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The Morningstar

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[06 Aug 2007|10:22am]
Embedded in the glossy wood of Nicolas Rosse's desk are several screenpads; currently, every single one is displaying a different news channel. The footage is useless, but they're playing it again and again, as if by sheer dint of repetition they will somehow be able to penetrate the chaotic darkness that engulfs the scene. Linger on the blackout for just long enough to hear the screams, and then: back to the studio.

"This blatant public attack upon popular Osiris senator Gabriel Tam --"

"Still no word about whether --"

"Several splinter groups have already insinuated that they may have played a part --"

Rosse taps his fingers twice on the wood and every screen goes blank. He leans back in his chair, bare feet resting against the table's edge, and a faint, rueful smile quirks at the edge of his mouth.
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[05 Jun 2006|02:29pm]
Lucifer is fond of balance - action and reaction, action and inaction.

So he's currently exploring the latter, sitting on the floor of a room that doesn't really have a key and playing a slow, not-really-trying game of solitaire.
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[11 Feb 2006|02:28pm]
The door makes a hollow noise as it shuts. Chill air brushes against the skin, old and still. Lucifer steps past the smooth groove just beyond the door, polished to ebony-silver by feet and obeisance and discoloured with reflected light.

And there is light, streaking the darkness; the sun streams in through oddly-placed windows stained with ruby and deep lapis, faded some but still intense in colour. Here and there a crescent of pure white and naked illumination slices through shadows, high above the pale altar and somewhere between the bosses and crazed rose petals of the ceiling. Dull gold falls in thin shafts onto white sheets thrown haphazard over the carved wood of another lifetime. Draped in dust. Hidden. Lucifer’s lip curls as his eyes fall on them.

To have faith is to believe in something that you cannot see.

The scattered sunlight reaches upwards to stained wood. Dark pools of shadow gather behind the beams and slide between silver smooth organ pipes. They hide under pews and catch his bare footfalls in a crosswire of penumbral grace, melding a blurred silhouette with a hundred absences of light.

Names that once were golden hang on the walls, below the faded shadows of their saints and above stones that once had stories. Age and the black tarnish of disdain have crept in from the sides, obscuring letters and fond inscriptions. The marble angels stooped in the high darknesses are missing their weapons, have scratches on their toes. The candles lie in dusted puddles.

The rose window has a jagged hole in it, down in the left corner, and what was once a symmetrical pattern of colour falls weirdly and messily onto the bare altar and the empty space before it. Smooth stone and room to swing an incense boat or a sword.

Lucifer steps aside and is abruptly part of the scenery; beautiful, shadowed and a tribute to nothing but the broken and forgotten words of another time.

He smiles.

“The floor is yours, River Tam.”
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[29 Dec 2005|02:15pm]
Lucifer sits on a table, frowning with the corner of his mouth, looking down at a glass balanced in his linked hands.

Occasionally he sends a sharp glance around the bar.

He's looking for a blind girl with wings.
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[21 Dec 2005|11:41am]
GIP? Naaaaah.

Lucifer enters from the lake area, the turned-up cuffs of his trousers dripping onto the floor.

He looks wind-battered - hair untidy, his eyes a little too bright - but not at all cold, despite the deplorably short-sleeved red polo shirt he wears.

Not cold. Coffee, nevertheless, is on the agenda.
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[08 Dec 2005|06:12pm]
So yes, some nights he sleeps here or sits in the room or anything, really, because it's quiet.

This could be damaging to his reputation, if he cared much about his reputation.
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[06 Sep 2005|01:59pm]
"Well. I had fun tonight, how about you?"

The tone suggests that he doesn't reallty give a damn what the answer is. Lucifer tilts Thom's chin to the side, inspecting the makeup.

"Expensive face for such a cheap look."

He laughs. The juxtaposition is one that he likes.
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[OOC: memeage] [15 Jun 2005|09:22pm]
Latest bandwagon-jumping in the history of bandwagons.

