j a h a n n a m

" MORNINGSTAR " well, i'll be damned ---- it's the devil himself LUCIFER lore & personal myth panfandom & multiverse tracking #mushtilil written by lily

[mushtilil]

mannukiili:

and the sigh breaks barriers untold of worry and mercy and such care that michael cannot hold back the feeling from showing in his countenance, every part of him shining outward with all-encompassing affection. “won’t you come home with me?”

     AND, AS HE surely expects, lucifer recoils ---- no, more than that. his eyes harden to obsidian, his skin marble. ripping himself away from the archangel, the devil faces him. “home? what home do you speak of? was it not YOU that cast me out so soundly that even MANKIND feels pity for me?”

[mushtilil]

ruinaa:

he leans forward and it takes everything in her not to lean back, further away from him. his voice makes her skin crawl; she wants him to leave, to go. she doesn’t want any part of this anymore.

          “– – why.”

it doesn’t come out as a question, though it should.

          “What is he – what does he want, then?”

     THE TERROR THRUMMING under her skin brings a slow, lazy smile to lucifer’s lips; he is used to being feared and adored, all in one breath. though she surprises him by biting out her question. and it is a question, for all the lack of inflection; it sits in her eyes. a healthy dose of trepidation, something approaching fear. “curiosity is a part of him.” lucifer lifts a shoulder in a half-shrug. if she wishes to think that curiosity is docile and harmless -- well, what does he owe this little human? nothing.

[mushtilil]

& ---- @devilsuited !

     he isn’t quite sure what’s happening with the underworld; lucifer’s own focus remains on organizing his inner circle to battle the forces of heaven, to keep his territories strong against the angels, his former brethren, that dare to storm his gates. he leaves the underworld to his little creations, and comes back to find his dominion in ruins.

     the king of hell, iblis and the lightbringer, appears in this realm as though he was there all along, a quiet rage simmering under the thin veneer pulled on so his divinity does not turn his creatures to ash. being rebuked by the highest authority for leaving the underworld to rot sticks in his mouth like thorns, and the more he finds out about what has occurred since the last time he turned his great, terrible eyes towards this underbelly leaves him beyond simple irritation.

     it is an easy feat for lucifer to track the last known trace of the source of all evil, a being created by his own hand, who he had once graced with a name, and taken it away as penance for displeasing him. he reappears in limbo, next to the demonling ( a small, young thing, a little over a century ) guiding spirits across to the other side.

     death, it seems, has been feeling lazy. lucifer takes note, if only to serve as a small, petty vengeance against his hardly beloved father later.

     “belthazor, is it not?” he greets without greeting, eyes flickering dismissively over the peace of limbo. nothing in comparison to eden. “what a peculiar place you choose to linger in.”

[mannukiili]

+ @mushtilil

he curls himself around lucifer, snaking arms around his ribs, propping his chin on a tense shoulder. he turns and pops a kiss to the side of his neck after a  moment where they both settle into each other. 

   “I have something to ask of you,” he says. “But you will not like it.”  

[mushtilil]

     when has he ever liked what michael has asked of him? when he always asks the impossible, the cruel, the unkind. for lucifer to break his own back and shatter his own pride, to be reborn at michael’s feet --- or worse, at His. still, he sighs, feels it in his every atom, and cracks open a red-rimmed eye, his voice uncoiling like a thick, wary serpent. “ask it, then, yekiri.”

[mannukiili]

mushtilil :

    michael’s laugh falls between them and lucifer’s own mouth splits into a wide grin at the sound of it, like arid ground cracking under heavy rain. because that laugh, light and airy, has become sparse over the millenia. as the humans liked to say, you never know what you have until it’s gone.

    the sun is bright and hot, but lucifer is warmer, brighter. they exist and they do not and they are unaffected his silly things like sun and rain and the glory of their father’s world; they are, as always, completely absorbed in each other.

    lucifer turns his mouth to michael’s palms in a gentle kiss, the left one and then the right. he dips lower to kiss the neglected corner of michael’s mouth, lower still to press more along his throat, along the wing-span of his collarbones.

