I Didn't Mean To Fall! I Justhung Around The Wrong People ; Anthony J Crowley - Tumblr Posts
a hand was raised with no more than a finger to request some silence from his crowd, patience—waiting there until cam got rid of his last word, and dramatically taking that chance to snap his fingers and activate the closer screen, cam’s tv turned on to play a scene that may have looked like a badly recorded footage from the worst cellphone cam you had at your disposal, but which ACTUALLY WAS no more, no less, than a little cut from his last night memories ( and what an esteemed lady had chosen to confess, of course ).
“ OK, FINE, I KNOW, I KNOW, IT’S—pathetic, maybe, i don’t know, but—UGH, he was—SO HAPPY RIGHT THERE! and the movie was so BAD but he kept on smiling and sighing and having this—hopeful thing going on everywhere around him, and— ”
“ and…? ” a voice behind the lens pronounced with the telltale feeling of too many hours of drinking, or more.
and right there—a silence followed. a smile in her and the dreamy look despite her difficulty to keep her eyes open. “ and—fuck it, you know? i loved that, i—anthony, i tell you, i’d let that man torture me with a thousand hours of those tapes just to watch him smile like that, i—i swear. ” cut, end of proof one, your honor.
“ cam, cam, cammi—you see, one would think your kind ought to be more sincere than a thousand of us piled together, but— ” a series of vague gestures made with his hands followed, an attempt to find a less amusing way to say this, and yet—failing miserably as the tense smile on his face definitely announced. “ but not only you LIED to my FACE, you really made me believe i was HOPELESS for not managing something as easy as TELLING MYSELF THE TRUTH. SO WHAT NOW, CAMNIEL? what’s your version now, uh? ” oh, he was truly enjoying the development of this, just so you know.
CROWLEY || @choicelesshope asked: “ so— ” a melody lightly tinted with cynicism and petty vengeance makes its appearance. contained, happily, and ready to make good use of this chance to make SOMEONE receive a little of his own medicine. “ i heard from a little birdie last night that cam ’ sweet cam ’ was hosting romcoms movie dates for the enemy. not a friend, not a lover, the enemy. ” his smile only growing as much as his clear killing urges. “ what was that thing you said about being honest about your feelings, camniel? ”
* * *
“What-”
He’d been pouring a drink for his demonic visitor- the second as such in the last twenty four hours, which meant that he had to be going insane. Though in fairness, Crowley had essentially invited himself rather than being asked to come round. So it didn’t count, right?
Armageddon may be over, but there was still a wariness Camniel reserved for fraternizing with the enemy. He may not be quite so guilty as Aziraphale was, but as an Archangel he was supposed to have more sense. That moment was over, though. He didn’t think there was any point in being enemies- they were two sides of the same coin, right?
But Crowley had used the word date. He’d also used the word lover, which made Cam’s mouth open and close uselessly for a moment.
“What- look- it’s not- it is not what you think it is, Crowley, and you clearly think- well, we both know what you think! It was just a couple of films, that’s all! And my intention was to turn her mind away from demonic thoughts. Honestly, what are you talking about? Don’t answer that. I already know. And it isn’t. It’s- it was just Love Actually and she thought it was stupid!”
* * *
Aziraphale, having just listened to a song which is 87% made of the word bicycle: Oh look. No gears. Just a perfectly normal velocipede.
Crowley, at the very end of his tether: Bicycle. Can we get on???
Loving Vincent (2017) dir. Dorota Kobiela, Hugh Welchman
in another universe I’m easier to love
PARALLELS THAT MAKE INSANEE
(credit to @timelordsfallnomore for the top gif!)
@omniishambles said: i don’t lie. but i don’t always tell the whole truth. from aziraphale to crowley!
somehow—he had the impression he had been in the middle of something just a while ago. that there had been—a thought, a realization, some discovery that had possessed him to leave his garden, march towards the house, accuse the other and come up with at least a dozen reasons why—whatever this affair was ( come on, he had it in the tip of his tongue, it had to be somewhere now ) was of ultimate importance, AND MOST SURELY, something outside the realm of his responsibility.
really now, why else would he be standing in the middle of the room if not for that? mud-covered boots and just-ripped weeds in his hand?
and yet—it was as if every conscious thought he had in him, every bit of emotion and impulse had suddenly been silenced by that clarification—a truth he had never got to consider before, and which most certainly left him with an open mouth, furrowed brows and the most important of questions: since when?
“ you mean— ” there was no fault in his logic, no matter how much he revised it over and over again. “ okay, wow, uh—i have the impression now that you’d give many demons i know a run for their money, and that’s—something i definitely wasn’t expecting for today, but—under the risk you’ll use that very tactic on me now, how many times have YOU keep any information from ME through the years? ” and to be honest, he wouldn't even be mad if that was the case. proud, maybe. but mad? “ how haven’t i noticed? ”
ʽUnuq al-Ḥayyah (the serpent’s neck), or Cor Serpentis (the serpent’s heart); it is a double star, and the brightest in the constellation Serpens.
