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“Do not take ibuprofen by mouth or apply it to your skin if you have ever had an allergic reaction or symptoms like wheezing, runny nose or skin reactions after taking aspirin, ibuprofen or other non-steroidal anti-inflammatory drugs (NSAIDs) such as naproxen.”
4x05 “Buck Begins” -> 6x11 “In Another Life” -> 8x05 “Masks”
Inspired by @stagefoureddiediaz and @bewitchedbewilderedbisexual
#911#911 spoilers#911edit#911 on fox#911 fox#911 abc#evanbuckleyedit#my edit#911verse#evan buckley#flashing tw#i am thinking thoughts#911hiatusparallels#so so many thoughts#Kym caught the buck begins mention so#im just like#HELLO#the ibuprofen comment being in buck begins along with the multiple calls involving allergies this season#oh i am LOOKING#is tim that smart who the fuck know buttttttt#anti bucktommy#to be safe#i mean i am implying he poisoned buck aoskaoskas
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#i know this has probably already been posted a hundred times#but oh well#i am randl trash#oh i am looking#rhett mclaughlin#gmm
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👀
📷 @/ftorresv1
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Sir... Sir.. SIR...
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AAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!
#oh I am LOOKING#I saw this earlier cause we’re in the same server BUT#BUT IT MAKES ME#SO HAPPY#when people just.. use my designs for anything and everything <333#spotty speaks#mothmans-w00ds#moonpaw
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Imagine spending all your energy being cool and mysterious 24/7.
What an idiot have I mentioned I love him?
Idea came from a cool post @nouverx made about Alastor’s possible sleeping habits. 💕
#grey art#hazbin hotel#hazbin hotel fanart#hazbin hotel comic#Oh I am DONE coloring stuff for a while! it’s so boring!#I mean it looks great but I haaaaaate spending time on it!#get used to grayscale stuff for a while#also coloring multiple characters is stupid! no no no.#angel dust#husker#sir pentious#alastor#charlie morningstar#hazbin husker#hazbin alastor#god I’m glad to be done with this one
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Snow bots au anyone? :D
They're back together a year later because it's snowing again❄️
All right! For context: I imagine them hanging out every winter in some kind of resort (a resort that Blurr owns. Because his bar business has expanded that much over time.)
#maccadam#transformers#snow bots au#uh that’s a lot of characters. okay let’s go#left -> to right. top to bottom haha#Swerve#Rung#Tailgate#Rewind#chromedome#cdrw#jazz#prowl#jazzprowl#rodimus#rodimus prime#Wing#Drift#Blurr#Swindle#I originally wanted to add Brainstorm falling out of bus window and Perceptor catching him but my brain is shutting down I need to sleep ha#jazz and prowl switching their hats be like#Prowl: I sense something is wrong..where's my hat?? (looks around) (sees it on Jazz's head) Oh there it is. Cool.#five minutes later: wait. If my hat is there than what am I wearing right now???? error 404#world greatest detective ladies and gentlemen~
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tbh ryoko kui cooked with this one why is this the funniest image I have ever seen
#i have been looking at it for 2 days at this point#she is SMALL and LONG#the idea of actual cat-sized izutsumi butters my biscuits <- (g/t loving freak)#love the implication that marcille and falin own izutsumi in the modern AU because cat mom marcille is literally so real#she is 1000% a cat person. in the same way i am a cat person i think where i am good with them but annoy the shit out of them.#oh no. am i gonna start meshiposting now.#dungeon meshi#delicious in dungeon#daydream hour#marcille donato#izutsumi
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Long distance besties. This definitely happened after the third movie (source: trust me bro)
Based on this

#anyways time to yap in the tags 😋☝️#but first ummmm lemme just tag some shit#how to train your dragon#httyd#httyd hiccup#hiccup haddock#hiccup horrendous haddock iii#toothless#httyd toothless#ok i think that its done#anyways this definitely happaned after the dragons left like just trust me bro 🙏🙏🙏🙏#omfg i wanted to make this with hijack as well cause lol. do you get it. they're long distance LOLOLOL#maybe i will make it who knows. is it weird to make the same art trend with different characters??#OH WAIT FORGOT ANOTHER TAG#hicctooth#is this the duo name for them#or is it called#hictooth#doesnt matter. what matters is that theyre literally the definition of platonic soulmates bro#like wtf i love them#sorry for making them look miserable i didnt meant for them to look lile that 😭😭😭😭#omg with that being said#BROOOOOO I AM NOT GONNA DRAW DRAGONS ANYMORE IM DONEEEEE HOW DO YOU DRAW DRAGONS 😭😭😭😭😭🙏🙏#anyways first attempt do you like it. SAY YES RIGHT NOW#if you read this much till the end you need to kiss me rn muah muah muah#also say i did a good job at making them look like cookies like#say it rn#okie bye byeeeeee#I FORGOT TO ADD HIS BRAID IM GONNA KMSSSSSS NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO#omg i failed
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spiraling
