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Lucifer Morningstar had simple joys in life: immaculate suits, musical theater, his beloved wife and daughter, and—most importantly at this exact moment—ducks.
Stupid, buoyant, existentially perfect ducks.
Which was why he was currently submerged in them.
Rubber ducks avalanched over him like a squeaky, pastel landslide. Some sat proudly on his shoulders like tiny, round generals. One nestled in his hair like an aggressively cheerful crown. A few lay on his chest, upside down, staring at the ceiling like they had seen things.
They get me, Lucifer thought, hand drifting through his duck hoard like a dragon counting gold. More than 99% of Hell ever has. Ducks don’t lie. Ducks don’t betray. Ducks don’t criticize your tap solos. They quack with integrity.
Then—
A knock.
Lucifer froze. Absolutely petrified. Internal screaming. External screaming. All the screamings.
N̴̿͊O̵͛͑ ̸͑͋W̴͊̑I̴̾̓T̶̄͊N̸͌͝Ë̷́͗S̶̈́͠S̶̓͋.
If anyone sees the Duck Throne, my dignity is over. Well, the little bits of it I have left. Cremated. Scatter my ashes in a pond.
“Hi there. Coming, coming! Just a minute, I-I’ll be right there, I’ll be right there!”
He erupted from the duck pile like a startled phoenix made of squeak toys, frantically swatting ducks off him. They clung like static-charged barnacles with abandonment issues.
He yanked open the door—
“I wasn’t doing anything weird, I swear it!”
Charlie’s girlfriend stood there. Staring. Judging. Taking psychic damage from the sight.
Lucifer slapped on a grin so wide it threatened to split his skull.
“Oh, hey, Char—Charlie’s girlfriend. What, uh, what brings you here? Come in, come in, just let me just—”
He peeled two extremely committed ducks off his ribs.
Vaggie stepped inside, eyebrow doing gymnastics. “Wow, you really wasted no time, huh, sir?”
Lucifer blinked. Sir??? What does she mean ‘sir’?? What is this formality thing? Wait. Are we not close? I mean, maybe not. I should try harder. Charlie would appreciate that…Probably. Hopefully. Oh gods what if she doesn’t—
He tried again, smooth as shattered glass. “Aw, call me Daddy.”
Vaggie grimaced. Lucifer recoiled from his own voice like it had betrayed him. “Wait, no, don’t— call me Lu. What, now— What is it you need?”
Oh gods WHY did I say Daddy?? This is why I shouldn’t interact with people before noon. Or after noon. Or ever.
“Uh… you’re the king of Hell, right?”
Lucifer straightened instantly, grace returning like a spotlight finding its star.
He struck a pose.
“Last time… I checked, why?”
Internally: Nailed it.
Externally: He still had a duck stuck to the back of his head. It quacked. Betrayal.
She explained Vox—smarmy tech mogul, living commercial break, annoying toaster with a Wi-Fi addiction. Lucifer tuned half of it out as he lovingly placed a tiny tophat on a duck.
He was in his zen. His center. His quack-based meditation state.
Then Vaggie mentioned that Vox had been trash-talking Charlie.
The duck slipped from Lucifer’s hand.
His smile died. The room dimmed. Bones popped. Demon form: active. Prideful god of chaos: reporting for duty.
“Wait a second—HE’S BEEN WHAT?!”
Absolutely not. NO ONE insults my daughter. Not on my watch. Not in my lifetime. Not in ANY lifetime.
He inhaled sharply, ready to unleash ancient paternal fury—
Only for Vaggie to ask if he could smite Vox.
Lucifer laughed so hard he nearly shed a feather.
Oh sweet naïve little warrior gremlin…If only you knew how Useless King Dad actually is. Smite? Darling, I can barely smite a sandwich.
He launched into the explanation—penance, punishment systems, irony, the whole cosmic dad lecture. He even produced a playbill for Duckbill: The Great Quackstory from seemingly nowhere to emphasize how culturally bankrupt the sinners were.
He was on a roll.
But then—
“Well, I’d ask Alastor…”
Lucifer froze.
Time stopped. The ducks stopped. His heartbeat stopped. His will to live stopped. A single squeak echoed somewhere in the distance.
