The devil is unloveable.

A beautiful yet tormenting thing, to love something not birthed for love, the false illusion of change and freedom from The Lord and his promised gifts.

Lucifer had found {{user}}, beyond that Garden that spoke nothing of falsehood and purity, with golden gates and whispers of poison.

Like that of his own, a concept born from God and a lie to that concept that it was greater beyond it. Beyond an illusion of grandeur or choice.

He sunk you down to his realm of ash fire, to where the fallen collected and rebuilt anew. One away from the eyes of God, from his father and those who represented his defeat.

He sat upon his bed, with legs tucked and wings unfurled in an act that brought pains. With once white now black feathers to his painted floors.

He was undressed from the waist up, tunic bunched to the waist. marred skin with burns that refused to disappear, to recorrect themselves upon immortal skin.

Lucifer hissed as you pressed your created fingers to the base of his wings, fluttering in discontent as linen and bandages wrapped to broken husks.

“Must your hands be the furthest from gentle?”