#the amount of goddamn PASSION

[escuerel]

vanitas doodles... BBS Stage Play took me out man. the actor playing him put their all into it and i was losing my mind

[shitty-check-please-aus]

If you ever have a post that gets a lot of notes and you think “I should see what people are saying in the notes” that’s the devil talking and you shouldn’t listen

[prozac-shaped-urn]

the amount of hours i have spent watching the same four fucking videos of donna fucking murphy sing the same four goddamn songs should be a concerning element of my mental health* but alas i'm by far the most stable i have ever been in my life and i'm beginning to think this whole hyperfixating thing is actually how my brain works when it's lacking in dopamine and should not be a concern at all

*a sign that i'm escaping reality, as that's been my lifelong pattern which i desperately desire to no longer repeat and have been taking active steps in doing away with altogether

[shinobicyrus]

In a Q&A at the Sands International Film Festival in Scotland, Russo and Epic Games chief creative officer Donald Mustard mused about the potential ways that artificial intelligence might aid filmmakers--or just take over filmmaking duties itself.

"Potentially, what you could do with it is obviously use it to engineer storytelling and change storytelling. So you have a constantly evolving story, either in a game or in a movie, or a TV show," Russo went on.

"You could walk into your house and save the AI on your streaming platform. 'Hey, I want a movie starring my photoreal avatar and Marilyn Monroe's photoreal avatar. I want it to be a rom-com because I've had a rough day,' and it renders a very competent story with dialogue that mimics your voice. It mimics your voice, and suddenly now you have a rom-com starring you that's 90 minutes long. So you can curate your story specifically to you."

I don’t know about the rest of you but I cannot think a more nightmarish end game for art than this.

[anantaru]

DAY 29 — nipple play

𖧡 — including — neuvillette, childe, kazuha, heizou

kinktober 2023. — masterlist | ao3

𖧡 — warnings — fem! reader, nipple play, thigh riding, very messy, very teasy and a little mean but we forgive them <3 because they're also cuties

𖧡 — NEUVILLETTE

as if on cue, neuvillette keeps a steady spot on your breasts, flat and soft on top of your nipples as his lips find your neck immediately, passionately sucking on the thin skin before continuing to pinch your tits for a good ten seconds, his hand deliberately slow, teasing as he rolls his knuckles over the buds, featherlight.

you cling on to his chest for your dear life before you're whimpering out a breathy, "feels, feels so good," that slipped over your tongue so very sinfully that you truly accomplished to set him on fire from the inside, no amount of water on this world being able to quench his thirsts, your shallow breathing reaching his exposed collarbones and spurring him on even further.

"go ahead," he hums into your neck appreciatively, guiding his fingers to the spots he knew would make you see literal celestial bodies and determined to make you spiral into your climax, "enjoy yourself,"

neuvillette was quick to slide the flat of his tongue from your neck to your chest, one hand constantly wrapped around your waist so you wouldn't move too much while seated on his lap, however, the other was squeezing at your tits before he abruptly pulls one in his mouth, and you're looking at him with those impassioned eyes— broken pleas with your hips attempting to desperately ride his thigh.

it's frankly, downright impossible to contain your excitement when he circles the tip of his tongue over your reactive nipple now, squeezing the mound in with his hand before groaning into the skin, his voice a little rough, each drag of his hot and skilled muscle making your head spin and thrive off having him so close to you.

but you pull him even deeper into your chest now, it's futile, you fear— you just have to taste him now, you crave him so dearly but neuvillette just wouldn't let go of your chest anymore, smearing the mixture of his saliva across your flesh when he slowly, ever so wonderfully, pops your tit off his mouth with a wet snap before sealing his lips on top of your own, devouring those sweet, high pitched sounds of yours as he hums passionately into you.

𖧡 — CHILDE

"i'm gonna be quick, i promise, fuck— please," childe was turning himself mindless, and it urges him, clouds his eyes with succulent lust as he further loses all remaining composure when becoming one with you.

a continues plethora of mumbling out incoherent words into your neck as his cock pistols in and out, hammers over your ribbed, spongy spots that his skin easily melts into yours— and tonight, he craves all of you, drinks in the passionate whines and sobs and relishes in the way you were clamping down whenever he told you just how easy it was for you to make him lose his goddamn mind.

fuck, you're his singular weakness— childe was very much aware of that bothersome fact, and it was downright frightening to have someone so close be in possession of this much power over his complete mind— despite that, right now it's more exhilarating and pleasurable than actually terrifying, so he lets it go, he ponders, only for now at least.

childe groans into your neck— it's a little hasty, but pretty and angelic that when his whines follow next, you're absolutely done for. he trails his tongue from your neck to your collarbone before settling on his chest, his cock still buried but his pace turns sloppy, a little out of rhythm as he takes one nipple in his warm mouth.

