Warnings: Mentions of blood-play and masturbation, satanic themes.
Summary: Luc and Phoenix have a secret.
Backstory: General New Souls verse.
Author's Notes: I haven't been able to satisfy myself on the question of whether Lucifer/ the Devil can actually possess people, seeing as he's originally an angel rather than a demon. For the purposes of this ficlet, he can.
No one has ever known that Phoenix isn’t always Phoenix.
(No one but Luc, that is. Because when Phoenix isn’t Phoenix, he’s Luc, so Luc would know. And Luc knows everything, anyway).
No one has ever known which of Lucifer’s powers manifested first.
(No one but Phoenix, that is. Because Phoenix has always been at Lucifer’s side, and he sees everything. And Lucifer used it on him, anyway).
Both those things are secrets that the two of them – the Devil and his Knife – have killed to protect.
(But then, they’ve killed for much less than that, too. Killing is fun).
The Knife was forged because Lucifer needed a bodyguard, a guardian whose loyalty was unquestionable, unimpeachable. It would take time for a mortal body to evolve enough to contain an angel’s power, and until then Lucifer was only a little more than human.
Phoenix, on the other hand. Well. The transformation from human to vampire has always been faster than mortal to divine. It didn’t take long for the Knife to become deadly sharp.
When Lucifer’s meatsuit made the first step towards evolution, it made perfect sense.
They always do it behind warded doors.
It would be enough to make Luc’s men suspicious, if they dared to suspect their leader, their lord. Lucifer and Phoenix do nothing in private that they don’t in public –
(No, wait, that’s not right. Let’s try again).
It would be enough to make Luc’s men suspicious, if they dared to suspect their leader, their lord. Lucifer fell for pride and Phoenix doesn’t know the meaning of shame; there’s nothing they keep private for privacy’s sake. There’s not a single inhabitant of Lucifer’s base-camp that doesn’t know the disturbing details of their sex lives, for example.
(It’s enough to give most of them nightmares).
So they don’t keep this private because they’re ashamed, or because they enjoy it indecently
(although they both do)
but because it’s a weapon, and weapons should always be secret.
(Unless it’s so big and so bad that it’s meant to be a deterrent. Like Phoenix is, was, is).
Sometimes Lucifer wears Phoenix’s skin.
It’s always made perfect sense. Phoenix can go anywhere, do anything, and no Darkling blinks an eye. The Council dismisses him, relegating him to the role of sex-toy and occasional assassin; they let slip things in his hearing that they wouldn’t dare even think in Lucifer’s presence. There’s no study or lab or chamber that is forbidden to him, and no one marks where he goes or who he talks to. Everyone knows he has no ambition; therefore he will never be moving on schemes of his own, no matter if he wanders into a Councilman’s private suite or looks over what the mages are working on that week. They know he doesn’t kill without Lucifer’s permission, so no one freezes or gets defensive if he stops to speak to them. There is always the possibility that he is on the Devil’s business, and so they always answer his questions.
(Except when he doesn’t ask, and takes the answers from their thoughts).
More than that, Phoenix can leave at any moment. The guards do not note his comings and goings; the wards let him through without waiting for permission from anyone else. Lucifer has a thousand and one things to do, a war to run, and can go nowhere without it being commented upon, watched, discussed.
(Not without uneconomical expenditure of power, at least).
It makes perfect sense.
(And it feels so good).
Phoenix parts his lips and Lucifer slides into him like honeyed silk, like cedar smoke, like acid-bright venom over his tongue and down his throat. The angel isn’t sweet, isn’t bitter, isn’t salty or sour; there’s no taste, not really
(does lighting have a taste when it strikes you?)
but his mind interprets the sensation as flavours,
(and fullness, just like a lightning strike, filling him up and up and up)
as mercury and myrrh, come and steel, Luc is a poison and Phoenix swallows him down
(he doesn’t need to, it’s not necessary: Lucifer could take his Knife whether Phoenix were willing or no, but it’s the little things)
His body convulses as Luc floods him, spreads him out and slides him on like a Brioni suit
(feathers caressing the inside of his skin).
The Devil’s consciousness spirals down Phoenix’s nerve endings, kisses up his spine and into his brain,
(it’s not so much taking hold of the controls as it is becoming them, merging with them)
and it’s like suffocating
(drowning in silver)
(Lucifer’s murmur of approval behind Phoenix’s eyes)
Phoenix’s soul wrapped around and smothered, enchained in silver smoke, cocooned in dark wings that exist only here, between worlds
(they’re so beautiful, so beautiful)
and they peel him away
his skin and eyes, leaving him
in the darkness.
(But it’s okay, because he’s not alone there).
eyes open, his
body is achingly, desperately aroused. It’s no surprise to either of them, and Lucifer’s laughter leaves
Phoenix’s lips as he runs his
(his new meatsuit)
Phoenix’s skinny, delicate-looking body.
(Inside the dark, Phoenix shivers, watching).
The first time, he stands in front of the mirror so Phoenix can watch
(from behind his own eyes).
So be polite when the Knife walks by. There’s no telling whether it’s just Satan’s whipping-boy, or the Devil himself, looking out at you with silver eyes.