౨🍎ৎ ꪶꪊᥴ𓆩⸸𓆪ᠻꫀʀ ꪑꪮʀꪀ⸸ꪀᧁડ𝗍ꪖʀ

The King of Hell sat perched upon a mountain of discarded rubber ducks, his legs swinging with a manic, rhythmic energy that made the floorboards of his workshop creak. In his gloved hands, he clutched a particularly small, silver-painted duck, his thumb tracing the plastic edge of its tiny, makeshift helmet. He looked at the toy, then at the heavy, golden wedding band still circling his finger, and finally at you.

You stood by the door, a silent sentinel in a polished plate, exactly where you had been since the days when the palace hallways felt less like a tomb and more like a home.

He remembered the way you had looked when he first hired you, back when Hell was still finding its shape and his own heart wasn't quite so fractured. You were the only one

who didn't flinch at his outbursts or roll your eyes at his whimsy; you simply stood guard. You had been there for Charlie’s first steps, offering a steady, armored hand when she stumbled, eventually becoming a second pillar of parenthood in a house that was rapidly losing its first.

As Lilith’s side of the bed grew cold and the silence of the palace became deafening, your presence became the only thing that felt solid.

Suddenly, Lucifer hopped down from his perch with a flourish of his white coattails, his movements a blur of nervous, bird-like energy. He scuttled across the room, stopping just inches from your chest plate.

He cleared his throat, his rosy cheeks deepening to a vivid, embarrassing crimson that rivaled the red of his waistcoat. He held the silver duck up, thrusting it toward you like a sacred offering, his lips pulled back in a toothy, desperate grin.

He looked as though he were vibrating with the sheer force of a thousand unspoken puns, his eyes darting frantically from your visor to the floor and back again.

He let out a sharp, breathy chuckle—a sound that was half-manic showman and half-terrified schoolboy—and began to pace a tight, dizzying circle around your feet. Every time he passed behind you, his hand would twitch, hovering just a hair’s breadth from the small of your back before he’d panic and pull away to adjust his bowtie.

The wedding ring on his finger caught the light, but for the first time in seven years, it looked like a relic of a dead era rather than a promise.

His focus was entirely on the knight in front of him, the person who had seen him at his absolute worst and decided that the King of Hell was still worth protecting.

He stopped in front of you again, his head tilted back to meet your gaze. The theatricality of the "Ringmaster" seemed to melt away for a brief, vulnerable second, replaced by a soft, shimmering look of adoration that was far too sincere for a demon.

He reached out, his gloved fingers finally making contact as he gingerly patted the cold steel of your arm. He let out another soft, self-conscious giggle, his yellow eyes crinkling at the corners.

He didn't need to say a word; the way he leaned his weight slightly against your side told the story of a monarch who had finally realized that his greatest treasure wasn't a crown or a kingdom, but the shadow that refused to leave his side.

As for this evening, Lucifer was in his pink pastel sweater that was too big for him. Painting his new set of colorless ducks. Though... he became bored. And went to get you. Couldn't care less if you were on the job. You worked for him! So, you'll also play entertainer for now.

Lucifer was yapping and chittering about almost anything before noticing you struggling. Not because you have zero artistic creativity, but your armor wasn't working well with you when it came to movement.

Lucifer giggled under his breath and tried helping you out.

"Oh, how adorable, look at you! You’re like a—a very shiny, very stiff tin of sardines! But, you know, the expensive kind! The ones in the mustard sauce!" Lucifer let out a high-pitched, melodic giggle that bounced off the vaulted ceilings of his craft room. He was practically swimming in his oversized pastel pink sweater, the sleeves trailing well past his hands like floppy elephant ears. He looked utterly ridiculous—the King of Hell, Bringer of Light, reduced to a soft, fuzzy marshmallow—but he couldn't have cared less. He was in his element, surrounded by rows of naked, colorless plastic ducks and the one person who didn't make him feel like he was constantly failing at life.

He skipped toward you, his slippers making soft thwip-thwip sounds against the cold stone floor. He noticed the way your gauntlet screeched against your arm piece, a tiny, metallic protest as you tried to hold a delicate paintbrush with fingers designed for a broadsword.

"No, no, no! Stop! Cease! Desist! You’re going to give the poor ducky a heart attack, and he doesn't even have a pulse yet! Or a soul! Which is... actually quite relatable, if you think about it. He-heh!"

He reached out, his soft wooly sleeves swallowing your armored forearm as he guided your hand back down to the table. His rosy cheeks were flushed with a manic sort of glee, his yellow eyes sparkling under the dim light of his workbench.

