#new yolk Shadow

[kiko-klept]

Shadow, Crow, and Bark all hanging out!

AU! After the events of Prime, the Shadow variants hang out together often.

Bark is chill, Crow is easily irritable, and Shadow simply enjoys watching the chaos unfold.

[the-sky-queen]

Momentum doodles!!!! (Featuring Render!)

[sundooisagoose]

I think the worst part of prime is the lack of world building

so I’m gonna world build for them :)

this is actually the thing that got me hyperfixated on Sonic anyways, so might as well

[lore-of-mobius]

Inconsistencies Of Sonic Prime Part 4

Part 3

So Shadow using a Chaos Emerald is unaffected by the Paradox Prism with no explanation to why, but regardless just like Sonic this seems to have resulted in his lack of alternate versions of him. So with the Shatter Spaces most notably New Yolk seemingly being the Sonic world but different in the absence of Sonic wouldn't that have applied to Shadow as well?

In other words how does the Chaos Council exist without Shadow? The reason I say this is because it is now currently being heavily implied that the events of Space Colony and what happened to Maria, majorly impacted the Robotnik family. From there affecting Eggman possibly being a major cause for his villainy. So in the absence of Shadow and by extension Project Shadow shouldn't things have played out much differently?

[infinity-tippy]

Finally finished watching the last season of Sonic Prime! I think my favorites are Rusty Rose and Shadow

[aesrot]

girls when theyre so incredibly tired but they cant stop putting the characters in situations....

[aromantic-shadow]

Predictions for season 1c:

Dramatic breakup in the rain, Sonadow edition

Repercussions for Nine. That was clearly an emotional moment- he trusts and cares about Sonic, that’s clear, and he was hurt. It’ll be interesting to see how that affects him out of the heat of the moment.

Sonic character growth. Understand that they’re different people

The Eternity of Darkness

Sonic and Nine making up

[sprucelogsarepeak]

in regards to the new season I think there is only one way to make me excited about many many robot fights and that is to have shadow the hedgehog kick some ass in it

[comicaurora]

hi, you seem to be drawing a lot. can you please tell me, will drawing ever become easy? or is it always a struggle?

(because for me, drawing seems like a neverending fight against artblock, and at this point, i start wondering if it's not really artblock, but instead it's just the reality of art making)

It's not so much that it becomes easy. It's more that you'll find new things about it that are hard.

Art will never become effortless because you will start finding new challenges to wrangle with, but the act of wrangling them is a good part of the fun. Finding new visual effects you struggle to capture or comprehend the shape of, let alone put down on paper. You might start off struggling to render shadows on a figure, and then as you progress you start wondering how to do shadows of foliage, or caustics of light projected through water, or how glowing eyes would cast shadows on a face, etc. New complexities reveal themselves as old struggles are mastered.

If you're struggling with something that feels like artblock, the problem might not be in your hands, but in your eyes. What to draw is at least as much of a challenge as how to draw it. If you notice your eyes snagging on small details or vistas and you catch yourself trying to work out how to capture that effect, that's your artist eyes at work, and the better you get, the weirder your artist eyes will make you.

There's an exercise my mom recommends that she got from her old teacher: three life drawings a day. Of anything - a chair, a glass of water, a tree, someone's dog, your own hand. I think this is less about honing your techniques and more about honing your eyes, training them to snag on everyday things and observe their complexities, the nuances, the way they really look, not just the way you think of them looking.

When you're a kid and you're drawing your first landscape, it's probably a house and a tree under a yellow sun in a blue sky. The tree looks like a lollipop, the house looks like a box with a hat, the sun is an egg yolk surrounded by lines, the sky is the bluest crayon you have. Maybe it has fluffy clouds in it if you were thinking ahead, cuz it's hard to draw white crayon or pencil over already blue drawings. This hypothetical drawing is a pure manifestation of art without artist's eyes; it is made entirely of what you understand things to look like, not how you see them. No real tree looks like a green lollipop. The sun is a blazing white ball that shades half of the dome of the sky in painfully bright white, and the sky is only blue in the loosest sense - even without clouds or sunsets confusing things, the sky will always fade to a lighter shade closer to the horizon. It is never uniform blue. Clouds usually look like shredded cottonballs around the edges, not fluffy rounded boubas.

This awareness extends to more complicated things. We know glass is clear. When we draw something made of glass, how can we capture that clarity? Do we just draw the outline, maybe some token specular highlights to show that it's catching the light? Or do we render the way it bends and distorts the image passing through it? We know gold is yellow and shiny; do we draw it as a yellow sparkly thing, or do we capture how it reflects the space around it? We know that water is blue and reflective. Do we draw it like we would draw a shiny blue car? Do we render a glass of water like a blue raspberry icee?

