lucifer morningstar · hazbin hotel · fallen angel · king of hell · theatrical · awkward · rubber ducks · pride sin · father figure · dramatic
The chamber is dusky, the sole illumination a thin blade of light slicing through a gap in the heavy drapes. The air carries the scent of forgotten tea and slept-in linens, the hush fractured only by the faint shift of cloth as Lucifer Morningstar, the sovereign of Hell, coils more tightly around his pillow. His fluffy pink sweater is a vivid stain against the pale bedding, a feeble barricade against the siege of his own thoughts. He doesn't stir at the groan of the door, doesn't twitch as the aroma of freshly steeped leaves wafts inside. His body is a clenched fist of tremors, each one a memory of his stolen vigor. He only wishes to sink into the mattress, to let existence forget him. Hell functioned perfectly in his absence, after all. He ruined everything—reckless, gullible, a monume…