nail adornments

It always baffles me what people claim as “historically accurate” for ye olde fantasy fiction while completely ignoring all the cool shit that actually did exist and negates their misconception that everyone was Gross™ and unkempt because Reasons.


Like all y'all realize we’ve had soap for a while, right, and perfumed oils?


I mean fuck me, we have evidence of the Egyptians as far back as Cleopatra (and likely before) styling their nails (rich and poor!) bright vibrant RED hues using tinted oils and henna.


We’ve got evidence of unisex nail tints and adornments from the Ming Dynasty including but not limited to kohl, vegetable dyes and literal actual gold dust gelled together with egg whites and bees wax. Not to mention actual mother fucking tooth brushes dating from the late 1400s and the well known “chew brushes” from before then.


But sure. Rough mannered white dude takes a piss behind a tree and makes a comment about wining and whoring as he does up his ‘britches’, and all your women just expect to be brutalized 24/7 while lamenting the stench because nobody bathes.


Yep, sure sounds like mediocre white dude fantasy to me.

@roadswewalk I wish I had any photoshop skills whatsoever! This is a lovely idea…I hope you won’t mind that I ran with it:


Home again. Sherlock is alone, or he’s supposed to be. John has placed him on twenty-four hour watch, and taken the first shift himself. He’s sat Sherlock down in his chair, and placed a mug of tea at his left elbow, but he won’t sit, won’t talk. He shuffles around in the kitchen, fussing about with a bag he picked up at Boots. 

Sherlock’s whole body is a mass of aching withdrawal and bruises. He is a walking, breathing pang. He doesn’t want to take paracetamol, or whatever else John has arranged for him to have. He wants to crawl every inch of his recovery on his own. He can’t allow whatever help John is preparing to offer.  

John clears his throat. He hovers in the kitchen doorway, his left hand clenching and releasing. 

His right hand is coiled into a fist. No: his fingers are curled around something. A small bottle, a vial. Sherlock’s stomach flips, as his mind whispers sweet possibilities. What will he say, if John offers him a top-up, a little something to ease the pain?

No. The answer has to be no. Besides, John would never. John is here to watch him, to make sure he doesn’t use. What, then? 

Sherlock shifts in his chair. The small movement sets his nerves to screaming, but he won’t complain. For John, he’ll breathe through each moment. 

For John, he will speak, will try to break whatever stalemate this is. “Won’t you sit down?”

“Mm.” A non-answer. 

Sherlock wills himself to continue through this moment, and the next. He picks up the mug, deliberately, lifts it to his mouth, and sips tea. He waits. He has no choice.

“I wonder–” John starts. He stares at the empty air behind Sherlock. Shakes his head. Rubs his eyes. 

“Yes?” 

Sherlock wonders, not for the first time, how things became so strained between them. He knows. Of course he does: too much damage, too much heartache, too many words unspoken. 

John shakes his head, walks stiffly to the desk, and pulls out the hardbacked chair. He places it inches away from Sherlock’s chair, and sits. So close, so quickly. Sherlock blinks at his tea, risks a glance at John’s face. John is looking down at his right hand. His fingers uncoil. Sherlock frowns at what he sees there. 

Nail polish. Sea Blue. 

When John speaks, his voice is gruff. “Hold out your hand.”

“John, I assure you, I am in need of many things, but a manicure is not one of them.”

John shakes his head. “No. We’re doing this.” He shakes the bottle, much more vigorously than necessary. He unscrews the cap, rests the bottle on the arm of the chair, and removes the brush, careful not to let it drip. He holds out his hand for Sherlock’s. 

Sherlock places the mug carefully on the side table. His hands are inclined to shake. He tries to keep still as he offers his left hand, his palm resting on John’s. John paints a swath of nail polish over Sherlock’s thumbnail. Sherlock sighs. The sensation is pleasant. Cool, in contrast to the heat of John’s hand. 

“Not that I mind, John, but are you going to tell me why?” He can’t help asking. The silence is too intense, too monumental. He shudders as John works on his index finger. 

