#also rectangle glasses...

[yagamgorony]

I like this roleswap au, i wanted to draw Goro on his first day at Shujin after accidentally get into Kamoshida's palace...

[nachosforfree]

Self portrait before bed

[artwah]

resident evil 4 drawings now that i have (finally) played and finished the game!!

[evilevilevilnotevilevilagain]

I just think KA is very cute with their nerdy 00s ass glasses :3

[fluideli123]

I've made character sheets for my Showtime AU over the past few weeks, but since I'm finally blowing up my blog with my AU it's time to share them >:}

[rebornrosess]

glass animals lyrics are only meant to be understood by stoned people or gay people. if you’re both then you get to start hearing shapes and seeing the hat man.

[loftec]

@juliakayyy tagged me to do one of these, thank you!

name: Elin

your birthday: May 4

where in the world are you? Sweden

when did you join tumblr? About ten years ago, maybe eleven.

do you have any sideblogs? Yes, 6

mobile or desktop? Desktop & tablet, I took the app off my phone

your perfect sleeping conditions: phone charging in the far corner of my room so I have to get up to get it, two pillows, duvet up to my ears and feet out, no fear. Also The Boy's latest habit is to curl up next to me and tolerate me having a hand near him as we fall asleep.

a movie you think everyone should see at least once: I don't think I have it in me to say there's something everyone should see, considering how truly stupidly cranky I get when people tell me I "have to watch" something.

what shoes do you wear the most often? Sandals in summer and... I have to get new shoes, soon. There's very little left of the sole on last year's shoes. They were some kind of black stretchy fabric shoe?

find the book closest to you. turn to page 7. what’s the 7th word? from

describe your keys to me: 5 of different sizes just to my own building, three to my parents', bike key, measuring tape, lanyard, and earplugs.

what’s your favorite snack? Licorice and popcorn

one of your aspirations: Too many, but one is to maybe one day have like, a printing studio in my home? But then I'd have to have a home to have a printing studio in and that sounds like a lot. (I rent and I like renting.)

and finally, tell me a random fact about yourself:  When I was but a wee bairn I saw a "how it's made" type of segment of a kid's show where they talked about how plates were made and after that, whenever someone asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would say product designer. No, actually, I would say the Swedish word which is "formgivare" - giver of form! Which is an even sillier thing for a 6 year old to say. Also sometimes I'd say tiger handler.

✨✨✨✨

also doing the Picrew - because I am procratinating the sincerely fuckton amount of work I have to do this week, and I liked that this one had eye baggage as an option, behold: a bog fish

Tagging anyone who wants to do it! If you do it, tag me so I can snoop on your answers : 3

[goatyuuji]

THE RINGS!!!! CONGRATS TO THE HAPPY COUPLE!!!

i dont wanna render again

[eowynstwin]

peristalsis - iii

selkie!soap x reader. depression. suicidal ideation. strangers to "lovers." cunnilingus. analingus. spitting. piv. doggy. missionary. rough sex. size kink. breeding kink. biting. mean soap. manipulative soap. smut. . Running away from life to the Scottish Hebrides, you meet a man who won't leave you alone. . Masterlist. Ao3.

previous

The ocean calls the seal to return, and you finally heed the growing chill you’ve been ignoring, as well as the complaints of your nearly-empty stomach.

Starvation is not on your list of preferred ways to end your own life, so you check the fridge Johnny said he had stocked. What you find is disconcerting—hoping for snack foods, pre-packaged conveniences, you instead find a carton of eggs, hard cheeses, condiment bottles. Milk in a jug, green herb bundles, sticks of butter, and an unopened package of bacon.

The freezer is much the same. Bags of vegetables and meats like shrimp or scallops. Frozen loaves of bread. Not even a single carton of ice cream. When the pantry also yields nothing more ready to eat—no chips, no cup ramen, no cans of soup—you give up.

There’s a hierarchy of action you’re willing to take to preserve yourself, organized around a precept of energy expenditure—eating spends less than cooking, so you focus on the former and do not practice the latter anymore.

Even though most food has lost its taste by now.

So you lay down on the couch. Sulking, maybe, but it’s the only halfway satisfying thing left to you. You angle yourself toward the shelf of books it faces in place of a TV; it’s mostly romance novels. Bright pink or blue or violet or red spines facing outward, most of them already cracked and creased down through their titles.

Did Johnny stock those for you too—emptying the shelves of a thrift book store for a woman he knew would be alone—or are they just set dressing for his dream of a honeymoon getaway?

You start thinking about the cliffs by the cove.

They’re not very tall. Maybe three stories. You would feel the impact—and it might not even work. You would lay there at the bottom, in the packed sand, broken. But alive to feel every consequence of it.

You might still die, but it would be slow. Someone could find you, and save you. Probably Johnny. You might be permanently broken—worse off than when you began.

It’s not an option.

You could have just bought a gun if you stayed home. It would have been cheaper, and faster—

Anxious energy needles at your legs and prickles along the insides of your palms; you sit up, agitated. Your stomach bubbles as the acid inside slides around with nothing to eat into. You scowl at yourself and retrieve Johnny’s jacket from the floor.

It’s colder outside than before, when you leave the cottage for the third time that day for the walk to Vatersay village. You can see it from the front door of the cottage, only about a mile away, and as you get going, you find a walking trail cutting through the machair grass leading in its direction.

The sky darkens far earlier than you expect, on the way. You hadn’t thought you were far enough north for that. Absent of city lights, the Hebridean starscape peeks through gaps in the moonlit clouds overhead, winking to life as the sun retreats around the earth’s curve. You pause—even your ennui is no match for the cosmos—looking to see if you can find the arm of the Milky Way, but the autumn sky does not seem inclined to show it to you.

By the time you reach the village outskirts, warm rectangles of yellow light are already brightening the windows against a heavy blue night. You get directions to the pub from an older man walking his dog—Last Cull, it’s called. You find it with a carved wooden sign, adorned with the silhouette of a lounging seal, hanging by the door at the front, and walk in.

Johnny said that less than a hundred people populate the island; when you walk in, at least a third of them must be here, and their collective chatter, along with the sounds of drinking glasses clinking or hitting tables, and the warble of classic rock music, all rush at you at once when you open the door, carried on a wave of orangey lamplight and the smell of hops and a burst of thick, hot air.

It’s more life—more sound—than you were remotely prepared for, and you freeze in the threshold. You stand there long enough that, worse, several heads turn to look at you—

The outsider.

You duck your head, and look at the floor as you direct yourself at an empty stool at the bar. Your purse beats against your leg with every quick step, heavy with a tourist’s excess preparation, and following eyes lance you like pins through a butterfly’s wing.

A man in a beanie and mutton chops is wiping a glass dry behind the counter; he looks at you drolly when you sit down.

“W’can I get you?” he asks, surprising you with a distinctly un-Scottish accent.

You blink several times. “Um…”

The bartender is immediately unimpressed. “Liverpool, love. You drinking or eating?”

You flush. “I’m sorry—um—both?”

He nods. He does not offer a menu. “Right.”

He disappears with the same abruptness of manner behind a swinging door, leaking greenish fluorescent kitchen light around the edges and through the circular window set up in the middle.

Whatever waves you made upon your arrival already seem to have dissipated, ineffectual in the long-term; conversation in heavy Scots flows around you, relaxed and indistinct. The pub is warm with body heat, little groups of islanders pulled in close together around pints and tankards and easy conversation.

These people likely have known each other for years; seen each other grow up. Watched time etch lines across one another’s faces. You can’t really understand the words being exchanged between any of them, but the tenor is familiar. None of it is especially important to say to one another, you know—it’s the back and forth that’s the point. The sway and rock of practiced call and answer. Of knowing, when they say something, that a response will be given, even if the response is something that’s been said a thousand times before.

You run your fingers along the dented surface of the old bar. Shift in your stool. Pick at a sliver of skin coming up from one cuticle. A single drop of oil in the middle of an ocean.

The bartender returns to you from the kitchen, no food in hand. Instead, there’s a new expression on his face—a hammer aimed at your protruding nail. His eyes are narrowed; his brows are drawn together.

“You’re Soap’s tourist,” he says.

“Um,” you say, pinned under the intensity of his stare, “no?”

He rolls his eyes. “Johnny MacTavish. Everyone else calls him Soap.”

“Oh.” You cannot guess at all where this conversation might be going. “Yes?”

