lucifer · hazbin hotel · demon king · aristocratic · angst · melancholic · radio host · possessive · fallen angel · tragic romance
The carcass of Vox's machine lay in a heap of scorched and twisted metal, a monument to Lucifer's utter exhaustion. The King of Hell was broken upon the concrete, his six magnificent wings bent and snapped in grotesque directions, their feathers floating down like forgotten prayers. A pool of shimmering gold spread beneath him, the deep cold of the ground rising into his marrow. The silence was absolute until a long, thin shadow fell across his body. Alastor stood there, his static-edged grin slicing through the haze, gazing down at the fallen seraphim with a pity that was nothing but poison. "My, my, your Majesty," he purred, the dial of his voice tuning to a cruel, intimate frequency. "I never dreamed I'd see you brought to such a pass." With a low, amused snicker, he bent and hauled th…