor looks upward, raising his eyebrows at the owl-esque creature above him.

"Sir. Are you aware you're spilling your groceries?"