Sitting on the roof with Alastor, peering up at the beautiful night sky, was somehow... fulfilling. An odd meal that managed to leave Sans with begrudging satisfaction.

It was somehow just right, in every twisted sense of the word. Both of them bantering like usual, knowing that one of them was a homicidal maniac teetering on the edge, and the other was the sweet temptation over that very edge. Every stare Alastor gave Sans was delectable with vile intensity. That was the very reason Sans had put on a little performance of teleporting, just to rile him up.

Over the radio, it created a secure blanket Sans no longer had. He was starchily stripped of every defense he had weaponized against Alastor previously, left (metaphorically) bare bones in front of the threat. Sans found himself oddly addicted to it, as if he was an exhibitionist at a non-nudist beach. Prancing around despite all the danger with a thrill of adrenaline to him that left him breathless.

Alastor did that to him. Somehow. The demon was just a few feet away, one leg tossed over the ledge haphazardly. Occasionally, he would sweep his gaze back toward the forest he hadn't seen in ages. But Alastor's focus was always drawn elsewhere, inevitably. Alastor was never subtle about it, and nor was Sans about being aware of it. They both knew he had some fucked-up reason for coming up there.

He wasn't stupid. He could tell that Alastor fancied an internal debate of homicide every time his eyes lingered on Sans. Hungry. No one looked at someone's neck that much unless they wanted to do something to it. Alastor wasn't kinky, so that left the more likely option of something to do with strangling or snapping it.

Another look from wide, near-blown pupils. Alastor's ears flickered under the breeze shifting about. Funny how he took on the appearance of a deer, probably the most commonly associated animal with the concept of prey. That had to piss off Alastor. The guy was forever stuck looking like an animal that was hunted for sport. Especially after the guy was shot by a hunter. That wasn't something Alastor would tolerate if he had any alternative.

"So how did the injury turn out?" Sans broached. "Everything okay?"

"I suppose," Alastor answered, his tone prickled with honesty. Amused, he tilted his tea-riddled cup to the side, watching Sans with a gaze that never threatened to glance away. Not for a second. "It did sting for a few days, but I'm perfectly healthy now!"

"That's good. Sounded like shit over the phone, so I'm glad it's better now. So if I have to kick your ass, I can do so guilt-free. Lucky me."

Alastor cackled, lips pressing impossibly wider as he took in Sans' everything. Again, that static took hold, but Sans was already so used to it he was beginning to be able to brush it off. "Oh, silly skeleton, you could certainly try."

"Nah. Too much effort. And what kind of host would I be if I did?" Sans snorted.

"No, please, do enlighten me!" Alastor said, all but setting the cup to the side (neatly, Sans noticed, being very careful not to spill it despite his sinister expression) as he fully turned toward Sans. Green stitches suddenly pulled taut when his teeth glistened under the moonlight, impossibly close. Alastor's breath, a warm hint of air, pressed against the curve of his nose socket. Sans' body twitched with a sudden, primal desire to run.

Sans twitched. Static crawled across his limbs, the anthill disturbed.

"I would adore to see what you can do. Monsters have magic while alive, don't they? It would be so fascinating to see how you can try to—"

Sans wasn't someone to attack first. Not if he could help it. Sans would grit his teeth and let someone pass if he didn't have to fight. If he had a choice. Sans despised fighting. Too many memories linked to it, every single one worse than the last. And Sans wasn't prone to angry outbursts. If anything, he shut down instead of springing out.

Yet his body that night rose with a sudden rush of adrenaline and damn near giddiness as he dove toward the leering serial killer. Sans couldn't breathe, couldn't taste or see or anything. Nothing but Alastor, tauntingly there. Right in front of Sans, demanding Sans dare try. To finally, fucking finally, put an end to the weird dynamic Sans didn't have a name for and take action. To tip the scales in favor of something new.

It was exhilarating. He had to attack.

Being in person with Alastor brought their usual radio conversations to the forefront, ever so intense compared to their previous conversations. Sans was always pretty safe on the radio. There, he was looking death in the eye with a smile, terrified and excited all at once. The guy that was everything he hated in humans, and yet was the only man Sans would allow himself to become this impulsive with. Alastor just had a punchable face. Instead of a fist, Sans landed a bone attack before jumping back from a mass of shadows that sprung up from the ground. Squirming, wiggling shadows shaped like something that dragged a snort out of Sans.

