#tartan manicure

[universodonna-official]

TARTAN NAILS: UNGHIE EFFETTO COPERTA!

TARTAN NAILS: UNGHIE EFFETTO COPERTA!

[afrenchwriter]

[...] At the far end of the room, Crowley spotted a large wooden desk, cluttered with books and electronic devices. A man was at work there, and he immediately knew that he was looking at his quartermaster.

He was probably only a few years older than him, but the tartan bow tie and the small, round glasses perched on his upturned nose made him look like he was already in his forties. He was clean-shaven, with soft round cheeks and fluffy blond hair almost glowing in the artificial light above him. He was gorgeous in a unique kind of way.

This man not only had the name of an angel, he also looked like one - and wasn’t that something?

Crowley sauntered toward his desk, ignoring the questioning glances thrown in his direction, then stopped in front of it. Startled by the sudden shadow, the man muttered “oh, bugger” and looked up from the watch he had been tinkering with.

Crowley tried to keep a straight face as deep blue eyes swept along his body, from head to toe, before settling on his face.

“Yes, can I help you?”

Crowley distinctly heard the slight annoyance behind the polite tone of his voice. Being good at reading people was another required skill, after all. He flashed him a grin, easy as anything.

"Yes, you can, and on a regular basis, I should think.” He held out his hand. “I'm the new agent, Crowley. Anthony J. Crowley.”

At that, the man dropped his tools and sprang to his feet, taking off his glasses before accepting the handshake with an elegantly-manicured hand. "Oh, yes, agent Crowley! I'm so sorry, they told me you were coming today, but I… well, as you can see, I tend to get absorbed in my work."

"That makes two of us."

"Oh. Good. Excellent.”

The man let go of his hand and straightened his waistcoat - because of course he was wearing a waistcoat - offering him a smile as he did so. A kind smile. “As you obviously already know, I'm Aziraphale Fell, your quartermaster. It's a pleasure to meet you, agent Crowley."

"Pleasure's all mine, Mr. Fell.” Crowley allowed his eyes to sweep along the man’s body as well, before he winked at him. “Can't wait to see what you’ve got in store for me.”

Chapter 2 of For His Eyes Only is now published and, as you can see, we are jumping back in time to know more about their first (flirty) encounter... 

[mobyfitzwilliam]

GHOSTWRITER - The Arrival

I write with the full knowledge that this documentation will not be found until long after my death. Indeed, my purpose is not to be read, but to document this experience for personal posterity, as my only real intention is to work very perversely to please myself.

I have always seen myself as a character in a gothic novel, and after living this experience, I know that the final step is simply to record the story on paper.

Be warned, there will be little rhyme or reason to this tale at first, but much as I became acclimatized to the mystery as it unfolded, so too will you grow accustomed to the world, hypothetical reader.

One final word of warning. Darkness is contained within this text, and by engaging with it, it cannot be guaranteed that you shall be safe. Go safely forward, but beware.

I first arrived in Glamis Forfar following an extended stay in the Kingsland Ward of London, where, despite the best intentions of the staff there, I'd found myself completely and utterly mad. Upon my release, I had decided to make my way back to my family's estate in the upper part of Scottland. However, I changed my plans after being advised by a gentleman I met on the train to book myself into an extended stay at the McKittrick Hotel.

"It's a far-flung part of the world," he advised me, "and they don't get too many visitors."

"I suppose there is nothing much to see," I replied.

"It all depends on what you mean by nothing."

The train station was little more than a platform, raised overlooking the village of Gallow Green. It was a lush evening, just the faintest hint of a chill on the breeze, lightly fluttering my capelet. I lowered my hat to shield my eyes from the sunset, dipping just behind the enormity of the hotel looming before me.

Stepping down from the platform, I crossed a disused high street, and down a series of steps. I would later come to know that the train station was built atop what used to be called Gallow's Hill, which had been the sight of many witch hangings some years before. I was rather sympathetic to the poor souls lost there. Doubtless that in such a place as this, with its eerie woods, sudden fogs, moaning winds, and lonely houses, I may still today find myself looked at askance. Once upon a time, I may have even been branded as a witch, myself.

Descending to the hotel entrance, I passed a patio upon which several empty chairs and tables sat, largely overgrown by brush and vegetation. A sign advertised the Manderley Bar within the hotel, opened nightly, and I resolved to investigate it once I had settled in.

Before entering the hotel, I turned back to see the remainder of my surroundings. It seemed the village was off to my left, as a series of closely knit buildings sat, laced together by once manicured trees. Off to the right sat a building slightly smaller than the hotel, with the ivy wrapped brick of the facade fading into the forest it sat before. It was far enough away that I couldn't make out the sign indicating the purpose of such a place.

As I observed, I noticed I had not been, as I assumed, the only person to exit the train. A young woman was walking with resolved trepidation into the village, wrapped in a tartan capelet and carrying with her a suitcase. It seemed this little town had some life in it yet.

The lobby of the hotel was dimly lit, even at this hour of the early evening, and much of the furniture was covered by dust sheets. Yet, a Porter sat behind the front desk, engaged so deeply in a paper folding exercise that he did not notice me until I rang the bell upon the desk.

It was such a quiet, dusty place that the bell's ring echoed throughout the entire space, hanging sharp in the air. The Porter instantly looked up, staring me dead in the eye.

"I've been waiting for you. I had begun to think you might not come." He spoke in a monotone voice that somehow conveyed a majority of feeling.

"I don't believe I have a reservation," I said, knowing full well that I had never heard of the place until I began my journey, "but I'd like to book a suite for an extended stay."

The Porter pointed down to the sign in book, and I was quite shocked to see my own name, written next to today's date.

"We've been closed for quite some time, due to unfortunate circumstances, but we are pleased to welcome you," the Porter intoned.

"Am I the only guest?"

"We have some long-term residents you are likely to meet, and the locals tend to pass through regularly."