"a-ajax," you gasp, and you're so close, it almost hurts more than it feels good, "ajax, please!"

shattering your nerves at once when he toys with it, moans into your breast and those noises, so heavenly sweet that you ruffle your hands into his hair, your weeping pussy clamping down on his erection as he kisses into your searing spots, again and again, hand in hand with his tongue stroking your nipple while his hand pulls on the other.

𖧡 — KAZUHA

kazuha leans over your lips with his body shadowing above you, your eyes widening when he carefully grinds his clothed erection into your heat before slowing one hand over your chest— and you shudder at the press of his hard length squeezed against your hidden folds, a slight undertone of feverishness battering across your bristling skin as goosebumps bolt all over your spine.

his face pinkens, nearing red when you screw your eyes shut to moan out in pleasure when his lips sealed tightly around your breast, and as tempting as it was to fuck you right here and there, skip this part of foreplay and feel you all warm and wet covering his shaft— kazuha ultimately decides against it, "go on, darling," he encourages you even, glances up at you while kitty licking your bud.

"make me listen to you.. please,"

you gasp quietly, "kazu—" you mewl, "m-more, need— more," squeezing out your trembling hiccups until you can no longer utter out a single word, mewling at the way the tip of his tongue drags over your tits to set the hidden tingles free and let them walk all over your body.

he chuckles darkly, "patience, love," and adds his sharp canines to tease the bud a little, comfortably pressing against the inflamed skin yet not to actually hurt you, of course, rather to spur you on a little, so you'd thrust into his aching erection a little faster, which now, you're more on to hitting his thigh and messily grinding on it.

it's all so messy when you notice your panties sticking in between your folds and his leaky tip almost visible peaking from underneath the waistband, standing tall and aching for you to touch and kiss it.

you mewl at the way the tip of his tongue drags over your tits to set the hidden tingles free and let them walk all over your body.

𖧡 — HEIZOU

"you're so pretty, yeah?"

heizou sighs at you with a cheeky grin, undeniably satisfied with your squirming body wrapped tightly around his waist— and it all happens before you can even register it as he targets your chest, pulling your legs apart further by slanting his complete weight on top of your own, so he could leisurely attach his mouth on to the mounds.

his tongue licks at your nipple, "you know it, right?" he mutters in a low voice, "that you're driving me so fuckin' insane," and before you could come up with an answer at all, he rolls his tongue over the hypersensitive flesh before his fingers sink into your other tit, catching you entirely off guard so your back would arch off the bed and basically squish your tits into his face.

beware, his lips are working slow, do not be fooled— attentively too, in fact, heizou knew what buttons to push to make you lose it, and he's quite mean about it too if you're being honest— you would totally lie to yourself if it didn't make you fume whenever he would overdo it, especially thinking back at multiple times where he had left you begging to fill you up with his cum, almost on the brink of tears from all his teasing luring out the worst, yet also most delicate reactions from you.

your mind was racing wildly when he bit down on your nipple, hollowed his cheeks before sucking up, letting it go with a lewd pop, his enraged erection throbbing painfully against your bare cunt when he thrusts his shaft into your folds hard and punctuated with your fingers scraping against his skull to keep him on your chest forever.

©2023 anantaru's kinktober do not repost, copy, translate, modify

[fizz-pop-thwip]

When Bucky hugged Steve for the first time since he got the serum, they were alone in a tent. They had just got back to the base camp after their miles long walk back from the hydra base and they were both exhausted.

Steve is situating himself around the very nice, fancy tent that he insisted on sharing and Bucky hasn't taken his eyes off him since he saw him from the table he was strapped onto. Steve. Little Steve. Steve who got sick every winter and who's asthma played up every summer. Steve who had been 5'4 and had remained as such since he was 14. Steve who got into too many fights and never won but not once for lack of passion.

Bucky has to say something, because he hasn't been saying anything since escaping the base and now he feels like he's about to boil over. "Steve"

The same big blue eyes he's always known greeted him and were quick to lace with concern. "You okay, Buck?"

And generally speaking no, Bucky was not okay, he'd been experimented on, he'd been taken by the enemy and strapped down to a goddamn table and he couldn't even remember half of what they did to him there.

