#AND I AM IN GLORIOUS PAIN

[carry-on-every-neverland-magic]

okay OKAY THAT EPISODE MAN I AM A MESS

That was so fucking beautiful, Joel opening up to Tommy about his fears and how he clearly cares for and loves Ellie and is so afraid of letting her down or getting her hurt, the fact he sees Sarah after he told Ellie they would be parting as if she was there to remind him that its okay to be afraid because loving is worth it, stay with her dad. And gOD the next day when Ellie basically shoves the pack into him LETS GOOOOOO and they fucking banter on the fucking horse in the snow and bond and its the most beautiful thing I AM ON THE FLOOR

I loved seeing Jackson thriving, loved Maria and her chat with Ellie LOVED THE HORSES <3 AND SHIMMER <3 OH GOD

And Joel saying about singing I AM SO UNWELL AND THIS SHOW IS GONNA END ME

I am a flailing mess as usual can’t express what this makes me feel just that its one of the best shows I have ever seen, the acting across the board is superb and the chemistry and nuance that Pedro and Bella bring everytime is phenomenal. I fucking love it it got me right in the heart like Joel my heart stops watching this I just...yeah I’m gonna shut up now and express my love through (sadly mediocre) gifs soon

[dimsilver]

feeling a lot of things in this poem tonight (more in tags)

[s-tardis]

As DEVASTATED as I am by all of that, my writer brain is already having a field day because imagine THE APOLOGY.

When everything has happened and Aziraphale and Crowley finally have a moment to breathe. Maybe whatever issue they're dealing with in Season 3 has been dealt with or maybe it hasn't! Maybe its the moment right before everything can go wrong and it's their last chance to talk.

Imagine the MOMENT when Aziraphale is standing in front of Crowley in this stupid perfect suit that he hates with tears in his eyes. Imagine Aziraphale saying he's sorry. Imagine Aziraphale, now the Supreme Archangel of Heaven, begging for Crowley's forgiveness. Imagine Aziraphale looking at his very best friend in the whole world and saying, "I was wrong. I did the wrong thing. Please, forgive me."

Imagine Aziraphale smiling that soft smile as he takes a step forward.

And he lifts his hand towards Crowley's glasses and asking, "May I?"

Crowley nods.

Aziraphale takes off the sunglasses.

This time it's Crowley's turn to say, "I forgive you."

And Aziraphale says, "I love you."

And we get The Kiss.

The Kiss that has been 6,000 years in the making and we are all screaming and crying and nothing in the world matters except for that beautiful moment.

[pepprs]

ok. so in what like 7 hours i am going to be on a plane.

[chaoticvictorianspirit]

Actually, I like codependency in fiction. Let people love each other exactly in the way they long for and need. Just because they are capable of functioning seperately doesn't mean they have to when all they want to do is spend their days together and share the tiny blip of existence they have left with one another. And I'm sorry but I'm tired of screenwriters pretending that learning to be miserable on your own is somehow a superior story arch as well as a moral virtue somehow. Maybe you want realism in your fiction but I for one want my comfort characters to morph into a singular entity. I want to treat them the way I did gummy bears as a child and just leave them out in the sun until they melt together into one solid block of sweetness. Reality is already depressing enough. Friendships end. Love fades. Life gets in the way and seperates people who aren't ready for their journey together to be over yet. Loved ones leave us all the time and sometimes there's no good explanation and it's unfair and painful and too often there's nothing you can do about it. And sometimes the one person you wish you could talk about it with the most is the one that's leaving and it fucking sucks. [And I get that this is precisely why we need these themes in fiction to confront these feeling and cope with them in a setting removed from reality but that's not what this post is about damn it.] I just wish this weren't the only angle we got. I wish we also got the "easy" happy endings, the unrealistic friendships, the kind of closeness that isn't portrayed as weighing you down but rather lifting you up. I wish fairytales weren't only for children and I wish adults didn't take such pride in forgetting they were children once, too. Can't we at least have the nice things in our little made up worlds?

TL;DR: Girls should get to have their little escapist delusions. As a treat.

[haven-gum-rockrose]

Oh to be the kind of person that people just want to hug not because I am sad or because I asked for one or because they know I want them from my constant touch-starved posting.

But just because they want to because 🥱 because I don't know, they just want to, or maybe because I am huggable. My hugging game is probably complete shit anyway though there's no way I can just naturally be good at something like that. I tense and stiff too much.

