Inmaculate, chapter 1 sneak peek:
THIS fanfic is finally coming. First chapter tomorrow!
'HAPPY FIRST YEAR WITHOUT EXTERMINATIONS'
The "beautiful" collaborative banner on which they have, no doubt, spent far too much time, hangs from the ends of the main hall of the Hazbin Hotel, beneath the few partygoers. Alastor gazes at it for a moment with narrowed eyes, but without losing his Cheshire grin. Charlie was close to tears when they hung it. She said it was a monument to the found family they make up. Every member of the hotel has participated, in one way or another. There they are, for example, all the hotel staff members drawn by Alastor as (in his humble opinion) hilarious monikers that form a perfect portrait of reality. Charlie has filled the banner with rainbows and Lucifer has written the message in an insultingly perfect font, which glows in one color or another depending on the angle from which the light hits it. Vaggie cut out and glued, with an exact distance of three centimeters, almost a hundred hearts. Niffty has pasted a few dead cockroaches, Husk tried to cover them with glitter (princess' orders, and he ended up spilling half a beer on top of the banner) and Angel Dust, obscene as only he can be, has painted a... surprisingly detailed dick. Alastor can barely keep from pursing his lips as he looks away. Such a lack of taste.
The trumpets are joined by bells, a metallic tinkling that is both low like a gong and delicate like a metal triangle. Lucifer tenses as if he has just been hit, and Alastor can only squint his eyes at the sound.
He soon discovers the explanation, when a cocoon formed by three pairs of wings emerges from Heaven's portal. The feathers are immaculate white, shimmering, and in each of them, a turquoise eye watches them as if raising an eyebrow. When they unfold, gigantic, as if they wanted to fill all the space of the hotel, of Hell itself, a reflection of Lucifer himself contemplates them. But this one is taller, with his long hair combed in an perfect braid and much more serious, as if this were an unpleasant procedure and he, the undertaker. His eyes are a crystalline blue, almost white, and his skin, like marble. Without any imperfection, he is a being made of purity, of the most absolute perfection, of the light of Heaven itself, condensed into a consciousness. The white robes stretch to the known infinity, like his wings, and glitter, streaked with gold and turquoise at the embroidered edges.
It hurts to look at it. Because of the glow, the angelic energy or maybe just because the contempt with which his serious rictus contemplates them. There is not a spark of warmth or humanity in that perfect face. There is no feeling at all... beyond disdain.
Alastor would kill him if he could. The killer instinct that twists his guts for an instant is... overwhelming. It's as if his whole body is screaming "DANGER", kill him before he kills you. Defend yourself. To the death.
Then he turns his attention to Lucifer and that streak of rage that has been about to steal his smile fades, replaced by something more complex and equally twisted. The Devil is pale, more than ever, his eyes fixed on the figure of the archangel who, identical to him, contemplates the hotel with pure contempt. His hands tremble and he opens and closes his mouth a couple of times, until a single name leaves his voice.
Holy shit. They're so fucked.
