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[triumviratelost]

It should be noted that one Lucifer Morningstar, also known as the Devil, Satan, Old Scratch, and any number of other names, is a fickle being with fickle moods. So it really isn't surprising to anyone that knows him when his mood flips from cheerful and flirty to morose and angry on a dime. However, to strangers...

Oh dear, he thinks, I've scared the pretty thing. That won't do.

"I'm terribly sorry," he says smoothly, trying to make himself less... well, less frightening. "I didn't mean to scare you. Truly, I didn't." If he'd heard her own apology, he doesn't show any sign of it. Maybe he's just not ready to address 'I don't hate you' just yet.

He reaches out, taking her white-knuckled hands and prying them, gently, off the bar, before she hurts herself. Instead, he holds them loosely, making sure not to hold too tight in case she wants to pull her hands back.

"Forgive me. In compensation, why not another drink on the house? Anything you like."

Fallen Angel - Cheryl/Lucifer (DC Comics)

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And just like that, his mood darkens.

“Oh, yes,” he snarls. “Because I’m so terrible, evil, and responsible for everything bad in the world. The Devil made me do it. I didn’t make anyone do anything!” Suddenly he couldn’t tolerate the sickly-sweetness of his drink, anymore, and he shoves it into the hands of the next person who comes up to the bar.

“This isn’t what I-”

“Piss off,” he snaps. The frightened young man hurries off.

“No,” he continues, “That’s my real, God-given name. Wonder if He knew what would happen when He gave it to me…”

Cheryl’s eyes widened and her face paled as she received the brunt of the man’s anger.  Her hands clutched the edge of the bar as he went on and on about—well, somehow he seemed to really believe that he was Satan.  For real.

“I’m so sorry, Mister…..Mister Morningstar,” she stammered, wanting to flee but feeling frozen to the spot.  “I didn’t mean to upset you by….by making it sound like I hate you?  I don’t.  I really don’t.”  @triumviratelost​

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And just like that, his mood darkens.

"Oh, yes," he snarls. "Because I'm so terrible, evil, and responsible for everything bad in the world. The Devil made me do it. I didn't make anyone do anything!" Suddenly he couldn't tolerate the sickly-sweetness of his drink, anymore, and he shoves it into the hands of the next person who comes up to the bar.

"This isn't what I-"

"Piss off," he snaps. The frightened young man hurries off.

"No," he continues, "That's my real, God-given name. Wonder if He knew what would happen when He gave it to me..."

Fallen Angel - Cheryl/Lucifer (DC Comics)

( @triumviratelost - continued from here )

“I did,” he agrees cheerfully, finally looking away to serve another customer, a young man with a brightly-colored mohawk that wanders off after receiving a vibrant, fruity thing full of ice wine. Lucifer doesn’t think it’d be particularly tasty, but the fellow seems to enjoy it, so he shrugs and goes back to his too-sweet blue monstrosity.

Hmm. Doesn’t really have much room to judge, does he.

“And it clearly must be possible, since I am here, and speaking to you,” he continues pleasantly, with a soft chuckle. He’s in a very good mood today, it seems; due at least in part to the lovely woman he’s speaking with. Something about her charms him, and almost any conversation is one he enjoys.

Cheryl eyes Mohawk Guy with amusement before turning her attention back to the man calling himself Lucifer.  She thought he was very handsome, and charming….but of course he was clearly deranged if he thought he himself was Lucifer Morningstar.  She smiled at him, unsure of whether to play into the delusion.

“This is great,” she compliments him on the drink before sipping at it, eyes still on him.  “And so Lucifer Morningstar must be a stage name, right?  I mean, it’s not possible that a set of parents would ever call their kid Lucifer.  It’s just not done.  No one wants to be named after Satan, right?”  

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"I don't know, I've met a few that could use a good kick in the arse in that respect," the fallen angel hums, still playing a dangerous balancing game on the railing. He wants to preen under that gaze, which is disconcerting, first because it's been long enough since he's shown anyone his wings that having any attention on them is strange, and secondly because the number of people that have seen them and not run screaming is in the single digits.

