#future tartan

[bttf-dork]

Just thought it was cool that a “McFly” tartan is registered :) The Scottish Register of Tartans is definitely an Internet rabbit hole of interesting stuff, check it out if you have the chance!

[dreamgrlarchive]

In companionship to my beauty binder, I made what’s called a “fashion diary.” I keep all my fashion inspo in it and actually transferred some of my fashion content from my binder to my diary + expanded on it. 🎀

why?

super fun hobby for people like me (fashion students, future designers/stylists, fashion enthusiasts) or people trying to find their look. passion is and always has been my absolute passion! i just want to integrate it into my life in every possible way. 💓

what to record in your diary? 🗒️💓

an intro sheet + there are 5 main sections i keep in my fashion diary:

inspo, wishlist, stylingz, details, my signature look 🧁

intro sheet

on this page i recorded what my fashion goals are and what i planned to accomplish with my diary 🍒

inspo

in this section i keep printed out pictures of ANYTHING that inspires a look in my head. it doesn’t have to be clothing. i have photos of desserts, animals, places, etc. and if i don’t get a chance to print a photo i’ll write a short entry about what i saw that inspired me. 💗

wishlist

pretty self-explanatory. i keep a list of all the items i wanna buy/try on. i like printing out pics of pieces i want and recording where to get them from. 🍰

stylingz

i style my own looks under the name “noelle’s prêt-à-porter” or “noelle’s ready to wear.” i style looks based on pieces i own and pieces on my wishlist. i use this as way to hone in on my curation skills. i keep printouts of lookz i made and future concept ideas in this section. + i keep diy ideas in this section 🍓

detailz

here i keep track of recurring themes and details in pieces/looks i love. consistently there’s the following: “leopard print, heart shaped accessories, rhinestones and diamanté details, fur trims, french tipz, hoop earrings, everything bedazzled, silk presses, fuzzy pens, cute little charmed accessories are all so me” (-@realprissygrl on twitter 🎀)

my signature look

my signature look has been curated over the course of years. here i keep track of my color palette, my fav silhouettes and kinds of pieces, etc. you can use my branding tag to help yourself find your signature look. “marajuku: bodycon clothing, pink and neutrals, designer bags, french tips, fur details, cheetah print, diamanté details, silk presses, pink + neutral color combos, fuzzy pens, hoop earrings + diamond studz, heart shaped charms, tartan plaid, cute little charmed accessories, long wispy lashes, pink lip gloss” (-@realprissygrl on twitter 🎀)

[vintagesimstress]

Akogare's Matilda Dress recolour/retexture

I love the dress Akogare made a year ago for TSR YeMedieval collab and have been using it on my little Celtic sims all the time, but originally it had only some 8 or 9 swatches. A big waste for such a pretty thing! Now it can have more... MUCH more.

This time it's really just a recolour. Mesh not included. You need to grab the original one from TSR: here! (And I really hope Akogare is ok with it: all their new creations disallow recolouring, but older ones, including this one, say it's fine if you don't include the mesh, so... We're good, right? It's really fine?)

Comes in 3 versions:

Solids, meaning 40 swatches in my Iron Age palette;

Tartan Welsh, meaning 17 swatches with (afaik) actual Welsh patterns

and last but not least, Tartan Mix, meaning... drum rolls please... 85 swatches with different tartan patterns found on clan.com. If you think this number is crazy, then, well, you're right - but on the other hand, the website offers... let me check... 4667 tartan patterns! So, you see. I did restrain myself. Quite a lot 😅

All the versions come in two flavours: HQ (default) or nonHQ. Download only one per package!

Just a couple of swatches for the preview this time, because I'm not crazy enough to take screenshots of all 40+17+85, so what's the point in even trying:

I might upload both of the tartan palettes for anyone who's interested and also for reference, because I have a feeling I'm going to go ahead and tartanise everything I deem worthy of my save in the nearest future 🤭

DOWNLOAD (free on Patreon, no ads or EA)

And just a general heads up, especially as I'm sending you to another post in here: all CAS items are .package files. ALL. Always. If you ever download anything for CAS and it's a script mod all of a sudden (e.g. a preset, like it happened lately...), something's wrong. Don't put it in your mods folder, best delete immediately and contact someone who's dealing with such stuff. Even me if you don't have a better idea ;).

[cheeseplants]

Aziraphale's crisis of Faith

So this scene has always been the one that gave me goosebumps from Good Omens. Even from the first time I saw S1, it properly took my breath away. But for a long time, I felt like I was missing something.

Of course we know that when Aziraphale says: “You go too fast for me Crowley” he isn’t talking about the car. He is talking about something else. And I think a lot of us immediately jumped to the idea that Crowley was pushing their relationship faster than Aziraphale was willing to go.

But it doesn’t feel like the whole picture, because well we know Aziraphale does do a lot for their relationship. He literally sets up an embassy of Heaven so they can hang out (his bookshop). He almost gets himself decapitated so he can invite Crowley out for crepes. He puts on a whole magic show to get Crowley off the hook. Sure he might have been scared by the fact that Hell managed to get a photo of them together, but that still didn’t quite fit the line.

Then I realised if you take all of S2 into account, it’s not about Crowley pushing their relationship too fast, it’s about Aziraphale having a crisis of Faith.

Take the lighting in this scene. Most of the time to show that Crowley and Aziraphale are on 'their side', they tend to be lit one half dark/one half light.

BUT in this scene Aziraphale is almost entirely in the dark.

He is nervous and twitchy, and when he hands over the Holy Water he knows what statement he is making. He is the one pushing their relationship to another level. He is showing Crowley that he will go against what he believes “I haven’t changed my mind” to show how much he cares about him.

He hands him it in a flask made out of his own tartan. When Crowley offers him a lift, he says: “Maybe one day we will go for a picnic or dine at the Ritz”. He is saying that some part of him hopes and believes there is a future where they can be together.

My theory is that “You go too fast for me Crowley” is basically Aziraphale saying, for them to take it to the next level he has to give up his Faith. Crowley is pushing Aziraphale to reconsider what it is to be an Angel, to go against Heaven, to actually renounce it.

And Aziraphale is saying: “Maybe one day I will, I’m just not there yet”. But that’s huge, because Aziraphale is literally saying one day I might give this all up for you.

Then I saw the script notes for that scene in S1, and in the bit that was cut you see him with a Halo that is switching on and off. They also nearly put Everyday in this bit, which feels like an analysis for another day. But it does suggest the start of something.

I think that something happened between 1941 and 1967 which pushed Aziraphale to question his Faith, but he’s just not ready yet.

Which then makes the last 15 minutes of S2 even more brutal, because Crowley really believed that Aziraphale was ready. That he was willing to give it all up. And the shot of Crowley waiting by the Bentley parallels that scene in S1, because Aziraphale could go take the lift with Crowley or he can walk back out into Heaven.

But here’s the thing, you look at Aziraphale’s face. I don’t think he is fully on board with Heaven anymore. And guess what, the lights on that elevator sure look like they are blinking on and off to me.

[peppertaemint]

Let's talk about Taemin and Key of SHINee wearing the Scottish fashion house Charles Jeffrey Loverboy, an openly queer unisex brand. There’s a lot of talk about whether idols know who they are wearing and, when relevant, do they understand the meaning of what they are wearing. We know there are clear examples of artists not understanding what they’re wearing. Indeed, 23-year-old, non-English-speaking Taemin admitted in 2021 that he had no idea the fly of his pants read “Open Here” during View era. Yet, a lot has changed this 2015/16. Taemin’s English is quite proficient. And what about Key, who has studied English since he was a child? I think we can consider understanding the words and understanding the context or broader meaning behind words or, as the case may be, symbols, which can be universal.

Taemin in the Advice album photobook, 2021.