"Come, you're not going to start telling me strange tales of ghosts in lonely houses, are you?"

"No, I am not."

I sensed for the first time something behind those blankly expressionistic eyes, something akin to fear. I had no inclination, however, whether that was fear of me or for me.

"I'm likely to be here quite some time," I said, changing the topic of conversation as I scribbled down my signature, "I have some writing to do, and I was advised that this may be the best place to find inspiration and solitude."

"Certainly, sir, I don't believe we've ever had a writer in residence, but there are many... creatives in the area. Your key." He slid an ancient looking brass key across the desk, attached to which was a playing card.

"Do you have any identification for us to keep on file?" he asked.

I opened my bag, looking for my passport or personal papers. In my haste, I removed a Tarot card that had been sitting within my bag. The devil.

"That will do perfectly fine," the Porter smoothly spoke, taking the card from the table where I had absentmindedly placed it.

I slowly closed my bag.

"Please, leave your luggage with me, I will transport it to your suite. James is waiting in the elevator to escort you. The Manderley Bar will be open this evening, and a grand ball is soon to follow. Do not hesitate to visit me at the front desk, should you require anything at all, and do enjoy your stay." With that, he swept out from behind the desk, took my suitcase and leatherbound black satchel, and was just as quickly gone into the darkness behind a heavy black curtain.

Off in an even darker corner of the room, a tall and severely handsome man emerged.

"Do come in," he cooed with the low voice of a bird of prey.

I entered, discovering he had stepped out of a cleverly obscured elevator, as vast and empty as the lobby had been.

"Welcome to the McKittrick Hotel. I have just a few words of advice for your stay."

His eyes stared intensely into my own as he spoke, but unlike the Porter, from whom I experienced a sense of overwhelming dread, this man seemed to emanate a sinister glee in my presence.

"This place is a mystery, but it is yours to solve during your stay. Should you encounter any of our residents, recall that fortune favors the bold."

The door opened onto an atrium containing a table upon which sat a taxidermy eagle, frozen in perpetual attack.

"Your suite is at the end of the hall," he said as I exited, and before I could turn back for clarification, the door had slid silently shut.

Before too long, I had found my way to my suite, a room of remarkable excess and comfort, lushly furnished in red velvet. I found myself so weary from the day's adventures that I resolved to settle in for an evening's sleep. Turning on the room's radio, I allowed myself to drift off to the crooning of the melancholy tune that echoed from within.

Every night about this time

Memories haunt me

Wondering too

Who’s dancing with you

Every night about this time

I slept so soundly on that first night, encased behind the heavy curtains of the four-poster bed, oblivious to the rest of the world's goings on. Had I awoken and glanced out to take in the view of the Gallow Green night, I would have seen the figure in a long red dress walking down the High Street toward the town, only to stop as she passed the hotel, looking directly up at my window.

Yours,

Fitzwilliam

[ao3feed-ineffablehusbandz]

Out-of-Body Experience

Out-of-Body Experience

by Anonymous

The person inside the body presently sprawled on the awkwardly grandiose living room throne was, without a doubt, Crowley.

And yet, the body itself was equally unmistakably Aziraphale’s. The same corporation he had taken such care to tailor to his comfort and preferences over the years — whatever Gabriel or Sandalphon might have had to say about that comfort and preferences. The face (wisely chosen, or so he very much hoped) was Aziraphale’s face; the clothes were his clothes; the hands with the well-manicured fingernails were his own hands; even the faintly noticeable cologne was the precise same scent recently recommended by his barber.

Looking at Crowley in this shape felt like looking into a mirror.

Except for the fact that when Aziraphale actually did cautiously look into the mirror hanging on the wall, it was Crowley he saw staring back at him. And that was stranger still.

To his own surprise, he shivered.

Words: 800, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Good Omens (TV)

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Characters: Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley (Good Omens)

Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)

Additional Tags: Aziraphale and Crowley's Bodyswap (Good Omens), POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), Character Study, Internal Monologue, Internal Conflict, kind of, Overwhelmed Aziraphale (Good Omens), Feels, but also some fluff, Holding Hands, Quote: Tartan is stylish (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Ambiguous Aziraphale and Crowley Relationship (Good Omens)

From https://ift.tt/pRsSLKZ https://archiveofourown.org/works/41870613

[marz-writes-shit]

A Visit

A light drizzle sprinkled Wexford County as a pair of boots belonging to a man pitter-pattered on one of its sidewalks. The sky was a rich orange fading to pink overhead, and late afternoon mist slightly dulled the streetlights lighting up his route. He paused to look at a display of New Ross Standard copies sold by a local vendor showing the headline "Unexplained Deaths Cease Globally; Mysterious Group Emerges as Saviors".

He read on, silently.

‘In a shocking turn of events, the bizarre deaths that plagued the world for over three decades have abruptly halted. This phenomenon, characterized by victims found interwoven into tree trunks, suffocating in solid concrete, experiencing bizarre internal organ transformations and other baffling circumstances, has confused authorities and struck fear into communities worldwide.

However, hope emerged from the shadows in the form of Viora Bushida, an 18-year-old spokesperson representing a previously unknown group called Isfet. She claimed responsibility for ending these inexplicable deaths and shed light on the existence of another group, Ma'at, whom she accused of orchestrating these atrocities.

In a public address, Bushida unveiled Isfet's intervention, attributing the cessation of the deaths to their actions against Ma'at. She described Ma'at as a terrorist organization with capabilities surpassing human boundaries, infiltrating high-ranking positions and perpetuating abductions and killings to advance their agenda.

Isfet's actions were not confined to mere words. With over 200 confirmed releases, hostages previously held by Ma'at have been reunited with their families, supported by substantial financial aid — a testament to Isfet's claim of dismantling their rival organization.