Then again, most folk would be running screaming from Goswin's appearance, too, at least until he seems to... fix himself? Heal himself? Ah, anything involving the moon is always a bit odd. He doesn't think about it too hard.

"Well, I don't know many others with my name," he grins, "You're being very well-mannered, considering who I am. Or is that why you're being so well-mannered?" It's a refreshing change of pace, really, given the odd looks and outright disgust so many regarded him with when he first told them his name.

"It's the moon, you see," explains the aging man, lighting a cigarette with a match. "Curses and whatnot, funny things. I'll be looking better after the new moon." ~ who-is-muses (Goswin [test])

Lucifer nods sagely, listening intently to the words of the stranger that doesn't feel quite right. Maybe if he listens hard enough he'll figure out what that odd dissonance is.

"Of course, of course," he agrees as though this is a perfectly normal conversation, as though he isn't burning (ha) with curiosity. "I have a bit of experience with curses myself. It comes with the profession," and this is said with one of his best charming grins, teeth just a little too-sharp and eyes a little too-intent.

(He determinedly ignores the way his wings itch at his shoulders, demanding to be known, to spread and stretch and catch the currents of the wind.)

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"I did," he agrees cheerfully, finally looking away to serve another customer, a young man with a brightly-colored mohawk that wanders off after receiving a vibrant, fruity thing full of ice wine. Lucifer doesn't think it'd be particularly tasty, but the fellow seems to enjoy it, so he shrugs and goes back to his too-sweet blue monstrosity.

Hmm. Doesn't really have much room to judge, does he.

"And it clearly must be possible, since I am here, and speaking to you," he continues pleasantly, with a soft chuckle. He's in a very good mood today, it seems; due at least in part to the lovely woman he's speaking with. Something about her charms him, and almost any conversation is one he enjoys.

"Did anyone ever tell you, sir, that you look almost exactly like David Bowie?"

"That isn't a phrase I often hear, no," Lucifer says cheerfully, puzzled, as he mixes drinks for patrons with a dexterity that highlights his inhuman nature. Today is one of the rarer days that the King of Hell personally tends the bar; he finds the dynamics of the role interesting and novel. He doesn't look away from the vibrantly colored liquids he's pouring, though a hint of a smirk curls the corner of his mouth.

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"Yes, you said that before," he teases slightly, perhaps unfairly- he does tend to have that sort of effect, after all. "But possibly that was simply an attempt to learn my name without asking me, in which case I will tell you; my name is Lucifer Morningstar, and you are very much welcome."

Flirting is as natural to him as breathing tends to be to humans, but that doesn't mean he doesn't enjoy it. Every blush, shy laugh, or bright grin he receives is another reason for him to love humanity.

For now the partying crowd seems to be content on the drinks front, so he takes the moment to pour himself a glass of.... something, bright, fruity blue and almost too sweet when he takes a sip. He doesn't stare, exactly- that would be rude- but he does spend slightly more time than is perhaps normal taking in the features of the woman across the bartop; she's pretty, in a bronze sort of way, like a figurine of a forgotten goddess.

"Did anyone ever tell you, sir, that you look almost exactly like David Bowie?"

"That isn't a phrase I often hear, no," Lucifer says cheerfully, puzzled, as he mixes drinks for patrons with a dexterity that highlights his inhuman nature. Today is one of the rarer days that the King of Hell personally tends the bar; he finds the dynamics of the role interesting and novel. He doesn't look away from the vibrantly colored liquids he's pouring, though a hint of a smirk curls the corner of his mouth.

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If the human (or human-like) face could make an expression that says, character for character, '????', he would make that face. Instead, he levels a politely baffled expression at the woman across the bartop, because unless his chosen form is acting up and developing a taste of it's own, he shouldn't be looking like David Bowie- not, of course, that it's a bad face; it just reminds him a little too much of Desire, and he's currently in a bit of a spat with it; it had, after all, stolen away one of his favorite lovers.