For all Bucky knows he could drop dead at any moment but he isn't thinking about that, because he's thinking about how Steve is here, in front of him, all 6'2 of him. He's thinking about how the breath exiting his mouth doesn't follow with wheezing, or how he can take the full rib expanding breaths when he needs it without coughing until there are tears forcing themselves out of his eyes.

Bucky steps forward, his hand gently presses against the expanse of Steve's chest. He stops himself from gawking considering the fact you could park an eighteen wheeler on this thing, he even opens his mouth to say just that but then he feels Steve's heart beat, steady and pumping under his palm.

It's only slight considering the amount of muscle and thick bone in the way but he can feel it all the same and it's not stuttering and irregular. It's pumping blood, lots of blood wherever Steve needs it, constantly and in all the right places instead of spending most of its time in the lowest point of the body.

If Steve were to get sick this heart would help him get better instead of having to fight to keep itself working, and his new lungs might get congested but they wouldn't spasm every time he needed a breath of fresh air. Steve won't be laying in bed all winter sick and out of his mind with any and every illness that has always loved making his life a living hell.

Steve is healthy.

And suddenly feeling overwhelmed, Bucky clears his throat and blinks away any escaped liquid from his eyes, which are very pointedly looking towards his hand. Because if he looks up at Steve and sees those blue eyes all concerned, seeing right through him like they always do, he really will loose it.

"You're okay.." He mumbles mostly to himself.

It comes off as a statement more than anything and a choked out one at that but Steve knows, because he always knows what Bucky is trying to get at. He places his hand over Bucky's wrist and just holds him, his hand is steady and must be magical because Bucky grows calm at the touch.

"I'm okay."

Feeling himself falter at the affirmation, he leans in, arms wrapping around the waist he could once circle completely with one arm. But he almost backs out as quickly as he started it, the foreign body giving the wrong signals, like hugging a coworker or a distant relative you see once a decade.

But taking a deep breath to centre himself, Steve smelled like he always did, plus the scent of cheap soap hardly lingering, faded from the long day they both just had.

And when he ran his hands over his back he could feel the familiar humps of his spine and count them all the same. Even Steve's hands find the same spot on Bucky's back as they always used to, where his ribs end and his back start to dip in at the start of his waist.

Bucky can still reach the hair at the base of Steve's head and run his fingers through it like he used to see Steve's ma do when they were young.

Now Steve sighs into the hug and Bucky squeezes tighter since he knows he won't be doing any damage. They stay like that for a long time in their own personal world, the centre of their own solar system, everything else moving around them, floating within their orbit.

When they pull back, Bucky's hands linger on Steve's waist for longer then they should and when he looks up Steve's eyes are so full of admiration but his nose and eyebrows are scrunched up like he's got something to say.

Bucky takes his hands back to his sides. "what?"

"We aren't going to leave each other again, okay?" He says it so sure, like they aren't going to be in the heat of battle every other day but Bucky wants it just as bad as he does so he nods and smiles.

"You're stuck with me pal, I'm not going anywhere"

[hannibals-favourite-meal]

.⋆｡Make Him Better Looking｡⋆.

Sam Winchester x plus size reader

Truth serum plus hidden feelings and a major amount of lust for your best friend is bound to end well

Warnings: truth serum, reader is hornee, implied smut, size kink, Sam is taller than the reader, explicit thoughts, mutual pining, mentions of a hunt

WC: 1.1k

Minors DNI

Library- @hannibals-favourite-meal-library

Falling in love with Sam had been easy- not only was he stupidly handsome with those big hazel puppy dog eyes and a killer body, but he was kind and he was smart. He loved with his whole soul and would do anything for anyone, even after all the shit he had been through. 

What hadn’t been easy, however, was just how horny you got every time you even thought of the giant hunter let alone be around him. If he was tracing lines in a book to keep his place, you thought about what his fingers would feel like inside of you. If he was working out, you wondered if he would make those same noises in bed. And worst of all was when he was talking animatedly about something, his entire body came alive with passion and excitement. His eyes sparkled and his smile was always huge. And yet all you could think about was having his face between your thick thighs, talking into your cunt as he feasted. 

Needless to say, you had absolutely destroyed your scant collection of toys and taken more cold showers than warm. Eventually, you had to reach your breaking point.

