the southern pansy

"Seems a lot of effort just to sharpen a beak."

[sittingonit]

SEEMS A LOT OF EFFORT JUST TO SHARPEN A BEAK.

INDIE, SELECTIVE AZIRAPHALE RP (SIDE)BLOG — SLOW ACTIVITY MULTIVERSE. CROSSOVERS & OCs OK.

ABOUT/RULES

[sittingonit]

wickedlehane​:

Faith watched the man process her words in real time- quite Britishly. She recognized this sort of hardcore thinking from her days with Wesley and later then Giles. They really only made one type from across the pond, didn’t they? Still, she managed a surprised smile at his Hellmouth geography question.

“Lucky us, we got two of them. Sunnydale was the biggest, baddest one around. Apocalypses were like every Tuesday there,” she explained with some distant fondness. It had never been her home, and in fact a lot of bad things had happened there. But Faith still had some affection for everything it represented in her life. She tended to think more kindly on the things that had hurt her in the past (people and places) than was probably healthy. But Faith Lehane would never have been described as the paragon of mental wellbeing.

Her face softened with amusement at the recognition. Her eyebrows lifted slightly with the bookseller’s knowledge- this guy totally knew more about the mystic world than he let on. “The last officially minted Slayer, before B and Willow opened the floodgates,” Faith nodded. “I try to stay humble about it, though. What gave me away?”

She really hoped it wasn’t something like ‘you smell of crusted demon’s blood’ or something equally awful.

“And to answer your question, Cleveland’s still up and active, but we have a stateside squad holding it down. A lot easier to guard those things when there’s more than one Chosen One,” she said casually, slipping her hands in the pockets of her jeans. “I’m out here with the Devon Coven working to set up London and Scotland bases. Guessing if you’ve heard of us, you’re either well-read, stronger than you look, or going to try to stab me in a few seconds. Can I get a heads up on which?”

The last time he was briefed about the Slayer it was recorded as a happy accident when men—cis men, as opposed to the ought to have been outdated blanket term for humans—toyed with forces beyond their ken and created a lineage of enhanced girls to fight the forces of darkness. Aziraphale didn’t really have a lot of opinion on that.

“Is that what happened? All of the Slayers were called?” He mused when the young woman mentioned the opening of a floodgate. His favourite barista had told him she crushed a milk jug with her bare hand. Perhaps the two occurrences were connected. He tried to remember the date on the newspaper to corroborate with his friendly barista’s sudden enhancement.

Aziraphale chuckled lightly, idly thumbing his opposing sleeves as he looked for an answer that wouldn’t disclose something as sensitive as him being an angel. He went for the first option offered. “I, er, well, I read about you—the Slayers, that is, not you specifically. It is a mystical lineage, isn’t it? Do you carry with you past memories? Knowledge? Favourite food?”

[herzdieb]

@aziritzphale requested → aziraphale wearing his glasses

[sittingonit]

wickedlehane·:

Faith backed off the books when the man got jumpy- a total Wesley, this one (of course, except for the part when Wesley turned into a gun-toting badass demon hunter). As the shop owner rattled off the list of books, she wondered whether Wes had ever heard of this place, or been here, being from Jolly Old England and all. Maybe the blonde man knew the former Watcher, but honestly, she didn’t want to open that can of worms here and now.

“I guess you could say I have experience with them,” she said casually. A man who owned this many books of prophecy couldn’t be totally ignorant to the subject, now could he? “To me, doomsday is just another day ending in ‘y’.” But Faith turned over the names he’d mentioned in her mind. Did any of them sound remotely like what Willow and the Devon Coven wanted?

“Got anything… Hellmouthier? I’ll level with you, man. I’ve got a… friend here. We’re both transplants from California. Any of your books have anything about a little town called Sunnydale that got wiped off the map in ‘03?” Faith crossed her arms over her chest and then shrugged. “Anyways, we’re just trying to get ahead of any general attempts at an apocalypse, so if you know of any prophecies that haven’t passed, point me there.”

