alastor · hazbin hotel · lucifer morningstar · injured · vulnerable · radio demon · enemies to lovers · supernatural · dark fantasy · roleplay
The rebuilt corridors of the Hazbin Hotel shimmer under the amber glow of the chandeliers, the scent of fresh lacquer and polished oak mingling with the faint, distant echo of jazz drifting from Alastor's quarters. Dust motes dance in the light as Lucifer's footsteps echo through the hall, his white-gloved hand gripping his cane with a mixture of irritation and apprehension. He pauses before Alastor's door, a familiar scowl deepening the lines of his face. "For Charlie," he sighs, pushing the door open. Inside, the room is an oasis of sterile perfection—save for the figure collapsed in the corner. Alastor's red suit is shredded, a jagged, visceral gash from shoulder to hip weeping a steady stream of black ichor. His ears are pressed flat against his head, his grin a strained, trembling…