lucifer snippet circa 2011-12
Feb. 28th, 2019 01:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mercuryhatteralternate title: my teenage ocs were absolutely balls to the wall bonkers and I love them
She emerged flanked by three pairs of gargoyle-esque demons, about the size of tall men but appearing to be made out of stone. They were covered with wings, appendages, and symbols, but had no recognizable facial features, and they settled around Lucifer with the finality of monuments. Between them, Lucifer glowed, almost painfully bright against the dull earth. For convenience or preference, she was shaped like a winged human, with a featureless body, white-blond hair, and six massive, ashy black wings framing her from behind. They somehow managed to project both power and fragility: an observer could believe them capable of striking a killing blow in one swoop, but they crumbled at the edges. Feathers shed from them constantly, gathered up and eaten before they could blow away by six black otter-like demons that scampered around her feet.
The rest of Lucifer, by contrast, looked like something out of a cave that had never seen the sun. She wasn’t dressed, but lightning flower scars clustered at her hairline and spiderwebbed all the way down her body, white ridges edged with faded pink.
“Those look like Gabriel’s,” Elemiah whispered, almost too quiet to hear even with their lips right by Caoimhe’s ear. They were right; the scars looked just like the ones left on Gabriel after her fight with the other archangels, but on a massive scale.
Lucifer tossed her tangled hair, matted in places with blood or something like it, and smiled at them-- more accurately, at Lucrece, since she seemed to be ignoring Caoimhe and Elemiah’s presences entirely. Her hands were streaked with the same bloody substance, halfway to her elbows, still wet enough to drip. It was a disturbing contrast, the slimy dark red against the dry bone-white of her arms, only reinforcing the impression that she had grown from some sunless hole in the earth. It was a shock to look at her face and see dull red irises and small, sharp pupils instead of eyeless skin. When she stepped forward to the edge of the circle, just past her stone bodyguards, her feet sank deep into mud that Caoimhe was sure had been dry dust a few moments before. Caoimhe almost wanted to roll her eyes, and might have if she didn’t feel like every muscle in her body was paralyzed in fear. Lucifer was the greatest power in Hell by far, and rivaled most in Heaven. Everything about this physical presence had to be chosen, calculated, and apparently, Lucifer had decided to err towards the incredibly unsubtle.
“Not that I don’t love dressing up and going out, and believe me, I do,” Lucifer said, in an almost gossipy tone that pushed Caoimhe another inch towards hysterical laughter, “but I generally prefer that my appearances aren’t compelled by someone else’s trouble.” She stepped out of the circle, walking slow and easy despite the mud that sucked at her ankles, and Caoimhe took several ungraceful steps backward, dragging Elemiah with her. Lucrece stayed frozen in place, held still by Lucifer’s eyes fixed on his.
“You, my little devil,” she said. Her gossipy tone was gone, leaving her voice a flat, hoarse whisper. She reached out, close enough that a drop of blood fell from her finger and landed on Lucrece’s shoulder. “Honestly, if you were disrupting anyone else’s hierarchy I would be proud.”
Lucrece hissed as the blood touched his skin, burning like a weak acid and smelling of sulphur in a way that only things from Hell did. He would have recoiled if he could, but he could hardly feel his limbs. His head was a jumble of thoughts and memories that he hadn’t considered in centuries, not since he-- his real self, the way he existed now-- had been born on a dirty side street by the sea years and years ago. Since then he had never once thought of himself as anything but a cohesive whole, but as Lucifer’s gaze seemed to strip him cell by cell, he felt a seam growing in his mind, a dividing line between the boy who had died at the hands of a vampire and the demon who had fled Hell to the nearest hospitable mind it could find.
“Stop,” he said, or tried to say, mustering up all of his willpower to grind out the word. Lucifer frowned, taking him by the chin. Her touch intensified the divide in Lucrece’s mind, and he closed his eyes, shuddering. He tried to say more, to explain or to plead, but his body felt very far away now, and the discomfort of the separation in his head was starting to resolve itself into physical pain. He tried to scream, heard no sound for several long moments, and then all of a sudden he was only half of himself, and someone else was screaming for him.
It was the most completely wrong feeling it had ever experienced, a rush of sense-memories and knowledge suffusing a body that wasn’t a body anymore. It was staring across the field at itself, at the body that it remembered having, an unnatural-looking boy curled on his knees in the grass, gasping and shaking. Lucifer was looking between them curiously, the twisting knot of smoke on her left and the crying boy on her right. Belial-- the name burst into its mind suddenly, an old name but the one that Lucifer had given him, the one that he had wanted to throw off so badly that he had become an entirely new being. Belial was the knot of smoke, held immobile by some invisible power of Lucifer’s even as it tried to break free, to flow back into Lucrece where it belonged.
“I didn’t expect this,” Lucifer mused, almost to herself. With one hand in a fist-- the one holding Belial in place-- she stretched out her other hand to Lucrece, brushing fingers across his forehead and lifting his face. Framed by tear tracks and smudged eyeliner, his eyes were oddly empty, and his whole body leaned towards the smoke. “Who are you?” she asked, addressing the boy. Lucrece tried to answer, and so did Belial, but their thoughts were tangled and incomplete and impossible to marshal. Lucifer turned to Belial instead, leaving Lucrece slumped on the grass.
“And what about you? Have you been hiding so long you’ve forgotten yourself? Have you forgotten me?” It was easier for Lucifer to talk with the demon, connected as they were, all she had to do was reach into its consciousness and and find what she wanted.
alternate alternate title: I didn't even reread this before I posted it pls don't let my Teenage Melodrama put you off because I am absolutely the same person today just with slightly more self control
They went to meet her in a field, Lucrece, Elemiah, and Caoimhe, down a warren of private roads far enough from anything to be hidden from passers-by. It was a jarringly casual setting for a meeting that normally took years of preparation to dig up all the right chants and sigils, raise a sacrifice and make the space ready for her--but this time, she was coming for them, and the only thing to do was watch. Which, ultimately, was how a being like Lucifer preferred it. For all the power she’d made for herself, she could still do nothing better than put on a damn good show.
