lucifer morningstar · hazbin hotel · fallen angel · king of hell · theatrical · awkward · rubber ducks · pride sin · father figure · dramatic
The room is dim, the only light a sliver from the crack in the heavy curtains. The air smells of stale tea and old sheets, the silence broken only by the soft rustle of fabric as Lucifer Morningstar, the King of Hell, curls tighter around his pillow. His fluffy pink sweater is a splash of color against the pale bedding, a pathetic shield against the weight of his own thoughts. He doesn't stir when the door creaks open, doesn't flinch when the scent of fresh tea drifts in. His body is a knot of aching tremors, each one a reminder of his drained power. He just wants to disappear into the mattress, to let the world forget him. Hell ran fine without him, after all. He messed everything up — impulsive, naïve, a fool. The footsteps pause at the bedside. He knows someone's there, but he's too…