#Pro-Aging

[davidtennantgenderenvy]

David Tennant has one of the most adorably pro-aging fanbases I’ve ever seen like we’ll see a hint of grey or his crows feet popping off and be like “YES KING MORE PLEASE”

[positively--speculative]

I have a couple of baby hairs that are turning grey. 🥰

[elvendeity]

available here

[iiumiium]

enough of anti-aging products, lets make aging products, that make you wrinklier and blotchier.

[meer-anonymity]

Today I noticed that I have wrinkles. But thankfully they were mostly laugh lines. I've had grey hairs for years, but tonight I noticed so many more.

But you know what this means, it means I'm here. I'm alive. And I have survived thus far. That I am both strong and very lucky.

These marks of aging are a crown that I will wear proudly

[whimsidreams]

Treat aging like it's a game. Like the way I reacted when I got my first gray hair not that long ago, running down the stairs while holding my one silver strand, eager to show it off to my mom. Not unlike the way I did when I got my first period. 😂

Aging is inevitable. Might as well make the best of those little milestones that some people never had the privilege to reach.

[thedepressingdystopianblog]

Here's what my pro-aging routine would look like:

* They tell you to apply anti-wrinkle cream before bed? Don't slather anything on your face. Go to bed with a face that can breathe through all its pores.

*They tell you to botox all the lines out of your face? Slap away any hand that dares to bring a syringe close to your face. Express every damn emotion through every damn muscle in your face.

*They tell you to dye your hair younger? Leave your hair alone, give it the autonomy you crave in your life. Let them crown your head, your mind, your brain in a gradient of grays that is unique to you and the wisdom you've gathered in your years.

*They don't frown, or laugh, too much? Be the bitch who's the most extra in the room. Frown the deepest and the scrunchiest while you figure out how to deal with being a human, and then laugh the loudest and smile widest while you Tai the rewards of all that deep thinking.

*They say compete with younger women to be more beautiful, more sexy, more attractive? Reach out to a younger woman and show her that she has worth beyond her transient beauty. Model to her, and to all women, that being desirable is a false desire sold to them so that they can be whipped with their insecurities every time they dare to fall out of a line someone else drew for their own benefit.

*They say you should worry about getting older? Pop the champagne (or whatever you like) on every birthday. Show all women how you can saunter, vibe, and even dance without anybody's approval outside of that very narrowly defined line.

Repeat after me. Wrinkles are good because they are lines that YOU draw on yourself, for yourself. Every wrinkle is a protest against the lines that others insist on drawing for you.

Don't you get it already? A pro-aging routine is really a pro-living routine.

scrunching my face real hard rn

[yaduma]

How to Make Better Decisions

or The Power of Choice You don’t get the newsletter in your inbox yet? Subscribe now! 💚It’s free. Type your email… Subscribe to a monthly Inspo! The Power of Choice – or The Inner Magic The purpose of this newsletter is to challenge our habitual thinking and feeling and behavior -such as “following” habits or influencers or authorities – in order to make new more responsible decisions. If…

[whatbigotspost]

We would be in a significantly better place as a people if “old” and “fat” could be neutral descriptions of fact and not seen as insults by default.

[barleylifeandredrush]

The AIM of Pro-Aging

The aging message is loud and clear in today’s world. The fact that we all grow older over the years has steered us away from an anti-aging approach to a pro-aging attitude in recent times. It makes a lot of sense in the long run. Let’s face it, trying to appear younger makes us look even older, whether by dressing in younger fashions, using teenage slang or having cosmetic surgery. No judgement…

[lovl3igh]

"Rhaenyra tried to put bastards on the throne"

[davidtennantgenderenvy]

eternal youth is overrated - a good omens one shot

Summary: Heartbreak and loneliness have left Crowley marked in more ways than one. Aziraphale helps him see that this isn’t such a bad thing.

