#nogravebuthestars

[dystopianarcher-blog]

We burn.

'Cause we love.

[fuckyouiquit-blog]

[textsfromdeltagreen-blog]

[cambodianeverhappened-blog]

nogravebuthestars started following you

primordialreign started following you

iwasbornofthis started following you

ethominumspesfallunt started following you

johnconstantineasshole started following you

What a bunch of lovely fellas.

Please do mind the gun: I tend to be a cautious man.

[sammyhatesclowns-blog]

Livestream Arts_02

I had to type that title like 3 times. 

Okay, half a bottle of wine and a beer in, I hope I don't regret this in the morning.

This is an OC request for my good awesome wonderful friend, Nat. Her char, Izrial:

[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.

[beholdjackssmirkingrevenge-blog]

nogravebuthestars started following you

Yeah?

[ravenofdreams-blog]

nogravebuthestars started following you

dystopianarcher started following you

Well, you guys seem to pop up wherever I look. 

Is there a party and I didn't get invited?

[dystopianarcher-blog]

[ OOC; Nat you think your edits are bad, man. Take a look at mine. ]

Havoc. Think of yesterday. Ruin! A mass illusion.

How could it come this far?

The Reign. 

Credit for pics one and two. { x }

[dystopianarcher-blog]

Delirium Trigger {Izrial/Raphael}

Seamlessly slipping, undetected, in a crowd is an art, for many, and an unreachable task for most.

For an archangel, it is as simple as breathing.

For a fallen one, it is nothing but a carefree game.

Raphael walked and hid, torn tattered flesh masked from all of those around him, shielded from the hustle and bustle. He was a presence brushing against you and nothing more, a coldness somewhere in your bones.

A busy street, and not a single trace of him.

Unseen by all. Except for one.

The Fallen stopped in his tracks, then, a few feet from a brother he no longer had the right to call that way.

"Izrial." he hissed, lips splitting in a mad, mad grin.

Come play.

[dystopianarcher-blog]

This is what I brought you, this you can keep, This is what I brought, you may forget me. I promise you my heart just promise to sing, Kiss my eyes and lay me to sleep.

So think me naïve.

[dystopianarcher-blog]

[Do you guys think that

"WELL THE THREAD WASN'T FINISHED WHEN I WENT TO BED SO I HAD TO CATCH UP AND THEN I WAS HIT WITH THIS ROLLERCOASTER OF DIFFERENT EMOTIONS MAINLY CI BEING A BADASS AND AND AND HE HAS DOGS AND SHIT AND DUMA'S BUNNY AND SLANIA BEING AWESOME GOD I LOVE THAT GIRL AND JANE AND IZRIAL DO NOT GET ME STARTED ON THOSE TWO AND JESUS CHRIST PERCY OH MY SWEET PERCY AND AZ IS DEAD AND RAPH'S AN IDIOT AND I WISH FEELINGS DIDN'T EXIST BECAUSE NEVER IN MY LIFE WOULD I HAVE EVER EXPECTED TO SOB AT 6:12 AM OVER FICTIONAL CHARACTERS"

is a valid excuse for being late to school.]

[dystopianarcher-blog]

Come Home.

Guns have a very precise way of feeling in one's hand. 

They can feel heavy, or light, wrong, or perfect.

Right now, the gun in Clint's hand feels both far too heavy and far too light, and it feels far too wrong and just perfect. 

And he knows that is the way it's supposed to be.

But nothing matters and nothing ever truly has.

Clint sits on the bench and wonders why the darkness of this chilly London night hasn't enveloped him completely. Why it hasn't crushed him. Why it hasn't erased him and the blood he spilled and the blood he was about to spill, fingernails dirty with one Russian girl's red.

He thinks he can hear an Angel scream somewhere deep inside his mind.

Clint's gasp is ragged and torn, his palm pressed against his eyes until he sees stars and violets and reds, the darkest of blacks if he tries to opens them.

"Jesus. Jesus, Jesus. Why."

A girl crying in a dirty alleyway, an Ancient God pressing his forehead to his gun. An angel working in the London police, a demon whispering to make him make her pay and realize what she's done.

The distinct taste of vomit is, this time, chased deep back down his throat.

And the gun feels heavy, in his hand.

He might come back. The beast might come back, come tearing back, come screaming back, the righteous angel who brings forth pain and redemption and cleanses of sin.

And he nearly snapped Natasha's neck.

He nearly let him snap Natasha's neck.

He let Raphael in. In exchange. In exchange for what?

For absolution. For the absolution of his sins, not hers. And for her to be protected.

From what?

From him.

He'd laugh if it wasn't all so tragic.

If it wasn't all so scary.

But it's now or never because he cannot possibly afford leaving another entryway open to Raphael, and maybe blowing his brains out will close him off once and for all.

He'd have asked Natasha (a sick twisted way of letting her get her revenge on something that needed no vengeance) if he'd had the courage.

But he's a coward, he's always been a coward.

And he wishes he could stop shaking.

He wishes he could steady his mind long enough.

Metal tastes cold against his tongue.

Tears taste warm in the back of his throat.

And he thinks it, over and over and over, a million I'm sorries whispered to nothing and to everyone and to himself, to her, his love so big and strong he'll never be able to face.

A gun that tastes cold, that tastes salty, that tastes scary.

Brow furrowed.

I love you.

Last thought. She's beautiful, in his mind.

Beautiful and sweet and his.

Last thought.

And then, quietness.

*

Clint opens his eyes when it hits him.

It's loud and powerful and quiet, and he realizes he hasn't shot himself and he realizes there's a man's hand placed on his, a man's hand slowly moving the weapon out of his mouth, a man's hand that isn't truly a man's hand.

