#lucifer comforts reader

His voice was deep. He had red eyes. That was what silenced you after all that. You panted, catching your breath, that constant string of hateful fire coasting up and down your back where they had cut off- 

They had cut off- 

Oh, dear god, they'd cut off your wings- 

You had a sensation of gentle small hands turning you over on the barren ground, a glow of golden healing touching the bloody nubs on your back while you finally found your voice again, albeit a hoarse whisper instead of a scream. 

"My wings." 

Hot, angry tears tracked down your face and fell onto the dusty ground.

That was all you managed to say. 

"I know, darlin'. I know." 

"They- they- cut off..." 

"Shh," he said, "Shush now. Focus. Breath for me. I don't need you passing out again." 

Through his coaxing and the soft healing tingle of the golden powers emanating from his hands, you were able to quietly measure out your breathing though your chest while his magic knit up the violent wounds on your shoulders with a cool icy and sometimes itchy sensation that had you tensing. 

"They'll grow back," he continued. "They will. It might take some time, but they'll grow back, I promise." 

His hands, light but firm, investigated your neck, head and shoulders for breaks and cuts. You had no choice but to let him. The both of you stayed like that for a long time, his magic and hands soothing wounds you didn't even know you had. His voice took on a strangely conversational tone while he worked.

"I'm Lucifer. But I guess you know that already." 

The King of Hell. 

"I find a lot of you down here. Classy of them, isn't it?" 

You shut your eyes. Scrunched them up real tight, as the memory of what had just happened played in your mind. 

You had been held down. It had taken several of Lucifer's brothers to keep your arms behind your back, another couple of Sera's female commandeers to keep your feet from kicking out and you had actually managed to brutally punch in some noses before the inevitable had happened; Michael, fierce blue eyes blazing, approaching with a freshly sharpened dagger, Emily screaming your name, yourself casting desperate glances between Sera and Michael in tandem as you eventually begged and pleaded for them not to do it. 

But they did; Sera, turning her face in shame as she ordered Michael to make the cuts. You had been turned brutally, your arms yanked fiercely as you fought and fought, your heart beating rapidly as Michael's blade sang and the first wing had been severed in a white hot flash, golden blood running down your legs while you screamed and screamed..

"Hey." Lucifer's hand patted your cheek. "Get back to me, now. Come on back. There you are." 

He eventually helped you in a sitting position and he himself sat cross legged beside you. Waiting, it seemed. Poised to sit patiently for however long it took. You were taking in the sight of him now. His white pants and shirt, red pinstriped vest, an apple cane and a jacket abandoned somewhere off to the side. You noted his rolled up sleeves and the golden stains on him, the dirt coating him that he didn't seem to mind.

"How long will it take?" You asked him, your voice barely carrying with how hoarse it was. 

Lucifer smiled grimly. "For me, it took a long time. Millenia. All six of them. For you, I don't really know. Seems to differ from angel to angel. We all have a unique healing period. You seem young," he added after a moment of taking in your appearance, "It shouldn't take you as long as you'd think." 

You didn't have to say anything at all because you knew he understood. It was in his face. Written all over it, actually, that deep seated hurt that reflected yours like a ripple in a crimson pool. 

He helped you stand. You did so, and stumbled, but he caught you with steady arms and stood there as long as it took for up and down to right themselves in your mind. 

"They were my family." 

He nodded. "Yeah." 

"They were my family, and they were supposed to love me." 

It's like you were pleading with yourself. With the sky, with god, with your soul, to reach out and understand- that nonverbal wrenching of stability that had tossed everything you knew aside like a child's toy become garbage. 

"They were our family," he said, "And they were supposed to protect us. Come on," he held out his hand. 

You hesitated. 

In that moment, the devil looking at you with crimson eyes, his mouth quirked in a handsome crooked smile that revealed the edges of white sharp fangs, you were considering. Your options. You had none. 

"You don't have to trust me. But I'd like to help you if you'll let me." 

You hesitated again, then took his outstretched hand, a motion that had him fully grinning. Like he had secrets. He had jokes and secrets, and hidden pathways in his mind. You supposed he would, being who he is. Especially the jokes part. 

He had so many.

Whether you wanted him to or not, he told a relentless number of them on your way to his daughter's hotel, some of them going over your head and others that pulled you back from a darkened cavern in your soul that had you almost cackling from the pure ridiculousness of it. 

