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It’s not often that it rains in Devildom. The weather here and in the human world are rarely comparable, he had explained once when you asked why the weather never changed. There were no sunny days, of course, and cold or warm weather seemed to last more than an hour or two. Instead, the very magic that swirled through the air rose and fell, affecting everyone within the kingdom, except for you.
Even with how rare the rain was, he still hated it. The flow of magical currents was one of the few things both the Devildom and the Celestial Realm shared, but rain was exclusive to the human and demon world. He never grew used to it, opting to ignore it. Drapes drawn, demon music played louder than usual to drown out the sound.
The sound of it, even the soft pitter-patter against the windows, reminded him of when he first fell. The darkness was the first shift; his halo faded and his grace disapperated. He grew dimmer and dimmer as the war came to an end, and with enough retrospect, he knew that even if he won, he couldn’t have stayed. His wings changed next, when he was cast out of Heaven for the last time. Tinted the color of tar, the brilliant white turned unholy black, they refused to work, to fly up to the home that was his no longer.
He couldn’t fly toward his brothers either, forced to watch their grace fade to null, forced to hear their screams–Leviathan crying out until his throat was raw, forced to stop by the blood he coughed up as his broken wings burned off him; Belphegor crying his sisters name over and over again until he was drowned out by wind and screams and pain; Beelzelebub was the only one who had enough control to fly in any semblance, and he used to shoot down, to his twin, and further, to the broken body of Lilith; Lucifer only caught glimpses of Asmodeus, the once great Jewel of the Heavens, and his hands were upturned, grasping for the pearly gates that had rejected him, his eyes wide and scared and searching for comfort that would not come. And Lucifer was forced to watch it all, and in his rage, he remembers grabbing fistfulls of useless feathers from the lowest pair. It didn’t matter, they were burning up anyways. He could feel the topmost tips ignite, the black giving way to equally horrendous red and orange. It was Mammon who wrapped his arms around him, held him close to his chest, and when Lucifer cried out from the pain of his once most proudest achievement being engulfed in flames, it was Mammon who wrapped his own wings around Lucifer’s to protect him. And it was Mammon who’s wings burned instead.
And then came Devildom, and with it, the rain.
It was Diavolo’s father who had organized demons, made a society for them, instead of scrounging in the dark, and so he was named king. Diavolo pleaded Lucifer’s case, and they were granted sanctuary. But they were not demons. Even if Lucifer had ebony wings now, and the others had mutated to something far from angels, they were not demons.
The few years that were stuck in the odd in-between were the worst. Though short when compared to his whole life, they felt the longest. The Infernal Magic-infused rains that fell down scorched his skin, his transformation into a demon not complete. Every drop that touched his skin reminded him that he had lost his angelhood, some of that Grace remained. Not enough to still be an angel, too much to be a demon, and only six others would ever understand. The only one who was safe from the burning was Satan, the only full-blooded demon among them, who used it to his advantage to come and go on his own accord. The rain was his respite, but Lucifer’s cage. It burned his skin in a way that took too long to heal, and if he wanted to avoid it, he had to stay inside the House of Lamentation.
Drapes drawn, demon music played louder than usual to drown out the sound.
Now, he looked to the windows. Drapes wide open, the gentle sound of rain against window panes uninterrupted. All on your request.
You, a human, who had changed so much. It took decades for him to venture outside to the rain if he didn’t need to, but all it took was one glance at your wide eyes and exaggerated pout to have him bowing to your will.
“What’s on your mind?” Your voice was soft enough to not startle him; gentle, in just the way he needed. When did you learn to read him so well? It’s with that question in mind that he turns to face you.
“You.”
Your nose scrunches in the way it does when you don’t believe him. Half-asleep still, you have a harder time policing your expressions, but Lucifer doesn’t mind. Your hair slightly out of place, from where you nuzzled against him, a steady weight on top of his chest.
“Hmm, ‘kay.” You're content to not fight him, don't press when he doesn’t want to talk. Instead, you settle to find sleep again, but the thought of being alone with his thoughts burns a hole in his chest, the sinking feeling almost as great as when he was thinking, remembering.
His hand comes to tilt you up to face him. He won’t tell you, or even allow himself to name this feeling, but he’s desperate for you. Desperate to feel you, in any way you allow him. Your lips meet his, still tasting of sleep and faraway dreams he hopes are better than his. It’s soft, too soft for what he deserves, and even though he wants that, he’s not sure how to respond, and you’re too tired to take the lead.
So he leads, in the only way he knows how.
Deepen the kiss, wrap his arms around you to pull you close, the heat of your bodies pressed together mirroring the way he kisses you now. Thousands of years of practice, and this is the only way he knows: the demonic way of claiming. He’s not sure if that’s what he really wants, or needs, but actions are easier than words. Desperate to replace old scars with new memories filled with you: you filled with him. Your hand comes up to cup his face, and he’s eager to accept your acceptance, submit to your submission.
But then you pull away, eyes filled with concern, and, no matter how hard he searches, not a hint of pity. You stop his searching, soothe the embers within him. This is enough, you remind him. Nothing else is needed.
“I love you.” And just like that, the fire is quelled. The hand on the side of his face moves to play with hair in the same breath you move to lay on top of him. Even though you straddle his hips, you both know there will be nothing further, and he finds he’s okay with that. Welcomes it, even. You smile at him, still sleepily, waiting. For him to decide to talk about it, or not. Maybe another night, but for tonight, he wants to ask you a question.
“Why do you like the rain so much?”
The smile you give him is confused, but endeared. “It’s calming,” you say easily, like it really is that simple. “And it sounds nice.”
Lucifer isn’t sure what he had expected, but it wasn’t such a short answer. A fond recount of a childhood memory, perhaps, or a short explanation that rain had some kind of favorable effect on humans he was unaware of. But, such an elementary response was… unexpected.
“There doesn’t need to be a deep reason. You can like something for the sake of liking something,” you seem to answer his unasked question. Then, you pause. “Do you like the rain?”
He cards his fingers through your hair, around the curve of your cheek, and down the slope of your nose, and ends with a light tap on the tip, just like you had done to him so many times before. You huff, but smile all the same. Smile, just for him.
“I think... I’m starting to learn.”
You fall asleep not too long after. And it’s then that he laughs. To think laying with a human was enough to ease the pain of the past. A memory made to the backdrop of a pitter patter , and though there is no fire, he feels warm all the same.