    “of course i do. it’s tradition,” he teases, and then – his expression melts into something molten, pressing himself against michael as close as he dares, dark eyes and wanting, demanding mouth. darting forward to pull him into another slow, drugging kiss, like they have all the time in the world.

    ( they do. )

     he pulls away by a hair’s breadth, says lowly but with fondness, “a bad habit, more like.” 

     michael rolls so lucifer is underneath him, smiles with serenity and grace at the answering annoyance that shines just as brightly as everything else does on lucifer’s face. “tradition,” he states. 

     he puts their mouths together again, a searing promise for several more long hours of just this. the two of them together and nothing else. no gods, no people, no rank or hierarchy. no war. 

     the column of lucifer’s throat is soft under his lips, the bone of his collar firm against his teeth. the soft parts of his stomach flutter against his tongue and his heel digs into michael’s back when he bites the tender area where leg joins hip. when michael swallows around him, lucifer’s hands thread and pull violently at his hair and he finds himself grateful for the litany of blasphemes that spill across bitten lips. 

[mushtilil]

     and he is annoyed, and more annoyed still, even as he hits the back of michael’s throat in one easy movement that leaves him arching into it, scrabbling for purchase. his breath, though he doesn’t need it, is punched out as michael’s tongue twists around him. he can’t help the low groan, the hand instinctively twisted into michael’s hair, the aborted twitch of his hips when the wet heat of michael’s mouth flutters around him on a rough swallow. 

     they have been doing this for millenia; it is, after all tradition.

     his eyes snap open ( and when had they closed? ), and his mouth twists as he pulls at michael’s hair hard enough that he slips free. a moment, to mourn the loss of that warmth, before lucifer yanks michael up again, displeasure on each line of his face. his teeth nip punishingly at the corner of michael’s jaw, at his mouth. his eyes flash as he meets michael’s eyes.

     “traditions are bad habits,” his bare feet slide along michael’s calves, along the back of his thigh, “and are made to be broken.” his fingertips trail under michael’s shirt, along each bump of his spine, lucifer’s mouth open against michael’s jaw as he breathes. his legs hold michael in place as he arches and rolls his hips, a soft noise leaving his throat at feeling the hardness of him in response.

     “ ---- don’t rush,” he whispers, pulling michael in closer, greedy, biting kisses to michael’s throat. they are always rushing for a euphoric end, together, but quick. now, desire throbs low in his belly, pulses in his throat, and lucifer wants more. he wants to feel michael’s weight pressing into him, wants to feel the bruises bloom under michael’s mouth, to arch under his hands. to be left, trembling and wanting, aching for completion before he gets there. just the thought of it, of being so wordless in his pleasure, surrounded by michael, made him push up, legs tightening around michael’s.

     “let’s not rush,” he whispers again, and because he knows he can ask, he presses a small kiss to michael’s mouth and says, “please.”

[mannukiili]

mushtilil :

    there is a moment of blinding irritation at his brother for dragging him away – he’s got them, he knows, but it isn’t enough for lucifer to just have them. having them is not keeping them, and keeping them is not owning them.

    but the irritation fades, because he is lucifer, and because it is michael – he has never been able to hold a grudge against michael for long.

    “brother,” he says, voice gentle and affectionate, even as the grip on his forearm spasms into something approaching painful. ( but they have never done anything to each other that the other won’t forgive, and lucifer does not yet know the taste of betrayal as well as he will. ) “if you had given me but a few more moments, i would have followed you anyway.”

    ( and god forgive him – or don’t – that he does not notice immediately the storm brewing in his beloved brother’s wings, blinded by his own pleasure at seeing him, as he always is momentarily, before remembering. )

one lucid look at the lightbringer and his heart breaks into a thousand jagged pieces––he knows he will never be able to fit them all together again. how long has lucifer been hiding shadows behind him? how long has hurt pierced his spirit that michael has not noticed? he cannot see a monster; he does not see a root that needs plucked before it strangles the good plants. but he is not wrong, he is infallible. there is no questioning it. but michael does not know what to do. he is torn, between his divine duty and familial allegiance. between love for the father and love for the brother.

he straightens, back rigid and at attention. every bit of the warrior he should be, is always.

michael cannot trust himself to speak because there is too much sorrow clogging his voice, thunder thrumming through his veins, and lightning crashing through his breath, but he does. he pleads; he would be on his knees, begging, if he would let himself bow to another.

