Picturing Crowley post-ineffable divorce dancing his ass off at the club. (Definitely 80s night) Ya boy loves the nightlife and I just know he'd be dancing in the dark, drinking scotch and miracling creepy guys into the dumpster out back. All I'm saying is imagine it: body glitter, tight pants and a black tank top. 😩
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A little piece for an AU where Aziraphale isn’t exactly the guardian of the Eastern gate — not in practice, anyways — but guards a gate, at least, if what he does can be called guarding, heaven doesn’t really have a representative on Earth (yet), the serpent of Eden might not actually be a demon, but rather something a little different, and where the Bookshop and even a small cottage are still a few mistakes and centuries down the line.
(It’s all a WIP for now, still in the brainstorming phase, actually. I’ve got one other fic I need to finish before jumping into this. Plus, this is going to be a bit… seasonal, one might say :) )
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Crowley when humans are brutally slaughtered in front of him: woteva woteva
Crowley when a kid gets a paper cut: awwww poppet! Shall I burn down the trees for you ♥️
he's so Matt Smith in the starship episode of Dr who coded I will not elaborate
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thinkin about dean winchester. hhhng. aauugh. ggghhh. thinking specifically about Zachariah yoinking you into a little limbo dream world and using you as bait to try and manipulate Dean into doing what he wants. You're the carrot, and threatening Sam is the stick (one he hopefully won't have to use). Dean comes to sitting on a comfy sectional couch, watching a football game, beer in hand. he looks around, taking in the rest of the cozy, suburban house he's in, and he notices the smell of food cooking from down the hall. delicious smelling meats and pies and potatoes waft through the air, carried on a warm spring breeze. birds chatter outside. a lawnmower starts running down the block. it feels... peaceful. and not the kind of peace that makes him antsy, makes him want to fuck everything up and run off into his own destruction, but the dangerous kind. the kind he could get used to. He waits for the panic, for his blood to start pumping, for his instincts to kick into hunting mode, but they don't his shoulders fall slightly, his muscles relax, his gaze softens. he finishes his beer, and a little voice in the back of his mind wonders when the other shoe will drop. before he can get an answer, someone behind him takes the empty beer out of his hand, replacing it with a fresh cold one. those same soft hands come down to rub his shoulders gently for a moment as you kiss his cheek. you smell sweet, and your lips are soft. Dean looks over at you, and in that moment, he knows that every girl in every bar and strip club and magazine is ruined for him. you walk around to sit on his lap, and kiss him again.
"Hey handsome," god, even your voice is hypnotic. "What's the score?"
"Uh..." he fumbles, trying to reorient himself as he catches you up. You play with his hair for a moment, making it even harder to focus. It's when your hand falls gently into your lap, and he notices the sparkling diamond ring glinting in the hazy sunlight that he loses his train of thought. Your brow furrows for a moment, noticing his strange behavior.
"You okay?" you ask. His gaze lingers on your ring finger laying atop your floral lacy apron, then trails over to his own left hand. He's met with a matching ring. There's a heavy yearning in his heart, something deep and vast and complicated, and it's reflected in his eyes. He looks up at you after a moment, trying in vain to play it off.
"Yeah." He breathes, voice softer than you've ever heard it. "Never been better."
A beeping noise comes from the kitchen, and you get up quickly.
"That should be the pies."
You lean over and press a quick peck to his lips, and he leans in, chasing you as you pull away.
"Be right back." You smile, scurrying back into the kitchen. He watches you leave, watches you walk down the hall that's full of photos of the two of you, of your families. Happy, smiling, whole families. He watches you adjust the strings of your apron, and he watches the flash of metal peeking around your ring finger. That heaviness, that yearning starts to solidify from something wistful to something more dangerous, sinking through his chest. In that moment he fears he's found his way into a trap he won't be able to get himself out of.
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Crowley: “We’ve known each other a long time. We’ve been on this planet a long time; you and me. I could always rely on you, you could always rely on me. We’re a team, a group; a group of the two of us. And we’ve spent our entire existence pretending that we aren’t. I mean the last few years not really…And I would like to spend (mmm). I mean, if Gabriel and Beezelbub can go off together, then we can. Just the two of us. We don’t need Heaven, we don’t need Hell, they’re toxic! We need to get away from them, just be an us. You and me, whadda say?”
Aziraphale:
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