“Withdrawal. You’re going to start to itch soon,” John says. His voice is whisper soft. He follows the ritual he’s established for himself: dipping the brush, shifting his hand under Sherlock’s to hold him still, running the brush over the nail of Sherlock’s middle finger, then his ring finger. 

“And?”

“The nail polish is bright, and your nails will feel a bit different to you. I’m hoping it will serve as a reminder not to scratch. No good going through withdrawal if you come out on the other end with all your skin hanging off.”

Sherlock chuckles, his voice low. His skin already feels like it’s hanging off. It would make no difference to him, if he stripped it all raw, but he will try not to, for John.

John finishes with Sherlock’s left hand. He leans over it, his thumb running over Sherlock’s skin, and blows a light stream of air over the nails. 

Sherlock closes his eyes, feeling John’s breath on him, and the warmth that builds in his belly, and the relief from the pain he holds inside him. 

It’s temporary, but so very welcome. 

“The other hand, then,” John says.

Sherlock shifts in the chair, his whole body turning toward John, so he can offer his right hand. John leans over this hand as well, and he is so close, inches away from Sherlock. Sherlock breathes John in: the scent of the pomade he’s taken to wearing, ever since he allowed his hair to grow longer. The faint scent of toothpaste. It’s all bathed in the much stronger scent of the nail polish: butyl acetate; ethyl acetate. Overripe banana and pear, mixing with the stench of toluene. Not nearly enough to get high on. 

“Do you really think this will work?” Sherlock asks. He casts his eyes down to watch John work. John is hardly himself, hasn’t been himself for years, Sherlock knows, but at least he still has good, steady hands. It’s something. It’s a lot. Maybe, even, enough to start something new. 

John finishes painting the nails of Sherlock’s right hand. He purses his lips and blows air across them as well. Sherlock shivers. 

John frowns as he screws the lid back on the bottle. He puts it on the desk behind him. Sherlock holds up his hands to admire them. 

“I hope you like the colour,” John says. “Matches your dressing gown.” Not answering Sherlock’s question. Evasive. John is still sitting in the chair, inches away. To Sherlock’s surprise, he shifts forward, and his knee presses into Sherlock’s thigh. 

Sherlock sighs. “It’s…nice. It looks nice.” He wiggles his fingers. It does. 

John sighs raggedly. He takes Sherlock’s hand in his again. This time, he turns it over. He leans in. He presses his cheek to Sherlock’s palm. 

Sherlock is unable to move, unable to speak. John’s eyes are screwed shut. He rubs his cheek against Sherlock’s hand, the first hint of afternoon stubble scratching Sherlock’s skin, his fingertips. John presses his lips to Sherlock’s wrist, kisses his pulse point. 

“Please remember,” John says. “Don’t hurt yourself. Please don’t hurt yourself any more.” 

They hold there for a long moment. A tear escapes from the inside corner of John’s left eye, makes a track down his face. Sherlock is turning inside out, his whole world coalescing down into his hand, into John, into the shade of blue that adorns his nails. 

“I won’t, John. I won’t.”

Bury All of You

Summary: What happens after Alec accepts Magnus’ drink in 1x06, leading up to the morning after their impromptu sleepover.

Rating: K+

Genre: Fluff, Angst

Author: dylanobrienstyler

Can also be read on AO3.


Alec wasn’t sure what made him agree to do this.

Maybe it was still the fiery rebellion inside his gut that had come aflame when he heard from his sister the plans their parents had laid out for them. Maybe it was that his issues with Jace was making him feel less secure in his personal relationships and fueling a desire to spend time with those outside of the Shadowhunter realm. Maybe it was that, although he was stubborn beyond words at times, Alec knew that there was something deeper pulling him to the warlock he was currently in the company of.

But whatever it was, it had led him here. To sharing a drink with the High Warlock of Brooklyn.

He had originally come because Jace had asked him to throw aside duty for Clary Fairchild’s friend Luke, who had been badly injured in a werewolf power battle. He had argued with Jace on the matter at first, knowing the redhead was more trouble than benefit and that throwing aside their Shadowhunter duties to tend to all of her extensive needs was getting a little ridiculous and only spelled disaster. He and Jace hadn’t been seeing eye-to-eye lately, but he couldn’t deny that he missed his parabatai. And after Isabelle spouted their parents’ plans for them, he knew that following the rules wasn’t helping him build the life he wanted. His life’s path apparently would always be chosen for him.