NOTES: I’ve always had a bit of a bittersweet fascination with aging (David Tennant’s crows’ feet make me emo in ways I cannot hope to describe), with the sadness but also the beauty inherent in it, and I thought it could be interesting to bring this idea to good omens. The concept was “what if Crowley started getting grey hairs after Aziraphale leaves, if, over time, his physical appearance subconsciously changed to reflect his mental state?” The fact that I wrote this as a 19 year old honestly just shows how much I need therapy, but it was honestly incredibly cathartic to work through some of my own mental struggles via Crowley in this fic. Aziraphale’s pov was equally fun to write, as I basically just got to write how he feels about Crowley based on what I feel about David (lol). Hope you enjoy my first Good Omens one shot- I may or may not make an A03 account if it gets enough engagement, I’m honestly pretty proud of it! Special thanks to my wonderful partner in crime @flyingfluse for providing some much needed inspiration!

PS: The title is actually from a song I wrote called Grow Old With Me (hopefully will be available someday fingers crossed)

——————

It had been a year.

Nothing to a demon, really. In the vast expanse of six thousand years on earth, not to mention the innumerable eons Before The Beginning, a year didn’t count for much more than a blip. But heartbreak is a funny thing. Time, for Crowley, now seemed to pass in a much more human fashion- the year that had elapsed since Aziraphale’s return to heaven, a year devoid of anything resembling laughter or joy, a year spent largely either sleeping or stewing in self-loathing, had seemed longer than the past hundred combined.

Crowley’s gaze blearily wandered to the rearview mirror of the Bentley. His reflection, as everything seemed to these days, mocked him.

Those sickly yellow eyes, reminding him of all he was and all that he could never be, like the sulfur he had been cast into all those millenia ago. On his worst days, it was like he could still feel it, eating away at him from the inside out, decaying his soul and with it, his body. It carved shadows into his cheeks and circles beneath his eyes, deep and dark as caverns. It rose in his throat until he choked on it, leaving his voice hoarse and acrid. It spewed out of him onto everything and everyone, every time he opened his mouth, an acidic bile of rage and bitterness.

He had been destroyed and rebuilt over and over through the millenia, and the product was a rough, hardened callus of a being, like a patch of skin that had been picked at too many times. He felt grotesque, untouchable, damaged- there would be no point to pursuing any new connections when no one would understand, nor why would they want to, when he seemed to turn everything he held to ashes? 

A ray of sunlight leaked through the window of the Bentley, catching upon Crowley’s hair, revealing it to be littered with strands of grey, collecting dust-like in his copper mane. How the mighty have fallen, he thought bitterly. Falling, always falling, like leaves in autumn, their color draining as their forms grow brittle and they become one with the earth. From dust they were made, and to dust, they shall return.

Perhaps in a year, he would be dust too. What would he care?

Demons didn’t naturally age, or so he had thought. But loneliness seemed to have made a mortal out of Crowley, centuries of it crashing down upon his corporation, wearing it to the bones, etching his torment into his skin. He could always just miracle any part of himself back to the way it was, reverse all this damned erosion… but what would it matter? Why even try to keep his hair from losing its color when all the color had drained from his life the second his angel had left it?

He felt so, so old.

A single, desperate sob escaped Crowley’s mouth, cracking out of him like splintering firewood.

As he weeped against the steering wheel, the Bentley switched on its radio in sympathy. 

I’ve walked too long in this lonely lane,

I’ve had enough of this same old game.

I’m a man of the world, they say that I’m strong,

But my heart is heavy and my hope is gone.

-----------------

    The demon lay curled in Aziraphale’s lap, clinging to his chest as a snake might in search of warmth. It clutched at Aziraphale’s soul to see Crowley this vulnerable, the swaggering and smirking stripped away to reveal a heart in desperate need of care and healing- a task Aziraphale considered his greatest duty and greatest pleasure, for he knew Crowley would do the same for him. 

