#(so there's the base file when i have the frames i want in the right order

[thistaleisabloodyone]

Okay, so I need to work on the birthday gifs again aaaaaand with all of this extra space, I can also start breaking down more and more concerts and MVs and stuff 😄 Honestly excited, I don't have to keep deleting all of the WIPs once they're completed anymore

[prentissluvr]

better than a sight for sore eyes — sam winchester

pairing : sam winchester x gn!reader ➖⟢ genre : suggestive MDNI ➖⟢ cw : established relationship, once again not smut, but nsfw and highly suggestive!! so minors and ageless blogs DNI !!! swearing, a lot of horny thoughts, kind of implied switch-ish!reader and dom-ish!sam, but no hard-set sub/dom dynamic (sam is just a menace), barely edited, no use of y/n ➖⟢ wc : 1K inspired by this gif set !! check it out for the full feeling horny over sam winchester experience !! MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DNI. i will block you without a second thought if you do !!! feel free to check out my sfw works instead :)

MOVED BLOGS TO @sammyluvr !! no longer active on this blog! all fics can be found there!

sam is far more than a sight for sore eyes. in that grey, v-neck t-shirt with his arms crossed and neck shining with a subtle sheen of sweat, he looks like sweet, cool relief from a sweltering heat, hot tea for frigid hands and lips, and simply, but most effectively put, beyond sexy.

he’s saying something about the case to you, and you only know this because your gaze flicks away from his toned arms for just a moment to catch his lips moving.

“–so we’ll head out when dean gets back.”

you figure that’s the most important part of the sentence, so you just nod and hum in acknowledgment before letting your gaze continue raking over his body. you feel like you could drool over the muscles of his chest, forearms, and the bulge of his biceps that are all exaggerated by his folded arms. and his shoulders, god, his shoulders from this angle; you’re looking down at him from the raised platform of the room.

he raises an eyebrow at you, and you catch the smirk that begins to pull at his lips as he turns towards the door.

swallowing hard, you lean against the railing and take in the broadness of his back as walks away, likely to head back to his research.

“when’s he getting back?” you call after him before he can disappear into the next room.

“maybe fifteen,” he speculates, turning back around to face you as he leans against the door frame. god, does he have to do that? he fills up the space in the doorway, so tall and gorgeous, and all you want to do is walk right over to him, tangle your hands in his pretty, pretty hair, and kiss the air out of his lungs. that fucking smirk is still splayed across his lips, and from the looks of it, he knows that all you want right now is to be all over him. you certainly haven’t remotely attempted to be subtle about the way you’ve been staring at him all morning.

you look at him expectantly, hoping he’ll urge you down and over to him for a kiss, maybe with words or a simple hand motion, but he does nothing. he just waits for a beat to see if you have another question before turning back away and heading for the stack of books and files that await him. huffing in frustration, you pad after him, finished with your task in that room anyway.

when you plop down in the seat across from him, he’s already opened up a file and begun to read it. without looking up, he slides one to you. normally, you’d accept it without a complaint, more than willing to get to work. but you really don’t think he should be allowed to look the way he does and act like he doesn’t know it’s making you go a little crazy. all you can think about is getting up, standing behind him and sliding your hands down his chest, then leaning around to suck pretty marks on his sweaty, irresistable neck. maybe you’ll slide a hand up to lightly squeeze at the base of his neck and lick at the sensitive spot right below his jaw to pull a pretty sound from his throat and make it impossible for him to ignore you. 

he’ll grab your wrists and pull your hands away from him, then stand and turn around. and depending on his mood, he might push the chair out of the way and back you up until you hit the wall. one large hand will be on your waist, and the other will pin one of your wrists above your head as he kisses you hard. your free hand will get tangled in the curled edges of the hair at the back of his neck, and he’ll—

sam’s voice calling your name interrupts the fantasy. the tone of his voice is amused, and he can’t seem to get rid of that damn smirk.

“what?” you grumble, annoyed that he won’t let you even think about jumping his bones, much less actually do it. he laughs a little because he thinks you’re cute when you’re mad about this sort of thing. “don’t laugh at me,” you whine, “i’m struggling right now.”

“because i’m focusing on the case instead of fucking you?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

you just about moan at his words. “fuck, sammy, don’t say that. i need you,” you groan.

that has him clenching his jaw and wishing he hadn’t said something so vulgar and opened up the opportunity for you to say that, because it’s always a sure-fire way to chip away at his resolve.

“read your file,” is all he says, pointing to it with his chin. that does absolutely nothing to help, because the motion has got you focusing on his neck again and the way the muscles and tendons are pulled taut for a moment, becoming more pronounced and just begging for your lips all over.

he doesn’t miss the way your gaze travels up from his collarbone to his jaw, then his lips, then his pretty hazel eyes. the way he raises his eyebrows at you when you make eye contact is hot too.

“fuck you, sam,” you complain, no malice whatsoever present in your voice, just something bordering on desperate.

he resists the urge to say “you wish,” but he knows that wouldn’t be fair at all, especially considering he wants that too. instead, he just smiles a little and lets his gaze drop back to the file in his hand. 

“dean will be back too soon, alright? just wait til tonight, baby,” he adds that last part in hopes of sedating you just a bit, and because he certainly means it. he knows that you can’t keep your eyes off him or your thoughts out of the gutter, but he’s having similar troubles. he just has a fun time with the teasing and adores the look in your eyes as they drag all over his frame. 

and just for a moment, he feels all soft as he thinks about the way you never fail to make him feel wanted. so, so wanted. needed, even, if he were to ask you.

[fictionalslvr]

SYNOPSIS: Simon Riley hates going to the clinic. Especially when you're the nurse.

PAIRING: Nurse¡Reader x Simon Riley.

WORD COUNT: 995.

WARNINGS: (not proofread!)

NOTES: I just wanted to write for Simon SO BAD. I can bring more of these two, if you guys like it, of course🫶🏻

Lieutenant Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley isn't a big fan of going to the doctor. Not even the pharmacy. Especially the pharmacy. Because he knows he will find someone even more annoying there. The newbie nurse was a rock in his shoes from the beginning.

As for you, the recent BOLC (Officer Basic Leadership Course) formed as a nurse, you were thrilled. After weeks of training hard to be a military nurse, you're finally where you wished to be. As you got approved for working into the Meadowview Medical Clinic, you were quickly brought to a meeting, clarifying that not every soldier is as the others. This one, a lieutenant to be more clear. You were marveling about it. A lieutenant that never shows his face, asks for privacy at the top of all.

—”He asks for no photos of his face, not many people in the room as he's in. And, oh, of course. The lieutenant requires a private room for attendance.” — Your boss was explaining anything as some interrogation kept running through your mind. You couldn't understand properly. But you agreed with anything, you even had to sign a privacy contract, seems like he takes it very seriously.

It took weeks for you to see him actually. Your boss told you the lieutenant didn't like coming into the hospital. You thought the man could have some trauma. Or, to make him a bit less scary, you thought he was only scared of needles, since that's totally normal amongst adults. But it was funny imagining a buff soldier scared of it. And you knew he was buff. You were looking at his military personnel file, he seemed to have quite the experience in the position, by the long time he's serving the country. It said on the paper, that he was 1.93 meters, he was actually more tall than what you thought. There were some notes especially for those in pharmacy counseling reference, which includes you.

“Enjoys tattoo art + animals.”

You were clicking your tongue on the top of your mouth. That was unexpected. So, he might have these both things.

“Drink of choice —› Earl Grey.”

As you know, it was a british tea with black tea on the base and some bergamot orange oil. A weird choice of drink, but maybe he had a motive behind it.

“Assess for animal support program.”

You tilted your head to the side. Seems like your deduction was correct. You started to wonder what kind of animal one lieutenant would have. Maybe a scary animal like a snake? Or a defenseless fat cat? That would be funny.

In seconds, you were on your desk, flipping the papers of his file, the delicacy in your touch not so needed, but was there. In seconds after, a knock took your concentration. You immediately dropped everything and got up, clearing your throat and adjusting your stance as you opened the door. There was a man. Or, THE man, his size taking almost all the door frame. The man in front of you was enormous, you weren't small yourself, you were quite taller too, but you had no chance against him. He was staring at you. Hiis almost black, almond eyes, painted in face paint, were full of some weird emotion. That got your stomach wobbly, you didn't know what to expect of him. Your boss was right beside him, smiling at you in a very unnatural way.

—”This is the lieutenant. He seems to be having a fracture on the nose. Could you please take the general infos for me before he goes to my room? I'm a bit busy.” — You nodded almost immediately, giving space for the big one to go inside. That was weird, your boss were so busy and yet, took time to brought him to your room?

He walks in, without a single word. He sat on the litter, his hands resting in the middle of his legs as he pressed his foot to the floor. You waited as your boss turned his back at you two, and closed the door, clearing your throat once again before coming closer to the lieutenant. From your coat, you took your tongue depressor.

—”Can you…take off your mask? I need to see it for the procedure.”

And he just shook his head, telling you he won't do it with his expression. His mask would only allow you to see his eyes.

—”Wait a minute, sir. You possibly broke your nose. If you can't take out your mask, I can't assess your situation.” — Your lips glued together, showing how that situation was nothing more than awkward. You couldn't understand a soldier that didn't take off his mask.

—”No way.”

The man had a strong British accent, you didn't heard him talking until now. But it was clear even with only two words.

—”Sir, please. I need you to cooperate. After all, why don't you take it off? Scared you're ugly?”

The words rolled off your tongue, your free hand coming to your mouth to try and take it back. Simon took a second. A few seconds. Gulped down some emotion you couldn't decipher and blinked at you. You were used to making jokes with the other patients. But they were a different case. They were not lieutenant Simon Riley.

—”Ya know, yer’ not the first one to tell me that. Try being more original next time.”

You didn't know what he meant with that. If he was trying to be sarcastic, he didn't show. His face sat still like a rock, that was to the bare minimum…weird. Maybe he wasn't good with emotions. Or he was just mad at you. Either way, the man in front of you took off his mask, holding it on his side very close. He was not what you expected. His face was not ugly at all. And seeing your face surprised, he gave you a smug smile. Seems like the lieutenant enjoys surprising people.

[meggtheegg]

FNAF Movie Theory...

I'm pretty sure there's still one major plot twist in the universe of the movie that's been set up for a sequel but hasn't actually happened yet. Heavy spoilers under the cut:

After watching the movie in theaters and then revisiting a few scenes on Peacock, I'm still kind of convinced that Mike Schmidt is Michael Afton.

Here's my reasoning. A lot of the characters spend time acting like they know something the audience/other characters don't, and those things are...mostly resolved. But some of them just...kind of aren't.

The main thing that sticks out to me is William's whole storyline. Starting with the scene where he offers Mike the job, his behavior is almost explained by the movie's logic. He sees Mike's name, seems...kind of deeply upset, looks at him very closely, stands to get coffee, and has a moment of visible internal conflict. Then he instantly offers him the Freddy's job. The way the movie frames this, it seems to be saying that he recognized the name of one of his victims, realized this was the kid's brother, and decided to kill him right then and there. Which is passable as an explanation, but it has a lot of holes, if you look deeper.

Why would William so instantly recognize a fairly common last name as the brother of some kid he killed that wasn't even anywhere near Freddy's? Why did he kidnap/kill Garrett in the first place, in some random forest in Nebraska? Why did he see the name on the file, then immediately stop and examine Mike's face so closely, when Mike's memories/dreams pretty clearly show that they never saw each others' faces when Garrett was taken? Why did he send Vanessa to "keep Mike in the dark" if he purposely gave him the job to get him killed? Why not have the animatronics kill him right away? He didn't know that Mike was searching for the man who took his brother, and while he could have maybe guessed he was still actively haunted by what happened based on Mike beating up a guy that he thought was kidnapping someone, it still feels like a weird choice to go and hire him, then just have him do the job with no issue for a few days.

As for Vanessa, we see that she's been cleaning up William's messes for years. Why is Mike the one she changes her mind and stands up to her father for? There's no implied romance between the two and no particularly meaningful connection beyond them both having family issues. I guess she cares about Abby because she's a kid, but kids getting hurt clearly never stopped her from helping her father before.

And, on a more meta level, this is Scott and his storytelling style we're talking about. The man puts plot twists inside of plot twists and everything always ties back into the Aftons, somehow.

So, here's my theory: I think that Mike is William's kid, but Mike's mom left Afton when he was young and remarried the man that Mike thinks is his father.