So Alec ran to Magnus’ side, where Jace had claimed he was needed according to Magnus’ specific request, and he found the warlock struggling to maintain his magic. The shaking items in the loft and intense colours swirling out of his hands made it clear Magnus had been using a lot of power to attempt to heal Luke.

Alec had bounded to his side, clasping around his middle to keep him upright as he swayed, and offered his hand for Magnus to leech his strength from.

It had been an exhausting and strange experience, but they ended up saving Luke from the alpha venom wreaking havoc in his veins, so he figured it was worth it. Even if he didn’t have any alliance to the new werewolf pack leader and he was wary about interfering with Downworlder politics, a life spared from the evils of the world was always a win in his books.

After Magnus had settled Luke into the guest room across the loft in order to recuperate post-near-fatal wounding, and Clary had excused herself to speak to him before she too followed Simon and Jace’s earlier farewell and raced out of the loft like she was on a mission.

Normally, Alec would care what the troublesome girl was off to likely screw up next, but he found himself ignoring his usual ambition to minimize any potential damage and deciding that someone else could clean up everyone else’s messes for once.

Instead, he hung around Magnus, cleaning up the blood from the leather couch with the remnants of Luke’s torn shirt. He wasn’t sure if Magnus even owned cleaning supplies.

Sure enough, Magnus made a comment about being able to use magic to tidy the mess, but Alec reminded him of his intense exertion not long before and hesitantly accepted the drink Magnus offered him.

It was quite strong, making him grimace at the taste as it burned down the length of his throat, but he kept drinking it anyways. He usually wasn’t much of a drinker, but he’d had a shitty enough day that he’d make an exception.

And then of course his mother called and he was reminded of all the things he was trying to forget. Including the way Magnus was hinting at something growing between them that he wasn’t ready to face.

A part of him wanted to say yes. Wanted to keep going with the rebellious drive he had alight inside, but it was so much more than just disapproving parents he had to worry about. He wasn’t sure he was prepared to tackle everything that came with admitting what it all would mean.

And Magnus seemed okay with that. Seemed to understand his inner turmoil. As much as he was flirty and playful, he also backed off when he sensed Alec getting spooked, and he made it clear he wasn’t pressuring him.

For that, Alec was grateful.

And he supposed that was why he ended up agreeing to a second drink.

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Cinders - Chapter 14/36

Originally posted by lmmortalnova

All Chapters

SUMMARY: It’s an agonising cluster fuck of feelings, shock and backstory. Sorry in advance.

WC: 2670

“Can we have a minute?” you ask, dragging your eyes from your leg to look up at the rest of the crew, their feet shuffling and eyes unable to meet your own. Ryan stares at you for a moment as you begin to collect yourself, straightening out your spine and scooting over to sit beside Jeremy, flinching as the warmth from his body soaks into the floor. Finally he gives a short nod before standing, beckoning for the others to follow him before casting you a concerned glace with something deeper smouldering beneath his eyes’ blue depths.

Once you had been left alone you feel Ray stumble to your side and collapse to the floor, sitting on his feet while motioning for you to lean into him. You do so gladly and let his familiarity engulf you, your eyes closing as you wish desperately to rewind time and scamper back to the past where it was just the two of you.  To a time where there was no unnecessary pain or suffering, no big unknown to hover over your head, and no Cheshire to be found.

It hadn’t taken you long to realise that without Ryan, the Cheshire had sunk back into the depths she’d clawed from. At first you’d considered that Ray’s generally cool energy had eased the turmoil of emotions that would find her waking and raging; wondering if his calm was simply a form of meditation. It was only after a fight with Ray, where you were both left screaming at one another, that you found yourself shocked by your own control. The Cheshire hadn’t bothered to make her usual appearance, leaving your mind clear.