21 things about Lucifer MorningstarCollapse )
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[15 May 2005|02:06am]
Of course, no time passes when he slips out to the bar and comes back with a taste of coffee (not Turkish) in his mouth and a considering look in his eyes. So Thom is asleep, sprawled across a few uncomfortable-looking tufts of grass and clashing with his environment. As usual. If Lucifer squints at him, he blurs from ridiculously striking and pretty to an effeminate eyesore, and back.


When Thom wakes up Lucifer is halfway up a nearby tree, looking almost asleep himself. There are a few thin branches below the thick one he rests on, high above the ground, but nothing very stable. Lucifer waves at him without opening his eyes.

Thom wanders across and looks up; then down, wincing, as the sun hits his face.

“Morning,” he says, though it sounds more like filler than anything else. Wariness skates around the borders of his voice.

“Morning,” Lucifer throws back, a greeting with no more depth to it than Thom’s. He glances down.

Thom chews on his lower lip and reaches up to grab the nearest branch. He hauls himself up. After a moment or so there is a loud grunt and a thud as the branch gives way and Thom lands on the ground.

“Bastard,” he says conversationally, pulling sticks out of his hair.

Lucifer flicks his wings at him, and closes his eyes again.

There is a long period full of scrambling and pulling and muffled and not-so-muffled curses as the sorcerer remembers just who it was that was trained in the physical exertion side of the family business.

Then a pause, after which Thom rises slowly through the air, glowing purple. His hair, despite any efforts extended, is messy and full of sand. His face and bare torso show the prize-wounds gained in a losing battle with the tree.

“Using the available resources,” he says, defensively, before Lucifer can say anything.

So Lucifer doesn’t say anything. He looks through the half-open laziness of his eyes at the scrapes and angry cuts and tangled hair and thinks that if Hob was pretty when his heart was broken, Thom is illogically attractive when the damage is solely on the outside.

In the silence Thom edges his way onto the branch and finds a precarious balance. He sits for a while, hands holding stiffly to the wood underneath him.

“This isn’t any fun,” he decides eventually.

“For you.” Lucifer yawns.

Thom scowls. “Climbing trees lost its appeal shortly before the onset of puberty.”

“Did you ever get past that?”

“Oh, very funny.” Thom tries to kick him, loses his grip. The expression on his face is wonderful. “Fu –”

He falls. Lucifer waits for the thud and then looks down, interested.

Thom lies on his back, looking up. “Ow.

“Hmm.” Lucifer slides off and follows him down, albeit much more slowly. By the time his bare feet touch the ground Thom is sitting up, wincing, and eyeing the wings sulkily.

“Hardly playing fair.”

“Did you expect me to?”

“Well, no.” Thom stands up and hugs himself. It’s warm, but a morning wind off the sea adds bite to the air.

“Do you want to go back?”

Thom’s chin lifts in three-eights of a nod and then falls down a diagonal, uncomfortably. His eyes just skim the ground. It’s a layered gesture, as these things go, but Lucifer can translate the twist of one thin shoulder that says there’s going to be explaining, and I hate that and the quick flash of purple as his eyes rise and fall that says don’t you want to stay, hey, wasn’t that fun? on the surface, but is accompanied by a kick of the foot that alters the meaning to it’s about instant gratification, isn’t it, for both of us and the sheer fluid complexity of his darting body language is enough to make Lucifer’s head hurt. He’s not used to seeing so much at once.

Maybe this is why they never spoke much, at the beginning. They were learning to read.

And...hmm. Lucifer rests the lengths of his fingers along Thom’s cheekbone and ah, perfect. He can feel the uncertainty rippling under the skin and the stubborn set of the young man’s jaw that adds steel to the false vulnerability in his eyes and this is Braille under his fingertips and a faint pulse where the palm of his hand cups under and against Thom’s throat.

He realises, when Thom bites his lip again and there are patterns of confusion treading through the thin scrape on his cheek, that this is a ridiculously tender action. From the outside.