It seems convoluted and maybe cliche, but if it's true, then suddenly there's an answer to all of those questions. "Michael Schmidt" isn't exactly an eye-catching name, unless you had a kid named Michael and your ex-wife married a guy with the last name Schmidt. Garrett's kidnapping, then, becomes an act of intentional, petty revenge rather than an extremely random coincidence. Giving Mike the job and sending in Vanessa suddenly becomes about piecing together how much he knows and figuring out if he's worth trying to reconnect with or is just a threat that needs to be killed. (It feels worth noting that William is as far as I can remember the only person to call him Michael in the whole film. He also very pointedly never says "Schmidt" until he's decided to kill Mike and suddenly announces his full name out loud. If he went by Michael as a little kid, that is what William would default to calling him, but if he took the new husband's last name, that would be like like salt in the wound that he wouldn't want to voice. By finally saying it out loud, it feels like he's making the decision to fully separate himself from Mike.)

As for Vanessa, if Mike is her brother, it makes sense that he would be the person she'd turn against William to save. It would be weird for her not to tell him, but she could also be trying to protect him, in some way. There's never any mention of her mother, and it seems like it's just been her and William for a long time. Also, ending the movie with her in a coma feels like a strange narrative choice, but it makes sense if she knows information that's purposely being kept hidden for the sequel.

Of course, it could just be that the movie has kind of messy writing and I'm trying to fix it because I want there to be a deeper reason for it. Maybe there is no Michael Afton in the movies, or maybe he's off chilling and doing his own thing somewhere and we'll see him in the sequel. Only time will tell.

[questforgalas]

Storm Blue Eyes and A Scottish Brogue: Reasons Simon Riley Came Back to Life

For @daredaredoodles!! Happy Ghoapmas!!! Here is some very oblivious and very yearny Ghost for you!! Oh, did I mention lots of fluff? :) I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it!!!

Thank you @forsaire for hosting!!!!

Ao3 link

Summary: It was supposed to be a holiday season like all of the others - nights filled with reports, and a base haunted by a Ghost while everyone wandered home. Three knocks on Simon's door change those plans entirely.

Words: 5K

No CWs, just tooth-rotting fluff and Gaz so done with these two

It was supposed to be quiet tonight. An intimate date between Simon, the desk in his room, and the pile of reports that magically remain the same height regardless of how many hours are put towards them (a detail Captain Price never misses). Does Simon happen to write a little slower to aid that magical spell so that he has a proper excuse when Price inevitably comes knocking on his door and asks why he hasn’t filed for leave again this December? Possibly, but that little detail belongs between Simon and the twenty minutes during which he contemplates which words to use instead of “infiltrate” and “detonation”. 

He should have known nothing ever goes according to plan. Three familiar knocks rapping against the door certainly proved that right.

Cut to Soap MacTavish standing on the other side, a smile curling his lips and azure eyes all the brighter against the navy jumper wrapping across his broad chest. Words were said, something about a night out which made sense since Soap wore dark jeans that seemed made specifically to torture Simon, and there was a glint in Soap’s eye not dissimilar to a child’s on Christmas morning. 

Ah, so, Price was picking up the tab. 

As Soap stands in the hall, punctuating his pitch to coach the lieutenant out of his room with perfectly placed smiles and a wink or two anyone else would find gratuitous but Simon found infuriatingly endearing, Simon swaps his hoodie for a black jumper, grabs his jacket, and has the door locked just as Soap says, “‘nd it’s not tha team without ma favorite lieutenant.” 

The calendars say “December”, but the unseasonably warm air makes the jacket hanging over Simon’s arm feel like overkill, making him contemplate turning around and throwing it through the door, but instead he rolls up the sleeves of his jumper. In the corner of his eye, he sees Soap watch as the fabric folds back and reveals Simon’s forearms - corded with muscle, covered in scars, one completely inked over. 

Simon wanted to tell himself that the way Soap ogled at the skin didn’t make his own feel a size too small. He wanted to tell himself the way Soap’s Adam's apple bobbed and the dusting of pink at the tip of his ears didn’t match his own. He wanted to tell himself he wouldn’t tuck this moment away safely in the gilded chest labeled “Moments He Can Pretend” that he stored in the safe recesses of his heart. 

He wanted to tell himself all of that, but unfortunately, that would make Simon a liar. 

Soap rambles on about some combination of some chemicals that Simon doesn’t understand a lick of - he’s just happy he remembers to nod at points that seem right for it - and they walk side by side through Hereford. 

“What fresh hell is this,” Simon mutters, the revelry from the pub greeting their ears when they’re still a block away. 

“Don’t fret, Lt.” Soap nudges him with his shoulder. “I’m sure it’s just ol’ Gerry with tha music up because he finally accepted he cannae hear for shit.” 

It was, in fact, not Gerry with the music up. 

The Green Pony quite literally glows on the corner. Green garland lit with soft, white lights frames every window, and electric candles flicker at the streets. Two wreaths adorned with a red ribbon bow hang on the dark wood doors, and through the windows, matching garland and lights line the entirety of the bar. A large tree pulls it all together, lighting up the far corner much to the chagrin of some patrons looking for a secluded corner away from the crowd. 

They shoulder their way through the entry and are immediately sucked into the chaos that is the Green Pony operating over capacity. Behind the bar, Gerry, the owner, a man who Simon is convinced was born in this pub, slings pints and jabs faster than any of the youngsters helping alongside him, and when he catches sight of the two men, he throws a lazy salute and points in the direction of their usual table. They break through the crowd, and the sight of Captain Price and Sergeant Kyle “Gaz” Garrick greets them at their usual booth. 

“Well fuck me,” Gaz says as they approach. “Good to see ya Ghost, but you just lost me 20 quid.” 

“Pay up,” Soap holds out his hand as he scoots in besides the other sergeant. Gaz grumbles something about “unfair advantages” as he fishes out his wallet, and hidden under a black medical mask, a smile pulls at the corner of Ghost’s lips. A terrible bet by Gaz, really. Might as well be the title of Simon’s memoir: 

Storm Blue Eyes and A Scottish Brogue: Reasons Simon Riley Could Never Say No.

 Gaz of all people should know this, and Simon’s pretty sure Soap does do. 

Simon settles in next to Price who silently nods in a way of greeting, but Simon doesn’t miss the way his mouth curls up in a smile around the lip of his glass. “Never become predictable, Sergeant. Easier to kill that way,” Simon offers. Two pints sit unclaimed on the table. Simon grabs one while nudging the other towards Soap. “‘nd have some respect. I’m worth at least 40 quid.” 

“Sound advice, sir.” Gaz tips his glass to Simon then takes a strong swig. 

The rounds disappear and reappear over and over. The older patrons begin to make their way home, thinning the crowd some but not enough to avoid Simon’s shoulder - large enough to breach the end of the booth - becoming a human bumper now and again. Someone’s hijacked the jukebox, and Mariah Carey’s been serenading them about Christmas for the past twenty minutes. Price said his goodbyes a round ago, but not before assuring “Yes, sergeants, the tab will still be open,” and he threw that look to Simon that said “They’re your circus now”. 

Now, Gaz sits at the table, chocolate eyes glassy under the lights, and a finger absentmindedly circles his pint. A dopey smile sits on his lips, and every few minutes he mumbles along to Mariah before she drowns in the din of the crowd. A word hasn’t been spoken between them since Price left - an understood respect by Gaz who knows Simon’s need for silence as much as Soap’s need to fill the air - and Simon wishes he could enjoy it. He wishes he could give Gaz that much. Instead, a dainty hand attached to a brunette he faintly recognizes from base is demanding all of his attention. 

Moments ago, Soap delivered their newest round with a thunk, earning a curse or two from Gaz who saved his pint just in time, but instead of sliding into the space next to Simon - a space he occupied as soon as Price said his goodbyes - he grabbed his pint and beelined to the bar. There, a brunette waited. They were familiar, that Simon was sure of, and Soap kept flashing that smile that Simon was desperate to be turned on him. 

And then the hand. The hand gripped Soap’s bicep, gave it a squeeze, and a laugh, airy and bright followed. The hand remained. That smile flashed brighter. 

Simon hated that hand.

She was pretty enough. Glossy hair, high cheekbones, an ass Simon assumed would be appreciated by the right eyes. Eyes that weren’t azure blue and rivaled the bays of Islay. Any eyes except those. 

The hand slides from Soap’s bicep and cups his elbow. Simon’s knuckles have gone white. He really hated that hand. 

“Ghost, mate,” Simon hears from across the table. “Bruv, that glass is about to lose whatever battle ya’ve picked against it.” Simon tears his gaze away from that hand and sets it on Garrick who, bless him, doesn’t flinch. “Mind tellin’ me what that poor glass has done to you?”

“Don’t know what you’re on ‘bout,” Simon answers and sets his eyes back on that hand that’s smartly retreated back to its owner. Lucky her, she gets to keep it. 

For now. 

Soap’s pint is forgotten on the bartop, he says something to the brunette, and the cute crease that appears when the Scot is trying to puzzle out an equation is between his brows. Simon adores that crease. His hands itch to smooth it out and fight whatever has caused it. 

He misses the questioning look on Gaz’s face and when he follows Simon’s gaze. He misses when the sergeant puts two and two together, but what he doesn’t miss is the sigh that’s pulled from Gaz’s chest and the thunk of the sergeant’s forehead against the thick, wooden table. 

“Ya’ve got to be bloody kiddin’ me.” Stunned, Simon watches as Gaz thunks his head one, two, three more times, then snaps back up. His face is nothing but anguish. “Talk to him.” 

“What?” Simon smartly replies. 

“Talk. To. Him.” Gaz accompanies each word with a thump of his pint as if hammering them into the wood would hammer them into Simon’s confused brain. 

“Talk to who?”

“Bloody ‘ell!” Simon thinks Gaz is being a bit overdramatic, what with throwing his hands in the air and acting as if Simon is the densest person in this pub. Problem is, Simon has no idea what he’s supposed to be grasping. The sergeant rubs a hand down his face, and once he’s collected himself, the stare he throws at Simon pins him to the booth. “Talk to Soap. I’m beggin’ you, Ghost. Talk to him, and save us all from havin’ to keep watching you two dance around each other like a bunch of school boys who don’t know what a crush is.” 

The words make sense. Well, they make sense that they’re words, and they’re going in one ear. But not all of them are processing and some of them are going right out the other ear leaving a jumbled tangle of words like “Soap” and “you two” and “crush” that are rattling around in the empty space of Simon’s mind. Yes, it makes sense that Garrick just said something, but the implications are mad enough that he has half a mind to order him to a psych evaluation at once. 

“Might’ve finally lost it, Garrick. Imaginin’ things now.” It’s really all he can muster past his lead laden tongue. 

Crushing on Soap, well, that was as easy as breathing. But crushing is too trivial a word, wasn’t it? Crushing was what you did on the schoolyard when the brain hadn’t learned the words that threatened to burst from your heart. Crushing was soft glances across a room and sheepish smiles dripping with honeyed words. Crushing wasn’t a deep seeded trust that you’d make it home alive as long as that one person was beside you. Crushing wasn’t intimate knowledge of a body learned in the lowlight of safehouses while rough hands guided needles through skin. Crushing wasn’t hushed confessions in the dark as you accepted your mortality.

No, Simon did not have a crush on Soap MacTavish, because a crush was too simple. A tapestry of moments woven from a tarmac to now - the bar lights catching the hidden caramel strands of Soap’s mohawk - blanketed along Simon’s very being, and no longer could he ignore that his British heart had a Scottish flag planted firmly in place. 

And because life loves to remind Simon that he is not a man destined for gentle touches and even gentler words, he watches as the brunette grasps Soap around the forearm and leads him out of the pub. “Told ya,” the words taste more bitter than he intended. “Imaginin’ things.” 

Gaz tracks the pair through the crowd. “I’m the best interrogator on the team,” he says. Simon’s brow shoots up, and he’s about to question what the hell that has anything to do with this when Gaz holds up his hand and continues. “I’m the best interrogator on this team. I can read body language at a level that, often, I wish I couldn’t. The amount of people’s secrets that they don’t even know but I know is a burden I’m cursed to carry.” Pint abandoned and a finger getting closer and closer to Simon’s chest, Gaz continues. “I don’t know what the hell ‘appened in Las Almas…well I do, I read the report, but I mean between you two. I noticed it the moment we stepped into Ale’s safehouse, and it’s only gotten worse since. We, the 141, are a team. Price and I are teammates. You and I are teammates. Johnny an-”

“He doesn’t want anyone callin’ ‘im Johnny.” Amusement dances across Gaz’s eyes, and Simon knows he fell into his trap. 

“Exactly. Anyone except?” Gaz takes Simon’s glare as confirmation. “All I’m sayin’ is, Soap and you? You’re more than teammates, Ghost. You’re the best in the world - as much as I ‘ate to admit it - not because of hours of training together or years of missions. It’s like you two are one soul, it’s absolutely mad to watch. And it’s not just on missions either. Ya both have a starin’ problem, that’s for sure. Though neither of you would know because it’s always when the other isn’t lookin’.”

“We - what?” Simon can’t fit Gaz’s words into his understanding of his relationship with Soap. 