“neshama sheli,” a whine, like nails on a chalkboard. his eyes are void and the fires around him leap into blue before growing dim and circling his shoulders in cold submission. he breaks again and falls to his knees despite seconds earlier firming himself in determination. a should-be warrior. “ahuvi.”

he presses his face to the ground and ushers prayers of contrition over and over. he does not know what he will do.

[mushtilil]

     “michael!” he has seen michael on his knees, for lucifer, so many times before but this makes his voice stick to his throat. this is nothing like those times, with those deep, pained sounds, like he is being torn in halves, in quarters, from the inside out. “shh, shh. hayati, to your feet.”

     even as he says it, he pulls michael towards him. his own knees, digging into the ground -- thoughts of his rebellion, of his glorious image, of his own dissatisfaction in heaven have left him. lucifer’s thumbs, soft, gentle, brush over michael’s brow to clear away the markings left over. he sweeps them under his eyes before running along michael’s temple, soothing the wayward strands.

     ( and so ironic that seeing michael folded by his feet brings so much unease -- or perhaps, not irony. perhaps, it is consistency. )

     “tell me,” he urges, his brow furrowed in concern. he turns michael’s face, this way and that, so, so gently, as though the wound can be visible if he only thinks to look closer. “what ails you?”

[witchstone]

Celestial Mapping and Celestial Proportions by Tallmadge Doyle

[mannukiiliarchive]

+ @mushtilil​

the core of him has splintered, the same words ringing over and over again in his mind. he had bowed and said yes, father. why? why had he done such a thing? the world rushes past, a cacophony of disarrayed clangs and roaring winds. blurred vision. stuttered breath. a righteous and godly sword searing burns against a stiff hip. he moves toward the pull in his chest and does not stop until he has a tight grip on lucifer’s forearm. an urgent beckoning away from the crowd he has gathered to enjoy himself with. all bright, shining faces listening to his tales with rapture. discordant with the perverse whispers of subversion and insurrection. he wants it snuffed out. clear the garden by pulling the weeds at the root. the root of evil. something vile and dark slithering and poisoning. it cannot be. 

[mushtilil]

     there is a moment of blinding irritation at his brother for dragging him away -- he’s got them, he knows, but it isn’t enough for lucifer to just have them. having them is not keeping them, and keeping them is not owning them.

     but the irritation fades, because he is lucifer, and because it is michael -- he has never been able to hold a grudge against michael for long. 

     “brother,” he says, voice gentle and affectionate, even as the grip on his forearm spasms into something approaching painful. ( but they have never done anything to each other that the other won’t forgive, and lucifer does not yet know the taste of betrayal as well as he will. ) “if you had given me but a few more moments, i would have followed you anyway.”

     ( and god forgive him -- or don’t -- that he does not notice immediately the storm brewing in his beloved brother’s wings, blinded by his own pleasure at seeing him, as he always is momentarily, before remembering. )

[mushtilil]

     his smile widens further at how easily michael tips into his touch, the lack of resistance he’s met with. not that he doesn’t like it when michael does resist – almost as much as michael likes it when he resists, though he’s less vocal about his … appreciation – but lucifer is so rarely languid, these days. pretense doesn’t count.

     he hums in pleasure and threads his hands through michael’s hair, tugging him back in for a kiss to his mouth. soft and slow, that ends with a teasing bite to his bottom lip. lucifer presses himself even closer to michael, hips touching hips, pulling his head back to place an open-mouthed kiss along the bob of his throat. his thigh, tricky and sneaky, nudges between michael’s legs.

     his dark eyes meet michael’s, his mouth still brushing against skin. “do i have your attention, brother?”

