"There must be something I can do for you."
OK so I have been trying for the longest time to make sense of why the fuck they KEPT GOING WITH THE MAGIC ACT when they realized they couldn't do miracles. And I think I've got it.
Once again, it boils down to misunderstanding and miscommunication (surprise surprise):
I fully believe Aziraphale thought he was doing Crowley a favor by offering to do his magic act. Crowley’s in trouble with the theater, the alcohol he was going to sell is ruined because of Aziraphale’s shenanigans at the church. To take some of the pressure off Crowley, he offers to perform.
Here's the thing, though. Aziraphale DOESN'T think he's a very good magician. Just look at how nervous he is! He has zero confidence. Even the coin trick he does for Crowley, he's shocked and delighted when it actually works because he doesn't think it's going to. He's pretending for Crowley's sake because he's trying to get Crowley out of the hot seat with the theater.
That's also why he chooses such a dramatic and dangerous trick for the stage: he has to make it good for Crowley.
Meanwhile.
MEANWHILE.
Crowley sees Aziraphale's offer to do the magic act purely as another one of Aziraphale’s whimsies. Which of course he is going to indulge, because he's a lovesick fool. He goes into FULL SUPPORTIVE HUSBAND mode, builds up Aziraphale's confidence, agrees to do the highly dangerous trick because Aziraphale wants to, because he thinks Aziraphale thinks he's good at magic, because he thinks Aziraphale really wants to get up on stage and perform, and he just doesn't want to see Aziraphale embarrassed... (Sound familiar???)
So. We get to the stage. Aziraphale doesn’t actually want to be there, but he's doing it for Crowley; Crowley doesn't actually want to be there, but he's doing it for Aziraphale. BOTH of them are complete idiots, because they're so enamored with each other and so fucking COMMITTED that neither of them wants to back down when they find out they can't do miracles. They just really want to make their husband happy--so badly that they're willing to risk discorporation for it.
In conclusion: they are idiots and I love them but THEY NEED TO COMMUNICATE JESUS CHRIST
It's no wonder the season ended like it did...
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i’ll be honest i think we put way too much emphasis on ragging on people for who they’re not attracted to or don’t wanna have sex with than just making sure people are treating people they’re not attracted too with the same level of decency and respect that they give to people they are into. like i think it’s very important to deconstruct why you might not be attracted to fat people, or masculine lesbians, or trans people, or people of races that are not your own, but at the end of the day our brains are weird as hell and we ultimately have very little control over who we end up attracted to. but what you do have control over is how you interact with and treat people that you’re not interested in. this is not even to mention that being attracted to a certain feature doesn’t even necessarily mean that you’re treating those people with respect!!!!
i can only speak to my own identities, but at the end of the day i don’t care if you’re not attracted to me because i’m fat or because i’m trans or because i’m masculine. what i do absolutely care about is that you recognize that just because i’m not your cup of tea, doesn’t mean those qualities are inherently unattractive and doesn’t make me any less deserving of respect and kindness
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"oh good, you're right where i left you," i say smiling at the sight of my pup leashed to the leg of the coffee table. "you didn't try to get on the couch while i was gone, did you?"
"no sir, i promise i was good this time."
without a word, i walk over to the couch and look for any signs of disturbance. everything is exactly as i left it.
"and you didn't touch yourself?"
"no sir."
"good. because after all," i say squatting down and reaching a hand between their thighs, "this is mine. is that clear? it belongs to me."
my pup's face flushes as they nod their head.
"i asked you a question. speak."
"y-yes sir. it belongs to you."
"aw, don't sound so nervous. i can feel your body sending a different message, my sweet pup," i tease. "besides, you know i hate being hard on you. it's just that even the dumbest mutts have to learn to behave."
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Star Wars AU where the council time travels back to when Obi-Wan was still an itty-bitty baby initiate. Including, you know. Council Member Obi-Wan Kenobi. So they’re all in their younger bodies and talking with the current non-time traveling members of the council, and they’re like “hold on, we got one more coming in”
And in walks in like. Nine year old Initiate Obi-Wan, all chubby-cheeked with fluffy bright red hair, and giant blue eyes.
Just. Their faces, okay?
Now keep in mind I want the council to always be Up To Shenanigans. I’m talking like 2015 Avengers tower found family era fics okay, they’re one big family and Obi-Wan is now super officially The Baby and literally nothing he does will ever stop that again. And despite everything, every single council member is, at heart, incredibly petty in that special Jedi family way and are so ready to not be dealing with a war Right This Very Minute.