And in an astonishing display of their abilities, Bushida showcased her prowess by publicly providing solutions to several complex mathematical problems, such as the Riemann hypothesis, Goldbach conjecture, and the Collatz problem. This is shocking to the scientific and mathematical communities, and raises profound questions about the true nature of Isfet's members and the extent of their extraordinary powers.

While maintaining secrecy about Isfet's current whereabouts, Bushida extended an offer of global assistance against similar incidents, should they ever arise again. This pledge reassures a world still reeling from decades of inexplicable deaths, sparking curiosity and concern about the capabilities and intentions of this newfound organization.’

He hummed his approval, then shook his head no at the vendor's inquiry of whether he wanted to buy it or not. He continued down the moist sidewalk, past the store where he used to buy sweets after a long day at school, and the old bookstore where he first discovered about other nations' deities and religions. Memories called for him from inside each and every building, but he resisted. Today, he sought answers, not nostalgia.

The man rounded the corner just after a battered compound he recognized as his old kindergarten school, then slowed down as he approached a small house that wouldn't look so out of place in a newly-opened suburban neighborhood, except the manicured lawn was gone and wild plants grew free in its place. He paused to admire their colors, before trampling them on his way to the front door.

He steadied himself with a deep breath. It had been some time — six years — ever since he saw them. They weren't the best, but his partners suggested to give them a second chance, check up on how they're doing. He had a vaguely ominous feeling about it but brushed it off with a conjured hope at the prospect of how delightful their reunion would be.

As much as he doubted it.

He raised a tartan gloved hand to knock thrice. Ten lax seconds passed before the door creaked open, behind it his mother. She had sheared off her hair, which he noticed and had inherited, which was kept in a pouffy little bob cut. Her worn hazel eyes met his lime ones, widening with apprehension.

"Oh... Conrad? Is that really you?"

Was her voice shaking with joy or horror? Conrad couldn't tell. He nodded curtly. "Yes, Mother."

She returned the nod. "It's been too long."

The drizzle continued tapping softly on the porch roof.

"Very long," he agreed, his senses agreeing to fixate on the texture of his gloves so he wouldn't do anything stupid.

"Would you like tea? Or something stronger — coffee?"

"I just would like to check on you and Father." The last word tasted too sour on his tongue. "But if you do not want me here, I will go."

His mother's face fell. "No! No, son, I... we... I'm sorry." A pause. "You may come inside."

Conrad stepped past his mother and into the house. The difference between the living room alone and the one from memory was drastic — the couch was bigger and a strange shade of yellow, the old center table was replaced with a more blocky fixture, and it smelled of... burnt hazelnuts?

"Sit down, please," his mother said. "I'll make you some nettle."

Conrad took the spot on the couch closest to the door. It was comfortable but alien. He thought of the old one, his favorite, which was off-white patterned with daisies. Perhaps they sold it, to get rid of the recollections whenever they sat down?

"How are you, Conrad? You've grown up quite a bit." His mother squinted at his face. "And had some battle scars of your own. Where did you get this one...?"

She indicated his lip. Conrad tensed up slightly. "An accident, Mother. It is not important right now. Where is Father?"

As if on cue, a burly figure strode into the room. He saw that he looked quite gray like his mother, but instead of the usual elderly blues, he retained some semblance of the cheekiness Conrad knew.

"There you are, Connie!" he exclaimed, coming forward to give him a bear hug, almost knocking him off the couch. Then he stopped short, noticing Conrad's appearance. "Whoa, looks like you took a hell of a boff!"

Conrad gave him a blank stare. "I suppose that means beating? If that is the case, then yes."

"And your accent's gone... ah, sorry, Con. It's been a while, hasn't it?"

Another curt nod. His mother finished preparing and set a some nettle tea on the new center table, which Conrad used his Stand Mafdet to take. As usual, since his parents weren't Users, all they could see was a telekinetic force lifting the cup and saucer — so their wide-eyed shock wasn't new anymore. He gingerly blew before taking a sip.

"Obviously, a lot has changed. The house says it all," he began, using his free hands to gesture.

"So what... what brings you back home?"

Conrad glanced at his mother, who'd taken a seat next to him.

"I thought it courteous to see how both of you were doing, now that Ma'at is in shambles. And to let you know that I am still alive and well." He paused to swallow, trying not to think about the betrayal he felt six years ago that still twisted his stomach unbearably.

"I think it's alright to assume you're... with this Isfet group?"

"Yes, Father. They freed me from the enemy." Using Mafdet, he lowered the cup, further startling his parents. "The most kindness I have ever received in years was from them."

That did it. They exchanged anxious looks, and his father cleared his throat. "Con..."

Conrad stared at the table. "And that makes me wonder: why didn't you two fight for me, why did you let me go so easily? None of Isfet's members are related by blood, but they protect each and every one of the people they take in as if they were their own brothers and sisters. If they can do that, why didn't you?"

This was difficult enough for both of them to answer; neither wanted to say anything to tick him off, it seemed.

Finally, his mother spoke. "Because we were powerless. Just— look at you, son. You're already able to touch things without your hands, a power which Ma'at gave you—"

"They forced that power into my system," Conrad hissed. "I was not supposed to receive it! Only through medical intervention did I brave the side effects, but only because they wanted more pawns! They wanted 'perfect' soldiers! I did everything they asked. For years, I was their doll, their pet, something for amusement when they weren't busy laundering money or blackmailing single mothers! And where were you, what were you two doing in my absence?"

Conrad whipped his head around at the sound of footsteps. He thought it was just the three of them. His parents tried to turn his gaze away but it was too late — he saw two children at the foot of the stairs. They bore great resemblance to him, and if it weren't for noticing the little girl's silvery plaits and the little boy's hazel eyes, he would think he was hallucinating.

"Mama? Who's that?" The little boy pointed with a tiny finger, clearly excited. Conrad's stomach dropped.

"Dylan, Una—"

"Is he a magician?" Una squealed, trotting closer. "That's so cool! Can he lift me too?"