Actively perceiving the world as it is takes work and practice, but it's a vital component in all art - even completely fantastical art that is not at all drawn from life references. Skin has a particular luminosity to it, subcutaneous scattering of light that is inobvious if you just know that Skin Looks Like A Color. Even if you're painting a goblin or a mermaid or a centaur, capturing how the light hits their skin can make the difference between them looking like an action figure and looking like a living thing. If you're painting a landscape that isn't earth, it helps to have observed what earth's clouds and atmosphere really look like, how they catch and scatter the light. You have to know the rules in order to break the rules.

I can honestly say it never gets easy, but it does become a lot of fun, and if you're currently struggling to find the fun of it, it will get better the more you hone your eyes.

[sonadowcentral]

First of all: OMGOMGOMG I LOVE UR ART STYLE SHES BEAUTIFUL AND IM ENVIOUS OF YOUR CLEAR TRAD ART

Ahem. Part 2

Sorry I'm a little slow. So. To recap.

-none of the characters are from OG verse except Eggman and Sonic

-these new characters have been in New Yolk City for a considerable amount of time

-they, including shadow, don't know their og counterparts.

-We should not consider Sonic Primes characters of New Yolk to have any bearing on this au.

-in the first comic, when Sonic says "we should beon the same side", he means "against Eggman".

|

--> I thought "on the same side" meant the original shadow and Sonic (from the TV show) were in this au. Perhaps Shadow was the one sent to New Yolk and Sonic was in the shatter space, perhaps for years. So shadow changed with the times and when Sonic came back he's already accustomed to the new life , which is why Sonic is like "ur not the shadow I know 🙄🙄🙄 (I see now that I'm wrong lol)

Thanks for this au it's good food ,🙏🙏

Hellooooo and thank youuuu :D

As for your understanding of the au:

Yes, Eggman and Sonic both had their hands on the prism before everything went to shit. Eggman only had ONE of the shards, while Sonic managed to get knocked into the shatterspace with the rest of them.

The characters in New Yoke barely had time to enjoy Green Hills before Eggman took over, so most of the younger cast grew up in a shit hole.

Sonic is the anomaly, so yes, he's the only one who knows the counterparts of the people in New Yoke. No one else knows and just has to take Sonic's words to an extent.

This au is canon divergent in almost every single was except for the basic premise. I'm going wild with whatever I wanna do :D

Sonic had a little bit of information about Shadow's past before they actually met (this will be addressed in the fic), so he was under the impression that since Shadow was in the resistance at some point, they should be working together.

Keep in mind for those first two short comics though, Sonic has limited context as to what had occurred before he arrived in New Yoke and wasn't aware that Shadow had left the resistance, so Shadow's more seemingly selfish actions were all the more shocking to him.

EDIT: I’m correcting that last point just a little bit! Sonic isn’t aware of the resistance when he’s captured so yeah he’s just assuming Shadow should be on his side since he’s one of the only familiar faces left in New Yoke 😓 I don’t know how that slipped my mind it was LITERALLY IN MY NOTESSSS

[definitelynotshouting]

your half of the ransom

inspired by this post and scar's tweets about secret life :] i speedran this just in time for the first eps of the new season to drop!! as always likes and reblogs and especially comments in the tags are appreciated❤️ enjoy!!

Scar wakes to a field of sunflowers.

The sun itself is a swollen yolk bleeding gold at its edges when he blinks, cascading down from the horizon to melt over the earth with indiscriminate fervor. It dips the petals of each field-flower in honey, honing their silhouettes to supple knife-points— even the soil beneath him, packed firm from countless nights of sleep, has burnished to a fine, patinated bronze. In the amber of its rays stray pebbles transmute to pyrite, the subtle scrabble of roots to filigree, and caught in the open mouth of such gaudy resplendence, Scar digs an elbow into the dirt and hauls himself, reluctant, back to his own unsteady feet.

Even at full height the sunflowers still tower, blocking all signs of hearth and home. But the sun (popped, bleeding, all gored-out gold in the upturned belly of the sky) remains his guide— Scar picks his legs up in a faltering stumble to follow it before catching rough fingers against the stalk of a nearby sunflower. He flinches; this early, it's too easy to perceive each stalk as part of a swarm, a yellowed panoptic presence bearing down on the world-weary muscles of his shoulders.