[mannukiiliarchive]

he thinks he is so clever and so devious, wrapping michael about himself like this. drawing him in has never been a problem. michael’s thoughts always fall away just as leaves do in the autumnal seasons, leaving their skeletal tree branches bare and wanting even as they are covered in the snows of winter. in an absentminded way, michael realizes that perhaps he has never expressed just how dominantly lucifer can enrapture him and it is with a jovial laugh that he presses lucifer closer and falls backward until they are slipping through the world, colors and ages passing by as swiftly and as roaringly loudly as a waterfall. michael’s laughter echoes in the spaces between. 

they are lying in a tall grassy field, a yellow sun above them, though the heat does not crowd the air with heavy swelter. there is a soft shine to michael’s eyes that bely the violent monster rumbling just beneath the surface, but if lucifer could not accept that, then he could not accept himself. and then where would they be? 

he draws back to look up into the face of his beloved, pressing the pads of his thumbs to the arches of his cheekbones. “must you doubt me so?” 

[mushtilil]

     michael’s laugh falls between them and lucifer’s own mouth splits into a wide grin at the sound of it, like arid ground cracking under heavy rain. because that laugh, light and airy, has become sparse over the millenia. as the humans liked to say, you never know what you have until it’s gone.

     the sun is bright and hot, but lucifer is warmer, brighter. they exist and they do not and they are unaffected his silly things like sun and rain and the glory of their father’s world; they are, as always, completely absorbed in each other.

     lucifer turns his mouth to michael’s palms in a gentle kiss, the left one and then the right. he dips lower to kiss the neglected corner of michael’s mouth, lower still to press more along his throat, along the wing-span of his collarbones. 

     “of course i do. it’s tradition,” he teases, and then -- his expression melts into something molten, pressing himself against michael as close as he dares, dark eyes and wanting, demanding mouth. darting forward to pull him into another slow, drugging kiss, like they have all the time in the world.

     ( they do. )

[mannukiiliarchive]

mushtilil:

& @mannukiili

     maybe there should be a little more ceremony to this, and usually, there is. but, today, the devil is filled with a loose sense of affection, desire threading through him, bright and golden and uncomplicated. and it’s such a rarity for this – for them  – to be uncomplicated that lucifer, for once, has no wish to destroy it. 

     his hands, sliding across michael’s shoulders, along the curve of his spine, settle at the base of them. his mouth ghosts along michael’s jaw, plants a kiss to the corner before his lips curve into a smile.

     “hello,” and another kiss, to his ear, to his temple, lucifer’s nose brushing against his skin, “i have missed you.”

     unforseen. caught in a wide-eyed stunned daze, mouth curved in a broken stutter. michael composes himself as only a maestro could, within the span of a pin drop, before the ink can dry, before the bluebird can sing. sweet honeyed breath ghosting between them, he’d wish the world a million fiery deaths for five more seconds of this. 

     eyes flutter shut as lucifer continues to press lips to flushing skin, and something in his  core falls silent––a thousand commanding voices flowing like water downstream, away and  forgotten. he alights, a seed of peace settling and then expanding into everything he is, an ever-growing branch of passion and tenderness, of yearning and devotion and warmth.   there is nothing in the universe that can match the feeling of lucifer in his arms, in his grasp,  in his heart forever. 

      “hello,” voice a whisper, hands a gentle touch of silk. afraid to break. michael leans into lucifer’s next kiss, sugar-bright giddiness clouding thoughts, judgment. he pulls lucifer into him, arms about his waist, and revels in the feeling as he breathes against the column of his neck and trails kisses to his shoulder. 

[mushtilil]

     his smile widens further at how easily michael tips into his touch, the lack of resistance he’s met with. not that he doesn’t like it when michael does resist -- almost as much as michael likes it when he resists, though he’s less vocal about his ... appreciation -- but lucifer is so rarely languid, these days. pretense doesn’t count.

     he hums in pleasure and threads his hands through michael’s hair, tugging him back in for a kiss to his mouth. soft and slow, that ends with a teasing bite to his bottom lip. lucifer presses himself even closer to michael, hips touching hips, pulling his head back to place an open-mouthed kiss along the bob of his throat. his thigh, tricky and sneaky, nudges between michael’s legs.

     his dark eyes meet michael’s, his mouth still brushing against skin. “do i have your attention, brother?”