[all-thestories-aretrue]

Wynn's conversation with Raven is I think one of my favorite conversations. The amount of insight we get into her character is chef's kiss. Her best feature and fatal flaw all laid bare in that conversation. It's just so good!!!

[returning-spring]

no.... I can't believe it!! there's not a single what we do in the shadows au for scum villain on ao3???? MY GOD, someone's gotta fix this

[fugglecases]

hrnnnggg fictional characters making me go insane

[wishful-seeker]

As someone whos been sick/disabled somehow their entire life, and who knows more illness is in the future, i really relate to Marvel's Loki.

[artbyblastweave]

Playing through Fallout:New Vegas for the first time in years. And I'm developing a newfound appreciation for the damage done to the intended pacing of the narrative with the addition of the Courier's Stash. I wake up in Goodsprings, and as part of the extended tutorial you have Ghosttown Gunfight, the fairly self-contained faction war between Goodsprings and the Powder Gangers. And the design intent, I think, is that this is probably supposed to be a pain in the ass, with only one or two avenues of support available to you given the low level at which you'll pick this one up. Six Powder Gangers, some in body-armor, would be a serious threat, and committing to fighting against that with your dinky 9mm and a varmint rifle seems like a rough time! An actual uphill battle, doing the right thing instead of the easy thing. Fortunately, Benny inexplicably left my handy 40mm grenade launcher in the grave with me, so I cleaned up.

I'm working my way south, and, you know, in a version of the game where Benny didn't inexplicably leave my handy 40mm grenade launcher in the grave with me, this would have been the knock-on effect of my "good" Karmic choice in defending Goodsprings; the road south is littered with powder gangers who'd have been neutral had I not kicked the hornet's nest. As it stands? Free experience. I hit Primm, and fighting through the cramped hallways of the Bison Steve I encounter an enemy armed with what was clearly supposed to be the first heavy weapon I'd encounter in the world. Tight Corridors. Inexplicable Grenade Launcher. I clean up. South I go to the Mojave outpost, Nipton, that whole thing. And clearly, clearly you aren't meant to take a swing at Vulpes here, right? You're supposed to take it in, get a sense for the legion. In the version of the game that shipped you're supposed to get bodied if you try to kick the beef gate here. There are allowances in the game for if you pull it off, sure, but I did try with just the service rifle, without the glorious first-strike capabilities afforded to me by the 40mm grenade launcher that Benny inexplicably left in the grave with me. It didn't go very well!

So now I'm dogged by Legion hit squads on my way to Novac, which I get the distinct impression was not the point in the game at which this was supposed to start happening to me, because I am gathering up some pretty expensive equipment, all sold for space. I punch through to Vegas, and at this stage, the clear developer intent is that you need to spend some time milling around Freeside or Camp McCarran in order to gain access to the Strip- do odd jobs to scrape up the money, buy the forgery from Mick and Ralphs, gain monorail access, get your science skill high enough to hack the robot. Get the lay of the land, get a feel for the people, send some time stewing in the human cost of House's walled garden before you head in and hear the pitch from the big man himself.

Except I've got 5000 caps from selling off all the legion killteam equipment. In I go!

And the fun thing is, right, the Courier's stash can't be diegetic, but it is having a very direct impact on the world here. A top legion guy just went down to my inexplicable 40mm grenade launcher. Whatever else I'm roleplaying as, I am roleplaying as a guy who woke up in the possession of an inexplicable 40mm grenade launcher, and neither I nor my character can plausibly ignore that fact given its terrible bloodstained utility. I play a man, a man who would be a good man, a man nonetheless bewitched by the terrible resolutory power of the grenade launcher. My best friend, the inexplicable 40mm grenade launcher! My worst enemy, the inexplicable 40mm grenade launcher!

[smoreal]

Oh boy she’s so messy rn I can’t wait to fix her up

[etheries1015]

How MC/Yuu could have saved sooo much time during the glorious masquerade event:

"You guys are forgetting something!" You said loudly as you began to make your away towards the direction of the tower, much to everyone's disbelief,

"I am absolutely completely and utterly magicless, which means the flowers are just that- flowers!" You began to pick up the pace as you hear words mixed of concern and annoyance yell to you, "I'll ring the bell! You guys focus on the citizens!"

You HAD stamina. You ran all the way to thw tower, even managed to sprint up a couple flight of stairs. That was until your legs began to burn and your motivation was wavering.

You finally made it to the top! Well, for the most part. You were practically groveling at the floor and heavy wheezing and pain filled grunts.

