fffffff

In addition to which, every couple of months Crowley would pick out a plant that was growing too slowly, or succumbing to leaf-wilt or browning, or just didn’t look quite as good as the others, and he would carry it around to all the other plants. “Say goodbye to your friend,” he’d say to them. “He just couldn’t cut it…”

Then he would leave the flat with the offending plant, and return an hour or so later with a large, empty flower pot, which he would leave somewhere conspicuously around the flat.

The plants were the most luxurious, verdant, and beautiful in London. Also the most terrified.

mrnecessarydic:

hoursago:

i admit the book never actually describes what their wings look like and for all we know aziraphale and crowley could have mallard wings so this is just headcanon (omg ducks…)

but i love the idea that their wings are both crisp white, exactly the same, only one is nice and preened

it just illustrates beautifully that they were the same and are the same…. even though crowley is a demon now he’s still aziraphale’s bro in the weirdo close way that all angels are bros

and i feel this jarring disconnect when his wings are pitch black because it’s like such a striking and standard heaven-vs-hell difference the feathers seem pointless aahhhh

Unf this is so gorgeous I cannot even.

hoursago:

i’m gonna lead you down the path that rocks

CROWLEY THIS IS NOT HOW FEEDING THE DUCKS IS SUPPOSED TO GO

(Source: brocreate)

Crowley had dark hair and good cheekbones and he was wearing snakeskin shoes, or at least presumably he was wearing shoes, and he could do really weird things with his tongue, and, whenever he forgot himself, he had a tendency to hiss.

He also didn’t blink much.

…Contrary to popular belief, the wings of demons are the same as the wings of angels, although they’re often better groomed.

(Source: mochachino)

hoursago:

i admit i can’t take azazel as a threat very seriously

tokidokifish:

Well this is about as done as it’s gonna get, I think. 

Anyhow like I said back here, I wrote some drabbles for angel!Erik and demon!Charles, and here they are:

—

Erik leans towards sunglasses and leather jackets when he isn’t wearing impeccably tailored suits. He likes the newest technology and his Bentley and keeps a well-appointed flat, but he doesn’t much seem to like people, and when he smiles, really smiles, he shows far, far too many teeth.

Charles likes cardigans and maintains a preoccupation with argyle that borders on worrisome. He has a bookstore and a modest flat above it, and there’s not much to tell between them, because both are cluttered and cozy and full of a sprawling, lovingly disorganized collection of books. Charles is gregarious to a fault, and his smiles are all blue eyes and red lips and understanding.

If anyone knew about them, really, they would think Erik is the demon and Charles the angel.

But that’s because not everyone realizes you don’t have to like people to love them, and you don’t have to love people to be entertained by them.

—

Charles hadn’t meant to fall, not really. Erik almost fell, quite a lot more purposefully.

These two facts are related.

—

Back before Erik is Erik and Charles is Charles, Erik sees things entirely in black and white. Consequently, it takes Charles centuries to get back in his good graces after the Fall, during which Erik manages to discorporate five perfectly good bodies.

“Is this really necessary, old friend?” Charles asks, right before he loses the fifth, because he likes that one and he’s really not inclined to let it go without saying something.  

“It wouldn’t be if you stopped coming back,” Erik replies, but at least holy fire is relatively quick, as these things go.  

Some fifty years later, Charles has a new body, and this one ends up sticking, because when he finally finds Erik again, the angel is well and truly drunk for what Charles thinks must be the first time in his existence. Erik is, in fact, drunk enough to ask why, when he realizes Charles has returned once again, but he’s sober enough yet not to expect an answer, because they both know, even if neither of them really wants to say.

Charles doesn’t know what centuries of guilt and nothing else would do to an angel, and he’s really not eager to find out.

So he simply gleans enough information about what’s happened in his absence to think oh, and decides that drinking really was the way to go, and apparently, for once, Erik wouldn’t mind the company. And it may not be like it was before, but then it never really will be, and at least nothing holy and painful is happening, so it’s certainly a start.

—

They don’t talk about the 40s, much.

The closest they had gotten to having to acknowledge it was after Charles had got a commendation, whereupon he got incredibly drunk and slept for a solid two decades, missing out on the 50s entirely and just about all of the 60s. He turned up in Erik’s flat after he woke up in 1969, wrecked on something other than alcohol, and tried, “I would never– I could never–” when the angel found him there.

 Erik shut him up with tea because he certainly didn’t need more alcohol, and they sat on the sofa and watched video of the moon landing that Charles had missed and, eventually, Charles started talking about planting the idea it was faked and everything was back to normal.

Because it was hardly as if he needed to say. Because while Erik worked miracles from inside the camps, Charles had always been there, making what he called mischief because he could hardly call what he did miracles too.