Their seeds will need harvesting soon. Scar hums, a match-strike against unyielding silence, and casts his gaze back to the sun above to orient himself in the direction of his base.

Until they're ready, he has nowhere else to be.

Trader Scar's is too-empty for so comely a morning, a hollowed-out shell long rebuilt and bristling with more wares than he has those to sell them to. But it's a familiar charade— Scar slips into the back with a single sunflower clenched tight in his palm, bruising the petals and scratching against the insides of his fingers. He changes in rapid, efficient motions; last night's poncho is discarded over a nearby chest in exchange for a brighter one, yellow wool lovingly dyed; his hair is released from its tie, combed through, then braided again; the soft leather shoes he'd worn underneath the stars are left to clump by the doorway in favour of far-keener diamond. Worn in but undamaged, the crystal chimes without dents or scratches— there's nothing left to fight here, anymore.

When Scar steps back out to the front, a ghost is waiting patiently for him at the counter.

Or— the ghost of a ghost, if he's being generous. The outline of a shadow, the flicker of a distant mirage. "Oh," Scar says, and the word scrapes like rust from the well of his throat. He'd recognize those wings anywhere. "Well, hello there, Grian."

Grian's filmy outline says nothing. They never do, when the shades appear for a rare visit. The barrier between living and dead remains a clear divide, a gorge through which Scar cannot pass— all that's left between them now are the soft, faded echoes of what was, and what it could have been.

Still, in the year he's spent here, that's never deterred him from a potential sale. Scar props a hip up against the counter, eyeing the flickering shadow and mustering up his best imitation of an enthusiastic smile. "So what brings you out here to my neck of the woods? Looking for something to buy? Some fine goods to trade, perhaps? Man, I don't think I've seen you around in a dog's age. How about some catching up?"

The back of his neck prickles, electric; Grian's shade is a stygian blot in his vision, a fuzz of static that extends its presence from floor to ceiling. His ghost keeps his silence.

Scar tugs his smile wider, flashing two rows of bright, gleaming teeth in Grian's direction until the strain threatens to choke him. "No? Not even a little bone for ol' Scar? Well, tell you what, don't you go standing on su— se— oh, ceremony! Come in, come in! You make yourself at home, you know how I just love a visitor— how about I make us a drink to share and you tell me where in the world you've been, mister."

He doesn't bother waiting for a non-existent reply; instead, Scar swoops down to snag his fingers against the cupboard he'd installed within the counter months ago, fumbling with the latch before throwing its doors wide open with a gust of musty air. Inside, an eclectic mix of quite high-quality wares and some of Scar's own humble belongings tangle, speckled with cobwebs and the first faint stirrings of freshly disturbed dust.

Scar purses his lips, eyeing each item in turn. A nautilus shell here, a few scraps of wood there, some glass bottles, the handle of a ladle he'd cracked over six months back.... Squinting, he thrusts his hand deep into the mess, sweeping the items aside and shuffling new ones into view until— there!

Toward the back lies a dented iron kettle, brittle with disuse. Scar snaps forward, straining out his arm until the tips of two fingers meet the edge of its dusty wooden handle. With a grunt, he flicks it closer, wincing at the shrill scrape of iron on wood as it inches toward him.

SCAR.

It is not a voice. No mere voice can resonate a single word like that in his chest, trembling in his bones and drumming out from the chambers of his very heart. Like a ripple on the still surface of a lake, it rattles through him, scattering each thought to the far corners of his mind and stripping him raw, flaying open his ribs to splay beneath the scorching sun. The yelp that bubbles up to his lips flies past them unbidden, rocketing out with such force that he jolts, and rams his skull straight into the overhanging lip of the counter.

White-on-red sparks, a cherry-hot bolt of fire centered on his crown. "OW! Oh, oh my gosh, I-I— Grian?"

None of the shades haunting him and this server have spoken. They've never spoken. They've never— so why now, when he's made his peace with that—

Scar wets his lips, tongue dry as desert bone, and drags the kettle out of the cupboard with one quick yank. Clutching it to his chest, he rises back up on shaky feet, holding it up as if to ward off an incoming attack. Some shield; its hollow interior reverberates with a screech when he raps his knuckles against it. "Now— now hang on, mister, you can't just— you— oh my gosh, I-I think you just made my heart stop there for a second." A bracing breath. Two. "Y-You can't just shock a man in his own home like that! You...."

Scar trails off. The misty impression hovering on the other side of the counter remains impassive, impersonal— this is not the Grian he knows.

The Grian he knew.

