Angels - Tumblr Posts - Page 3
*Archangel post!*
OKAY I lied AGAIN but it’s only because I ended up having to write shortened summaries for all the archangels anyways! So here’s a big post about all of them :>
okay brief summaries (I PROMISE THIS IS BRIEF THERES A LOT OF INFO 😰) of the archangels:
Michael- archangel of strength and bravery. He is usually considered the protector of heaven. He was the one who had to cast Lucifer out of heaven. (Uh which he kind of feels guilty for a lot because although Lucifer did a big no no and betrayed god all the angels are very close and consider eachother siblings. Lucifer, Raphael, Michael, and Gabriel in particular were very close.
Uriel - Angel of knowledge, very reserved he’s not mean but he prefers being alone. He runs the library in heaven and is the protector of all its knowledge including “forbidden knowledge”.
Raphael - Angel of healing super chill guy and super kind. He helps like heal injured angels and also meditates/prays a lot.
Ariel- she is the Angel of nature kind of acting as a Mother Nature type figure. She works with Raphael a lot and helps with taking care of sick or injured animals and angels and Vice versa.
Jophiel - Angel of that represents ‘the beauty of god’ they have the ability to shapeshift into any thing that was made by God. They also fight along side Michael and help train other angels.
Chamuel - archangel of love and relationship harmony though none of the angels can experience romantic relationships they understand human relationships better than the majority of angels. Like Gabriel they are also somewhat a messenger but for love and God’s love.
Azrael - the Angel of death, sort of acts like a grim reaper. She never technically “fell” but she is considered somewhat a fallen Angel. Though she is more neutral ground and usually stays in purgatory rather than heaven or hell. Though she visits heaven more so than hell (when not delivering souls)
Gabriel - Gabriel is the Angel of visions and God’s messages. He is the youngest out of the archangels and looks up to his siblings very much. He also sometimes gifted with visions of the future. He is goodnatured but maybe a bit naive, but rarely does he lack optimism.
Lucifer - Before he fell he was regarded as one of God’s most perfect angels. Considered the Angel of light or harbinger of God’s light. He was somewhat reserved like Uriel but he was also a little bit of a prankster. Lucifer strived for perfection at almost everything. But everything changed when God revealed his plan to create humanity. Lucifer saw this as a threat, as a sign God was replacing them. As such he decided to retaliate and sabotage the humans (the story of Adam and Eve) after when God found out he had Michael cast Lucifer out of heaven where he was banished from now. Blaming the humans, he now planned to wipe them out for good. There’s a lot more but that’s all I will put here for now or else we will be here all day. I will probably make another post going into more detail about Lucifer post-fall era later.
they're like angels
do you think god pins up dead angels like hes preserving bugs
Baby's first bible fanart apparently
AAAAAAAH SO CUTEEEEE !!!
💙💙💙💙
Commission for @alicethedracoraptor l
I drew some stuff, I ended up drawing the winning vote for the dress poll for Cece. AND additional Gabriel drawing, I didn't really color it but yeah. Goth Gabriel??
Random Gabriel drawing with a friends OC, I kinda miss drawing this goofy ahh angel. So here. Might have more incoming soon.
"𝙊𝙗𝙫𝙞𝙤𝙪𝙨𝙡𝙮, 𝙢𝙮 𝙙𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙎𝙝𝙚𝙥𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙨. 𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙙𝙤𝙣'𝙩 𝙤𝙬𝙣 𝙖𝙣 𝙖𝙞𝙧 𝙛𝙧𝙮𝙚𝙧." - Alternate Gabriel
REBLOG > LIKES
𝙳𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚠𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚜.
Decided to draw a Naga Gabriel because a few friends asked me too, and tbh this was supposed to be a sketch and ended up being uhh.. This so yeah!
Also- HAPPY BIRTHDAY ALEX KISTER.
𝙍𝙀𝘽𝙇𝙊𝙂 > 𝙇𝙄𝙆𝙀 𝙋𝙇𝙎 🙏🙏
So I asked my friends what should I put Gabriel in and they said a dress, and then gave me said image of a dress. So now I drew him in said dress.. And.. Damn..
Bro Slaying straight fire 🔥🔥🔥🔥
The other character is Cecelia in a dress I already drew her in.
Re blogging my mom's art if Gabriel, AGAIN because Gabriel.
"I know what you love. I know what you fear." - Gabriel, The Mandela Catalogue
Favored Tier August pick!
Alternate versions available on Ko-Fi
Some doodles from work and home, haven't drawn feather father in awhile so I decided to draw him again.
Did my own version of him as well, though I somewhat forgot to draw his horns and other wings but yeah. Gabriel!!!
REBLOG > LIKES 🙏🙏
Eats the art before anyone and leaves no crumbs, thanks for the meal!