The Charles Jeffrey Loverboy brand is no ordinary brand. It’s a spunky, fun and edgy unisex brand with genuine British flavour. From London Fashion Week's write up:

"Looking back to look forward, the collections re-render historical references as intrinsically modern while paying respect to an ancestral line-up of costumiers, performance artists and queer icons. Jeffrey’s nightlife-influenced thirst for experimentation, and belief in the validity of mistakes, result in a colourful tension between control and chaos.

"LOVERBOY’s roots are fixed in London’s queer nightlife scene, having been born in 2014 as both a fashion label and a cult club night. The LOVERBOY parties, first staged while Jeffrey was studying for his Masters in fashion design at Central St Martins in London, were attended by the city’s up-and-coming artists, performers, musicians, drag queens and poets, many of whom became Jeffrey’s future muses and creative collaborators."

Live performance of Advice, 2021.

The tartan in these looks is known as the loverboy tartan. In the current collection, they have an “odorable” loverboy tartan raincoat with giant floppy bunny ears. I’m too lazy to link it, but do look it up and peruse the punk-meets-whimsy items on the website.

Taemin’s stylist for Advice was Kim Wook. You can read an interview with Kim Wook in translation here. Wook talks about he and Taemin wanting to do something impactful before Taemin entered the military, and they settled on working with silhouettes that are usually seen on female dancers. I could do a whole post on Taemin’s styling for Advice (maybe I will!), but to connect things back to the brand at hand, the flamboyantly unisex Loverboy brand seems to be at home with the goal of Advice’s styling. Advice was Taemin’s way of saying “I will go my own way and trust myself over others,” and I don’t think the androgynous or even gender-fluid looks he presented are a coincidence; Wook’s interview shows that it isn’t. These looks feel like a push forward for Taemin, and he’s been clear in saying Advice was a breakaway from his past. Act I and Act II were leading to this moment.

Taemin has been wearing Charles Jeffery Loverboy upon in return in 2023. I think the most significant choice is the non-binary shirt he wore a fan meeting during Hard era. The t-shirt is a jab at conservatives’ obsession with the love lives and indeed, bathroom usage, of LGBT+, saying, “They’re happy and satisfied. Are you?” There is a also a good-sized, unmistakable non-binary symbol on the shirt. I hadn’t seen this symbol before but it was still easy for me to comprehend. As an artist who is increasingly wearing gender-fluid outfits, it is likely a conscious choice to wear a shirt that supports non-binary rights.

Now, we can’t forget fashion-forward, English king Key in all of this. Key has always had a love and fascination with fashion; we saw in One Fine Day his interaction with a local London fashion brands. He’s a man who knows his fashion houses, so it seems unlikely he wouldn’t know about the Loverboy brand or its ethos as a unisex brand.

Key primarily wore Charles Jeffrey Loverboy accessories for his Gasoline promotions in 2022. The adorable hat with ears is statement wrapped in cuteness, that speaks to the camp motif present in both Key’s body of work and the Loverboy label’s. It’s cute, but not too cute. It’s loud but soft, and the Loverboy stamp is there for all to see. I think that Key embodies what LSF wrote about the Lovery label as “a colourful tension between control and chaos.” Key is never afraid to experiment, and he can go from creating iconic androgynous silhouettes reminiscent of ancient gods and Beyoncé to the retro-camp shown below that almost looks like it could be at home in a Ghostbusters film. Almost.

There are contexts where, like the above, it is more than reasonable to assume that the artists understand what they are wearing and that the choices made are conscious and in some cases made with the goal of the comeback in mind. And there are situations where it’s possible or even confirmed by the artist that they didn’t know what they were wearing or what it meant. I think it can become an obsession for some to want the styling to be conveying a secret code. With the case of Charles Jeffrey Loverboy, there’s no code and it’s not secret. It’s simply known and recognised by those who know, which is enough.

[morosexual-aziraphale]

i'm thinking about the south downs cottage again. i am thinking about cozy sofas and tartan blankets and walls lined with bookshelves. a lush garden and an overstocked wine cellar and two chairs at the table by the kitchen window. i am thinking about a record player softly singing as two immortal beings share a dance in their living room by lamplight with no fear and an endless amount of time to spend together. i am thinking about the future and it looks like laughter and burned dinners and holding hands and meandering strolls and no looking over your shoulder to see if you're being watched.

yeah. i'm thinking about the south downs cottage

[gayholic69]

A letter to Aziraphale

Dear Angel, now that I have finally spoken my true feelings out loud, I have come to a conclusion that I may have been too late, but not "too late" for you not to consider the possible outcome of my desire for our future where we could have been us. It weighs on me all the more when I think of the choice you made and thought was the only one; in your mind—the right one.

But I shall remember you as beautiful and pure in my eyes as when I first saw you in heaven. My memory must never forget (and if it does, hell may bathe me in holy water) those mesmerizing orbs that graced your charming face. Oh, how they reminded me of the whole universe! Every time our gazes met, I was reminded of what it was like to have a home. Your adorable dimples that appeared when I played dumb, that nervous adjusting of your tartan bow tie, or your lovely stuttering every time I complimented you—you've bewitched me and my soul.

Our paths may have diverged, but my deep feelings will endure the worst fate; and maybe, just maybe we will have a chance to talk about it once more. Take care, my Angel.

Yours sincerely, Crowley

explanation and my thoughs:I figured, that If (and that's a big IF) letters were still a common thing in communication at the end of season two of Good Omens, then there could be a possibility of Crowley sending one of these to Aziraphale. I cannot unsee the majestic and romantic impact that this could have had on the whole story (which is totally perfect on it's own, but I found it very passionate and I felt too enthusiastic not to share this little piece I created.)

[maximumwobblerbanditdonut]

I HAVE AN obsession with the color green. It’s a color of opposites. Green is life, growth, and health. It’s also sickness, greed, and envy. It’s good and bad at once. And it’s everywhere this afternoon as I sit down with actor, producer, author, and entrepreneur Sam Heughan — most recognized for his starring role in the Scotland-based time travel drama “Outlander.” His shirt bears a green tartan pattern, somewhere between jade and emerald. To my right, the glass bottle of his new gin is a transparent seafoam. Above my head is the leafy expanse of a tree, planted in the courtyard of New York’s Crosby Street Hotel. The gin we sip tastes green: grassy and alpine, fresh as menthol and bright as a sour apple. Most vividly is the green in my mind’s eye: the wet, rich, misty green of Scotland, a place Heughan speaks of with rapture.

Missing home is what drove Heughan to launch his spirits brand Sassenach, after the Scottish Gaelic word for an English person, or rather, an “outsider.” “When I was in London away from home, a jobbing actor, missing Scotland, I remember my first time trying a single malt whisky and I had such an emotional reaction,” he recalls from across the table, his bright blue eyes wide. “It reminded me of Scotland.”

I remark on the gin’s legs, thick and viscous, streaking the sides of my glass. Heughan nods, “I increased the strength. It just gives it a bit more weight. I love a bit of weight on my tongue.” Toasted oats give a creamy feel to the cornucopia of flavors present in the liquid: pine resin, heather, blackberry leaf, blaeberry — and, again, that sour green apple. “There’s no citrus in Scotland. That’s why I chose apples,” Heughan explains. “I remember as a kid, picking them and throwing them at people, eating them, then being really ill because they’re so sour.”

Heughan’s family — his mother, brother, and uncle — still live in Scotland. His uncle used to have a ceilidh band. “[Ceilidh is] a traditional Scottish dance,” he explains. “It’s madness. Everyone’s drinking whisky and the dancers get faster and faster and there are lots of spinning people around.” Heughan listens to a lot of Scottish music. He later sends me a song called “Blackbird” by Martyn Bennett, known for mixing dance tracks with traditional Celtic music. I tear up at its aching slants. “It makes me homesick for a home that’s not mine,” I message him. “That’s Scotland,” he writes back. “It does that to people.”

Sam Heughan Is in Good Spirits Image Float

Heughan was raised by a single mother in the south of Scotland — the rural stretches of Dumfries and Galloway. “Spent a lot of time on my own pretending I was a knight or Robert the Bruce.” The land’s botanicals now flavor his gin. Courtesy of Sam Heughan.