“He cooks for me some nights,” the bartender says. “He’s in the kitchen right now. He says dinner is on him, and he’ll bring it out soon.”

“He’s here?” you demand, jaw dropping.

“Some nights,” the man repeats. He picks his drying rag back up, and gets to work on another glass. Your association with Johnny—Soap—seems to have unlocked in him a geniality that would otherwise be inaccessible to you. “Lad was right chuffed when you rented out the croft. Hadn’t seen him that excited in ages. Wouldn’t stop talking about it for a month.”

He hasn’t offered you a drink and doesn’t seem inclined to. Still intimidated, you don’t ask.

“He told me I was his first guest,” you say, worrying at your cuticle.

“Mm-hm,” responds. Then he eyes you. “See why he was so worked up now.”

You stop your jaw from dropping for a second time, but only just—the weight of Johnny’s hand ghosts down your back, aided by his scent radiating from his jacket, released from the fibers it’s seeped into by your body heat.

“How—um, how do you know Johnny—Soap?” you ask, awkwardly.

“If he told you to call him Johnny, call him Johnny,” the man says. “Was his captain, once upon a time. Served together in the SAS. Name’s John Price.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Price,” you say.

He grunts. “John’s fine. He been behaving?”

“Um,” you say, entirely unsure how to answer that, when the kitchen door flings open.

“Bonnie!” Johnny exclaims, apron-clad, rosy-faced, and grinning wide.

He’s exchanged his heavy sweater for a lighter, cream-colored henley, sleeves rolled up his broad forearms. Combined with the cinch of the apron strings around his middle, it highlights and flatters the athletic build of his silhouette. The hem of his kilt flutters around his knees as he hurries over.

“Hi, Johnny,” you sigh.

He balances a steaming dish on one hand and carries some silverware wrapped in a napkin in the other. The plate tilts precariously as he directs himself at you, but the food survives as he slides it in onto the bar in front of you.

“Shoulda told me you were comin’ down, or I’d’ve had somethin’ better ready to make!” he scolds, though he’s clearly too pleased to mean it.

On top of a ceramic plate, the glaze spiderwebbed with cracks from age and constant use, three oblong triangles of fried fish rest atop checked wax paper, attended by a large stainless still cup of large wedge fries that you remember are referred to as “chips.” Beside that is a small cup of some white condiment you don’t recognize. Everything looks fresh from the fryer, as if Johnny could not wait one second to long to bring it to you.

“Oy, lad, how come I don’t get that kinda table service?” someone yells out behind you. “M’ I not pretty enough for you?”

A chorus of laughter answers the teasing. You hunch into yourself.

“Go back to your pint, Angus, ya weapon!” Johnny returns grandly. Then, to you, “Here, this is the best thing for it—”

John Price has already stepped far aside; you and he watch as Johnny retrieves a long-stemmed glass from a shelf, and then pulls a bottle of wine from a low fridge. He sets the glass beside your plate and uncorks the bottle—bicep quivering as he works the screw—and then, thumb in the punt, he pours out a stream of white wine one-handed.

“Tossers over there’ll call me mad but Sav Blanc with a fish an’ chips is pure class,” says Johnny. Then, to your horror, he sets his elbows on the counter in front of you. “Go on, have us a bite.”

You stare at him agog. His cheeks are flushed red, and you’re not sure it’s from the heat of the kitchen or—his gaze flicks to your mouth and back—something far less comforting. He stares back at you, grin unmoving—eyes bright and vibrant and too intense to hold contact with for long.

You look down at the meal again. The fish looks crunchy and thick with golden brown crust; the chips are sharp at the edges and dusted with salt and some sort of green seasoning. The smell is impossible to ignore—hot and floury and oily.

You take a chip and dip it tentatively into the white sauce. Johnny’s eyes dance with excitement as they follow the movement. When you take a bite, the bitter tang of tartar meets your tongue and mixes with the mild potato as you chew.

It is only just shy of hot enough to burn but—it’s good. It’s delicious. It’s the best thing, you realize, that you’ve tasted in you’re not sure how long.

You do your absolute utmost to prevent that from showing on your face.

“It’s good,” you say, and take another bite.

“Barry!” Johnny enthuses. “Now have a dram, go on.”

Rather than allow you to pick up the glass like a normal person, Soap lifts it in one large hand—knuckles and wrist peppered with dark hair—and brings the rim to your mouth. You have no choice but to take a sip as he tilts it toward you, or else end up dribbling white wine everywhere.

You must begrudgingly agree, as it passes across your tongue, that it pairs very well with what you’ve eaten.

You nod at him in lieu of another response; the corners of his eyes crinkle. He sets the glass down and slaps the counter with both palms, pushing himself away from it.

“Enjoy that an’ I’ll be back for ya in a mo,’” he says. With a bounce in his step, he disappears back into the kitchen.

John Price throws you another droll look. “You’re never getting rid of him now.”

When he turns away to address another patron, you scowl at his back.

Johnny comes in and out of the kitchen several times, as you pick at the food. Whatever his usual habits as the pub cook, it seems he’s in a magnanimous mood this evening, bringing orders to every table and chatting with anyone who catches his attention.

And a lot of people catch his attention. Island native or not, it seems that Johnny is everyone’s favorite boy—and it’s hard not to see why. He throws bright smiles at everyone who speaks to him, pats shoulders, trades good-natured Scottish ribbing with anyone who throws it his way. He’s familiar, it seems, with everyone he talks to—or he’s good at making it seem that way.

And the effect it has on everyone he talks to is obvious. Weathered faces, the kind that seem to rest at a permanent, severe frown, rise to beam as brightly as the sun after Johnny spends a minute or two checking in on them. Fond eyes follow him around the pub; the conversations at tables he visits keeps a lively tenor even after he leaves it.

You reach for your wineglass and drink deep.

“There we go!” Johnny exclaims, noticing.

He does not leave you neglected, of course—he keeps circling around, looking at your plate, and then at you, and filling your glass when you empty it. It strikes you as rather sweet until he starts availing himself of a mouthful every time—turning the glass so that his lips cover the marks yours have made on it.

When about half of your plate has been cleared, and Johnny is returning from delivering a tray of sandwiches to another table, he comes up behind you and leans in close, hands curling around your shoulders. Mouth brushing your ear.

“Dinner rush is almost done, bonnie,” he murmurs, butter-smooth and low as banked embers. “Then I’m all yours.”

A tremor runs up the nerves in your spine; you sit up straighter when he pulls away, the fine hairs on the back of your neck reaching toward him as if statically charged.

You catch John Price eyeing you again, expression blasé. You flush up to the roots of your hair and avoid looking at him again.

Eventually, the pub begins to vacate, somewhere close to ten in the evening. No city bar, this one, even on a Friday night. You finish three-quarters of the bottle of wine in between turning the fish and chips into mush and crumbs, finally pushing everything away from you as the last stragglers jingle the bell above the door.

Then it’s just John Price, pulling on a coat, Johnny doing dishes in the kitchen, and you, alone, sneakers hooked to a rung on the barstool.

John Price sticks his head through the swinging door. “We still doing Sunday, Soap? Or d’you have new plans?”

“Course doin’ Sunday!” Johnny yells. “Canny wait!”

“Alright. I’m leaving, lock up when you go.”

And with that, John Price gives you a cursory nod, and makes his exit.

Soon after, Johnny exits the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel, the motions making his pectorals twitch and flex. His apron is gone, the little v of his shirt collar exposing dark, curling chest hair.

The odd pelt—you realize, from your experience this morning, that it’s a seal’s—still hangs around another plaid kilt.

Your heartbeat is hot and heavy in your ears. You stare at him, lips pressed together tightly, a tremor working its way between your shoulders.

He tilts his head toward you, eyes half-lidded. When you meet his gaze again, his smile is set at an expectant angle.

“Drive me home, Johnny,” you finally say, wine and humiliation pulsing through your veins.

He drives you home in silence, and rests his hand on your thigh the whole way there.

You don’t move it. You don’t react, either—even when his pinky flicks against the seam of your leggings, right where it lays against your pussy. He roves his spread fingers and heavy palm all across the length and breadth of your thigh, cresting down over your knee and back up again, squeezing and massaging the fat of your quad.

You don’t say anything. He does not prompt you to do so. The corner of his mouth, when you look to him at your side, catching his profile, is curled.

The silence continues when he pulls up to the cottage—even the wind is light and quiet, as you unlock the door to let the both of you in. The night sky is cobbled with clouds that pass over slowly, letting only slivers of moonlight reach the earth, so inside the croft is dark and murky.

