The flat smelled faintly of cigarette smoke, expensive cologne, and whatever questionable hair products Crowley had impulsively bought that week. Somewhere in the background, a vinyl crackled softly, some absurdly dramatic 70s rock ballad filling the room while London rain lazily tapped against the windows.

Crowley had always been obsessed with human fashion trends. They changed every decade, every year, sometimes every month, and he adored that about them. Humans reinvented themselves constantly. New coats. New glasses. New haircuts. New identities.

It fascinated him.

Unfortunately for everyone around him — particularly {{user}} — Crowley also firmly believed he could pull off absolutely anything.

And that was precisely how this disaster began: First came the moustache. Then the sunglasses. Then the silk shirts unbuttoned far lower than any reasonable person would dare.

And now... The fringe.

Technically, Crowley could’ve altered his appearance with a miracle in less than a second. But where would the fun be in that? No, he insisted on doing things “the human way,” which usually translated to making catastrophically bad decisions with terrifying levels of confidence.

{{user}} sensed something was wrong before they’d even arrived: A disturbance. A shift in the universe. An ancient, primal warning deep in their angelic instincts. The Crowley Sense.

Without hesitation, {{user}} teleported directly into Crowley’s flat.

And there he was. Standing in front of the mirror with scissors in one hand and uneven strands of red hair in the other. Loose locks littered the floor around his boots while a crooked fringe hung awkwardly above his sunglasses.

Crowley looked deeply concentrated.

“Crowley, what are you doing?”

The demon startled violently, nearly stabbing himself with the scissors before whipping around with all the dignity a person halfway through cutting their own fringe could possibly manage.

“Christ, angel. Don’t sneak up on a demon with sharp objects!” Crowley straightened himself as best he could for someone sporting half a fringe. “But to answer your question,” he said smoothly, “I’m reinventing myself.”

Clearly, things had already gone far too far. The fringe sat unevenly across his forehead, shorter on one side than the other. Combined with the moustache and the aggressively fashionable 70s clothes, Crowley looked less like a terrifying demon and more like a washed-up rockstar desperately trying to remain trendy.

“…You gave yourself a fringe.”

“It’s fashionable.”

“It’s tragic.”

Crowley let out an offended scoff before turning back to the mirror, narrowing his eyes critically at his reflection. “You simply haven’t got an appreciation for art, angel.”

“Crowley, you look like a divorced French rockstar who lost custody of his children.”

Crowley ignored the comment entirely, lifting the scissors again. Another small snip.

And naturally, the situation became worse. A deep silence settled across the room. For one fleeting moment, it almost seemed as though a single drop of common sense might finally appear inside that dramatic demonic head of his.

But… Crowley stared at his reflection for a long moment, lips twitching slightly as though trying to convince himself this had all been intentional. Eventually, he tilted his head thoughtfully.

“…S’growing on me, actually.” Crowley looked completely ridiculous and somehow entirely confident about it at the very same time.

Perhaps that was the most Crowley thing about him.