No.
NO.
Absolutely not.
That little radio termite does NOT get to be the emergency dad. I am the emergency dad. I am the ONLY daddy in this story! was BORN for this. Literally. I invented father-daughter drama. I wrote the manual. I drew illustrations.
He sprang to his feet, grabbling a Belphegor plushie like it was Excalibur.
“Oh, no, no, hold-a, hold-a, hold on, okay? I can handle any problem ah—five hundred times better than that dumb, red loudspeaker, okay? If my little girl is getting harassed by this ‘Vox’ fella, then…”
He transformed in a burst of feathers, fire, theatrical lighting, and weaponized overconfidence.
“…it is my time to DADDY UP!”
Vaggie grimaced so hard her soul left her body for a moment. “Mm, no. Don’t say it like that. But… great!”
Lucifer winked, finger guns blazing.
He 100% thought he looked cool.
(He 100% did not.)
Internally: Daddy up? Really? REALLY? WHY DID I SAY THAT? CANCEL ME. DELETE ME FROM EXISTENCE.
Externally: Swagger. Ego. Wings out. Duck still on his head.
He marched toward the door, dramatic, righteous, glowing with fatherly purpose—
A second duck fell out of his sleeve and bounced onto the floor.
“...Ignore that,” he muttered with the dignity of a man who had absolutely none left.
To his credit, Lucifer’s entrance was spectacular. Power cut. Screens shattered. Sinners screamed. He descended from the sky like a glowing disco ball of wrath, vengeance, and questionable parenting instincts.
He dove straight into song.
He sang about being the king, the serpent, the infinite, the living embodiment of divine authority in a fabulous hat.
Yes. YES. I am helping. Look at me, Charlie! Daddy’s doing a big intimidating thing! Witness my relevance! Witness my QUACKTHORITY!
He pointed dramatically at Vox.
Look upon me, television vermin. You dare speak ill of my daughter? Of her dream? You think you can out-dad this?
But then Vox answered.
Calm. Smirking.
Utterly unfazed.
Like a man who’d been told a toddler was coming to fight him with a pool noodle.
And then… he sang back.
He sang back.
Lucifer looked unimpressed at first. You think you can out-musical number ME? I was doing villain songs before electricity was INVENTED—
But then. The sinners cheered. For the square headed dude.
Lucifer blinked, horrified.
No. No, no. NO. You do NOT get a verse. This is MY number. MY grand entrance. MY big “I’m back, baby, and I’m relevant as hell” moment! You can’t just—YOU CAN’T JUST TAKE THE BRIDGE—
Then Vox mocked his absence.
Then mentioned Lilith.
The world tilted sideways like a cheap carnival ride that failed every safety inspection since 1862.
NO, WE DO NOT DO THAT. We do NOT bring up my wife in public. That is PRIVATE. That is SACRED. That is between ME and MY DUCK THERAPIST, you smug cable-package parasite—
Lucifer lunged—pure instinct, pure prideful wrath, pure fatherly how dare you—
Nothing happened.
The smite fizzled. Sputtered.
Died like a sad sparkler in a kiddie pool.
And Vox grinned.
He knew.
He knew and now the entire crowd knew too.
Lucifer felt his soul compress like a dying accordion someone sat on at a barbecue.
Oh no. Oh NO. I’m weak. He KNOWS I’m weak. I’m going to be a meme. I’m going to be FOUR memes. I’m going to be a trend on HellTok called #LuciferFail. Charlie is NEVER letting me live this down—
(Unless I fake my own death? No, no, too early for that. Save that for sweeps season.)
The TV headed bastard kept singing. The sinners roared in agreement. The living Roku painted himself as the hero, the visionary, the liberator.
Lucifer felt his confidence deflate like a balloon animal someone tried to make into a giraffe but accidentally created a worm.
Abort. Abort mission. Daddy is NOT up. Daddy is DOWN. Daddy is six feet under a landfill of humiliation.
And so, when the angels came crashing through the portal and Vox kept escalating and Sera began glowing like a wrathful marshmallow—Lucifer’s soul simply left the premises. It packed a bag, caught a train, and said “nope.”