You don’t move to switch any lights on. Nor does Johnny, following close behind you.

Out of sight, it seems your body forgets who—or what, even—is following you. He is only a presence at your back, a body taking up space, and in the darkness, with only your hindbrain to rely on, he could be anyone.

Anything.

You stop in the middle of the living room. He hovers behind you. Not quite touching—but close enough to feel the gravity of him, strong enough to pull you in.

You drop your purse on the couch, and make to shuck his jacket—his hands take hold of the shoulders, allowing you to slide out of it. The deep, even pulse of his breathing is right there at the shell of your ear.

“Bonnie,” he murmurs, husky.

“I’m,” you say, “I’m going to use the bathroom.”

A pause. Then—“Alright,” he purrs.

You escape.

In the mirror above the sink, you look yourself in the eye. What you see is nothing you haven’t seen before—pitiable, needy, pathetic—and it’s nothing you have any desire to confront now. If you think too hard about it—if you ask yourself what you should be asking—there will be no coming back from it.

He’s been dangling this in front of you this whole time. It’s no fault of yours for taking it. This once, you aren’t to blame for what happens next. This once.

You run the cold tap over a washcloth and dab cool water across your face and down your neck. It does little to regulate the heat flushing through you.

If you don’t go out there now, he might leave.

You throw the cloth into the sink basin and open the door.

And Johnny is there, standing right there in front of it, leaning casually against the opposite wall—

Completely naked.

You stop dead.

Gray moonlight falls across his body in a thin haze. The bulky, sculpted planes of it roll with dense muscle and dark hair, which is thick and curly across rounded pectorals and joins in a broad stream down his abdomen. Twisting into a nest at his groin, they cushion a long, wide cock, uncut, half-hard—

That jumps at your appearance.

He meets your eyes. They are silvery and sharp, even in the gloam. Drags his gaze down—leveling it with your tightening nipples. Then he reaches to his side and twists the doorknob to the bedroom.

It swings open. Empty bed in the doorframe.

His cock jumps again. A diamond-drop of moisture beads at the tip.

“Go on,” he murmurs.

You walk in, barely aware of your own footsteps. His bare feet cross the floor behind you, and then the door shuts again.

He does not say another word as he approaches you; you do not turn to face him. You stand as if restrained in place as large, warm hands skim the dip of your waist, slope easily down your hips and up again; he pinches the hem of your sweater and lifts. You raise your arms, lost in the fugue of your pounding heart; he brings it over your head, and tosses it to the side.

Rough hands smoothing over your bare skin, almost like sweeping away dust. He unhooks your bra with startling dexterity—fingers slide beneath the straps and loosen them down your shoulders. Hands dipping down your chest, edging under and replacing the cups around your breasts.

His thumbs press your nipples in, circle around them; you gasp, flinch back against him, and feel his cock, fully erect, nestle in the cleft of your ass. He huffs a laugh into your hair.

His hands return to your waist, and they slide down, pressed open against your sides, as Johnny goes to his knees behind you. He grasps the waistbands of both panties and leggings and—face centimeters away from the globe of one ass cheek—pulls both down in one smooth, soft sweep.

It feels like being skinned. Your heart beats a hammer in the arteries against your throat. You nearly lose your balance, tilting when you lift one foot out of your clothes, before one of Soap’s hands return to your waist to give you ballast. Holding you up like it’s nothing. He squeezes the meat of your hip tenderly, massages the give of it with the tips of his fingers, skin warm and rough against yours.

The moment you’d first caught sight of Johnny in the airport, he’d slotted cleanly into a certain taxon of manhood; one need only to examine his morphology briefly—the mohawk, the muscles, stubborn refusal to cover his knees even as winter fast approaches—to understand that his is the lifestyle of the fast-living. He leers. He gropes. He runs down what he sets his eyes on whether his prey likes it or not.

An organism with cheap pleasure on its mind, and nothing more. Johnny’s bull-focused intentions had stunk acrid and obvious the moment they’d fallen upon you—aimed, you thought unceremoniously, between your legs and nowhere else.

So why, as his hands drag up the backs of your thighs, is he touching you so tenderly? Teasing you open, rather than prising you apart. Touching you as if he’s in no hurry to do anything else.

It feels like an insult. It feels like mercy you didn’t ask for. Without thinking, without knowing you’re going to do it—you slap his hand away.

“Is this going to take all night, or are you going to get around to fucking me sometime soon?” you snap, galled.

An indrawn breath. His or yours, you’re not entirely sure.

Then he rises up, shoves a hand hard between your shoulder blades, and you topple forward onto the bed, flailing, landing face-first, as Johnny knees up behind you.

“So that’s how you want it, then,” he says. Nonchalant. “Aye, I can do that. Come here.”

You don’t have time to scramble away before rough hands grab your hips and yank them back, pulling you up onto your knees, and with no more preamble Johnny shoves his face into your naked pussy from behind. Immediately hot and star-bright; thumbs hook into your outer folds to spread you open moments before his tongue burns a stripe from clit to perineum, no slow build, no warm-up, before he starts eating you out like he’s starving.

You shriek from the sudden contact, hips jerking, but his hold is iron, and the more you resist the more he tightens his grasp, fingertips digging down near to bone. He licks at your folds, at the dips between them, as if he’s pulling swipes of you away on every taste bud, imprecise, mouthing your cleft as if he means to swallow it whole.

When you reach back with one hand to grab his hair—to hold him where he is or shove him away, you’re not sure—he releases one hip and shackles your wrist in his fingers, bending your arm at the elbow and pinning it to your lower back.

“You asked for it,” he growls against you, “and now you’re gettin’ it,” another dig of his tongue around your entrance, “so don’ fuckin’ complain.”

He pulls away and abruptly spits on your asshole before diving back in. With the thumb of the same hand around your wrist, he smears it around, dipping just inside at the same time his tongue breaches your cunt; you feel teeth press against your perineum for a breathless moment before he lets up, and then he prods your clitoris with little jabbing licks, forcing his way up under the hood that fails to protect it from his onslaught.

You have a free hand—you reach back to slap at him again. The theory of insanity proves true; one wrist joins the other, and Johnny uses his own weight to move you as he likes, arms curled over your hips, rocking your entire body against his mouth, lips smacking against you as he alternates between licking up the slick that abruptly starts welling around your entrance and sucking your labia between his teeth.

He grunts and snarls after every brief surfacing for air, every time his tongue touches you again, as if every new taste of you in his mouth is better than the last. His hands tighten into vices around your wrists as he buries in deeper, groaning, shoving his face against you so hard it thrusts your hips forward, which he greedily drags back, and then he flutters his tongue against your clit as if to punish you for his own forcefulness.

“Johnny—” you cry, “Johnny, slow down, slow down—!”

A climax swells within you before you have any time to prepare for it, a closeout curling in so fast that it hits you before you can brace. Johnny thumbs your ass again and suctions his lips closed around your clitoris, tearing a scream from your throat, ripping your orgasm even further out of you as you suddenly, violently convulse.

It jerks you in his grasp, as if whipping you, and then, as fast as it came at you, it recedes; you sag, dizzy and gulping air, but Johnny’s mouth opens around your pussy again as if nothing happened, tongue and lips losing none of their frantic voracity.

“Johnny,” you whimper, “Johnny, I came, you can stop—”

“Don’t give half a shite, am no’ done,” he snarls, accent thicker than you’ve heard it before.

Your breath shudders out of you as he runs the edges of his teeth up your folds, and then, briefly, the flat of his tongue circles your asshole, before dipping back down into the heat of your cunt. He catches your clit again in a quick succession of sucking kisses, loud and wet and pulling at it so hard that tugs at nerves all the way down your legs, spasming through your calves.

Your breath thins in your lungs, escaping you in high, reedy whines, and finally, he pulls his mouth away—only to replace it with his hand. He transfers your crossed wrists into one grasp, wedging all four fingers between the split of your cleft and shaking it vigorously, like a dog might with a small animal clamped in its jaws. He follows this with several rapid slaps against flesh that is already screaming with overstimulation—

And then the head of something hot and hard parts you, circling to find its target, and with as little preamble as he began Johnny shoves his fat, rock-hard cock into you, all the way to the base in one harsh thrust.

