TEMPTER OF THE ⁽ ᵍᵒˢᵖᵉˡˢ ⁾

₍ ₁ ₎       private interpretation of THE ARCHANGEL LUCIFER  /  THE DEVIL,    originally from the cw’s spn,    but constructed primarily on the basis of original lore with inspiration from milton’s paradise lost,   pullman’s his dark materials,   and dante’s divine comedy.   as prophesied by doll, she / her, 18+

𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘴,    𝘪 . 𝘪𝘪 .   —   𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘥.   —   𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘨.    —   𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵.   —   𝘭𝘰𝘳𝘦.

i derive from the absurd three consequences:   my revolt,   my freedom,   and my passion.   by the sheer activity of consciousness,   i transform in a rule of life what was an invitation to death. 

                                     HIS PRESENCE .   one  she  hadn’t  felt  for  centuries .  the  shiver  that  ran  down  her  spine  as  she stood  in  the  middle  of  the  deserted  street .  a  town  that  was  once  inhabited  until   him  and  his   army  of  demons  took  over  .  air  filled  with  the  stench  of  death .  which  was  a  beacon  for  her  and  her  own  creations ,  the  reapers .  mass  death .  it  had  been  a  while  since  something  so  strong  pulled  her .  and  here  she  was  .  reapers  stood  perfectly  still  at  every  single  corner .  there  wasn’t  a  soul  felt  for  miles . her  right  hand  wrapped  around  the  scythe  she  carried .  a  cloaked  woman –  so  out  of place  that  if  there  was  anyone  around ,  they’d  question  her  if  she  was  prepping  for  halloween  early .  

                 dark ,  almost  black  hues  flickered  up  .  “  hello ,  brother . “  her  own  voice  was  low –  soft  .  no  hostility  from  it .  she  turned  heel  to  face  him .  chin  tilting  up .  “  you’ve  got  my  attention  now ,  lucifer .  what  is  it  that  you want  from  little  ol  me ? “ 

the smell of death decomposes in the air  —  this lost city is made a cemetery at the devil’s behest;    for him,    it’s a little like stomping over an ant nest,   decree passed just as swiftly.    it hardly matters,    the incense of horror and dread does not phase him.   it is simply necessary.    his demons now slither about,    scouting through ruinous silence,    and between the figures of all her reapers;    this site seems to enter a state of liminality,    infested with the magnitude of their collective presence  —  a prelude to the fated denouement which draws e’er near.

EYES   STAY   SHARP,   BLINKLESS   AT   THE   SHAPE   OF   HIS   BROTHER.   fallen   as   he   is,   a   serpent.   they   are   still   created   by   the   same   hand.   the   assumption   is   one   he   is   aware   would   be   pointed   out.   “was   your   freedom   worth   the   sacrifice   of   losing   everything   else?”   michael   speaks   through   the   voice   of   his   vessel.   hoarsed   and   commanding,   youthful   looks   hide   the   truth   of   who   he   is,   either   way,   he   does   not   let   his   eyes   leave   those   of   his   brother,   stoic   nature   in   place.   “how   do   you   know   that   your   so   called   free   is   really   that   and   not   just   an   illusion?”

these bones of hers ablaze  —  these tendons of disguise  —  the flesh that divulges a bundle of broken images  — -  a burning field,   or rather a burnt landscape,   stones stained with the ashes of its aftermath.    there’s something burning below the blood and bone of this woman.    a bright outline.    perhaps its something much like the grace thumping wildly beyond his own flesh confines.    something that does not belong here.    flame to flame,    their eyes meet.    this tucked away bar at the end of a lost street is devoid of life,    near empty as the clock draws closer to the witching hour,    and it seems as though even his demons in their right minds have scattered to their wretched holes.    leaning against the dark,   ragged counter,   he cants his head to the side,    marginally,    overcome with the tendrils of this thought that push at his peripheral.    a curious gaze falls on the figure draped in mystery as she speaks.    he squints,   and the grin that spills over his features is like blood from a wound.