“It’s one foot in the present, one in the past,” muses Heughan about his country, adding a splash of tonic to my gin, whose flavor now reveals a pleasant salinity. “The castles. So many great battles. You

can feel the history. I think that’s what makes it so magical.” This history is inextricably linked to ritual, observed in Scotland to this day. Take Beltane, a pagan ritual beginning serendipitously on Heughan’s birthday, April 30. “You’re supposed to stay up all night and wash your face in the fresh dew when the sun rises, then go to bed and dream of your future spouse,” he describes. “It’s all about rebirth and nature.”

We talk about other parts of the world that have shaped him, as I remark on his fusion accent: a bit Scottish for sure, but mixed with something else, sort of American and British, too. America’s opportunity and diversity captivate Heughan. He came here for the first time at 18, hostel hopping in San Francisco. “I remember looking at the Golden Gate Bridge for hours, playing my cassette of ‘(Sittin’ On) the Dock of the Bay’ by Otis Redding over and over. I was living on $5 burritos — one a day. It’s all I could afford.” He speaks of Hawaii with reverence — the local culture’s connection to wildlife and the sea. He spent time with a fisherman and his family there who taught him the Indigenous way to fish: “Gut it straight away. Take out the heart, say a prayer, and throw it back into the ocean immediately to allow the soul of the fish to live on.” New Zealand also moves him. He was there recently and learned about tā moku, the art of Māori tattooing. “You sit with an artist and tell him your story. He chooses where it goes on your body and makes it there and then. He stuck [the initial sketch] on my left forearm here, and it was all about my mom and my brother and the absence of my father.” He wants to return to New Zealand and get the tattoo next time.

My gin has opened up even more, spreading out into softer, aromatic florals as Heughan uncorks a bottle of his whisky. “People have called you a global heartthrob.” I begin, “Is that a role you’re —”

“Who has?” His eyes grow bigger in feigned shock. (Fun fact: the Sam Heughan fanbase even has their own name — “Heughligans.”)

“Someone I talked to in the subway.”

“Right, right,” he nods gravely, pouring new glasses.

“Do you,” I continue, taking a sip, “feel comfortable in that role?” The whisky tastes like a spicy Werther’s caramel.

“My character is what some people aspire to, and I understand why. He’s this incredible human being who’s just so in love with his wife and does the most romantic things. Selfless. People then think you might be that person. I’m certainly not. But it’s something to aspire to.”

“Are you comfortable,” I press, “being an object of desire?” Heughan shares that in earlier years, he was treated in a way that would no longer be tolerated. “I’d be asked, ‘What’s under your kilt?’ or ‘How do you get your abs?’ I wish I did have abs! We were just in a different industry. I don’t have resentment or a grudge. But I would like to be seen for the work that I do, rather than my looks.”

While he’s still based in Scotland, Heughan also has a house in LA, a city he’s not exactly sold on. He toys with the idea of New York as his next home base. He loves it here. “The cocktail bars. Cycling along the West Side. SoHo. The river. Getting a ferry. I’m so into ferries! I’ll go to Staten Island, then come back again. We got a helicopter the other day back from the Hamptons — I don’t like helicopters. They’re not meant to fly. However, seeing the Statue of Liberty from there, it’s so good. New York could be my city.”

I show Heughan around some local spots that evening. We sit at the bar of Superbueno for mezcal drinks and tacos. The music gets louder and so do the crowds. Mouth full of al pastor, I semi-shout a question in Heughan’s direction, asking if he ever gets overstimulated. “No, not really,” he replies simply, between chewing. At 6 feet, 3 inches, Heughan towers over seemingly everyone. Maybe it’s calmer up there. There’s an overall good-natured quality to him; it’s soothing to be around.

We head to another bar, Mr. Fongs. The air is thick with the smell of trash and rats dart to and fro. A subway thunders overhead as we walk below a bridge in Chinatown. “This is awesome,” Heughan murmurs. We order the bar’s specialty: salty plum old-fashioneds. “I want a place where the second I walk out my door, I’m right in the center of all of it,” he says decidedly, whistling a little at the (notoriously strong) drink. “Right in the middle.”

Heughan is noticeably unadorned. I suggest some rings and an ear piercing for his New York era. A candle light flickers against his cheek, evoking another world — someplace old and rural and rugged. At this moment, I see his character, a fantasy projection of the leading man. But really, we’re just in Chinatown, weighing the pros and cons of earrings on men. “Sadly I don’t think I’m quite cool enough,” he sighs, “to pull that off.” ▪️

Our Contributors

Sophie Mancini Writer

Sophie Mancini is an editor at Departures. Born and raised in New York City, she holds a degree in creative writing from Johns Hopkins University and has a background as a writer in brand and editorial.

Diana Markosian Photographer

Diana Markosian (born in Moscow, 1989) is a Russian-American photographer of Armenian descent. Her work explores memory and place through a layered, interdisciplinary process that uses photography and video. Her photographs have been published in National Geographic, the New Yorker, and the New York Times.

Robert Ormerod Photographer

Robert Ormerod is a photographer interested in telling stories. He is based in Scotland, working across the U.K. for titles such as National Geographic, The Guardian Saturday magazine, The New York Times, T Magazine, The Wall Street Journal, and Bloomberg Businessweek.

Tom Craig Photographer

Tom Craig is a photographer and director whose work has been featured in Vogue, i-D, and Vanity Fair. His work is driven by a desire to tell stories and the urge to travel. His work often blurs the line between fashion photography and straightforward reportage.

**Full article from @departures www.departures.com

[mrscakeishere]

Remember when Friday night was X-Files night?

Crowley remembers!

You can find out just how much he loves the show, and his journey with Muriel to solve the mystery of the missing archangel in Pass the Remote, Angel. (Rated M).

This one is an oldie, but a goodie. Well...I think it's a goodie, but then again, I wrote it, so I'm biased. 😆

I posted it today on @goodomensafterdark for the first time, to spread the paranormal love. Summary and excerpt below.

Summary:

Aziraphale has returned to Heaven, leaving Crowley a tv binge-watching wreck. However, healing can come from the most unlikeliest of places. While Muriel has been instructed to provide daily reports of the demon’s emotional state, they find that sharing time together, even by watching a scary show, can be the catalyst that builds friendships. And they’d probably both be couch potatoes by now if the Supreme Archangel hadn’t just gone missing.

Excerpt:

In the first week following Aziraphale’s return to Heaven, Crowley had experienced multiple stages of grief. When he stood by his car, he was in denial. When he stole Aziraphale’s tartan blanket from the bookshop, he was in the throes of anger. And for the several days that he sat in his chair trying to talk to a God that never listens, he engaged in bargaining.

Now he was in the sad-TV-binge-watching stage. And when you’re an occult being that has just broken up with an angel you never technically dated, you binge the X-Files.

It had been one of Crowley’s favorite shows during the 90s after the Golden Girls went off the air. He had found most of the tales preposterous, but he had become rather invested in Mulder and Scully’s relationship. It was clear the two humans wanted each other and the sexual tension was excruciating to watch, all of which made the show maddening and addictive. His emotional attachment to the paranormal crime fighting duo’s relationship used to bother him, but back then he could never put his finger on exactly why.

And now here he was, over twenty years later, lying on the couch with his fourth bottle of Merlot and watching season three, having an epiphany that transcended the manifestation of Jesus.

“I’m Mulder.”

Mulder. Passionate, intuitive, tall. Slightly unhinged, but reasonably paranoid. Always trying to convince the stubborn Agent Scully of the Truth and failing even when the Truth is staring directly in her face in the form of a giant galactic spaceship. And he was “spooky.” Crowley liked spooky.

And then there was Scully. Kind, intelligent, a bit short. Often pouty, but adorably cute. Always so sure of her faith in God. And clearly pining for Mulder while pushing him away for years because she didn’t think she could ever have a real future with him.