“The heart eyes? At each other?” Gaz flutters his lashes, and Christ, it actually gets a chuckle out of Ghost, as annoyed as he is. “Ya’d think for someone whose eyes are the only part of his body he shows, you’d be better at schooling them, but I swear I’ve seen those lines at the corners actually melt whenever Soap walks into the room.” 

Oh, Gaz is proper teasing now, and Simon wants to smack the smirk right off of his face. He wants to tell him he’s delusional and that he can’t accept the image Gaz is spinning because it means taking the feelings he keeps packed away in that gilded chest in the safe corner of his heart and laying them all out there. Yet, the denial never comes, and instead, he feels his traitorous mouth curl up.

Is that…relief easing his chest? 

Gaz’s face softens. “Remember the first thing ya told me when I joined the team?” 

“Our job doesn’t guarantee tomorrow,” Simon says automatically. “Take the good moments while ya can. Don’t know ‘ow many ya’ll have.” 

“Maybe time to start takin’ your own advice, huh?” 

“Who’s advice we takin’?”

Gaz and Simon jump at the new voice, both reflexes fast enough to keep the pints from spilling over. Simon peers up, and his heart stutters. There stands Soap with cheeks rosy from the cold, and Simon has well and truly lost it because he desperately wants to loop his arm around Soap’s waist and tuck him into his side to keep him warm. 

“Just Ghost’s words of wisdom,” Gaz supplies easily. 

“Ah, only an eejit wouldn’t listen to the Ghost.” Soap stares down at the table, and he clears his throat before he continues. “Actually, Lt. I - I was hopin’ I could pull ye away?” He rubs the back of his neck, and the red on his cheeks spreads to the tips of his ears. “Unless ye don’t want to! Dinnae me - mean to interrupt, probably discussin’ something - never mind I…”

“Relax, Sergeant.” At the sound of Simon’s voice, Soap’s shoulders drop and his breaths come easier. He meets Simon’s gaze, and Simon has never seen this look in those storm blue eyes. Timid. Unsure. Bashful? “Was just finishin’ up. Garrick, ya good?” 

Gaz waves him off. “Out of ‘ere. Your dark cloud is bringin’ down the festive mood.” He throws them a wink and stands from the table, smoothing out his jumper as he eyes six feet of muscles and a jawline that could break glass leaning on the bartop. Instead of walking around them, Gaz cuts right between Simon and Soap, and just before he steps away, he leans into Simon’s ear. “Talk to him.”

The hour hasn’t cooled the air so Simon and Soap opt to wander through Hereford instead of hailing a cab. Simon blames the beer and Gaz’s words buzzing in his ears, but he feels attuned to every one of Soap’s footfalls and every sway of his arms. The street is empty, plenty of room to stroll, yet the two of them walk with barely a hair between them. A tug Simon will always follow, and maybe Gaz hasn’t completely lost it, because Soap does too. 

But because Simon can never make things easy for himself, he says “Where’s the brunette?” 

Soap looks at him, face scrunched and that crease is between his brows. It would be so simple to reach out and gently smooth his thumb along it. “Wha’ brunette?” Soap asks because he can never make it easy for Simon, either. 

“The brunette at the pub. Seemed…cozy.” If a sniper took him out, Simon wouldn’t complain. 

“Cozy?” An incredulous laugh circles around the word. He’s really going to make Simon spell it out. 

“Ya. Cozy. Thought, well, -” Simon picks at the nonexistent lint on his sweater. “Thought she was makin’ good company.” 

Soap is silent, and it’s making Simon’s skin crawl. He focuses on his steps, one in front of the other. He creates a new mission right then: get back to base, say goodnight to Soap, and not emerge from his room until everyone has left for the holidays. He has rations hidden in his desk, he can make it until then. 

“Oh, Simon,” Soap says softly between them. 

They don’t speak for the rest of the walk, but there’s a spring in Soap’s step, and whatever millimeter of space that had existed between them is eaten up entirely by the Scot. When they arrive on base, Simon prepares his goodbye, ready to go down his hall while Soap goes down his, but when he turns to depart, Soap grabs his wrist and guides Simon with him. 

They arrive at Soap’s private room. The Scot jumbles his keys, nearly dropping them on the ground, and struggles to get them into the keyhole. Simon thinks to point out that the process would probably be easier if Soap just let go of his wrist, but call him weak because that touch is more intimate than any stitch Soap has put in his body. 

Finally, the lock turns, Soap pushes open the door, swiftly kicks it closed, and the two of them stand in the soft glow of the lamp on the bedside table. 

He’s been in Soap’s room plenty of times before, but this, this moment is different. A delicate thing Simon could almost hold in his hand, and he hopes that door never opens again. Hopes that they can stand here away from the responsibilities and the enemy bullets and bask in the warmth of this thing between them. This thing that Simon prays to a God he doesn’t believe in that he’s no longer imagining and is ready to stop ignoring. Since the pub he’s felt exposed, as if every emotion he’s tried to hide away for the better part of a year is now written across his skin for a pair of azure eyes to read. As he spies the rapid rise and fall of Soap’s chest, he thinks he’s not the only one.

Words sit on his tongue, but just before they tumble from his lips, he pulls them back. He’s pictured this moment 1000 different times and 100 different ways. None of it practiced. He has to get this right. He takes a breath. He has to figure out a way to tell Soap that if he wants to take the plunge, Simon is on the ledge with him, but he also wants to leave the door open so that if he’s misread everything, nothing needs to change between the two of them. The jumper is beginning to cling to his back.

But it’s Soap who speaks first. “I got ye somethin.” 

“Ya got me somethin’?” Simon repeats back.

“Aye. It’s - one second.” Soap steps around him and rifles through his jacket. When he straightens, a dark rectangle is in his hands. He holds it out to Simon who has lost all function of his arms and stares at the object. 

“What is it?” 

“A present.” 

“A present?” 

“Holy ‘ell, Simon. Yes! A present! Ye know what a present is, aye?” 

Simon is only more confused by the answer. Soap shoves the rectangle into his chest, and Simon’s brain catches up fast enough to wrap his hands around the object that he now realizes is a thick, wooden box. 

“For me?” Seems his brain hasn’t moved past two word sentences though. 

Soap rolls his eyes and his hands plant his hips. “Yes, it’s for you. It’s what I was talkin’ to Heather about.” 

“Heather?” Christ, Simon needs his brain to wake up. 

“Aye, Heather. The lass at the pub. She helped me get this.” 

“So, ya weren’t -” Simon feels his ears burn. “Ya weren’t…flirting?” 

Soap’s eyes widen for half a second, and then he tries to hide a startled chuckle with a cough as he looks down. Simon’s pretty sure he hears “Fuckin bampot” mixed in there. When Soap looks back up, he seems shy, almost embarrassed, cheeks back to that pink that’s starting to drive Simon wild. “No, Lt. Heather gets handsy after some pints, but I wasn’t flirtin’ with her.” Azure blue locks him in place. “I had someone else in mind for that.” 

Bloody hell. Simon’s first instinct is to retreat. Flirting wasn’t wholly a new thing between them. They’d lost comms privileges on more than a few missions with Price - Gaz never had the power to pull the plug though he always made his grievances known - but it was all coy, innocent, dangling off the edge of friendly banter. None of it was ever so brazen, so laid out in the open. But here was Soap, taking the first step, leaving a small part of himself bare, waiting to see what Simon would do with it. 

“You didn’t have to,” Simon says, holding up the box.

“I wanted to.” It sounds so simple coming from those lips. 

Simon’s jacket joins Soap’s, and he holds the box in both hands. What he mistook for black is actually a deep, rich mahogany polished by an expert hand. The box easily lays in his palms, and he’s acutely aware of Soap watching him as he lifts the lid. Simon’s breath catches.

The inside is lined by a black silk, and nestled in the middle lies the most beautiful knife he has ever seen. He can tell that the blade is of the best steel, a straight spine across the top meets a point sharp enough to tear through his toughest gloves. He runs his thumb along the edge to the heel and revels at the ease with which it knicks his skin. 

Where the blade is all wicked grace, the handle is a work of art. Stunning black onyx catches the light as Simon delicately lifts it from the box. At first glance, it’s smooth, but when he rubs the stone with his thumb, he catches other carvings. He moves to the bedside table, and when he holds it under the lamplight, Simon nearly drops the knife. 

Sapphire blue and rich hazel streak through the black stone, tangling together perfectly. Simon turns the handle. On one side is a blue bar of soap. It matches a doodle Simon has seen on scraps of paper left in briefing rooms and napkins in the mess and on the corners of his reports when a certain sergeant comes to visit. He flips it, and on the other side is a hazel ghost. Another doodle Simon has spied on the pages of a journal kept close to that same sergeant’s heart.  

“Do ye like it?” Soap shifts on his feet. He’s rubbing the back of his neck again, and Simon fights back a laugh. 

The absurdity of it all, that Soap could be nervous right now. 

No. Not Soap. Not anymore. 

Johnny. His Johnny. He’s always been his, from the tarmac to now as Simon stares, gobsmacked, at this immortalization of them in stone. At this declaration of every intention and feeling and dream Simon’s been too afraid of. Johnny’s blue streaking through the darkness, dancing perfectly with Simon’s hazel. Ghost and Soap always side by side. He decides right then that he’s done tucking the feelings away in that gilded chest. He’s done with moments that live only in his fantasies. He’s done pretending he’s ok with it being just Ghost and Soap forever and that he hasn’t craved Simon and Johnny. 

So yes, it is absolutely absurd  that Johnny could be nervous right now.

“Heather’s da used tae be in tha service ‘nd makes these custom now. I ken you’re picky about the blades. Think I drove ‘er up the wall goin’ back ‘nd forth makin’ sure it was the best -” Johnny is rambling, and he’s looking everywhere except at Simon. If he was, he would have seen Simon reverently place the knife back in the box. He would’ve seen Simon rip the medical mask off of his face, and he would’ve seen Simon eat the space between them in two strides. If he was, he would’ve been ready when Simon cupped his face, and crashed their lips together. 

Simon has no idea what he’s doing. He doesn’t know how to do soft and gentle. He doesn’t know how to exist in a space where there’s acknowledged interest that’s so much heavier than a tumble in a bed. He doesn’t know how Johnny MacTavish, full of joy and thunder and blazing glory, found his way into Simon’s endless darkness. But Johnny kisses him back and grips his jumper, and Simon’s heart is no longer his own. 

“Hi,” Johnny says once they catch their breath, and Simon can feel the smile against his lips. 

“Johnny,” Simon mumbles, and it sounds like a prayer. He pulls Johnny closer and feels the strong muscles of his arms circle around Simon’s waist. He cradles Johnny’s face, thumb softly rubbing against the stubble on his cheek, and he leans in again. This, Simon thinks, is his own personal version of heaven. 

They’re pressed together now, chest to chest, and Simon is certain he’d be fine dying right here. 

“How long?” Johnny asks, and he leans into the palm of Simon’s hand. 

“Fishin’ for compliments, Sergeant? B’neath you.” There’s a swift slap on his shoulder. Simon nuzzles into the crook of Johnny’s neck to hide his smile.

“Awa’ an bile yer heid.” There’s no bite in the words. “How long?” 

“Las Almas,” Simon admits against his skin. “The way you looked at the rig when the missile ‘it. I couldn’t look away from you. Still haven’t been able to.” He pulls back just enough to rest their foreheads together. “And when I saw Graves bullet ‘it…well, not even Price would’ve been able to keep me from huntin’ him down.” 

“Hells bells, Simon. That was over a year ago!” 

Simon ignores the outburst and kisses a rough, uneven scar barely hidden within the sergeant’s hairline. Johnny’s newest, only a couple weeks old “But then Makarov -” It takes a moment to fight past the lump in his throat. The arms around his waist tighten.

“In the hospital, I promised meself - “ Johnny turns his face into Simon’s neck, “that if I made it out, if I got one more shot, I was done runnin’ from ye.” He pulls back, freeing one hand and brings it up to cup Simon’s cheek. “While I lay in that bloody bed, all I could think was, ‘Ye didn’t get tae tell him. Ye didn’t get tae tell him, and now he’ll never know.’ So let me tell ye now.” Johnny cups beneath Simon’s jaw, forcing him to meet his gaze. “I love ye, Simon Riley. In this life and the next, I will always love ye. God help any sorry soul that ever tries to take ye from me, because I will burn this world tae tha ground until I find ye. I don’t know how long this life is willin’ to give us, but I’ll take whatever it’s generous with as long as it’s with ye.” 

And well, Simon isn’t quite sure what to do with that. 

There’s a jumble of emotions rattling around in his heart threatening to spill into his gut if he thinks too hard about it. He’s aware that Johnny is staring at him, adoration and patience swimming in stormy blue, and his hand is softly carding through the curls at Simon’s nape. He remembers Johnny back on that tarmac - nearly two years ago now - brash and cocky and willing, and wonders what would have happened if he’d known how his fate was written, how his own heart was on the line. If he had known on that first mission what that annoying sergeant would come to mean to him, what would he have done? Would he have kept Johnny at arm’s length, protecting him from the jagged mess that is Simon’s darkness? Standing there, basking in the glow that is his Johnny, he doesn’t think so. He doesn’t think he could have. 