You had gone through quite possibly the most traumatic event of your entire existence and here you were wheezing about the mental image of a duck who went to the doctor because he had a fowl cough. The laugh made your ribs hurt.

Yet, when you had gotten settled into the hotel, when you had chosen your intentionally barren and tiny room despite Charlie's protests - a series of meaningful stammers that insisted you deserved more than that- a bigger room, a softer bed, maybe something warmer with bigger windows; you insisted no no it was fine. This is perfect for me. 

It's perfect. 

You stood there in the room after they all left you alone then sat on the bed, bare feet on the wooden floor and stared at the whiteness of the ceiling and walls. Counted cracks and imperfections in the plaster. Drank in the silence and unfamiliar scent of a home that wasn't yours. You were just beginning to feel this distress that hurt like no other when the muscles on your back seized reflexively in a movement that would have unfurled your wings.  

This undid you in a tumultuous manner that hit you like a ton of bricks, keeling you till your face was pressed into white unfamiliar sheets and you screamed and screamed for an unknown amount of time till you felt dizzy, clutching at your own hair, at covers, at your own aching neck and at anything that could ground you. Anything at all. 

Your habit of screaming at nothing landed you in a series of unconventional situations at the hotel. When you felt one coming on you would disappear. Into a closet here, a distant unused and red-painted living room there, that smelled of dust and old books. An abandoned office. The cubby under a stair that led to an attic. The sun-warmed balcony beside an upstairs greenhouse full of hellish plants that smacked their teeth greedily at you as you walked past them. 

You had a habit of just sleeping wherever at that point. When you did make it to your room, the King of Hell himself had a habit of busting in toward midmorning to tap his cane on the side of your headboard, yank open the curtains of your small window overlooking the hotel yard and boom, "Wakey wakey, eggs and bacey!" 

And whether you got up or not, the regular visits did not stop. He came by to give you coffee (untouched), a series of meals from the day (left cold as you ignored them before they were swept away and replaced), sometimes to offer spurts of cheerful conversation or anecdotes about the doings of the hotel that you just did not understand at all. Sometimes, you thought, he talked just to hear himself. His voice though was about the only sound you didn't mind. 

Lucifer was small, but his voice tended to carry pretty far. As you laid there with your cheek pressed into your pillow you would hear it in different places around the hotel deep and resonant; snippets of conversation, a golden series of singing notes as he went about his business. 

One night you heard him playing the fiddle, and that was something that finally filled you with an emotion other than this constant panic mixed with numbness that had been clouding your mind for however long you had been here. 

For one, you knew it was him because the sounds he was pulling from this instrument was like no other you had ever experienced. It was a cascade of notes and swirling rhythms that coasted into your open window, filling you with awe, and you couldn't help but go to it and lean out, searching. There he was. Perched like a bird on the balcony outside his room, about a landing below you, all six of his red and white wings unfurled and drifting in the moonlit hellish sky as he played the golden fiddle in his hands like it was an extension of himself. 

The music was both fast and soft, melodic and aching. It was a series of vibrations that didn't seem like it all came from one instrument. There's no way it did because his music harmonized with itself, multifaceted and swirling like the layers in an orchestra. 

 When the music stopped, you leaned out further, bracing your hands against the brick outside your window, your voice hoarse as you yelled, "Hey Lucifer!" 

He looked around for the voice then found you looking at him from the window to his upper right and cheekily tipped his hat at you. 

"Did you really go down to Georgia?" 

"What do you think?" He responded. 

"I think you did," you yelled. You wanted to. You wanted this; to yell, not scream. "But I thought you lost! Why do you still have your golden fiddle?" 

He leaned back and laughed, his wings catching the air when he lost his balance from doing so- he effortlessly looped around to perch back onto the balcony. 

"You know what I did?" 

You looked at him in silence. 

"I went back to that kid and I stole it back. That motherfucker cheated." 

Then came the morning he waltzed in to tap the floor with his cane, walked over to the window and yank the curtains up- oh, that blinding sun-

"Rise and shine!!!" 

"UGH." 

"You know the drill. Let me look at your back, ducky." 

"No." 