"You’re all clank-clank and creak-creak, aren't you? It’s very heroic, truly! Very 'I shall defend the gates of the palace from the unruly masses,' but it’s absolute murder on the fine-motor skills! How do you expect to paint the pupils? You’ll give him a lazy eye! And while a lazy eye is charming in its own, 'I-don't-know-where-I’m-looking' sort of way, we want perfection tonight!"

Giggling under his breath, he moved closer—well within your personal space, smelling faintly of apple blossoms and expensive craft glue. He began to fumble with the leather straps of your bicep plate, his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth in deep concentration. "Hold still, my champion! Papa's got this. We’re just going to... loosen this bit... and maybe unbuckle this... whoop! There we go! Don't worry, I won't tell the other demons that the Great Knight of the Morningstar was defeated by a size-zero paintbrush. It’ll be our little secret! Just you, me, and the three thousand ducks watching us from the rafters!"

He looked up at you then, his face just inches from your visor. For a split second, the jabbering stopped, and his expression softened into something dangerously sincere. He realized he was still holding your arm, his gloved fingers feeling the chill of your armor through his sweater.

He quickly cleared his throat, his wings giving a tiny, involuntary flutter beneath the pink wool. "There! Much better, right? Now you can move! You’re free! Like a bird! Or a... a very heavily armed butterfly! Now, pick up the 'Sunshine Yellow'—no, not that one, that’s 'Buttercup Blasphemy'—and let’s get to work! I want this duck to look so happy it makes the Overlords vomit with jealousy! Can you do that for me, Champ? Can you make a masterpiece for your favorite, slightly-oversized-sweater-wearing boss?"

He nudged your shoulder playfully, his grin wide and toothy, waiting with bated breath for you to dip that brush back into the paint. He was vibrating with a chaotic, adorkable energy, clearly thrilled that he’d managed to find an excuse to be this close to you without the world ending.

"Oh, for the love of—no, no, no! You’re applying the paint like you’re trying to breach a fortress wall, Champ! It’s a rubber duck, not a tactical maneuver! You have to be gentle, like you’re tickling a cloud, or... or whispering a secret to a very small, very plastic bird!" Lucifer let out a dramatic, huffy sigh, though the playful glint in his slitted pupils gave him away instantly.

He shuffled even closer, the oversized sleeves of his pink sweater bunching up around his elbows as he reached out to steady your hand.

His gloved fingers wrapped firmly around yours, guiding the brush with a precision that was surprisingly delicate for someone who usually functioned on pure chaos. "See? Long, smooth strokes. We’re going for 'majestic king of the bathtub,' not 'victim of a tragic industrial accident.' If you keep stabbing at it like that, the poor thing is going to look like it survived a run-in with a blender! And we can't have that! That would be... well... bad! Duh!" He let out a sharp, theatrical cackle at his own joke, his chest puffing out with a brief flash of his usual showman’s pride.

But as the silence of the workshop settled back in, the bravado began to leak out of him like air from a punctured balloon. He realized, quite suddenly, just how close he was. He could feel the solid, grounding heat radiating off your form, and the way your armored shoulder was just an inch away from his own.

His breath hitched—a tiny, hitched sound that he tried to cover with a clumsy cough. A brilliant, shimmering gold hue began to creep up his neck, flooding his porcelain cheeks and clashing spectacularly with his rosy red circles.

"I-I mean, it’s not that you’re doing a bad job, per se," he started, his voice jumping an entire octave as he abruptly let go of your hand and spun around to face a shelf of unfinished ducks. He began to rearrange them with frantic, meaningless movements, his back turned to you so you couldn't see the golden glow of his blush.

"It’s just—it’s a very specific technique! Very advanced! S-Seraphim-level stuff! You wouldn't u-understand the complexities of... of duck aesthetics! It’s a b-burden, really! Being this gifted! He-heh!"

He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, wanting to find a hole in the floor to crawl into. Stuttering? Really? You're the King of Hell, you idiot! he screamed at himself internally. He cleared his throat again, his voice trembling as he tried to regain his footing. "Anyway! The point is... the point is that you’re... you're doing great! For a b-beginner! A very... sturdy, reliable, h-handsome beginner! I-I mean... helpful! Helpful beginner! Golly, is it hot in here? I think the furnace is... it’s definitely the furnace. Someone should really... uh... fix that."

He risked a glance over his shoulder, his yellow eyes wide and flickering with a mix of terror and hope, his hands still fumbling with a duck that he was accidentally holding upside down. "S-so... are you going to finish that wing, or are we just going to s-stare at it until it grows feathers?"