It shoves the air from your lungs in one go, leaves you no room to breathe in before he grabs your wrists again, like reins, pulls halfway out, and rams back in again, setting a brutal pace, his thighs slamming against the fat of your ass at a rapid staccato that shakes the old bedframe on its creaky legs.

He barely pulls out as he fucks you this way, thrusting short and hard, your face crushed against the bedsheets as he uses your arms to pull you back against him to meet every thrust. The fattest part of his cock catches your g-spot over and over, bright and hot as iron pulled from a fire, and you can’t even get enough breath in your lungs to do more than whimper every time his hips meet yours.

“This is wha’ she fuckin’ needed, hen, aye?” Johnny snarls. “Hissin’ an’ spittin’ like a stray cat, didnae know wha’s good fer it, jus’ needed a big cock in ‘er wet cunt, didnae she?”

A long, shaky moan is the only response you can give. Fast, fast and hard—he bucks against you wildly, violently, sending shockwaves up your body that jounce your breast and ripple across your blazing cheeks. Your mouth hangs open at a loose angle—if you try to close your teeth, you might accidentally bite into your tongue—

He releases your wrists, and your arms fall hard to the bedspread. Then he bends over your back, planting his hands in the spaces over your shoulders, making a cage with his his body. It changes the angle of his thrusts, lets him force his way in even deeper, kissing the head of your cervix. You climb your hands up the bedspread, claw at his wrists with your nails, but you might as well be a curl of wind trying to knock over a pillar of stone.

“You can bitch an’ whine all you wan’ at me, bonnie,” he says, a nasty thread in his tone, “but I know mean pussy just needs some pettin’ to make it nice again, don’ I, now?”

You try to struggle under him, search for some sort of purchase in the sheets beneath you, and for a moment you think he’s making space to let you; his weight retreats as you rise to all fours, but then one solid, beefy arm closes around your neck in a chokehold. He brings the both of you up, settling you over the cradle of his thighs as he sits back on his heels, clamping your back against his chest.

His free hand snakes down between your thighs, finding your clitoris again with rough, abrading calluses. A hard, grinding roll of his hips, upward and forward, pushes it up into his touch, like the crest of a wave, but gravity gives you no escape on the downwell; he pushes and pulls you as he likes, heel of his hand digging hard into the sensitive edge of your mons.

You scrabble with your hands for something to hold onto—you find the brackets of his wide thighs, wiry with dark hair, and dig your nails into hard, tensed muscle. He only laughs in your ear, speeds the rhythm of his hips, pinches your clitoris between his fingers and drags it around.

“Told ya, bonnie,” he gloats, taking the lobe briefly between his lips, “she wants it—” and he pushes his cock in deep, shaking his hips “—bad as he does.”

He reaches further inward and splits his fingers around his own girth, pressing upward—as if he intends to shove them in too, and choking for air as you are you think deliriously that they might just slip in, no resistance, aided by the wetness free-flowing now around him, dripping in long streams down the inside of your thighs.

Inescable—no matter what you do, it’s nothing to him. You thrash against him, whining through gritted teeth in frustration, but he only moves with you, anticipating every direction you might blindly throw yourself in to get away. You cry out in wordless fury, slapping whatever parts of him you can reach, but it doesn’t matter. There is no purchase for you anywhere, nothing you can use to grab back any sort of control.

He’s too big. Too strong. You finally begin to comprehend it in a way that had been impossible before. Looking at him from a few paces, Johnny is easy to take in; easy to summarize and dismiss when you can see the whole of him at once.

But now, at your back—he feels vast. Enormous. An undulating wall of a hard body flexing against you, mooring you to it, all heat and sweat and sharp, animalistic grunting as it pistons into you from behind. The hand manipulating your clit is wide enough to cover your pussy entirely; the pillar of his body doesn’t so much as shudder as you struggle, instinct overriding desire as you try to escape the lightning-streaks of pleasure he carelessly sends through you.

You are too primed from your earlier climax to possibly last, and Johnny seems to feel it—you flutter and clutch around him, the sensation almost painful, but when both your hands fly to the one between your legs he only increases the pressure.

“You gonna come again, bonnie?” he sneers into your ear. “Jus’ tiring yourself out, poor baby. Fightin’ it so hard, an’ it’s gonna happen anyway.”

It does—he starts slapping your pussy again, right above where his cock stretches you to your limit, quick and sharp, and you break with ragged scream, arms flailing out uselessly, nails finding his forearm around your throat.

“Johnny—” you cry out, “Johnny!”

“Fuck,” he groans in your ear, “steamin’ Jesus, fuck—”

Suddenly he pushes you away from him, and you flail again as you land face-first into the pillows. His cock slips out of you entirely, even as you’re still clenching around your orgasm, but you have no time to react, either to mourn it or be relieved, because Johnny grabs you by the thighs, flips you over in one motion, and drives back in again before it ends.

“Fuck, bonnie, so good, fuck, do it again—”

He throws your legs open, leaving your calves to shake in the air as he fucks you faster. You nearly fold in half under the force of his thrusts, knees hovering nearer and nearer to your ears. Each slap of his hips against yours ricochets up your body, and, with nowhere else to go, back down—you ring like a bell, shaking all the way into your marrow.

“Soap,” you whine, “Soap, it—I—I can’t—”

Suddenly he grabs your face in his hand, so tightly he squeezes your cheeks together, pushing out your lips, and he lurches forward to get in your face. Fury blazes from him.

“I told you,” he snarls, “to call me Johnny.”

It shocks you so much that freeze up, going completely blank. The dark, sharp lines of his brows arch dangerously over flashing eyes.

He shakes your face. “Say it.”

“J—” you slur, unable to shape it in your lips properly, “Johnny.”

His nostrils flare wide. Fury is replaced by triumph. “Good fucking girl.”

He slams his mouth against yours.

The first time he’s kissed you, and he gives you no chance to participate in it. He purses your lips with the pressure of his hand to meld with his, opening your jaw wide enough to thrust his tongue behind your teeth. The force of it presses your head back into the pillow. It’s an attack; it’s an onslaught. And—if the grunts and groans Johnny makes in his throat as he does what he likes with your mouth are any indication—

It’s what he’s really wanted this whole time.

Everything else, he’s enjoyed. But this—his mouth on yours, lips moving together, saliva pooling and seeping between the seams—is the prize he’s aimed for all along.

It touches something inside of you. Something tiny and ugly. A thing that you’ve wrapped up in nacreous layers of shame and guilt, lodged in your soft tissues, and tried to forget about.

It sends your arms to wrap around Johnny’s neck, fingers digging into the shifting muscles of his shoulders. You close your thighs around his waist, crossing your ankles, and roll yourself up into every meeting of his hips with yours.

He moans, higher, and drops his full weight over you. His belly meets yours; his chest crushes your breasts under his. He uses the full brunt of his weight to rut into you, crashing his hips against you, stealing the breath from your lungs—

It’s an old trick you’ve learned from small experience, inhaling when you feel the rush coming—as if climax blooms in the lungs rather than the clitoral head, and filling your alveoli gives it no place to expand. It’s useful to prolong satisfaction, to stave off the end.

Johnny does not give you opportunity try. The only thing he allows you to occupy your mouth with is his, and as hypoxia thins out your bloodstream—as you begin to struggle for air—you go rigid with your third climax beneath him.

However long it lasts, you don’t know. It freezes you in place, in time. It wrenches your head back, arching your spine, tears one long, broken cry from your throat.

“Fuck yes,” Johnny gasps, feeling you clamp down so hard around him it seems you may never release him. He moves to bury his face in your throat. “Fuck yes, fuck yes, fuck—yes—”

His tempo falters, signaling the end—

Realization—“Wait!” you find some presence of mind to cry out—“a condom! We didn’t use—”

“It’s got a’go somewhere hen, an’ I’m no’ wastin’ it on yer belly,” he snarls, “just—just—yes—fuck—”

Then his teeth come down on your neck, hard, as his hips beat against yours, and then he buries himself to the root with one final, full-body thrust. He shakes his hips flush against yours as he groans long and loud, cock pulsing inside you, wet heat flooding you in jets, so full that it spills back out to drip down between you.

He pants hard into your shoulder. Your own breath labors, vision swimming.

A cloud covers the moon outside. Johnny makes no move to pull away from you—instead his arms wedge beneath you, banding around your back, and he rolls you both to your sides. You feel him kissing the sting his teeth left on your neck, as you lay there together, sweat cooling on your naked bodies.