A ratty old hoodie, worn and torn green sneakers.

Dyed blond hair.

"Oh. It's you."

Clint looks at Duma's hand and sighs.

The angel smiles at him and sits down next to the man, gun still tight in his hand. Barton knows he won't give it back anytime soon.

"Right. Suppose you're here to avoid me gettin' into Hell. Or just blowin' my brains out."

He pulls out a cigarette from his pocket and lights it up, glares over at the angel debating wether to offer one to him or not.

"...Are those even two different things?"

Duma shakes his head, and Clint can't tell if he's refusing a cigarette or answering his question.

The archer's smirk is a sad one as he puffs smoke, watches the riverbank nearby.

"Y'know, I was in London just once before this, an' I didn't really pay attention to it. But it's pretty - really fuckin' pretty."

He glances at the quiet one.

"You chose a good spot t'spend your vacation."

Duma nods, the subtleties of his expression shifting once more, and emotion is shown without any effort, the way a lip curves upwards speaks more than any poem ever could.

Clint suddenly realizes he is old, compared to this world. He realizes he's out of place.

And time.

And space.

He realizes it thanks to a Silent Angel's smile.

"Y'know."

A chocked back sob.

"Y'know. She's gonna be okay. Isn't she?"

His voice borders on hopeful. He looks for Duma in search of answers, and Clint's not so sure if he gets one or not.

"That's why you're here, right? To let me understand she's gonna be okay."

He watches as ash falls to the ground, the ember of the cigarette tip delicately gleaming under a languid streetlight. 

"She has. She has you. Which is. It's...it's okay."

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Duma shift uncomfortably in his seat.

"The way ya looked at her in that alleyway?"

Clint turns to face Duma.

"I've looked at her that way a million times."

His eyes shine with something that cannot be truly placed. It is both regret and loss, but also acceptance, maybe. 

And tears.

Just a little.

"An' she loves ya. That much I know, heck. I've been her partner for twelve fuckin' years. You start to notice those kind of things."

Duma stares at him and then at the water in front of them. 

A drag, a sigh. Clint rests his forehead in his hand.

The archer then glares at the gun still tight in the other's grasp, who says nothing, but merely covers it with his palm. Hides it from his eyes.

They're quiet, for a little while. 

"So do I get t'go back?"

Barton's voice is so low it's almost inaudible.

The angel's eyebrows quirk in a way that can only be translated with: "Where?"

"Y'know." Clint shrugs. "To Heaven. To where ya told me we're. Together. I mean, I can't stay here, can I?"

Fingers through his hair.

"Fuck, I don't even think I want to."

Suddenly, there's the flutter of wings, and Clint senses movement behind him. Someone new: dark eyes and even darker hair, a slight scruff, stretched ears, the faintest sign of made-up eyes.

Clint furrows his brow.

"Who th'fuck are you?"

The newcomer smiles as he walks up to them, a warm smile on his lips. This one's got wings too, a darker hue still.

And, like Duma's, they shine for only a moment, until they're tucked away where only few can see.

"M'name's Izrial, Clint."

"Is that supposed t'mean something to me?"

Izrial's smile drops a fraction of an inch, for a second. The shade it takes on is that of sadness, a sadness that is centuries and millennia old, ancient, deep.

A look is shared between him and his brother.

Izrial Jordan harbors and takes upon him the pain of every being that has ever lived, and gives it back in the shape of acceptance.

Of understanding.

Of his joy, even, his never ending love.

Because he loves them. Each and every one of them. He loves them when they laugh and live and feel, and he loves them when they fight and kill. And when they rape. And torture, and break all that's around them.

Because they need to be forgiven.

Because he has to be the one to do so.

"Ya know who I am, Clint. Ya just asked. An' I came."

Clint blinks a few times, dumbfounded. Before he understands.

"Oh."

His shoulders sag, for a second. He seems to even shrink.

"You're Death."

Izrial shrugs.

"In a fashion, yeah. Used t'be th' Archangel of Death."

He outstretches his hand towards the man sitting in front of him.

"Now I just help y'guys make th' big step."

Clint stares at it, and then he looks at Duma, and at Izzy, and at his hands and the cigarette he's clutching and he shuts his eyes, for a second

I love you.

and he stands up, briskly.

Izrial nods, the understanding smile never leaving his lips.

"Can I. Can I just ask you two a thing?"

Clint buries his hands deep in his pockets.

"Anythin', Clint."

"Th'guy. Who took my place. Raphael."

Iz hides the smallest flinch.

"He's...not gonna. Y'know."

"Duma's got her back. I got her back." 

The mute angel stands up too, the gun forgotten on the bench, as his brother speaks.

"It's a promise."

Clint already knew their answer. But he asked anyway, again, because hearing it once more is clearing his mind, and Jordan knows how hard these moments are, and how many there are, and how they're always so bittersweet.

"Clint, she's gonna be okay."

Barton nods, bites his lip.

And he knows it's time.

"Duma? Y'tell her, all right?"

His hand in Izrial's, the knot around his throat so tight he doesn't even know how he can still manage to breathe.

"Tell her she was my everything."

And then, the quiet lifts. There's the sound of cars again, of rivers flowing, of lives being lived and ending.

And then.

The beating of wings.

[dystopianarcher-blog]

“…Forever?” “Heck, Janey. I don’t even know if I’m gonna-“ “Then I’m coming with you.”  “D’ya even realize what ya-“ “Yes.” “Jane.” “Hell needs a queen, right?”

What kingdom would it be without?

[dystopianarcher-blog]

"Would you wanna date th'Lord a' Hell?"

[ Original. ]

[dystopianarcher-blog]

Death makes Angels of us all, and gives us Wings.

[ Original. ]