Anger was better than tears, better than grief, better than guilt.
Arianne Martell, A Feast For Crows. (via queenmakcr-archived)
Florence and the Machine – South London Forever
even immortal supernatural entities need a little break
[open for better quality]
@naturaldisastcrs said: " you can stay... i'd like you to stay. " ( aziraphale @ crowley )
so much had changed in the last few hours, he’s sure of that much. so much about an entire life he had built for himself, fought for himself, hid and cherished in almost equal parts. no, definitely not—crowley thought, this wasn’t the reality he had lived in for more than six thousand years and all at the same time it was absurdly the same: from the dimly lighted streets of soho to the sleeping stores that had kept their structures for decades now, from the lonely cars sneaking around at the strangest hours to the angel sitting by his side, fixed glare on a point beyond the windows ahead of him ( or so he had assumed, too many thoughts to dare turn in his direction for the longest hour he had encountered; breathing, waiting perhaps ).
so much had changed in the last few hours but never enough to make those words feel any less shocking than they did when he finally managed to process them; sharply, his head turns to him with both hands still gripping on the steering wheel, mouth slightly parting while a thousand questions rushed to press themselves in the cage of his mind: are you sure? will you be safe? do you think heaven and hell would forget about the shitshow we pulled just about this morning and come drag our asses to face the kind of torture they haven’t have a need for since the great fall? do you mean now, just now or do you mean longer than that? is it because of safety or need; wanting perhaps? are you sure? are you really sure? would you change your mind after we cross that door? will i?
god—so many things to say and to be scared of, so many worries to let go of since there wasn’t a rule to follow, a jury to hide from, certainty of any kind, so—when the words finally leave his mouth ( the engine being turned off, a careless shook of his shoulders as he checks the hour in his clock ) he almost can’t believe or recognize the person that answers to him instead. ❝ yeah, why not. I could do with a little bit of that chateauneuf-something you were going on about just earlier. actually—a whole lot of it if we may, god… ❞
he scrunched up his nose at the observation of his own cramped neck ( all due to stress, no shock in that ) and gestured a quick snap of his fingers that opened aziraphale’s side of the door as he went out of his own. fixing his clothes, staying a few steps behind. he still has to manage the door of his own store and crowley has a good deal of questions to push down against that one corner of his brain, the one where—if lucky, he could put a precious pause on every single one of them.
if lucky—but when has he ever been for that matter?
@naturaldisastcrs said: ( 𝐃𝐎𝐎𝐑 ) ; one muse sits outside the door to comfort the other who won’t let them in. ( aziraphale @ crowley - idk why i need a scene like this but i do )
he should have thought this better. here, sitting on his floor, back against the door and an angel waiting at the other side, crowley looks back and damns himself for something he should have anticipated two weeks, maybe a month ago. somewhere in the in-between, the consequences of his own unreachable silence. alas, he thinks, a habit as old as time itself.
and perhaps—perhaps he was too used to aziraphale not noticing his absences in the past. how could he? when they only met every other century ( at best, sometimes a couple of those would pass without a sign of each other ) when he himself had tried to push these episodes to the back of his mind, ignore them as much as he could, never mention them over their shared meals or at their past midnight cups. perhaps—he forgot that this ‘ our side now ‘ they’ve built over the past months wasn’t only enjoying shared time, shared walks, and movie nights to pass up time; it was checking on each other too, making sure neither side had chosen to strike on them, make them pay for what it hadn't happened to the earth they knew.
and because he had forgotten, a little more than a month had passed since the last time he had given any notice of his whereabouts.
❝ i said it’s fine! ❞ he insisted while rubbing one of his temples and trying very hard to sound as confident as he could. ❝ you’re honestly wasting your time up here—fuck, don’t you have another book to read for the hundredth time, i swear… ❞ harsh words he picked in the spur of the moment, his hesitance to ask for help, god—if he allowed himself, he could just tell him about the nightmares, the memories that come back to him every other decade about that day before time; about how difficult it was to get over them sometimes, all those days ( like now ) in which he has confined himself to a room until everything felt like what it was supposed to be: a bad dream he barely could remember.
if he allowed himself, of course, though he wasn’t so sure he’d be strong enough to get onto that point anytime soon.
Natalie Wee, from ‘Least of All’, Our Bodies & Other Fine Machines
My Sargentesque Ineffables. I’m so delighted to see all of them together finally!
If you are not too long, I will wait here for you all my life.
Oscar Wilde (via sunsetquotes)