graphics: i lucifer

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Sam Winchester Graphic Challenge | semirahrose vs. hallowedbecastiel 
           ↳ Prompt: Dualities | O r d e r  /  C h a o s 

Say what you like about me. Tempter I may be, tormentor, liar, accuser, blasphemer and all-round bad egg, but no one else gets the credit for the discovery of angelic freedom. That, my fleshy friends, was Lucifer. (Ironic of course that after the Fall they stopped referring to me as Lucifer, the Bearer of Light and started referring to me as Satan, the Adversary. Ironic that they stripped me of my angelic name at the very moment I began to be worthy of it.)
—  I, Lucifer, Glen Duncan
I was, however, at the Last Supper. Thirteen guys in sourleathered sandals, all with tropical underarms and honking butt-cracks; a tiny room (Leonardo’s way off), poor ventilation, the smoke of badly trimmed lamps, the odd discreet but sulphurous apostolic brap, the tang of burped plonk … You know what I spent the evening doing? I spent it loading Judas with guilt. You miserable bastard. You know you’re doing the wrong thing. Thirty fucking pieces of silver? You cheap sonofabitch. Don’t do it, man. Listen to me. Listen to the voice of your conscience! The Enemy has led you astray but it’s not too late to change your mind and save your soul. Listen to the voice of God, Judas Iscariot. This is a mighty hour for you. You’re on the verge of consigning yourself to Hell for eternity – and for what? Thirty fucking pieces of silver! Don’t do it, Judas!

his creation

nothing in His universe;
past, present, or future;
can compare to what
the two of us offer.

not a sunset
with brilliant colors;
soft glows of yellow,
and bright flares of orange.

not a night sky
with a stunning moon,
and enough tiny stars
to make you believe in infinity.

not a field of flowers,
with colors no artist can match,
small creatures no eye can see,
and a view one could die for.

not a blue sea,
with crystal water,
and white, foam waves
beating against the shore.

not a storm on the horizon,
with flashes of pure electric,
and purple skies
coming from heaven itself.

not a thick forest,
with vivid green leaves,
skeletal trees colored of earth,
and hints of sky through the canopy.

not an empty desert,
with hidden animals and dead trees,
and dunes tall enough
to nearly exceed even us.

not a shimmering lake,
looking as if made of diamonds,
surrounded by golden grass,
and creatures most can’t begin to understand.

oh brother,
nothing can beat
what our wings, our grace,
and our love bring to His creation.

supernatural hiatus creations | Week 3
↳ Prompt: Ships (Michifer)

There’s a language for angels and none of it translates. There’s no Dictionary of Angelspeak. You just have to be an angel. After the Fall (the first one I mean, my fall, the one with all the special effects) we - myself and my fellow renegades - found our language changed and our mouths friendly to a variant of it; more guttural, riddled with fricatives and sibilants, but less poncy, less Goddish. As well as a century or two of laryngitis the new dialect gave us irony. You can imagine what a relief that was. Himself, whatever else He might have going for Him, has absolutely no sense of humour. Perfection precludes it. (Gags work the gap between what’s imaginable and what actually is, necessarily off the menu for a Being who actually is all He can imagine - doubly so when all He can imagine is all that can be imagined.) Heaven’s heard us down here, cackling at our piss-takes and chortling at our quips; I’ve seen the looks, the suspicion that they’re missing out on it, this laughing malarkey. But they always turn away, Gabriel to horn practice, Michael to the weights. Truth is they’re timid. If there was a safe way down - a fire escape (boom-boom) - there’d be more than a handful of deserters tiptoeing down to my door. Abandon hope all ye who enter here, yes - but get ready for a rart o’ giggle, dearie.
—  I, Lucifer