A test, then. He gives a wry kind of smile that could be ambiguous but his finger moves in an overtone that says so this is why I kept touching you, even though I didn’t bother to assign a motive at the time.

Thom’s eyes widen just a fraction in...comprehension. Well. And his hand shakes just a little bit as he kisses Lucifer this time because sex with someone who almost just killed you is one thing but sex when you can feel and talk and realise and be stripped of masks with every move is risk behaviour taken to a whole new level.

He keeps their faces close enough that there is no eye contact. Safer without, for now.




Thom’s thin fingers say should I be thanking you for understanding? and Lucifer smiles dangerously and kisses the base of his neck, try it and you’ll wake up alone, and eventually Thom shudders and tries to glare at him and can’t see through his own hair and even his body language is incoherency.


The devil wakes up and Thom turns from where he is sitting and smiles nervously and it only strikes Lucifer a few minutes later that the way the boy pulls at the red strands of his hair is an outright, blatant, fucking gorgeous lie.


So Thom doesn’t want to go back. So they go to the markets.

Thom lights up and turns into a boy and his fingers twitch with want it now want to see it all ooh look that’s new new new and Lucifer sighs and hands him a shirt.

“Don’t want to blind them with my paleness, right?” But Thom pulls it on and forgets to tidy his hair again and wanders away to look at the spices.

Lucifer disappears and then finds him at the end of the day, looking at knives and listening to the rapid foreign babble with the calm assurance of one with no money and a shirt that didn’t even exist until that morning.

Lucifer steps up and ignores Thom completely, flatters the stall owner in fluent colloquial speech, smiles with charm and confidence and his hands find a small steel dagger with a red stone that disappears under his splayed fingers and somehow appears again a few minutes later, as they walk away.

“Show off.” Thom eyes the dagger.

“It’s a game,” Lucifer says.

So it goes.

Thom's open, more so than ever before: not above gaping until Lucifer reminds him to shut his mouth, not above tearing down the street after something or other he sees and coming back to tease Lucifer into a race, not above smiling.

Not above blinking slowly at an old woman, wreathed in scarves, who has never seen eyes or hair his colour, and smiling through her awe and pulling a bracelet off her stall and glowing with a casual sort of smugness as he shows Lucifer later.

The devil shrugs, am I meant to be impressed, Thom? and does not quite dance on bare feet to the strange music played in the streets, but he is brown and sparkling-foreign and he manages to blend in effortlessly.

Thom gets pinker and bolder and develops a mad taste for baklava.

The things they steal become more and more ridiculous. Thom flirts outrageously; with Lucifer, with anyone, using it to make up for the fact that he sometimes thinks that he shouldn’t actually be happy. They talk, but more often they lie; and then one of them steps to the side in a clear mocking signal and all the understanding pours out in torrents. Messy, sometimes, but never uninteresting.

“Aren’t you bored yet?”

Thom, licking honey off his fingers: “Mmm. Not yet. Give it a day.”

The next day Thom finally remembers to investigate the odd building with the curved dome and they stand at the back listening to the rise-and-fall of the litanies and watching hundreds of bodies dip and curve in unison.

Lucifer sings snatches under his breath and tells Thom a long glorious rambling story about the desert and the prophets and one version of the truth behind the words. Thom listens with half his mind and counts prayers and bells until Lucifer gets bored and kisses honey from his mouth, pushed up against a pillar in a foreign god’s house.

Thom presses upwards eagerly, but he kicks Lucifer sharply in the leg and it’s so, does it count as blasphemy when it’s not my religion?

“Not mine either,” Lucifer says afterwards. “If you want to be specific.”


And the next day they’re in Florence and Lucifer steals a huge statue from a gallery and Thom falls over in the street and kills himself laughing, only partly out of mockery. When he stands up he looks younger, and he gives an odd kind of turning smile that says, simply, why?

Lucifer considers this for only a moment and then laughs, flicking Thom on the shoulder as he walks past.

Why not?
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[25 Apr 2005|12:33pm]
What is he thinking, when they go through the door?

