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Summary
Lucifer truly cannot remember that last time he took care of his wings. Before he was cast out of heaven, they would’ve been cleaned thoroughly. Now they’re just a mess. Though it’s hard to see the filth and singed feathers from afar, and in action it’s hard to notice anyways. He’s always ashamed of how much he let himself go.
He would’ve been disgusted by himself before. Now, he can’t even find the energy to even try and pluck the loose feathers out. It’s painful anyways, he always tugs to hard. His wings are sort of like a bird in a way; the feathers follicles are rich in blood vessels and nerve endings. Plucking one out forcibly which he often ends up doing when running out of what already little patience he has, it results with damage around the skin or even the follicle.
(Lucifer is having a hard time while still recovering from the whole battle with Vox days later, Alastor decides to be generous and helps him out with his wings)