"Mother," Conrad said in a dangerous tone, a dreadful realization circulating in his current train of thought, "who are these children."

"They're— I-I—"

The children scrambled to touch Conrad's floating teacup, but he used his Stand to push them back.

"They're your siblings, Con," his father rasped out.

"No, they aren't." A familiar pain stung his eyes into watering. So this was their answer to losing their son? "Replacements is what they are."

"What? No!" His mother jumped to her feet. "We were planning on having them way before you were taken from us, we—"

"Lies," he growled. This was worse than he imagined. The children were uselessly trying to get past the barrier Mafdet set up between them and him, which crackled with hostile energy that made them whimper in fear. "Replacements! What am I to you, Mother, Father? I do not understand how you would think this would be a happy reunion!"

"He's our brother, Mama?" Dylan asked in a small voice.

"I'm not your brother," Conrad cut in, the cup shaking with his sheer anger. He finished the rest of the tea and used his gloves to wipe away his DNA off the brim. He had to leave no trace.

He tamped down his anger to steady his next words for his parents as he stood, setting down the cup and retreating his Stand.

"From this moment on, you no longer have a son named Conrad. You made this decision, and you must live with it for the rest of your lives. And, before I forget — don't bother calling the authorities on me. You no longer have proof that I set foot in this house, for I no longer exist as part of this farce of a family."

He set for the door in spite of his parents' cries of "Wait!" and "Please!" and "Connie!" The drizzle had evolved into a strong rain soaking his hair just before he was able to pull up the hood of his coat. Without looking back, he briskly walked away from the house, taking care not to be seen by the neighbors. After a few blocks, Conrad stopped and ducked into an alley where a few bums were smoking and casting weary looks at him, which he didn't mind. He felt around in his coat, fished out a device indistinguishable from a restaurant alarm, and pressed a button on the side.

"This is Jeremiah. State your current location and desired destination."

"I am at an alley in Wexford County, Leinster, Ireland. Let's go back to the meeting point."

"Awrighty, Conradical! Beaming you there in three, two, one..."

He, along with his hopes of seeking closure, disappeared into the downpour.

[herespaaa]

10 Stunning Christmas Nail Art Inspirations from HereSpa's Experts.

Are you ready to elevate your festive look this holiday season? At HereSpa, our team of experts has curated a list of exquisite Christmas nail art designs to inspire your creativity and add a touch of seasonal glamour to your fingertips.

Snowflake Elegance : Embrace the enchanting beauty of winter with delicate snowflake designs. Our experts recommend using icy blues and sparkling silver hues for a mesmerizing effect, perfect for capturing the essence of the season.

Santa's Little Helpers : Get playful with cheerful Santa Claus, reindeer, or elf-inspired nail art. These adorable characters bring a whimsical charm to your nails, spreading joy and holiday spirit wherever you go.

Festive Red & Green : Classic yet timeless, the combination of vibrant red and lush green hues embodies the true essence of Christmas. Experiment with candy cane stripes, holly leaves, or elegant geometric patterns for a sophisticated look.

Glittery Gold Accents : Add a touch of opulence to your holiday nails with dazzling gold accents. Whether it's a subtle shimmer or bold metallic designs, gold detailing instantly elevates your manicure, exuding luxury and elegance.

Chic Holiday Plaids : Embrace the cozy vibes of the season with stylish plaid nail art. Incorporate traditional tartan patterns using rich, warm colors like deep reds, forest greens, and creamy whites for a trendy and sophisticated appearance.

Mistletoe Magic : Create a romantic and whimsical atmosphere with mistletoe-themed nail designs. Playful depictions of this iconic holiday symbol add a charming and flirty element to your nails.

Winter Wonderland : Capture the serene beauty of a snowy landscape with serene winter-themed nail art. Think frosty landscapes, snow-capped mountains, or elegant icicle designs to evoke a sense of calm and tranquility.

Sparkling Snow Globes : Transform your nails into miniature snow globes with this creative nail art idea. Featuring encapsulated glitter or small decorative elements, this design embodies the magical spirit of the season.

Nutcracker Delights : Draw inspiration from the beloved Nutcracker ballet with nail art showcasing its enchanting characters and motifs. From toy soldiers to sugar plum fairies, these designs exude holiday charm.

Glamorous Holiday Ombré : Experiment with holiday-themed ombré nail designs using festive color gradients. Blend shades of red, green, gold, or silver for a stunning transition that captures attention.

At HereSpa,

We believe that your nails should reflect the joy and spirit of the holidays. Experiment with these exquisite Christmas nail art inspirations and let your fingertips become a canvas for festive expression and style. Elevate your look and celebrate the season in style with HereSpa's expert-approved nail art ideas.

[nailsandinspo]

[unprettybutwellpolished]

SPRING VIBES ~

Since we can’t really enjoy spring and sun because you know quarantine, let’s bring them on the nails! That’s what I did with this nail art. I did some flowers, dots and tartan pattern. 

Polishes I used :

Models Own : Cornflower Gleam

Sephora : Icy Cocktail

Revlon : Sunshine Sparkle

OPI : My Twin Mimmy

Skin Food : BL509

White Polish

Blog | Twitter | Pinterest | Facebook

[pinezoe]

💅🏽Hello! 💅🏽 J'ai enfin posé SAINT GEORGES de @aengland Ça faisait bien 5ans qu'il attendait 😅 poke @storytellingd1collectionneuse 😂 Il est vraiment canon ce vernis ! Je lui ai fait un petit motif tartan rose avec un vernis à stamping 11 #22179 @bornprettynailart (ils sont vraiment vraiment top) et une plaque #QA96 Voilà j'aime bien ce motif façon tissus écossais d'hiver ! Je prévois des manucures d'hivers et de Noël tout le mois de Décembre. J'en posterais ici et ferait un recap sur mon blog! Bonne fin de journée ! 💋💋💋 #tartan #bornprettystore #aengland #aenglandfans @aenglandfans #stampingnailart #nails #manicure #nailart #nailpolish #vernis #nailenamel #esmaltedeunas #nagellack #naillacquer #fall #green #december #bornpretty #bornprettyreview #beauty #beautyblog (à Vaucluse, Provence-Alpes-Cote D'Azur, France) https://www.instagram.com/p/BrDnazegjxa/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=l26uesvmg8en