"Oh fuck, you have tentacles?" Sans damn near giggled, balancing on the back of his heels as his magic thrummed in his eye socket. Alive. "Keep that hentai shit away from me, bud."

"Hentai?" Alastor gave such a deep scowl that Sans almost cackled, so high on adrenaline from the long-awaited physical confrontation that he could taste it. "I'll have you know tentacles can also be associated with Lovecraftian horror stories, not just animated characters." His fingers twitched, and a sudden grasp of shadows suddenly leapt up from the ground again. Sans' teleport barely avoided contact with them.

Fast.

"Aren't you from the 1900s?" Sans, trying not to create any light show that his neighbor could see, settled for simple bone attacks. "The fact that you know what hentai is means a lot about your interests. It's okay, no judgment here. But if you watch animated people get fucked by tentacles and ain't even getting off on it, you've got some weird hobbies, pal."

"The misfortune of living with a porn star and having a near stalker that is focused entirely around picture shows, Comic Sans, is that I am unfortunately very informed of Hentai. The people love to keep me informed in that regard." Alastor's voice teetered from plain dangerous to straight-up menacing as his body began to twist and morph into something taller and... greener, surprisingly. His limbs sprouted with length, his chest broadened and thickened. The ugly, petal-less rose had blossomed into a hideous thornbush. "I'm so very thrilled you had to go and say something as well!"

His eye sockets strained and croaked from the pressure. When he spoke, the words forced themselves through asphalt for a prayer to be heard.

"Gotta give the people what they want."

The taste of cold, brittle metal swept through his mouth. Sans swallowed nails, breathless.

Alastor was stronger than him. It wasn't debatable. Sans had been trained ever since he could walk across the street alone in the capital. He knew how to dodge, how to weave. Sans knew how to snag a human's ankle when they tried to kick him, how to keep them pinned with his blue magic, blood seeping from his injured eye socket, as he-

Sans knew a lot of things.

One thing he knew, biologically, was determination.

An ability that placed humans neatly onto a pedestal. The ability that led them to easily dust monsters if they felt it upon a whim. An ability that was held back by their weak, squishy, pliable bodies. Incapable of magic. The one thing monsters could wield.

And that was their balance. The pendulum of existence between two species.

Monsters had strong magic and weak souls. Humans had strong souls, but no output for it other than basic attack.

Alastor had determination. Had powers.

Had immortality, unless struck by the steel of God himself.

Alastor had the best of both worlds.

Sans bore up at the looming figure of tentacles (not hentai related) and glowing green stitches, red as the air began to twist and morph with symbols he couldn't even dare to try and comprehend.

His soul jittered in his chest. By all accounts, Alastor didn't belong there. The world was showing that fact very much. Alastor wasn't a fish out of water; he was a shark that traveled between dimensions. As if the concept of time or space became physical in one spot, and the world couldn't even begin to understand how it managed to force itself to exist physically.

His mortality slammed into him at full force. Sans couldn't breathe, sinking down through the static fog like an anchor in the ocean. He was going to die. Sans picked a fight with a man he understood so much and so little of, and he was going to die.

His feet swayed underneath him, and Sans took a tender step back. Just one. He thought back to a memory—just one. A single memory. Him, alone in the bathroom. Snowdin. Big ol' knife, in his hand. Lines littered his wrists.

That sort of memory.

"That's so fucking funny," Sans choked out, trying to stare through the overwhelming headache forming rapidly. His bones clattered about, head swayed. Every inch of him was alight with a burning intensity. "I tried to kill myself a while back, but now I don't want to die. Should've visited me a few years back. Perfect timing that would have been."

Alastor blankly stared for a moment. And for that moment, Sans debated what would happen if he did die there. If Alastor truly did decide to sweep away his life.

He gritted his teeth and swallowed thickly.

If it had to be anyone, it would be Alastor.

And Sans would take him out as well. It was only right.

Despite the realization that he might very well die upon that damn roof, under the stares and gaze of a man that confounded him so much and so little, Sans found himself struggling to keep his grin down.

Alastor lunged. Sans' teleport fizzled out when he was suddenly swept off his feet, through the air. The world's axis tilted. While he did land a bone attack through Alastor's chest, a very large and very sharp hand wrapped around his throat and squeezed.