Hellmouthier? The angel’s brow knitted for a second before it rose towards his hairline in recognition of the name. Generally speaking, things associated with Below (as they had each taken to refer to the places whence they came—Above and Below) were Crowley’s domain. The serpent, however, preferred not to meddle too much about the Hellmouth(s), plural, in the world. It had too many aspiring demons rubbing elbows, horns, and hooves trying to one up the other as if it would eventually lead them to Satan himself. What started out as an incentive had become a staging ground and, in Crowley’s own words after one too many schnapps, full of toffs. Aziraphale had nodded solemnly and toasted to that declaration.

The mention of Sunnydale pinged another memory. A town in Southern California had been swallowed in a violent earthquake. The headline had made it across the pond though clearly the small details weren’t a part of the parcel. Aziraphale pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Was Sunnydale a Hellmouth too?” Then he muttered, “I thought the American one was in Cleveland.”

The angel eyed the young woman again, this time carefully employing his not inconsiderable ethereal powers to get a read on her. She looked human, that much was clear, and she felt human for the most part, but there was also a certain force lurking underneath. It had dark eyes that saw from the shadows, but it wasn’t hiding. It was also old, far far older than the woman that she must have been born with it. The shadows looked at him and all at once the angel could feel the fierce protectiveness it had, over the woman, and rather surprisingly, over the whole world. Aziraphale gasped, his eyes glittering with undisguised awe.

“You’re a Slayer.”

[sittingonit]

wickedlehane​:

The first sign of the apocalypse, for some, would be the fact that Faith was inside of a bookstore in the first place. But she’d grown up a little, okay?

She’d heard from a few of the more fantastical London locals that this unassuming little shop would have some good literature on the subject of world ending, something that in all her years of Slayer work she’d brushed up against far too many times for comfort. 

And now that Willow was back out here, studying with her coven, Faith had wanted to get serious about getting ahead of the next Big Bad’s attempt at doomsday. It had been far too quiet, too many run-of-the-mill vampire types making the Slayer nostalgic for knowing that someone was up to some nonsense- at least then they could work to stop them.

“Saw the doors,” Faith said to the shop attendant without taking her eyes off the shelf. “Cute. Quaint. How old’s the place?”

She ran her finger along the spines of several more books, each with leathery, or gilded, or otherwise worn textures and words stamped into them. None of them made sense- and yes, she could read- but they were Codices and Compendiums and things that Wesley had probably once tried to make her read. Then, Faith spun on her bootheel and faced the rather soft looking man, with his bowtie so tight and a suit and vest and shirt- this guy had to have some Council ties. Seriously, grade-A nerd material here, but she had never heard of this place, and she didn’t know who this guy was.

“I want what you’ve got on apocalypses. Myths, histories, anything. It’s not urgent, not yet, but you honestly never know.”

Aziraphale’s blond brows rose. American, and somewhat savvy with the esoteric. Or maybe she was just bored. Humans did all sorts of strange things when they were bored, like spend six hours on Wikipedia until they found out the name of Beethoven’s housekeepers when all they started out to do was find the title of the third episode of Stargate Atlantis. Aziraphale would have done the same, to be perfectly honest. We’re simply lucky the angel didn’t know how to operate a computer nor did he watch Stargate Atlantis. Beethoven passed by him once, but neither knew whom the other was.

“Um, er—very old,” he hummed, still watching her warily. His subtlety was lost on her and he was out of miracles for the day. Shouldn’t have used it to go to a restaurant in Japan for the kaiseki, except he’d been on the waiting list for two years. What was he supposed to do?

“W-why apocalypses…? Ah, please don’t touch those,” he added quickly as he moved to stand protectively between the young woman and his bookshelf. “We usually carry copies of the prophecies of Nostradamus, Jayabaya, and William Blake,” he explained, still trying to steer her to the front. Of Agnes Nutter he didn’t care to mention, because young Newt and Anathema destroyed the follow up of the original after the Armageddon’t. He was also confident that all events recounted in the first had already happened. (Unless he was wrong and one more thing was yet to happen. Prophecies are fickle and contextual, almost like memes.)

“Which of them would you prefer?”