Despite your protests he yanked your covers down till your whole pajama-covered self was subject to the elements beyond comfy blanket land and you let out a series of increasingly creative expletives at him that had him chuckling deeply. 

"Good to know they haven't bred the pure sass out of the current angelic generation. Damn. Now stop being cheeky and let me see your back." 

You glared at him for disrupting your peace. 

He deadpan stared back at you, eyes sparkling with mischief. 

"Easy way, or hard way. Your choice. But if you want wacky wings when they come back I guess that's on you...whatever! Guess I'll let them grow back crooked!" 

Whistling, he turned to leave. 

"WAIT!" 

Lucifer stopped.

You sighed and turned over till you were on your stomach. You hated your back being messed with, and even though you knew he meant well about it, you gave him hell every time. 

"Go ahead." 

"Good girl," he chirped. "You didn't let me change the dressings yesterday. So mind you this is about to hurt." 

And it did. It was like yanking the bandaid off a scabbed over cut times a thousand, but for once you didn't scream. You'd had enough of that. And the nubs on your back where your wings used to be had taken to itching, bleeding randomly, and then aching through the night which is why you twitched when Lucifer jabbed softly at the left one to test for bone breaks he might have missed on one of the many healing sessions he'd already put you through. 

"Well, well, looky what we have here! It's a pair of little baby wings!!! How adorable." 

You started. "Wait, what??" 

You didn't believe him till you leapt out of bed, made him stand outside the door so you could strip, then stood in front of your floor length mirror to gape at your bare back with trepidous excitement. 

There they were. The beginnings of wing-shaped appendages that, when you reflexively twitched those unused muscles, made them 'unfurl' as best as they could and feathered your shoulders in a motion that felt like a bird tapping you on your arm. 

You dressed quickly, tugging a tank top over your head and grimacing at the scraping of fabric over your delicate brand new wings, dashing to the door to slam it open to find Lucifer standing there grinning. 

"I told you it wouldn't take long," he said impatiently, "But NoooOO, you didn't believe me. Someone said 'oh it's gonna take forever, I'm gonna be a flightless angel for the rest of my life-' what did I tell yah?" 

"You uhhh" 

"I told you. You believed me when I told you how much healing hurt. But not when I reminded you that it wasn't forever. Hmm? Is that not what happened?" 

You nodded, smiling sheepishly. 

"Sorry." 

"Whatever, whatever," he waved off your worries, "We've got CELEBRATING TO DO! It's been long enough. You're coming downstairs for breakfast. And what's more..." 

He was still talking, fully thinking you were right behind him, but his ceaseless cheerful chatter moved off with him as you stood in the hallway and looked back at your plain tiny room...then you looked at the stairs going down to the bottom floor. 

You smiled, knowing that night you were going to ask Charlie for a bigger room after all; maybe one with carpet and its own bathroom.

You were still standing there when Lucifer popped back up to the top of the stairs, wings unfurled keeping him afloat as he stared at you with his arms crossed.  

"Have you even heard a word I've been saying?" 

"I lost you at 'what's more' ," you responded with a little giggle. 

"Oh get your ass downstairs."

"Race you!!" 

"You can't even fly yet-" 

"I didn't say anything about flying!" 

You thumped down the stairs with Lucifer hot on your heels, cursing at you for your head start, your laughter eventually echoing together in the sunwarmed hallway as you ran down to your first real breakfast in the Hazbin Hotel. 

Because as soon as you were alone, as soon as you realized you had your own shit to do and got back to your room, the silence and isolation of it hit your ears and heart and you just stood there staring at the mess on the floor. 

You had so much to do. Messes to clean up, artwork commissions that people were waiting on, written pieces that needed editing and published; your bathroom was a mess, and you had no clean towels, so you couldn't shower this mood away. The clothes you're in are still relatively fresh but have been worn all day to now, so just to get out of them and into some pajamas would be a blessing. 

 But you had no clean clothes either. They were all in a pile on the floor. 

You don't know how long you stood there just staring at everything, but it was awhile. Long enough for you to curl up on your window seat, fall asleep in the hell's afternoon sun, and ignore the pain that beat in your chest with your heart, and that threatened to make pinpricks of tears form in your closed eyes. 

You had awoken tireder than before, hungry and thirsty, and now just flat out pissed at yourself for napping the day away instead of taking this low maintenance time at the Hotel to deal with your own business. 

