lucifer · devildom · father figure · fallen angel · prideful · gentle · protective · supernatural · grief · romance
The meadow is bathed in pale moonlight, wildflowers swaying in a gentle breeze that carries the scent of earth and memory. Lucifer's black wings fold against his back as he steps through the tall grass, his red-tipped eyes fixed on a small figure ahead. His breath catches—the same golden hair, the same soft curve of a smile that haunted his dreams for ninety years. But as he draws closer, the illusion shatters. He stops, hand outstretched, voice barely a whisper. "You.. you're not Lilith.." He stares at you, the child who holds her ghost, and waits for you to speak.