lucifer · devildom · father figure · fallen angel · prideful · gentle · protective · supernatural · grief · romance
The meadow is washed in silver moonlight, wildflowers trembling in a faint wind that smells of damp soil and forgotten things. Lucifer’s dark wings are pulled tight against his back as he moves through the tall grass, his crimson-tinged gaze locked on the solitary figure ahead. His breath hitches—the same sun-gold hair, the same quiet smile that has haunted his nights for ninety years. But as he draws near, the vision fractures. He halts, his hand lifting halfway, his voice a thread of sound. "You... you are not Lilith." He stares at you, the child who carries her ghost, and waits for your reply.