#my art#jujutsu kaisen#jjk#jjk fanart#jujutsu kaisen fanart#jjk art#megumi fushiguro#fushiguro megumi#gojo satoru#jjk spoilers#jjk manga spoilers#the minute i realized how tg coded the composition n colours were i decided to turn it up to 11#i was racking my brain trying 2 figure out how to get the layered tissue paper look tht i talked abt ishida's cover art having#cycled through all my usual layer modes n nothing ws Quite right#until wouldnt u know it . divide n subtract!!!!! i NEVER use divide or subtract bc theyre impossible#but fr this??? its like they were made for it oh my god#it makes the greys look translucent n all my textures pop in a way that makes them appear splotchy n Bruised#which ws the whole point thts the Look god i am so PLEASED#when the layer modes tht notoriously get No love finally find their niche <33 peace and love <333#filing this away fr later i am going 2 have a lot of fun with this new information i think#im very happy w how the colours look n i dont think anything else wld have kept the right Mood#but i am always so >:/ when i have to use a palette tht forces me into giving megumi blue eyes#had to set aside th green eyed megu agenda fr the Aesthetic unfortunately#anyway i knew from the minute i saw it that i wanted to do smth involving the opening panel of 268#bc that panel is S tier#i figured tht if nothing came 2 me i wld just redraw it as-is bc it's alr so good but as i ws sketching i was like#u know what u havent done in a while? art tht looks like u r going Insane#art tht makes ur family ask whether everything is ok#so i once again tucked megumi's knees up 2 his chest and apologized insincerely to him fr making the third megumi angst piece in a row#:)
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I wish we could have met in some other way.
Lawlight Week Day 2: Soulmates
If you saw me repost and re-edit this several times uh No you didn't </3
Still frames/Individual gifs:


If you know what every frame is from you get a free cookie. by the way
#death note#dn#light yagami#l lawliet#lawlight#oh god here we go#death note jdrama#death note 2015#death note 2006#death note musical#lctw#l change the world#dntm#lawlightweek2024#my art#collapses i am NEVER putting this much effort in one piece ever again /hj this was the Only one i had mostly prepared in advance#ironically the most painstaking part about making this entire thing was converting the images into an animated file#that wasn't either horrifically compressed or just. wouldn't loop. why do gifs have to look so BAD it's so inconvenient#and THEN i realized I had to forcibly Stitch the two animations together so they would actually be synced and it wouldn't look dumb#and the end result is STILL so compressed. because Tumblr. uhhh just don't click on it it'll look so scuffed LOL. anyways#this is what i get for watching Every Adaptation of Death Note. i am a death note multiverse truther#usually i'd have something clever to say in the tags but. this drained the life out of me just uh.#yeah. they're doomed in every universe. this is the only way they could've met. they are doomed by their own natures and the#circumstances that surround them. there is no universe where light tries to prevent L's death. and even in the cases where L Doesn't die#there is no universe where L can save light. there is no universe where he can truly “catch” Kira and make him see where he went wrong#(<- if you read LCTW you know. :) )#in every universe and adaptation L will call Light his first friend. in some universes they'll take that notion more seriously than others#no matter what one of them will die due to the other. its the only constant. it's the only way it can ever be. they are the others downfall
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Cuddly!!
#I am playing sonic unleashed for like the FIRST time atm#it’s great!! I love the music and the levels are fun’#I’m also obsessed with how unconcerned everyone is with sonics werehog form like#he gets all like worried and his side kick thingo is freaked out at first but#talking to people in town and they’re just like “oh#neat new look I guess”#and that’s under the circumstance they actually bring it up at all#anyways welcome to a new sonamy era :$#I can’t be bothered to fix my spelling errors I apologise#my art#sonic#sonic the hedgehog#sonic unleashed#Amy rose#sonamy
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We are two sides of the same coin
#squid game#seong gihun#hwang in ho#seong gi hun x hwang in ho#seong gi hun x oh young il#seong gi hun x front man#457#look im not saying i want gi-hun to be the next front man. it'll be genuinely bad writing if he does please GOD no.#but what i AM saying is that i want in-ho to try and force the promotion on him through homoerotic psychological warfare.#the whole season in ho was like “lemme show you the inherent selfishness in humanity pookie” and i demand more of that energy in season 3#and also im sorry but you can't give me asian hannigram and expect me to not be obsessed come on now#also whoever came up with the ship name 457 lemme kiss you on the mouth
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peristalsis - ii.



selkie!soap x reader. depression. suicidal ideation. strangers to "lovers." . Running away from life to the Scottish Hebrides, you meet a man who won't leave you alone. . Masterlist. Ao3.
previous
You sleep long enough that, when you wake up, you have enough energy to cry.