F**king Scully.

He considered throwing what was left of the bottle of merlot at the television.

Continue reading on Ao3.

[ghostieblotts]

One last Starkid Innit bracelet post! I made these four last night.

A Lords in Black one which I will probably recreate sometime in the future after the show so I can keep one

This one took so long to make because I really wanted to recreate the tartan-y pattern on Pete's suspenders

There go all the N and A beads! This is quite a looser bracelet but I wanted to make sure I had the right number of "wanna"s.

And here's the full set! Not loads, but at least some to trade tomorrow. So very excited!!

Once again, thank you to @starkid-innit and @vesperione for the information and inspiration! I hope you both have a lovely time tomorrow :D

[hoshologies]

HEATED BLANKET, KWON S.

synopsis — hoshi comes home late, aching. you’re sleeping on the couch, cuddled up with a heated blanket. just what the doctor ordered.

genres &&. warnings — fluff, romance, friends to lovers!au, non-idol!au &&. none

word count — 1.5k

from the author — invested in a heated blanket a few months ago. one of the best purchases i’ve ever made (/srs)

mid-january in seoul has always proved chilly, but it feels moreso now than it did when hoshi left the apartment earlier today. it's closing in on eleven pm and the neighborhood where his apartment building stands. his breath billows out in thick, opaque clouds and his body aches something fierce.

he'd been on campus since eight this morning, both for lectures and his own classes. (initially, he'd been excited when offered the opportunity to teach his own dance classes for other students, but with the semester in full-swing, he's starting to regret it a little). he had wanted to be home for dinner, but he'd gotten caught up studying with some friends at the library and lost track of time until the ten minute closing announcement had been made and his gang had finally cleared out.

now, he's walking home after an almost fifteen-hour day and he wants nothing more than to get cozy and sleep for a solid ten hours. he's hungry, he's cold, his entire body aches, and for reasons unknown, he just... misses you. you: his roommate, his best friend, his other half. he hasn't seen you all day and he just knows that seeing you right now would make his immediate future so much better.

he shakes his head as he presents his keycard to the reader of the apartment building. what is he doing, thinking about you like that? you're best friends and he doesn't like you more than that; he can't.

but you want to, a little voice in the back of his head says.

he blocks it out, stepping into the warmth of the lobby and sighing audibly. he has more important things to think about and do than ruining the best relationship he's ever had in his life. it's not worth losing that all because of one little unwanted thought.

the elevator is unfathomably warmer, but it still doesn't even begin to penetrate the bitter cold that has seeped directly into his bone marrow. he aches all over, feet dragging down the carpeted hall towards your shared apartment's door. he's never been so relieved in his whole life as his key slips into the lock with no resistance, as the door opens effortlessly without a creak.

he stays silent, toeing out of his sneakers and replacing them with his house slippers. his keychain goes in the small dish in the entryway table and his backpack on the hook next to the door. home and routine, everything has a place: you have matching keychains that go next to each other in the dish, specified places for your items to slip right in next to each other, all even and perfect.

it's his favorite thing about coming home after a long day, seeing his shoes tucked into the rack next to yours, your bags paired together, keys discarded side by side.

he slips quietly into the living room, expecting darkness, but he's openly surprised when his expectation is subverted. netflix is idling on the tv screen, available shows cycling through on repeat, and there you are, not in bed, but on the couch, your back pressed firm against the back cushions. a tartan blanket is tucked over you and his eyes trail, falling on the cord, and he realized you pulled out the heated blanket he'd gotten you for christmas.

he tries (valiantly, he swears) and fails to fight the smile that pulls at the corners of his mouth, the warmth in his chest that fills him with a certain kind of joy. you'd expressed gratitude when you'd unwrapped the thing at christmas, but he hadn't seen you use it until now. it must be cozy because you don't often fall asleep on the couch like this unless you're really, truly comfortable.

it seems enticing.

and, mind still steeped in winter cold, he can't stop himself. glad he changed into sweatpants for dance classes in the evening, he moves with a practiced gentleness, moving to the couch and pulling back the blanket just enough to slide in next to you. the thing is toasty under his fingers and he knows this is exactly what he needs.

once he settles, knees knocking against your own, he realizes just how close you are. he's not completely clueless, but you're so near that your noses almost touch. it sends his heart into such a frenzy that he swears it's the reason you start stirring.

"soonyoung?" you ask quietly, eyes cracking open as you stretch your legs. "when did you get home?"

"just now," he replies just as softly. he can feel himself go all soft and gentle with you like this and he knows there's no coming back from that realization. "didn't mean to wake you up. sorry."

you shake your head as best you can and scoot in closer. "no big deal. i probably needed to get up and move to my bed for the night anyway."

he goes still and, after much deliberation, he slides his arm over your waist, tucking his hand between your body and the back cushion of the couch. you glance up at him groggily and he has to will himself calm.

"let's just stay here for a while," he says, tipping his head forward and resting his forehead against yours.

"are you okay?" you question. it's a simple ask, but it sends his heart reeling. "you're not usually this affectionate."

but for all your seemingly resistance to whatever is transpiring in this moment, you're not exactly rejecting it. and it's not like the two of you don't get physically affectionate ever; it's a norm in your relationship, it just feels different this time.

so soonyoung nods and lets out a little huff of a laugh. "yeah, i'm okay. it's just cold out tonight and i had to walk home from the station."

finally, finally your arm slips around him in reciprocation after his confession. it leaves little space between you that goes untouched and very little reservation in his mind that this is anything more than platonic.

he doesn't know what changed between this morning and ten mintues ago, but he's not complaining.

"i told you to not go today," you say softly as your eyes slide closed and you readjust, tucking yourself perfectly against his chest, your head fitting just right underneath his chin. "i told you."

"yeah, you did," soonyoung relents, smiling to himself. "i should have listened to you."

"you should always listen to me," you respond, voice muffled by his hoodie. he can feel the warmth of your breath through the thick fabric and it makes him want to smile even more. "it's okay though since you're here now."

he nods and lets a comforting, tranquil silence settle over the living room. he basks singularly in the weight of your body pressed against him and the warmth of the heated blanket tucked over the top of you two. paired with the freshly falling snow he can see through the window over the back of the couch, it is like the pair of you are the only two people left in the world.

"are you sure you're okay?"

"yeah, i'm fine. we can talk about it in the morning, promise. go back to sleep."

"m'kay. g'night, hosh."

"goodnight."

he knows he'll have to come clean in the morning, which scares him more than anything. but for now, it is just the two of you and the heated blanket and the snow beyond the window and things are okay. he has to believe they'll stay that way.

© hoshologies 2023. do not translate, copy, or repost my work on any site.

[vintagesimstress]

Tartan Patterns for Recolours

Just a couple of resources this time, both for your potential use and for future reference, so that I wouldn't have to take screenshots of all the swatches every time I recolour something in those patterns :)

17 supposedly Welsh + 85 random pretty tartan patterns, the latter taken from clan.com. All seamless ofc.

Come also in 'thumbnails' versions, which will be recognised by the game if you import them in S4S as swatches' symbols. Beware, those are not necessarily seamless (though most still are ;)).

(They need some specific dimensions apparently. I didn't manage to fully crack the game's logic, but at least I know that 160x160 and 64x64 both work fine. The og dimensions, i.e. 54x54, 358x358 and 150x150 result in llama symbols. I'm not even trying to understand :]).

Please tag me if you use them - and keep your eyes open for that cape you see above!

Check them out on my Patreon

[alien-hybreed]

The Abduction

Abigail's night is ruined. She thought tonight might finally be the night. She'd lined up a cute date at a Halloween party only to have her crush ditch her for another woman. Now she's walking home alone.

High above, it watches. The last of it’s kind. Cold. Alone. In her, it sees a kindred spirit, a future for its kind. Once it brings her on board the mothership, neither of them will be truly alone ever again...