She emerged flanked by three pairs of gargoyle-esque demons, about the size of tall men but appearing to be made out of stone. They were covered with wings, appendages, and symbols, but had no recognizable facial features, and they settled around Lucifer with the finality of monuments. Between them, Lucifer glowed, almost painfully bright against the dull earth. For convenience or preference, she was shaped like a winged human, with a featureless body, white-blond hair, and six massive, ashy black wings framing her from behind. They somehow managed to project both power and fragility: an observer could believe them capable of striking a killing blow in one swoop, but they crumbled at the edges. Feathers shed from them constantly, gathered up and eaten before they could blow away by six black otter-like demons that scampered around her feet.
The rest of Lucifer, by contrast, looked like something out of a cave that had never seen the sun. She wasn’t dressed, but lightning flower scars clustered at her hairline and spiderwebbed all the way down her body, white ridges edged with faded pink.
“Those look like Gabriel’s,” Elemiah whispered, almost too quiet to hear even with their lips right by Caoimhe’s ear. They were right; the scars looked just like the ones left on Gabriel after her fight with the other archangels, but on a massive scale.
Lucifer tossed her tangled hair, matted in places with blood or something like it, and smiled at them-- more accurately, at Lucrece, since she seemed to be ignoring Caoimhe and Elemiah’s presences entirely. Her hands were streaked with the same bloody substance, halfway to her elbows, still wet enough to drip. It was a disturbing contrast, the slimy dark red against the dry bone-white of her arms, only reinforcing the impression that she had grown from some sunless hole in the earth. It was a shock to look at her face and see dull red irises and small, sharp pupils instead of eyeless skin. When she stepped forward to the edge of the circle, just past her stone bodyguards, her feet sank deep into mud that Caoimhe was sure had been dry dust a few moments before. Caoimhe almost wanted to roll her eyes, and might have if she didn’t feel like every muscle in her body was paralyzed in fear. Lucifer was the greatest power in Hell by far, and rivaled most in Heaven. Everything about this physical presence had to be chosen, calculated, and apparently, Lucifer had decided to err towards the incredibly unsubtle.
“Not that I don’t love dressing up and going out, and believe me, I do,” Lucifer said, in an almost gossipy tone that pushed Caoimhe another inch towards hysterical laughter, “but I generally prefer that my appearances aren’t compelled by someone else’s trouble.” She stepped out of the circle, walking slow and easy despite the mud that sucked at her ankles, and Caoimhe took several ungraceful steps backward, dragging Elemiah with her. Lucrece stayed frozen in place, held still by Lucifer’s eyes fixed on his.
“You, my little devil,” she said. Her gossipy tone was gone, leaving her voice a flat, hoarse whisper. She reached out, close enough that a drop of blood fell from her finger and landed on Lucrece’s shoulder. “Honestly, if you were disrupting anyone else’s hierarchy I would be proud.”
Lucrece hissed as the blood touched his skin, burning like a weak acid and smelling of sulphur in a way that only things from Hell did. He would have recoiled if he could, but he could hardly feel his limbs. His head was a jumble of thoughts and memories that he hadn’t considered in centuries, not since he-- his real self, the way he existed now-- had been born on a dirty side street by the sea years and years ago. Since then he had never once thought of himself as anything but a cohesive whole, but as Lucifer’s gaze seemed to strip him cell by cell, he felt a seam growing in his mind, a dividing line between the boy who had died at the hands of a vampire and the demon who had fled Hell to the nearest hospitable mind it could find.
“Stop,” he said, or tried to say, mustering up all of his willpower to grind out the word. Lucifer frowned, taking him by the chin. Her touch intensified the divide in Lucrece’s mind, and he closed his eyes, shuddering. He tried to say more, to explain or to plead, but his body felt very far away now, and the discomfort of the separation in his head was starting to resolve itself into physical pain. He tried to scream, heard no sound for several long moments, and then all of a sudden he was only half of himself, and someone else was screaming for him.
It was the most completely wrong feeling it had ever experienced, a rush of sense-memories and knowledge suffusing a body that wasn’t a body anymore. It was staring across the field at itself, at the body that it remembered having, an unnatural-looking boy curled on his knees in the grass, gasping and shaking. Lucifer was looking between them curiously, the twisting knot of smoke on her left and the crying boy on her right. Belial-- the name burst into its mind suddenly, an old name but the one that Lucifer had given him, the one that he had wanted to throw off so badly that he had become an entirely new being. Belial was the knot of smoke, held immobile by some invisible power of Lucifer’s even as it tried to break free, to flow back into Lucrece where it belonged.
“I didn’t expect this,” Lucifer mused, almost to herself. With one hand in a fist-- the one holding Belial in place-- she stretched out her other hand to Lucrece, brushing fingers across his forehead and lifting his face. Framed by tear tracks and smudged eyeliner, his eyes were oddly empty, and his whole body leaned towards the smoke. “Who are you?” she asked, addressing the boy. Lucrece tried to answer, and so did Belial, but their thoughts were tangled and incomplete and impossible to marshal. Lucifer turned to Belial instead, leaving Lucrece slumped on the grass.
“And what about you? Have you been hiding so long you’ve forgotten yourself? Have you forgotten me?” It was easier for Lucifer to talk with the demon, connected as they were, all she had to do was reach into its consciousness and and find what she wanted.
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Date: 2019-03-02 01:19 am (UTC)