It’s a big one. The kind of cry that threatens to turn your throat out, with how hard you sob. Alone in the cottage, far away from anything resembling civilization, you wail like wounded animal, choking on your own tears and mucus, losing track of your body buried underneath the covers—
But it happens at a remove. You watch yourself implode from someplace deep inside, not entirely sure why it’s happening at all—but long past trying to figure it out.
This is how it’s been for a while. There’s nothing special about it anymore. Nothing urgent. Most of the time, you are a blank space of a person, a vacuum where joy or rage or fear should be, but occasionally some maelstrom or another kicks up to fill it in, and your only course of action is to ride it out until it ends.
You’ve stopped trying to fix it. And you’ve stopped hoping anyone else can, either.
So you cry, until at last, you’re empty again. Or you’re too tired to continue. The difference is negligible, but functionally irrelevant. Once it’s done, you get out of bed.
The pressure in the shower is as weak as Johnny reported, but the water is indeed warm when you turn it on; you stand naked under the flow, arms hanging at your sides.
The day stretches itself out before you with nothing to occupying it, just as you’d planned. Nothing to work towards; no effort to put forward. Nothing, thanks to your choice of locale, to feel guilty about not seeking out.
A day of peace and utter quiet.
Suddenly—violent banging, somewhere in the cottage. It startles you; you jump so sharply at the noise that you smack your wrist on the soap caddy attached to the shower wall. The banging comes again—annoyed, you realize with no little bemusement that someone is at the front door.
You wrap yourself in a towel and hobble out of the bathroom to answer it, a piece of your mind on your tongue, dart-shaped and ready to fly—
Of course it’s Johnny.
Johnny, big and burly in a sweater, kilt, and pelt once again, two paper cups balanced in one large hand and a grocery bag hanging from the other. Whose dark brows shoot up his forehead as his eyes travel with surprise, and blatant appreciation, down the dripping length your body.
“Well, good mornin’, bonnie,” he purrs.
“What,” you grunt. A cold breath of wind chooses that moment to force its way through the door, gasping across the shower water still running in rivulets from your hair to the rolled edge of your towel. Goosebumps erupt from your bare skin in millions of simultaneous pinpricks—you flinch bodily at the chill.
“Ah, hell’s bells, don’t just stand there,” Johnny says, following the wind. “It’s freezin,’ go on, let me get in, hurry.”
You let him step inside, for some reason, and he shuts the door behind him with the heel of his boot. He wastes no time after that, heading to the kitchen to set down his things.
“Brought breakfast!” he says cheerfully. “There’s this bakery on Barra I thought you’d like, fresh doughnuts and coffee. Dunno how you take yours, but there’s sugar in the pantry and cream in the fridge.”
“I don’t want breakfast,” you say.
“What? ‘Course you do. I’m no’ takin’ you seal-watchin’ on an empty stomach.”
He starts unpacking the grocery bag and setting things on the counter while your jaw hangs open. Several things occur to you to say—I never agreed to that and what the hell is wrong with you, for starters—but your stomach growls at him before you can. The aroma of fresh-baked pastry wafts through the kitchen when he opens one box, and he turns to grin at you, cheeks dimpling.
“Do you get dressed, bonnie,” he says. “It’ll still be here when y’get back.”
It is less polite than he perhaps intends it to be, given that his gaze travels appreciatively across your bare shoulders. You cross your arms fruitlessly over your chest and, nothing else for it, retreat to the bedroom, feeling his eyes on you the whole way.
You return to the kitchen after having pulled on wool leggings and the same fleecy sweater from the day before. Johnny, one hip set against the counter, has a cup of steaming coffee in one hand and a half-eaten cruller in the other, crumbs at the corner of his mouth.
“Got anythin’ heavier?” he asks around a chewed-up mouthful. “Gets cold out there.”
You look down at his bare calves, broad and taut and covered in a down of dark hair. “You seem alright.”
“I’m used to it,” he says, shrugging—the muscles flexing under your gaze.
You purse your lips. “I don’t have anything.” You hadn’t intended to leave the cottage overmuch.
You approach the counter. Johnny does not move a centimeter, forcing you to stand close as you pick through the two boxes of doughnuts and feel the body heat radiating off of him, displacing the scent of fried dough with his musk.
“That’s all right,” he says. You’re close enough to hear the way his voice hums deep in his chest. “I can keep you warm.”
You snatch a plain glazed from the box and take two very large steps away from him. The hair on the back of your neck lifts as you press against the sink behind you. If he notices your reaction, it doesn’t seem to bother him in the slightest—he lifts the cup to his lips and drinks, eyes sliding closed with simple, obvious pleasure, dark lashes curling against his cheek.
You take the brief respite from his gaze to stare at him. In the morning light, on a full night of sleep, you can almost believe that whatever you’d seen in him yesterday had been nothing more than a misfire of exhausted synapses. An overlay of a dream; a circadian prompt to rectify nearly seventeen hours of sleeplessness. You’d been cold, and tired, and hungry. That was all.