Simon threads a hand in the back of Johnny’s mohawk - it’s beginning to flirt with deregulation - and snakes the other around his waist. “Take the good moments,” he mutters in the space between them. 

“Aye,” Soap says, smile bright in the lowlight. “Take the good moments.” 

So, they spend the evening trading lazy kisses and honeyed words. At some point, boots are forgotten and jumpers join a pile in the corner. They tumble into bed, legs tangled, and even as sleep takes them, not an inch of space is allowed. Johnny’s breaths fan across Simon’s chest, deep, content. Sleep is pulling at Simon’s lashes, but he fights it a little longer. In his last moment of consciousness, he grazes a finger along Johnny’s hairline, catching on the rough scar, and he thinks the memoir needs a title change: 

Storm Blue Eyes and A Scottish Brogue: Reasons Simon Riley Came Back to Life. 

And in the morning, there’s a folder waiting on Price’s desk. He sips his coffee, picks it up, and smiles at the familiar weight. When he flips it open, there’s simply a location: Glasgow. 

“Merry Christmas, Simon,” Price says and watches a jeep pull out of the base.

Johnny is singing Mariah at the top of his lungs, and Simon doesn’t remember the last time he was this content. The mask is forgotten on the desk in his room, and a new knife is tucked by his side. They turn onto the highway, Glasgow waiting, and Soap lays his hand out between them. 

Simon can feel it, the wispy end of a filament stretching between them. The past collisions and the future moments. He can see it, that future laying on the other side. That future full of lazy kisses and even lazier mornings. Of days together, never questioning if the other walks through the door. Of Christmases in Scotland and maybe a cabin one day, too. For now, they have to make due with stitches in safehouses and easy touches in helis. Stolen kisses in private rooms and hidden words between the commands. 

For now, he reaches over and takes Johnny’s hand.

[wolfatemybaby]

Chat I’m normal about them

My Zeus was highly based on @neal-illustrator ’s and @anniflamma ’s designs. I mostly winged it with Hera

I wanted Hera to be completely opposite to Zeus but also feel similar without actually being so.

Zeus is buff and top heavy, but isn't too buff, he still has fat for he is a king who likes to indulge himself. While Hera is fat but she has a body of a working mother. I also wanted her to be fat in my design because her statues are chubby. Why is mother skinny in so many designs?! (/not neg) Hera's face shape is slim and flat and Zeus has a full face of hair. So to correlate them together: Hera's hair covers part of her face and Zeus' beard is tied into a braid, "slimming" it down to mimic Hera's natural jawline, and both reaching the same placement in length.

Zeus' lightning bolt floats down and Hera's hair floating to the top shaping into a feather

Of course there's a galaxy bridal like veil that frames Hera's body while Zeus frames his face with his own cloud. Her's being full of colour while his is usually white but can become colourful when enraged. The veil kind of makes Hera feel disconnected from you

Hera's outfits match with the Zeus! Her clothes are more simpler than Zeus' and drape from her right while his drape from his left. Hera hates that they match everyday, and Zeus does as well but pissing off his wife is worth it.

- I stole the lightning bolt chain idea from my friend, August’s Zeus design

- Hera has a piercing in 1st fit which is HC’d that she got it when she was younger and keeps it as an act of rebellion. Zeus also has a nose piercing that he wears at all times

- My friends told me to name Zeus' second outfit the "Eepy Fit" and I was like "If that's the Eepy Fit, it gotta be pink." And so it is pink. And next to it is Hera's Mom Fit // outfit of a working mother in Greece. Think about it (:

- The third outfit you see the couple in: Hera has chains while Zeus' has strings

- Will be talking about the 1st and the 4th fit symbolism in the coloured section

They both have shiny nails, but Hera has her toes painted Zeus' claws aren't. It's inconvenient because they'd get chipped all the time, and he'd have to keep filing the nail polish off and repainting.

Originally I wanted Hera and Zeus look the most human because they are the mother / father of men. eg. making them have human skin colours. It didn't work out in the end but I still wanted to use the colours, so Hera's stomach was her og colour and Zeus' feet and horns are his og colour. And also the lightning scars on her stomach...

Continuing with the colour talk. Colours were the hardest for me when designing, especially with Hera. She went through many variations, and my clone had to sit through over an hour of me stressing. He helped a lot with the colours and I'm happy with the end result.

Green and yellow are close on the colour wheel and I wanted them to phase together like those colours, both having the accent of the cooler tones with Hera's purple and Zeus' blue. But I went in a somewhat different direction: They didn't literally blend together like I hoped in the beginning but they do in a sibling type of way...

I made Hera's skin deeper in colour and Zeus shiny. Then in reverse it for the hair. Her being accented by red because that's one of her colours + period blood symbolism and just her veil being purple, while Zeus being the one wearing the purple. He wears the colour of the barrier between you and her. Her hair is the only shining thing because that's out of the veil

[actual-changeling]

Welcome back to Alex's unhinged meta corner - although today it is less unhinged and more of a watertight analysis.

What I am about to present you is something most people have probably already noticed, but it has been three months and I still lose my mind while going through the final fifteen frame by frame (which is a normal thing normal people like us do, right? right).

You literally cannot convince me my following meta is wrong, and the only person whose criticism I will accept on this post is Michael Sheen and Michael Sheen ONLY. If you're not Michael Sheen (hi Michael Sheen who probably has a secret tumblr account) then your guess is as good as mine, though again, I think mine is solid.

So.

We all love and hate Aziraphale's "I forgive you", but what I find even more painful is the fact that before that he almost said "I love you". Then he stops himself and changes it, and the amount of micro-expressions on his face as he makes that decision is my current cause of death.

Here's the clip as evidence #1, and while it can definitely support itself, let's dive into the pain a little more, shall we?

One important thing I noticed is that Aziraphale doesn't look at Crowley while he stutters his way through his initial reaction. He blinks up at him for a few frames before averting his eyes again and only holds eye contact after the almost-confession (from here on referred to as IL-).

This is Aziraphale holding eye contact with Crowley (left) vs. him looking away (right):

The frame on the left is from the I forgive you (IFY) part of the scene, the other one from right before IL-. If we go through the above clip little by little we will find that he avoids Crowley's face the entire time and his gaze slips further and further down, which I interpret as him overthinking/trying to come up with something to respond to this entire situation.

He is overwhelmed and surprised, caught between his two main desires: Crowley and being a Good Angel.

Combing through the frames, we can actually nail down exactly when Aziraphale first makes eye contact before the IL- and when he stops. Keep the above comparison in mind! The angle is slightly different because his chin is lower and he straightens up throughout the scene.

So! This is where he starts looking at Crowley:

And this is where he stops:

Hard to see? Let's zoom in on his eyes (numbers are the file names):

Now, you might ask me "Alex, this is all fine, although a bit insane, but why is any of this important?"

Because, fellow tumblr user and good omens enthusiast, I think that looking at Crowley is what changes his mind about what to say.

He doesn't look at him -> about to confess his feelings.

He looks at him -> says the absolutely worst possible thing.

Partly to hurt him because they're both lashing out at each other during this argument, but he looks at Crowley, looks at the person that just kissed him, that told him they could have been an us, that wants him and has always wanted him, screw everyone else.

He looks at Crowley and he wants to say l love you but then what? Once he says those words, he can't leave. He just can't.

We have to remember that they have existed within a complicated dance, a game that they have been playing for centuries without ever telling each other what that game actually is, what the rules are - because they couldn't. It was based entirely on trust and knowing the other person well enough to play it safe.

Crowley just flipped the playing board. Nothing is the way it should be, he is refusing to do their dance, refusing to play. He is looking at him and daring him to stop trying to put the pieces back on the board. The only thing neither of them has done yet is actually say I love you out loud.

Saying those words would mean stepping away from the playing board and acknowledging the room they have been playing in. It would mean saying fuck you to heaven, yes, but it would also force Aziraphale to finally define himself outside of the role he has been playing for both Crowley and heaven, and he isn't ready for that yet.

Additionally, there is the fear and/or knowledge (depending on what else the Metatron might have said or done that we did not see) that heaven will retaliate against him and Crowley if he disobeys them now, and he does not want to risk that either.

All that is what, in my opinion, happens in his head when he averts his eyes and interrupts himself. I do kinda what to make a whole different post about his facial expressions leading up to the IFY, so I will end this one with one more bit of pain.

Ready?

Firstly, the face he makes when he makes his decision.

Look at the tight line of his lips, the pain etched into his face, the pure pain in his eyes.

This is the face of someone who knows exactly how badly he is going to hurt Crowley and himself. This is an apology, an I'm sorry for what I'm about to do, this hurts me as much as it hurts you. I'm sorry but I have to.

And then he winces afterwards. I don't know about you, but this is exactly the kind of face I make when I'm emotionally torturing myself with my own thoughts. For the final blow, please look at the picture very, very closely, especially the last frame, because Aziraphale isn't just sorry and he isn't just in pain.

Aziraphale is scared because he knows* that he might lose Crowley over this. He knows that saying I forgive you is (almost) unforgivable. He KNOWS.

He does it anyway because he will lose Crowley either way but he'd rather have him alive and hating him than dead.

With that I am concluding today's unhinged meta corner, thank you for your attention and you're welcome for the pain.

Also: If you want to call me a 'tin hatter' or insane or otherwise make fun of me - this is very much a girl, what were YOU doing at the devil's sacrament moment because you read my meta post all the way to the end. <3

-

*authors note: what Aziraphale thinks he knows and what is actually real is not the same thing but that's a different post

[jakeyp]

Hey guys!! Here's a tutorial on how to create those little animated doodles for your gifs so that you don't have to look for the exact overlay you want for hours 👍 This tutorial was requested by @fabines :) It's a long process but it's not too difficult, you just need to know the very basics of gif making! The steps are below the cut :)

1.

First we're going to have our gif ready, and make sure you know how many frames it is!! It should preferrably be an even number! (or a divisible number)

2.

Now we're going to make another gif, which will be the lil animated doodle. Go to file > new or press ctrl+n. Create a new document that's going to be 300x300 px, and we'll make the background black:

3.

Now we're going to use a brush to paint the doodle! We're gonna set the size to 4px-7px depending on how thick you want it to be (here i used a 4px brush) and the hardness to 100%, and we're going to trace our doodle on a new layer:

It does not have to be perfect!! It took me a while to get that crown and it looks half assed 😭 if you can use something other than your mouse like a tablet or something i definitely recommend you do it :)

Now we're going to click on "Create Video Timeline":

Now the bottom of our workspace is gonna look like this:

We're going to click on those three little boxes on the bottom left to convert to frame animation:

And there's that! Now for the slightly tricky part.

4.

We're going to set the layer where we drew the doodle to 40% opacity:

And on a new layer, we're going to trace the same doodle:

As you can see it doesn't look the same and it's because it doesnt have to be, that's how we're going to make it look animated!

We're going to repeat that process a few times! What i do to not get confused is that for examples when i'm going to draw layer 3 i first make layer 2 invisble, and then for layer 4 i also make layer 3 invisible and so on

My gif here:

is 40 frames, which means i can make 8 different variations of my doodle and duplicate each 4 times. This is why it's important that you know how many frames your gif is! And it's even much easier if it's an even number.

But what are we going to do to make it look animated? Well, it's all about using the timeline! First, make sure that the frame delay is set to the same as your base gif. I usually set it to 0,05:

Now our first layer can go back to 100% opacity, since we're going to use it too:

So this is what we have so far:

Only layer 1 is visible. So what we're gonna do is click this little plus icon:

It duplicates our frame. And on our layer section we're going to make layer 1 invisible and instead make layer 2 visible, and you'll notice that now our first two frames correspond to our first two layers:

And we're going to do the same thing for each layer! Add a new frame, make layer a invisible, make layer b visible, and so on! Here's what my crown looks like after doing this process with my 8 layers:

As you can see it's too fast, so that's why i'm going to duplicate each frame 4 times, so each variation has 5 frames on the timeline, and that's how we're going to get the same amount of frames as our base gif:

So once we have our animated doodle it's very easy from here! We're going to click on the bottom left again to convert our frame animation to a video timeline:

And we're going to select all of our layers (ctrl+alt+a in windows or just go to select > all layers) and convert them to a smart object (right click > convert to smart object):

So we're going to select our doodle and copy + paste it on top of your base gif, and we're going to set it to lighten or screen, whichever you prefer:

So now we place our doodle where we want it, make it whatever size we want, rotate it... and we're freaking done!