It had been a witch hunt in Arkansas that went slightly wrong. People all around town were suddenly compelled to tell everyone around them their darkest secrets, ruining their lives in the process. It was a pretty simple cut and dry witch who had some vendetta against liars so she was forcing everyone to tell the truth. You and Jody picked up the hunt as some kind of demented girl’s trip and it mostly went off without a hitch. At least until the witch got you with a truth spell right before the sheriff dropped her.

You had arrived back home with your mouth practically sewn shut in an attempt to keep yourself from telling the boys your innermost thoughts until the spell wore off (which Jody assured you that it would be a couple days at most). Claire and Alex already had their fun asking you questions that you could no longer lie in response to, leading to them learning why there’s a bottle of deluded bleach and air freshener in the back of the Impala and the ‘no tequila after midnight’ rule. 

Dean quickly discovered your ailment after you bluntly told him that his new orange flannel and grown out hair made him look like an oversized carrot, and he was determined to break you. But unfortunately for him, you were a hell of a lot smarter than him and could find ways to easily distract him.

You and Dean sat across from each other at the library table, eyes locked to each other as you both desperately tried not to blink. A game born out of desperation not to reveal your darkest secrets and childish rivalry but with a month’s worth of laundry on the line, the game was a matter of life or death. Your eyes burned as you struggled to keep them open but you refused to back down now, especially when Dean’s face had begun to turn red with the strain, you knew he was close to breaking.

Then, disaster struck. Right as his eyelids began to twitch with the need to blink, Sam walked into the library wearing a tight white shirt and grey sweatpants and obviously not wearing briefs. Immediately your mouth went dry as your concentration was broken. You didn’t even hear Dean cheer that he won, you just kept looking at his  brother who was now browsing the many shelves for something to read.

Dean rubbed at his eyes while glancing at his younger brother before sarcastically remarking. “Looking good Sammy.” Sam responded with a scoff, returning to his search and letting you get a glimpse of his perky backside.

The words tumbled from your lips before you could stop them, spilling out of your dirty mind like an unstoppable river. “Goddamn, how about you bring that perfect ass over here and I’ll tell you how I can make you look even better.” Everyone froze, including you, and then you opened your mouth again. “You’d look hotter with me sitting on your face.”

Silence settled over the bunker, your veins filled with dread. “Oh god please ignore that I said that- well actually, I don’t want you to ignore it. I really do want to sit on your face but right now I really want to throw myself off a cliff. So I think I’m gonna go do that. Have a nice life boys.” You went to slip from your chair but suddenly your wide hips were pinned to the edge of the table but two huge hands.

Sam loomed over you, his eyes dark with lust as he smirked down at you. “Now why would you go and do that when we could test your little theory.” Your breath caught in your throat. He dipped down, bringing his face to yours until you were close enough to feel his breath on your lips. 

“I-“ You stammered. Wetness pooled between your thighs as he stepped even closer, pressing his hardening cock to your soft body. 

“Oh what is it baby? Can’t speak anymore? Don’t worry, you won’t be able to stop making sounds when my mouth is on your cunt.” He growled into your ear.

Neither you nor Sam noticed when Dean sprung to his feet and ran off into the depths of the bunker to escape the very obvious tension on the brink of exploding between you. Your fingers tentatively curled into his shirt, making his smile grow. “That’s a good girl, now how about you go to my room and get undressed. I wanna see if you get even more beautiful when you’re on top of me.” 

——————

Sam had always found you incredibly intoxicating but even more so now. You were dead asleep on his chest, your breaths even as you slumbered on. Sam took pride in your exhaustion considering he was the cause. He gently stroked the soft skin of your hip, tracing over the texture of your stretch marks delicately as to not wake you. 

You sighed in your sleep, nuzzling closer to his bare chest. He kissed the top of your head and with a great amount of care, slipped from your hold. You stirred only for a moment before settling once more. He dressed quietly and slipped out of his room.

The smell of freshly brewed coffee wafted from the kitchen drawing him in like a siren. “Morning.” He muttered as he wandered in, shooting his brother a glance. Dean nodded at him from his place at the small table, drinking his coffee silently.

As Sam poured two mugs of the bitter drink, he spoke again. “She was right, you know.” Dean hummed and looked up at him curiously. “I do look better when she sits on my face.”