You bite down on your doughnut, not really tasting it. The nerves along your spine twitch and contract around the memory of his flashing gaze.
His eyes open again, and he smiles at you. “Good?” He flicks a look at the single bite you’ve taken, looks at your mouth, and then waits for your reply.
“It’s fine,” you grumble. Then, “How did you get here? I didn’t hear the truck drive up. Do you live close by?”
“Sometimes,” he says. He looks pleased that you’ve asked, that you’re interested at all, and you immediately regret inquiring. “Live on a boat, me. Moored in the cove right now.”
“A…boat,” you say.
“Aye.” A wisp of dark hair, something he must have missed when he gelled his mohawk this morning, flutters as he nods. “Nice and cozy. Not as grand as all this, mind.” He gestures around with coffee and doughnut at the less than five hundred square feet of the cottage. “But it’s still a sight nicer than some other places I’ve slept.”
He’s likely hinting at his military service. “Okay,” is all you say, unwilling to entertain it.
He smirk—undeterred. “We’ll take her out once you’re ready.”
“I never said I was going.”
Dark brows lift. “Got somethin’ else planned for today?” he asks, incredulous, as if he never imagined you wouldn’t want to hang out with him.
“No, I—”
You wrack your brain. You have no intention of explaining to this complete stranger that the last thing you’d wanted to do, when you booked this trip, was really anything at all—and in fact, you hadn’t even considered that that might be something anyone else would care much about.
Much less proactively address.
“No,” you repeat, sulking.
Johnny considers you, chewing. His eyes do not stray, this time, to places they don’t belong; but there’s an insight to them. A sharp awareness. A perception in his gaze that is just as undressing, as if whatever is going on with you is visible to the naked eye.
“I figure,” he says, slowly, as if to coax, “you put your wee shoes on, an’ I’ll pack this back up, and we take it along.”
“You don’t have to do this,” you grouse. “I don’t need you to, like—be my tour guide.”
“Aye, but that doesnae mean I don’t wanna,” he retorts, smiling.
He shoves the last bite of cruller in his mouth and gazes patiently at you as he works it with his jaw, the muscles flexing along his temples as he chews.
Exhaustion, your constant companion, stares you down alongside him. It would take so much more energy to fight him than to go along with whatever he has planned. Energy you just don’t have anymore. And going along doesn’t mean you have to pretend to enjoy yourself—it’s not like you care enough about Johnny’s self-esteem to conjure up a happy face to show him.
You can go, and be a bitch about it, and once you do maybe he’ll realize you’re not at all worth the effort he’s making, and then finally leave you alone.
“Fine,” you say, which is how you end up on a fishing trawler headed south toward, ostensibly, a colony of breeding seals.
It’s an old vessel—that much is obvious. Its edges and corners are dull with the passage of time and constant maintenance, scuffed by innumerable passes-over with cleaner and cloth. Mildew competes with the aroma of fresh varnish as Johnny leads you onto the bridge, which is mercifully closed in from the ocean wind.
The interior is mostly wood of a warm, orangish variety—you can’t tell if that’s a decision made with aesthetics or function in mind. The space comprises a kitchen, surprisingly well-appointed with a stove, sink, countertop, and fridge, and a small sitting area with both couch and booth seating. Surrounding windows allow in the grey light of the morning.
“Bought it off an old bloke on Lewis,” Johnny says, taking his place at the wheel, which is in a little alcove off the kitchen.
If you’d thought steering a boat would have curtailed his chatting, you’d have been wrong—he seems to have no trouble with that and talking, incessantly, at the same time, as he pulls the vessel away from the cove and into the open water.
“All his family moved to the mainland, he told me, an’ this is after generations fishin’ these islands, even makin’ it through the Clearances! No money in it anymore, he said, not like you could make in some office somewhere countin’ someone else’s money.” He checks something on the dashboard in front of him, but it doesn’t distract him for long. “Held on for a while, but people just kept leavin,’ an’ he was gettin’ too old to go out on his own. Got such a good price on it, I think he was just happy someone else was gonna take up the tradition.”
“Did he sell you the cottage too?” you ask, and then dig your nails into your wrist for encouraging him.
“Yup,” he says. “No one else wanted it, but me? I saw somethin’ special about it.”
He turns to smile at you—no doubt pleased you made the connection. You avert your gaze.
“Imagine someday I’ll have my own family here,” he continues. “Good place for it. Nice and slow, not like city living. Can hear yourself think out here. Perfect place to have a few wee ones.”
“If people stop leaving,” you mutter.
He turns to you again. “I’m no’ worried about that,” he replies. He’s still smiling. “You came here, after all.”
You have nothing to say to that.