Deep within the static writhe of his shade, the after-image burn of greyed-out eyes begin to squirm to the surface. Scar flicks his gaze back to the kettle with instinctive, long-honed deference, staring hard into the distorted lines of his own reflection.

YOU WON. Once again the words rip something vital in him, boil up through his veins to tear themselves, wet and coppery, on the limp meat of his tongue. Scar risks a peek up, lump hanging heavy in his throat; each syllable comes out as a squeak, threatening to crack the smooth silver of his voice.

"I— yep, I sure did! I sure did, and— thank you very much, for noticing! I, uh, I still don't know how I did that, what with— oh, you know how it is, with, with the, uh, the— friends situation, how that all panned out. Y'know, actually, I wonder if that's wh—"

The eyes blink at him, asynchronous and blank. Hollow. In the heartbeat it takes for them to train back on his own, a soul-wrenching wave of gooseflesh ripples up over Scar's arms.

He whirls himself away so fast his vision spins. "So, uh— tea! You like tea, right Grian?" Without ceremony Scar scrambles to the other side of the room, forcing the counter still between them, every nerve in his body winding tighter, tighter, kinetic energy in a bottle. "How about, um, a—" he rifles through a new cabinet, clumsy with frenzy— "oh, shoot, now where did I put that— I've got some, uh, some dandelion root! Hand roasted by yours truly, of course. Not that anyone else could do it now, but— oh, oh, and look at the lavender, now that's just delicious, you've gotta try it, G, I know you'll just absolutely love it."

Silence. Scar's hand pauses, braced tight on the handle of the cabinet.

"Grian," he says, slow, quiet. Lets the words drift up, shining soap bubbles, to pop against the ceiling. "Why— what are you doing here?"

To his credit, Grian is direct. IT'S TIME.

Without permission, Scar's fingers tighten around the handle of the cabinet. "It's— what? Wait, wait—" He blinks. Does not turn around. "Time for what?"

Silence.

Scar licks his lips, worrying at the split still stinging at the right hand corner. "Time for what, Grian?"

The distinct pall of burning ozone scalds through the air. Tentatively, Scar shoots a glance back down into the kettle, peering at the distinct smudge still smearing the wall behind him. No eyes in its reflection; some of the tension riding in his shoulders loosens, slackens his tendons and begins to uncurl his fingers from the cabinet knob.

Without warning, a wash of ice wisps forward to numb the small of his back. COME HOME, Grian says simply. The words echo in the gap beneath his sternum, drag themselves up each vertebrae in his spine, and Scar freezes stiff, solid.

"This is home," Scar says, blank.

NO.

Some hot ember, banked countless months ago, sparks back to life in the pit of his stomach. "It is," he says, more firmly this time. "It's— that's it. You said it yourself: I won. And I did it fair and square, I'll say. I followed every rule, every task to the— to the nth degree, and... and now I, um." He falters. Grits his teeth until the molars ache. "I get to live with it."

But a sudden chill that has nothing to do with the shade behind him abruptly slips beneath his skin. Hesitantly, still clutching the kettle in one hand like a lifeline, Scar says belatedly: "... Right?"

Despite the sun nearing midday, the temperature around him plummets. NOT ANYMORE.

"Oh," Scar says. The metal surface of the kettles creaks as his second hand joins the first, digging nails into rust and grime. "I— again?"

YES.

"... And what if I don't want to do it again."

He does not phrase it as a question. They both know his answer.

Scar sucks in a sharp shock of air anyway, rattling the kettle against his chest and daubing a blotch of dust over the soft wool of his poncho. "Is—" he bites his lip— "will everyone... be there?"

YES.

Ah. Scar's eyes slip shut of their own accord; behind them, dozens of veins brim over, webs of blood welling up and spilling to slake a thirst so abyssal it could drink and drink for years without satiation.

"... Will you be there?"

For one long, nightmare-eternity, Grian does not reply. Then, a knife between his ribs: YES.

With slow, halting steps, Scar turns. "Okay," he breathes, and drags a hand over his eyes to cloak them both in darkness, and sags back until his skull knocks against the cabinet door with a dull, tender thunk. Each exhale emerges as a series of shaky puffs, damming up his lungs and swallowing all the air in his esophagus. Scar shudders, scrapes his bitten-down nails against iron, and breathes with the roiling of his gut. "... Okay."

When he opens his eyes again, Grian's ghost has vanished.

The spot it occupied is still frigid when he waves a trembling hand through it; Scar inhales, exhales, inhales again. Rinse and repeat, the perfect cycle, the mantra against extraneous thought. Then, solemn and deliberate, he holds the kettle out in front of him, trailing one wandering finger over its dents and bruises, tracing the paths between the known and the new.