The thought makes the muscles of his back- where his wings would be, had he had them out- twitch irritably, and he rolls his shoulders broadly to shake off the feeling.

"Why certainly, my dear," he agrees graciously, taking one of her hands to kiss the back of it, as any proper gentleman (or gentlebeing, in his case) should; "On the house, for a delight like yourself." His eyes never leave her face, dark eyes that simultaneously seem endless and flicker with some inner flame.

"Did anyone ever tell you, sir, that you look almost exactly like David Bowie?"

"That isn't a phrase I often hear, no," Lucifer says cheerfully, puzzled, as he mixes drinks for patrons with a dexterity that highlights his inhuman nature. Today is one of the rarer days that the King of Hell personally tends the bar; he finds the dynamics of the role interesting and novel. He doesn't look away from the vibrantly colored liquids he's pouring, though a hint of a smirk curls the corner of his mouth.

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There is something that anyone who speaks to Lucifer should know; on any given day, he is entirely likely to have a vastly different personality than he had the day before. Some days, he is aloof and cutting; others, warm and compassionate; still others, mischievous and lighthearted. Not that he is in any way a different Lucifer; simply that he finds some expressions of emotion interest him more than others, and this tends to vary by the day.

Today, he is feeling generally mellow and a touch playful, because he is not thinking about that insolent little cult and their murderous, wayward methods, and he is trying very hard not to feel either so angry his eyes glow or so miserable he shuts himself into his suite for weeks on end, and so far, he is successful.

He is marginally less successful when he encounters an unfortunately familiar face.

In retrospect, walking the streets with all the press on the cult and 'satanism' and ritual killings is... perhaps not the best idea, but he is the Devil, and for all his woes of being misunderstood, he will not be boxed into his club by humans drunk on fear and prejudice. Even if it means dealing with irritating little twerps like this.

The setup is familiar; the last time they had met, this liar of a man had been preaching doomsday to anyone who'd listen, profiting off lies with no belief behind them. It had annoyed him; he dislikes liars, and he had shown the man a glimpse of his true self, to make a believer out of him.

The gun is new, but only an amusement; bullets, after all, can't hurt him. Not permanently, anyway- they do sting rather a bit. So he stands there and watches the increasingly frantic attempts to frighten him with a bland sort of smile, pleasantly polite with just the right amount of mm-hm, I definitely believe you, condescension.

This is when the unexpected thing happens; someone who practically reeks of magic steps between him and the gun, and for a moment he's so distracted by the magic that he fails to notice the can. When he does, he simply tilts his head at it and ignores it; he appreciates the effort, even if this person likely doesn't know who they're stepping into trouble for, but he is more than capable of taking care of himself.

Instead, he steps a little to the side to lean in and say, "No, he's quite right, you know; I am the Devil. The very personification of evil, as you humans are so fond of saying," and this last is said with no small amount of bitterness; that particular wound is aching a little deeper than normal, given all the... well, everything.

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Vacations were supposed to be a time for relaxation and self-fulfillment, but the few trips Raven had been on with the Titans never seemed to provide her that. The team had been invited to a West Coast superhero convention in Los Angeles, and every single one of them seemed to be living it up and enjoying themselves except for her. It was loud and cramped, and there were far too many people, the sheer mass of their excited energy more than the sheltered young empath could bear for such an extended period of time.

Slipping out of the convention center as soon as possible, Raven took to the streets of the city and found they weren't much better. The emotional energy wasn't quite as intense, but it was still chaotic and cluttered, and every other minute, she found herself having to cover her nose to escape the awful stench of recently smoked weed. So, exhausted and on the verge of sensory overload, she found a seemingly quiet and stench-free corner and teleported up to the rooftop of a building nearby, where she began to meditate and recenter herself.

Unfortunately, about half an hour into Raven's attempt at escaping the outside world, it once again became too obnoxious to ignore. A doomsday preacher passed by the building, but instead of continuing on his way, he'd apparently decided to set up his things on this very corner. Raven was just about to leave when she heard the screech of the man's megaphone as it clattered to the ground, and he exclaimed, "You! Go back to hell, and take your cult with you! Leave this mortal plane, you wretched beast!"