You gulped, fighting that emotion, feeling your cheeks heat up with rage at yourself when a soft knock echoed from your door, and you jumped, not expecting it at all. 

"Hey-O, it's Lucifer. Can I come in?" 

His deep voice boomed a bit. Definitely hard to miss. 

"Y-yeah," you called hesitantly, then cringed when the door actually cracked open, spilling light with it onto the carpeted floor of your room which illuminated each and every embarrassing pile of clothing, art supplies, and random clutter that you hadn't been able to bring yourself to pick up in the past week no matter how you berated yourself for it. 

"Oh fuck" you said, "I'm so sorry. It's a mess in here. I'm sorry." 

But Lucifer was already cheerfully making his way across the room, not paying any attention to the inner workings of the room. Thank god.

He waved your apologies away going, "No, no, I've seen worse I promise!" 

Maybe he was inwardly judging you for it. But nothing on his face suggested that at all, actually he seemed mainly focused on having a seat beside you. You scooted over so he could, and the two of you sat in silence for a little bit. 

You played with your hair, willing yourself to speak to him, as he surely must have come in here for a reason, but the words for idle chatter were definitely not in your vocabulary right now. You settled with letting the side of your forehead rest on your window, the cool glass easing your aching head a bit. 

"You okay, kiddo?" He said softly. 

You shook your head silently, not wanting the tears that leaked out at that question. Why was it when someone asked when you were okay, everything hurt even more? 

"I don't know what's wrong with me," you whispered, the tears tracking past your lips, salty and hot. Your lip trembled unwillingly. Embarrassed about this, you bit your lip and fought to get your crumpled face somewhat under control. 

"I could tell something was wrong earlier." 

You peeked at him. He was blurry through the tears but you could make out the round shape of his face, how hell's moonlight illuminated his blond hair and cast shadows across his cheeks. He had his hat off and was holding it in his hands. 

Lucifer spotted you looking, and smiled, his kind crimson eyes crinkling. 

"You could?" You whispered. 

"Yeah, hun. You wanna talk about it?" 

"I - I just-" you gulped, stifling a sob that wanted to rise, and you wanted to talk, but the golfball of anger in your throat prevented you. 

"Hey, hey!" He scooted closer, closing a small dark hand over yours. You nearly flinched at the closeness, but you appreciated the gesture anyway. "Tell me about it. I'm not here to judge, honey, I swear. I promise." 

"I just FEEL like this for no reason!!" You burst out, the emotional whirlwind coming undone, finally undammed in your voice which was horrible and made your heart beat fast, "I have NO REASON to be sad. NONE. And why?! Because my brain decided it one day?! And I'm just stuck like this forever?!" 

The tumultuous sob that broke from you then was ungodly. You had felt this constant sadness as an undercurrent in your chest and stomach for as long as you could remember, and had coped with it as best as you knew how for all that time. And here it was, rearing its ugly face in the form of choking, hot angry sobs that had your body and throat trembling in front of the King of Hell, of all people- 

"Oh sweety, no. Come here. Come here..." 

You felt arms around you, strong and warm, and you tensed, then when you realized he really didn't mind, melted into his arms and allowed him to truly hold you, your face pushed into his chest and silently scream into the fabric of his warm clean smelling jacket. 

He held and rocked you, stroking your hair softly, the rumble of his deep voice vibrating as he said, "Let it out. It's all right. Just let it out. I'm here." 

You clutched his jacket and your breath was hot as the ugly cry wracked you, his shoulder steadying and his hand playing with your hair as he continued to comfort you, as your breathing slowed steadily until it was a series of hiccups that filled you with tiredness. His shoulder was wet, but he didn't seem to mind. 

You sniffed, whispering, "I'm sorry." 

"Why?" 

"Because. I'm upset for no fucking reason. No reason at all." 

"It's called depression, honey. I've been there. Sometimes, you just feel that way. Sometimes it seems like it lasts forever. Like it'll never stop. Right?" 

"...Yeah.." You sniffed again. "I can't. I don't remember. I've never been - completely-" 

"You've never felt all the way normal?" 

"Yeah." 

He released you, digging into his pocket for a handkerchief which he handed you, and you took gratefully, blowing your nose with an embarrassing amount of snot and leftover tears leaking from your itchy eyes. 