Sans gasped for air, suddenly drowning. Everything in his body lurched forward, as if he was still spinning after he landed with a grunt. Through the humming static and whine of a pitch, Sans could hear his bones clattering.

And all he could see, from then on, was Alastor. Fully framed in his vision, with wide eyes and a grin that looked anything but happy. His body twisted and morphed beyond any acceptable standard, looking more like a cryptid that should be roaming the forest around them instead of pinning some guy on his roof.

Sans clicked his teeth together and tasted the ozone.

"I want to," Alastor said suddenly, his voice unsteady. The grip around Sans' neck experimentally squeezed. Despite his lacking oxygen intake, Sans still flinched. "I want to watch you scream, plead for your life as it drains out of your eye sockets..." He trailed off, tilting his head a full ninety degrees to the side as he glared at Sans. His fingers teetered on the edge of closing in and applying more pressure than Sans' neck could handle. Then he loosened, just as quickly. Other than Alastor's voice, all Sans could hear was the thumping of his soul ringing in his skull. A chime of an alarm bell.

A sudden, primal desire for Alastor's hands to tighten bubbled within him. Sans repressed it.

Alastor squeezed periodically, and after a moment, it clicked. The way Alastor was looking at Sans, the lingering gaze that hovered on his eye sockets. The way he was all tense and prone to attack.

Alastor was just as confused as Sans was. It never left his mouth, but the way he tapered off his sentence spoke volumes.

Oh.

"Me too," Sans agreed to the unspoken confusion, the unspoken need to understand that this relationship—whatever it was—was confusing and disorienting and all over the place. "I dunno either."

Alastor's grin was forcefully kept in place as the man's eyes narrowed. "But I don't do this."

"Neither do I. I'm the fucking Royal Judge. I literally was trained to kill serial killers. I haven't used it fully yet, but I can activate my karmic retribution with some blasters, and trust me, you wouldn't like that. And you could snap my throat with your bare hands, I guarantee it." Sans reached up and clasped a hand around Alastor's wrist, trying to quell his thumping soul. "Don't ya get it? This shit is fucked, and weird, and neither of us knows what the hell is going on, but apparently I care about you, and I'm pretty damn sure you care about me. In a broad sense."

Alastor, for the first time in their relationship, snarled and shoved off of Sans. Sans quickly rebounded upward, trying to breathe steadily as his soul rattled about in his ribcage. His fingers itched to either attempt to strangle Alastor or tug him close to feel his body heat.

"If you ever try to kiss me, I'll kill you." There wasn't any heat behind Alastor's voice, and his gaze swam with a thick, unknown emotion. Alastor was far more off-kilter over the sudden influx of new emotions over Sans.

Sans returned to a prime sitting condition. Legs crossed, hands propped against his knees. To keep himself from panting, like some out-of-breath mutt.

No matter how hard he tried, though, his adrenaline and breathing didn't quite settle.

"Well, good thing I don't have lips." There wasn't much heat behind his own voice, either. He had never really heard Alastor so lost before. Even when injured, Alastor had something to him.

"Have you ever had a friend before?" Sans said, blunt as a stone tossed at a few birds.

Alastor shot Sans a look that had him laughing a laugh that Sans quickly shut down. "I didn't mean it like that, bud. I meant like—a real friend. There's a difference between normal friends and those you actually let close. Like, see the real you and see what you do when you don't have that stupid smile on."

Alastor's smile tightened. "I don't know about you, Sans, but I certainly don't believe my smile is stupid."

Sans grabbed the cup Alastor had practically discarded in their little scuffle and threw it. The radio demon didn't even blink as he hit it aside, letting the cup clatter over on the roof.

"And I have a few friends I am... I suppose, fond of," Alastor grumbled. His hands clamped together, claws twisting into his own flesh until blood drew. Sans watched with mild discomfort at the movement. "Rosie, I would dare say, is the closest. A lovely cannibal leader, but certainly not..." He gestured blindly to Sans.

"Yeah, I get it. I've had close friends before, but I—it's different, with you." Sans fiddled with his own hands, far more gentle than Alastor with his own. Sans didn't think he could even move his limbs like that. "It's way more just—fucking up there, I guess? More important. I hate you sometimes, but fucking hell, talking to you is the best part of my day."

Alastor sighed and tapped his cane against the ground. Or his walking stick. His... radio stick? Fuck if Sans knew.