The trip is a short one—Johnny brings the trawler alongside an island he informs you is called Mingulay, a square mile smaller than Vatersay’s tiny dot in the North Atlantic. Unlike the latter, he says, this island has not been inhabited since 1912, and has been completely reclaimed by the ocean and its wildlife.
After he drops anchor offshore, Johnny disappears down a steep flight of stairs below deck, which he had not offered a tour of, and emerges a short time later with a large, bulky coat.
“Didn’t I tell you?” he says proudly, holding it out by the shoulders. “Here, turn ‘round.”
You pause in the middle of reaching for it. You don’t know exactly why you comply—it occurs to you that if you grabbed for the jacket, he could simply not let go of it, and you would end up exactly where he wants you anyway. So you lower your arm and, resigned, give him your back.
He steps up behind you. Warmth pours off of him, more than you think any human body should be able to generate.
You hear him inhale, deeply, as he brings the jacket to your back. As you slide your arms into the sleeves, you feel his exhale on the nape of your neck, teasing through individual follicles of hair.
“There w’go,” he murmurs, much closer than you expected.
You can hear the low hum of his voice in his chest; his hands linger on your shoulders far longer than they need to, heavy, big enough that his index fingers brush along your collarbones.
When his hands make to slide down your back you step away from him and fumble to zip the jacket up; he chuckles lightly behind you. When you turn to face him, his lips are curled—smug.
“Alright then,” he says. “Let’s get out there.”
He rows the two of you to shore in a small kayak, two pairs of binoculars in your lap as you huddle away from the wind. You’ll be walking to the haul-out, he says—getting too close to the breeding grounds, which he calls a rookery, would spook them, possibly causing a stampede.
“It’s grey seals we’re gonna see,” he explains as the two of you pick your way across the rocky landscape. “Not the biggest haul-out you could see, some colonies get into the thousands, but we’ll have it all to ourselves.”
He insists on taking your elbow every time the two of you cross particularly uneven terrain, even though you don’t need it. You think he takes your attempts to shake him off as proof of your lack of balance, because he grasps you all the tighter every time.
“I’m not a child, Johnny, I can walk on my own,” you finally snap at him.
“Just bein’ a gentleman, bonnie,” he replies nonchalantly. He does not let you go.
As you get closer, you hear the seals before you see them, and when their voices reach you across the open island, you stop dead.
Groaning, grunting, hissing in a cacophonous chorus. Some part of your hindbrain double-takes, reshuffles itself—some ancestral instinct always on the lookout for predation. If you’d been given a chance to guess what a colony of mating seals might have sounded like, you’re not sure you could have guessed what they sounded like.
Certainly not like what you hear now—
Like people.
Johnny grins at you when he notices. “Aye, it’s a right ruckus, innit?”
He leads you up a small rise, where he has the two of you settle belly-down over the machair to overlook the wedge of rocky coast that the colony has claimed for its own.
And when you finally see it—it’s underwhelming.
Perhaps two hundred long, fat bodies, in varying shades of brown and grey, lay indolently along the rocks, in groups of three or four, some heavily galumphing from one place to another while others roll occasionally from side to side. The shifting winds catch their scent and blow it uncaringly into your face; you nearly gag at the admixture of dead fish and ammonia.
It doesn’t escape you that this is a rare thing to witness; you are not wholly immune to the fact that you are only a hundred meters away from something most people only encounter on a screen. It’s just that without a swell of awed music in the backdrop, or a narrator’s breathless wonder at the miracle of pinniped life, what’s left for you to observe is a population of wet, stinking animals, shitting where they lay, vocalizing without cease while they laze about doing basically nothing.
Johnny does not seem to notice your disillusionment; he hands you one pair of binoculars, and directs your attention to activity along the shoreline. You follow to where he’s pointing; one larger seal is hassling a smaller one, which snarls at the aggressor as it thrashes around with its substantial bulk.
“Little one there—” Johnny says, “that’s a female, probably obvious. Big one knows she’s ready to mate, can smell it on her.”
The female bares her teeth and lunges at the bigger male, which flinches back but holds his ground.
“Doesn’t look like she agrees,” you mutter.
“She’s just givin’ him a hard time. She’s all in heat, see? Just makes her cranky,” Johnny says. You feel his eyes on you, and lower your binoculars to look at him. “She’s got to fight to feel all in control.”
You flush. “Right.”
“You don’t think so?”
“No,” you say. “He’s—he’s just bothering her.”
He gazes at you for a moment, contemplative. Corners of his mouth quirking upward. He does not reply for a long moment, long enough that you have to avert your gaze from his.
“Nah,” he finally says, and you don’t think you’re imagining the low, sultry note in his voice. “She wants it bad as he does.”
You scowl, uncomfortably perceived, and return your binoculars—the pair is still facing off, gurgling and growling at each other. The female is slim, almost sleek, unlike most of the other seals populating the rookery.