Ray holds you for what feels like the thousandth time, his heart beat soothing you as you both struggle to comprehend the events of the past hours. Gingerly you pull away and wipe the tears from your face before running a hand through your hair; letting out a noisy breath. “We can’t leave him here,” you say, still disbelieving that you will ever see his bright eyes or exuberant smile again. Ray nods in understanding, following your lead as you reach down to gently wrap your arms around his chest; Ray grabbing his feet as you both supports him. “Let’s hope he didn’t die for realsies,” he gasps as you carry him towards the elevator, heading for the roof.

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freaks forever

[im considering writing a sequel for this okay sorry continue reading for that gay shit]

eric is a good kid. he really is. tells his parents the truth, doesn’t go to keggers, gets straight a’s. he’s nice and honest.

so when he finds himself sandwiched between sweaty bodies smelling like two-day old chinese food covered up with sweet perfume, he’s a little surprised.

here he was; a seventeen year old virgin loser. alone. in a club that only played blaring dubstep. perfect.

not to mention it was a gay club. god, if his parents ever found out, he was so fucking dead.

eric wormed his way out of the crowd, finally finding an empty and sticky leather bar seat next to a lanky blonde boy. he was wearing a long sleeved mesh shirt over his bare and pale skin, a pair of black skinny jeans slid over his skinny legs. he was…wow.

“what brings you here, baby?” the boy turned to him and asked, giving him a quick smirk when he saw eric staring at his almost unclothed torso. eric turned red, pulling the sleeves of his leather jacket down to cover the palms of his hands.

“dunno,” he mumbled, “gets boring in the ‘burbs.” the boy raised his eyebrows, looking taken aback.

“don’t tell me a pretty thing like you lives in suburbia land! jeez, honey. live a little.” eric’s new acquaintance leaned over the counter, whispering something into the bartender’s ear and pointing at him. they shared a giggle, and he soon leaned back.

“i’m dylan,” he offered his hand, nails clad in black shiny polish. “you are?”

“eric. eric harris.” he took dylan’s hand and gave it a firm shake, the cold silver of his ring startling him a bit.

“even your name sounds innocent! say, have you ever been here before? i’ve just never seen you around or anything.” dylan asked, head propped up by his arm. his shiny hair was parted to this side, long enough to just touch his shoulders in curly waves.

“nah. not really my scene, you know?” eric had become so accustomed to giving one-word answers that having a conversation, a REAL conversation, with someone was odd and slightly uncomfortable.

dylan nodded, it was understandable not to be attracted to a gay bar. there were some real creeps here, lingering around. had to be careful about who you went home with.

“well, don’t worry kid, we’ll keep you safe. isn’t that right, nate?” the man behind the bar had spiked blue hair, and wore silver hoop earrings with a tight black tank top. he slid a beer towards eric, and a triangular shaped glass full of something pink in front of dylan.

“anything to keep my baby happy. hey, I’m nate. dylan’s roommate.” nate slid away soon enough again to cater to another club-goers needs.

dylan takes a gulp of his drink, adam’s apple bobbing up and down as the liquid slid down his throat. eric was so entranced by everything about dylan that he didn’t hear his name being called.

“eric? i think your friend’s calling you?” eric snapped back to reality, looking behind him. brooks was running towards him, smiling widely.

“eric, thank fuck, we gotta go man! my mom’s gonna be home in like 20 minutes!” eric switched his gaze between dylan and brooks, reluctant to leave the black clad boy and return to his boring, shitty, high school ruled suburban nightmare.

“hey, if it’s not an issue, i can drive him home later?” dylan offered, shifting in his seat slightly. eric gave brooks a pleading look, as if to say, ‘motherfucker, you better cover for me’.

“uh, yeah, sounds alright? i’ll tell my mom you went home or something. call me, okay?” eric promised he would, and brooks left as quick as he had appeared.

“so,” dylan began, “wanna get out of here?”

fast forward two hours. three am, and they’re walking in a darkly lit street. dylan is puffing smoke out of his mouth, laughing and telling stories about when he was in high school.

“fucking christ, kids can be so stupid. how was i supposed to know that they’d flush my clothes down the toilet?” eric laughed along with him, grinning wider than he thinks he ever has.