I am still alive 😭🙏🙏
This past weeks there's a lot of uni stuff-
I'm gonna go back to drawing TMC Gabe now..
person of color: hey wouldn’t it be cool if angels were represented as brown or black more often–
edgy whites who went to a week of bible study 15 yrs ago and regurgitate all their Superior Knowledge from textually inaccurate all-caps tumblr posts written by supernatural fans: um…… ACTUALLY :) angels don’t look like HUMANS they look like ELDRITCH NIGHTMARES™ that MELT YOUR BRAIN OUT so stop giving them skin colors :) try a few animal heads instead :) don’t forget the eyeballs :)
Source: @YUDHO_XYZ on Twitter
Restless Sleep
Archive #5 | copyright to saturnfairycat
Author's note: Helloooooo! This one was taken from a pinned discord message between me and my art partner (@v-for-venus) a long time ago. But I kept the structure because I feel like it really embodies it as a whole. Enjoy :)
Restless Sleep
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what happens if the angels carry my sinful soul up to heaven? cupping my soulful heart around their wings straight out of my physical embodiment of a cage? during our time away from each other, while the moon is glistening in the starry inky sky— what if the angels take me to the grey, bitter clouds and beckon on my journey into the afterlife? I can't handle that alone, my love, because I know you will have fluffy, feathered wings that would be strong and delicate, while I will have tainted wings that are too small to uphold my wronged past of sin and regret... how can I sleep when I could be sleeping in your arms, knowing that you are wingless and that I will awake when the next sunlight arises— with you sound asleep beside me?
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Obsession, the series
Archive #11 | copyright to saturnfairycat
Author's Note: Here is the abstract and all three poems combined. I personally feel like there is a difference to when you read the poems separately, versus reading it all together in one sitting. Let me know what you think. I actually have a story inspired by these poems, if you are interested in me posting it, let me know! Enjoy :)
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Abstract
When one compares their dependency on an item or being with an unhealthy tendency to forget the importance of being their own person. A siren is known for the obsession she produces just from singing; while a place of holiness can be known for saving those that have no other place to go. Obsession and adoration are two separate things, but sometimes the siren can be merely adored… while the building is seen as a cult designed for obsession. The comparison of the siren and church to the human's dependent heart is a wake up call for those who allow themselves to serve no other purpose than living in someone else’s life.
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Obsession
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Woe the building that falls
To seek a soul whose pictured as gold,
makes artless mortals sway.
The siren theory is embodied as a place—
that is known for its embrace…
of worship, importune and obsession.
But to pray to who is equivocal…
they’re merely a god, merely a question.
You can’t treat a person like a church possession—
the inner walls creak and moan
against the protest and crack of bone.
Nicknamed Dulia for its glory,
but it drowns those who try to adore thee.
The plafond above our heads sing in pressure–
haunting the thought of being crushed.
Whilst they cry for their successor,
dust floated towards the exit as if being rushed.
The sky tends to fall away;
clouds imitate a chevet.
The sight itself creates much dismay,
but time is an illusion…
oh, such betray.
But what a church with no heaven?
Sky, empyrean, and the ether
don’t judge a star's demeanour!
Aperture with glass framework–
edging feelings with a smirk.
Reflection shows a shining gleam,
but true colour is never seen.
The sun has a shaded costume
using the moon as hecatomb.
It may use perfume as a facade…
but mien flares hearts exerting ballade.
If darkness plummets beneath our feet
may I pray for a deathless greet.
The devotee,
limp in their extremities,
served one purpose…and failed.
It drifted into sea like a dead anemone–
with no avail or memory.
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Infatuation
Summersweet, white alder, pepper bush—
wind that blows bouquets away with a swoosh.
A church, the ocean and the utter devotion
such words that are unremittingly
used and mentioned.
You must be annoyed and sick of the voices
telling you about the, oh so many choices…
that you can take.
It makes your cliff shake and ache against the currents
you’re trying to break.
Hundred of shouts turns into a song
while you still can’t get along—
with yourself and the image
that you portray as a sailor, paying primage.
You can’t love a siren,
moreover cage them in a shrine to admire in.
They didn’t draw you in with their beauty,
they were just on death duty.
Artless feelings are sweet and dependent
until you sneeze and crush flowers gifted,
not to the loved one but to the church—
a place of worship but for a search…
of pathetic purpose.
Arson ash that coughs up the lungs
makes heartthrobs hold their tongues.
It’s been so long since the reminiscence,
but existence with omniscience means that
one can’t help those that don’t want it.
Sailors should save those words for those who admit it.
Repetition shows a mind not working—
hiding behind the words of formal glory.
When the time comes that you consider your fate,
please stop placing your heart on a plate.
