✂ ((is this even too far out of the range of possibility lbr here))
SEND ME ‘✂’ AND MY MUSE WILL KILL YOURS. RIGHT NOW. BRUTALLY, HORRIBLY, BLOODY. JUST DO IT.
MICHAEL IS A steadily wilting flower pressed like a bloodied thumbprint against cracking wallpaper swollen with shoddily-painted flowers, the petal of his remaining flight wing a bright staple against the otherwise drab monochrome of the motel room. he has fled from them time and time again, hobbling on paper-mache wings that hang from his shoulders in various states of disarray, ethereal feathers curling in upon one another in reactionary repulsion from that which had threatened them so many times before, slivers of shivering weight poised for flight.
IT IS A both ironic and unfortunate that the creature which tails him so adores the microcosms of discomfort and blatant fear that encapsulate the archangel’s body language and expressions, for surely any other predator would have killed him long ago for glory’s sake; for surely, any creature but the leviathan would not simultaneously cup their palms against his shuddering cheeks and bare their affluent stained-glass-teeth in outright paradox just to see which makes his skin crawl more; for, surely, no creature would derive such perceptible pleasure from shifting the fingers of those cupping hands to tuck beneath the lower eyelid of his scarred eye just to revel in how the sclera popped beneath the press of their nails and yielded a repulsively generous amount of vitreous fluid, sallow and thick, to ooze down the angelically still jaw of the entrapped celestial. they coo when the viscous liquid runs over the ridges of their knuckles and settles, slick, beneath michael’s mussed lapels; it turns to a delighted hum when reactionary tears brim and muddy with blood, running pink down the bridge of his vessel’s nose.
THE ENTIRE AFFAIR lasts far longer than any normal killing, for it takes them far longer to tire of the game. their interest is steadfast in every motion: their glee is unadulterated and unwavering as they track the jolting seizes of his fingers when they flick the nails off their hinges, in how his vessel’s skin sears and blisters when they inch it too close to the hungry glow of carefully-laid holy fire. they make easy conversation as drag a sharpened blade from their pocket and see how many individual drives with the tip it takes for his left thigh to be reduced to a mangled mess, and laugh cheerfully as they immerse their hand in the red mess with enough vigor that even michael’s stoicism fails; they withdraw a hand slicked scarlet and lick their fingers clean with deliberation before they sever the limb entirely, scooting it off to the side with a jeering comment that it’s just like preparing sushi! Michael doesn’t laugh; they make up for it with wild mirth hushed into the stained buds of their fingertips and move on to the other leg, sat cross-legged in the midst of the purposefully large ring of holy flame. the removal of the second limb makes him scream, finally, choked and faltering, and they peer up through the fan of their lashes with a conspiratorial smile and promise in hushed tones that they won’t tell a single soul. they eat that leg in front of him, kissing the knee-cap with false tenderness before splitting the bone open. by the time they’re done, the remainder of his vessel soaks in sweat and pallor, shivering from shock; they coo and stroke their bloodied fingers through his hair and hum as he attempts to struggle away, clucking their tongue.
THEY END IT with a snapped picture for memory’s sake before they eat him alive -- half-alive -- with an unbridled eagerness that lasts mere minutes. he shivers and frays with the sputtering hesitation of a dying candle; the last shreds of the viceroy’s light disappear down their endless throat and join the amalgam of writhing souls and flickering grace roiling in their perpetual belly, and they lounge like a pleased cat cleaning their fingers with prim swipes of their tongue, relishing the final slivers of the archangel before, with a swipe of their palms against one another for solidarity, dousing the holy flame and leaving the motel room considerably worse for the wear and lacking its singular inhabitant.