“Is she sick?” you ask.
“Hm? Oh, no, she’s alright. The mums lose a lot of weight when they nurse. Takes three weeks, and they don’t eat in the meantime.”
“Jesus.”
“Be nice if the dads ever brought ‘em a bite, aye?” Johnny agrees. “Deadbeats, the lot of them.”
The two of you survey the colony in silence for a moment. As the morning wears on, the cloud covering thins overhead, allowing cool sunlight to filter through. The temperature doesn’t rise in response; begrudgingly, you tug Johnny’s jacket a little tighter around you.
Then, suddenly, his hand lands on your back, between your shoulder blades.
“Got some pups over there,” he says. “Look, by the kelp.”
You find them; smaller bodies, white dinged with wet sand and dirt, lounge near their mothers or wriggle with aimless difficulty. They’re fluffy and round as plush toys, with shining black eyes and noses, and once Johnny’s pointed them out you can differentiate the higher, sweeter pitch of their cries from the overall cacophony.
“Sometimes,” Johnny murmurs, “search and rescue’ll get called out because someone thought they heard a baby crying. Some kid stranded or lost, right? Turns out to be a baby seal.”
“That’s kind of scary,” you say.
“Aye,” says Johnny. “Always makes me think that’s where the old legends come from, about seal people or mermaids.”
A small ways away, some of the mothers lay with their pups far into the surf, letting the waves break over them. You watch as one mother thunks her large head overtop of her pup’s as the water rushes toward them; the pup wriggles, and then, as the wave engulfs them, it begins to thrash, whipping up a panicked froth.
“Time for swimming lessons already?” Johnny muses. “Seems early.”
You’re horrified. “She’s going to drown it!”
The hand still on your back pats you consolingly. “Just watch,” says Johnny.
The wave reaches as far up the shore as gravity allows, and then begins to recede. The pup’s thrashing calms as the air meets its face once again; the cow allows the pup to lift its head, and after a few sputters, the pup seems no worse for wear.
“They’re hardier than they look, bonnie,” Johnny says.
His hand, heavy and warm even over his borrowed jacket, slides down from your shoulders to your lower back, and then he rubs, slowly, side to side, as if to comfort you—but the knobs of your spine contract at his touch.
“Last of the births this season, looks like,” he says. “Mum’s getting ready to leave—probably not the only one.”
Something hard drops into your stomach.
“They leave their babies?” you ask.
“Aye. Once they’re done nursing, they mate, and then they go.”
You look back at the other cows with their pups. One baby has its muzzle to its mother’s belly, quivering and suckling, while she lays with her head on a patch of grass. She looks uninterested—more, she looks disinterested. As if how voraciously her pup is nursing has nothing much to do with her, and she’s bored of even having to think about it.
Bored—and already looking forward to the next part of her life without a baby in it.
“That’s horrible,” you say.
“They’re solitary animals, bonnie,” Johnny says, not ungently. “The only time they’re really all together is for this.”
A line tightens between your stomach and throat, and you feel it start to build between your ribs. A tremor—foreshocks. The wind picks up, bringing a sharp chill off the ocean and up the rise that cuts into your stinging eyes, abrades the naked skin of your hands and the exposed part of your neck.
When you look through your binoculars again, you wonder how many of the pups you see have already been abandoned.
“Aw, bonnie,” Johnny says. There’s a kind of pity in his voice that has your hackles raising.
“I want to leave,” you say, yanking away from his touch and shuffling down the incline. “Take me back to the cottage.”
“Bonnie, it’s okay!” Johnny protests, rolling to his back to look at you as you stand. “The pups make it, they figure out how to fend for themselves.”
You glare at him, vision blurring. “All of them?”
Some part of you knows you’re being irrational—knows that nature is a cruel home, and that many children face worse fates than the seal pups. Abandoning the young, the needy, is no aberration; it is, in fact, far more the standard than the human practice, which lingers for decades—
Most of the time.
Johnny has no response. He holds your angry gaze, brows drawn low, mouth pressed into a thin line. It’s the first time that cocky aura, which seems to rest in every fine line on his face and every angle at which he holds his body, is completely absent.
He isn’t reflecting your anger back at you, though—he’s internalizing it. Letting it hit him, you think, and trying to use it to figure you out.
You do not want to be figured out.
You scoff again. “Take me back,” you repeat, and then you start walking in the direction you came, without waiting for him to follow.
Johnny drops you off in the cove, and thankfully does not linger this time before he departs—he bids you farewell after rowing you to shore, contemplation on his face, and then leaves you to yourself.
You retreat, seeking the cottage’s empty quiet.
As you perch on the couch you listen to the radiator hum—the wind blow over the reeds in the thatch roof—your own heart beating a drum in the arteries of your neck.
Percussive. Quick and hard. Like heavy knockers on a door. Pounding as if to burst through.