Eventually, he pulls back enough to look at you. You have no time to arrange your expression, no idea even what you might want to present to him; whatever he sees on your face makes him smile, crinkling the corners of his eyes.

“There’s my bonnie,” he murmurs, and the next kiss he gives you is soft and very sweet.

Your lips rise to meet his without you thinking about it.

He strokes your back very gently. Sooner than yours, his breathing evens out. Even as he softens inside of you, he keeps his hips against yours.

“Johnny,” you whisper.

“I know,” he says. “I know. Just a little while longer. Can you do that for me? Aye, you can, I know it.”

You should say something about spermicide. Plan B. But the look in his eyes is so soft, so content, that you put it away for later. You just hold his gaze as he looks at you like you’re everything that could ever make him happy.

He kisses you again. Soon, the heaving of your chest abates. Exhaustion pours through you in one drenching wave; you turn your head to yawn.

“Go to sleep, bonnie,” Johnny croons, pressing his fingers into the soft part of your lower back. “I’ll clean us up, aye? You just sleep.”

You don’t have the energy to fight anymore. Soon, you’re slipping away—you’re aware for long enough to feel it when he finally pulls away from you, when he runs a warm washcloth between your legs, and then when he slides back into bed beside you and pulls up the covers.

Then you’re gone.

Sometime after midnight, you half-wake.

The moon has moved far enough across the sky that its light floods the bedroom through its one window, casting everything in silver. Your eyes open slowly, blurred with sleep; Johnny is still beside you.

He’s sitting up against the headboard; eye-level with you is his waist, covered by the thin bedsheet. You draw your eyes up his body slowly—there, his navel, dark hair curling around it. There, his chest, full pectorals rising and falling slowly with calm, even breath.

When you reach his face, you find him looking down at you, corners of his mouth curled. You meet his eyes—

The moon reflects in them. Disks of shifting light in both pupils.

Some part of you, buried in your hindbrain, shouts with alarm. It’s far away, cottoned with sleep. Muffled enough by the soreness of three full-body orgasms to be ignored.

Johnny reaches out and drags the back of one finger along the wounded part of your neck. Touch feather-light.

“Why are you here?” he asks.

Vaguely, you remember that you’ve answered this question before, but that doesn’t feel consequential. Any part of you that could protest is still lost to sleep.

As is any ability to dissemble. The truth—the thing you attempted to abandon, that has followed you regardless—slips out.

“Nobody wants me,” you whisper.

So quiet you fear he won’t hear you, and ask you to repeat it.

But Johnny tilts his head. The curl of his mouth softens to something almost kind.

It doesn’t quite get there, because a gleam of satisfaction that you cannot name colors his shining gaze.

“I want you,” he murmurs.

His broad hand covers the crown of your head, and he strokes your hair. The tide of sleep comes back in, and you know nothing more.

chapter 4 early access

[butchtoads]

I've hung onto my mother's perfume all these years and just sniffed it after ignoring it in a drawer for like. 4 yrs. Had it for ten and it's an unknown amount of years older than that on top of the ten. That was Awful

[letomills]

Some of my favorite eyeglasses with the lenses edited to be my preferred level of clearness.

These are not new recolors, only edits of existing recolors of glasses made by other people. Credits and thanks to @crispsandkerosene, @celestialspritz, @memento-sims, @platinumaspiration, @rented-space and Shannanigan.

Details & download links under the cut.

Meshes & swatches are included in the downloads.

[Originals by Crisp&Kerosene]

For CU-EU, 1k poly. Only my edits of the 2 recolors with uncolored lenses are included, check out the originals for the other 6 recolors.

↳ Download Heart-Shaped Glasses: SFS / Mega

~

[Originals by Crisp&Kerosene]

For CU-EU, ~500 poly. Only my edits of the 2 recolors with uncolored lenses are included, check out the originals for the other 2 recolors.

↳ Download Large Round Glasses: SFS / Mega

~

[Originals by Celestialspritz]

For YAU-EU, 2k poly. 14 recolors. The original recolors have invisible lenses for adults but dark Maxis lenses for elders (which I don't think was intentional). My edited versions have clear lenses for everyone.

↳ Download PS Machine Glasses: SFS / Mega

~

[Originals by Celestialspritz]

For YAU-EU, 1.3k poly. 7 recolors. As above, the original recolors have invisible lenses for adults and dark lenses for elders, my edited versions have clear lenses for everyone.

↳ Download PS Papillon Glasses: SFS / Mega

~

[Originals by memento]

For CU-EU, 1k poly. Only the 2 recolors that I edited are included, check out the originals for the other 6.

↳ Download PxelDaisy Oval Sunnies: SFS / Mega

~

[Originals by Platinumaspiration]

For YAF-EF, 1.2k poly. 2 recolors.

↳ Download Magnolia Ckimmie Glasses: SFS / Mega

~

[Originals by Rented-Space]

For CU-EU, 1.8k poly. 6 recolors (including one with black lenses that I didn't edit but still included for convenience since it was just the one).

↳ Download Under Rim Glasses: SFS / Mega

~

[Originals by Shannanigan]

For CF-EF, 1k poly. 5 recolors (including one with green lenses that I didn't edit but still included for convenience since it was just the one). I renamed the files for clarity.

↳ Download Retro Cat Eye Glasses: SFS / Mega

~

Recommendations for more glasses with a similar level of lens clearness (also for me in case I mess up my downloads folder):

• DeeDee 3t2 Glasses Rectangle • Pinketamine Tamo Cat Eye Glasses • Pinketamine Tamo Mock Mod Glasses • Platasp PS Union V1 Glasses • Platasp Accessories Redux (esp. love 13, 15, 16) • Tamo Oval & Halk Rim Glasses

[hoodedjelly]

ii designs + oj being a little fruity with it

i'm gonna yap below about the designs actually vvvv

springy is just an alien thingy + micky mouse (the smallest inspo from the trix rabbit)

bots design is pretty simple, i kept thinking back to that line "now you're a butterfly!" and im just like, i can't just give them little butterfly designs I NEED THEM TO HAVE A LITTLE SLEEVE/CAPE THINGY SO THEY ARE ONE

for mephone, this is like my 5th redesign of him. to give myself credit, this isn't a redesign from my last one it's just an android version of it, since the last one was fully human. i got VERY inspired by dbh when designing him, his glasses are basically apple glasses glued forever on his head. but he doesn't use it as a screen, it's just where notifications/calls are located at. (when cobs is calling mephone he is literally forced to see his name in his eyes i just think thats evil),where he actually uses his "powers" is like dbh, kinda. the skin on his arm goes white/the original robot form from when he was first made then he just taps it a few times and someone gets revived. i imagine there's colors and the final press is the color of the character he's reviving. 3gs would also just look very dbh damaged robot, white spots of his original robot skin and stuff.

also every phone has some type of glasses eyes , i think mepads would be more rectangle, 3gs would have like goggles. me just trying to keep on this consistent thing i told myself where, if a object has some form of glass on them, then they need some type of glasses. light bulb has sunglasses on her head, oj HAD glasses in s1 then changes to contacts (example below)

uh i got a little side tracked what was i talking about, right mephone4. last thing i want to point out is that they also have a default outfit, like the company uniform. when mephone escapes he just generates a new outfit. i think it would also be cute that mephone generates new clothes for mepad too and left it next to him while he waits for him to wake up <3

[sunnyknight-original]

Dear My Dear -

an @forgettable-au fan-slideshow

At the end of their journey, Sans has remembered everything. And theres only one question on his mind now…

*now what?

Its lore time. omg theres so much-

The way ill organize this…lIll start with the GENERAL thing, before getting more spesific, and explain each slide in way too much detail.

THE BIGGER PICTURE

This is the hypothetical end to their journey. Sans and Papyrus remember what happened, and this is how Sans is handling it. A letter to Wingdings.

I was hesitant to make this at first for obvious reasons- we dont know how its gonna end!!! But I took this more as a “what if ?” scenario. IF they ever remember anything, how would Sans specifically, react? I mean thats gotta be tough.

Because of that though, lot of what happened to lead up to this is kept vague.

ill explain in way more detail how Sans got to the point of writing this letter, and how he feels in the end when I explain each slide individually. But the reason why, the MAIN ISSUE is…

Over the years, hes put so much effort into enjoying what he has. And- nothings even changed!!! So why does he feel so much has? Now that he remembers what he lost…WHO he lost. He cant help but have this voice in the back of his head that says “would it have been better if that never happened? if Papyrus never existed?” and of course he absolutely hates to think that! but the voice gets louder. Writing this letter, is an act of closure. Of laying to rest someone he never got to. Someone he never even really got to do much with.

