my dear boy -

Specific headcanons—Go! 


Put one character or ship and one of these symbols (or more) in my ask box, and I’ll let you know the following for that character/ship:

 : Sleep headcanon

 : Drinking/drunk headcanon

 : Childhood headcanon

 : Genderbent headcanon

 : Sex headcanon

 : Bedroom/house/living quarters headcanon

 : Any AU headcanon (modern, school, medieval, and so on)

 :  Cooking headcanon

 : Mood headcanon

 : Any other question of your choosing

Posted 1 year ago with 50513 notes / Reblog / Via / Source

mine was a memory of amber walks || crowley and aziraphale  


Understanding struck him like a jet of ice cold water, freezing him in place. Everything was slow, even the way he blinked. With a businesslike smile, he sat back in the spinny chair, folding his hands on his stomach. “I’m not going to discorporate you, ang—” He stopped, wet his lips, and his shoulders drooped for a split second before he squared them again, adopting his suave smirk.

“You’ve fallen, like you said. Apparently that entails a bit of memory loss in your case. The long and short of it is that you and I have had something of an understanding and a businesslike partnership. I don’t interfere with you, you don’t interfere with me, and we remain on an even footing.” He didn’t mention the dinners at the Ritz, the bottles of wine in Aziraphale’s back room, the afternoons feeding the ducks. He certainly didn’t mention the Notpocalypse. And he didn’t mention the cottage. For the now-fragile not-angel’s benefit, he told himself.

And not at all to ward off the sharp pain somewhere in his upper abdomen.

The demon kept calling him angel, like it meant something. It wasn’t the name that confused him, because it was what he was. (No, something in Aziraphale remembered, no. It was what he used to be. He’d fallen. It was different, now.) It wasn’t the name that confused him, it was the way that it was used. It was used like a nickname. It was used like an endearment. 

It was used like it meant something, like he meant something other than the other side. 

"Am I supposed to believe you?" He said, trying to make it sound as though he wasn’t being rude. An angel wasn’t rude, even if they were talking to their opponent - but did it count, anymore? Did it count, now that he’d fallen? “How do I know this isn’t a trick? It seems like a trick, my boy, it does.” 

He wet his lips, trying to think, but in all of his memories, the face of this demon did not exist. 

Posted 1 year ago with 9 notes / Reblog / Via / Source

mine was a memory of amber walks || crowley and aziraphale  


There was a split second in which Crowley’s smile faltered, and he physically recoiled, just a bit. Then, taking up his charming grin again, he placed the glass on the end table next to the cot. “Offering you a beverage,” he said quickly, to cover up his momentary silence. It shouldn’t have bothered him. It never had before, when Aziraphale addressed him as his species. After all, Crowley still called him angel. But it did, it worked its way into the back of his mind and sat there. Festering.

“I heard you’d ended up here, so I came out to find you,” he answered more directly. “Didn’t want to give up a good asset, after all.” 

He shuddered. The shudder rolled its way down his back and down his legs, a whole body shake visible to the naked eye. The word asset crawled through his veins like a nauseating reality. He didn’t know. He didn’t understand. 

Aziraphale was an angel, but what did it even mean? 

This Crawly had fallen. He’d tempted Eve. He was a snake. He shouldn’t be here.

"I’m afraid I don’t understand," The angel - that was what he was, wasn’t he? But he’d f a l l e n. Oh, no. His head hurt. His head hurt so badly. ‘You’ll need to tell me what’s going on. I’m not yours, I’m afraid. I’m no one’s asset, you see. I’m an angel, or I was. If you’re going to disencorporate me - well, I’ve fallen, you see, and I don’t know how that will work out for you today.” 

Posted 1 year ago with 9 notes / Reblog / Via / Source

mine was a memory of amber walks || crowley and aziraphale  


Turning back at the sound of the word, he flashed a grin. The relief in his yellow eyes was well-hidden behind his shades, and overall he appeared much calmer than he felt.

