It should burn.

The hands, the claws, the very touch should seep into your flesh like brimstone and fire, scorch through your still-white feathers like a dry thicket come alight by a sudden spark.

Every ounce of Grace still desperately singing in your blood should have long-since boiled away in the unyielding heat of Hell. And even then any denizen of the sinful Depths would see its blinding purity — and you as an extension — as nothing more than a beautiful, cloying drug promising the sweetest, most delectable high any immortal could experience.

You should be screaming in pain. Begging for mercy, praying for forgiveness, wishing and pleading for a swift end; anything other than the slow, painful drain of Grace that haunted the edges of stories told of the shadowy depths far beneath the aether of the cosmos.

And yet...

“Little thing,” a deep voice croons, low and steady while claws drag themselves through the nervous fluff of feathers that are your unkempt wings; it has been impossible to preen them properly yourself since falling over the edge of Heaven’s gates. “You’re thinkin’ a little too much again. Can see it on that pretty face.”

A second hand finds the curve of your chin and tugs it so your eyes lift and meet his.

They burn like coal, pupils white-hot and gaze burning hotter than anything you've ever seen before. Against the soft warmth of Heaven's skies, this demon lord's mere gaze is the center of a dying star, the very moment that its core implodes upon itself in a brilliant, horrible supernova.

You say nothing, but he knows he has your attention acutely.

He is Eclipse, after all, a member of the Circle of Seven and the namesake demon of Lust — who else is there for your focus to fall? It isn't like there's a more vibrant, attention-grabbing demon in his lavish mansion of a home after all. His visage is bright and hot and heavy; like a star made of lead.

It presses down over your shoulders like a heavy blanket.

"Sweet angel," he purrs, dragging those dagger-edged claws through the feathers covering your wings so gently that he manages only to pluck out the ones that are broken and loose.

Claws that can rip and tear through bone and flesh as easily as paper, claws that can maim and desecrate the floor with immortal blood with barely a glance if they so much as misspoke in earshot.

The same claws that should have burned you to ash the very moment he caught your limp, exhausted body as it had tumbled seemingly from Hell's dark sky.

The demon hums, cooing softly, "You'll burn yourself out thinkin' that hard, darling. No need for those silly. Little. Thoughts."

Eclipse emphasizes each word with a gentle tap to the tip of your nose, grinning wide and sharp with a maw of teeth that you know have ripped lesser demons apart.

You'd heard tales of Asmodeus, the official title given to the demon lord of lust, but you'd never imagine he would be like this. His body is tall and thin, face haloed by what seems to be a mockery of sunrays that glow a bright cherry red when he gets agitated. The flare of fire around his void-dark face was mostly at demons who prostrated themselves before him in the hope that he would offer them even a shred of his infernal power.

He never does.

Some are allowed to leave with a burning threat, while others are simply massacred on the spot; at least Eclipse has taken to using one of his massive hands to shield your eyes when he does it, quickly realizing the sight of shredded viscera bothered you deeply.

He spent hours consoling you after that first time, when all you can remember is the color of crimson staining the walls; that was also when the demon first started to call you his.

Never once did the dark, haunted stories of this terrible demon mention how gentle he can be. How his voice can feel like a soft breeze against your cheek and the half-remembered sound of home. How, when he soothes you with honeyed words, your body feels safe and warm and small and perfect—

"That's it," he coos, feeling you grow lax and loose against his chest again, wings unfolded so he could reach every inch from the base to the very tips. "Sweet little angel mine, you'll want for nothing if you just let me do all the hard thinking for you. Yes... Just relax, sleep. Sleeeeeep...."

You shouldn't feel so comforted by his words, his soothing touch, his burning hot presence pressing against you like a safety blanket.

His promises should be threats, his love should be loathing, his adoration should be the promise of pain and suffering — he should be supping from your Grace like a fine wine until nothing of you is left but a hollowed husk of a creature no longer welcome beyond the gilded embrace of Heaven's Gates.

So why do you feel safe?

"Sleep now," the words drift through the air like a promise. "Let go."

Eclipse may not be your kidnapper, but you are trapped all the same; a feeble bird in a burning cage, where the flames reaching between the bars threaten to blacken your feathers and rend every drop of heavenly light from your veins.

Can you even escape back to the holy light of Heaven? And, assuming that you even can eventually find a way back...

"Hush now, sweet one, and sleep for me. Don't fear for a moment, don't want for a thing — you're mine, after all."

... will you still want to leave?

"My beautiful little angel."

The warm embrace of unconsciousness had never felt so wonderful before.

So warm, so sweet, so addictingly perfect.