I hope at least half of this made sense akdhsk if you have any questions feel free to send an ask! 💙

[stargazer-sims]

How To Fix The Placement of Eyelashes (In The Glasses Category)

We know the latest Sims 4 patch (2024-08-08) broke the placement of eyelashes found in the glasses category. Here is a method to fix them and place them in the Eyelash category.

NOTE: This is only a placement fix. If your eyelashes conflicted with glasses before and the eyelashes could not be worn at the same time as glasses, you will still have a conflict between the two items. Eyelashes in the glasses category are usually mapped in the same texture space as glasses, so now you will get texture bleeding from the eyelashes to the glasses. This is NOT a fix for that issue. To fix that issue, you'd need to use Blender to move the textures.

For this method, you do not need to know how to use Blender. You need Sims 4 Studio. If you do not have it, you can download it from here.

I've tried this method myself, and it works. Here it is, step-by-step:

In Sims 4 Studio, open the package file (eyelashes) you want to convert. These should be eyelashes in the Glasses category. The easiest way to do this is to find the file in your mods folder and move it to its own folder before you start, so it'll be less difficult to locate. You can also set the properties of package files to open automatically in S4S when you double-click on them. (That's what I've done, because I make a lot of CC)

We'll call this package the original package. Once it is opened in S4S, click on the "Meshes" tab and export the mesh. Save it somewhere you can find it easily

Next, click on the "Textures" tab and export the textures of the swatches you want to add to your package. Make sure you export the "Diffuse" texture (even if you don't export anything else). Save your exported textures somewhere you can easily find them again.

You can also export the custom thumbnail, if your original package has one. You can find it on the right side of the screen on the "Textures" tab. Again, save this in a place where you can easily find it later.

Go to the "Categories" tab and scroll all the way to the bottom. You should see three items; Allow for Random, Restrict Opposite Gender and Restrict Opposite Frame. Make note of which boxes are ticked or unticked in your original package.

Close the original package by returning to the Main Menu of Sims 4 Studio. You don't need to save the original package, as you haven't made any changes to it.

On the main menu screen of S4S, go to the CAS section (bottom left) and choose "Create 3D Mesh" and then click the large blue CAS button.

Search for the base game eyelashes. You should see a drop-down menu called "Part Type" near the top of the window, in the middle. Choose "Eyelashes" from this menu. In the main part of the window, the in-game eyelashes should appear. Click on the one you want, and it should turn blue.

Click the "Next" button.

You will be prompted to save your new package. Give it a name (preferably one that includes your creator name, so you can find it again) and save it in your Mods folder, or whichever sub-folder within your Mods folder that you like to use for CC making.

In your new package, click on the "Meshes" tab and import the mesh you exported from the original package. Look for a dropdown menu where it says "LOD 0" (you have just replaced LOD 0). Now click on "LOD 1" and then import the mesh to this LOD as well. LOD stands for "Level Of Detail" and you might see higher numbered LODs looking degraded. Don't panic. This is normal.

Save your package, but don't close it.

Go back to the "Textures" tab and import the textures you exported from your original package file. You can import the custom thumbnails during this step too.

Save your package again. Do not close it.

In the menu at the top of your Sims 4 Studio window, look for one called "Tools", click on it and scroll down until you see "Modding" and click on that. A sub-menu will appear. Scroll down the sub-menu until you find "Glass Shader (CAS)" and click on that. You should get a notification that X number of shaders have been changed to SimGlass. Click OK.

Save your package.

Go to the "Categories" tab, scroll all the way to the bottom of the window, and make sure the same boxes are ticked/unticked as in your original package. If something is ticked in your new package that was unticked in your original package, this may cause your new item to not show up for one gender or the other once you get it into CAS.

Save one final time.

Open your game and test your package. Your new lashes should appear in the eyelash category in game.

[pinkslaystation]

Impressive yet Unimpressed.

König and gn!Reader

In which König overhears gossip about him, and the change in his actions affect you, physically and mentally. yALLLLL i'm back >_< here's some unedited shit for the könig girlies (me) - also why do i get this writing motivation late at night :/

Part 2 ;> Word Count: 2.3k

Everyone knew König was infatuated by his partner. By you.

His closest closest friends, included Horangi, were aware of your slightly secret relationship - considering you were all in the same team.

The way he his eyes found you during training, the way he gently held you in his arms when it came to practicing shooting, the way-

You get the point.

Sometimes when your team went out for missions, König found himself committing slight mistakes, such as being distracted by you leading to a close call of a bomb detonation.

"König are you fucking insane? Where's your mind at, man? You're fucking up the team!" One scolded at him in the aircraft post-mission, flying your team to safety.

But König attention remained at you, his eyes focusing on how you managed to still look good regardless of the numerous scars and fresh bruises littering your face. His hand held a (squished) flower that he found, hoping to decorate your hair once landed.

And his feelings were most definitely reciprocated. Your eyes would roam his large frame, muscles tensing as he gripped a fellow teammate in a headlock (me when König? me when.), and you often found yourself unconsciously leaning back into his chest as he held you protectively during practice.

Walking around the base, recruits recognised you, your hair always sporting a different single flower sitting by your right ear.

But not only as his partner, but you also appreciated him as a friend, training you when you first joined, helping you revise for tests, filing paperwork with you.

And although you both found comfort and love from each other during the long weeks of being at base, König often found wanting more from you. He wanted everyone to know he's yours and that you're his. He wanted to take the relationship to the next step, he wanted marriage, he wanted kids, he dreamed of retiring from the military and moving to cute little cottage in the Austrian countryside with you, content that you would both be no longer affiliated with a workplace that screamed violence and limited possibility of survival.

And although the military was all he knew, given he enlisted into the military freshly 17, he knew it wasn't his future, no.

His future was with you.

König found himself walking towards his senior's office, smiling under his mask as his mind frequently hovered over you. Teams for the next missions had been released during the previous meeting, and König wanted to switch to be in the same group as you - so he'd be at peace that your safety in within his arms.

But as his hand gripped at the door handle, his focus switched to the muffled voices from within the office, his ears perking up at his name being thrown into the conversation.

"...he's got soft, sir!"

"We could've died in the last mission, sir, I mean he's an insertion specialist, but the only thing I see him inserting himself into, is his girl, sir!"

König froze. Soft? He's gone soft? He's been described as a fucking battering ram, the fuck do you mean he's gone soft?!

"Like the last training session, this guy spars everyone, and lord does he beat everyone, but the moment he's paired with them, he's fucking rolling on the mat or he surrenders?! How is this fai..."

"...he lives and breathes them sir, it's putting the other soldiers at risk. Does he have to come with us for this mission?"

König zones out. His entire life is the military. In his bare room in the barracks. Not a little cute little cottage in the Austrian countryside?! His home is at the Kortac base, his mind is with his team, and he definitely doesn't live and breathe you.

The muffled voices pause, as if coming to an agreement, and König hears footsteps, quickly hiding behind the door, which opens to reveal the voices.

His teammates.

The teammates he's grown up with.

They thought he was going soft...becoming weak...

König furrowed his eyebrows in humiliation.

A mission without him? That's like asking for death. He'll show you death.

König naturally found himself coming to you, having overheard this mood upsetting gossip about him.

But little ol' you didn't know any better, when he dashed into the common room only to grab a cold beer from the fridge, without a regular smooch to your head, not even a look in your direction, it didn't register how much deeper the crack in your relationship had become...

The day of the mission had come, and although König had told you that went to talk to the higher ups, you couldn't help but be a bit upset considering they hadn't switched you to his group, finding yourself still in your own.

But you didn't mind. You just wanted this mission to be over, so you could find yourself resting in his arms rather than on this random soldier's shoulder.

The aircrafts that held your group and his, raced over the landscape, planting itself by the safe house in the darkness of the Saudi Arabian night.

As the multiple groups landed, soldiers scattering the group as they exit the aircraft, you find yourself making eye contact for the 6'10 colonel.

You send a slight smile his direction, only to be met with a hidden frown behind his mask. You're confused. Usually, his eyes would crinkle with his smile, but your thoughts are interrupted - you're on a mission.

You're huffing, your vision blurry and you find yourself back onto the aircraft? But this isn't your team, as your look around your surrounding, realising you're lying in the middle of the aisle bordered by soldiers. It's König's team.

To your right, you see König...and he's not even looking your way? And to the left is Horangi, his hand rising for a slight wave.

Why aren't you with your team? Where is your team? Where is the air craft going? Why is König not looking at you???

Your eyes shut in pain, and you wince at the slight pain by your abdomen; it's the last thing you feel as you find yourself losing consciousness, failing to see König falling to his knees to aid you as you pass out.

"...bullet grazed abdome..."

Huh?

"...ight concussi..."

Bright light shines in your face.

"...few days..."

This could be the medics, but the way the lights blind your vision, you question whether your well-being is at safe hands or not.

You open your mouth to speak. You can't.

The dryness of your throat restricts you from speaking, but thankfully, one of two medics catches the movement of your lips.

"Soldier, you're okay! Jus' a concussion and stitches on your stomach, cleaned up, not to fret. 6 to 7 days 'til you're free to go, give or take-"

You raise your hand to point towards the freshly scented bouquet of flowers.

"Oh, yeah. Someone brought them...didn't catch the name, solider. Now rest. You need it."

A week of your teammates visiting you goes by, a week of fresh sets of flowers sat by your bed everyday, and although you're happy to be back with them in training, you're dishearten that König didn't find his way to your hospital bed.

Everytime you asked, you received the same response.

"Not sure dude, haven't seen him in a while, stuck in the gym by the looks of it."

You raise your eyebrow. "So...he never visited me?" Voice quivering.

Your teammates shrug.

"Your guy's gone mad in training. Struck his elbow into my neck, and now I want to be on the bed beside you." One said.

"Missed me so badly, you guys have been sending me so many flowers, 'n this place has become a forest!" You laugh, followed by a painful cough, and your friends rush to your side.

"I'm fine, I'm fine, just wanna be back with the team. Just wanna be back with König..."

The medic ends the visitation, walking your friends out the room, leaving you to close your eyes once again as sleep evades you. Outside the room, a confused group discuss.

"We never got her flowers?"

"Forget the flowers - why is there a medal there?"

Whilst you were resting away in your bed, König was awarded for his bravery, putting himself forward to rescue his soldier, you. He felt selfish for enjoying this familiar attention, being praised by someone other than you.

He was impressive on the field..

He walked into the hospital room, when he knew you were resting, after begging and almost on the verge of bribing the medic to let him in after visitation hours.

He decorated your room with the freshest flowers, arrays of bouquets of roses and tulips, dahlias and peonies, as if it were a room full of boyfriends waiting for their girlfriends on valentines day.

There you rest, your chest heaving as you snore. König leaves a flower in your hair, by your right ear, before leaving your room.

It's been 10 days since you've been admitted into the medical room, and 0 days of being with König. Awake that is...

Your teammates are right, he's busy in the gym. Men's only gym...what a calculated move, you think.

Though you're still questioning your actions. What did you do for him to be ignoring you?

So here you are, walking into the combat room, numerous pairs sparring, including König. You aimed to talk to him, ask him why he didn't visit you during your admission to the medical room, and why a shiny gold medal rested, engraving his name, rested underneath your sweatshirt.

The medic warned you, "No physical combat yet - a few more days 'til the cut on your abdomen closes."

And you weren't here to spar, God no.

You were here for König - who's currently...on top of a recruit, fists beating against the poor opponents bloody face.

You push pass the crowd, surrounding this brutal fight - you call it a fight although, from a third party, it looks just like a murder.

"König! Stop! What the fuck are you doing?" You shout at him, trying to get his attention. But your voice is overpowered by the hollering and whistling of the surrounding crowd.

"König! Enough!" Still nothing.

"Köni-"

His eyes meet yours. But not a look of adoration, no. A murderous look. A look that could kill. His eyes, a gentle blue, now a bloodshot red. Like a madman. Like a man-hunting lion.

A shiver runs down your spine.

Another voice breaks out into a shout.

"Who's next" He looks to his left.

"- to fight -", He looks to his right.

"the big the almighty, the Austrian King, Kööööniiiiig!" He announces, elongating syllables, as if a commentator for an illegal underground boxing ring.

"Any contestaaants?" His voice annoys you, why isn't anyone helping the poor soldier? And why is König behaving this way? All macho?

Normally, a quick spar with König would consist of a few skilled moved thrown around, before continuing to the next opponent according to the rotation. Not like you would know, he usually just rolls on the mat or he surrenders, too afraid to hurt his precious lover.

You begin to scream, "Stop this figh-"

König eyes rest on yours, and this signals the commentator-wannabe to point directly at you.

"The neeeeext opponent-"

Oh no.

"isssss-"

Why is everyone looking at you?

"Youuuuu!"

Me?

In a matter of seconds, the crowd formed around König and the now unconscious soldier moves to border you and König.

König stands up, his 6' 10 self towering over you, even though he stands 7 metres from you.

He steps towards you slowly, and your eyes fall down to his boots.

His left foot moves, then his right foot.