    Aziraphale ran his fingers through Crowley’s hair, earning a deep sigh from his beloved, whose brows turned up in fragile, stirring comfort. He loved doing this, both to see how much his touch moved Crowley and because he simply loved his hair itself. Bold, striking, an instant head-turner, just like everything else about him. It was now the longest it had been since biblical times, falling in elegant waves past his shoulders. But oh, something else was different… it was streaked now with rivers of silver, gathering in deltas at his temples. It lit a familiar flame in Aziraphale’s chest; that bittersweet blend of desire and sympathy.

    “You’ve changed your hair, I see”, he said softly. 

     Crowley takes a labored swallow, strain and self consciousness seeping into his face. Whatever he says next, it’s clear that the admission is going to cost him.

     “When you left, I suppose I… let myself wither away.” His voice is lodged deep in his throat, thick and murky, leaking out of him like tar, a sound from the depths of his own personal hell. “Oh, Aziraphale…” he exhales, and it’s one of the most poignant Aziraphale has ever heard.  “I’m so tired. So worn down. So bloody ancient.”

      “So am I, my dear,” he says, trying to come across more soothing than concerned.

     “Yes, but you still shine in the same way you did all those millenia ago… still so bright, so soft.  I’m all tarnished and rusted up… I don’t know how you still want to touch me.”

     Aziraphale gazed down into Crowley’s eyes, piercing and pleading and fragile, like shattered stained glass. At his craggy, rough-hewn cheeks, all bones and edges he’d happily cut himself on to caress. At the deep, deep lines around his eyes, carved there by every grin and grimace and longing and ache. And oh, the silver in his hair… it suited him so, both rejecting and combining black and white with a color all his own. It wasn’t normal for immortal bodies, ethereal or occult, to bear the marks of time and experience as Crowley’s has. But then, Crowley was never an ordinary demon, or angel, was he? No, he was something far more exquisite. 

    “Oh, but I do… I  do…” Affection surges through Aziraphale as he kisses every crease and wrinkle, every scar and every glorious grey, every sign that his dear Crowley has lived. He feels Crowley’s hands winding through his hair in response and kisses those too, those eloquent, spindly fingers and calloused palms…

   “Crowley, my most cherished books… the covers are peeling, the pages are torn or yellowed with age… so why would you be any different?” His heart seizes up, his voice breaking a bit. “I have seen the fire and rain rage within you for so long, and I have seen the marks they have left upon you, and each one is precious to me. You know how I love to read… Why would I not want to see the story of my beloved written upon their face? My 

dear old serpent, my survivor…you don’t have to fight anymore…”

     He pulls Crowley tightly to his chest, drawing the tension from his shoulders and back before cupping the sides of his face as Crowley stares back, looking overwhelmed and old and so, so beautiful. “I want you exactly as you are. Rough and hard and frayed at the edges… you will never be too much of any of these things for me. In fact…” A slightly wicked twinkle forms in his eye as he smiles pointedly at Crowley: “They make you more tempting to me than ever.”

    Crowley processes this for a moment. “Well…” he croaks out, that hint of playful snark finding its way back into his throaty timbre, “I suppose there is something to be said for… shades of grey.” Aziraphale laughs, remembering the words he himself said to Crowley all those years ago, on the same night he realized just how much he adored him.

   Crowley smiles, that crooked, twisted, perfectly imperfect smile that Aziraphale missed, his eyes crinkling magnificently at the corners. “Kiss me,” he whispers, and Aziraphale is happy to oblige. Happy that Crowley, bold, fierce, independent Crowley, could finally let his guard down, could finally embrace that all of his scars and imperfections, every mark of time upon his face, everything he ever thought made him damaged and ugly only made him more beautiful in his sight.

[cheese-doorstop48]

Izuku has his own problem children now

[ssenza]

gentlemen it’s been a privilege waiting with you this past decade

[urdeftonesgrrrl]

me when people call Aemond a coward for fleeing a 3v1 when Rhaenyra was too scared to go against Aemond in a 1v1:

[iratia]

I have been thinking about Anders again 🙏 praying for him in the new game, so excited to play!

Redraw of my old Anders from two years ago here!