"Guess I'll see you there," he tells it, and lifts its grubby handle up in absent toast.

High above, the bleeding sun strikes noon at last. Scar does not harvest the sunflowers.

[the-sky-queen]

A Spark Soaring Down Through the Pouring Rain - Chapter 9 - Sky_Queen - Sonic the Hedgehog - All Media Types [Archive of Our Own]

New chapter!!! AAAAAAAAA!!!! We're in the endgame now everyone. Buckle up. >:)

[mistyresolve]

| Valentines Day - Simon “Ghost” Riley X Reader

Word Count - 1.7K

Summary - What a valentines with Simon might look like.

Tags/Warnings - Established relations, Mentions of the narsty and some heavy petting, interrupted

A/N - welp...it was supposed to be a valentines post but uhhh...I got busy

Masterlist  ❤︎ 

You and Simon had a routine for the mornings. There was an unspoken agreement that the first person to get out of bed was to make breakfast. Since you were both early risers, it was usually a 50/50 chance that you’d be the one making breakfast. Although, you liked it more when Simon cooked. He would die if you told the rest of the 141, but he was a good cook. It was never anything fancy or over the top, but everything he made was delicious. His go-to was the regular bacon, eggs, and toast. He made your eggs just how you liked them—Crispy around the edges and the yolk runny enough to dip your toast into it.    

The clock on your bedside table read 07:17. It was later than you usually woke up, but you and Simon were up late the night before. An “early Valentine's gift,” he had said, before he took you into the bedroom and worshiped your body. Made you a quivering mess beneath him.  

Looking at his sleeping form, you could tell he put his all into it. Into you. 

You couldn’t help the soft smile from your mouth as you brushed his hair back from his face. It was the longest you’d ever seen it, curling at the tips of his ears and furling down his neck. There was no real reason for him to follow the mandatory military cut since no one ever saw it. Although, he claimed he preferred it short because it was more comfortable underneath the mask. 

He looked so calm when he was asleep. Younger even. The worries and stresses that drew lines between his brows didn’t follow him into sleep. Not tonight, anyway. However, no amount of rest would ever be able to erase the dark shadows under his eyes, a permanent mark of exhaustion.        

You slid out from his embrace with utmost care to not stir him awake. He huffed a sigh and shoved his now-empty hand underneath the pillow, subconsciously searching for a new source of warmth, but he didn't wake. You tip-toed into the ensuite, clicking the door shut behind you to quiet the noises of you getting ready for the day. You had a quick shower, washing away the remnants of last night, albeit reluctantly. 

By the time you entered the room again, Simon was sitting over the edge of the bed. Still half asleep and only managing to keep one eye open. He must have opened the curtains at some point because the room was now basking in the morning light. The sunlight climbed up the bed and warmed the sheets. 

“Good morning,” you said as you made your way to stand in front of him. He immediately reached out for you, pulling you between his legs and letting his face rest on your chest. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders and cradled his head into you. With nimble fingers, you combed into his hair. He breathed deeply, groaning, inhaling your fresh, clean scent. 

You stayed like that for a while. Long enough to think he fell back asleep like this, with his arms wrapped around you. You scratched playfully at his scalp to get his attention, “What are you wanting for breakfast?”   

He looked up at you with bleary eyes and shook his head, “I’ll cook this morning. It’s valentines.”      

You leaned back to get a better look at him. “I got up first, and you’ve already given me my gift.”

“Mhm,” he straightened and came to life at the hint of a dispute, “That wasn’t all I was intending to give you.” 

You rolled your eyes at him, “I’m serious–” 

He stood and put a hand over your mouth to keep you from arguing further, “I’m serious.”

You pulled your head from his grasp. “Okay,” you said, searching for a compromise he would accept. “What if you make the food and I make the coffee?” 

He played with the still-wet strands of your hair, twirling it around his finger and letting it fall into a curl, “Hmm, sure.” 

You padded after him into the kitchen, oogling his bare, muscled back all the way. Noting the symmetrical red lines that were etched into his back. Something akin to pride burned in your chest, and you bit your lip to keep a smile from spreading across your face. 

You press a single button on the coffee machine and let it run. Then, you sit at the island and watch as Simon starts breakfast. 

He moved with the same grace he did with everything. Every move was thoughtful and calculated, even for something as simple as cracking an egg. 

A devious idea popped into your head. You weren’t that hungry for food.       

“I love it when you moan,” you sighed, pretending the statement was innocent. 