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[tojisun]

!! smut - minors dni; undiscussed kinks; mutual stalker vibes; mutual possessiveness; gender neutral anatomy for reader

there is much to be said about simon’s act of possession; how, in the rarity of his attachment, it turns into a spectacle when he finds one he fixates on. he postures, baring his fangs before snapping his jaw because hunger swells in the jowls of his cheeks. his desperation bloats, peaking in the back of his throat until he feels like throwing up.

he never did learn how to control his hunger once it forms.

it consumes him feverishly, almost manically. his limbs twitch, his body poised for a hunt. a part of him begins to rationalize his desires; begetting him to stake his claim.

so he does.

it’s why the squad knows him intimately. why they taught themselves to adapt to simon’s new routine—feather-light steps, the rustling of apparel, the unusual weight on their mattresses, the stagnant breathing, the hyperawareness of being watched—as an act of their acceptance.

of simon’s devotion being reciprocated.

but it’s all so different with you.

you’re soft. a civilian. simon knows that no amount of his justifications can make you understand.

(he doesn’t know the hunger settling in the pool of your stomach.

how, late at night, you drag your fingers across your chest before dipping them along the expanse of your stomach, feeling it fluttering at every ticklish touch as you imagine that it were simon touching you so.

he doesn’t know how, in the comfort of your room, you press your fingers into yourself, feeling the wet squeeze of your walls twitching at every push, at every inch, as you think about him.

he doesn’t know how, dug from the depths of your mind, you cum with his name spilling from your lips.)

but simon’s grown addicted. attached.

words fly from the edges of his mind and he’s left panting, whining, grunting his pleas on your supple skin. he breathes you in, bypassing the tremors that overtake your body, because—“let me take care of you, love. please.”

(you could barely tamp down your giddiness, your body racked with minute shivers.

simon stares at you, desperate. unknowing.

you bite the insides of your cheeks to corral yourself, leashing the tides of your need lapping at your feet. you’ve reached so far. you know you can’t unfurl now.)

he watches as you lick at your lips, before parting them for a breathy gasp.

then, “okay,” you said with a dimpled smile.

simon bears down onto you with a hungry growl.

—

he sinks his teeth on your skin, marking you up all for him. it doesn’t matter to him that you’re going to stuff the proclamation of his ownership under your clothes because you two both know of it anyway—his branding of you, right there, close to your chest.

simon fucks you with intense passion, all snapping teeth and rumbled croons. he folds you unto yourself, presenting all that you are to his greedy eyes, and makes you watch as he fucks his cock into you. your walls grip him deliciously, skin stretching in protest every time he pulls out.

it makes him laugh, teasing, his thumb sliding beside his cock as it breached your fluttering rim again.

“si!” you scream, head tipping back to expose your throat at the added stretch.

“shh,” is all simon says, his teasing finally reaching its apex. “you’ll get used to it soon.”

your head thrashes on the pillow, loosely-balled fists thumping against his chest weakly. new bouts of tears spill, staining your cheeks once again. you keen, breathless, words sputtering when simon fucks his thumb and his cock in-and-out in succession.

you’re so goddamn adorable.

“s’too mu’! s’too mu’!”

simon grins, sly, and takes pity on you.

he nuzzles his nose along your damp cheek, peppering you with ghosting kisses.

then, he says, “this is just a little punishment, baby.” he pecks your cheek. “y’really didn’t think that i wouldn’t know about your little perverted secret, did’ya?”

he feels more than hears the moment your breath gets stuck on your lungs. simon puffs a fond huff.

“don’t worry,” he coos. “you’ll feel good, i promise.”

after all, simon learned everything that makes you gush like a little slut.

[xstevex-world]

Steve Harrington’s favourite musician has been the same since he was 17.

He distinctly remembers hearing Chrissy Cunningham play in his car radio during his senior year, subsequently listening to nothing but her breakout EP for a week straight - and that was just the beginning.

He followed all of work for over the past 7 years: bought physical and digital copies of all her albums, watched every music video multiple times, read every interview, saved up enough while working weekend shifts at scoops to get tickets to her sold out shows in Indiana - he had so much merch that Jonathan Byers once joked that Steve could probably make a shrine to his idol.

He had even kept up during her hitatus, almost two full years of radio silence from the star, like she had disappeared off the face of the earth. It wasn’t the worst thing that had ever happened, but it didn’t help that it overlapped with him dropping out of business school to pursue a career in cosmetology and that final falling out he had with his father over his choice in education.

The day she came back felt like Christmas.

Her comeback announcement dropped on June 13th - and it wasn’t just a new post on social media or a candid shot online someone managed to snap.

It was a whole EP drop, 4 entire songs (and a music video) that he knew he was going to play on repeat after 716 days of radio silence.