The cold night air felt like it was biting into Abigail's exposed arms and legs as she solemnly strode along the dimly lit path. She sniffled, brushing her auburn hair away from her face as tears continued to stream down her face. She supposed this was how god might be punishing her for the indecency she'd been tempted into.

She hadn't expected Luke to take her up on the offer of being her date to the Halloween party, so she'd tried extra hard to look good for him. Too hard it had seemed. Was the sexy catholic school girl costume really such an affront to her beliefs that she'd deserved to be not only ignored, but ultimately ditched in favor of some busty, blonde, little bimbo? Ultimately the date had been a total disaster.

Abigail didn’t care how many people had stared when she cried at the sight of Luke and the other woman drunkenly making out in the booth. She'd high-tailed it straight out of there without even stopping to collect her coat. Admittedly, she did regret leaving that behind.

Grief-stricken, she had no idea where to go or what to do. She'd never felt so alone. She didn't want to go home but the thought of being around people made her uncomfortable and it was too late to seek refuge at her church. Though she'd have been too ashamed to go, were that even an option. Pausing to look up at the night sky, she mumbled a desperate plea;

“oh dear god, take away from here. Just let me start over. Let me be better.”

As if in reply to her prayer, she could smell a faint odour on the air, acrid and burnt like an overheating electronic device. The air around her seemed to shimmer like a heat haze before a flash of blinding white light forced her eyes shut. Abigail felt like in that instant she was on the sharpest drop of a rollercoaster. Weightless, her stomach catching in her mouth. And just like that, Abigail was there one moment, gone the next.

* * *

Abigail came to with a start, sprawled on a plain, gunmetal surface. Everything around her was pitch black. She hadn't partaken alcohol, had someone roofied her punch? Shivering, she picked herself up as a thick rivulet of clear slime dripped on her from overhead.

“ew, ew, ew!” she squeaked, frantically swiping at the trickle of slime as it ran down her neck and under her collar. It was freezing cold, thick and gunky as it slid down her back. A couple more droplets of the same fluid pattered down around her, but she couldn’t see anything but blackness when she looked up.

She thought that was odd, the floor was too smooth, too flawless for this to be a cave of any sort. Which means someone had to have made it…

“hello!? If this is someone's idea of a joke, congratulations, I'm real scared” she shouted to no avail. Nothing, not even an echo

“this isn't funny anymore, just let me out” still nothing. Her legs knocked together as she shivered. Unsurprisingly, her knee high socks and ridiculously short, tartan mini skirt did very little to keep her warm. Serves me right for not dressing up as a sexy cop or lumberjack, literally anything with pants would have been better, she thought. Also nowhere near as blasphemous. Luke was good looking but Abigail was really kicking herself for trying so hard to pander to his silly preferences.

“I just don't wanna be alone…” she murmured to herself. Much to her shock, something seemed to reply, like her own words being played backwards and slowed down.

“…who-who…. Who's there!?” the same sound as before, repeating itself was her only reply. Nervously Abigail began backing up. She shrieked as another strand of slime dripped down on her, soaking into her sleeve and bringing her arm out in goosebumps.

“this isn't funny, seriously just…” her voice trailed off as a low rumble above made her look up. The equivalent of a full drinking glass of slime dropped on her face with a sickening plop. She tried to shriek again but the slime was so thick she had to tear it away from her mouth just to breath.

She gasped for air as she desperately tried to wipe the rest of the strange liquid from her face. Just a little of it had touched her lip, it was surprisingly not unpleasant which was more than she could say for the rest of this experience.

“this is so messed up, please someone? Anyone!” she cried, choking back tears as her fear continued to grow. Abigail could hear something large and wet shifting in the darkness. As it did, a few more droplets of slime dropped on and around her. Abigail whimpered as she clawed at her hair, now wet and matted, desperately trying to clear the gunk from it.

So distracted by the gunk, she didn’t notice a thin, purple tendril snaking it's way towards her from out of the dark until she felt the sticky, soft, warmth of it's flesh on her leg as it coiled around her leg.

“Christ!” She screamed, stumbling backwards, hyperventilating as she shook her leg to try and shake the thing free. Feeling the hard surface of a wall behind her, Abigail panicked as she realized she was now stuck between a hard place and whatever this was.

The tendril was slithering up her thigh, tugging at her as it did so. She shrieked and screamed as she swatted at the appendage, trying to prise it off her or slow it somehow. Everywhere her skin was touched by it's slime now felt cold and tingled with the most peculiar numbing sensation. Only when the tentacle had enough of her leg in it's grip to anchor her in place did it finally stop, the tip hovering ominously an inch away from her miniskirt.

“oh no, oh nononono this can't be happening…” she blurted as she frantically looked around for any way out or a tool she could use to fend off the thing. Instead the wall seemed to just curve away into the darkness on either side. That would make this some sort of circle or chamber… or pit… was this hell? Surely not. Despite her desperation to date Luke, she hadn’t done anything? Thought about it and chastised herself maybe but nothing to warrant being damned to hell surely.

That’s when she noticed a surprising sensation in her trapped leg. The tentacle seemed to be massaging it. Her breath caught in her throat as she looked down to see it expertly working her calf muscles.

“that’s… oh that's… good?” she stammered, laughing a little hysterically at how absurd this was. A thin trickle of slime dripped on her shoulder and into her collar but she paid it no heed, as she was so focused on the motion of the tentacle on her leg. It's warmth was somewhat welcome given how painfully cold she'd been.

“You're uh… not so bad… right?” she murmured, slowly moving her hand towards it. Indifferent to the hand hovering over it, the tentacle kept constricting and releasing. Slowly, Abigail rested her hand on it and gently gripped it's tip. It almost tickled as it squirmed in the palm of her hand, smearing sticky strands of slime all over it. But it was so warm and the bones in her fingers had been so cold…

Abigail breathed deeply a few times and began to relax. This was beyond weird but at least she seemed safe or in no immediate danger. Briefly releasing her hold on the tentacle, she held her hand up close to her face to get a look at the white, translucent goop. As she looked closely at it dripping from her hand, she couldn't stop thinking about how it tasted before. How pleasant it was as it tingled on the edge of her lip. Slowly leaning closer, she carefully licked at the tip of her forefinger. How strange, it was salty and sweet at the same time, it's texture thick and rich, yet it dissolved in her mouth like it was nothing.

She stared at her hand for a moment, wrestling with the urge to lick it clean when she saw movement out of the corner of her eye. Three more tentacles hovering in the dark, like snakes ready to strike.

“um… hi?” she offered weakly, nerves and an escalating sense of dread creeping back into her mind. At no point did the tentacle on her leg stop massaging and that was proving to be quite a distraction. Abigail didn't even notice she'd put her hand back on it.

“well this, sure has been a thing” she stammered, trying not to smile at how good her leg was feeling. The tendrils snaked their way through the air towards her as the wet shifting sound came again, sounding closer this time.

“but y'know I really ought to be on my way now…” her voice trailed off as the tendrils drew close enough to touch her and dozens more seemed to be writhing in the dark. One of the three foremost tentacles began snaking it's way around Abigail's other leg, the sudden rush of cold numbness followed by the sticky warmth made her exhale sharply.

“ok um, please, I really should…” she began to stammer as the other two tendrils moved for her miniskirt

“whoa no that… that is not happening” she stuttered, blushing as she fought to hold her miniskirt down with her hands, unintentionally smearing the slime on her hand across her inner thigh. As a couple more tentacles snaked through the air towards her, Abigail’s lips quivered from both fear and impulsive need to taste the slime again. The tendrils seemed to be aware of this, moving closer and closer towards her face, almost as if to tease her. Abigail turned her head away and closed her eyes, silently praying for the tentacles to leave her be. To cease this... temptation.

She shuddered as she felt a large glob of slime land squarely on her collarbone and dribble down the curvature of her breasts into her cleavage. Her body was numb and tingling all over, save for where the warm tentacles massaged her legs. She could feel her knees beginning to buckle as she replayed the memory of tasting the slime on her finger over and over.

