#lessersinned

You can stay at my place,  if you like.

The words had spilled from Crowley’s lips without a second thought.  Aziraphale had LOST his bookshop,  where he’d created a home  &  where he’d kept all of his treasures,  treasures that he’d collected for CENTURIES  (  which,  of course,  were incredibly rare books ).  They were,  in every sense of the word,  alone  in the world,  with one another—–there were no sides left  to return to outside of their own.  For the DEMON,  they’d always  been only on each other’s side  (  no matter how much  the angel tried to DENY it ),  but it had never been so .... final.  So FREEING.  

It would’ve felt a great deal better if they both  weren’t so keenly aware of the CONSEQUENCES to follow their actions,  but .... they could worry about that tomorrow.  Soft,  uncertain protest rose IMMEDIATELY from Aziraphale,  but once he was reminded  of the simple truth,  he agreed.

They were SILENT on the bus ride  &  instead  of feeling the need to act as though they weren’t  planning something,  or just plain talking  .... they simply sat next to one another.  They’d NEVER done that before,  not on public transport.  It felt natural,  as if this was how it always SHOULD have felt like.

It WASN’T until they were safely within Crowley’s flat  (  where he very abruptly remembered  that the angel had never set FOOT in his flat before now )  that the thought came to him.  Ever since he’d said the words  ....It burned down,  ‘member ? ,   he couldn’t stop thinking about the bookshop.  About how he’d burst through it’s doors  &  shouted for Aziraphale,  DESPERATELY.  How Crowley had believed that the last time he’d actually SEEN the angel,  he’d called him so CLEVER,  but also so stupid.  It tore at his insides,  made him squirm a little,  unable to STAY STILL—–

But then he thought of Adam’s change to the universe.  He’d changed it  &  perhaps  he’d set some things back to how they were before.  He  &  Aziraphale were seated upon his sleek,  leather couch that gleamed white in the dim lighting  (  strangely comfortable for how it appeared ),  simply DRINKING,  when the thought struck him.

❝ You know, ❞

Crowley began,  his words just slightly slurred from the alcohol but sounding THOUGHTFUL.  He spoke almost gently,  nonetheless.

 ❝ Since Adam basically—–REBOOTED the whole world,  d’you think the bookshop might not’ve burned down afterall  ?  ❞

@lessersinned

    It felt as if she couldn’t stop crying. She managed to get her focus on the rattling cicadas outside. Her eyes went to Cordelia, who was crouched over the twin bed. Casey had been there for three months or so. Yet the supreme was warm and gentle to her. The bed on the opposite side was empty.

        His eyes, flecks of gold that steal the flames in their reach and intensify them, show more than he might think and, although the undying queen is still weighed down with leaden grief, his gaze warms her more than the fire ever could, for there is nothing more comforting to the lonely and suffering than to know that they are no longer alone. 

He speaks neither of family nor of home, so she assumed that he has none. He made the same assumption once he accepted her company and continues to avoid prying into the shrouded memories of her past. Snow adores him even more for that. 

She listens dutifully, patiently, as his rich voice paints the cool night air with its beauty and sorrow. She drinks in every word and, once he is silent, her head tilts as she studies him and dissects what he did not have the courage to admit. 

There were some that needed me before. I failed. That, coupled with the mention of weapons, makes her think that he was a greater leader amongst the elves. A monarch, perhaps. It would not surprise her. His every movement bleeds predatory grace, and his expression, although tortured, is nonetheless filled with pride. Yet, despite any past failure he may have committed, he should know better by now. Service is not what she requires from him. 

Snow slowly reaches forward and tilts his head back up. Seeing such a regal countenance bow did not seem right to her. “Your weapons are unnecessary, as I am no stranger to battle. I do ask for your presence, but that must be freely given. I do not seek to use you. Rather, I would stand by you against this dark world, perhaps console you if I can.” 

@lessersinned //  “It’s not dangerous. I’ll be fine.” - from Oswald.

❝Oswald...❞ his voice is firm and accusatory, as if he is telling him that they both know that this statement is wrong. It is almost frustrating, knowing he can’t change the other’s mind about going. He wants to help him, he wants to be there for him and protect him, but how can he, if Oswald does not let him? ❝You might have dealt with people like that for much longer than I have, but...I cannot let you go alone.❞ Why is he even so worried? Oswald has done this before, he has been in much more dangerous situations than this, and yet Ed finds himself very anxious. How does he explain that? Ed has always claimed that logic is what guides him and how logic screams at him to stay away from any dangerous situation. And yet, now he wants to follow Oswald, wherever he wants to go, to hell and back. 

       ❝ sometimes the only pay off for having any FAITH is when it's tested again and again everyday. ❞

        RUNNING. always running. always sprinting out of danger. his thighs burn with the need to escape ; the way the floor SQUISHES under his dark, bloodied shoes. its a nightmare, a living hell taking the breathe out of his lungs. blood on the floor, on the walls, on his skin. DIRTY DIRTY DIRTY. RUNNING. he is drowning in it, dressed in rotting flesh, in organs spewed on the ground. the sound of gunshots, of growling, forever lost in the dark. how did he get here ? what had he done to wake up in hell ? 

        DON’T STOP. KEEP RUNNING.

        HE IS TIRED. his head is pounding, his heart racing in his chest. has he gone mad ? to see all those bodies hanging from the ceiling, intestines wrapped around walking corpses out to snatch him if he stops. the grime crawls onto his skin, disintegrating walls shifting. the floor gives out from under him and he FALLS, crashing into wood. another room, another growl. he can’t stop running, not even for a second lest the darkness catch up to him and swallow him WHOLE. feet blistering, fingers bleeding, he groans and gets up from the rubble of a broken floor and takes off. 

        BUT THERE IS NO ESCAPING the horror, the tainted taste of emptiness. it was inevitable. he would push past door after door and end up in the same place, at the same time, with the same monstrosities feeding on his footsteps. what death-inducing PANIC !! where am i ? who am i ? the poor man thinks. he is so confused. but running is all he knows - he cannot save them. he cannot even save himself. 

        the next door bursts open by itself ; out comes a man in the dark, the light of a LANTERN shining too bright to see his face. arthur abruptly halts, and at the sight of a gun, splutters as his hands shoot up. the creature the laid chase can be heard sprinting closer, causing the writer to let out a broken sob. he wants to speak, to scream, but nothing comes out no matter how hard he tries. the lantern-bearing man comes closer, the gun lifting, the light growing dim. arthur can barely make out a face. a dark scruff, a hint of blood. eyes that arthur remembers. his breath gets caught between his teeth, voice scratchy, iron thick on his tongue.