Not everything is worth dying for, therefore
realise this before you bleed even more.
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Siren's Curse
The feeling stills,
located deep in the heart and
washed away by emotions that don't depart.
Such betray hasn’t been seen
in years and years, oh it’s been centuries.
It’s not about creed
nor about faith,
but why does the siren continue to retaliate?
They don’t seek will or adoration,
but only sailors' shallow empty emotions.
Thus, greed is not a problem,
just a solution with an astrobleme.
The star-shaped wound within the heart
drowns out singing and works of art.
They focus on sole possessions, a measly painting
rather than just forever self-changing.
A place verses a person can be quite the personification
for a future naive adorer’s destination.
You compare a holy place
with a person that has no proper face.
A sailor counts
and so does a siren,
so don’t you dare postpone your responsibilities by naming it Psyren.
Yet you put them on top, as if an angel
told you that evil is an archangel.
Connections from siren to god
is a mockery for those that don’t have a facade.
Love yourself for what it’s worth–
not for the punishment of your birth.
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Winged
Work #3 | copyright to saturnfairycat
Author's Note: this is one of my biggest works. I really hope you enjoy this one. This is inspired by the Obsession poem series. Debrief: Word count: 1694 Warnings: gore, horror, death, sensitive topics.
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Winged
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'Do you see her flying?'
Is all of a brusque rhetoric opine. Even the blind could descry such a figure.
Biblically meticulous angels are a frightening, foreign perception for the faint of heart. But a feminine adolescent human with ivory, coriaceous wings? A sight for sore eyes, a sight to behold. Uncorrupted and innocent, dove-like as a symbol of societal freedom and peace. A pleaser designed by birth to conjure movement and enthrallment for the ravenous. A perishable's dream bride, adorned with white like untouched snow on the first night of winter.
Kings have egos. Compelled to order and empower by any means necessary. Vestal subjects have pride. Their crest adorned with white is comparable to celestial tears. Combatants have glory, taking— saving— risking lives by ineludible ordinance. And evil? All they have is revenge.
Scarlet wounds, blood vessels ripped apart unseemly by brute force. A perfect canvas, stained and poisoned by acid rain. Tainted with colour, her dress subsumes the surrounding ichor from the broken statue. If it wasn't for the gore giving away the depiction of clay and adroitness, she would've been a Renaissance angel built to be worshipped like the holiness structure itself. The venerable church has been home to the slain of sin, the keeper of the sorrow and celebration of nuptials. Its outer walls creak and moan at the sounds of howling winds, angered at the sight inside the chambers of salvation. High ceilings may have constructed envy to those whose house is neither grand nor tall enough to withhold such metaphorical heights of a ceiling— likewise a telling of the staircase to the heavens above.
The beams are indestructible by delineation, holding the shouldering weight of the god's misfortune of reckless decision-making. Howbeit, ladders like vines on great oak trees enable worshippers to maintain the tidiness of the “humble” estate; the beams are wide enough to dance to the opera choir singing, whose dedication to the ones living in the unbothered clouds. For someone to climb up the vines to reach the tallest branches on the great oak is a possibility within a thousand coin flips, though ought to question the means behind such a purpose is certain. Revenge is a rather peculiar sin, anyone could imagine it as such. The drive behind it is sorrowful to the do-er, but judgement day does not care for the iniquitous.
Revenge creates motivation, determination is effectual. To train like a knight, one can easily carry a dead weight on their cracked shoulders up the staircase to heaven. To study with pride, one would know what people see as their true saviours— their delusional hallucinatory of an angel. How to dress, how to please. White and lacy as a wedding dress, pure and lush as a celibate.
The victim?
How curious, the devil pondered. Perhaps a pleaser at heart? As such:
A devoted woman to her word, a persona whose love for the weak and vulnerable is overpowering. Like spiked wine, a goblet filled with luxurious liquid gold— misleading from its appearance— a perfect femme fatale. Its insides tell its truth, how we're all the same within— an inescapable peracute. But who said to drink it? Use it for self delectation? What a poor magnificent object, she doesn't want to be mere treasure. She is the perfect vestal subject, what more could you want? Perhaps she is more fitting as a villain, always seeking more. Greedy, much?
Yes, a perfect sacrifice indeed. An impeccable example of the ambition of a “devil”'s revenge. A church can have followers, so a mere cult can be concordant. While the title of being a cult is a fragment of exaggeration, the apostles will work well in such a plan. They, the misfortunate, seek the pained for comfort… paltry sympathy can only do so much, however. But it's only just sufficient enough. Manipulation? How insulting. Ultimately, it is up to those who seek change to take heed. Hide fleetingly, pretend to associate with everyone just like in the old days. The crowd knows when to act.