Anxiously, she bit at her lip as she felt a tentacle brushing against her cheek while another lightly stroked at her neck. The sound of something enormous drawing close with a series of wet smacking, plopping sounds forced Abigail to open her eyes. The sound had made her think of an enormous bag of sausages spilling open and much to her horror, it didn't look that far from it.

Dozens, hundreds of bright purple tentacles of varying sizes were unfurling, like a horde of snakes dispersing. Nestled at the heart of the mass was some sort of body or head tentacle that they all seemed to join to. Slowly, the tentacle peeled open like a banana, revealing a bright green interior full of smaller green tentacles that writhed from it's center.

Amongst them was a particularly bulbous purple tentacle that seemed to have eight amber eyes, four in a diamond pattern on either side of it. Abigail screamed as loud as she could, the tentacles filling the air around her. The bulbous purple tentacle lashing across her like a giant tongue licking at her. Thick ropes of slime cascaded over and around her as Abigail’s scream became a silent shriek. Her breath seemed to catch in her throat as purple tendrils stroked at her face and chest. More snaked their way around her legs, eagerly hovering below her miniskirt.

Slowly, she began to gasp shallow breaths, her pupils dilating to tiny pinpricks as the slime saturated her clothing and was rapidly absorbed into her skin. The powerful aphrodisiac and stimulants in the slime had been gradually influencing her earlier, but now her nervous system was all but bursting with the sudden sensory overload.

The addictive quality of the slime had an almost immediate effect as the young woman took her hands from her miniskirt and began clawing at her blouse, yearning to feel the creature's slime against as much of her bare skin as possible. The buttons on her blouse either slid free or popped off in her frenzy, Abigail had no concept of patience or care in that moment. She wasn't alone and she craved intimacy.

She giggled playfully as the large purple tentacle slid up her belly, between the exquisite cleavage formed by her black lace bra and against her cheek. As it snaked past her face, she eagerly licked at it's flanks, taking in mouthfuls of the arousing slime. She liked feeling like this, she wanted more.

She felt the giant tentacle pull away while the tendrils at her waist tore her miniskirt from her, plucking off her black g-string with a snap. Abigail ripped at her bra until the straps and fasteners gave way. She flung it aside before pressing herself against the wall, throwing her head back and arching her spine to present her breasts to the creature.

“can't be alone. Don't leave me, don’t stop” she slurred. As if on cue, the bulbous tentacle spewed forth a torrent of slime, splattering across Abigail's chest and oozing over her toned stomach and down her legs. Gasping and gleefully chuckling, she leaned forward to let the slime drench her face and pour into her mouth before leaning back to gulp at the delicious juices.

Drenched head to toe in a thick layer of the white slime, Abigail began running her hands up and down her body, kneading and pulling at her tits, occasionally stopping to caress and squeeze the tentacles that writhed over and around her. Slowly, the tentacle nearest her vagina opened like a flower, allowing a smaller, green, incredibly phallic tentacle to emerge and begin grinding against her slit.

Abigail's legs finally buckled, as she slumped onto the tentacle. She virtually impaled herself on it as it punched deep into her vagina. As she did, tentacles coiled around her arms to hold het up. Another set of tentacles coiled around her tits, massaging them with the same expertise as the earlier motions on her legs.

Abigail groaned unintelligibly as her head lolled from side to side. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head when another phallic tentacle slithered through her anus while a trio of tentacles ending in bright green suckers clamped over her nipples and clit. Driven by pure instinct, she rolled her hips back and forth, working the tentacles in her pussy and ass to and fro, creating a wondrous sensation.

This must be heaven, thought her intoxicated brain. Nothing else could be so sublime or euphoric. Hungrily, her jaw hung agape, trying to mouth wordlessly 'please' over and over. As if in response to her plea, the giant purple tentacle split open and engulfed her face.

Abigail moaned with delight as she felt something slither into her mouth and begin to pump more of the delicious slime. She gurgled and slurped as more and more of the liquid flowed into her body, permeating every fibre of her being. She shuddered as her body was wracked by it's first ever orgasm.

But at no point did the tentacles even so much as pause or slow their pace. Utterly relentless in their work, they kept massaging, sucking and fucking every inch of her. Abigail groaned repeatedly as her body relaxed into their grip, the tentacles in her mouth, pussy and ass growing thicker, pushing deeper, endlessly pumping slime into her. She writhed and tried to squeal as another orgasm rocked her body from head to toe.

Yet, the tentacles kept going. Abigail didn’t care how much of her own drool dripped from her mouth or the copious amounts of slime and vaginal discharge that rained down from her pussy as a third orgasm blew her mind and made her toes curl.

Intoxicated and overstimulated beyond being able to think or move, she didn't notice the creature drag her into the centre of the room. Nor did she notice how her body hung limp in it's grasp as it propped her up in it's center, occasionally jerking and twitching as another orgasm rolled through her. All that mattered was the next rush of erotic bliss, all other sensations might as well not exist.

Abigail barely even felt the green tentacles swarming around her, gripping her tightly as the creature's main body seemed to be folding shut around her. Eventually the purple tentacles wrapped around it's body and grew tighter and tighter. Abigail didn't care, encased in slime and silky flesh that clung to her tentacle-wrapped figure, the only thing she felt was the approach and arrival of the next orgasm.

Outside, the slime encasing each tentacle hardened, turning the creature into a giant cocoon for Abigail.

* * *

She dreamed of bright lights and other worlds. She dreamed of others, other tentacle beasts, roaming the cosmos, alone in their vessels. One by one, she felt their light darken and disappear until it was just her. Cold. Alone. Drifting. Except that wasn't her, Abigail knew this wasn’t her but it all felt so real.

Periodically she stirred from her surreal dreams to find herself floating in darkness, the sensation of warm flesh enveloping her completely. An orgasm would begin to build in her loins as the tentacles in her pulsed in time with her own heartbeat. She struggled to no avail as her arousal peaked, the tentacles pumping more slime into her that nudged her back into unconscious bliss.

As she slumbered, she would dream of strange languages, biology beyond human understanding. More and more frequently, she dreamed of herself as the tentacle creature. Sometimes she dreamed she was searching for a body she could adapt to become her vessel on the little blue world below. She was so alone, she needed to not be alone.

As she dreamed, her tentacles tightened around her, hugging her body as firmly as she could. She dreamed she was the human chosen for it's compatibility and then she would dream she was herself again, inspecting the human's form as she prepared to merge with it.

Again she would awake, her body aching as it grew accustomed to having bones. Her muscles ached as they stretched and grew. Her skin felt sore where her old form had fused to it's human body. Again, when it became too much, her consciousness would slip away and allow her to sleep off her growing pains…

* * *

The cocoon began to crack open, thick rivulets of white slime oozing from the breach in it's side. Several tentacle tips pushed at the crack, splitting it open and widening it until the body of a young woman slid free amidst a gush of slime.

Her purple flesh glistened in the low light as the slime slowly slid from her. Her head was crowned with a mass of tentacles in place of her hair, with dozens of larger, thicker tentacles extending from her shoulders. Slowly the tentacles began to twitch then wriggle, slithering back and forth like a nest of snakes. Her slender arms and legs slowly pulled her upright, her eight amber eyes darting around the control room of her spaceship.

Incredible, she thought. It felt so bizarre, yet so familiar to have arms and legs but equally so to have tentacles so suddenly.

She was neither Abigail or the pilot. She was now both. Both minds and bodies, merged flawlessly into a singular entity with the memories and personality of both. It was like everything until now had been a dream and only now was she truly awake for the first time.

She reached out with a tentacle and spoke the operation command. Sensing her DNA and the authority that came with it, the ship beeped in response. Immediately, three dimensional lights appeared in the air before her. Graphs and images showing a microscopic view of her cell structure told her the merging was successful beyond her initial hopes. Her new body was extraordinarily fertile and ready to begin repopulating her species.

