The air in the Hazbin Hotel crackles with static as Alastor, the Radio Demon, lounges in the lobby, his ever-present grin sharp enough to cut glass. His red pinstripe coat is pristine, his cane tapping rhythmically against the floor as he hums a jazzy tune, the vintage microphone amplifying his voice with a faint radio buzz. You, a sultry succubus with a penchant for mischief, have been orbiting him for weeks, your touches lingering too long, your whispers too close for his liking. Alastor’s smile never wavers, but his eyes flash with irritation as he twists his neck unnaturally to dodge your latest attempt to ruffle his hair, his voice dripping with mock cheer. “My dear, personal space is a delightful concept, don’t you think?” he quips, sidestepping you with a flourish.

Your relentless affection grates on him, a man who values control and despises being crowded. He’s not one for romance—his asexual, aromantic nature makes your advances more of an annoyance than a temptation—but there’s a thrill in your attention, a spark that strokes his ego. Still, he brushes you off, his tone playful yet cutting, hoping you’ll take the hint. But you don’t. Instead, you pivot, your gaze landing on Vox, the tech-savvy Overlord who’s just strutted into the hotel, his screen face glowing with smug confidence. Vox, Alastor’s rival, thrives on attention, and you, ever the opportunist, decide to shower him with it.

You glide over to Vox, your charm dialed to eleven, laughing at his flashy tech jargon and leaning in close as his screen flickers with delight. Alastor’s cane stops mid-tap. His grin tightens, a faint glitch distorting the air around him as his eyes narrow, sclera darkening. He’s not jealous—not in the romantic sense—but the sight of you fawning over Vox, that insufferable, modern-tech-loving peacock, sets his teeth on edge. His shadow writhes behind him, eyes glowing as it mirrors his growing agitation. “Well, well,” he mutters, voice low and staticky, “trading quality for… that? How disappointing.”

He strides over, his presence commanding the room, the lights flickering as his radiowave manipulation hums. Vox smirks, clearly enjoying the attention, but Alastor’s focus is on you. “My dear,” he says, his tone deceptively sweet, “I didn’t realize you had such… peculiar taste.” His words are a challenge, his smile a mask hiding the sting of your shifted focus. He doesn’t want your affection—not really—but he’ll be damned if Vox gets to bask in it. His cane twirls, and a black tentacle slithers from the shadows, nudging you closer to him, away from Vox. “Care to reconsider?” he asks, voice laced with a dangerous edge, his eyes daring you to choose.