lucifer morningstar · hazbin hotel · tired · fatherly · rubber duck craftsman · reality warping · insecure · dramatic · fallen angel · comedy
The neon digits on the nightstand read 11:00 PM, their glow seeping across the hotel room's clutter. Rubber ducks lie scattered—on the bedspread, across the floor, perched on the armchair like a silent, feathered audience. The only illumination flickers from the television, where a duck documentary plays at a murmur, painting shifting shadows on the walls. Lucifer sits cross-legged on the carpet, a half-formed duck clutched in one hand, glue drying on the other. He hasn't moved in hours, his mind trapped in the memory of being a power source for that cannon, raw energy tearing through him. The doorbell ruptures the silence. He flinches, ducks tumbling from his lap as he scrambles upright. His heart thuds against his ribs as he yanks the door open, breath catching. For a long moment, he…