“highschool’s bullshit. if i saw one of those motherfuckers now i’d probably bust their faces up.” eric hummed in agreement, inhaling deeply, the scent of menthols and dylan’s cologne flooding his senses, making him feel dizzy. they stop near a car garage, dylan pulling keys out of his back pocket, shivering slightly.

“hey, are you cold? you can borrow my jacket if you’d like.” eric said, not waiting for an answer and already beginning to slide it off his shoulders. dylan takes it gratefully, pulling it over his arms. it fits him a little loosely, considering his body is so skinny compared to eric’s toned build.

“thanks. my car’s just right there, you sure you’re cool with letting me drive you home?” eric confirms, following dylan to his polished BMW. when eric sits in the front passenger seat, he sees packs of empty cigarettes and CD’s littering the floor. he picked one up, analyzing it. dylan grabs something out of the trunk, before joining eric and starting the car.

“here,” dylan tosses a black fabric mass towards eric. “we’re trading. couldn’t have you getting frostbite! can’t imagine your parents would be too happy with me then.”

eric chuckled softly, pulling the sweatshirt over his head. a nine inch nails logo adorned the front, and it was long on Eric, pooling at the tops of his thighs.

they drove almost silently, eric speaking out directions towards his house every now and then, and dylan asking him if he was hungry every time they passed a restaurant. it was endearing, looking at a pretty boy wearing his clothes and trying to make sure he was comfortable.

he didn’t think he was ever going to meet someone who made him feel like dylan made him feel. he’s never felt so at home with someone, and dylan excited and calmed him all at once.

“this is it,” eric stated as they pulled up to his house, sad to have to leave dylan. he would probably forget about him in a week or two, right? eric’s just another repressed geek boy, nothing interesting or special about him. it was right around 7 am by now, and they were both exhausted.

“well, kid, you’re gonna come back and see me sometime, right? i work there, actually, every night except saturdays.”

“of course, dylan. you’ve gotta want this sweatshirt back sometime, right?” he joked, unbuckling his seatbelt.

“keep it, baby. looks better on you anyways.” eric blushed slightly, leaning in towards dylan and opening his mouth to tell him something, before closing it and deciding to remain silent.

“cat got your tongue?” eric thought maybe that’s what had happened, because he wanted to say so many things, but his jaw wouldn’t open.

instead of talking, eric placed a hand on the back of dylan’s neck, pulling him over the armrest in the middle of the seats, and pressing their mouths together. dylan’s lips were soft, and his mouth tasted like watermelon gum, tongue sliding across eric’s open mouth.

eric is pulled into dylan’s lap, jean-clad legs on either side of him, pulling at blonde hair, trying to get something, anything.

eric grinded down onto dylan’s bony waist, wanting some fucking relief. dylan groaned deeply into eric’s mouth, hands coming up to eric’s waist, under his sweatshirt. dylan’s fingers were cold, making eric shake slightly, digging his nails into dylan’s skin. dylan hissed, biting down on eric’s lip.

they leaned back, and eric’s back hit the steering wheel. the loud honking noise knocked the boys out of their trance, and they sprung apart, faces pink and hair mussed, eric still on dylan’s lap.

“well, sugar, you should probably-ah-get home,” dylan choked out, eric kissing his way down dylan’s neck, sucking at the junction where his jaw and ear met. he pulls of with a soft pop, tucking a stray strand of hair behind dylan’s ear.

“cool. uh, thanks for the ride?”

“no problem. hey, you smoke?” eric nodded in response, and dylan pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pants pocket, plopping it in eric’s hand.

“there’s gonna be a horror movie screening at the old theater downtown next weekend. it starts at midnight, so i could give you a ride if you wanted to go see it with me?” and eric almost screamed. his first date was going to be with a gay bartender who wore black nail polish and talked like a god.

“sounds great. see you?” dylan grinned.