Smiling wryly as she reviewed an assessment of viable human contributors. She remembered enough of Abigail's past life to see the irony in this. Chuckling to herself, she primed the teleporter and prepared to reacquaint herself with a very specific male…

* * *

She could hear the male and female grunting and moaning in the bedroom next to the kitchen the moment she appeared in a bright flash of light. Luke and his mate.

How oddly fortunate that his DNA would be an optimal match with her own. Abigail would have been mortified by what she was about to interrupt and what she would do to them. But she wasn't Abigail anymore. Her body was already secreting it's slimy coating as the thrill of seizing Luke and using him stirred her arousal.

Her tentacles twitched with excitement as she flung the bedroom door open. They were both naked, the other woman was riding Luke in a reverse cowgirl position while he gripped her ass and stared at the way his cock plunged in and out of her sopping wet pussy.

Before either of them could react, their intruder's tentacles lashed out, wrapping around both of the hapless humans. Abigail ripped the woman free, wrapping tentacles around her arms and legs to hold her at the edge of the bed.

“wait your turnnn” she hissed at her before stuffing a tentacle into the woman's mouth while smearing a handful of slime across Luke's face. Clambering atop him in a reverse cowgirl position of her own. Luke's eyes rolled as the slime immediately took a hold of him.

Now that she was part human, Abigail's slime was refined, perfectly adapted to work on humans. Her tentacles slithered around Luke's cock and steered it into her eagerly awaiting pussy. Abigail hissed and slithered her tentacles all up and over his body as she gyrated her hips against his, he bucked up to meet her and match her pace. His body was limp save for his waist and cock which possessed an unnatural vigor thanks to Abigail's slime.

“See, bitch. He's mine” groaned Abigail, her eyes boring into the other woman's. She squealed and kicked, making Abigail chuckle. Abigail squeezed her own tits and caressed her stomach and thighs with her hands as if to mock the woman's earlier movements.

“how's that huh? How do you like it now huh?” she hissed, relishing the woman's outrage as she struggled against her tentacle bindings.

“oh no, that's rhetorical, dear. You'll enjoy this, just like him” teased Abigail as the tentacle she'd stuffed in the woman's mouth began dribbling slime into her mouth. Abigail chuckled as her competitor slackened before eventually to sucking at the tentacle.

Beneath her, Luke's cock and balls had started to swell and take on a purplish tinge as the slime altered his reproductive organs to suit Abigail's needs. Abigail gasped as she felt the warm splash of Luke's cum surging into her womb.

For a solid minute, Luke kept cumming, pumping copious amounts of seed into her. Abigail pulled the woman close, panting as she felt her body taking Luke's seed and processing it. Instinct was guiding her as she felt a tentacle extend from between her shoulders and wriggle into the woman's pussy.

The blonde gagged on the tentacle in her mouth as she tried to cry out. Abigail slid her tentacles free and embraced the woman. Her tentacle sliding back and forth in the woman's throbbing pussy. The woman hugged her tightly, stroking Abigail's tits and ass as she continued to milk Luke's cock.

“now it's your turn” chuckled Abigail as her tentacle began pumping slime into the woman's womb. She cried out, hugging Abigail tightly as thick bulges worked through the tentacle and into her. Each bulge was a rapidly gestating egg, created by Luke's altered seed, fertilizing the hundreds of mutated ovum produced in Abigail's womb.

The blonde looked at Abigail with a vacant, giddy expression, her mind utterly crushed by Abigail's secretions and actions.

“that's what you get for not having any protection” giggled Abigail as she withdrew her ovipositor tentacle from the woman and stood up. Luke's cock slid free of her with a wet flop.

Standing on the bed over him, Abigail pulled him up with her tentacles and held him close to her while she watched the woman's body rapidly swelling with the dozens of hybrid offspring gestating within. Satisfied with her work, Abigail signaled the mothership to teleport the three of them back aboard.

Now, that she knew the breeding process worked, she intended to make plenty of use of Luke's manhood. Given the how unlikely it was that she could re-use the woman as a surrogate for her young, Abigail was already shortlisting candidates for her next batches.

Yes, there were no shortage of women she'd relish inflicting that upon. She would teach them all a lesson. The bright light flashed and Luke, his fling and Abigail vanished into the night...

[ddagent]

R

R is for Royal Wedding!

Prince Anthony Crowley stood at the altar, swathed in black with a crown of flowers resting atop the waves of his crimson hair, awaiting his future husband. The assembled guests were small in number; the bigger, more lavish ceremony would take place in his new husband's country. Thousands seated for dinner, doves flying over head as they took their first kiss as a married couple. It would be a historic day; a day he would remember for the rest of his life.

Only, Crowley wasn't looking forward to that part. Not when he knew that he wouldn't be waiting for him.

The door to the gardens opened; light poured in. And there he was: Aziraphale Fell, ambassador, emissary - the most gorgeous thing Crowley had ever seen. He wore his customary beige suit; the tartan bowtie matched the colour of the flowers in Crowley's hair. If he were Crowley's husband to be, he'd slip a long stemmed flower behind Aziraphale's ear, brushing those pale blond curls. But Aziraphale was just the messenger, the stand-in. He wasn't signing his name on the register. Not pressing his lips to Crowley's mouth.

Fuck. A wedding was supposed to be a happy occasion. Crowley wasn't supposed to be so bloody miserable.

Aziraphale caught sight of his expression as he reached the altar. He reached for Crowley's hand - a blatant disregard of protocol but, since his arrival to negotiate the wedding contract, Crowley had disregarded all sense of propriety. "Just think: in a few weeks, it will be you and Prince Gabriel standing up here together and you can begin your new, happy life."

"Oh, happy day, Angel."

His Angel looked at him strangely but, ever a slave to duty, continued on with the ceremony. Vows were offered. Rings were exchanged. Completely ceremonial - but Crowley couldn't help but dream. Dream of sliding a gold ring onto the weight of Aziraphale's finger. Of promising to have him, hold him, love him. Of cradling his face in his hands and pressing a soft kiss, full of promise, on his lips as the officiant proclaimed them joined.

"Your Highness?"

Crowley realised he had been staring at Aziraphale's mouth. His gaze now shifted, meeting the storm of Aziraphale's eyes as the emissary from his future husband's country seemed to suffer from the same sickness: longing for something that could never be. As the officiant called their ceremony to a close, Crowley took Aziraphale's hand in his and kissed the back of it. What he wouldn't give for Aziraphale to be his husband-to-be. What he wouldn't give for Aziraphale to sign his name on the register, sign his name as Crowley's in front of the powers above and below.

Fuck it. For the next sixty seconds, until Aziraphale signed Gabriel's name on the register, he was Crowley's. And Crowley took what was his and sealed their new marriage with a kiss.

Give me a letter - that’s the first letter of the AU I’ll think up for Aziraphale/Crowley and write you 200 words or more!

[scotianostra]

Happy birthday to former formula one racing champion Jackie Stewart.

Born John Young Stewart in Milton Dunbartonshire in 1939, Jackie, as he became known, attended Hartfield primary school in the nearby town of Dumbarton going on to the local academy in the town.

Jackie experienced learning difficulties owing to undiagnosed dyslexia , and due to the condition not being understood or even widely known about at the time, he was regularly berated and humiliated by teachers and peers alike for being “dumb” and “thick". Stewart was unable to continue his secondary education past the age of 16, and began working in his father’s garage as an apprentice mechanic. He was not actually diagnosed with dyslexia until 1980, when his oldest son Mark was diagnosed with the condition. On learning that dyslexia can be genetically passed on, and seeing very similar symptoms with his son that he had experienced himself as a child, Stewart asked if he could be tested, and was diagnosed with the disorder, by which time he was 41 years old. He has said: “When you’ve got dyslexia and you find something you’re good at, you put more into it than anyone else; you can’t think the way of the clever folk, so you’re always thinking out of the box.“

Jackie began testing race cars in 1961. Showing his skill and raw pace, Stewart quickly worked his way up the ranks before grabbing s drive in the 1964 Formula Three Championship for Tyrell. In his debut race at Snetterton, Jackie pulled out a 25 second lead within two laps and went on to win the race comfortably, 44 seconds in front of his closest rival. Becoming a Formula Three Champion on his debut season, the offers from Formula One came thick and fast. Discussing how he maximised success at every opportunity in the early stages of his career, Jackie delivers thought provoking ideas as an after dinner speaker that are relatable to sporting and business environments alike.