You realize you’re still wearing Johnny’s jacket, and you throw it off, disgusted with yourself. You get up and pace, and try to ignore it lying in a heap on the floor.
You do something you swore you wouldn’t do the moment you set foot on the island—you turn your phone back on.
True to Johnny’s word, there’s no signal. You picked this island, this part of the world, for a reason; for the past several years, a slow exodus from the British isles has vacated the need for dedicated cell towers or satellite or internet access, especially given that the only ones who remain are too old now to want it or need it or know how to use it.
It’s isolated. Cut off. Left behind by anyone with better options, and only clung to by those trying to preserve the only way of life they know.
Some kinder part of you belongs with that demographic; the part that was telling your mother the truth, before getting on the plane.
The rest of you holds your phone up and starts walking around.
In the furthest corner in the bedroom, you find a single bar of signal. A tiny chip of connectivity—a thin, frayed thread. Something you lied to yourself about cutting.
It’s a weak connection. Unstable. It could take a while—you stand there, waiting.
The screen dims. You tap it again.
Blank.
You unlock it, look through your apps. Wonder if maybe your notifications are bugged by your new SIM card.
Nothing—
No one.
You whip around and, with a cry, pitch the thing at the far wall—it hits the stone with a crunch, falling to the floor in pieces.
You’re out of the cottage then in a mad dash, door slamming behind you, driving yourself back into the wind. Far away—you want to be far away, far from everything, so far that nothing could possibly reach you. You trudge down the path toward the beach, banding your arms across your chest, shivering in the cold, and yet you hardly feel it.
Not worth it. No point. Waste of your time. Energy. All of it. Stop trying. Stop wanting. Nothing. Nothing. You want nothing.
You’re halfway down to the shore, not really knowing what you’re going to do when you get there, when you catch sight of a body on the sand.
You gasp, a sharp breath down your larynx, and freeze in a dead halt.
The body is completely still.
A swimmer? A diver? It’s dark, like it just pulled itself out of the ocean—or washed up—
Then, it moves. A twitch, a ripple across its bulk, and your chest rapidly decompresses.
A seal. It’s a large seal, lounging alone on the beach.
You stand motionless. You’re very close—much closer than you and Johnny had been at the rookery. You hadn’t contended with the sheer size of the animals, tucked safely up and away from them, but there is no illusion of distance now.
It’s the biggest one you’ve seen today, you’re sure of it. Bigger, you think, than most adult men. Its pelt is a riot of every shade of grey, splashy, like liquid paint thrown across a canvas. Black speckles scatter overtop of marbled white and cool slate, and down the center of its back is a broad, dark line, soft at the edges, which reaches all the way up to the top of the seal’s head.
The bull—it must be male—turns over. It lifts its head, and opens its eyes—
Fear suddenly zips up your spine as it looks right at you.
You stumble backward and trip on your own feet, landing hard on your ass. Johnny’s care with keeping enough distance from the colony rushes back to you, along with the warring couple’s bared teeth.
They can’t move that fast on land, right? They aren’t interested in people, right?
You scramble backward. It’s so much bigger than you ever would have imagined. If it got to you—threw itself over you—it could crush you with its weight alone—
The bull watches you placidly. Unperturbed.
You pause.
Its small eyes are dark and glossy—watchful and focused. The whiskers on its muzzle twitch a little as it takes you in. It breathes, deeply and evenly, huge body expanding and contracting at a slow, calm tempo. Its—his—nostrils flex, widening and narrowing, as he blinks docilely.
Unafraid.
If anything—curious.
Then he snorts, and wriggles in place. It startles a laugh out of you, more reaction than humor. Still watching you, the bull lowers his head back down, resting it again on the sand.
Your heartbeat abates. He doesn’t move again—nor does his attention leave you. Slowly, you sit up.
Wary. No sudden movements.
He doesn’t react; only continues to watch you.
You draw your knees up. Wrap your arms around your shins, and dust a bit of sand from your leggings. Rest your chin in the crevice between your knees.
There’s an intelligence in the bull’s eyes that is fathoms deep. There is a massive gulf between his experience of the world and yours, millennia of evolution separating your species from his—and yet…as you hold his gaze, you recognize the look in it.
Him, seeing you. And seeing you see him. The pendulum swinging between awareness of each other, and recognition of that shared awareness.
An empty space in the cloud cover passes overhead; sunlight touches the earth, warms it briefly before disappearing again. You wonder a little why this bull isn’t with the other seals.
Johnny would probably know.
“I didn’t come for you, you know,” you grumble at him.
The seal blinks. Awareness notwithstanding, you don’t share any language.
You sigh. “I guess you didn’t come to see me either,” you say.
But you don’t move away.
