#ugh 🥺

[sitkowski]

[sunshinefarabees]

congratulations to my bestie for graduating high school 🥺 @fiveminutesforfarabee i’m so proud of you, baby 🥰🎓 you the real mvp<3

[nonbinary-arsonists]

BALD

[beif0ngs]

Hobie being Miles' #1 supporter, hype man & homie 👊🏿

[yrtit]

when ppl take ur instagram comments in bad faith <<

[leoandbeholdclark]

I'm very much fighting my inner demons rn.

[thewalrus-said]

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.

[willowser]

ᴅᴏᴡɴ ᴏɴ ᴀʟʟ ғᴏᴜʀs. werewolf kiri au.

you wake up under a mountain of furs.

light comes flickering from the hearth and, warm and welcoming as it is—you've no idea where you are.

you don't recognize the inside of the cabin; it's certainly not yours, nor is its layout that of any you’ve seen in the village. it's rather plain, with a singular window and table and chair and small fireplace, empty enough that you wonder how anyone could live comfortably with so little.

outside, the winter storm rages on, and there's a howl that cuts through the air that strikes bone-deep.

all at once your memories come back to you: dragged through town with bound hands and ankles, in only a thin night dress, screaming with all your might as the physician that delivered you into this world tied you to an old pine, along with the priest and the man that sold you blueberries in the spring.

people you knew and loved. had trusted.

the memories become hazy after a while, darkening with the night that crept in. you remember your body losing its feeling, but not its fear. you remember the violence of the storm, breaking trees and branches and uprooting the forest floor. you remember the horrible and hulking shape of something rising in the moonlight.

the door shoves open then, with enough force to send you scurrying back into the corner of the room. the blizzard tries to rush inside, but a man stands in its way, leaning back against the wood to keep the wind and snow out where it belongs. he's—big, as tall as the frame and just as wide, with thick hair that he's tied back, messy and low.

he's rosy in his cheeks and on the tip of his nose, as bright as the eyes that snap to you the moment you dare to breathe.

he doesn't say anything, at first. the bag of firewood he sets at his feet settles as he turns to you in interest, eyebrows raised. the clothes he's wearing look—old and worn, certainly not suitable for the storm roaring outside, with the holes and tears in the fabric. the boots he has on, however, seem heavy, have his steps echoing when he moves further into the room.

you pull your knees up to your chest and try to shrink away; beneath your thin dress, your skin has pebbled up, reminding you of just how vulnerable you still are.

your fear translates; the man stops on the other side of the little table, breathing in deeply before raising his hands up in what reads as surrender.

"hello," he finally says, and when you don't respond, he places a thick hand to his dark-haired chest and introduces himself as, "eijirou."

he nods emphatically and then repeats himself, as if to reinforce the name. you only grant him a small nod in return—and he smiles. it's wide, stretching across his face, and friendly, authentic enough that you question whether you're as damned as you thought, or perhaps saved.

how did you even get here? the question finally thaws out from the recesses of your brain and you take another look around the room as if the answer lies between the wood or nestled into the furs. this place looks too hand-crafted, you realize, all of it—and the man before you looks like he could move mountains, if he wanted to.

the chains that had bound you were iron-strong and didn't once budge in all your thrashing, before things went dark—but now you are inside by a well-maintained fire, warm and free, and all that remains of your ill fate are the indentions worn into your wrists.

he's still staring at you, the man. eijirou. he's not moved any closer, either, and when you meet his curious gaze, his lips twist and his eyes narrow. a thoughtful noise comes out of his mouth, like he's thinking of what to say or how to say it, and you're reminded that you don't recognize where you are, nor do you recognize him in the slightest.

big as he is, you don't think he could have carried you too far in a snowstorm such as the one still raging outside; are you still somewhere deep in the forest? in a cabin at the heart of the wood? saved by a man that somehow survives with so little out in the middle of nowhere?

"eijirou," you test the name on your lips and he perks up at the sound, attention snapping back to you instantly. you don't know if it's winter seeping through the floor, or if it's in the way that he watches you, that makes you shiver.

finally, he asks, "cold?" and when you nod, he slowly makes his way over to you, carefully, as if approaching a deer ready to run.

—and then he sheds his shirt with a quick shrug and holds it out to you.

you should want to look away, for decency sake, but you're—stunned by it, by him. there's a litany of scars that paint him in odd and worrisome places, but he stands tall and strong before you, unbothered by his own state. unbothered by the eyes that run over the expanse of his bare shoulders, the dark, thick trail of hair running down from his belly button, the ripples of muscle his loose shirt did well to hide.

you take it from him carefully and it's so warm, almost hot, that you press it to your face immediately to chase away the chatter of your jaw. the material itself, however ragged, is big enough to drape over your curled form like a blanket, and so you do just that. it carries the earthy smell of the woods, deeply woven into the fabric; pine and musk and something smoky.

with your cheek still pressed to his shirt, you look up to thank him, at last, but the words still in your throat at the minute changes of his face: still smiling, though sharper now, somehow, and his eyes are still wide with that keen, rapt interest—but the crimson to them has set like the sun and they've grown just as dark as the night outside.

[thisloveisredx]

i don’t like it that much 🙈

[its-kinda-snowy]

the guys ft. Steve McQueen

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

A cold winter day, and for some reason Howdy is unusually fluffy and Barnaby loves it

NO YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND i think about them w/ winter coats So Fucking Much its not even funny-

[muneonim]

You can’t tell me this didn’t happen at least ONCE 😳

[skitskatdacat63]

2011 Monaco Grand Prix - Vettonso

[milf-propaganda]

leaving your pet tied and gagged in front of the mirror, maybe even sitting on a dildo, as they watch you through the mirror resume normal tasks; cooking, wfh, playing games, etc.

[gunsatthaphan]

"can I hold your hand?"

[sleepyhighslvt]

Bend me over pls