#ethominumspesfallunt

[thegalleryendless-blog]

hidden track.

Hey, you. That took a while.

Ready? I wouldn't rush you but we might have a few pit stops. People and places to see, and they're not as patient as me.

Oh, who am I kidding? You know. Anyways, like I said- ready?

She smiles, then, like she has to every being who's done this since the universe began- maybe even before that, but she's not telling.

And she holds out her hand.

[dystopianarcher-blog]

why am i laughing this hard

jesus christ

[dystopianarcher-blog]

We burn.

'Cause we love.

[dystopianarcher-blog]

God Called In Sick Today {Natasha, Duma, Lucifer, Raphael, Balthazar}

Blade searing through a demon's brain, a mad mad mad grin splitting rotten rotting flesh, and Raphael laughs - or better, cackles as the blood wets blade so Unholy it might burn.

A kick, the decapitated beast falls down, rolls off into nothingness. For now, they are at bay. And the lesser ones fear the Fallen nonetheless.

Next to him, a pride demon hisses. Fangs glistening, eyes burning in their skulls. The blood that mats Raphael's teeth, a tongue rushing over them.

"BALTHAZAR," Raphael turns towards him, screaming, then, as thunderclap and change in winds warns them that something - someone - is there. And that they must be quick.

"Now!"

[dystopianarcher-blog]

Can You Teach Me Love?

How can you measure love? You measure love  with: arrows shot, with: gunpowder burning, with: backs watched forever always.

How can you speak of love? You speak of love with: solitary nights spent reading, with: bookbinding taught to a girl with green eyes, with: promises of forever shared while watching suns rising.

How can you write of love? You write of love with: the feel of cold skin against warm lips, with: tattoos on battle scars and old TV shows, with: blind eyes that see deep into cherished hearts.

How can you sing of love? You sing of love as: the sun sets, as: old brothers and lovers are hidden in smiles, as: you dance on the beach and forget all the Fallen. 

How can you scream of love? You scream of love with: Horns in darkness, with: Hunters and Wolves, with: powers that will never truly lay to rest. 

And can you teach me love?

I cannot teach you, no, Blind One. I cannot show you, no, Lost One. I cannot see, he cannot speak.

But I can love you back, Hurt One. I can listen to your cries. And I can cherish all your pleas.

And I will let you hurt me, Fallen. 

And I will help you to run free.

O Fallen One; O Blessed One;

My Darling Dearest Brother still.

[dystopianarcher-blog]

Nat: I dislike mauve as a rule, it's the magenta of the infirm and old

[dystopianarcher-blog]

"Clint Barton? Oh no, nothing of the sort. I merely...took his place-"

I heard you speak a name; One you cannot relate to. One who would die from shame, Aligned to you. 

From your filthy mouth; That name does not deserve to Be smeared by the dirty lips You passed them through.

"Clint Barton is dead. Dead and gone."

[dystopianarcher-blog]

clint, do you really love natasha?

December 24th, 2009

You know.

You know how arrows have that definite sound of fingers running along glass rims when you pull them out of the quiver?

How there's a definite way they tip slightly downwards when they fly and  how they twist around their axis?

You know how there's the quiet way they laugh when they hit a man's jugular and you stare at him and you don't blink 'cause every man you bring down is another promise you didn't break to your brother?

You know how knives cackle as they slit veins? You know how gunshots giggle when they know they've been fired well?

Do you know what sound a dying man makes?

It's the sound of autumn leaves.

You know what sound bones shattering make?

It's the sound of hands rushing through water.

Do you know?

Yes. Of course you do.

You do because you've dipped your hands in that very tinted stream, and you dance in it, and every droplet of blood is nothing but a mark of sunlight on your spine (and sometimes I wish I could run a single finger along those charred vertebrae just to remind myself you're still alive).

And I can't speak of you without whispering of metaphors of death, but, really, can you blame me?

Can you blame us both, Tsarina, when death is what we drink and what we feed our minds and she is a quiet, loving mistress?

And in death I see you dance with hair that's redder than the blood you spill and redder than your lips, and you are.

Ferociousness, Tsarina.

You are the beauty of the lioness who hunts and preys and I marvel in it. It isn't made of chaste smiles and hidden grins.

No, you are the beauty of the way a trachea collapses with calculated mathematical precision and pressure just, in the right, spot. You are the beauty of the arsenic slipped in coffees and the beauty of the shattered lung. 

You are this fear I can't really understand because you terrify me, Tsarina, and it's the rush of adrenaline I crave the most, the secret promise of untold truths of times of war.

You'll never read these words, Natasha. I'll burn them and watch them twist in flames and see the ashes of ripped papers melt with this cold December snow, and it will be a secret only I will hold. 

Me, and stars, and maybe angels.

You are an almost something, Tsarina, a love held secret in a box.

Small enough to cover with a hand.

Merry Christmas,

Tsarina.