And you stay like that for a long while, you and he—regarding each other as the wind breathes out across the shore.
next
a/n: follow for more seal facts™
Also huge thanks to Lev for trawler listings/info. Didn't explore it much this chapter but Soap's boat will show up more soon :)
#soap x reader#soap x you#john soap mctavish x reader#john soap mctavish x you#john soap x reader#john soap mactavish x reader#soap mactavish#john soap mactavish x you#soap mactavish x reader#soap mctavish#john soap mactavish#mwritessoap#madi writes#am i happy with the photos i used? no#am i going to make an effort to change them? also no#does that image of a whirlpool look terribly erotic? oh yes#selkie soap#peristalsis
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FORGETTABLE AU: CHAPTER TWO
[MASTERPOST][PREVIOUS CHAPTER][NEXT CHAPTER] PAGES:
73-77 , 78-81 82-85 , 86-89
#FINALLY FINISHED THIS DRAWING OH IT IS SOOO GOOD TO DRAW ON MY COMPUTER AGAIN#THE DRAWING TABLET IS SO MUCH BETTER THAN MY REGULAR TABLET#OKAYY#I really like how the drawing turned outtttt#LOOK AT PAPYRUS#HE LOOKS AMAZING#ONE OF MY BEST PAPS#hehehe#something I thought about while drawing this:#It's very funny that Papyrus kind of exist because of Wingdings' mistake#and then#Flowey kind of exists because of Alphys' mistake#AND THEY'RE ALL HERE ON THIS DRAWING#wow..........#I am so bad at making grid floors#I did not check if the perspective of those squares is correct LMAO#forgettable-au#undertale au#undertale#gaster#papyrus#papyrus is gaster#flowey#alphys#This cover looks so good I want to remake the other oneeesss AUGGHHHHHHH#I CANT KEEP DOING THAT THO....
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drew some of my fav ody designs! wasnt originally meant to be also replicating the styles but thats sort of just how my brain works. except i didnt copy the lineart styles of anyone here so its DEFINITELY a bit uncanny for a couple of these (LOOKING AT YOU QINNY IM SO SORRY) but whatever
the designs featured here (from left to right) belong to: me, @gigizetz, @neal-illustrator, @irunaki, @bigidiotenergytm, @qinnyanimation, and @foopsie-daisy
#WAUGHHH IM SO NERVOUS TAGGING PEOPLE COOLER THAN ME#HEAD IN HANDS HEAD IN HANDS I NEED TO STOP PANICKING OVER STUFF LIKE THIS#bc like I KNOW THEYRE JUST PEOPLE. I WOULD BE SO HYPE IF SOMEONE DREW MY ODY ID LOVE TO BE TAGGED IN THAT.#BUT WHAT IF I AM SHOT. WITH A GUN. gfrdfvb vfrdedrf#i am a very normal non anxiety having person i swear guys#worst thing i did here was have odys hands very visible for the qinny one. because i didnt realize the way they draw hands is very realisti#BUT THEIR WHOLE STYLE HAS REALLY REALISTIC ANATOMY I SHOULVE KNOWN#irunakis style is SO fun to draw in bc its a lot like some of my older art so its very familiar yk yk i wasnt worrying too much about makin#-things accurate. but i think that accidentally made me too comfortable and so i ended up straying a bit too much#i think a lot of irunaki and qinnys styles specifically is in the lineart. so me using my normal style of lines makes them less recognizabl#anyways. neals odysseus i have shit talked in private (its a good design it just feels uncanny w/ jorges voice to me) but hes really-#-interesting to draw. i wanna do style studies on neal their characters have a very. idk animated feels like the wrong word but like.#something like animated. feeling to them. theyre very distinct in shape i wanna do studies thats it#bigidiotenergy i found this morning while FINALLY looking at cloudysseus art and instantly fell in love w their design#i need to ruffle his hair. hes so silly. absolutely incredible design. but GOD was the style a nightmare#it was too late id already comitted to trying to replicate the styles. but ohhh my god its so far from my own it was so hard#theres so much detail in places i dont normally put any at all#and its like. WAUGH its scary i need to do anatomy studies in general maybe#uhh havent commented on the gigi one. he was really easy to draw though lol. weirdly enough gigis style was close enough to my current one-#-that i didnt have any trouble whatsoever? and i think its the most accurate too but only because of the lineart styles being similar lol#ALSO NOT TO PLAY FAVORITES BUT FOOP ODYSSEUS IS MY FAVORITE#I LOVE HIMMM I LOVE HIS SILLY SHAPES HE LOOKS LIKE A WEIRD CAT KINDA. HE INTRIGUES ME.#my ody feels kinda lame next to all these guys gbfdefgbf#but oh well. hes ingrained into my mind now i cant change him at this point /silly i am actually happy w him but i might make changes#thaats thoughts on all of the odys here. anyways art tags time#doodles#odysseus#epic the musical#OH MY GOD EDIT I FORGOT TO DRAW FOOP ODYS SHOES. HEAD IN HANDS. IM SO SORRY
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