"Ah, villians-" rollo began to call out...until Pausing the second he notices its YOU of all people. You held up your pointer finger, wheezing and struggling to climb to your feet.

"Nah- no, give me- give me *WHEEZE* a second *COUGH* you cried out.

Confused and caught off guard at your presence. He watched in utter astonishment as you stood up, pointing an angry finger at him.

Alright, I'm skipping the fine details. Ultimately you push him down the flight of stairs where you emerged from (I'd say push him off the entire building, but I do not condone attempted murder.) And rang the bell of solace.

Happily ever after! (He broke a few bones, but it was a sacrifice that was necessary.)

[0bticeo]

lurk | feyd-rautha

part one of five. (part 2.) (part 3.) (part 4.)

summary:

feyd-rautha. 

there he is, strong arms spread wide, dual blades stained black, basking in the glorious aftermath of combat. at his feet, atreides soldiers. dead.

you unsheathe your blade, the dull metal grinding against its sheath.

it is kill or be killed, and you intend to live.

wc: 2k

tw: blood. death. non graphic description of gore (this is a gladiator fight). mentions of eugenics. fighting as foreplay. reader may or may not have a blood kink. knife kink??? reader is more refined than feyd but don't let it fool you she's a freak. uuuh hubris? probable inaccurate handling of dune lore, esp with the voice (forgive me for the creative liberty of assuming the mother of the kwisatz haderach should be a freak. as a treat.)

many, many years ago, the sisterhood deems you ready for the gom jabbar. you enter the room, your mother a looming shadow, hands folded in her sleeves, head bowed before a long figure cloaked in shadows.

it doesn’t sit right with you, this intrusion in your mother’s parlor. how dare that old witch make a servant out of your mother in her own house?

“kneel.”

you do. you fall to your knees. before you, a phalto green box. in it, pain. at your neck, the gom jabbar, its deadly poison whispering into your ear.

it tells you about sweet, sweet little death. it tells you the reverend mother will not put your life in danger. not when you’re the culmination of nineteen generations of careful planning.

you are to be married to a harkonnen and bear the kwisatz haderach.

so you raise your head and put your hand in the box, eyes boring into the old crone’s. you see something flash in her depthless eyes. you think of the calm before mother-storms, the stillness of the air before pounding rain. 

it’s rage.

pain shoots through your hand. fire that burns and charrs and eats away at your flesh, consuming one layer of skin after another until you’re sure it reaches the bone below. you almost scream. instead, you bite your lip until metal-blood stains your tongue. 

you will endure this pain. you will not let fear consume you — you have nothing to fear, you shall not die, not here. fear is the mind killer. pain is the mind killer. you will let it wash over you and face the eons of bene gesserit knowledge standing before you.

through gritted teeth, you ask:

“am i human enough, oh wise one?”

you were. otherwise you wouldn’t be here, years later, rotting in a harkonnen cell. 

(there are things that have been kept a secret from you. you have been raised following your mother’s footsteps in the weirding way. the reverend mother denied you a place under her tutelage with harsh words and a harsher look. you’ve caught wind of her thoughts in shimmering fragments of dreams — what has jessica done?)

it will matter, in the end, that your mother decided to give your father a son. already, you’ve seen it, behind the web of your eyelids, the lone silhouette of your brother, blood of your blood, rising, rising.

he will gather them, the fremen, from the burning sands of arrakis, and rise, blade glinting under scorching sun. lisan al gaib, they already call him, hushed whispers lost in the shifting sands of dunes. 

your hand falls to your womb, empty still. 

they were scared, the bene gesserit. the atreides line was growing too powerful, too fast. you — the promised daughter, skilled in the way, with tongue and mind sharper than your blade — are to be bred and deliver the one.

but in came paul — beloved little mouse of a younger brother. too smart, too observant, too skilled, too much. your mother’s defiance, your mother’s love for your father led her to commit the unthinkable and defy the order.

it retaliated.

you’ve been betrayed. that, you’ve seen coming. so did your father. so did your mother. even your brother felt it, in his very bones, the low thrum of wrongness. something was bound to happen. something was bound to shake you to your very core. 

something happened.

the harkonnens came. house atreides fell. you can still smell it, the stench of death, the bloodied sands beneath your feet as you struck and struck.

all must die, and so they did.

you feel it still, the blood coating your hands, your forearms, dripping from your blade, the old scar on your forearm burning righteous fury. 

they caught you, in the end. you, who willingly put a target on your back, allowing your brother and mother’s quiet escape. you, beaten down, bloodied. grinning, voice warping the harkonnen rats’ perception.