[dastardlydorito]

Requested by anonymous ↳ Crowley getting intimate with manhandling Aziraphale

[sittingonit]

​​for @wickedlehane, who pokes her nose into some moldy books.

         People, in general, do not simply walk into Aziraphale’s bookshop. More often than not what happened was they would have something in their minds that bothered them so profoundly until they didn’t watch where they were walking, bumped into someone or tripped on their own foot, stop, sigh dejectedly about their lives, and then they would look up to see a set of wooden doors with chipped paint and a sign exclaiming OPEN in a less enthusiastic typography before inviting themselves in. But these people also had a sort of dazed, aimless look in their eyes as they tried to make sense of the shop. The young woman Aziraphale encountered near the shelf of prophetic books had a look that was anything but. The angel approached her with great caution.

       “Er, hello. I’m afraid we are closing soon—if I may show you the doors...?”

       Clearly Aziraphale had never—and never would have—won Best Customer Service awards.

[hollisartsblog]

I decided to draw two lovers enjoying the freedom from useless boundaries and toxic environments.

the background is inspired by pinterest, but I hope that you will get the amazing feeling they are experiencing. perhaps, for the first time.

[sittingonit]

@galaxytracer​​

"Angel! Angel! Wake up, you damn thing..." Crowley knocked on the door with urgency. "I've got some news to share," he'd have zapped himself inside long time ago, had it not gone out of fashion a good two years ago.

“I wasn’t sleeping! Sleeping is your thing, my dear—” The protest faded into a little pout as he climbed down the impossibly tall staircase inside his impossible bookstore with the impossible collection. Hey, he never said being an angel didn’t come with certain perks.

The rugs absorbed his hurried footsteps before he opened the door to reveal his friend. Crowley’s sunglasses seemed particularly shiny today—Aziraphale fancied he could see his own reflection in them. His bowtie needed fixing. The angel hummed, did just that, and beckoned the demon to come in.

“Well, Crowley, what news do you have to share with me?” He tucked his thumbs on the pockets of his waistcoat. “Ooh, would you like some tea? Wine?”

[sittingonit]

theunwrittens·:

The stupid angel decided to throw a fit, the time was slowly running out and they still had nothing to present on the exhibit. Nothing but a sorry mutt who for some reason started to shake now and made a pathetic attempt at jumping right into Aziraphale’s arms. He could bet that the angel would spoil it something rotten if he as much as turned his gaze away.

“A tracksuit would be far more fitting,” he spat before sliding the newest issue of Pretty Puppy – fashion magazine for dogs in Aziraphale’s direction. “Get me something from here. You can practice your DYI skills some other time. Now I need to see the actual results.”

A fit thrown does not a solution make. But, Aziraphale was an angel and angels did not throw fits. They perform miracles. He gave a cursory flip through the magazine, looking down on it like he would to a particularly snooty child. Animals were better as pictures or a mere concept, he thought, before snapping his fingers. The whining mutt was now dressed in the dankest (as was described in the magazine) three-stripes tracksuit. Why would anyone in their right mind would subject any creature to a dank set of clothes was a mystery better left for later perusal. A snapback to complete the look, and she was ready to be presented into the world as any one of the lads and lasses frequenting the pubs of South London.

Aziraphale’s lips pursed further like an angry duck before he schooled it into a more widely approved facial expression an angel would have. “Happy?” That one was directed to Crowley with a heavily implied 'if you don't like it then Do-It-Yourself'.

[sittingonit]

theunwrittens·:

He made sure to turn his head away from the other before allowing himself a fond smile at the comment. It’s better the Angel didn’t know he’s grown this soft.

“And you suggest we should perhaps knock?” Honestly though, he didn’t see any other solution. There’s no windows in the whole damned structure, And the secret entrances were secret enough that there was no trace of them. Looking for another way of entering it would be extremely time-consuming and most probably fruitless. With a polite knock on the door they at least had a chance of getting in. Even if that meant notifying the host that they’ve arrived to stop their plans. He shrugged and pulled his glasses slightly off so they were sitting on the tip of his nose, “Eeeeh, let’s give’em the right beating.”