Evil can kill, there is nothing else to it. Have you ever wondered how it feels to bathe in virgin blood? It's disappointing, such fuss for it is foolish. The only real kick was the twisted face of telling. That face alone is a blank, pitiful canvas turned into the definition of art itself. Oh, you could paint a thousand frescoes with such an expression. It doesn't disturn her prepossessing features, but it does make her look older. Such complicated, big emotions shouldn't even be within reach for such a young fawn. In another life, surely her underlying intelligence would serve others more than just being a lap to cry on, but in this taken existence— her sheltered mind breaks from the sudden intensity of trahison des clercs. This isn't what her story was supposed to be in her eyes. Ah, regrettable unfortunate. ‘Not favoured by fortune, was she?’, the fallen angel cruelly smirked at the thought.
The evisceration was excessively long. The risk of blood ruining the white was too prodigious, though such fastidious concerns were needless in the end— her neck provided enough liquid genealogy, painting the front of her dress crimson. The colour of hell, of sin. The tainted heaven, the poisoned goblet. Her wings were made from dove feathers, plucked with attention to detail— a maiden in a meadow, choosing and picking the best of flowers could not compare. The bone structure of the wings was genius, specific bones were chosen from certain organisms to create a grand juxtaposition from angel to bird. Sticking each chosen feather to the structure was tedious, but a hyper-fixed maniac does not sway from such work. Inspired by the Winged Victory of Samothrace, the wings belong on her back. But her impressive bone anatomy is in the way...
...with the scapulae removed, the wings fitted with such grace and ease. Death has blessed her with paleness, such colour is the reminiscence of a statue. But her wasted life must be highlighted, must be remembered. Just like all those Renaissance angel paintings, after all— that is the only perception of angels that people will embrace.
It is always about beauty and selflessness, never should one ought to become a fallen one.
Tough to touch, the rope that scratched up skin with small amounts of friction has proven to be practical. A satirical necklace for her elegant neck— tied down to halt the escape of her soul to the sky above. Wings may have been granted, but freedom of flying is not an option. But one as kind and saving as her needs a taster of such, the vines are no competition of strength with her figure in the devil's grasp. The perception of the stairway to heaven is certainly a sight of lush imagination, except the beams are thrilling as a ballroom for the bride-to-be and the avenger. Humming, content with glee; evil looks down to the church below, to where the mighty cross stands at the front of the sect.
Their creation is more impressive, without the use of a single nail. Prideful, the striking idea of overshadowing the lord himself is great. Tying the knot where evil saw fit, the weeping angel longed for the higher stakes before being pushed down, down to her fate. For a second, the wings may have tried to lift the dead and fly up— but the crushing weight of sorrow brought both down with a crack of bone. Her neck crooked, leaning to the left with no resting place for her head, she floats in front of her lord. Her feet swayed slightly, still savouring the dance from before as blood dripped from her blue-hue toes. Such pale eyes never saw the light of the sun again without the stained church glass praying through.
***
The morning prayers, on time as usual for another hour of adored hope from the public. The doors opened, creaking and moaning its warning. The crowd is loud, chatting and laughing with optimistic cravings for their future. A future that she will never see. The crowd silences, and the cessation of movement brings shock and dread to the hearts of his lord's worshippers. She hangs in front of their eyes from afar, suppressed into death. It was when her guts came with a sickening "splat" onto the ground beneath her feet from her tedious exoneration that broke the silence. It was heaven's gift to them, the insides that paint the truth of the world… which they did not accept. There was then shrieking– some are praying, some have become sick– while the followers, the actors— they chanted at the sacrifice, sang with glee.
All was in chaos until he, the evil, the devil himself— slid down from the oak ladder. One of his sinful hands still grasped at the ladder as his heels clicked onto the cool, stone-tiled floor. Some of his leeching zealots pointed at him, eager to know his final motive.
Why such a plan? Why such a sacrifice?
Sick revenge for mortals that need to be taught a lesson.
Would they finally get it? Would they finally understand the suffering?
No.
They never do. They never pay attention until it’s too late.
Gritting his teeth while his jaw clenches at the strike of realisation, he turns away from the selfish sinners. Has all his cruelty to her been all for nothing? His free, bloody hand carries a singular candle— which he tosses at the corpse. She lights up in flames, her laced dress burning into black ash as it climbs up her strained body. He looks in awe at his doing, the followers are shaken to their core. The thrown candle had crashed onto a parallel wall from directly hitting the “effigy”, miraculously causing arson, thus setting fire to the church itself. All his cruelty to her will not be all for nothing. The church doors slam shut behind the crowd, beckoning them in. As the house of holiness burns up to hell’s temperatures— he, who has been staring at her the whole time, finally questions the followers and himself:
'Do you see her flying?'
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