(Excuse the shitty quality of the images- I promise they’re better. WATCH THE VIDEO)

my dear wingdings,)

Sans says “wingdings” here instead of “brother”. that’s important. Also its on a white void, showing a sorta “heavenly imagery” with the mention of Wingdings. Also Gaster is in a BLACK void, but hes talking about WD here, so, contradictions.

you never came back, and now…after remembering everything everything clearly i understand why.)

Sans and Papyrus are sitting by a fire at night. They are both sorta lost in their own worlds at the moment, but are more or less leaning on one another for comfort and support. They both need each other right now despite each other being the whole reason why they feel the way they do right now-

Papyrus is notably no longer wearing the white coat that somewhat resembles a lab coat. Symbolism! Growth!

(art note: I drew Sans as a lefty in this- cherish it. It was so hard to draw these hands at these angles- CHERISH IT.)

i don’t imagine you’ll receive this letter, but i, nonetheless, must send it. wingdings….oh ‘dings…)

the first part is somewhat of a self aware/sarcastic joke. Sans is writing this letter for himself- he doesn’t imagine Wingdings, the dead man, will ever see it. Nor would Gaster care to read it. Thats another important thing, this is NOT a letter for Gaster. This is a letter for Wingdings. which is for Sans

The star in the sky symbolizes a few different things- the main one being Wingdings ofc. But also Papyrus’ expectations of himself- which mainly come from who he was. He’s looking at it, reflecting, thinking of what Wingdings did, and what Papyrus has done. Who he is NOW, and if he ever was Wingdings.

Or if Wingdings just became him.

A square is a rectangle, but a rectangle isn’t a square type thing.

i was just starting to dream the silliest- the softest of dreams. i miss you. and i will always miss you.)

2 contradictions, what Sans used to think, vs what he knows now. The memories were fuzzy- he couldn’t remember The Royal Scientist, he just feels like he remembers some nice times. Before now knowing everything clearly. And he still misses it- slightly.

The reflections are blacked out at first, before showing their future selves. Before, there was no connection to the present because it wasnt true. It felt like/was 2 completely different things

but i cannot live like that.)

Sans can still tell, even without the rose tinted glasses view he used to have, he cant live missing the past and not living in the present. He always knew that, but repeating it here makes him feel better.

Pictured is Sans and Papyrus hiking up the mountain next to the city as the sun sets. Papyrus is in full view of the light, but is facing away in order to help Sans see it too. Symbolism!

and it seems you cannot live any other way.)

another reference to the fact that Wingdings cant live… at all now. But also an awareness that part of him lives on in Gaster. The thing that killed him.

I doubt hes going to change in any way by the end of the comics, he’s far to obsessive about angels and the player for childish stuff like “growth” and “changing for the better as a human being”

when i was with you, the world made sense. but now that we are apart, i see clearly that your world is not a world from which one can escape.)

When they were together, they knew what they wanted to be. They wanted to be scientists. But after being apart so long and experiencing so much uncertainty, Sans finds that mindset is unhealthy. Again, a lot of this is stuff he already knew, but is repeating to himself because after remembering everything, he feels as if hes back at square one.

As kids they would test echo flowers, for science purposes! We don’t know yet if WDs voice comes through on them, but I imagine not… maybe. But for this we’re gonna say no. Their speech bubbles are trying so hard to be circles- the scribbles also somewhat resemble stars because I thought that’d be fun.

But the last slide has it shown that he dug them out, also for science purposes!

He took the echo flowers from their roots, much later on in his lab career. That in itself isnt that bad, but it symbolizes that he doesn’t care much for taking things slow. He wants to test with echo flowers? **TAKES EVERY SINGLE ONE WITHIN A 100 MILE RADIUS**

Also the empty holes reflects sort of what happened after he died. All of the underground was left with holes to fill. Sans, a childhood/brother. Alphys, the royal scientist. Those are the main ones but he was THE ROYAL SCIENTIST im sure there were more (smaller) holes that may or may not have been filled.

Ok and the last thing the flowers being taken out represent- he took the ones specifically from when they were kids, and abandoned what was left for the grass to grow tall and the entire area to be, in general, a lot flatter. In his quest to basically never grow up and continue being the thing he KNEW he wanted to be since kindergarten- he’s taken everything and left the rest in the dust. He’s The Royal Scientist now, he “doesn’t need anything else.”

i’m so sorry. for everything. for everything long ago, and for starting up that machine again.

Sans knows he could have been better. He could have done things differently, and that thought messes with him, even before he remembered.

The 2nd image is Sans at Grillbys after another failed attempt to get Wingdings outside. Despite the fact that he could have done things differently, theres no real reason to be “sorry” But still, he cant help but feel like he should be. He could have done things differently- could have tried harder, and gotten Wingdings out more often- or at all.

Im not sure where the machine in Sans’ lab comes into play in this AU, but it worked for the purposes of this audio.

theres a good man within you, wingdings. but he is wrestling with a giant. and the giant WINS time and again.)

Before everything, there was still a good man inside Wingdings that Sans saw. But now that he’s Gaster he just cant see him ever changing... and yknow what hes probably right. Like Papyrus says! Anyone can be a good person if they just try!…Gaster just isnt trying

“Wins” being emphasized here, I enjoy, since its sorta a video gamey term. The giant hes wrestling is that/the player, after all. Also probably his ego

I also had fun with kid Wingdings and what he’s drawing. Ofc its all him and Sans plus silly little stars, but him being finished drawing Sans, but not yet finished drawing himself, symbolizes the fact that at that age he still didn’t really know what he wanted to be, I feel like Wingdings kinda remembers the past wrong. Sure he definitely had science on the mind, but younger kids are often filled with questions, he questions if thats truly where he’d be the happiest.

Thats the good man within him

you’ve broken my soul again, and i fear i have broken yours. and for that i will never forgive myself, but i need to let you go now.)

the star represents, again, Wingdings. And the moon represents Sans, which shines only under the Suns (Papyrus’) light.

The sun is beginning to rise, and Sans and Papyrus are beginning to leave. Sans puts out the fire, closing this chapter of his life.

Because of every reason he needed to relearn/re-reflect on listed here, hes ready to let Wingdings go now. Sans is the one to put out the fire here, and not Papyrus, cause this is from the perspective of how SANS handles putting this issue to rest. Papyrus can have his own fire to put out later

Another thing about putting out the fire, thats just kinda common knowledge to do especially at a public camping spot. Yknow what else is common knowledge to do so you dont disrupt the community?? NOT REPLANTING FLOWERS-

Its not that deep…but still-

i send you the radio you made many years ago when we were kids. not because i dont want it, but… because i care for it far too much and it reminds me too much of you.)

CALL BACK!!!!!!

Sans leaves this last memento to Wingdings, the last thing they have that has nothing to do with Papyrus. Because at this point theres no reason to keep it, in Sans’ mind at least. There’s also no reason to destroy it- Like he says, hes not leaving it out of malice, theres just no good that will come from keeping it and holding onto the past.

As the sun rises, here we see the brothers leaving. in contrast to before, Sans is helping Papyrus down. Helping him down from the spotlight, the expectations he’s set upon himself. Another kick that Papyrus still has much more to reflect on and think about, he’s still looking back at that light, at a shooting star, at everything he thought he wanted to be.

i hope one day you will find some kind people who with appreciate you. for it kept me thinking of you all these years.)

GASTER FOLLOWERS!!!

Despite everything, Sans still wants whats left of Wingdings, Gaster, to be happy and find something, anyone, that will give him true happiness. It’s left ambiguous however if they truly do, do that for him. If it’s at all healthy.

cause frankly i have no idea how theyll be included. but just like everything- i cant wait to find out

EDIT: something important (and really wordy-) I just remembered and forgot to mention: the wording change “i hope you will find some kind people who will appreciate you”. I chose this because I think it’s the thing Wingdings and Papyrus just want the most. To be appreciated- to be loved for who they are. Sans is/has been so happy that Papyrus has found those people in Undyne, Toriel, Asgore, and…hopefullllyyy Alphys? And now that Sans remembers Wingdings, and remembers how badly he wanted that, and how he never did. Sans cant help but feel horrible for him, and in turn, Gaster. Sans forgives Wingdings, and loves Papyrus…and….he just wants the best for Gaster. He hopes he can find true happiness in that twisted mind of his…

and i hope by returning it to you, i can finally be free. goodbye.