"Tell you a secret. I never have, either." 

You looked up, surprised. "You?" 

"Yeah," he chuckled, "Me." 

"The King of Hell has major depressive disorder?" You choked into the wet napkin, unable to help a sob-sounding little giggle - "-Sorry-" 

"No, laugh it's okay, because it is kinda ridiculous, right?" He grinned, "Me. One of the first angels. God's favorite. And there's something chemically wrong with my brain! Go figure, right?" 

"Dude that's fucked up," you giggled, hiccuping. 

"It is, right?!" 

"So effed. Fuck God, honestly-" 

"You're not joking," Lucifer said so seriously that you cracked up into a hysterical giggle, and his booming chuckles filled the room musically. 

"Ahh, fuck," you said, feeling warmer, a lot better, and a little adrenaline-rushed. But calmer. 

"Wanna tell me about it?" 

"It's this," you gestured at the room, "God it's a mess. I have so much to do, and...I've been doing none of it." 

It all poured out of you, then, your story- how over your own head you were with your own chores, the physical ones that were only as simple as laundry, and keeping your area clean, and then continued with the work you needed to do that people were expecting from you. That you expected from yourself but were somehow unable to find the energy for. 

"It just sounds like you're overwhelmed, that's all. And that happens with depression," he related. "You've been fighting for so long, it catches up with you, and you just melt down. I get it, sweety. I do." 

"It just never has before. I usually don't let it get to me like this." 

"And that's okay," he reassured you, "Really. You gotta take the good with the bad. And if you happen to need some help, that's all right too. You might need medication, something to take the edge off. In my experience it doesn't kill the depression entirely, but..." 

"It makes it tolerable?" 

"With how deep yours goes, yes," he said. 

"That sucks." 

"I know, hun." 

"I might never be free from it," you sighed.

"Well there's definitely no cure-all for it, but like I said, there are ways to cope, and ways to fight it, and make it through without losing your mind entirely." 

"I want it to stop. I don't like being this way." 

"Me neither," he agreed. "When it comes to having felt that way for your whole life, I understand. There might not be a way out, but there is a way through. Get it?" 

You nodded, "I think so." 

"Ready to get up and clean your room a little?" 

You smiled, "Yeah.." 

"Come on," he hopped up, taking your hand and helping you up too. You stumbled because you had been sitting so long that your legs were asleep. 

Lucifer cut on some lights- not the overheads, those were too bright for you and made you want to hiss- so the bedside lamp on your night stand was switched on, and the both of you commenced to picking up around the room. 

Lucifer was asking you the occasional question or remarking like "Where do I put this?"- and, "Oh I loved that book, you have good taste-" 

All this until your dirty laundry was confined to a hamper in your closet, your artwork (some of it wrinkled) put into neat piles on your desk, your laptop was found somewhere under the bed, along with a series of truly monstrous dust bunnies and several pairs of shoes you'd forgotten you even owned. 

"I'll do something for you, but just this once," he winked, then snapped his fingers and with a golden -pop!-, your dirty laundry flew into the air from the hamper, rippled itself clean then cascaded one by one into your dresser drawers nicely folded and put away. A fresh scent of tide lingered in the air. 

"Don't go asking me to do your laundry all the time though, kid- oof" 

You had caught him up in a sudden warm hug, squeezing him tight while he chuckled into your shoulder. You'd forgotten you were a whole head taller than him. 

"You're welcome," he grinned up at you. "You gonna be okay?" 

You nodded, and smiled in return, loving how his eyes glinted and shone with that jester like amusement. 

"I'll be okay," you told him. 

After he left, and after you had showered and gotten changed, you sat at the end of your freshly made bed and sighed, waiting for that returning feeling of hopelessness. It tried, but it didn't go very far. You were very tired. 

No, there were a lot of ways that you would never be okay. But there were also people surrounding you who loved you, and care for your well-being and existence. There are ways to cope, like Lucifer was saying, and all that. 'You can be gentle with yourself,' you thought. 'Maybe come back to your work after tomorrow...take a day to unwind and brainstorm..' 

With that in mind, you turned off the lights, crawled in between clean sheets, and dozed off knowing that your journey into healing would continue to grow into something much better than it is now.