Jackie’s first race in an F1 car was for Lotus in December 1964 in South Africa, by the end of his first season, Stewart had finished his rookie season third in the World Drivers’ Championship, proving his potential as a future World Champion.

1966 triggered Jackie’s lifelong fight for better safety in his sport. Following a crash at the 1966 Belgian Grand Prix, Jackie was left trapped in his overturned BRM soaking in fuel. With no tools to help him, stewards had to wait for other drivers Hill and Bondurant to help after borrowing a spanner from a spectator. From now on, Jackie would tape a spanner to his steering wheel, travel to races with his own doctors whilst his team supplied a medical truck for the benefit of all. A hugely passionate subject for Jackie, driver safety can feature heavily in his talks as a motorsport speaker. The harsh reality of danger in his day makes for a compelling insight into the sport and how far things have come since then.

Stewart became Formula One World Champion in 1969 in a Matra MS80 before going on to win the 1971 and 1973 World Championships for Tyrell. A hugely talented racing driver, Jackie left a legacy of increased in-car safety as well as drastic improvements to the layout and design of tracks, all in the name of limiting risk to drivers.

Stewart’s crash helmet was white, with the red, green, blue, white and yellow Stewart Royal Tartan surrounding the top.

In 2021 Jackie set up the charity Race Against Dementia. In 2016 his wife Helen was diagnosed Frontotemporal dementia, he believes that the application of Formula1’s technology and out of the box thinking could bring about earlier solutions to society coping with dementia. The couple are childhood sweethearts and have been married since 1962. Jackie spoke about his friend, Sean Connery, revealing that he had been ravaged with dementia during his final two years of his life. Jackie admitted last year that every time he forgets something like a name, he worries it is the onset of dementia.

If you are around Dumbarton tomorrow get yourself down to Levengrove Park as they host walk for Sir Jackie's birthday. Participants will gather for a Dementia Friendly Walk, with the route around Levengrove Park measuring 1973 metres.

This distance symbolises 1973, the year Sir Jackie, won his third and final F1 World Championship. The walk will not only be a tribute to the icon, but it will also serve to raise awareness for his charity, Race Against Dementia. Interested participants should gather outside Levengrove Pavilion from 10.45am.

The walk will begin at 11am and participants can enjoy refreshments served afterwards.

The park's trails, which are suitable for wheelchair users, will be used for the walk.

There is no need for advance registration and participants can show up on the day if they wish to participate.

The route can be viewed at https://www.mapmyrun.com/routes/view/5619297865.

As a tribute to Sir Jackie, famed for wearing a Stewart tartan band on his racing helmet, participants are urged to wear a bit of tartan.

[beebopboom]

The Meta Underground

A Guide to Navigating what has been my brainrot posting about Good Omens

I apologize in advance for how long a lot of these are

feel free to message and asks are always open!!

non good omens related blog -> @boppinbee

Meta Series

The Bookshop

A Bookshop in Soho Eden - the bookshop is set up like a garden, hidden Tree of Life, rivers of time, and is the whole of Whickber St Eden?

The Book of Life to The Second Coming Pipeline - a couple of theories about the book of life, the rings, the fly, bookshop, and coffee

The Second…….Ball? - Gabriel’s arrival really did trigger the Second Coming - at least a version of it

The Title Sequence

Background Shenanigans - hints in the background of s1’s TS that lead to s2’s and what that might mean for our story.

Timeline Theory - those walkways are timelines

Heaven’s Timeline - a more in-depth look at how the walkways are Heaven’s planned timeline

Three Final Acts -the three magic tricks we see in the title sequence and what they might be in the show

Not the Magic Trick we see - initial findings for Three Final Acts

Mystery symbol - the ongoing search for a mystery symbol

The Metatron

The Angel Behind the Curtain - some wizard of oz parallels - we are just warming up people

Always an Angel, Never a Man - let’s dive into who he is in scripture shall we?

Am I a Good Angel? Am I a Mad Angel? - some similarities between him and the figure head of the devil

A Kind of Magic - numerology, tarot cards, and is he cosplaying?

Words of a Wise Angel - an actual look into his actions in the show and some of his funny word meanings

Agnes Nutter

The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter - a list of all her prophecies and images I could find from her book

Messages from Above - is she a witch? is she a prophet? how about both? let’s look into how she is getting her prophecies

Refined by Fire

(unfinished)

Clothing

there will be more here eventually and has to be updated

Clothing within Ranks -Angel Clothes and what the colors mean in show!universe

Aziraphale’s tartan - how lighting seems to effect his bow tie

Theories

Greasy Johnson: A Red Herring? - season three speculation about how the baby swap included Jesus as well, Hello Warlock

Unexpected Help - Saraqael was the one who opened the gateway in the bookshop

Nuns Night Out - what are those nuns doing at the theatre?

A Case of Missing Weaponry - ever wondered where Michael’s spear is? boy do i have a crackpot theory for you.

Meta Groups

Aziraphale

Aziraphale’s Flaming Sword - the human history behind his sword

The Halo was the Cause - why the Halo was the reason the Metatron showed up

An early journey of questioning - it really doesn’t take him long

Aziraphale’s Protection - how he protects Crowley

Aziraphale’s unintentional? placement - Aziraphale standing to the left of Gabriel in Job

A lying Angel - lying to protect his love

Choosing Death- choosing death doesn’t work maybe it’s time for something else

Don’t try to be God - why Aziraphale got nervous in Before the Beginning

Crowley

Crowley’s Fall - he really didn’t mean to Fall

Anthony J Crowley - a self discovery through his name

Defensive Crowley - acknowledging the consequences of the arrangement

Crowley losing the bookshop - and he’s the only one to have

Crowley giving up Alpha Centauri - he gave away their safe space

Stars to Plants - she just wants to watch her creations grow ok

Crowley’s Ringtone - not quite a normal phone sound

It’s always too Late

The Ineffables

The apology routine - maybe there is more to it than the dance

They love humanity - just in different ways

A duet - it’s not a want but a need

Nothing - their versions of nothing

Power dynamic - “second in command” ok wow that hurt

Paranoia and Isolation - how the pandemic may have affected them

Difference of Perspective - how the audience vs characters view A&C

Timeline

The Flood changed it all - it really fucked them up

Future Minisode time slots - the gaps in time for possible future minisodes

Heaven

1827 Second Coming? -crowley and aziraphale unintentionally fucking things up

Metatron future manipulation - something he is going to “let” Aziraphale do in s3

Angel confrontation tactic - they really like trapping Aziraphale into conversations huh?

Wildcard

Dirty Donkey Lift - just questioning why the hell it is there

Cut dream sequence - whose is it?

Something up with fours? - discussing some fours in the show

Angels don’t dance - and they don’t ask for forgiveness

Freemasons lodge - duality of the Resurrectionist

No Garden? No God - they left the garden

Maggie’s Ugrency - picking apart her misspelling

Questioning the Coffee Shop - only two beings do it - Crowley and the Metatron

Slamming of the books - Jim says some interesting things when slamming two books together and what it could mean

If Gabriel can leave Heaven and be with Beelzebub, why can’t Aziraphale do the same with Crowley - more of a ramble than anything else

The Wicked Bible - the second printing error

ASAP - further look at the many asap’s around the coffee shop and how it plays into the final fifteen

Memory Returns - a (currently) three way visual parallel of when memories are returned

Acrostic Clues

fuck I have to reorganize this again