It does seem rather unfortunate that humanity and all their adjacent comrades-in-arms haven't been gifted with the blessing of flight, but then again they seemed to be a clever sort that had figured out how to overcome their shortcomings anyways. The ships and technology were admirable, even if Lucifer highly prefers his own wings.

His wings won't take him off of Venus, however. Mattheiu's ship will. It's an acceptable take, he decides, even as he curls up tighter against the Hunter's neck. His comfort, however, is apparently secondary, because he's soon moved. There's a noise of discontent, far softer than he'd ever be comfortable admitting to, as he's bundled up, and eventually he manages to work his head out of the folds of fabric and shoot an almost indignant glare over to the retreating man.

I thought your type could just change their clothes whenever they wanted to, with a wave of a hand.