Many things, but on one level there is the simple fact of replay, of fighting and blood and dust and someone screaming. There are many places that would fit, but on this day in this world one of them aligns perfectly.

They come out not far from a beach. Behind a slowly dispersing crowd, with flashes of red red red poppies not blood just the flowers.

Lucifer could laugh, but instead he sets Thom down on the dry sparse grass and sits with his back to a tree, slowly tearing a leaf apart. The pieces scatter in the wind. Nobody will see them; that, at least, he can be sure of.
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[06 Sep 2004|06:20pm]
*He sits, he smokes. Sometimes he starts humming, but changes tunes every few moments. His face is thoughtful, and occasionally words appear on the table in front of him, haphazard dot points in black ink.




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[06 Sep 2004|06:02pm]
Lucifer sits by the lake, arms draped casually over one folded knee. A slight breeze stirs the feathers of his wings and he looks at the water without really seeing it.

I’m going to hurt you.

In one corner of his mind he feels pure misery clouded by alcohol as Billy and Hob drink to death and desertion and scars old and new. He has to work to pull his thoughts together, because the humans are both in pieces and with every second and every pleading apology the mosaic of two tangled lives gets harder and harder to reassemble. Eventually he puts the bond aside and thinks through the clarity of outdoor air and perfect recollection.

I’m going to hurt you.

Hob hadn’t understood. He thought he might have, given his background, but he’d underestimated how blind humans can be when they’re drinking in love with their eyes wide open.

Idiot. Idiot.

Yes. Yes, I know. Yes, please.

And what could he do but smile, always smile, and give him exactly what he asked for? Bruises and kisses and bright curved blood under a silver knife – another warning, but the fool hadn’t seen it, he’d refused to see it – until Hob lay sleeping with fingers tangled in his and such a naively trusting smile on his face.

Lucifer’s eyes are cold as he looks out over the water. There is room in his life for pleasure and conversation and diversion and complex dreams, but not this. Not a pretty, tragic human who thinks that angels have it better and that loving someone means shoving your life into their hands and waiting for them to tear it apart and put it back together again. And all the while hovering nearby and whispering lovely lonely words in a broken tongue and trying to pretend that falling for the devil isn’t the biggest mistake anyone could ever make.

He doesn’t need this. But that doesn’t matter nearly as much as the fact that he doesn’t want it, because it's not something he's prepared to deal with. He was never supposed to have to deal with it. This wasn't supposed to happen.

I’m going to hurt you.

So he did.

The breeze picks up and ripples the lake’s surface, blurring the reflection of blood red feathers until they almost look like flames. Lucifer closes his eyes and concentrates, because the emotions are floating through again and if he isn’t careful the regret could almost be his own.
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[13 Aug 2004|08:56pm]
For the first time since that thrice-damned bond was formed, Lucifer can hear himself think. It's quiet in the room, far too quiet for a confined space containing three humans - even in sleep they are absurdly chaotic, a bundle of coughs and sighs and snores and murmurs and the whisper of skin against cotton. But there is none of this here, nothing but the all-but-imperceptible threads of impossibly deep breathing. And to his other senses, the ones the humans don't have, the soft dull thudding of three heartbeats.

Beating in unison.

He's holding Billy's guitar, slowly finding melodies and haunting chords, something for his fingers to do and a gentle counterpoint to the forced silence of the room. Forced inaction isn't something he's ever been fond of, and his eyes dart in irritation and supressed energy, taking in the same still scene again and again.

Billy and Joe haven't moved, they simply went to sleep and never woke up. Billy is curled slightly in on himself, Joe's hand possessively on his hip and both of them dead to the world. Lucifer suspects he could pour liquid fire across them without doing anything other than hurting himself, and hell he's almost bored enough to try.

Hob lies ungracefully on the floor, the first convenient place Lucifer could be bothered to put him. His neck is going to hurt like hell when he wakes up but that's hardly Lucifer's concern. Or maybe it is.

