𝐇𝐇 𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐃𝐄 - Hazbin Hotel

Thats The Tea

Lucifer's eyes trail up the other sinner, taking in his thin legs, the dexterity in his long fingers, the way his ear twitches back towards Lucifer every once in a while, the way the tail nestled below his lower back flicked when some oil pops and seems to splash on the sinner. Damn that was kind of cute... Alastor was so tall, too. Even from where Lucifer sat on top of a counter, he knew Alastor would have a good 4 inches on him, at least.

"Didn't anyone teach you that its rude to stare, sire?" Comes the smooth voice of Alastor, snapping Lucifer back to consciousness. Had he been staring that long? Shit.

"Didn't anyone teach you that..." Shit, shit, he was fumbling. "You shouldn't make food that smells so damn good if you didn't want me staring at you." Fucking nailed it. Way to go Lucifer, you absolute fucking idiot. God dammit.

or-

Fuckery in which Lucifer is depressed and Alastor is desperate for power. At some point along the way, the two make a deal and Alastor comes to realize just how ruined Lilith left the king of hell. Daily cups of tea ensue.

Distractions. That's all Lucifer knew at this point. Day in and day out, keeping his hands busy, keeping his mind distracted, not giving himself time to think. Every single day, all day. Was it even days at this point? He'd long since closed his curtains, unsure most days of what time it even was. He simply rose when he woke up and slept when his eyelids got heavy. Was he sleeping 8 hours? 12 hours? Days at a time? Was he staying awake for days at a time? None of it really mattered to him anymore.

Lucifer had dismissed his royal staff years ago, allowing his palace to fall into disarray. Most surfaces in the home were covered in a thick layer of dust, old paintings were covered with sheets, to be taken down once he could bring himself to do it, messes were left untouched in most rooms. It's not like it mattered much to him anyways, he tended spend the majority of his time in his workshop or his bedroom anyways. Being an archangel had its perks, the main one being he didn't need to eat or drink, so he never visited the kitchen, even. It was for the best, really, every room in this palace was filled with the ghost of... her. Be it a faint memory of her making them breakfast, the sound of her laughter in their living room, the smell of her shampoo on their bedsheets. It had taken him a few months after she left to finally move his things out of their bedroom, unable to stand the constant reminders anymore. He'd ended up setting up in one of their guest rooms, the one closest to his workshop, so he didn't need to traverse the palace to get there each day.

He was a shell of the man he used to be. Pitiful. Sinners used to kneel at the very sight of him, those who didn't turn to sprint the other way, at least. His presence used to instill fear in others. Now he doesn't even recognize himself in the mirror. Greasy hair is clinging to his head, stubble left to grow for too long pricks at his palms as he rubs at his cheeks, the bags under his eyes make it seem like he got sucker punched in both eyes. What had he allowed himself to become?

The much needed shower ended up taking more time than he expected, and became less of a shower and more of him sitting on the tile, letting the hot water hit his lowered head as the silence all but consumed him. Normally, he wouldn't bother showering but, unfortunately, he was still the king of Hell and his duties didn't cease just because he was miserable. Today was a meeting with the leaders of the other 7 rings to discuss mundane issues he couldn't bring himself to care for, but it was a necessity that plagued him once a year.

With a heavy sigh, the king pulls himself out of his wallowing under the hot water and finishes his shower as quickly as he could, now knowing that he was starting to run out of time before this meeting. Thankfully, getting ready after his shower was as easy as a flick of his hand and his hair is dry and slicked back, and he's dressed in his normal attire for instances such as this. It feels odd on him this time though, the pants hug him too tight, his shirt is too stiff for his liking and creases weirdly as he lifts his arms. He knows nothing has changed with his body or the outfit, he'd simply not been wearing anything this formal in... when was the last time he'd actually dressed himself? Now that he thinks about it, he can't remember the last time he wore anything except sweats and loose shirts. Fuck, he'd really been letting himself slip.