[tabbycasto]

Photography @stellamorais_ Makeup @coco.hirani Hair @richardphillipart Nails Tabby Casto @tabbyfa Stylist @amiivonslaughter Model @kitty.murray @models1agency-blog​

[universodonna-official]

PLAID NAILS

TARTAN NAIL ART: IL NAIL TREND AUTUNNO-INVERNO PIU’ COCCOLOSO DEL MOMENTO! Tante immagini di tartan nails da cui trarre ispirazione per la tua prossima Plaid manicure!Non perderti la nostra gallery e i tutorials a fine articolo! L’inverno è ormai alle porte e, come ogni anno, vediamo il ritorno di alcuni trend stagionali; fra quelli più cool del momento, non potevamo non nominare le unghie…

[shoooting-angels]

I found the perfect gift for the angel

[magnetothemagnificent]

[id: two starter pack meme images, one titled "Aziraphale Starter Pack" and the other "Crowley Starter Pack." The Aziraphale Starter Pack contains images of: a handgun, a dark skinned person with manicured nails, a Werther's original candy, a flaming sword, gravlax with dill on a piece of bread, a dark skinned model in a beige coat with fur trim, LGBT tartan, an antique silver snuff box, and a cluttered bookshop. The Crowley Starter Pack contains images of: a light skinned model in a Tetris-patterned novelty suit, a room fool of plants, the Golden Girls, a Hognose snake, a white minimalist living room, a black bullet pen, three diver's watches, and an add for the 'butt cutt' on a light skinned model, with the caption "A hairdo for those with the exquisite taste." ]

[ethereal-menace]

When old ladies look at Crowley, look at his too tight trousers, sunglasses and swagger, they inevitably come to the conclusion that he is a sweet, handsome young man*. A bit of a rogue, but only in the way they’d giggle over. Crowley is VEXED. He is not sweet! He is not to be giggled over! But they’ll fuss over him even more, patting his hand and insisting he has a biscuit and some tea. And Crowley sits there carefully holding his floral teacup, listening respectfully even as he sulks, and always without fail ends up doing some small helpful tasks on his way out. He’s usually back, despite his sulking. And maybe light bulbs stop needing to be changed, and all the highest cupboards are suddenly much easier to reach after he’s been around.

*this is true

When old ladies look at Aziraphale, they see his his fussy mannerisms, beautifully manicured hands, outdated wardrobe, and masterful uses of passive-aggressiveness, and they see one of their own. Aziraphale gets invited to knitting circles. He bakes with them. He gets ALL the best gossip about Doris’s grandson, gets involved in the Tea Discourse, and knows his steamy romances like the best of them. He gasps, puts a hand to his breast, pours the tea Just So, is utterly delighted by anything knitted or tartan, and grumbles about technology. He’s one of them, and he likes it. And maybe they find their memories are a little sharper, maybe he just happens to have a record of the old song their sweetheart used to sing to them, maybe all their favourite old films start playing again on the telly after he’s been around.

[justkeeptrekkin]

Brief Omens

An ineffable wives drabble- Brief Encounters inspired- that I wrote in collaboration with the amazing artist @selene-yoshi-chan ​, her pictures posted here with her agreement! This was fun to write, and I can’t believe how beautiful the illustrations are- thank you friend.

You can read it on AO3 here, or read under the cut! MORE ILLUSTRATIONS BELOW!

***

The weather is grey today. A strong breeze rolls over from the hills, tumbling into the valley of Devil’s Dyke. Aziraphale chose the meeting place herself. She thought that Crowley might find it amusing. 

This isn’t really a breeze, so much as a strong wind- it’s displacing her styled hair. Fashion has never interested Aziraphale in the same was as it fascinates Crowley, but the 40s really do have some smashing hairstyles and clothes. Now that the War is over, high-street shops are beginning to pop back up again, putting on their lights once more and dressing their mannequins with all manner of hats and a-line skirts. Of course, much of London remains destroyed from the Blitz. West Sussex, at least, has survived. 

Aziraphale lays her manicured hands on the wooden bridge, peers down at the burbling stream below. The water is clear, enough that she can see the smoothe rocks at the bottom. She can’t see her reflection, only the vague shape of her cream suit, orange and brown leaves floating along the surface.

She breathes in. She breathes out. She is nervous. 

“Morning, angel.”

She spins around- she doesn’t know why she’s surprised to see her here, she invited her. And yet Crowley has a habit of slinking up to her without warning, especially with this noisy wind covering the sound of her footfalls. 

“Hello, my dear,” Aziraphale says too quietly. She clears her throat. “You got here quickly.”

“Yeah. I drove up last night and stayed the night a little further into the South Downs. Beautiful part of the world, this, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale simply nods. She continues to rest her hands along the rough, mossy wood of the bridge, but her gaze is on Crowley; her red hair spilling out of a silver snake hair-pin, curls tickling the sides of her neck. Red lipstick. Aziraphale wouldn’t dare to try a lipstick that shade, but she’s always wondered how it would look on her. How it would look if Crowley kissed her and left a taste of it on her lips. 

Yellow irises dart over to Aziraphale. She stops staring and looks away promptly, watching the rolling green hills. With the lack of rain recently, the grass is turning a greyish green and blending into the sky. The clouds beyond make the horizon hazy, like a weak watercolour painting. 

“What was it you wanted to discuss,” Crowley asks, all business. Her sunglasses don’t conceal peripheral gaze- Aziraphale can see her staring out at the view beyond. She’s avoiding eye contact, Aziraphale realises. And it’s not just the square shoulders of her jacket that make her look tense. 