Looking down from the roof, Raven glanced at the person these comments had been targeted at, and he seemed fairly normal. Human. The preacher seemed determined that he was evil incarnate, though, pulling out a gun and yelling, "Y-You stay away from me now! Leave, or I'll send you back myself." She quickly teleported down below once more, rising from a circle of darkness just below the crazed false prophet. The last thing she needed was to spook an angry religious man with a gun.

"Stand down," she stated firmly. "Put the gun away, and let's talk this out like civilized people." She had her cloak closed with the hood up, hiding most of her unusual features, knowing people like this man never reacted well to her appearance. While his attention was on her, though, she discreetly signaled for the other man to run off, a littered soda can covered in black energy tapping the back of his shoes before floating over to a trash can on the other side of the crosswalk and quietly dropping inside it.

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// Lucifer's wings! One flat and one tilted to show off the gold.

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Ah.

Suddenly Lucifer understands, at least the broad shapes. Of course. No wonder there had been something that pulled his interest.

"I happen to know the weight they have, being the Devil and all," he purrs; "It's wonderful to meet you, Goswin." Matching smile for smile, his previously-outstretched hand comes up to curl under his chin, the picture of sly mischief. He is beginning to like this stranger.

He's balanced on the railing of one of the many balconies scattered across Los Angeles; it had felt like flying without needing to trust his wings, and- speaking of wings- he suspects they will not frighten or worry his new friend, though they might puzzle him, and they practically itch to be freed.

So he does; they stretch up, up, up, and then out, and it's lucky he doesn't fall off the railing, because while angel's wings are... not exactly logical, and are far lighter than they should be, they're still heavy. He lets the feathers shuffle in the breeze before he tucks them loosely against him, lazy decadence in every inch of his expression.

"It's the moon, you see," explains the aging man, lighting a cigarette with a match. "Curses and whatnot, funny things. I'll be looking better after the new moon." ~ who-is-muses (Goswin [test])

Lucifer nods sagely, listening intently to the words of the stranger that doesn't feel quite right. Maybe if he listens hard enough he'll figure out what that odd dissonance is.

"Of course, of course," he agrees as though this is a perfectly normal conversation, as though he isn't burning (ha) with curiosity. "I have a bit of experience with curses myself. It comes with the profession," and this is said with one of his best charming grins, teeth just a little too-sharp and eyes a little too-intent.

(He determinedly ignores the way his wings itch at his shoulders, demanding to be known, to spread and stretch and catch the currents of the wind.)

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// Some concepts of Lucifer's wings. They... aren't really exactly what I wanted to do, but I'm sick of drawing for the night, and hey, they still look cool. So these are wings.ver1, I suppose!

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There are half a dozen answers to that question, most of which are largely incomprehensible to humans. But, then, he thinks he's not talking to a human, or at least not one of the normal ones.

The words are on the tip of his tongue before he realizes that he's not actually getting any answers, just giving them, and that just won't do, will it? So instead he offers a single hand- his nails are painted in vibrant sunsets, pink and yellow and blue, and wickedly sharp- and grins another sharp-toothed grin.

"I'm Lucifer, Morningstar," he says, offers, a temptation into an exchange; here, his words hint, have my name, and give me yours. Tell me who you are. What you are.

"It's the moon, you see," explains the aging man, lighting a cigarette with a match. "Curses and whatnot, funny things. I'll be looking better after the new moon." ~ who-is-muses (Goswin [test])

Lucifer nods sagely, listening intently to the words of the stranger that doesn't feel quite right. Maybe if he listens hard enough he'll figure out what that odd dissonance is.

"Of course, of course," he agrees as though this is a perfectly normal conversation, as though he isn't burning (ha) with curiosity. "I have a bit of experience with curses myself. It comes with the profession," and this is said with one of his best charming grins, teeth just a little too-sharp and eyes a little too-intent.

(He determinedly ignores the way his wings itch at his shoulders, demanding to be known, to spread and stretch and catch the currents of the wind.)