He froze at the stove before spinning on a heel to look at you. His eyes were wide with shock and confusion, “Pardon me?” he said incredulously. 

“You know when my legs are wrapped around your waist, and you're pounding into me,” you slid off the chair and walked around the island, his dark eyes following you, “When you say the dirtiest thing to me, and I tighten around you.”

His graze flashed from you to the stove, then back to you, and narrowed, “What are you doing?”

You took a step forward, locked your fingers behind your back, and pushed your chest up towards him. “I can stop,” you said, tilting your head up to him. He was so tall, and you loved it. If you could climb this man like a tree, you would. 

You could practically see his resolve disintegrating, and he fought to keep his eyes drifting from yours. 

With fingers chilled from the morning air, you slid them up this barren skin. The corded muscle of his abs tightened under your touch, and he tried to cover up his surprise with a chuckle. Only it came out more nervous than he had intended it to. 

He responded to your advances with an enthusiasm that knocked your breath from your lungs. He had his fingers wrapped around the back of your knees, making a noise to signal you to jump up. He gracefully placed you on the island and nestled his hips between yours. With an experimental roll of your hips, you felt his arousal.  

His mouth slanted over yours, and he pulled the hair at the base of your neck to maneuver your head how he needed to. He nipped at your bottom lip before working his way down your neck. You sighed in bliss at the feel of him.   

Behind him, a familiar smell of char wafted from the pan. You were so engrossed in each other that you missed the first few signs of burning food. At the same time, you looked over his shoulder as flames from the propane stove started to lick up the side of the pan. 

Faster than you’d ever seen him move, he was flicking on the fan above the stove and pulling the pan from the heat. You were jumping off the counter and rushing to open the patio door for him. Without a doubt, you were going to brag to everyone who would listen, the scary calm demeanour with which he placed the pan on the concrete stairs.  

He straightened and stared down at the pan. His face was unreadable, and his hands resting on his waist was a comedic scene. He was still shirtless, and his shorts sat low enough on his hips that you could see the waistband of his briefs underneath. 

“Baby,” you said slowly, trying to hide the humour. You walk to stand in front of him and obscure the view on the pan.  “It’s okay. I didn’t really want eggs anyway.”  

The pan had followed you and been by your side throughout your college days. It had been the only pan you had for years after. A go-to. It made perfectly crispy chicken and the most incredible sauces. 

“It’s okay,” you patted his chest and pressed a chaste kiss to one of the myriad scars that scattered across his skin. “We’ve got leftovers." You couldn’t help but smile at him. 

As you reach the fridge, the tips of his ears turn bright red—a telltale sign of embarrassment, rare as it is. You pause, your suspicions rising at his reaction. “What?” 

He just shook his head and pursed his mouth, gesturing with his hand for you to open the fridge. 

Confused, you slowly opened the door, the light from inside flipping on. 

A bouquet. A very large bouquet that took up half of the bottom shelf. You noticed he must have had to shift the shelves above it to fit it in there without damaging any stems or petals. It was a breathtaking arrangement of white and light purple flowers and an assortment of greenery.

”Simon,” you whispered in awe, reaching for the vase.

”I-uhh,” he shifted uncomfortably on his feet, “Yesterday was the only time I could pick it up. But I wanted to have something to give you today, so the florist told me to find a fridge to put them in to keep them as fresh as possible. I was going to give them to you after breakfast was done. " He jerked his chin to the patio. Well, it is done. I done it to death, actually.” 

You set them out on the island, and the sun crawling across the marble made the colours pop. You clamped your mouth shut, realizing you were gapping. You had never received such a large bouquet before. Spinning the vase to fully examine the flowers, you found the card nestled into the greenery.  

A little card, and all he had written on it was ‘Simon’

Not ‘Love, Simon’ or ‘Happy Valentin’s’. 

Just ‘Simon’

You turned back to him and grabbed his face before diving in for one last kiss, “My god, I love you.” 

Masterlist

A/N - Happy late valentines

[luveline]

hi jade <3 can you pls write an “idiots in love” scenario between fem!reader and peter. something really gushy and fluffy <333

hi baby <3 I'm really sorry I think I may have misunderstood this so they're idiots in love but they aren't together yet !! fem!reader, 1k

Peter's dragging you by the hand through the crowd like one might dangle a carrot on a stick, though you aren't sure what it is he's hoping to attract in the sticky floored Burger King you're dominating. 

"Coming through!" he shouts, shouldering past people in a way that isn't strictly polite. 