[mushtilil]

& @mannukiili

     maybe there should be a little more ceremony to this, and usually, thereis. but, today, the devil is filled with a loose sense of affection, desire threading through him, bright and golden and uncomplicated. and it’s such a rarity for this -- for them  -- to be uncomplicated that lucifer, for once, has no wish to destroy it. 

     his hands, sliding across michael’s shoulders, along the curve of his spine, settle at the base of them. his mouth ghosts along michael’s jaw, plants a kiss to the corner before his lips curve into a smile.

     “hello,” and another kiss, to his ear, to his temple, lucifer’s nose brushing against his skin, “i have missed you.”

[lady-arryn]

costume appreciation: Marisa Coulter’s gold dress from The Golden Compass

[mushtilil]

mutantism:

you are everything that he has made you to be. two steps forward and one step back with this. he knows, he wants to say. he is. of course he is. how could he not be? but.  

he’s tired of His fingerprints.

the bags under his eyes seem like a response in themselves. the way he looks at her, sunken, draws attention to them. his anger twitches at his jaw. 

    “how has it wronged you?”

     “I refused to be disposable,      to be cannon fodder, to be      less. I refused to obey.”

a pause, lucifer’s eyes burning like furious cold hellfire.

     “And I was punished for it.“

and lucifer’s voice, as coaxing and gentle and urging as it had been in eve’s ear, so long ago,

     “Won’t you tell me? How the      world has wronged you?”

[mushtilil]

ruinaa:

          I doubt it.

( truthfully, she’s never given it much thought. why   michael visits her when he does. why he asks her   the things he asks. why he comes back, again and   again, when they couldn’t be more different from   one another.

  josephine watches him, wary, and wonders (again)   what this means for her. )

          He probably just – I don’t know.

( her shrug is jerky, awkward. when she finally cross-   es the room and folds herself into an armchair near   him, her shoulders don’t lose any of their tension. )

     I do know. He is ... transparent.

[ lucifer is pleased that she knows to cower, pleased that she is obviously fighting against the urge.

he leans forward. his voice almost sounds like mercy; ]

     No good comes from the interest of      angels, little girl, especially this one.

[mushtilil]

mannukiili:

his thoughts are a tangled mass of desperation and resentment, but he stands tall and straight despite the  many daggers piercing his cold heart at the sight of narrowed eyes and  an unflinching hatred. 

he does not want to be here. he does not have to be. something has compelled him anyway. 

he has been flirting this line for millennia  and it is no less fair today than it was at the very beginning. a glimpse of  hope. a lie so very blatant but sweet. 

   “I am sorry.”

lucifer tilts his head. michael is a good liar, when he wants to be, but lucifer is the father of lies.

it does not pacify him.

he has never done anything by halves, has never settled for any- -thing that could be less. why would he give in for this?

his lip curls, his eyes blaze.

     “Oh, I am sure.”

[mushtilil]

mutantism:

he smiles tightly. his eyes don’t change.

     “you talk as if you know me.”

reviewing the tight blonde curls, the neat smile, the rouged cheeks — there’s a put-togetherness that shames erik’s surprise, his ill-ease, that only punctuates their confidence. 

his mouth hardens. there are few enemies harder to beat than familiarity. 

    “you don’t.”

     “But I do! I know you so well, it’s      almost like looking into a mirror.”

he leans forward, creating a space that’s obviously including the both of them. a forced intimacy.

     “I know you, Erik. Your rage,      birthed from that awful sense      of helplessness.

     The world has wronged you,      as it has wronged me. Why      should they not pay the price?”

lucifer smiles.

     “You are everything that he      has made you to be.”

[mushtilil]

starter call!!!