steadfast.

indie st. michael

[awanqi]

a series : sanctus [part 1]

[punkrockprincessxx]

I wish I could hate you …..

[mannukiili]

the weighty whimsical nature of michael's narrations is one of my favorite things about him

[neap]

longing !

[dualipasource]

The album version of ‘Thinking 'Bout You’ is out!

[behind-scopes]

Seraph II

by Nesktohime

[ruinaa-archive-blog]

‘ so kiss me, shy, sweet, eagerly. ’ -mannukiili, should u ever ,, grant me a kiss meme .... pls just one....

e.e. cummings

          ( accepting. )

          ONCE, LUCIFER TOLD HER THAT no good came from the interest of angels, let alone michael. she still doesn’t know if that’s true – it feels like it is, or like it should be – but he has dropped into her life so many times and in so many different places that she can’t help but believe, even more so, that whatever it is, it’s far from something she can outrun. 

          maybe michael’s interest in her isn’t as harmless as she would like to believe, but it’s difficult, when he drops into her apartment with wine and a story that is as unbelievable as everything else about him, to tell him to go. (she likes his company. for a moment, while he sits there across from her, she can pretend he is something else, someone else. she’s never forgotten, not once, but she has built so much of her life around making things into what she wants of them instead of what they are that isn’t much of a stretch.)

          when he says it, it feels less like a choice and more like a challenge. she watches him in the half-light spilling from one room and into the other and wonders who will be the one to come closer first: herself or michael. (she knows it won’t be him. they’d stand in this stalemate for centuries, a millennia, before he came any closer to her.) he has always presented her with the choice, and it’s what he’s doing now. it hangs in the space between them and she can’t help but wonder how many others he’s done this to, humans swept too easily up in the dark of his eyes and the gentleness that lurks there.

          still hesitant, she crosses to him, hides the tremble of her hands beneath the long sleeves of her sweater. she has to stand on tip-toe to reach him and, when she does, she nearly loses her nerve. the kiss is hardly that – a brush of lips against the corner of his mouth before it becomes something a little more solid, but even then, it’s fleeting. a moment, maybe two, and her nose brushes against the line of his jaw as she moves away. 

          after another long moment: “– – you could’ve said please, you know.”

[mannukiili]

plaguedaughter:

       hands desperately clutch at divine-spun cloth. it’s wretched and surreal, expelling such foul things in the presence of one so HOLY. something between humility and humiliation pricks tears at the corners of her eyes. ‘ Just the one…’ she spits out between coughs.   ‘ One’s more’n enough. ’

    he ought leave her alone, but the thought is just as utterly dismal as her spat vermin. to keep using the excuse of the magic around her drawing him in like fish on fisher line would cast ill shadow upon him, but it’s so banal in the grand scheme of things; he doesn’t think much of it. “I like it,” he says resolutely, petting her hair as he draws her body closer to him. “One or one thousand, Fanchon, I like you just as well.” 

[mannukiili]

ruinaa:

          water-turned-wine. she almost laughs, but she knows he’s completely serious, and the look he gives the wine bottles still scattered across her counter from jakob’s last visit earlier in the week doesn’t go without notice. if one more angel comes into her house and judges her bargain merlot – —

          “okay.” she dries off her hands and pads into the living room, glancing over her shoulder at him before she sits. “– – if you’re here for gossip, i don’t think i have any. my life’s a little boring these days.”

        he gives a slight hum at that, pitched low to express disagreement. “There’s nothing I find trivial about human life,” he says in passing, joining her at her side, pouring her a cup and passing it over. he has to wonder if the bargain merlot always runs concurrently with scandal and gaiety. 

“Perhaps to the individual, it might seem so, but––” he stretches and sets the flagon on the coffee table next to an old newspaper with a half filled in crossword. “In all honesty, you interest me, Josephine Lewis. Boring bits and all.” 

[mannukiili]

heartsided:

     “oh —- “ breath stuttering in her chest, catching, caught. her gaze forced to meet his, but it doesn’t feel … intimidating. teasing, maybe, or light-hearted. phoebe knows what he is, but his hand is warm against her skin, and almost too real. he is a celestial being, and she knows the lore. here, with her, he seems almost gentle, and it tugs at something in her. “ —- well, i don’t need to. b-because it’s a matter of fact.”

    the corners of his eyes crinkle, the smile well-worn against self-woven skin, and his initial touch, light, hesitant, morphs into something practiced and fond––the splay of his palm cupping the expanse of her cheek––humans, delicate, precious. he keeps her eyes trapped in his, grasps one of her fluttering hands with his own, and holds it between them. “Is it not faith that bears fact?” 

[mannukiili]

i do not stop one day or one night, praying incessantly for the human race

through time, a love beholden 

[mannukiili]

michael 

“the most dread of the six-winged,”  “who rules through all things,”  “is worthy to stand beside the throne of the lord,”  “first of all unto god” 

etc 

[mannukiili]

i haven’t had a solid abt page for michael... probably since i made my first blog for him back in 2010. what do the hip kids these days put on those nasty suckers? tidbits? Fun Facts? personal history? [softly but w feeling] y’all 

[mannukiili]

    saints of the world should be the most pitied, for they’re the ones that’ve drawn the interest of a being far more powerful and with much less mortal worldly awareness. 

   they’re the ones called to follow the light and the word of the lord without preamble, without question, without letting the scabs on their knees and the scrapes on their palms draw them into rest, for they must forever march forward for the cause. they must keep going, keep moving, or the great need rising in their bellies would give way to a stillness that’s saturated with a love so unfathomable it’s ruining just to simply glance at it, to think of it. 

   they’e the ones caught up in a destructively focused curiosity, the full attention of the divine boring down their neck, into their eyes, capturing their souls in an all-encompassing abyss of frightening love and devotion and it never has an end.

      so their fear turns to worship and their tears from burnt out eyes are kissed away by divine lips and when they become burnt out shells of celestial light pouring through the cracks in their dry skin,      they’re pushed to the gallows by terrified masses,      lined up to a firing squad,      tied to stakes with fire            that doesn’t hurt nearly as much as            a thousand eyes worth of tender attention and piety,      bent at the knees to receive a blade at the neck            just as they would bend to receive intercession.    but at the end, when they’re shaking and begging for more despite splitting at their very seams, it doesn’t matter that they’re leaving friends, family, soldiers behind.

   because they can bask in the love of the father forever, sit in the lap of the intercessor and croon out prayers of desperation and want and need and receive, receive receive. 

   so pity the saints of the world, for they are called to a purpose and stolen away from simple home and hearth.

[mannukiili]

somewhere in a fantastical universe of my own lore there’s a stanza that reads out a more properly worded law where the names of angels hold more power than the angel itself (resulting in a full history of religious invocation and the progression of occult worship & magik based on naming powers to meld the universe to thine own will) and it’s the origin of fae lore and the antiquated mysticism of binding supernal powers into the mortal plane

[securesuggestions]

Someone thinks about you before they go to bed

[ml-j]

the devil and how he’s gonna fuck up my day when he wakes up

[mannukiili]

teramater:

“no, it frightens me to think that you may come up short when all else fails but flattery. what can i do for you today, michael?”

  “we angels are just simple prayer and supplication,” he says dryly. then–– “might you lend me a hand?”