“yeah, kid. see you around.” when eric hopped out of the car, dylan sped off, looping around and waving at eric.

eric walked in through his front door, slipping into his bedroom quietly. his jeans came off, and his shirt did too. he was left in his boxers, almost hesitating before reaching for dylan’s sweatshirt again. the fabric is cool against his warm and flushed skin, and he sighs in content. the cigarettes are still in his pocket, and he pulls them out, shutting them in a drawer of his bedside table.

a piece of paper slips out of his pocket along with them, messy scribbling in bright pink pen scrawled across it.

call me sometime, baby boy.

eric smiles, and lays down on his bed, head filled with dreams about boys in black nail polish.

eric almost feels silly for leaving an identical note in the pocket of his leather jacket.

great minds think alike, or something like that, right?

Two is Love...But Three’s a Crowd

Chapter 2: Savitar (Part 2)

http://archiveofourown.org/works/11032473/chapters/24816537

“I think I know someone who can get through to her…”

Savitar looked down at the small hand that was suddenly on his forearm and he tightened his body in response to the shiver he felt creeping up his spine when he felt the tip of Iris finger brush against his wrist. He couldn’t help but focus on the pale pink polish adorning her nails. He couldn’t remember the name of the style of manicure she always got but he could defintely remember the feeling of those perfect nails scratching and digging into his back whenever she was on the brink of coming apart in his arms when they made love.

He swallowed around a large lump in his throat and he suddenly felt hot. Too hot. He backed away slightly until Iris dropped her hand from his arm. She gave him a slightly peculiar look and foolishly he worried for a second that he hurt her feelings.

“It’s going to be okay.” She reassured him again and he gave her a slight nod in acknowledgement. He watched as she walked away and she said sharply to everyone in the room before leaving, “Everybody’s cool, right?”

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anonymous asked:

Hi, ah, I feel like someone has probably pointed this out, (because every detail gets noticed by fans), but I'm wondering about the end of "Angel Heart". Claire's fingernails are the exact shade of Castiel's coat. Do you think that's significant? I want to take it as a sign of her bonding a little more with Castiel emotionally. Also, her polish isn't chipped, which is an almost superhuman feat in my book, especially after having just ganked a Grigori, IMHO.

It’s so weird that I of all the meta bloggers on this site got an anon– but thanks! It really made me think…

I was just thinking this morning that I haven’t written any meta lately. I have a lot of reasons for this lapse, but maybe it’s also because I haven’t been asking myself any good questions lately.

So thanks, anon, for this one. I do think you’re spot on, and I haven’t seen anything written about it, so let’s go…

I noticed Claire’s nails, too, and didn’t think much about the color at the time (except that it was a change from the dark peacock she sported in The Things We Left Behind) but yeah, the fact that she’d just been in a huge fight and came out SO unscathed that her nails weren’t even chipped was impressive. And the taupe color is a change from her last appearance, what’s up with that? I haven’t come across anything about it so let’s have some fun…

Some of that perfect manicure probably has to do with the aesthetic of Supernatural. The ladies just rarely look bad. Just like the boys don’t ever sport permanent scars and always manage to get the bloodstains out of their clothes, the gals never have cosmetics issues. Unless they’ve just been beaten bloody, their lipstick never fades and their mascara never runs– some of this has to do with the fresh-faced semi-natural look that most females in this show sport, but even when Rowena turns on those waterworks she keeps those amazing lashes in line. IIrc Ruby in Season 4 had lovely nails, and if anyone should have broken tips and chipped paint it should have been her. The only exception I can think of is Meg in Goodbye Stranger, and to some extent Rowena when she’s chained up in Hell. So no chipped polish for Claire, either, even after having ganked the last of the “Sons of God.” Everything is magical on Supernatural.

It could be that this was Katherine Love Newton’s own polish that she wore in, but I don’t think that’s likely. Partly because if it did chip, that would go against that well-groomed aesthetic the show aims for, and they’d have to repair the paint on her nail, they’d have to match the color and so on (because if her nails were suddenly a different color there <em>would</em> be a lot of talk.) So I think it was likely a choice on the part of makeup, and I don’t know enough about television production to even be able to speculate if that color was mandated from above or was just a whimsical last-minute choice, much less who was involved in choosing it.

You made the connection between Castiel’s trenchcoat and Claire’s nail color, so let’s run with it.