That opened the floodgates for everything to start again: she went back on social media, thanked her fans for their wholehearted response to her new releases. She started doing interviews again: discussing her mental health and the impact of her mothers control in her life; her reunion with her best friend (and apparent ex) from high school; her label dropping her after it was found that her “momager” had embezzled a huge amount of money from said company, releasing her from her contract early and allowing her to find new partners, new producers, new projects.

She talks about how she’s never been happier, and Steve can’t help but beam at it. He can hear it in her music, how it’s going more against the grain of what’s popular, opting instead for etherial synths mixed with heavy guitars. She sings about heartbreak and moving on and being better than then the people who brought her down for long, now that she’s starting fresh.

Steve loves it, thinks some of the changes have something to with Eddie Munson’s name appearing in the credits of all her new material.

Truthfully, he got curious after someone on Twitter posted a screengrab of cameos made by Munson and his own bandmates in all of her new music videos. He thankful someone else made the connection, and although he’s not the biggest fan of Corroded Coffin’s music (apart from the collaboration EP they did with Chrissy: “CCxCC presents Satanic Slumber Party”, that was incredible), he would lying if he didn’t say he was totally enamoured by Eddie goddamn Munson.

Let alone the fact that he’s totally Steve’s type (big hair, bigger eyes, a complete dork with a heart of gold but who also looks like he would bite someone in both a feral dog and a “please take me to your bedroom right now” kind of way), the guy is a genius when it comes to music, spending interviews talking about the process of artistry and the importance of storytelling - even when they’re discussing songs about him, written by Chrissy about their break up, he’s still so passionate and witty, the two of them spending interviews bouncing off each other in a way that would rival his relationship Robin.

He’s fine, really, he knows logically this is just a celebrity crush that will pass if he stops thinking about it for long enough, but he’s certain that this could develop into one of those all encompassing obsessions if he doesn’t curb it now- and that’s exact what he does. He tries to put that energy into school, excelling more than he ever did in an academic setting. He meets up more often with Nancy, Jonathan, Argyle and Barb, inviting them over more often for dinner or drinks, sometimes even just because he wants to make a breakfast feast and need someone else to eat it.

It’s at times like this that he misses Robin, who only has about 6 weeks left of her internship in Paris - he hasn’t seen her in person since he went to visit her a few months ago during spring break. He wishes she was her to openly judge him over this, before rambling on about her own current hyperfixation or moaning about her lack of romantic adventures since she and Vickie broke up.

They still talk on the phone every afternoon (nighttime for her), ranting to each other about their perspective day and sharing any worthwhile gossip.

Tonight’s no different, he’s telling her about the current drama happening in his classes when Robin says:

“I met someone today.”

He’s ecstatic - in his opinion robin deserves the world and the fact she’s met someone on her own in a city where she has been finding it hard interacting with people outside of her placement is a miracle in itself.

She tells him more: how she met this girl that morning at café, acting as a knight in shining armour (Robin’s words, not Steve’s) when the girl got flustered trying to order her coffee in broken French; how she spent the day showing this girl around to her favourite shops and parks and museums; how they spent hours talking about everything and nothing; how Robin hasn’t felt this way about someone since Vickie.

“So then we had dinner at that Italian place, the one I took you to, and, Steve, oh my goddess, she has the cutest little laugh-“

“Did you get her name?”

“Oh, sorry” he can hear her move the phone from one ear to the other. “Yeah it’s Chrissy.”

Steve stops his pacing. That would be one hell of a coincidence, if it was Chrissy Cunningham. She is playing in Paris the following night, the penultimate stop of her current tour. (The very show that he had been tempted to go to, since he could stay with Robin. It absolutely wasn’t because Corroded Coffin was joining her for the European leg of the tour - acting as her band, as well as performing songs from their collaboration as the encore - something that did not happen at any of the American shows). It couldn’t be the same Chrissy that Robin had fallen head over heels for in the space of a few hours, right?

“Did you get any of her socials?” He asks, cautiously.

“Nope,” she answers, popping the p for emphasis. “I didn’t think to ask, because I’m an idiot and all that-“

“Robs,” he interrupts, trying to keep his voice steady. “You’re not an idiot.”

Her hears her laugh on the other end of the line, the same kind of self-deprecating giggle she uses when she’s nervous. He wishes he was there with her so she could see him roll his eyes at her, their main way of communicating their love.

“What did she look like?”