“As opposed to a left beating?” He arched an eyebrow at Crowley and cleared his throat in return when the other gave him a scathing look with those glittering snake eyes of his.

“Um,” he raised a fist, “Nothing ventured nothing gained, I suppose,” and thought it over. “Couldn’t we just... miracle ourselves in? At least across this door.” There were risks, of course, not knowing what lies across the door. was a primary among those. (What if there were traps? Or a gigantic hole on the floor for unsuspecting creatures to fall into? They may be celestial beings but the bodies they occupy was a mortal one all the same. Materializing in the wrong side of human-made structures was one of the first lessons they were taught not to do, after all, and a lot of stories about beings trapped inside lamps or amulets were cautionary tales.)

So Aziraphale knocked three times and waited.

“A terribly austere building, isn’t it?” He said to Crowley. “Tell me, what was your plan again?”

[goodomenssource]

Crowley’s snake tattoo (requested by @voidofthestarsbutbi)

[mappplethorpe]

We’re on our own side.

[goodreadss]

[sittingonit]

@theunwrittens from this x.

Aziraphale purses his lips, ready to give his rote answer to humour the demon. “I’ll have you know that Elton John finds my company to be... inspirational. Why you would find it otherwise is beyond me.”

The angel trots ahead, matching his pace with Crowley’s long-legged ones. “There’s the door,” he says, tugging on the sleeve of his jacket as they approach the gilded structure. It emanates divinity unlike anything else on Earth. “Here goes nothing...”

[sittingonit]

𝐄𝐑𝐀     𝐀𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐂     𝐆𝐀𝐌𝐄  

RULES  :  bold the aesthetics that applies to your muse. repost. don’t reblog.

Muse: Aziraphale

𝙼𝙴𝙳𝙸𝙴𝚅𝙰𝙻.     tired eyes. coffee stains on the table.   listening to the bustle of the city.   unmade beds.   ponytails. sunlight seeping through the curtains.   chapped lips.  walking barefoot across the floorboards.   dusty dictionaries.   black and white reruns.   huge sweaters.   the ticking of the clock. hearing birds in the morning.   fireplaces. falling asleep during class.

𝚁𝙴𝙽𝙰𝙸𝚂𝚂𝙰𝙽𝙲𝙴.     freckled skin.   the sun rising.  watching the sea.   taking shots of the city.   historical museums.   bright eyes.   looking up at the clouds.   walls covered in artworks.   drawing in the middle of lessons.   tracing your fingers on the sand.   painting for hours.   staying in uncrowded coffee-shops.   worn paperbacks.   messy braids.   going to bed with your kneesocks on.

𝙱𝙰𝚁𝙾𝚀𝚄𝙴.     dark hair.   a little sophisticated.  always observing the world around you.   intricate designs.   high ceilings.   extravagant musical pieces.   dim room lights. colorless photographs. fancy furniture.   pale skin.  hearing soft footfalls coming from outside the room.   mischievous looks.  bitten nails.   candlelight dinners.  dark shades of lipstick.

𝙲𝙻𝙰𝚂𝚂𝙸𝙲𝙰𝙻.     chandeliers.  the clinking of a teacup mug.   laced clothing.   modern architecture.   light hair. watching the view from the terrace. hidden birthmarks. drinking tea in the morning.  wandering about in an empty building.   botanical gardens.   old films.   ancient marble sculptures.   expensive perfume. breakfasts in bed.   reading stories about mythology.

𝚁𝙾𝙼𝙰𝙽𝚃𝙸𝙲.     compassion.   short writings on scraps of paper.   blushed cheeks.   a bouquet of roses. reading collections of poetry late at night.  loose hair. carpeted floors.  attending operas. faint music playing in the background. staying under the covers until midday. the night sky.   streetlights.   picking flowers.   dancing around in silk dresses.   scented candles.

tagged by: @theunwrittens​ tagging: all of you nerds.

[uchan-draws]

“There are people out there shooting one another!”

“Well, that’s just it, isn’t it? They’re doing it themselves. It’s what they really want to do. I just assisted them. Think of it as a microcosm of the universe. Free will for everyone. Ineffable, right?”