to soak the bones in february, eons from the autumn shower–

[baalpeor]

[Rain. It was raining.

He'd never actually felt rain on his own skin before. Hell didn't have weather, and every time he'd taken control of John's body it was nothing more than a muted feeling. A secondary feeling. Like the sensation was an absent memory plucked out of the back of someone's head.

Which is why Belphegor's standing outside, eyes squinting against the grey sky, keeping the droplets from falling into them, from making him have to look away for even a second. His shirt is open, hands stuffed in pockets of the jeans he'd taken the habit of wearing - something he blamed on his human host - each droplet only running down over his skin for a few inches before hissing, turning to steam.

It's... different, this human form. The form he has to wear in order to avoid suspicion, to live alongside the pup and her mate, the form he has to settle into if he wants to remain next to his virtue. He thought he would hate it, he really had. It was awkward, bumbling, lacking the horns he so liked, the tail and claws he'd lived with for so long. But in reality, moments like this, the little things he couldn't remember ever experiencing - or maybe he had, maybe in some distant memory, a life long past and long since forgotten, a nostalgic link to a memory burned out of what was left of his soul - seemed to make everything worth it.

It's amazing how a demon, a being who thrived off of pain and anguish, blood and torture and death, could be so pacified by the simplest things. By the shifting grey of the sky and the feeling of water hitting his skin.]