“Um,” Aziraphale says. She feels herself panic. She feels her eyes widen and her chest rise with a too-deep breath. “It’s- not all that important really.”

That gets Crowley to turn and look at her, brows furrowed. “What? Why are we meeting here then? We could have gone to any of our normal meeting places.”

“I know, but I rather thought that we might like to try somewhere new,” Aziraphale says. 

What she doesn’t say is that she had an inkling that Crowley would like the South Downs- Devil’s Dyke and all. She felt that it might be nice to try somewhere different with expansive views, rolling hills, little tearooms. And none of the World War II rubble. Something a little more- romantic. 

Crowley pokes out her bottom lip. Then, nods in concession. “Alright. Devil’s Dyke, though?”

“Yes.”

“A bit tongue-in-cheek for you,” Crowley says, sounding impressed. Then a smile grows on her lips. Firey red hair dancing in front of her face. “I like it.”

They stand side by side on the little bridge. They’re the only people (beings) here for miles. The wind pours down, and it makes Aziraphale’s ears ache. She looks down at her shoes- totally inappropriate for a country walk, but pretty. Crowley has been more sensible and put on some leather boots. 

“Crowley.”

“Angel.” She says it like she’s been waiting for them to get down to business. Waiting for them to discuss something serious, perhaps The Arrangement. 

“Back at the church, during the Blitz,” Aziraphale starts. She swallows, her throat raw from the cold air. The stream trickles happily, singing a gurgling song below. “At the church, you saved my books for me.”

Crowley looks dead ahead and doesn’t move. Aziraphale doesn’t miss the way her fingers clench on the wooden fence of the bridge. 

“Yes,” she replies slowly, quite primly. 

She has been dreading this moment. She has fought with herself over this decision for months. But after what Crowley did- 

Inside her handbag, Aziraphale finds a tartan flask. It looks so innocent, nestled amongst the packets of tissues and lipsticks. She removes it carefully, placing it on the fence. And if Crowley wasn’t tense before, she certainly is now; she straightens beside Aziraphale, red lips parting in silent surprise. Brows pulled together, raised above her sunglasses. 

Aziraphale keeps a hand on the flask, holds it there between them, waits for it to sink it.

“Angel…”

“Holy water won’t just kill your body,” Aziraphale interrupts. She has to say this, before Crowley thinks she’s doing something nice for her. “It will destroy you completely. But I can’t have you risking your life, not even for something dangerous.”

Crowley is staring at her- Aziraphale can sense it. She can see her floundering. She’s speechless in a way that Aziraphale’s never really known before. There isn’t even the usual garbled stream of noises coming out of her mouth when she loses her words; it’s just silence. Aziraphale has stunned Crowley to silence. 

She clears her throat, feeling her wind-bitten cheeks heat up. “Don’t go unscrewing the cap.”

“You did this for me,” Crowley says, almost too quietly over the wind.

And then Aziraphale turns to look back at her. Her hair is caught in the breeze. Crowley is so beautiful. Aziraphale always knew, always found her beautiful, even when she pretended she didn’t. But now- now, it’s impossible to ignore. How had she managed to ignore it for so long? How deluded has Heaven made her, that it took this long? Aziraphale is a being of love; it’s absurd that she hadn’t been able to see the wood for the trees until that bomb destroyed that church, Crowley handing over a briefcase, hands touching. Just for a moment. 

“Anything,” Aziraphale whispers.

She isn’t sure whether Crowley hears. If she didn’t, then that would be OK. Some things aren’t meant to be. 

They look over at the view again. Crowley takes a moment to pick up the flask and put it in her own purse. 

“I haven’t been as far as Ditchling before,” Crowley says suddenly, voice too light. “‘S where I’m staying at the moment. I’ve- I’ve only been as far as Hastings.”

Aziraphale goes along with it. “I helped evacuate some children here, during the worst of the War.”

“Ah. Yes. I was mostly in Liverpool helping out with that.”

Aziraphale frowns, registering this. When she tries to find answers in Crowley’s expression, she only sees her own white-blonde hair in her face and Crowley’s turned away. “You helped with the evacuations?”

“Yes,” she says sharply.

“That’s awfully… good of you.”

There’s a twist to her lips as she fights back a retort. “They were very naughty children, I assure you. Wales was traumatised by their arrival.”

She is too much. Oh, she is just too much. Aziraphale smiles at her, even though she won’t look back. “You are quite… something, Crowley.”

Crowley sneers. Aziraphale ducks her head and hides her smile. 

A single seagull flies overhead. The aren’t that close to the sea- it must have flown over from Brighton. It coasts on the wind. The air is fresh here, unlike London. Aziraphale breathes it in deeply, and tries to save it there. Save it for when she needs it in the coming days. 

“Are you happy?”

She doesn’t expect the question. She doesn’t even really understand it. “I’m sorry?”

Crowley hesitates, bites her lip. Then, “Do you ever ask yourself whether you’re happy? With the way things are?”

Constantly, Aziraphale thinks, but she never admits it to herself. No, she sees those kinds of questions float through her head and she banishes them to some bottomless pit in her mind. A pit that doesn’t feel so bottomless these days; all the doubt and confusion and questions she’s wanted to ask Heaven and Hell and God are piling up and starting to overflow. It’s only a matter of time before she decides she won’t be able to hide it anymore. 

Crowley is watching her, waiting for her answer as she thinks on this. 

“I don’t know,” she says, eventually. “Am I happy? Oh, Crowley. I don’t know.”

“Don’t you hate not knowing?” She rushes. “Don’t you ever just…”

Crowley trails off. Her hand rests against the fence beside Aziraphale’s. 

“I suppose you don’t ask questions, not being the snake of Eden,” Crowley eventually finishes. 