[triumviratelost]

EXTENSIVE SCAR RELATED PROMPTS 

GENERAL 

[ TOUCH ]  for sender to trace one of receiver’s scars 

[ TOUCHED ]  for receiver to trace one of sender’s scars

[ DISCOVER ]  for sender to see receiver’s scars for the first time 

[ DISCOVERED ]  for receiver to see sender’s scars for the first time 

[ CARESS ]  for sender to kiss one of receiver’s scars 

[ CARESSED ]  for receiver to kiss one of sender’s scars

[ SHOW ]  for sender to purposefully reveal their scars for receiver to see 

[ SHOWN ]  for receiver to purposefully reveal their scars for sender to see 

SCENARIOS

[ MEND ]  for sender to treat receiver’s wound which leads to them having to remove an article of clothing resulting in revealing scars hidden beneath

[ MENDED ]  for receiver to treat sender’s wound which leads to them having to remove an article of clothing resulting in revealing scars hidden beneath

[ BLUNDER ]  for sender to walk in on receiver in a state of undress thus seeing their scars for the first time

[ BLUNDERED ]  for receiver to walk in on sender in a state of undress thus seeing their scars for the first time 

[ KISS ]  our muses are having sex for the first time which then reveals sender’s scars to receiver 

[ KISSED ]  our muses are having sex for the first time which then reveals receiver’s scars to sender 

[ BATHE ]  our muses take a shower together and sender looks over receiver’s scars 

[ BATHED ]  our muses take a shower together and receiver looks over sender’s scars. 

WORDS

❝  your scars are nothing to be ashamed of.  ❞

❝  why do you hide your scars?  ❞

❝  i see every mark as something to be proud of,  proof of all i survived.  ❞

❝  can i ask what happened here—  how did you get this one?  ❞

❝  sometimes i get these phantom pains i guess you could say.  little aches and i find them oddly comforting.  because my soul still hurts even if my body is healed.  ❞

❝  i wish i could get rid of my scars.  they’re just reminders of everything i want to forget.  ❞

❝  is it alright if i touch this scar?  ❞

❝  it’s okay—  you can touch it if you want.  doesn’t hurt anymore.  ❞

❝  please don’t touch it.  ❞

❝  you don’t have to tell me how you got it.  i just wanted to see.  ❞

❝  looks worse than it was.  ❞

❝  i want to kill every person responsible for leaving you scarred. ❞

❝  i made sure the people who left marks on me wouldn’t get the chance to do it again.  ❞

❝  woah—  what the hell happened there? ❞

❝  you don’t have to hide them around me.  the scars are just part of who you are.  and i like all of what i see.  ❞

❝  i don’t really like letting people see them.  ❞

❝  it’s okay—  honestly i forget they’re there most of the time.  ❞

[triumviratelost]

"It's the moon, you see," explains the aging man, lighting a cigarette with a match. "Curses and whatnot, funny things. I'll be looking better after the new moon." ~ who-is-muses (Goswin [test])

Lucifer nods sagely, listening intently to the words of the stranger that doesn't feel quite right. Maybe if he listens hard enough he'll figure out what that odd dissonance is.

"Of course, of course," he agrees as though this is a perfectly normal conversation, as though he isn't burning (ha) with curiosity. "I have a bit of experience with curses myself. It comes with the profession," and this is said with one of his best charming grins, teeth just a little too-sharp and eyes a little too-intent.

(He determinedly ignores the way his wings itch at his shoulders, demanding to be known, to spread and stretch and catch the currents of the wind.)

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"Did anyone ever tell you, sir, that you look almost exactly like David Bowie?"

"That isn't a phrase I often hear, no," Lucifer says cheerfully, puzzled, as he mixes drinks for patrons with a dexterity that highlights his inhuman nature. Today is one of the rarer days that the King of Hell personally tends the bar; he finds the dynamics of the role interesting and novel. He doesn't look away from the vibrantly colored liquids he's pouring, though a hint of a smirk curls the corner of his mouth.

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casey legler

[triumviratelost]

Casey Legler