None of them are my concern. A sour note on the guitar.

But the itch, the craving that ran underneath his skin, is gone. In as much as he can ever feel at peace his body is screaming contentment and relaxation and being made whole. His mind isn't fooled -

- never whole, not since -

Who are they to dare presume to restore that?

A sudden burst of uncharacteristic anger and he almost throws the guitar across the room but a swift stab of memory - Billy's, and Joe's too - stays his hand. Not worth it. He sighs and pulls the instument back onto his lap, finding detached amusement in weaving drifting clouds of emotion and dream and pulling them into melody.

Such a potential for coercion here, he played with it last night and saw how far it could go. But Lucifer Morningstar has always prized one thing above manipulation, above power and self-satisfaction. Second only to pride in that which defines him is


He's explored the bond, tested its warped borrowing of his power against that which he can still control. He's fairly sure he could leave, if he wanted to, and maybe even break it forcibly, though that would cripple him for longer than he cares to think. And destroy the other three, for certain.

He's prepared to stay, for now, if it will avoid that. But he won't surrender his freedom of existence to anyone.

A gamble, then. His patience against the duration of the bond, and their life as the forfeit.

Toss the coin the silver coin and watch it fly and spin and fall and fall...

Lucifer sings in his first language, of luck and lies and sleeping ignorance, as the tips of his fingers stroke memories out of a guitar made from his own magic.
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[11 Aug 2004|04:41pm]
Lucifer stands leaning against the wall, all skin and red eyes and wings that splay out behind him. Slender fingers around a cigarette that was in the pocket of Billy's jeans, lit with a thought and almost spent. He might be the only being in the world that smokes for the taste and not the physical effects, the bitter tang of tobacco that he likes because it reminds him of the human propensity for self-destruction. Ash drifts down onto the floor and he looks over at Billy, fast asleep and with a casual arm slung across an empty pillow.

You wouldn't know it to look at him, but the Prince of Hell is worried.

His power is beyond the imagining of most, but more than that, he's not stupid. He knows that something has changed. He can feel the slow itch of power across his senses and the heat that fills his body. Feel the almost tangible force that keeps him standing in that room, keeps his eyes trained on an all too mortal musician who amused him and stood up to him and became more than the prize in a competition.

Billy Tallent is dreaming of him, which is nice enough and probably wouldn't be surprising but for the startling vividness of those dreams in his own mind.

And that's not the end to it. Another corner of his mind hears voices that are not unfamiliar, verbal accusations blurring with furious thoughts and rising panic -

- something is wrong something has changed what the fuck is this -

- too hot too tight you can't leave hate you -

- Lucifer -


- never felt this get rid of it get RID of it -

- and eventually all words are cut off and the thoughs blur into the blackest sort of desire, violent hands and rough lips and pure hate being eaten alive by lust.

Billy stirs in his sleep, breath coming faster and licking his lips like he always does when he's turned on. Hands move restlessly across the sheets, reaching for a body that isn't there and then unerringly towards where Lucifer stands. The itch of power becomes almost a sharp ache, rising from the centre of his chest and spilling into every nerve ending.

He knows power and manipulation and he's never known this.

Lucifer steps towards the bed and hesitates before dropping his hand, the very tips of his fingers brushing against Billy's arm.

- bastard, Sam, I said I wouldn't play it -

- fuck, yes, faster no please yes no -

- blood falls onto a wooden frame -

- FUCK -

Lucifer's eyes are wide as he regains control of his thoughts. The sensations, the power, flows through the light contact like electrified water, strong and chaotic. Billy gasps, his hand flying blindly towards the source, and suddenly there's a deathgrip around Lucifer's wrist and surprisingly enough the itch dies down by a fraction.

Billy Tallent breathes through parted lips and turns his flushed cheek against the pillow, and the devil watches him with unquiet eyes as they share a culmination that is not their own.

Lucifer Morningstar is no longer worried.

He's beginning to learn what it is to be scared.
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