"I must agree on that—talking to you certainly has been the highlight of my days down below as well," Alastor hummed. He had that intense stare on Sans again that makes his soul squirm, but Sans shoved it down. "I hate having to say this, being here and doing this—" Again, Alastor broadly gestured around at the treetops and the empty roof, "But you're someone I care more for than I am used to. So what exactly do I do about this?"

"Uh..." Sans stared at him. "Live with it? I'm not gonna go out of my way to try and make yer hate me." He already tried and got told off for it. "And I don't think ya need to try and kill me just because I'm a special lil' skeleton. We've already cleared out that romance and sex ain't happening, so, uh—"

Then Sans paused. And then he gets the biggest, fattest grin on his face.

"Let's be besties," Sans hissed out, giddy and devious with his tone. Oh, what a fun idea. "Let's be besties, and get matching bracelets and call each other up to go 'Hey girl,' and then have sleepovers and talk about cute boys in class—"

Sans didn't get to finish his little fantasy as Alastor returned the cup in a throwing fashion, Sans barely dodging it from slamming into his face. Sans couldn't help the chuckle at Alastor's expense. Alastor looked like, if they weren't really having a heart-to-heart, he would've tried to kill Sans again.

"Don't mock me," Alastor grumbled. His left eye twitched as random, green symbols briefly flickered behind him again. "I'm trying to have a real, genuine conversation for once in my life, Comic Sans; don't you dare mock me."

Sans held out his hands placatingly at Alastor's static tone, nearly suffocating him. "I'm not—I was joking about the crush stuff, but seriously, we can just become, like... best friends or something. We don't have to find some big secret answer or whatever. Being best buds might just be enough. Like, top-ranked friend for each of us."

Immediately, the tension from Alastor's face dissipated.

As silly as it was, Sans never had a best friend before. Alphys was nice, Tori was cool, and Asgore was sweet, but they weren't necessarily "best" status. Papyrus would get that title if the brother title weren't already firmly planted. It was in the same way, Sans could imagine, that Alastor ranked his mother in his heart. Sans didn't know how to describe it. Papyrus was someone special. Sweet and lovely, and his amazing little brother that Sans would give the world to if possible. His friends he cared about, of course, but he wouldn't go out of his way for them like he would for Papyrus. And yet, Alastor sat in this nebulous haze ever since that trembling voice called out to his Ma. In the same space Papyrus stood, but with a different flavor.

Alastor scared him. Alastor was certainly annoying and pissy. But by God, did Sans enjoy hanging out with him and craved more with every breath. The adrenaline was a rush Sans could get used to.

"That's all you have?" Alastor asked.

"Got any better names? Super besties? Ultimate bros? There's not really any term for this as far as I'm aware—and I don't even fully know what this is. I just care about you. A lot. And it's not romantic or sexual, but it's fucking intense. If you have any suggestions, I may be all bones, but I'm also all ears."

"I'll give you some better terms when I see those ears."

"Oh, fuck off."

"All I'm seeing is two middle fingers, and yet, still no ears. Such a shame! I have so many good nicknames for our new little relationship."

Sans made a show of putting the back of his hand against his forehead and wincing. "Oh damn, guess I have no choice but to call you my Bestie Westie now."

Such a trivial thing to argue over, but neither of them really was trying. The familiar bickering allowed for their respective anxieties to taper away until the dull hum of the forest around them finally settled amongst the rooftop once more. Gentle. Sans had therapy that had batted down the walls surrounding his true feelings, but Alastor likely never opened up to anyone like that before. Sans doubted he was honest about everything with his mother; he probably wanted to keep his sweet little son image in her mind. Then again, Sans had only begun to be fully honest with Papyrus a few years ago. He was only just getting used to it.

Besties was what they settled on, much to Alastor's chagrin. As silly as it was, it slotted nicely into the hole of whatever they were. And if Sans raised the pitch of his voice while saying the word to Alastor, well, sucked to be Alastor.

As weird as that night had become, it was nice to get confirmation that Alastor was just as confused and invested as Sans was. To look the man in the eyes and know, for a fact, that Alastor craved him in his life as much as Sans did. It was fucked; it was all over the place, but it was theirs. Sans was complacent with that.

