be pro-aging but wear sun screen. sun protection is not beauty industry propaganda it will save you. wear it. or else.
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One thing that was really driven home for me this season was how much power Crowley has. How much influence.
To recap:
Shax, despite hating him and being his literal replacement, is constantly asking him for advice and help.
Furfur comes to the magic show in 1941 to arrest him and Crowley, like, laughs at him and goes back to sleep. "We shant, this is ridiculous."
In a room (the bookshop) with both Heaven and Hell's top brass, somehow Crowley was in charge of that meeting.
Both Furfur and Saraqael really really wanted him to remember working with them.
The Metatron knew he had to separate Aziraphale from Crowley in order to effectively manipulate him.
Like. He's unafilliated from both Heaven and Hell at this point, everyone (but Aziraphale) hates him, and yet people listen when he talks. People do what he says. It's incredible.
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I love how Will reacts to Hannibal's little mishaps, "I bond with Abigail, you take her away, I bond with the idea of a child, you take it away" and all the while with a cunty attitude as if by "taking away" he doesn't mean Hannibal KILLED them, but as if he's saying "I loved that vase and you replaced it, I loved that painting in our living room and you took it out...". Or when Hannibal tries to kill Molly and Walter and Will's a little mad for like 2 seconds.
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Steve hasn’t cried yet.
He hasn’t really done much of anything besides sit by Eddie or Max’s hospital bedside and watch over them as much as he can, alternating rooms every few hours.
Dustin hasn’t stopped crying. Tears streaming freely down his face as he walks into Eddies room. The kind of silent crying that you don’t really even register until you’re looking at the person. He’s got a stack of books in his hands holding out The Hobbit to Steve with a silent question passing between them. Steve smiles, soft and sad and settles into the chair more comfortably as Dustin takes his place on the other side of Eddie’s bed.
As soon as Steve opens the book he stiffens a little, remembering how hard words were to read, how the letters looked off and he had to concentrate hard enough on them that it would give him headaches. Robin said it was called dyslexia. Steve hadn’t told anyone about it.
The reading is slow going but Dustin doesn't point it out, until Steve gets stuck on a word and his fingers tighten on the book, the pages crumpling slightly under his fingers.
“Hey man, careful with the book its Eddie’s.” Its not mean, the way Dustin says it, but Steve feels his entire body go cold.
He just wanted to read Eddie his favorite book in hope he woke up. He just wanted Max to be okay. He just wanted them to both wake up.
Steve doesn't even realize he’s crying until a tear hits the page under him, he’s still trying to read but its even harder now.
The sob kinda rips its way out of him, as he throws the book away from himself.
“Fuck. Jesus fucking..”
Steve hasn’t cried since everything's happened, but he sobs now, whole body shaking, head falling into his crossed arms on Eddies bedside. Dustin acts quickly, skittering over to Steve and only hesitating briefly before throwing his arms around his sudo brother.
“I just wanted to read him his stupid nerd book, and I can’t even do that right. He deserves to listen to his stupid book.” Steve heaves out leaning into Dustin. He’s mortified he’s breaking down, and even more mortified it’s in front of Dustin of all people, Steve's supposed to be strong for him. But Dustin just squeezes him tighter “I don’t even know what Morder is.”
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Sorry sorry, I thought about Neuvillette getting so lost in the feeling of your mouth or your cunt around his cock that he fucking shatters the headboard caught in his grip.
Something about him always being in control, always being so careful with his strength when it comes to you, holding you so lovingly even when his thrusts grow harsher. Rougher. Sweet whispers littered between his subtle moans and your keening whines before you hear a sharp crack in the wood above you.
The way his hips stutter against yours, stilling as he presses his face deep into the crook of your neck; a single, deep groan and a hiss of "yes" as his warmth floods you - and he practically tears a chunk out of your headboard as if it's nothing but a flimsy sheet of paper.
His endless apologies afterwards and his insistence that he pay for the repairs (or for a new, more study bed); you're just trying to figure out how to get him that feral again.
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