“you will not see me as i am.”

the atreides have been set up. offering arrakis has been nothing but a convenient way for the emperor to get rid of your bloodline.

you scoff; in the quiet depths of your cell, your fingers dig crescent moons in your palms.

you’ve been taught to read behind veils upon veils of lies. the truthsayer suggested the eradication of your house. painted you a threat.

being able to breed the kwisatz haderach won’t protect you.

so here you are, eldest daughter of duke leto atreides and lady jessica, older sister to paul atreides. here you are, sitting with your back pressed up against the wall. cold seeps into your marrow, reaching bone. rage simmers low in your gut. you quell it. nurse it until it becomes a living beast eager to feast.

you will need it.

your body fails you. your sight is blurry, your hands tremble. they should not. duncan would have hit the back of your head had he been there. he isn’t. (dead.) breathe in. breathe out. focus what’s left of your attention on the too small bowl of food that’s been given to you, on the glass of water. empty, both of them. 

poison isn’t a problem — not with your training, not with the constant shifting and turning of lethal molecules within you. there. prana bindu — precise alteration of the body’s vitals. you will bear your condition for a time, weakened, but alive.

you clench your fist and slam it against the wall. pain surges through you, burning through your joint. good. if fear is the mind killer, pain clears the fog clogging your brain.

here goes: you’re rotting in the cell of your hereditary enemy, malnourished and poisoned. you’ve heard the guards, their off handed comments when they thought you too drugged to understand. your cell is below an arena. you will need to fight. perhaps, they’ll pit you against your men. the atreides house, dying by its own hand. fitting. 

you’re neck-deep in trouble.

the door slides open. two guards come in, all dressed in black. harkonnens. harkonnens everywhere, and you cannot do a damned thing as they pull you up, pushing you out of your cell. they’re laughing. those bastards are laughing.

one less atreides scum in the known universe — good riddance!

you will tear into them and rip out their spine with your teeth.

they drag you in a maze of hallways, each darker than the last. you’re ascending, a catabasis of twists and turns and sliding doors. there’s a low thrum in your gut. louder and louder with each step is a pulse. a chant. a name. 

the guards press a blade in your hand and push you forward.

the door slides up. shadows part. you blink with a low hiss. light pours down on you, all-consuming, blinding. sands stretch before you, unnaturally white.

the arena.

thousands upon thousands of people gaze down at you. the voice surges forward, eons of your foremother speaking through you.

“you will not perceive me as i am.”

something trickles down your nose. blood. you’ve overdone it. the voice isn’t meant to be used against that many people, not for long.

you wipe it off.

it will have to hold for the time of this fight. the harkonnen won’t rest until the atreides are completely and utterly wiped out. deceit is your only chance at survival.

the thought makes your blood boil. 

good thing the crowd is screaming for it. they're all screaming for it. a pulse. a chant. a name.

feyd-rautha. 

there he is, strong arms spread wide, dual blades stained black, basking in the glorious aftermath of combat. at his feet, atreides soldiers. dead.

you unsheathe your blade, the dull metal grinding against its sheath.

the noise alone has him turning towards you, head tilting to the side. he’s assessing you, na-baron feyd-rautha harkonnen. he glances up. for a split second, you follow his gaze. above, looking down upon you, is baron vladimir harkonnen, gargantuan mass of flesh.

you want him to collapse. to watch as his bones break under the weight of monstrous grease. you make out the movement of his lips.

happy birthday, nephew.

he’s on you before you can react. your blade raises. steel meets steel. you clench your teeth. his strength surpasses yours. you won’t yield, not to him. but by god is the bastard strong. you’ve got your hands full with just parrying his blows, the force of them echoing in your very bones. your feet slide on the sand below. any more and you’ll lose your footing.

his blades meet yours, again and again, their serrated edge slicing the corrupt air of the arena. they slice through you, too. a vicious cut on your bare forearm has you reeling back, your blade and sheath raising to parry.

this is bad. there’s only so much you can deal with in your decrepit state. fighting to survive isn’t an option — you must kill or be killed.

.

.