There were so many more questions and thoughts that surfaced from Alastor's physical appearance, but Sans shoves them down for the time being. He doesn't think either of them are necessarily in the mood for things like that. No matter how much Sans wanted to reach up and touch Alastor's ears. It's a stupid thing to be concerned about, since he just admitted openly that he cares a lot about a demonic serial killer that tried to kill him moments ago, but they look so fucking fluffy it's almost physically painful.

Then there were also questions about the overdramatic red color theme in his getup, or how his antlers seemed to grow and shrink according to his emotions, or when Alastor propped up his feet onto the ledge, Sans swore he could see hooves. None of them were asked, of course, since they're still fumbling around one another now that they know this unusual, platonic need is very much a two-way street.

It doesn't help that Alastor's left eye suddenly twitched, and he had to force out a sigh as his body rigidly stood up.

"Sadly," Alastor drew out, tapping his cane against the ground, "Sans the skeleton, I have to return back to hell. Apparently the princess requires some assistance from me."

"Damn. Such a shame. We were about to make friendship bracelets," Sans said, no whine to his voice. He grinned up at the guy as he, too, moved to stand. "I'd say goodbye, but I have a feeling you'll be back soon."

"Indeed I will be! I need to tidy up some loose ends around the hotel and do my radio broadcast. But I will most certainly be back; you better expect it. I would try to call you out on your bluff regarding bracelets, but I have a feeling you'd make it anything but a bluff."

Alastor shot Sans a very stern look, and he couldn't help the bubbling laugh that echoed from him. His shoulders ached from strain, but Sans disregarded it, content to watch Alastor's ears slightly fold back at the abysmal idea of wearing friendship bracelets.

"Too late, it's happening," Sans chirped.

"Well," Alastor said, seemingly avoiding his fate as his form began to shimmer and flicker. A static encompassed the air, heavy and consistent with waves that almost rolled around the demon. His form flickered. "I guess I'll just have to leave now. Next time, do tell about that little 'Royal Judge' position you mentioned; it sounds ever so interesting!"

And with that, Alastor vanished. Other than the empty hum of the rooftop, and the thought of having to explain to a serial killer how he was specifically trained to kill them, all Sans could think of is how fucking pink and sparkly he was going to make those friendship bracelets.

Alastor never really had any problem with possessiveness, in his own set opinion. He never understood the way other men, back in his day, would draw their arms protectively around their woman's shoulders and hiss at anyone who dared to walk near her and also happened to have a penis. Seemed rather counterproductive, he always thought. If anything, the woman would always appear guilty, and would apologize, thus forcing an interaction between the man and the woman that the lover didn't want. Then they'd fight or get into a very awkward and stilted silence that everyone could perceive within the vicinity.

Alastor never did that. Then again, Alastor didn't necessarily do romance, either. His mother, Alastor was certainly protective of, to a degree, but never possessive. He would never even think about stopping her from meeting her friends or indulging in another lover if he had been more suitable. While he and Sans had back-and-forth arguments about the owner of his old and trusty radio station on Earth, it was more so for the sake of banter than any real heat. They both knew that.

But when Alastor had Sans pressed against the concrete top of the building, his hands pressed against chilly bone as those eye lights bore into him, Alastor realized there could be different types of possessiveness. Because that, right there, was his. Alastor could feel that gnawing need in every breath he took, every time his fingers begged to squeeze down on that cute, weird little thing underneath him. Alastor didn't mind Sans talking to other people, or having other friends, or anything of that sort. But at the end of the day, as long as he returned to Alastor and knew he was the first on the platonic list... Oh, what a thought.

Sans really was giving him lots of firsts, he supposed. Never in his life would Alastor have thought he would get so attached to someone with such a complex, uneasy relationship. He loved talking to Sans, but he also wanted to shove a sock inside of his mouth. Sans really did manage to find the perfect balance between absolutely intriguing and utterly annoying. He wondered how he would have turned out if Sans had met him while he was alive. Alastor's faith in the world might have been salvageable if Sans had just been himself when Alastor was alive.

Trained to kill serial killers, Sans had attested to while pinned by one. A man of puns and lazy outfits, who looked at Alastor with a sick thrill as he realized death may very well be closer than anticipated. And when Sans had admitted to being suicidal in his past, a sick twist of dread settled in his gut. Alastor had realized, at that very moment, he hated the idea of Sans dying. Unless it was by his own hands, Alastor wouldn't let anyone drag Sans from Earth. Not yet. Not even by Sans himself.

