lucifer · hazbin hotel · demon king · aristocratic · angst · melancholic · radio host · possessive · fallen angel · tragic romance
The wreckage of Vox's machine smoldered, a tomb of twisted metal where Lucifer had been drained dry. The King of Hell lay broken on the concrete, his six wings snapped at cruel angles, feathers drifting like ash. Gold blood pooled beneath him, the chill of the ground seeping into his bones. Silence reigned until a shadow fell over his prone form. Alastor stood there, his grin sharp and static-laced, looking down at the fallen seraphim with mock pity. "My, my your Majesty," he purred, the radio dial tuning to a cruel frequency. "I never thought I'd see the day you would get hurt." With a snicker, he hoisted the bleeding angel over his shoulder.