.

you draw in a sharp breath.  

watchful eyes bore down upon you. bene gesserit. the reverend mother herself has come to geidi prime.

something at your side — you let your guard down. there’s a flash, a metallic clang. feyd-rautha gazes down upon you, apex predator with your death written in the greedy sands of the arena. here, you’re precious prey. 

rage grips you by the throat and has you baring your teeth.

there you are, blades intertwined with harkonnen scum, a breath away from his lips. they part in a slow, assessing grin. you feel more than you see his appraising gaze raking over you. you, unyielding, matching him blow for blow, blood drip drip dripping down. under the black sun of geidi prime, it, too, has turned a velvety black.

from above your crossed blades, you raise your head and meet his eyes — twin pools of dark, abysses made to consume you whole. time slows down. you want to drown in the marrow of him and feel the warmth of his flesh beneath yours, lost in rapturous agony. something settles in your gut, low and warm.

you call it fury.

you pivot out of the way and nick him, a thin cut splitting open the skin of his cheek. he laughs. slashes at you with deathly precision. you duck, squatting down, leg springing forth, slamming at the back of his knee. he falls. catches you by the ankle and drags you to him.

you snarl. 

“let go.”

how utterly pathetic of you. his grip falters. you hear his blades fall to the ground. you twist, pivot until you’re straddling him, blade pressed against his throat.

there you have it. internal carotid, right below the sculpted edge of his jaw. five minutes until death. five minutes, with his lifeblood coating your hands, soaking your robes, sinking down to your skin beneath.

your hand cramps on the handle of your weapon, in a mockery of rigor mortis. nervous impulse. the tip of the blade pierces tender flesh, drawing a droplet of blood. you follow its path down the column of his flesh, until it reaches the edge of his collarbone.

his hands surges forward, seizing your forearm in a vice grip, yanking you towards him. you feel his breath on your lips with his next words.

“do it.”

his voice sends a shiver down your spine. low, gravelly, it calls for blood. if you don’t spill his, yours will be drawn. yet, you do not move, eyes riveted to his face, to the vicious impatience carved in his features. if you kill him, you’ll be hunted and put down like a dog. 

he shifts under you, the nervous twitch of a beast untamed. even through the hard edges of his ritual armor, you can feel the raw power of him.

you feel his thumb trace the edge of an old scar, up, up your forearm, a flash of black teeth and then— 

pain.

there’s something in your side, serrated, razor-sharp, twisting. your hand raises to your side. warmth trickles down your fingers. his hand wraps over yours, warm, blood a silky black against the porcelain of his skin.

he watches you, twisting the blade until yours fall to the ground, bloodied hand coming up to your cheek. you lean into it. welcome him, as his thumb smears blood across the edge of your parted lips.

“you fought well, atreides.” 

he pulls out the blade.

you fall.

taglist: @kpopnstarwars @jaiuneamesolitaiire

[bigfatbimbo]

haha I’m baaack! (oh god this is so convoluted. I’m the one who requested subspace bill, etc.,!!!)

PLEASE elaborate on how bill would be if he went into subspace with More Powerful being!reader. I will owe you my life. I am deeply intrigued, like seriously I love to see ur takes on this stuff!

- 🎩 anon!

a/n — I am so horny right now but i’m also bleeding like a stuck pig with alcohol poisoning an i ain touching allat #oversharing

warnings — NSFW, dom!reader, subspace, Bill being Bill

summary — How subspace would go with Bill and a powerful reader

⃤ I think an incredibly powerful reader would affect Bill subbing off the bat, because he would feel the need to overcompensate.

⃤ He would be trying to dom you so hard, and the only thing is, you have to power to shut him down, and flip the switch.

⃤ This is incredibly new for him, because no one dares, and even if they could, they wouldn’t. 

⃤ And it’s been billions, more maybe, of years since he’s let someone take the reins on anything in his existence, and the fact that you can infuriates him.

⃤ Your relationship would be very toxic for that reason, and very hot.

⃤ He would be bratting out so hard, fighting everything you’re doing, because of that dare. Put him in his place, no one else will.

⃤ If you didn’t fill him with immense, incomparable, pleasure he knows anyone less mighty could not, he wouldn’t put up with it. 

⃤ But, truth be told, you’re very intimidating, and maybe he is curious about how it feels to be at someone’s mercy. 

⃤ So yes, use your powers to suspend him in the air, spread his legs with your mind and make him as vulnerable as possible, see if he stops bitching.

⃤ Pluck at strings in his brain to fill him with awful pain and glorious, mind-numbing satisfaction, until his complaints drip down his leg and turn into whimpering mutters of your name.