Left.

Right.

And now he's right in front of you, red eyes cutting into you. He scoffs, looking down at you condescendingly.

"Wait-" Your mouth runs dry again.

He steps forwards once again.

"Wait, König, I can't, I was disch-"

But this doesn't stop him.

He grabs your sweatshirt at the chest, unknowingly clutching onto the tucked away medal, and with a swift move, he places his second hand onto your back, and throws you straight onto your back.

He throws you directly onto your back.

Your thankful that you didn't land onto your front, your stitches would have broken immediately, but at this point, you're not too sure, and you're clutching onto your stomach again, curling into fetal position onto the floor.

Something is definitely broken. You can tell, because when you open your eyes, you see people staring from above you, while you lay on the mat, laying in a blood of a deep red liquid.

Your ears are ringing once again, and you lay motionless on the floor, cursing internally for being so weak.

König smirks at you on the floor.

Weak? Him?

Soft?? HIM??

He chuckles as people begin to pat his back, fist bumping and side hugging the soldiers around him.

He turns to you once again.

"Shows over, liebing, get up now." He breathes heavily.

You don't move.

"Schatz...enough acting..."

Nothing.

He steps towards you, kneeling to reach your level, his eyes catching sight of the pool of blood.

"Meine Liebli-"

His fingers touch your skin and his blood runs cold, whilst yours run down the mat from your broken nose.

"Schatz?"

The crowd dissipates and the medic runs into the middle of the scene.

"I told her no physical exercise! König, why didn't you stop her!" He scolded at König.

"Now help me carry her to the medical room - again!"

König, who didn't dare to speak, looks up, eyes wide open.

"König!"

The medic looks down at him.

An unimpressed look rests on his face.

YALLLLLLLL the angst, call me mcdonalds cos i'm loving it :D Quick notes: The move König pulls at the end is written a little confusingly (MY APOLOGIES LMAO), but it's inspired by the wrestling move -> The Arm Throw. I hope this helps you visualise it better. I've decided to start a tag list! -> lemme know you're interested to be tagged in my future posts! tags -> @lilliumrorum

[katz-chow]

im a ghost girlie but my love for soap is literally incomprehensible and i have this headcanon where its ghost x reader but soap third wheels all the time and its not like in a mean way at all, they’re just a trio that is basically inseparable. i also hc that they make so many jokes about being a throuple to the point where its not rlly a joke anymore lmao. anyway, this is all to ask if you’ll write some headcanons about that dynamic. fluff ofc! if u feel comfortable writing a little bit of poly soap x reader x ghost, i’d be very gracious 🙏🏽 but no pressure!

soap, simon, and the not-so-single parent

warnings: gn!reader, ghost x reader, soap x platonic!reader, my interpretation of ghost & soap, domesticity, fluff, johnny being johnny, simon being simon, reader being the concerned parent, third-wheel soap

a/n: this shit be on my mind constantly that johnny just loves to annoy and thirdwheel reader & simon. some of this is inspired by irl stuff. i'm not really into a poly triangle personally and i just can't imagine them, especially simon, to be okay with it, sorry!

humble beginnings

johnny didn't find out that simon had a romantic partner until you two reached past your 1 year anniversary. it happened by pretty much chance too, here's how that went: simon forgot a file, you were off of work, you drove to base, you dropped off said file using your dependent clearance, he kissed your cheek goodbye right in the doorway of his office (masked), johnny turned the corner, and as simon pulled away, you looked at johnny who was desperately trying to seem busy on his phone as he walked away hurriedly. he was on the calculator app. simon and you gave each other a look and he nodded, knowing that you've been wanting to meet the colorful coworkers (and his closest friends) for a while now. you called him over, soap, as you've remembered, not everyday you see a mohawk. johnny freezes and turned around to see you beckoning him back to the frame of the office, and simon with his arms crossed, staring a bit annoyed actually. he was chill when you two introduced each other, not wanting to embarrass himself. his eyes lit up though, when he heard you invite him over for dinner. "lovie..." simon started out, a gentle hand on your back. you hit his chest with the back of your head playfully, "no, no, this will be good for us. first diner party in our new house" "HOUSE? HOW LONG HAVE YOU HAD SOMEONE" he wanted to scream at simon's face, what came out however was a "i dinnae want to be a bother to you both" you insisted and he felt bad (but also curious), so dinner it was. simon took off his mask to please you and well, it was the comfort of his home. he rolled his eyes as johnny quipped that he certainly was "quite the opposite". from that day forward, it was the three of you against...manchester i guess?

children, the both of them

johnny tags along whenever you two are running errands on leave or on off days when they're both stationed at home. sometimes it's just you and him, or him and simon, or all three of yall. it started with a "we're having brunch, wanna join?" and now it's more like "we're going to the zoo, 9 am, get there" they make up the weirdest challenges and it feels like you're babysitting them both. simon, doesn't see it, he's a grown adult man, he's not silly. johnny says it's just in his nature like how it's natural that wombats poop in cubes (he walked ahead to read that tidbit and walked back to regurgitate it back at the two of you). challenges include: simon and johnny getting into a long debate about which is better, the smoked salmon crepes or the chocolate crepes, and when they mix them together, who can eat it all without puking? who can get to the butterfly sanctuary the fastest without running? who can find your favorite fish in the 30,000 gallon (113562.35 liter) fish tank WHILE holding their breath as if they were swimming in the water johnny telling you that his jokes are the best, simon butting in and using the "i'm your boyfriend, surely my jokes are better" card. you wanted to throw them both out of the car as they kept going back and forth with the most stupidest, tasteless, dad jokes ever. johnny saying he can drive better than simon. simon saying he can fly a broken helicopter and land safely. you're in the driver's seat. simon quipped that he would be a good artist compared to this shit's canvas (picasso) and johnny saying that his cat can paint better. simon said dogs can do it better. johnny said- you get the idea simon threw up after the 8th time on a rollercoaster. johnny threw up on the 9th. you, however, went through a nice scenic boat ride :)

quiet mornings

you three are closer than yall think. whenever they're both away, you always miss the noise they bring in the kitchen, trying to figure out how to make muffins or...popcorn. the three of you doing the daily wordle, crossword, and sudoku. "what's c for?" "c4 is an explosive, bonnie" "no johnny, what does C STAND FOR? fucking idiot..." mornings when you both are expecting johnny are never quiet, especially when he announces that he's there by knocking on the front door and saying "it's johnny!" when someone opens it. even when he's not there, you can at least hear simon's almost silent breaths if it wasn't for how close you two were. you miss them when they have to leave, you know it can't be forever, but damnit you missed the buzzing of them both. you don't miss, however, johnny and simon playing drunk monopoly.

[fricc-darn]

What if B.E.N's s/o proposed on them getting married? What would be B.E.N's thoughts and feelings on that exactly?

The distant trees danced in tandem with the wind. You watched on from your porch as the colorful autumn leaves fell and coated the ground. Smiling at the serenity. The occasional squirrel or bird came in, gathering materials to prepare for winter. Life for them must be simple. Moving instinctively, harboring no overwhelming complex thoughts or feelings.

You adjusted the thick blanket draping over your frame. Your hand reached for the mug of tea from the railing. Sinking deeper into the warmth of the chair, you sipped the steaming tea. The squirrel that captured your attention darted to the base of a neighboring tree. Awaiting its companion, hurrying down the tree trunk.

Flickering tails, small hands grooming fur, and sharing gathered nuts was bonding in its simplest form. The simplicity you dreamed of. You took another sip of your tea, chasing a currently unattainable comfort that was substituted through superficial means.

Perhaps it wasn't as complicated as you made it out to be? Overthinking is not lost upon you in this relationship. It was just a question. A nice and easy one when you ignore the weight the question holds and the logistics. However, the two of you have been together for so long, the question was bound to come up at one point.

Would BEN want to get married?

The silly notion had you giggling. You imagined BEN all done up in a suit or maybe even a dress with a ring in hand. The excitement of a non-traditional wedding. A fanciful fairytale you wanted to entertain, but reality put a damper on your imagination. BEN would say no; being tethered was something they hated. Or they would say that weddings are just an event to flaunt materialistic goods and fit into a social role. If the question irked BEN enough, they would become dangerously hostile.

With a heavy heart, you sighed, your breath visible in the cold. Trying wouldn't hurt; your persistence got you this far, for better or for worse. You were offering a group of spirits who hardly lived a fulfilling life, an opportunity many dream about. The chance BEN agrees is just as high as rejection. Downing your tea, you watched the two squirrels run off into the bushes in your peripheral.

The leaves rustled. Nature's wind sang along with the birds. A well-known chill nipped at your warm flesh.

"There you are." BEN whispered, walking onto the porch. A bit surprised you were out in the cold staring at nothing. Were you planning on running off? You learned how ineffective fleeing was long ago. To BEN's relief, this wasn't the case.

Your eyes locked on the base of the tree where the squirrels were. Keep it simple. The hold on your mug tightened, siphoning the heat radiating off the ceramic. Embracing the silence, keeping your breathing slow and steady. Carefully, you spoke your mind. "BEN, you believe in fate, right?" Anxiously biting down on the inside of your cheek.

BEN raised its brow and glanced at you, following your stare at the tree. Its eyes followed the horizon above the setting sun. In the blend of oranges, blues, and pinks laid a pale full moon. Its eyes softened momentarily at the moon. "I suppose I do in a sense... Whether through science or religion, everything is predetermined through cause and effect."

Its mellifluous robotic voice soothed your worries. Its longer, profound responses were always a treat to hear. Reclining in your seat, you contemplate peering into the fluids of the mug as if it were a crystal ball. Your reflection nervously stares back at you through the tea. "Do you think fate brought us together?"

BEN didn't answer. There was no reason to. You knew the answer.

If you weren't who you were, you wouldn't have survived for so long.

If you had never downloaded that file, your paths would never cross. 

If either of you had lived your lives any differently, none of this would happen.

Your back straightened, sitting up to place the mug on the railing. Swiftly turning in their direction. "I want to marry you, BEN." 

Its gaze yanked away from the moon at your words. BEN's eyes widened. A subtle blush appeared on its warm-tawny skin. Marriage? That's one of the last things on their minds, if at all. Tempted to shoot down the offer on a gut reaction, they instead thought and discussed. The longer BEN stayed quiet, the wider its grin grew.

Funny how things change. You used to be such a difficult, useless thing. Expecting you would take your life in a matter of days. Now you're their long-term lapdog asking for marriage. So admirable! 

Yes, marriage is just a label, but what that label represented is what interested BEN. A door of new possibilities had just opened! Relishing in your growing anticipation of their response. BEN lowered its head, angling it at an inhuman angle. Its face deteriorated into a poorly generated mess of features. "Is that the fate you wish for? To be mine forever?" BEN cooed in a glitchy voice, hiding the underlying malice in its question.

Fixing the blanket that slowly slid down your body. You bunched it up to protect yourself from the cold. You nodded confidently, ignoring the internal anxiety BEN's theatrics triggered. Staring on, the sun set behind BEN, giving it a soothing glow. "I do. Besides, being stuck with you isn't anything new." Secure in your response, a lighthearted chuckle slipped past your lips. Your cheeks reddened from being flustered and the cold. Something about BEN could be so calming at times.

The blanket flapped in the gust of wind—a stronger, colder breeze that made you squeal. Debris and leaves scattered across the wooden porch. Unphased, BEN drew closer, grazing your ear with its lips. "Your words are set in stone." Its face returned to its regular smile.

BEN tucked away the strands of hair that flowed in the wind. Seeing you tremble like a leaf, it inwardly laughed. That charm you had continued to be ever so present. Picking up the mug, BEN headed back inside. With little thought, it put its arm over your shoulder with a comfortably firm grip.

"Come now. It's getting late."

[sims4luxury]

The Nursery/Kid Collection

Hello everyone 🤗

I'm wishing you all a Happy New Year 😍🥳🥳 I hope you're all doing great at the beginning of 2023!

I'm so, so happy today to share with you the biggest collection I ever made and to show you my progress in Blender 😱

About my progress this month:

One of the biggest new skills I have now is that the bed blanket is animated!!!! 

I learned how to make a cloth simulation on a mesh, which means I created from scratch for the first time in my life the pillow, the blanket (bed cover?), and the bed canopy

As I already said, I learn how to animate the blanket, which means the bed is fully functional exactly as it should be. No more strange animation when a toddler will going to sleep in it 👌

I also learned how to create a curve, which was needed for the garland

Most of the rugs in this collection has now a thickness even if the shape is not a basic shape such as a square, rectangle, or round. I learned how to add texture details to them which gives a realistic and mellow appearance which can be great if you have a Simstagram and share cute toddler poses for example

I started learning several new other skills but the end result is too bad to be shared right now 😂

Thank you all so so much for all your support without which I simply wouldn't be able to spend as much time learning new 3d skills 🙏❤

About the collection:

The collection is composed of 25 new CC with a total of ... 291 swatches! 😱

I wanted to cover as many styles as possible with plain colors and matching patterns for you to be sure to be able to create a lot of different toddler bedrooms even if you're using the same mesh. I'm personally always frustrated when the CC is exactly the one I want to use but can't find the swatch that is matching with the other items made by another CC creator. 