Aziraphale doesn’t know what to say. She doesn’t know what she thinks. Any opinions she has are obscured under layers and layers of Heavenly instructions and Bible verses and ineffable plans. 

For a moment, she finds a reply in a hand hold; not quite a hold, rather, her own hand gently placed on top of Crowley’s. Just to let her know that she’s there. And then she removes it again. 

She has been friends with Cowardice far longer than she has known Crowley. 

***

The Bentley is parked somewhere over the nearest hill. They walk in contemplative quiet, Aziraphale trying not to trip in her silly shoes, Crowley sighing in frustration at her. And whilst Aziraphale has achieved what she meant to today, something sits uncomfortably in her. 

The wind tries to push her back down the hill. 

When they reach the car, Crowley gives her a lift to the nearest train station, just outside Ditchling. It’s not far from where she’s staying, she assures Aziraphale, and she can’t cope with the idea of Aziraphale wobbling all the way to the station in her heels. Crowley makes it sound like an accusation, but Aziraphale recognises the kind gesture in it. She looks out of the window and watches the hills fall away, watches their moment in Devil’s Dyke fall away as if she’s abandoning it. 

The engine turns off and Aziraphale waits. Crowley says nothing. They both wait, although there’s no sign of there being anything to wait for. 

“Are you sure you want to head back to London?” Crowley asks. She doesn’t say it like a question. She turns to look at Aziraphale suddenly, lips parted and brows raised, looking lost. And Aziraphale realises then that it’s her that she’s abandoning, not Devil’s Dyke. “I’ll give you a lift. Anywhere you want to go.”

And she sees it. Oh, Lord, Aziraphale sees it in her mind’s eye; the two of them in a cottage in The South Downs, walking through the neighbouring fields in wellies and Barbour coats. Trips to Brighton with ice-creams and sun hats, even if the weather is dreary. Trips to places they’ve never been before; days inside, drinking cocoa and reading and simply being together. Existing together, without any fear of the universe collapsing. Forgetting that this juxtaposition of theirs is a crime against nature. Aziraphale sees it, this daydream hanging between them in the Bentley, parked outside Ditchling station. 

It would be cruel to even pretend that such a dream could exist. 

“You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

She doesn’t stay to see the heartbreak in Crowley’s eyes, because she feels it herself- she can’t bear heartbreak for two. She gathers her handbag and steps out of the car, walking neatly towards the station. She has fifteen minutes until her train. 

When she steps inside and turns around in the doorway, she sees the Bentley pull away. 

Everything feels very sharp and clear. An awful lot like she has fallen into that little stream back in the valley, like she’s lying in the water and her senses are stinging with the cold. She feels too much until she feels nothing. And so Aziraphale stares at the receding Bentley, clutching her handbag like a liferaft and turns back around, onto the platform. 

There are only two other people heading towards London from Ditchling. A middle-aged man with a case in his hand, and an older woman, who sits on the damp, dewy bench. She dabs at her nose with a handkerchief. Aziraphale finds herself drifting into the waiting room, where there is also a little cafe. 

She orders a cup of Earl Grey from the waitress, finds a seat to perch on. 

She holds the cup between her hands, but feels no less adrift. 

Crowley keeps her tethered, she considers in that moment. That look of abandonment on Crowley’s face; the feeling that Aziraphale is floating away; the sky is grey and the world is grey and she is lost in it. 

“I made the right decision,” she says quietly to herself.

“What’s that, sweetheart?”

Aziraphale takes a moment to realise that that waitress has spoken to her. “Oh- I’m sorry. I was merely talking to myself. A silly habit, I’m afraid,” she laughs emptily. 

“Not to worry, not to worry, talk to meself constantly- sign of a sound mind, my nan always said.”

“Quite so,” Aziraphale breathes. 

She doesn’t feel sound, she considers. She feels silent. A disorientating quiet, like those moments in the middle of the night, when one is awake when they shouldn’t be. When she has awoken and found herself alone, in a dark room. Echoing, claustrophobic. She feels it in her throat and she feels it prick her eyes with tears. 

“I made the right decision,” she whispers. 

The two of them walking down a muddy country road towards the nearest pub- talking loudly about anything and nothing, the usual silliness in all likelihood, arms swinging and cheeks rosy. The two of them side by side on a sofa, bowties undone and tights on the floor and wine bottles empty. The two of them at a dining table in the morning, reading the newspaper and buttering toast. The two of them at the Ritz, just as it has always been. 

She made the correct decision. It is the decision that Heaven would choose for her. But is it the right one?

Aziraphale stands up abruptly, tea sloshing over the edge of the mug and into the saucer. She is going to catch up with Crowley- she can find her in Ditchling town somewhere, she could ask around and-

No. No, even if she has that dream, it doesn’t mean that Crowley shares it. Crowley might have offered to take her anywhere, but how far does Crowley mean? How could Aziraphale know whether this is the right thing for both of them? This would jeopardise Crowley’s life too.

She sits back down slowly, just as the whistle of the London train screams down the platform. A shaky hand picks up the teacup and she takes a small sip. 

She steps onto the platform and waits for the train to stop. The steam billows; she can’t see anything. She hears the train conductor shouting out of the window. She sees a door materialise before her, opens it and steps into the compartment where three other people sit and read. She takes her own seat. 

She looks through the window and she feels like she is drowning. She feels as if the train’s steam is inside her. She feels the walls around her in a way she has never experienced a room before, as if it is designed to trap her. She hears the scream of the conductor’s whistle in her ears, rattling in her brain. 

She feels herself breath in. She feels the air rushing into her lungs, like water filling a glass. 

The train begins to pull away from the platform. 

She grabs her handbag, opens the door, and jumps onto the platform. 

Aziraphale hangs her head back and closes her eyes. The steam surrounds her in clouds and the mechanical chug of the train recedes; she feels it rumble beneath her feet. 

“Aziraphale!”