⃤ Make him forget who he is, and what he can do, it’s meaningless anyways in the presence of a god.

⃤ His wise, ancient mind will fog and cloud, as his whining turns from quippy criticism to the same few words over and over again.

⃤ Keep toying with him, use all of the abilities your powerful being grants you and show him what you can do. 

⃤ Watching Bill get genuinely needy for you, his hands grasping for you, if they aren’t already touching you.

⃤ “Please” isn’t in his vocabulary, but maybe a small muttery one appears.

⃤ This has a greater chance of happening with a powerful reader because it truly doesn’t give him many choices, other than to give in to your might.

⃤ And he’d never do this is he had no other choice, right? Of course, that doesn’t mean stop. Nothing does.

⃤ Not even when his eye snaps shut and he shrieks for you to go easy on him. 

⃤ He doesn’t want you to, not really, anyways.

MIND THE TYPOS!!!!!

[actual-changeling]

i feel like all my meta posts just clicked and solved a puzzle in my brain. however i am also currently upping my sleep med dosage so if any of this sounds like the incoherent rambles of a mad man it's cause i am. incoherent and insane and rambling that is. (not a man)

but i have to write this post since i had a lightbulb realization moment.

because the thing is, besties, that aziraphale is a fucking horrible liar. he gets nervous and fidgety, he stutters, you can SEE him sweating anxiety. just look at him in the bookshop when the archangels inquire about their not-so-little 25 lazarii miracle.

his best "lies" are when he is actually telling the truth but twisted. he has never been a good liar (see job) and that has not changed in six thousand years. all smiles directed at archangels are visibly wrong, his discomfort is tangible.

whenever he panics it is written across his face clear as day, including, and this is the important bit, when he is talking to the metatron.

now, you are wondering why exactly that matters, and the point is something we have all talked and thought about for ages but my brain just. formed some new neural pathways.

because he is a terrible liar, he is horrible at hiding his emotions.

but you know who isn't?

crowley.

unless you know him, it is very hard to read his facial expressions with his glasses on. he can turn his emotions "off", he can put a wall in front of them and by extension around himself.

i talked about it more in this post, so for background info have a look at it (if you want to)

it's crowley's thing yet there is one moment, one, glorious moment in which aziraphale executes it perfectly. and that moment mirrors crowley putting on his glasses, it is aziraphale attempting to hide away all of his feelings and thoughts so no one can tell what he is really thinking.

the parallels besties. the fucking parallels.

what really sells it to me is that last comparison because it matches too well to not be intentional. honestly, after the sink story i think every little thing in this show is done on purpose and with attention to detail, so.

the empty look, the heartbreak, the pain - the realization. this is it. i am not walking away from this unharmed but i am walking away. or rather into the loneliness, the absence of the person i love.

for aziraphale also the realization that the world is about the get fucked and he is not.

after that we have the inhale of courage. taking a deep breath to calm yourself, to find your way back to your body. a kind of preparation we have all done at one point or another.

the mask slides into place. or at least you want it to slide into place, you are trying to fucking jam it into the spot you need it to be but sometimes it's like trying to push the square peg through the round hole.

it's a disconnect, it's putting up a physical and emotional wall. crowley does it to hide away from aziraphale.

aziraphale does it hide from heaven and the metatron, yes, but he does it to hide from himself. at his core, aziraphale compartmentalizes. he is so fucking good at cognitive dissonance it's scary, and that's what happens here.

he knows, he KNOWS, that he needs to lock up his feelings or he won't be able to get into that fucking lift and do what he thinks he needs to do.

and so he walks away from crowley just like crowley walked away from him, copying him and doing exactly what he has seen him do a thousand times: putting up wall after wall after wall. ripping out every sprout of vulnerability before it can bloom.

except that he stopped doing it after the no-pocalypse, and that is why it hurts so fucking badly when he puts his glasses back on.

he is not ripping out a sprout, he is uprooting an entire fucking tree

aziraphale cannot hide behind sunglasses by crowley so he hides underneath an angelic persona, the person he thinks he should be, needs to be, and the problem is that whenever he slips into that role, it becomes him.

getting crowley to take off his glasses again is going to be a herculean task and the same goes for getting aziraphale to drop his act. they're one and the same in shape and origin and purpose but they are not indestructible.

because listen. all of this is painful and it hurts. it really is.

the fun part, however, is the fact that we know exactly what it takes to destroy that barrier, we have seen it happen to crowley before.

my point is that we are missing the parallel for said destruction.