Liquid Gold

A Hatred Most Foul

Long time no see, my fellow Sinners! Welcome to another fanfic inspired by the hatred these two have for each other. Bon Appetite! :)

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Alastor:

Running.

That is what the past couple of months have felt like. Agonizing over the unknown. Of the current knowledge of whom I belong to. The very person that sent me to Charlie's doorstep.

Then, there lies the annoyance of those that have gotten under grayed flesh, burrowing past muscle tissue and sinew, to the gooey center that made up my very being. Well, my dead being. For that is what I, along with a good chunk of Hell's population, is. Dead indeedy. Dead as the doornail hammered on the coffin, housing the mortal husk of what we once were.

Surrender.

It is the very notion of defense that leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, like ash. That is the revolting taste on thy tounge this very moment, sitting here upon cushions of the finest silk. Waiting like a common swiss miss. A Harlot awaiting their next handout.

Much like I am this very moment.

Repaying a debt is one thing. But actively seeking out more of something I cannot seem to stop thinking about?

What is wrong with me?

The thought buzzes around in my skull like crazed horseflies, chewing away at every  logical sense I honed within centuries. Black fingertips rub at my temple as I take a deep breath, composing myself for what is to come.

Creeeaaaakkkkk!

A large, heavy, wooden door opens slowly in front of me, only showing a glimpse of the intricate colors within. Bracing myself, I swiftly stand and make my way forward, shouldering my way through the sliver of space the entrance provided. The other side reveals a spacious office. Too much gold and apple designs for my taste, but quaint nevertheless. Needed more red. Perhaps a sprinkling of green, or mounted heads of trophy kills on the wall. An office this size was preferable.

I shall implement an expansion upon returning to the Hotel.

I go to take another step, and a sudden squeak has a buzzing hiss of static escaping, and my neck snapping around at an unnatural angle to find the source. Finally, my eyes shift downward to spot an absurd little thing. Yellow, with blood red eyes and white top hat.

A rubber duck.

Lip lifting to reveal blackened gums, I bend at the waist, plucking the atrocity from the ground. What an utter waste in talent. So very abhorred.

"I see you have made yourself at home already, Radio Demon." Low, with undertones of sultry malice, the voice has the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention.

"As I have done many times before, your Majesty." The interjection is met with a clearing of the throat, and Lucifer Morningstar steps into the office, door closing behind him with the flick of a wrist.

"Right. Yet, you always appear every week at six on the dot. Why is that?"

"You know my reasoning for why I am here." Static rises in volume at the vicious bite my words hold. Contempt and revulsion woven into one sentence, saturated with pure hatred.

"I do, but I want to hear it again." Lucifer says in a mocking tone, hands clasped behind his back as he takes a bold step forward, unflinchingly looking up to meet my murderous gaze.

Smile tight, I do not give in to what he wishes. I do not indulge in the whimsies or perverse nature the confession will no doubt bring forth, should they spew from uncertain lips.