“Oh, good, You’re awake. Fancied a trip to Costa Rica, did we, angel? You know, I realize that airplane tickets are expensive, but your travel method is really quite unorthodox.” With a sharp-toothed smile, he sat in the office chair next to the cot and spun to face Aziraphale, offering a glass of water.

“Drink up. You’re incredibly dehydrated. Which matters at this point, for a change.” 

Aziraphale stares. There is a glass of water being held out towards him, and he’s so thirsty it feels as if he could die - that’s a thought he’ll examine later, when he’s safe on his own again - and he doesn’t understand why. 

"What," Blue eyes search the face of a man who is most certainly a demon - the demon, the demon Crawly, and he doesn’t understand, “are you doing here, demon?” 

Posted 1 year ago with 9 notes / Reblog / Via / Source

Agent Phil Coulson everyone

Posted 1 year ago with 6232 notes / Reblog / Via / Source

1 - 2 - 3 - 4, I declare a fic war! 



What: Tumblr Fic War

Who: Anyone who reblogs this post.

When: Until everyone is actualfax dead, because this is WAR suckers!


What: Everyone who reblogs this post is opening their ask box up to the most brutal, feelings-inducing prompts anyone who is playing can imagine.  Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to take those prompts and DESTROY EVERYONE with them. Not just angsty stuff either, fluff can be just as bad, as many of you know!

Posted 1 year ago with 18134 notes / Reblog / Via / Source


Posted 1 year ago with 1 notes / Reblog

that’s pretty nice timing, Cas.

Posted 1 year ago with 1593 notes / Reblog / Via / Source
#spn spoilers 

mine was a memory of amber walks || crowley and aziraphale  



From the moment they began to Fall, Crowley had gone to them, one by one, these fallen wrecks of his brothers and sisters, and so many of them had simply shaken their heads, without strength or heart to rebuff him for daring to speak to them.

And then he had gotten a bit more desperate, moved to possession. Flashes of every country on the planet, and no Aziraphale. Flashes through the eyes of people turning over the fallen, and there was Nathaniel and Ramiel and Jophiel and oh, someone-bless-it, Azrael had fallen too. But no Aziraphale. 

When he returned to London, entered his flat, and all was calm and tidy and just as he had left it, something broke inside of him, there was a whir of motion that he vaguely understood had come from his own limbs, and then he was tracking moist soil across the carpet as he made his way to the telephone. A piece of pottery crunched under toe, and he brushed a clump of roots and leaves off of the dialing pad.

There was one unheard voice message.

First message— The voice of a boy in his early teenage years.

He Fell in Central America. He’s wet, and there isn’t anyone around, but there is a lifeguard station with a telephone number on the side.

And, as Crowley found a few minutes later when he erupted from the business end of a speakerphone, the station was perfectly situated to see the marks and tracks in the sand leading toward the brush.

No one was around. It was all just as well, since no one could hear the strangled cry of relief when he spotted the most beautifully hideous sweater-vest he’d ever laid eyes on. Thanking his lucky stars that there was a med area in the lifeguard station, he hooked one arm around the chubby torso of his angel and hauled him back to the small building. He dried his clothes, wrapped a blanket around him, then stepped back with a guilty sort of look, as if someone might see him caring.

The only person around to see him caring had his eyes closed when the moment of caring occurred, Aziraphale was the only person for miles, save for Crowley, and when he opened his eyes all he felt was pain. Pain that radiated where wings were supposed to be, pain that filled memory shaped spaces. 

But at least he was warm - 

he - was - warm? 

The thought registered slowly. It wasn’t the woods he was lying in anymore - it was darker, warmer, and he was almost thankful before his eyes tracked to see the form of a man who was not a man at all. 

"Why?" He spit the word, ragged with pain, towards a guilty looking demon. The face was familiar, the form was familiar - Crowley, Crowley, Crowley. 

It came with no sort of relief. 

The man was a demon, after all. 

Why was he helping him? 

Posted 1 year ago with 9 notes / Reblog / Via / Source
#can we not  #thread: amber walks