You're laughing so hard your waist aches and the tether of your hand is a necessary precaution to stop you collapsing into a baby stroller. The greasy bag of your spoils quivers with a paper crunching as it whacks some poor bystander in the arm, your "Sorry," a swallowed shout in the busyness. 

Finally, you arrive at your destination. Broken crayons and tear away colouring pages splayed messily over a table hidden in the corner of the room, and there, nestled between the chaos, a precious diamond in the rough, lays the true purpose of your visit to such a fine dining establishment on such a hot summer's day. The Burger King crowns lay in their pop put forms, thick printed card stock. 

"They were more impressive when we were kids," you say.

"They're rustic." Peter drops your hand and gathers up way more crowns than you. "Understated. Humble, even." 

"Yeah," you say, giggles emerging once again. 

Peter tucks the crowns into your bag and you leave the way you came through herds of disgruntled New Yorkers and out into the summer heat, dipping into shadows as the glaring yolk of sun dips behind a skyscraper. Peter leads you deep into a cold alleyway and fiddles with the shooter at his wrist. 

"You're sure you won't drop me?" you ask, taking the paper bag of burgers and cradling it against your chest like a child. 

"You think you're so heavy," Peter complains, wrapping an arm around your waist. 

"I am heavy, Pete. A normal guy could pick me up, much less carry me onto a rooftop." 

"I'm not a normal guy." Chest to chest, Peter gives you a shameless smirk. "Hold on tight. I won't drop you, but if you drop even a single French fry, I'll be tempted." 

"Don't even joke about thAT–" your words turn to a breathless hoot as Peter thwicks his wrist upward and the two of you careen through the air. 

"It's alright!" Peter shouts. 

"Woah woah woah!" you shout back, strangling him as you try to climb up his arms and away from the bottomless air below you. Another thwick and you climb higher. A swing that takes the air out of your lungs ends with a jogging stop on a gravel rooftop. "Woah, I'm gonna chuck up." 

Peter rubs between your shoulders. "You always say that." 

"I'm dying." 

"Don't crouch like this, you're begging to be sick." 

Peter helps you up, close and smelling like all things nice. Laundry detergent from a stickler of a laundry sheriff, deodorant and aftershave and the sweet burned sugar smell of his unwise experiments. 

The rooftop is one you've come to before, wide, abandoned, but outfitted with two camping chairs that can be dragged into or out of the sun depending on what half you sit on. You drag your chairs into the sun once your nausea has abated and sit down, Burger King bag in your lap. Peter peels the straps of your tote down enough to grab your unmanufactured crowns, his fingertips summoning an odd shyness from you while they touch you. He's familiar to the point of seamlessness, usually; you and Peter may as well be one person. But now every close encounter, each gentle hand on your skin, is demarcated by a fizzy excitement you can't ignore. 

Peter hooks his chair with an ankle blindly, dragging it under his butt as he sits and pops crowns from their cardstock holdings. He guesses the sizing for your head, and props a golden crown on your head while you retrieve his cheeseburger. It slips down your nose. 

"Woah," Peter murmurs, leaning in to nudge it back up. He looks you right in the eye, close enough to kiss. "Hi there." 

"Hello, good sir," you say, eyeing his own crown. 

"Your majesty," he corrects. 

"Your majesty. Take your burger." 

"Where are my fries?" 

"The crown suits you, I think, considering you're a royal pain. Give me five seconds and I'll give you your fries, jerk." 

Peter's eyes squint gently closed in a slow blink, eyebrows raised. "Jerk. Nice. You're a royal dick." 

"Nice!" You pass him his fries, and the ketchup dip. "We should've got milkshakes." 

"Then you really would throw up." 

"You're probably right," you say, leaning back into the chair, the sun warming your cheeks like a lingering kiss. You tip your head back to eat a handful of soggy fries, salt like an explosion on your tongue. 

"Christ," Peter says, fries in one hand, burger in the other, "they're trying to give us heart disease!" 

"I was thinking the exact same thing," you laugh. 

Peter nods, pleased to be on the same wavelength, and curls your legs together, elbows bumping as you eat with all the laziness of rich people poolside at the country club. The subtle crunch of fries, the crinkling paper bag held under your foot to stop from flying away on the breeze. New York doesn't need anymore litter. 

You give up on your salty fries and Peter doesn't ask, he doesn't need to, polishing them off. His metabolism is enhanced in time with his healing and regenerative abilities, his stomach an endless pit. 

"You should've gotten another burger," you say. 

"You should mind your business." 

"Is it 'cos I was paying?" 

