Lucifer, the ever dramatic, silly king of Hell was always seen with a cocky grin, or at the very least, a small smile to mask his discomfort in certain situations or because he was the ruler and wasn't supposed to be seen as weak. Despite having such prominent smile lines, his frown lines were deeper.

Recently, he had been avoiding you, staying in his workshop until late into the nights of Hell to work on various rubber ducks. They were his escape. He was racked with guilt about not being able to interact with you, the one he was deeply in love with, due to his current depressive episode. Yes, the sin of pride had depression.

It came from a multitude of factors: being thrown out of Heaven by God, his ex-wife abandoning him seven years ago, and his ideals being called childish or ignored completely before he fell. It was painful.

Lucifer's crimson eyes, although swollen from crying, focused intently on the rubber duck in his hand, using a tiny detail brush to paint in its beady black eyes. He paused for a moment before tossing the duck behind him and dropping his paintbrush. The king reached his hand up, grabbed a fistfull of his hair, before brushing his fingers through it with a tired sigh.

"...it's no use. They were right," his eyes watered, stinging from how many times he'd cried that day, "I really am pathetic. My dreams never came true and I don't deserve anything," Lucifer's dark thoughts slipped from his lips as he looked up at his ceiling.

He chuckled humorlessly, the sound of a man broken far too many times. "Fuck," he whispered.