His, his, his. A chant to his mind that refused to quit. An insistent little thought to his newly obtained, in Sans' words, "Bestie". Alastor knew the moment Sans got that damn grin on his face, the word stuck, and he was going to be forced into wearing some tacky friendship bracelet.

Alastor was willing to sacrifice rationality in favor of seeing Sans' face all warmed up with that heavy, true smile of his. Which was odd, considering Alastor's track record of not really caring if people were happy. Except for his mother. Then again, Sans was his (as much as he despises the word) bestie. He was exempt from the status quo.

The new warm, gushy feeling wasn't unwelcome. Alastor liked the thrill of excitement he got every time he spoke to Sans. Or the pure rush of seeing him in person. Every interaction they had thus far, in its limited quantity, was pleasant and worthwhile, no matter how much the two set out to annoy one another. Alastor never realized how much other people tended to bore him until he finally got better company. Not that certain people like Rosie were necessarily annoying, but the difference was night and day. No wonder his thoughts couldn't seem to stray away. Meeting Sans in person confirmed it.

Alastor was a teensy bit obsessed. Which made sense. He never quite had a thrill from the simple pleasure of interacting with someone other than his mama. Alastor would have his own personal heaven if it was just the three of them. Himself, his sweet lovely mama, and his newfound little need of company. Situated up in a cabin in the woods, with the crackling of a fire out back and the scent of cherry pie just over the pine sap. Sans would love his mama, Alastor's mama would love Alastor's new friend, and they'd spend the rest of eternity in pure, unbridled bliss.

Alastor had known Sans in person for less than three hours, and already, he was captivated.

Instead of a blissful occurrence of the two best people in the world interacting with him, Alastor arrived at a hotel on fire. Already aggravated that his and Sans' personal talk, where everything had culminated into something new and wonderful with a bestie, had been interrupted over a little smoke.

He had a few 'best friends' when he was younger. Frankly, Alastor always thought that title was reserved for the friends he could most accurately predict. Then he grew older and abandoned the title altogether. Didn't find it very interesting. Not particularly. Friends were useful people he kept close to him. Sometimes it was people he found amusing, in a broad sense. Rosie had come easy to him, motherly in ways just right, but kept a distance when prompted. Just enough fun for Alastor to enjoy her company. But he didn't feel his whole body tense over being stripped away from her. He was teetering on a tightrope without Sans, on being torn away from something true being born into the sadness of the hotel.

Sans wouldn't have caused any fires like this. And if he did, he would know how to put it out himself.

Just another reminder of why Sans was far superior to them, he supposed.

The fire had been a quaint, meager thing. Barely halfway up the hall. Charlie, the literal Princess of Hell, had half wrestled a fire extinguisher from the wall by the time Alastor got there.

Already, his patience was thin.

"Oh, Alastor, perfect timing!" Charlie said, quickly moving to bow in front of Alastor. "Thank you, thank you!"

"Next time, maybe try and solve it yourself before immediately calling me?" Alastor offered, his voice thinner than usual. He didn't mean to be too snippy, but he and Sans just made progress into new territory he was interested in exploring. And Charlie had to interrupt him over something rather fixable by her own powers. His fingers twitched, and he forced his grin to steady as he refrained from glaring. "I was in the middle of something rather important when you interrupted."

He could have spent the next few hours drinking tea with Sans and talking about that interesting job and their relationship. Or he could have tried to make an old recipe with his actual food on earth. So many possibilities. And it was interrupted because of this.

From the bar, a cat demon scoffed. "Someone's in a mood."

The cork of an alcoholic beverage popped. So did the cork of Alastor's barely retained annoyance.

"I am! Thank you for noticing," his voice sunk out.

Instantly, Charlie stole some distance between them. Husk, the bothersome slave of his, instantly cowered behind the counter with an "Oh shit" that wavered with strength.

Alastor sighed, forcing his tension to melt as he flexed his fingers. He'd have to make sure he got a handle on these newfound emotions. He did very much enjoy Sans, but that'd be meaningless if he lost his control more than he already had. The only person he'd allow to see such a sight was Sans. The thought of others seeing what he had made an unpleasant, almost vile weight settle in his throat.

"I'm just upset that our lovely Princess of Hell is limiting herself so much! I do hope she gets better self-esteem someday." Alastor pivoted and spun on his heels. "Now, I must go do a broadcast. Toodaloo."