#dawnperhaps

  I am the object of desire to the entomological collection of some God. The insignificance inherent to my ephemerality makes me, in his eyes and perhaps mine, a mere insect and although it is of colossal audacity to consider myself worthy of the collection of some deity, I do believe so. I conjecture myself as a target to divine collusion.

      There are several ways to cease the life of an insect retaining its body intact in order to add it to any exhibition that its owner so chooses.

      Just as a keen collector who injects pure alcohol in the abdomen of a butterfly – so that it dies without damaging the beauty of its wings –  he inoculates me with this animic state which spreads throughout my body and defiles my soul, originating the morbigenous decline of my will. But unlike the intended, I do not simply fall asleep peacefully as a moth placed in a freezer. I do not refuse to die, however, I do not accept the beautiful perishing forced upon me. I wither slowly but I take with me the beauty and the virtue, like an insect that struggles against the cold glass container which captured it – I break the wings, lose the colour, crush the interest.

  I interrumpt the marasmus of the first rays of light, the drops of my ruby faith suprass the heavenly weeping. Each carefree incision spilled rivers of silent screams resonating in my very core, every imperfection left by them was by me congratulated as I beamed before the god’s frustration. I was no longer wanted – by him, by me.

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Originally posted here and written for Dawn. (She'll deny it but it was her character who asked X3)

Everything was quiet.  Lucifer had long since left, killing any survivors on the way out.  The prone body of the fallen archangel lay still where Lucifer had let him land, the bloody archangel blade still protruding from his chest.

Suddenly, that chest heaved and Gabriel sucked in air violently as if he’d been held underwater and only now had broken the surface.  He coughed weakly, blood splattering over his lips as he stared up at the high ceiling with blurry eyes. Getting stabbed kind of hurt.

He refused to die there, he needed to move.  But it was obvious that he was stuck.  He closed his eyes and did the one thing he had been yearning to do for so long, but had refused to give into.  He prayed.

“S-Saint Michael the Archangel.” He began, coughing hoarsely, “D-defend us in battle. Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil.” He blinked his eyes slowly, tears slowly losing their hold on his lashes as they trailed across his skin. He shook his head and scoffed at himself at the irony. “Michael.” He whispered, “Brother…please hear me? I know you’re probably mad, but can you just forget about that f-for just a minute?”

There was a soft sound of feathers and the trickster took a moment to focus on the being before him.  He smiled shakily upon recognizing the Grace. “Michael.” He greeted.

The first son, seeing his brother’s condition, knelt quickly at his side. “Gabriel…” He looked upset which surprised Gabriel for a moment. He used his Grace to feel out the other’s injuries, eventually pulling away heartbroken. “There’s nothing I can do.” He whispered, taking one of Gabriel’s hands in his and squeezing it tightly.

“I know Mikey.” Gabriel grinned, lips stained with blood. “I just didn’t want to die alone.”

And with the knowledge that his older brother was there, that Michael had loved him enough to come, Gabriel let go of the weakening grip he had.

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O M G

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Wild Wild West Coast - "He'd met her on the first day of Professor Harvelle's Feminist Studies 101."