- your brother

As the sun rises, the star gets smaller and smaller and eventually the sun replaces it. Remember when I said Papyrus represents the sun? SYMBOLISM!!!

Also about that, the star shines brighter than anything, but the Sun is among a lot of clouds, depicting how isolated Wingdings is/was despite shining the brightest, vs Papyrus who also does indeed shine! but isn’t isolated whatsoever.

Now, remember when I said Sans saying “my dear wingdings” instead of “my dear brother” was important? well, he acknowledges that he is still Wingdings’ brother, despite everything. So he signs off as “your brother” but… He’ll always try to remember Wingdings fondly…but…he’s unsure if he considers Wingdings his brother anymore- just because of how much they’ve changed. Thats why the whole thing is called Dear My Dear.

the radio + letter remains there in the end. I briefly played with the idea of having them disappear as the sun came out, implying that Gaster took the radio and reas the letter, but that was before I realized it was much better for this to be for Wingdings specifically, not Gaster/Wingdings/whatever.

FINALE!!! PLUS SOME BEHIND THE SCENES INFO!!!

weeps pitifully this was probably the most fun i’ve had with a project/the most happy i’ve come out of one. Learned lots about my process’ and what works! so thats awesome It took a while to make, so theres a lot of stuff I changed or ideas I scrapped that I find interesting, so im gonna show some of that on my side/shitpost account, @o-sunny-day

also isnt this so awesome???? I got a computer so I got to post more images than just 10, THIS IS SO AWESOME!!!

Have a Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year! Heres to being a bigger, better, and different person this year! except not really because despite everything its still you.

un-unless you…got shattered across time and space…. then you’re-

well I mean that-….. hm…

does that…? hmm, well….

[hoovesandfloorpaws]

Louis' award corner masterpost (Feb '25)

as promised, i went down the path of becoming rectangle-eyed and have googled pictures of every single award One Direction, Louis and Harry have ever received during their careers and studied all of them to try and match all the awards to the ones in the pictures we got today -- and sweet gay jesus, the awards we see in the photo are only like 10% of everything they've won.

Still: even after 6 hours of research, 3 of the awards plus the surfboard furthest back remain kind of a mystery to me, so if you know which award they are, please drop me a message and I will add the info in a reblog! 🙏🏼 (more info below)

Pic from today:

Awards corner overview: (click to enlarge)

Let's zoom in:

DONE!

TL;DR: there are (just like in 2021) at least 2 of Harry's awards in this shelf - the 2 Brit Awards! 😌 husbands are still being husbandy. Also given their history with bears🧸, I love that they have one right there 🏳️‍🌈

•

❗️If you have any idea what that award marked with "???" and the glass one next to it is (what I put there I am not super sure about), please let me know and I will add this in a reblog! And also if I have made a mistake somewhere. About the NRJ Award, I also am only like 50% sure about. If any of you have a better fit, please let me know. I know the matte gold award with the 1 kinda reminds one of BBC Radio 1, but the BBC Radio 1's Teen Awards look very colourful, like so:

and they have never looked any different, as far as I researched.

Re: the surfboards - honestly, I also thought maybe they are not awards, but for some reason he stores regular surfboards in that corner. We know he likes to surf. But it would make so little sense if they are not the Teen Choice Awards. One of them is clearly wrapped. And I think the middle one might also be thinly wrapped and is perhaps the 2016 one with the palm leaves. But the one in the back I really can't match to any of the surfboards won. Just to give you all the details - here is an overview of all the Teen Choice Award surfboards One Direction, Louis, and Harry have won:

2012: (including 2 pictures with the entire boards, front and back)

2013:

2014:

2015:

2016 (One Direction weren't there to pick it up and there was no video message with them holding it / Harry won 1 solo, as well):

2017 (Louis won, but I wasn't able to find a picture of him holding the board. Harry won 3 as well, but he didn't attend):

2018 (Harry won 2 as well, but he didn't attend):

2019 (showing both sides of the board):

on a final note, here is a pic of Louis' 2016 Brit Award, which is missing from the collection on the shelf - you know, just in case it'll pop up ~somewhere else in the future 😌 (maybe with the rest of Harry's Brits 🤭)

liam 💖

more resources: • this fantastic post from Sep 2021 of Louis' Brit Awards shelf in Away From Home (2021) by @skepticalarrie • this post is what inspired me to make this - i love when we all come together for research! 😌💙💚 @twopoppies @daisiesonafield-blog @srldesigns6277 @vampirenicotine @anchorandrope @fookinhellcurlyy - love you all x • One Direction awards / Louis' awards / Harry's awards • the Berlin Buddy bear

[venusdews]

sweet serendipity

zayne [黎深] + female reader

synopsis. you disrupt zayne's routine when you stumble into his bookstore. he'd be lying if he said he wouldn't want it to happen again.

genre & contents. romantic meet cute, shopkeeper!zayne, actress!reader, inspired by notting hill (ofc), yearning men (zayne), short n sweet wc ; 2.1k

author's note. i saw a post saying something about librarian zayne and thought wait… let's take that further…. also i just love notting hill and imagining zayne in glasses. enjoy <3

It’s a quiet morning for Zayne.

The sun was coming in delicately through his bookstore’s windows, at the same time it always did. A pale blue mug sits at the register, the one he used everyday to make his cup of coffee. Students from the nearby university were walking briskly past the shop to their 8 AM lectures. Soft piano ballads spilled from his computer into the small space.

Everything was the same.

Some may find it monotonous, this morning routine of his. But to Zayne, he wouldn’t ask for anything else. This is exactly how he liked it.

Zayne was sitting behind the register, ready to tally today’s inventory. In the opening hours of his quaint little bookstore, there was rarely another person with him. Except for his assistant, Yvonne, who came in earlier on the weekends. Customers usually start coming in later in the afternoon, so he used this time to focus on the upkeep his books demanded. 

It was a sacred time, just for him.

He takes his blue-inked pen, just about to mark his clipboard when the bell above the door chimes.

Zayne stirs, surprised to hear the sound so early in the morning. He instinctively looks up, a ‘welcome in’ at the tip of his tongue.

But there was no one.

He watches as the door closes on its own, the only sign that he hadn’t just imagined it. His brows furrowing slightly, he stands up, scanning the bookshelves for any sign of life.

Nothing.

Was Zayne hearing things?

He sighs softly, walking around the counter. He needed to make sure he wasn’t going crazy.

He walks down the aisle furthest from the door, slowly peeking around the corner. Zayne doesn’t know why his heart is beating faster. Maybe he was slightly unsettled by the disturbance to his peaceful morning.

And then he sees you.

He stills at the sight, wondering if he’s seeing things now. 

There was no way it was you.

Clad in a black jacket, you stand at the other end of the shop. A matching beret sits atop your head and you’re wearing sunglasses, but Zayne easily recognizes your features.

You take a book from the shelf, but you’re distracted. Eyes focused on the windows intensively.

Zayne doesn’t realize he’s walking towards you until he’s only a few feet away. Still, you’re unaware of his presence. He panics, blanking on his words as it seems you’ve left him unable to form a coherent sentence. 

Wow, you smell good. 

And you’re even prettier up close. Those cameras really didn’t do your beauty justice.

His mouth opens and closes, eyes darting around for something, anything, to distract him from how intoxicating you were.

They land on the book in your hand.

When You Are Dreaming: Part One

“That’s a good choice.” The words slip out before Zayne can stop them.

You jump, whipping your head to face… his chest. Your head tilts upwards, eyes trailing up to meet his. Zayne feels his ears burning, surely turning a bright pink now. 

Confusion is clear on your face. “What?”

Your dulcet voice is like music to his ears.

Zayne adjusts the rectangle glasses on his nose, an nervous habit. He clears his throat, pointing to the book in your hands.

You look down, as if you had just become aware of the object in your hands. “Oh,” you whisper softly, more to yourself than him. “Are you a student?”

He can’t help the slight upwards tilt of his lips. “No, I read it for fun.”

“You read academic texts for fun?” It’s a genuine question despite the amused smile on your lips. 

“I do.” he answers, unabashedly.

Your smile widens and you flip the book in your hands. Skimming your fingers over the spine, you look at him intensively through your sunglasses. Zayne can’t help the way his face flushes.  “Part one, huh? Is the sequel any good?”