That voice- she opens her eyes and turns to meet it, but she sees no one for all the smoke and steam. 

“Crowley?”

And then again- desperation, relief- “Aziraphale.”

She turns on the spot and searches for her, but she can’t see anyone- she’s lost, alone in the mist, until she sees the silhouette approaching. The clouds part and there she is, Crowley, holding onto a handbag with both hands. An expression so soft it could have been painted. 

“Crowley.”

Right or wrong, correct or incorrect- Aziraphale sees none of that, now. She walks towards her. Crowley walks towards her. And they meet each other, standing so close that Aziraphale can see through the lenses of her sunglasses.

“You got off the train,” Crowley says. 

“You came back,” Aziraphale says. 

When they kiss, it isn’t like it is in the movies. It isn’t desperate hands on each other’s arms, desperate lips pressed together as if they don’t care about breathing. When they kiss, it’s hesitant, careful not to break everything that came before. It’s unsure, but it’s also a promise. 

Next time we kiss, Aziraphale thinks, I won’t be so afraid. 

[technicallysideacc]

I was tagged by @theleavesoflorien @tomthenetherlands and @foreverfanficaddict in these three memes, so I thought I’d put them together in the same post 🥰💗 Thank you so much for tagging me, this has been really fun to do!✨

—If I were

if i were a month, i’d be: October ･ if i were a flower, i’d be: a tulip ･ if i were an album, i’d be: "what’s the story (morning glory)?” by Oasis ･ if i were a mineral, i’d be: malachite ･ if i were a sound, i’d be: leaves crunching beneath your feet ･ if i were a colour, i’d be: emerald green ･ if i were a drink, i’d be: gin and tonic ･ if i were a fruit, i’d be: strawberries ･ if i were a quote, i’d be: “there is a fine line between recklessness and courage” (Paul McCartney) ･ if i were a television series, i’d be: NANA ･ if i were a movie, i’d be: Music & Lyrics ･ if i were a fashion brand, i’d be: Pepe Jeans ･ if i were a mythological creature, i’d be: a centaur ･ if i were a taste, i’d be: homely broth ･ if i were a scent, i’d be: burning wood ･ if i were a fabric, i’d be: tartan ･ if i were a body part, i’d be: eyes ･ if i were a song, i’d be: “English Tea” by Paul McCartney ･ if i were a god(dess), my four attributes would be: empathy, kindness, enthusiasm, courage.

—aesthetic tag

rules: bold and total your favorite choices

>> 𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐓 7/20

baby pink | iridescent | glitter is always a good option | no bra | minimalistic tattoos | cherry patterns | sweet scented perfumes | wearing generous amounts of blush | doodling hearts | getting excited to pet an animal | fun nails | rewatching old barbie movies | hair sticking to glossed lips | heart shaped sunglasses | taking pictures of the sunset or sunrise | stuffed animals | protecting nature | stickers everywhere | teen movies | the light rain that falls from a clear sky at the beginning of the night

>> 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐊 𝐀𝐂𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐌𝐈𝐀 15/20

neutral tones | masculine outfits | studying languages | worn down copy of books | grey skies | turtleneck sweaters | loose fitting pants | hair tied with a silk ribbon | trying to remember a cool difficult word you read somewhere to use in a convo | thick belts | minimal makeup | windows fogged by rain | vintage jewelry | blouses with cuffed sleeves | reading a murder mystery and trying to solve it | oxford style shoes | sweater vests | subtitled old movies in a language you don’t speak | leaves crackling as you walk | annotating books to express your emotions about the story

>> 𝐄𝐃𝐆𝐘 7/20

closet full of dark clothes | fishnet tights | makeup sweating off | neon signs | searching for unknown songs | chokers | band tees | doodling on old converses | finding smoking aesthetically pleasing but not doing it | weird humor | accidentally very dramatic | dim lights | layered outfits | chain belts | chipped nail polish | messy hair | low quality pics | piercings | combat boots | scribbling on desks

>> 𝟕𝟎’𝐒 7/20

colorful wardrobe | doodling flowers | wearing short shorts | using a bikini top or bra as a normal top | listening to ABBA | flowers in your hair | DIYing everything | jamming to songs alone in your room | drunkenly telling your friends you love them | patterned bandanas | mid heeled shoes | messy braids | flared sleeves | walking barefoot on grass or sand | bold sunglasses | the good kind of tired you get after doing something you enjoy for hours | feeding stray animals | fun patterned socks | room decorated with succulents and other plants | likes to go roller skating or skateboarding

>> 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐏𝐏𝐘 𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐔𝐀𝐋 6/20

collared clothes | drinking juice out of a champagne glass | getting excited to see the met gala looks | thick headbands | small pastel cardigans | making your friends take your ootd pics | plaid mini skirts | tweed two pieces | watching reality tv to pass time | frilly tops | watching old hollywood movies | academically driven | long manicured nails | new year’s eve fireworks | colourful tights | layered golden jewelry | yearns for luxury brand items | decorating your room with fairylights | cursive and neat handwriting | lace details

—10 characters, 10 fandoms, 10 tags

I’ve tried my best, but there were fandoms in which I just couldn’t choose one!

1. Mass Effect: commander Shepard / Kaidan Alenko 2. The Lord of the Rings: Aragorn 3. Harry Potter: Minerva McGonagall 4. Dragon Age: Inquisition: Dorian Pavus 5. One Tree Hill: Nathan Scott 6. Final Fantasy X: Tidus 7. Downton Abbey: Lady Mary Crawley / Violet Crawley 8. Haikyuu!!: Kageyama Tobio 9. Jane Austen: Emma Woodhouse 10. Resident Evil: Chris Redfield

I’m tagging @theleavesoflorien @foreverfanficaddict @tomthenetherlands @whatagreatproblemtohave @justmehernthemoon @littleprincepleasedontgo  @herefortommo and @halo-the-brave to do any part of this that they want!💕✨