What I keep picturing is Baby-Wan wiggling his way into a chair, situating himself Very Regally, then clasping his hands in classic Negotiator style, then speaking up with the Most Serious Of Tiny Baby Voices as the main spokesperson on the Council Of Petty Time Travelers
I just want to see people not in the know
I want Jedi of all ages witnessing Jedi masters, councilmen and women, long lived and wisest of the Jedi, coming to the crèche to visit tiny lil Baby-Wan about his opinions on current events and how they should handle this treaty and also when are you free I want to test my soresu
I just think it’d be funny
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Y’all want the Cowboy!Ghost meet-cute? This one’s longer because I’m ripping it straight from the Cowboy fic’s first draft.
He holds up a twenty neatly folded between his fingers without even looking at you, "how much is it gonna cost to get you to leave me alone?" He asks, the bass rumble of his voice making you all the more sure of your decision. You glance from the skeletal mask to the black Stetson tipped low over his eyes.
"The hat."
"Not for sale."
“Not even just for tonight?” You ask, feeling buzzed and bold as you lean against the bar. There’s the slightest turn of his head as he looks at you. The warm brown of his eye as it peaks from under the shadow of his brim hits you better than any shot could.
“How about a drink,” He says after a long moment, motioning for the bartender.
“How about two,” You grin, his mask shifts, his eyes crinkling a little at the edges, “What are you drinking?”
“Piss,” He says, pushing his mask up enough to get a swallow of his beer. He’s funny, you’d laugh if you weren’t so entranced by his lips against the bottle. You rip your eyes off him when he pulls the mask back into place. You gotta get this man a decent drink. You press up onto your toes to lean across the bar and talk to the bartender.
“Are the Sisters still making hooch?” You ask, the tender nods and grabs two shot glasses for you. You settle back on your feet, feeling the pleasant weight of your companion’s gaze dragging over you. You wait as the glasses are filled with 2oz of the only thing you missed on the coast. Well, maybe not the only thing. Your cowboy’s fingers pinch around the sides of the shot, his hand dwarfing the glass. You both tap your shots to the bar before throwing them back. You shake your head at the burn as he lets out a cough.
“Oh that is dead,” He says, lord his voice is so thick when it’s pleased. Rumbling nicely in his throat, you’re desperate to see what it tastes like.
“So,” You draw his eyes back to your face with just one word, “What’s a Manchester boy doing in this shithole?”
He lets out a breath through his teeth, flicking the brim of his hat back to get a better look at you. His eyes make you warm all over in a way that the alcohol can’t. “Manchester, huh-” He motions for another shot, “You even know where that is, Princess?”
“North of Birmingham, west of Sheffield. Do I need to answer any more trivia for you to take me home?” You smile, tapping your refilled shot against his before downing it. His fingers hesitate on his glass as he looks at you, eyes following your tongue as you lick the last drop of moonshine off your lips.
He reaches up and takes off his hat, settling it on your head. It’s big and warm, and sits just a little too low on you, but you don’t care, it’s his. His claim on you. He takes his shot clean, pulling his mask back up as he tosses far too much cash on the bar and grabs your hand.
You barely get to his truck before you’re pressed against it, his hands gripping your face as he presses his lips to yours. It’s warm and cotton-y. You laugh, feeling bubbly from the moonshine, as he growls and rips his mask off before kissing you again.
And oh, he’s good with his mouth. You can tell by the slide of his lips, the way he holds your face just the way he wants to. His tongue presses against the seam of your lips and you open eagerly for him, letting him taste the cheap sugary booze you’d been sipping before you saw him. He licks into your mouth, skimming your teeth before twisting his tongue against yours in a way that makes you shiver. His mouth is warm and wet, and he groans when you suck on his tongue. You want to hear that sound for the rest of your life. He tips your head back and back, his hat held to your head by the closed cab door as he crowds you against his truck forcing you to take everything he gives you.
Your chest is warm and you can feel your blood pumping want through to your fingertips as you twist them into his shirt. You want to be drunk on him, you think this is the best decision you’ve ever made. Especially when his hands leave your face to grab your hips, his leg wedged between yours. He drags your hips to grind against his thigh, all hard muscle and oh you can feel him. The hard line of his cock just at the apex of your movements. It makes all your heat pool between your legs. Mm, he was absolutely a good decision.
“What am I screaming for you?” You murmur, between kisses, desperate to know your cowboy’s name.
“Simon,” He tells you, ducking to mouth at your neck. “Simon,” he says it again, bites it into your skin, like he’s reminding himself.
“Simon,” you sigh, enjoying the way saying his name makes his hold on you tighten.
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