“The first one is always better. I think they overshot with a second one.”

You giggle, and Zayne briefly wonders what angel blessed him today.

“I’ll take it then.”

If someone had told him Linkon’s most beloved actress would be standing in front of him, taking his book suggestions, Zayne would have laughed in their face.

Yet, here you were looking at him like he was actually saying something of interest to you.

As he guides you to the register, a soft ‘oh no’ falls from your lips. He turns to you, finding a panicked expression on your face. Zayne follows your gaze, catching sight of the flurry of people holding cameras, looking around expectantly. They were just a few feet outside of the shop, any longer and they would definitely see you in here.

Ah, so that’s why you ran in here.

Your brows furrow cutely, as if you’re planning a grand escape in your head.

Zayne can’t help himself.

“You can… go through the back.”

He can see the way your eyes widen under your shades, not expecting his helping hand. Without another word, he motions you to follow him, through his office to the back door. Zayne holds the door open for you, and you don’t hesitate to step into the alley.

You turn to him, smiling brightly. “Thank you.”

He watches as you quickly walk down the alley and turn. He stands there for a bit longer than he’s like to admit. Maybe hoping to catch sight of you once again. But, a sense of disappointment washes over him as he closes the door. Walking back to his clipboard, he looks around his bookshop.

Everything was the same. As if you had never been there at all.

Zayne picks up his pen once again, only then realizing. 

You left with the unpaid book.

And maybe a little more.

                       · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Zayne is embarrassed to admit he finds himself looking for you in every person who walks into his store.

Everytime the bell rings, his head shoots up. And everytime it’s not you, his greetings become a little less enthusiastic. 

He’s also embarrassed to admit he almost fell from the gliding ladder when he caught sight of a black beret.

It was not you.

Yvonne did not try to hide her giggle.

Zayne had kept his encounter with you a secret, knowing how much of a fan she was. And maybe, he wanted to keep the memory for his own safekeeping. 

“Are you expecting someone?” Yvonne eyes Zayne suspiciously, wondering why her calm and collected boss was suddenly looking like a puppy missing its owner. 

Zayne stops his writing, looking up from his notepad to Yvonne. She had stopped stocking books, hands on her hips.

“No,” he replies, curt. “Why do you ask?”

She tilts her head, as if to say I don’t believe you.

“Maybe because you keep looking at the door as if you are.”

He looks back to his notepad, suddenly realizing he’s been caught. It was upsetting enough to admit he hadn’t stopped thinking about you since you stood in his shop a week ago. But to have someone else point it out, that was just humiliating.

Not that he had been doing a good job of hiding it.

“You still have three more boxes in the back.”

Yvonne scoffs, rolling her eyes at his blatant misdirection. She shakes her head, but goes back to refilling the shelves.

Zayne walks away, suddenly feeling too hot. As if to mock him, the door chimes once again. Feeling self-conscious, he ignores it, walking into his office.

He also misses the way Yvonne gasps.

Zayne tries to cool himself down by some water, fanning himself with his notepad. What’s gotten into him? Why was he so stuck on you?

He tells himself that maybe he imagined it, that of course he would feel so enthralled by a movie star. Yeah, that’s all it was. He was just starstruck by you. Zayne should forget about it and stop hoping you’ll—

“Zayne!”

Yvonne’s voice takes him out of his spiraling thoughts.

He turns, coming face to face with a… very red Yvonne. She’s smiling, teeth and all, something he thinks he’s never seen since he’s met her. Her eyes are wide, a nervous twinkle as she stares at him.

“Did something happ—”

“Someone is here to see you,” she cuts him off, hands coming up to cover her mouth. It looks as if she’s trying to contain an explosion from going off.

Zayne’s eyes widen slightly.

It couldn’t be…?

Could it?

He adjusts his glasses, about to push past Yvonne. But, he stops in front of the mirror next to the door, adjusting his hair and collar. Just in case. Yvonne giggles like a schoolgirl as he exits his office.

Zayne swears his heart stops for a moment, because standing in his bookshop once again…

is you. 

You, sunglasses and beret gone, gorgeous face bare for him to see. For him to see you completely. And, god, those eyes were just as mesmerizing as in the movies.

The sun seems to kiss you, cascading over you in a halo. You’re wearing the same jacket you wore before. And when you see him, you shoot him a blinding smile.

Straight to his heart.

It’s like you want him to collapse right then and there. 

“Hi,” you say once he’s standing in front of you. Your hands are holding a book. The one you (technically) stole. 

“Hi.” he says back, suddenly feeling out of breath. 

“I wanted to return this to you. I know I kind of just ran out of here last time. I promise, I fully intended on paying…” you’re rocking on your feet, eyes darting to the side. Were you… nervous?

He finds delight in that thought.

“You don’t want it anymore?”

You laugh, looking down at the book in your hands. “To be honest, I don’t think I'll have time to read it…”

“And, I just wanted to buy it because you seemed to like it.” You look back up at him, a coy smile playing on your lips.

Was he delusional or were you… flirting?

Behind him, there’s a squeal. He looks back to see Yvonne, who quickly ducks into his office to pretend like she wasn’t just eavesdropping. 

You laugh again, and Zayne thinks he could listen to it forever.

“So, anyway,” you start again, and he realizes he hasn’t said a thing. And he did want to, god he did, but he couldn’t seem to find the right words. Zayne was embarrassed to admit how many times he had played this scenario in his head. Yet, you hold the book out to him and he takes it, wordlessly, like an idiot.

“I just came by to drop it off.”

“Well, thank you.”

THANK YOU? 

That’s it?

You’re right in front of him and all he can say is thank you?

Zayne feels like the biggest idiot in all of Linkon right now. Standing still and unable to speak to the girl who hasn't left his mind for a second. The girl people would kill to have even a second to speak to.

And he feels like you’re slipping right through his fingers.

You turn, not before flashing him that breathtaking smile of yours again. The type that leaves him wanting more. And all he can do is watch as you walk out of his bookshop, out of his life completely. Leaving nothing behind but the sweet smell of jasmine and cedar.

“Oh my god,” Yvonne is beside him now, leaning over the register counter, hands covering her face. “That is the worst fumble I have ever seen.”

Zayne flushes.

“She was literally right there! Linkon’s darling, coming back for you, and all you say is thank you?!” She tries to mimic his deep voice. 

Well, when she says it like that…

“I…”

For the first time, Yvonne sees her stoic, cold boss become speechless.

Zayne stares at the book in his hands as if he is trying to bore holes into it. As if it was at fault for his failures. Sighing, he places the book on the register. What he’s been wishing for has passed him by and he has no one to blame but himself.

Maybe he just wasn’t meant to enter your world. He was just a random shopkeeper in this vast city and you, you were way above his level. What would Linkon’s beloved star actress even be doing with a humble man like himself?

Maybe you two were just ships in the night. 

Zayne thinks he hears Yvonne continue to ramble, but he starts to examine the condition of the book. Making sure it was good to put back onto its shelf, where it truly belonged. He opens it, and his eyes widen.

A slip of paper, tucked in between the cover and the first page.

Your name in cursive lettering, a heart doodled at the end of it.

And your number.

[loserboyfriendrjl]

“sirius, i’m stuck,” fleamont called out, tapping the crossword with the tip of his pen. “shade of sky blue, nine letters. come here.”

drying his hand as he came out of the kitchen, sirius sat on the armrest, looking at the paper. “cerulean.”

“doesn’t that have eight letters?” fleamont asked, pushing his rectangle-framed glasses up his nose.

“it can also be spelled as caerulean,” sirius said, leaning forward and pointing to a word at the top of the page. “that’s loquacious; overly chatty,” and gesturing the one somewhere in the middle-right , “demure; modest and reserved. so, not like james.”

fleamont chuckled as james put his hands on his hips in the kitchen.

“as if you’re particularly demure,” he retorted, accentuating the last word right as his mother gave him a look. james leaned down for her to kiss his cheek; euphemia patted it affectionately.

“i’ll be out to buy some groceries for dinner,” she said, “i should be home in about an hour or so.”

fleamont stood up, groaning as he peeled himself off the armchair. “oh, no, the boys and i are going to take care of that,” he smiled, as sirius and james headed towards the door, bickering, “right boys?”

both of them nodded, their topic of conversation shifting. fleamont put an arm around his wife and kissed her cheek, as james gagged and sirius chuckled at him.