Of course, I couldn't create all the textures ever possible, but for sure when an item has 38 different swatches, you'll find at least 1 of them matching your interior 😍

The color palettes I used to create this collection are mostly white, pink, orange, green, and blue with matching patterns and for some items, I created different kinds and tones of wood from light to dark.

Everything is base game and HQ compatible

Everything is functional and playtested

All items have from 1 swatch up to 38

When possible, all items have all their LODs

Except for the bed canopy (sorry), everything is low poly

They all have their custom thumbnails and are correctly tagged

Most of them can be found under "kid's furniture" or "kid's decoration"

All of them can also be found with those keywords: sims4luxury; nursery; toddler; kid

Here are all the thumbnails of the collection:

How to make the bed functional:

The bed is coming in 3 separated pieces: 

Bed frame

mattress

blanket

and ONLY THE BLANKET is actually functional. Bed frames and mattresses are only decor items with 0 interactions or animations linking to them. So you'll need to place the blanket if you want your toddler sim to be able to sleep in the bed from this collection.

You can use the blanket with any other bed frame you have, it will work the same.

I separated the bed into 3 pieces for you to choose between all the swatches and mix and match all of them the way you prefer.

About the bed canopy:

The bed canopy is a high poly mesh. I did my best and created several versions of it but the only one which didn't look too weird to be shared is the version that has 25k poly. So please be cautious! 

I created the mesh to be placed as close as possible to the walls in a corner so that the bed frame can be placed below it, not next to or in front of it and it does not create a collision with any sim.

Tips:

Because of the number of swatches a lot of the CC in this collection has, the files are large. 

If you need to save space on your computer but still want to keep this collection installed, I suggest you delete the swatches you like the least with Sims4Studio.

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

Et voilà 🤗

I wish you all to enjoy this new CC collection and all the best for 2023 😍🥳

Full love to everyone of you and thank you from the bottom of my heart for all your support 🙏

Mélissa

* FREE DOWNLOAD *

[id-element0]

Adele's Ramsay Living for TS3

2 years ago, on a fateful evening, I decided to convert this set to TS3. Although this had already been converted, I had my reasons to do my own conversion. Long story short, there were things that I didn't like and things that I liked.

One thing that I liked in the previous conversion was the effort to make the table tops glass. So I experimented with the Basic Shower which is supposed to have frosted glass. I don't know why EA use horrible textures; when you replace the NormalMap with a proper frosted glass texture it looks amazing.

So, using this knowledge as a base, I worked on the frosted glass table tops and after countless failures, I finally managed to have the effect I wanted. The key is having the right values for UVSelector parameters in the shader.

I also changed the textures for the bottle; tried to recreate it as a multiplier. Then made another version. Bottles are semi-transparent glass and recolourable. Don't ask me how I made them - I don't remember. But I if have to guess, there is this tutorial that I know of. The first part is about recolourable glass.

I wasn't feeling Adele's art for the painting. So, I used the recolours made by @timeparadoxsims. The artist is @len-yan and the art is amazing. If any of them want me to remove the painting from my downloads, I will do so but cry inwardly. 😢

I know people hate reading and just want to download but THIS IS IMPORTANT: Several items share textures. So you need to have the 'masters' in your game for the 'slaves' to work. I will group them and explain further.

The Loveseat is the master for the following objects: Armchair, Sofa, End Table (Solid Top), Coffee Table (Solid Top).

Loveseat, Armchair, Sofa -> 4 Channels - 2 presets with second being Adele's black overlay & metal and wood parts still CAStable.

Loveseat Polycount -> HLOD: 1746 MLOD: 702

Armchair Polycount -> HLOD: 1578 MLOD: 726

Sofa Polycount -> HLOD: 1962 MLOD: 1096

End Table, Coffee Table -> 3 Channels - 1 Preset

End Table Polycount -> HLOD: 710 MLOD: 444

Coffee Table Polycount -> HLOD: 1322 MLOD: 720

The Cushions for Loveseat is the master for following objects: The Cushion for Armchair, The Cushions for Sofa.

All Cushions -> 1 channel, 3 different multipliers - 5 Presets with 2 of them being overlays. You don't need moveobjects on to place them on their appropriate seating. If you use alt to place the seating you need to use alt to place the cushions as well.

Loveseat & Sofa Cushions Polycount -> HLOD: 160 MLOD: 80

Armchair Cushions Polycount -> HLOD: 80 MLOD: 40

The Glass Top End Table is the master for The Glass Top Coffee Table.

Both tables have 1 Channel & 1 Preset. Polys are same as the solid tops.

Decorative Bottles

Both have 1 Channel & 1 Preset.

Polycount -> HLOD: 242 MLOD: 119

Decorative Vase

3 Channels - 2 Presets

Polycount -> HLOD: 446 MLOD: 344

Large Frame Painting

1 Channel - 18 Presets

Polycount -> HLOD: 82 MLOD: 64

I've also included the collection file which comes with its own icon for easy recognition. As always, I might have missed something; if you find anything weird don't hesitate to tell me so I can try and fix it. I hope you'll enjoy this beautiful set by talented Adele. Happy simming.

- Credits -

Adele for the meshes and textures.

@len-yan for the art.

@timeparadoxsims for the ts2 recolours

Google Fonts Montez, Kurale

Made with: SimPE, GIMP, s3oc, s3pe, Blender, Texture Tweaker 3, and TSRW

@pis3update @kpccfinds @xto3conversionsfinds

- DOWNLOAD -

:: MEDIAFIRE | SFS ::

[ilovemybishies87]

The Vacation from Hell - Chapter Two

Chapter two is now uploaded to AO3! It is also below the cut, in case anyone prefers to read on tumblr.

This chapter is VERY loosely based on the response sketch from @damntheyare's original 'human hotel' fanart. Because some tropes will never die (nor do we want them to).

Despite the numerous changes since Alastor was alive, he could more or less navigate thanks to a few familiar landmarks, like the old Hermann-Grima place. Back in his day, it had been a boarding house for single women. He slowed as they passed its faded blue shutters and gated front door.  

“What is it?” asked Charlie. “You know this place?” 

He shook his head. “Not exactly. I know about it. This house has quite a history, spanning back to before I was even alive! The families who owned it are well known around here.” 

“Speaking of, where is here? I didn’t ask since you seem to know the way.” 

“New Orleans.” Alastor paused. “Home, I suppose.” 

Charlie’s eyes widened. “This is where you lived when you were human?” 

“Born and raised!”   

“And the hotel we’re staying?” 

He didn’t answer. He could only hope it still existed.  

Their suitcase wheels clacked on the brick sidewalk as they strode down Saint Louis Street and turned right. Many of the businesses were from after his time. He didn’t care for their newer architecture: some flashes of style here and there, but mostly it simply existed. Functional without any flavor.  

They crossed over two more streets before reaching their destination.  

Alastor allowed himself to drink in the sight. The name Hotel Monteleone was embellished in bold cursive on all three sides of the sign above the main portico. Festoons and cartouches, worn with age, adorned the hotel’s facade. Flower-filled planters lined a set of windows, and sky-blue flags waved on poles attached to metal guards.  

Charlie’s jaw dropped, and her bag nearly so. “This is . . . wow.” She laughed. “Good choice, Al!” 

“Thank you, my dear!” he said, and found his mood marginally improved. 

A solitary footman stood before a pair of golden doors. His attire was more suited to the weather—a short sleeve button down—but the black hat couldn’t have been comfortable. As they approached, he swung the door closest to him open.  

Cold air wafted out from the lobby.  

“Maybe we should have someone greet our guests at the entrance, too!” she whispered, nodding her head in thanks as they entered. “Nothing says hospitable more than a friendly face greeting you when you arrive!” 

“Oh? And who would you suggest for our doorman?”  

“Angel Dust?” 

“Not the worst suggestion.” He thought she might suggest Vaggie, but Charlie seemed to realize her dour expression would deter sinners seeking redemption. “Though I can’t say the types of guests he’d attract are what you’re hoping for!” 

“That’s the point, Alastor! Everyone is welcome,” she insisted. “The problem is whether Angel would agree to it. He already works for Valentino. But maybe this will be a step in the right direction!” 

The lobby was even more impressive than the hotel’s front. Their suitcases glided over parquet marble floors. Framed paintings of the founder, along with other men Alastor couldn’t place, decorated the walls. Above them, gold inlayed panels adorned the bases of crystal chandeliers. The lighting filled the entrance with a soft glow, making the place feel otherworldly.  

To their left, a rose centerpiece stood in the middle, bench-like seating surrounding the arrangement. A set of stairs, most likely heading to the establishment's rooms, lay before it. Another smaller set of steps led to the entrance of a restaurant. Alastor filed that away for later. Once they were settled in, food would no doubt be a priority. They passed more seating in the form of sofas and upholstered armchairs, along with a grandfather clock ticking away the seconds.  

Charlie lingered behind as he approached the counter. 

The receptionist was a completely average woman. Not too tall or short, heavy or thin. Completely unremarkable. Her only standout feature was the short reddish locks framing her face. Her smile screamed ‘customer service,’ but she didn’t appear to be in a mood either. 

“Can I help you?”  

Alastor read the tag pinned to her blazer. “Why, yes, I believe you can, Marie!” he said with a flourish. “My companion and I are needing a room for the duration of our stay.” 

“Of course, sir.” Marie began typing and glanced between him and a screen that suspiciously resembled Vox’s head. “Do you already have a reservation?” 

Fuck.  

Yes, he did. Decades ago, when they were supposed to arrive. Alastor was left with quite the conundrum. Did he take a chance on the hotel having an open room? Or did he use his magic to . . . turn the odds in their favor? The latter was the obvious choice, but he had expended more energy than planned to transport the group and their belongings. 

Alastor lightly tapped the top of the machine and infused it with his magic. A green glow came forth from the monitor along with thread-like tendrils. They reached out toward the receptionist and infused her pupils with the same green glow.  

“Yes, indeed!” he gritted out. “It should be for Alastor Malveaux and Charlotte Magne.” 

Marie blinked; her eyes returned to normal. “Thank you, sir. One moment while I pull up that information.” 

“Was that your last name?” whispered Charlie, joining him at his side. 

Alastor shrugged. “Who knows?” he replied, his voice low. “Whatever it was, it’s lost to the wind. The Radio Demon is what I’m known as now, and I have no complaints.” 

“Okay, but what about my name? Charlotte Magne. Really? What’s wrong with Charlie Morningstar?” 

“Your last name might . . . raise a few eyebrows,” he said, smirking, “and Charlie Magne is too obvious.” 

“How so?” 

Marie interrupted before he could explain. “Okay, so I’ve found your reservation.” Her face twitched. “But I’m afraid the room you requested was double booked. Another couple has already checked in.” 

“I see.” Charlie turned to him. “I guess we’ll have to cut our trip short?” 

"No, no, Miss Magne!” said Marie. “This was entirely our fault! We do have another room available, though. Fortunately for you, it’s an upgrade!” She started furiously typing away. “How long did you and Mister Malveaux plan on staying again?” 

Alastor struggled to keep his grin. “Six days.” 

“And what time were you planning on returning home? Check out is before noon.” 

So many questions. “We can be out before then.” 

“Perfect! So, that will be five nights total—” 

“What a relief!” Charlie scooped Husk off her shoulder and held him in her arms. He had somehow managed to remain affixed the entire trip to the hotel.  

Alastor wholeheartedly agreed. “We’ll have to decide who gets which bed once we are in the room.” 

“Oh, you wanted two beds?” asked Marie, the clacking on her keyboard slowing.  

He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”  

“I’m sorry if I wasn’t clearer.” She held up her index finger. “The room only has one. If it’s any consolation, it’s a King.”  

He would not murder the woman for doing her job, even if she was getting on the very last of his nerves. Alastor forced the violent urge down and laughed. “It would be quite improper for an unmarried man and woman to share—”  

“We’ll make do,” Charlie answered, much to his shock. She looked up at him. “Is that okay?” 

“As you said,” he stated with a deep breath, “we’ll make do.” 

“All right! That’s five nights total with two pets,” Marie said, eyeing Niffty and Husk in their arms. “They receive their own little welcome package for free. Trust me, everyone loves it! And did you want any add-ons or upgrades for your stay? We offer overnight valet parking, along with a wide selection of wines and hard liquors—” 

“That won’t be necessary.” 

“Maybe some macrons for you and Miss Magne—” 

Charlie watched their exchange with rapt attention. No doubt she was mentally taking notes on what could be added to their hotel. That was the purpose of this visit. And while he appreciated her passion in theory—the more invested, the more satisfying it would be to see her dreams torn to shreds—the only one suffering at the moment was him. 