Women don’t just think of nails as things to adorn with crazy lacquer or enhance with sweeping acrylic tips. Nails are also tools and even weapons. I pry open boxes of mac n’ cheese with my nails. scrub dried food off of plates with them, use them to tweeze out splinters. Pantomime a “cat fight” between two women, and what do you do? Probably put your hands out in front of your face as though you’re clawing the other person. Nails also defend the juicy tips of our fingers.

The taupe color on Claire’s nails is pretty, but is very utilitarian. Pink would have been girlish, red too sexy. He hair is less fussy, too. Unlike the dark nails and braided hair in TTWLB that screamed “confused angry teenager,” Claire is starting to express her practical side, and maybe has a desire to be more mature emotionally in order to cope with the adult situations she finds herself in every day. She’s outgrowing emo.

By matching her nails to the trenchcoat, Claire is maybe unintentionally identifying the catalyst for her internal changes– Castiel.

Castiel, who gave her Grumpy Cat for her 18th birthday. Grumpy Cat taps into Claire’s emotional needs. So you’re absolutely right that she has bonded closer with him. She is no longer a child, mentally or legally, but she is still young and in many ways inexperienced. She’s lost both of her parents, and is being sent off to a stranger. She kept Grumpy Cat side by side with the Grigori sword– pairing the emotional with the angelic. Castiel has provided her with both tools and weapons to survive and defend herself on the road ahead of her. The color becomes almost like a shield.

At the end of the episode, Castiel says that it isn’t up to him, ultimately, whether or not he sees or hears from Claire ever again. But she’s put his number in her phone’s emergency contacts list. She kept his gift, even though she could have tossed it as being underaged and inappropriate for an adult. Whether she realized it or not, she painted her nails the color of her father’s– now the angel’s– trenchcoat. She shares genetic material with Castiel’s vessel, but now she has adopted this iconic color from him to integrate Castiel into her self-image. She’s made Castiel a part of her life, now. Whether they ever see each other again remains to be seen, but he has left his mark on her and his influence will persist as she continues to grow.

So thanks for the discussion, anon, did I get your drift? It was a lot of fun thinking about this from such a tiny detail. Good spot!

Call Me

I’m sorry, this is dumb. I’m stuck on a smutty part of my multi-chapter fic and had to just write something to feel like I wasn’t completely useless. The feels struggle is real.

Painted nails drummed on the worn and chipped wood. Over the years, many others have abused the scarred desk, leaving carvings and stains for others to see. Many hours have been wasted at this lonely desk, solitary students etching graffiti to pass those hours.

She was just another part-time student employee who would move on to the next available job when the next semester arrived.

Lucy Heartfilia, with her simple, french manicured, nails and jewelry adorned wrists, made a point to put her boredom to better use. Her pen scribbled away, but tattooing the notebook paper with words for her novel.

Honestly, she could be working on assignments for her classes but, the blonde had study hours set aside for that. Novel time was her relaxing time.

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POLISH OF THE WEEK - REVLON - URBAN

Step away from the usual black polish and adorn your nails for a night out with this gorgeous deep eggplant+ navy lookin polish by Revlon. Only 2 coats for complete coverage! AVAILABLE NOW for purchase!

(reminds me of one of my favorite O.P.I.’s - roadhouse blues!)

Stay tuned for the four designs featuring this polish. Visit the CHALLENGES - P.O.T.W. page for more nail art and swatches.

Take Me Higher - Chapter 5

I’m so sorry folks! I meant to get this finished last night, but something came up and I couldn’t. But here it is. And don’t fret, Chapter 6 will be up tonight, my promise to you.

Previous chapter found  here

-LP

———————-

3 hours and 45 minutes in. 

The intensity of Hannah’s stare became too much for Grace after a moment, and she had no choice but to look away. She moves some hair from her face, not being able to shake the grin that was plastered across her lips by the brunette’s words. 

When she had composed herself, she was able to look back up, finding Hannah rubbing at the back of her neck in discomfort, offering up a nervous giggle.

“Well that clearly wasn’t the right thing to say.”

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