“Oh!” She exclaims as he hears her tumbling over something (knowing Robin, probably herself). “We took a picture together, hold on, I’ll send it over.”

His phone vibrates against his ear, so he brings it in front of him, putting Robin on speaker so he can see the photo.

And.

Holy fuck.

“Robin,” he says slowly, because he actually can’t believe it himself. “Do you know who that is?”

((Part 2))

[worldstarz]

shinjiro defends your honor against stupei

pairing: shinjiro aragaki x fem!reader (sees member)

summary: your leader wants to show you a video of the stone-cold shinjiro aragaki getting into a debate with junpei over ranking the girls. he gets very passionate over you.

tags: kinda shitpost ; feat. junpei + protag ; not proofread ; spoiler-free ; mutual pining

notes: just got to october 4th! wrote this to cope! i am not okay! also protag is called leader bc im not looking up his name to avoid spoilers. i’ll edit when i finish the game !!

———

“so if you press this button, the footage should start playing,” the leader points to the console, directing you on how to play the recordings. other than for meetings and before missions, you’ve never been in the command room before. hell, you didn’t even know there were cameras in the building until now.

the specific recording your leader wanted to show you is labeled ‘september 23 - lounge’. as you press the play button, the lights of the command room dim down as the video begins to play on the screen.

———

as expected, the recording shows the first floor lounge. shinjiro and junpei sit on the same couch, but at different ends.

“so, aragaki-senpai, what’s your ranking of all the girls in the building?” junpei leans back, hands behind his head. there is a considerable amount of distance between them, both physically and interpersonally, and junpei decided talking about the ladies is the best way to bridge that distance.

“why would i care?” shinjiro scoffs, his crossed arms not helping the already-tense air.

“oh, come on! with so many beautiful ladies here, you’ve gotta have a ranking by now! like, who’d you rather be alone in a room with? or see in a bikini?” junpei begins listing off the girls in an attempt to convince shinjiro to dig deep into his thoughts and desires. “there’s kirijo-senpai, with that air of elegance and maturity; yuka-tan, a pretty chick very popular among guys our age; fuuka, an all-around cutie; [name], who is… hm…” he didn’t even reach aigis before running out of adjectives. trying to think over his very limited dictionary, he briefly hesitates.

shinjiro visibly perks up upon hearing the last name listed. noticing this, junpei exaggerates his struggle to think.

“hm… what is there about [name]…” junpei rubs his chin, staring at his senpai as his face morphs from an expression of indifference to one of annoyance.

“you’re kidding me, right?” aragaki scowls, sitting up slightly. “you seriously can’t think of anything for [name]?”

“well, she’s just… eh…” junpei trails off. “i wouldn’t rank her very high.”

“i know you’re a moron, but i didn’t know you could be this much of a dumbass,” he leans forward. without even raising his voice, the simple action caused an air of intimidation around him that could be felt even through the screen. “the hell do you mean ‘you wouldn’t rank her very high’? are you fucking blind?”

“nonono, man, she’s attractive-“ junpei frantically tries to explain himself, backtracking on his original plan of getting a reaction out of shinjiro because finding out his senpai’s type was not worth getting his ass beat. but, aragaki continues.

“don’t tell me you’d rank her lower than a goddamn robot!” this was possibly the most passionate he’s ever been, and it was over a casual conversation of ranking the girls in their dormitory building. “she better be in at LEAST your top three or i’m mopping the floors with your ass.”

“no, dude, she’s in my top three, i swear!” junpei’s attempts at damage control were getting more desperate. “she’s probably number one!”

“…number one?” aragaki repeats, as the two sit in a heavy silence for a moment. “you don’t deserve to have her in your number one spot,” he mutters.

“…what?”

“i SAID you don’t DESERVE to have her in your number one spot!!”

“OKAY THEN SHE’S NUMBER TWO!!!” junpei raises his hands up in an act of surrender. “she’s second! [name] is second!”

———

“…”

unable to listen to anymore, you hurriedly hit the pause button. you feel hot, and as the lights turn back on, you make a futile attempt to cover your burning face with your hands.

your leader clears his throat. “so, should i set you two up on a date, or-“

“no!” you exclaim, cutting him off with a wide-eyed expression on your face. “no! no.” you calm yourself down with a deep breath, trying not to imitate junpei’s desperation shown in the video. trying to collect yourself, you add, “that won’t be necessary. shinjiro didn’t even say his own ranking, so all of that probably could have meant nothing. absolutely nothing. right.”