“Just the total,” Alastor ground out. “Please.” 

“That’ll be $2,204.60.” 

Alastor turned to Charlie and handed her Niffty, who let out a small ‘Yip!’ of dismay. Charlie gasped. She barely managed to catch the other demon—now dog—and juggle both her and Husk in her arms. 

Alastor unzipped the bag sitting on top of Niffty’s luggage and made a show of rummaging around. As he suspected, Husk had packed nothing but alcohol. He was grateful for once. A bottle of whiskey was calling his name. Hopefully the staff didn’t check the contents before they settled in. With his last bit of magic—at least until he could get some food and rest and alcohol—he conjured a stack of bills and zipped the sack closed. 

He pulled out the cash and began counting.   

Marie’s almond eyes widened. “Wow, don’t see that too often!” She stared at him grimly. “You’ll want to be careful. You’ll be a target for sure.” 

Alastor chuckled as he placed the last bill down. The remainder was shoved into his pocket. “I’m not worried.” He took Niffty from Charlie, much to her relief, and held the small dog under his other arm.  

Marie picked up the bills and double checked the amount. “Suit yourself. We don’t keep change here, but—” 

“Don’t worry about the extra. Consider it a tip for your hard work! Otherwise, we’d be looking for another hotel or returning home.” 

“Thank you, Mister Malveaux!” This time her smile was genuine. “If you don’t mind me asking, where is home for you anyway?” 

“I'm technically from around these parts, but it's been years since I’ve been back. Things have changed quite a bit.” 

Marie nodded. “You’ll find yourself at home in no time. Change doesn’t happen that fast here.” She turned to Charlie. “What about you?” 

“Well . . . ,” said Charlie nervously, “where I’m from is pretty big. And dry. And hot! Not to mention very . . . intense! It’s nothing like here.” 

Marie raised a brow. “Huh?” 

“California!” said Alastor, and he felt Charlie relax.  

“It’s where we met,” Charlie added, smiling at him.  

“Oh, so you must be an actor,” said Marie to Alastor. “You sure are dedicated to the craft, not breaking character! It explains the accent. The glasses and cash too. Those Hollywood eccentrics sure have rubbed off on you.” 

Alastor quirked his head. “Pardon?” 

“I’ve never seen you in anything before, but I'm not much for historical pieces.” She reached for the safety deposit box below the counter and locked the cash away. “But I’m trying to branch out. I’ll watch for you.” 

He and Charlie shared a look. A smirk graced her lips. 

“Not a word, Miss Magne,” he said under his breath. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Mister Malveaux.” 

“Your room will be ready in a few minutes. Our bellhop will take your luggage for you.” A stout man with curly black hair approached. He wore the same outfit as the doorman, though his dark pants still held the crisp line from when they were pressed earlier that day. “Olivier, could you take their things to room 606?” 

He tipped his hat in her direction, then piled their bags onto the luggage cart. “I’m on it!” 

Alastor eyed the sofas in the lounge, but before he could move, he heard the shuffling of papers from behind the counter. 

“So,” said Marie, “what do you two plan on doing while you’re here?” 

No. 

Charlie bit her lip. “I’m not sure honestly. I was only interested in the hotel,” she admitted. “Alastor did all the planning.” 

Absolutely not.  

“I see.” Marie nodded. “Any sites you wanted to visit with Miss Magne?” 

He was not having any small talk. 

“I hadn’t given it much thought,” he said, his tone clipped. 

Marie’s expression brightened. “In that case, would you mind if I made some suggestions?” 

“Not at all!” exclaimed Charlie. 

“The Phantom of the Opera is in town,” Marie said, handing over several brochures. “Not sure if you’ve seen it yet. Broadway is probably better, but it hasn’t been to New Orleans in about a decade, so we’re all excited.” 

Charlie turned to Alastor and placed Husk on his shoulder before he could say a word. She took the pamphlets from the receptionist and flipped through one.  

“Is this any good?”  

Marie leaned over to see what Charlie was showing her. “The Voodoo, Witchcraft and Vampires tour? If you’re into supernatural stuff, sure. There's no shortage of that around here, even at this very hotel.” 

"How so?” Charlie asked.  

“There’ve been countless unexplained happenings over the years. Doors that open on their own, elevators that go to the wrong floor, even shadows of kids playing in the halls! Eyewitness accounts from different times, guests, and staff. Hard to write it off as coincidence!” 

What drivel. Charlie seemed to think so too, judging by her incredulous expression. If anyone knew what happened to a soul after they passed, it would be the Princess of Hell. They were either in her domain or they weren’t. It was as simple as that. 

“What about this, Alastor? They have jazz bands and even a jazz museum!” 

“I wouldn’t mind hearing a live session again,” he said. “It’s been ages! But I also wouldn’t mind some place . . . quieter.”  

“Then you have to go to Oak Valley Plantation,” said Marie. “It’s about an hour away from here, but if you want to get away from it all, that’s your best bet! It’s like stepping back in time.” 

Alastor considered her briefly. “Maybe before we leave, to wind down.” 

“Excellent! I can help get you tickets for any or all of those excursions. Give me another ten or fifteen minutes to calculate—” 

“We’ll do them all.” He glanced at Charlie, who couldn’t have looked more thrilled than if every sinner in Hell had been redeemed in one fell swoop. Alastor pulled all but a couple of bills from his pocket and placed them in her hand. “I trust you with the schedule, my dear.”  

Charlie grasped the cash tightly. “Thank you, Al! I won’t let you down.” 

“Yes, yes.” He sighed. “I’m taking a breather until our room is ready.” 

“Olivier should be nearly finished if you would like to head up, Mister Malveaux. Here’s your key,” Marie said, handing him a piece of plastic. “I’ll give Miss Magne the other so she can join you when we’re done.” 

Alastor held the rectangular thing awkwardly between his fingers. What odd material to use for a key.  

The elevator was several paces behind them on the other side of the stairs. Leaving the two women to hash out their plans—a decision he hoped he would not come to regret—he stepped into an empty lift and pushed the backlit button with the number 6. 

Husk pawed at his head, nearly knocking his glasses off. 

Alastor turned, his glare ice cold. “You’re trying your luck, Husker! I’m not in the mood to be messed with. Unless you care to find out if cats really do have nine lives, I would suggest you mind yourself for the rest of the trip.”  

Silence filled the compartment for the ride up to the sixth floor. The elevator’s ding! notified them of their arrival, and the doors slid open. A gold cart was parked in the hall several doors down. He could see the last of their luggage—pink, in all its shameless glory—being picked up and transported inside. 

“Thank you for your hard work, my good sir!” said Alastor, steadfast in keeping the last of his remaining patience in check. He handed the man a crisp . . . twenty? Fifty? He didn’t look. “Much appreciated!” 

Olivier’s eyes widened. Had he slipped him a hundred by mistake? “You’re too kind, sir! Thank you. Let me know if you need anything!” He pushed the cart back toward the lifts. 

The room’s door remained open long enough to slip in. Alastor allowed it to close behind them as he placed Niffty on the ground beside him. Husk jumped from his shoulder and landed on the carpeted floor. They surveyed their accommodations. 

White. It was very white. Alastor crossed over to the king-size bed and upholstered headboard, a wallpapered inset behind it. They were white. So was the bedding. As was the much smaller, more rustic chandelier hanging up above. The nightstands, the single-seated sofa, and the vanity and set of chairs at the foot of the bed.  

The carpeting. The floors. The ceiling. 

Everything was white. Even the bathroom gave him no reprieve. 

Was this what Heaven was like? 

Alastor felt like he was going mad. The only hints of color came from the trio and the baggage they had dragged along for the trip. Charlie’s and Niffty’s luggage were a sight for sore eyes against the colorless landscape that was their room.  

Husk’s was too, but for very different reasons. Alastor picked up the leather bag, placed it on the vanity, and pulled out a seat. A small glass was set upside down beneath a mirror. He grabbed it and quickly zipped the bag open. The bottle of whiskey he eyed earlier clinked against a bottle of gin, and without hesitation, he twisted the cap off with his thumb and poured out a healthy amount.  

Husk jumped up and hissed.   

Alastor tipped his glass and downed the drink. “Even when you can’t pour, you make an excellent bartender, Husker old pal!”  

An almost imperceptible beep alerted him to Charlie’s arrival. “That receptionist really knows her stuff!” She dropped a handful of brochures on the vanity, along with a much thinner stack of cash, and pulled out the seat next to him. “So, I know we’re here for research—” 

“You are,” said Alastor, pouring himself another glass. “I am but the chauffer.” He picked up the money, returning it to his pocket. “And sponsor, clearly.” 

Charlie hesitated. “Are you okay, Al? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you drink before.” 

“Well, we are on vacation, aren’t we?” This time he didn’t down the liquor in one gulp. He allowed it to linger on his tongue before swallowing, relishing the slight burn. “You were saying?” 

“R-Right. I still plan on getting the full hotel experience while we’re here. Even checking in has given me so many ideas! I’ll need to take notes, so I don’t forget anything.” She took out a notepad and pen from her purse. “Everything is so luxurious, don’t you think?” 

If someone enjoyed the ‘padded room’ aesthetic, then certainly. 

“But I figured, we might as well take in the sights too! I can only imagine how much has changed since . . . .” 

Alastor allowed the silence to hang between them.  

Charlie looked around awkwardly. “I’m sorry about the bed. We can ask for more pillows to create a wall between us. If that helps.” 

“You needn’t worry about me.” Alastor took another long sip before grabbing a different bottle from Husk’s bag. He read the label and realized he didn’t care what he was drinking, so long as it was strong. “I will make do.” 

“I don’t want you sleeping on the floor, Al. Or in the chairs. You should be comfortable!” 

“We’ll burn that bridge when we get there,” he said, fumbling over the words. His accent slipped as well. “In the meantime, you should do what you set out to do! There’s a whole hotel waiting to be explored.” 

Charlie stood and tipped her luggage onto the floor. “What about you? You’re not going to spend the whole day drinking, are you?” 

Alastor made one last drink and toasted to her. “Well, you could say I have some research of my own. But until then”—he tipped the glass back and grimaced—“I’m starting this trip off with a bang!” 

[arliedraws]

When Sirius was sent to Azkaban, Remus abandoned him. No questions asked. He heard that his best friend was a traitor and never questioned it, never wanted to confront him.

If it was the other way around.. Sirius would rage, he would find a way to learn why Remus would betray his friends like that, check his trail files once he realizes he was never called as a witness, find a way to confront Remus himself once he finds out there is shit in his files.

Remus runs away from his problems, Sirius confronts them head on until he realizes he can't win

I’m gonna push back on this, my dearest! I’m not even a Remus defender, but I guess I am today! Even Sirius never blamed Remus for this, haha. But you’re still right, though. Remus DOES run from his problems, and Sirius is more likely to face them head on. I just don’t know if this matters so much in this situation.

First of all, and most importantly, I don’t suppose Azkaban allows visitors, so I doubt Remus would be able to confront Sirius at all. Second, Remus is not a powerful man—in the way that, he’s a werewolf and his Ministry connections are probably mostly dead by this point. If he DID suspect Sirius was innocent, all he could do was mention it to Moody and Dumbledore. That’s about it.

But he wouldn’t have anyway because he was convinced that Sirius was guilty.

Let’s consider that MWPP + Lily knew there was a traitor in their circle for at least a year. Remus probably already suspects the traitor is Sirius at this point, and he urges James to make Dumbledore the Secret Keeper instead. James tells Sirius that Remus thinks he’s the traitor; Sirius is so devoted to James that the accusation shocks him and he insists, “No one would believe I would ever betray you.” Sirius then becomes convinced that Remus is trying to turn James against him, and James (who trusts Sirius more than anyone), grudgingly follows Sirius’s advice to shut Remus out.

Remus now truly believes that Sirius is traitor because of this. Remus even confides in Dumbledore that he suspects Sirius (if James won’t listen to Remus, maybe he’ll listen to Dumbledore), while Dumbledore assures Remus he’ll try to convince James not to use Sirius. But James is offended and makes a big show of being like, “How dare you suspect Sirius? Now I’m going to make him my Secret Keeper even more!”

Well, as Remus fears, Voldemort finds the Potters based on Sirius’s information, and he knew it would happen. Not only that, Sirius managed to kill Peter too. And there were WITNESSES to the slaughter. Personally, I wouldn’t blame Remus for not wanting to confront Sirius when he “knew” this was going to happen. I doubt Sirius’s “betrayal” came as a surprise.

So I understand where your head’s at but in this instance, this was a perfect storm of “Sirius was absolutely fucked.” Which is probably why he laughed when Peter blew up the street—the betrayal is so layered, so perfectly aligned to frame Sirius on multiple levels, and he realized that Peter was so much smarter than he realized.