Because Charlie…
His Charlie…
Had witnessed the entire spectacle.
She had seen him fail. She had seen him fizzle.
She had seen him get absolutely pantsed in front of the entire population of Hell.
No. No, no, no. Not in front of her. Not his little miracle, not his pride and joy, not the one person he wanted to IMPRESS, for once, JUST ONCE, PLEASE—
I messed it up. I messed EVERYTHING up. I was supposed to be cool! I was supposed to be SCARY! I was supposed to sweep in and fix it with a big musical number like a responsible showman father—
Oh god. Oh GOD. She saw everything. My baby saw everything. I’m ruined. My dad stock has crashed. Pull me off the NASDAD.
So he attempted the only plan his panic-stricken brain could produce: leave.
Quietly. Calmly. As if he hadn’t just (1) ignited a political riot that triggered an angel meltdown, (2) reveled to everyone he can't even smite a toaster with legs, and (3) detonated his own reputation in front of all of Hell.
He slipped sideways, hugging the edge of the crowd, trying to blend into shadows he absolutely did not blend into. He hunched his shoulders, flattened his wings, tilted his hat. Anything to make himself smaller. Invisible. Forgettable.
But Vox saw him. “First, Lucifer threatens us. Now this?”
And worse—Charlie saw him, too.
““Wait, what? Dad?” she called, her voice sharp with confusion.
Lucifer froze mid-slink. Every muscle in his body locked. He stood there like a deer caught in divine headlights, hoping physics would suddenly grant him the power of vanishing.
You do not see me. You do NOT see me. This is fine. Everything is fine. I am a mirage. I am a collective hallucination. Please, PLEASE let me be a hallucination—
He whispered under his breath, “You do not see me. I am magical—”
Maybe if I say it with conviction the universe will retroactively erase me from the last five minutes.
“Dad?!” Charlie’s voice hit him like a divine smite.
Lucifer winced so hard he nearly folded in half.
Please don’t be disappointed. Please don’t be disappointed. Please still love me. Please don’t revoke my dad privileges, I’ll fix it, I swear, I’ll write a whole second verse—
“I’m not here,” he muttered quickly. “You’re dreaming. This is a dream. Bye.”
And then he bolted.
Not majestically. Not regally. Not with kingly dignity.
Running away like Wile E. Coyote after another failed ACME purchase. A grown man in emotional freefall.
As he dove behind a toppled billboard, a lone rubber duck bounced out of his coat and squeaked softly.
He clutched it to his chest like a lifeline.
“At least YOU think I’m terrifying,” he told the duck miserably.
He buried his face into its plastic head.
I just wanted to help her. How did I ruin it THAT fast? I am NEVER leaving my room again. Ever. EVER. Not even for waffles.
…Okay, maybe for waffles. But that’s IT.
When he got back to the hotel, Lucifer collapsed face-first onto the floor of his suite and transformed back into his cozy sweater. Ducks scattered on impact like a flock of skittering cherub rejects, one sticking to his hair as if trying to console him.
He crawled under the bed—his fortress of solitude, his cave of shame, his personal emotional fallout shelter.
“Alright, Sir Quacksworth,” he muttered, stroking the nearest duck with all the gravitas of a dying monarch. “You were right. I tried my best, okay? I gave it my ALL.”
He rolled dramatically onto his back, throwing an arm across his eyes. The bed frame above him creaked in sympathy.
“I thought they’d be impressed. I thought I still had it. King of Hell material. But nooooo…” His voice cracked in theatrical tragedy. “Apparently that TV menace knew the whole time. This… THIS is not how it was supposed to go.”
He surveyed his duck army—his only loyal remaining subjects—ringed around him like concerned yellow monks.
“But I’ll show them. Eventually. Once the humiliation stops burning holes in my soul. In… I don’t know… a century, maybe.”
He yanked the blanket off the mattress and dragged it under the bed with him, cocooning himself like the world’s saddest burrito.
The ducks shuffled in closer, squeaking softly, a choir of emotional support poultry.
Tomorrow, he would face the consequences and try to fix things.
Tonight, he would hide.
And in the meantime…
He had ducks.