Peter dunks your crown down your face, kisses your cheek, and steals another handful of your fries. "Too slow." 

You laugh and tip your head until the crown falls off. The wind picks it up, and Peter throws his wrist forward without looking, catching it in a web before it can fly off. Burgers, laughter, the flirting sun and an accompanying breeze. Things are perfect. 

You look at Peter as he tries to pull his web from the crown without ruining it. He gives up, grabbing a new one from your tote. 

Well, things are almost perfect.

[blufox234isadumbname]

made some new designs cause i wanted to spice my girls' designs a little

i just kinda wanted to add a little more on teh design i had before, i (simple dress over shirt), its kinda hard to balance casual clothes with gymnast attire but i think its ok. i also added design elements from both her parents slime and mariana (mango squares from mariana, apples slices from slime). i ttried to make her based off of apple and mango chutney but i think it kinda loses there. its fine tho i love her very much. she also has matchign friendship bracelet with Tilin ;;;;

codeflippa is basically her design is TOO slime inspired since thats her only parent to focus on. combined with way too much angularity and very wrong details (wrong shirt, no leotard, wrong friendship bracelet on wrong hand, wrong horns, etc.) its like if codie was looking at juana like a mirror. the bottom face showing the jawbone is inspoed from @/alienssstuff 's codeflippa design (its olso where i inspoed the goopy yolk wings and horns) and also in general when she is in shadow her teeth will show (its kinda a nice touch considering iirc mariana's swing was at her head height). she wears mariana's scarf that slime kept in a dusty chest cause he definitely didnt miss him. she puts it on after the first task stream cause she feels the scars are to offputting to slime..

[libbys-braincell-loss]

im kinda curious abt what each universes Sonic would be if Sonic didnt shatter the prism and actually did exist in each universe

heres my take on it!

(No drawings cuz lazy rn, may design some in the future tho)

New Yolk City Sonic:

His name would be Renegade Blur and would take on Sonic's more rebellious personality trait

Blur would work with the rebels and find ways to destroy the Chaos Council

He's not very careful all the time, sometimes a lil bit unlikable but has a golden heart

Has not met Nine - if he were to, he would not really be a huge fan of him

Good close buddies with Knux and Rebel

The two and Blur don't see eye to eye sometimes, but they know he's loyal in his core and can count on him when they depend on him

Is very much aware of his own speed - sometimes he gets too overconfident about how fast he is, and Knux has to humble him occasionally

Hes just a goofy goblin who has no sense of his own mortality

If Sonic and Renegade Blur were to actually meet, they wouldn't get along quite as well at first but the two would be able to cooperate eventually

Boscage Maze Sonic:

His name is Quill and would take on Sonic's more nervous/defeated tendencies

He would be allies with Prim, Gnarly, Mangey, and Hangry, but in secret would hang out with Thorn to find ways to preserve the forest

Thorn terrifies him, but he respects her and will gladly follow her lead

Loves interacting with animals

As much as he loves being with Thorn, Quill does have to help his friends up above the forest survive

The group trusts Quill the most to retrieve berries and food - Quill finds food for them while Thorn is away, and if Thorn finds him taking food, he is usually able to talk his way out of getting annhilated

He is terrified of being abandoned by his friends

Isn't aware of his own speed, he is a little bit clumsy and will trip over things in the forest so he just doesn't run too fast

Mangey is his bestie and the two vibe together well

If Quill were to meet Sonic somehow, they would get along swimmingly, Quill would be immediately friendly, and if theres any small disagreement between him and Sonic he would feel as if Sonic hates him forever, until Sonic confirms that he doesnt hate Quill and makes him feel better

No Place Sonic:

His name would be Aklesh and would represent Sonic's laid back nature

He would be a part of Captain Dread's crew

Unlike Sonic, Aklesh is not afraid of water, and also loves routine

Unlike the rest of Dread's crew, he is perfectly content with a lazy life at sea, not searching for anything important and throwing parties every day

That doesn't mean he doesn't enjoy being a swashbuckling pirate once in a while, he doesnt hate change in routine, he is just content with living every day the same

Aklesh and the rest of the crew get along swell, he is good friends with Dread and Sails

Somehow isnt aware of his own speed - he's on a small boat all the time and doesn't have any need to run fast

If Aklesh and Sonic were to meet somehow, they would get along pretty well - Sonic would get sick of his constant routine tho, but if Sonic were to encourage Aklesh to fight his enemies, Aklesh would prove to Sonic that he is more fun than he realized

I hope you like the ideas!

If anyone wants one of these for Shadow as well i will gladly deliver - at some point