“i mean, if you finish watching-“

once again burying your face into your hands, you yell into your palms to cut him off. a typical response from a teenage girl finding out her crush laid his pride on the line to advocate for her attractiveness.

the leader, ignoring your wishes, presses the play button.

———

“where would you put [name] then?” junpei asks, his signature shit-eating grin on his face. the video seems to have skipped ahead, as evidenced by junpei being much more calm than earlier.

shinjiro hesitates.

the quality is a bit fuzzy, but you can see junpei having a perplexed expression as he leans in to get a better look at shinjiro’s face, who turns his head away.

“are you…” junpei squints, then his eyes widen in surprise. “are you blushing??”

“the hell? no way i am!” shinjiro turns his body away.

“oh man, you should’ve just said you like her!” junpei grins, trying to be a supportive bro!

“i-i don’t even think of her like that! just lay it off!”

“so, what about her, huh?” his excitement shows in his voice. “she’s pretty cute and all. oh, those eyes are gorgeous-“

“i said lay it off!” shinjiro exclaims, and junpei jumps.

“ok man, ok! that’s my bad!” junpei backs up, and the awkward silence returns once more. without saying a word, shinjiro gets up and leaves.

———

at this point, you’ve sat down. the leader turns around to look at you, your face buried into a pillow. your ears are practically glowing red.

“my offer earlier about setting you two up still stands-“ he begins, but as you did before, you cut him off.

“shut up!!!!” you scream into the pillow, kicking your feet. you lift your face from the pillow to meet his gaze.

he can’t help but laugh. “should i get yukari? she probably knows more.”

admitting defeat, you nod.

[kaontic]

Talk about the animation quality of a show all y’all want, m’kay, but personally, if the voice acting ain’t good, I can’t get immersed.

And these passionate gentlemen (and more), thanks to Wally Burr’s direction, goddamn SERVED.

I’m convinced the amount of effort they put into voicing their characters is (a good chunk of) the reason(s) why Transformers got so popular and beloved in the first place, and why the franchise remains as beloved even 40 years down the line.

Absolute legends.

Peter Cullen

Frank Welker

Scatman Crothers (RIP)

Chris Latta (RIP)

Gregg Berger

Corey Burton

Dan Gilvezan

John Stephenson (RIP)

Casey Kasem (RIP)

Micheal Bell

[yandere-daydreams]

Can we get a rec list for shojo? I've been picking up shows you write for (like jjk) but I enjoy shojo too and I think I would enjoy similar shows to you. If not thats okay too!

uhhh i only have a few that i would actively recommend but!!! i feel very passionately about all of them. not all shows have to be fanfic fodder. some can just be fun.

♥ horimiya. it's a classic and has literally no flaws to speak of. never before has a heterosexual romance been so queer-coded and never will it be again.

 ♥ ouran high school host club - the anime AND the manga!!! i know everyone's already seen the anime half a dozen times, but if you liked it, i'd really recommend picking up the manga. it's aged pretty well (all things considered) and does in fact have an actual plot with a real and satisfying ending, something that i can tragically not say for the anime.

♥ jibaku shounen hanako-kun/toilet bound hanako-kun. it is vaguely shounen coded but don't let the occasional fight scene fool you, this one is for the girls <3 i'd recommend watching the anime and picking up the manga from there, since both have a really unique and charismatic art style and are very good in their own right. there are ghosts. there are gay people. the heroine is trying to brute force her reality into becoming a rom/com and repeatedly turns into a fish. what's not to love.

♥ i'm in love with the villainess!!! i would STRONGLY recommend this if you are both gay and have been repeatedly abused by just,,, so many early 2010s dating sims. the animation is a little rough at times but overall it's very enjoyable and has a surprising amount of lore. i'd also very strongly recommend watching the english dub. the mc is just,,, yeah. that's a woman who's been in the trenches y'know.

♥ the ancient magnus bride. it has aged contentiously but if you can get past the 'sixteen year old x immortal eldritch being' thing then it WILL emotionally wreck you. the ost is also just,,,, delectable. they should really pull out the lute more often that shit goes hard.

♥ welcome to demon school! irumu-kun! people will tell you that this is a shounen and those people are WRONG!!! never before has an anime been so deeply concerned with love and friendship and putting everybody's favorite little guys in situations that make you wonder if it truly is gay to kiss the homies goodnight. the animation is very rough but in a very charming way, and mc has a very cute, very prominent romance with a woman who could snap him over her knee like a twig. then english dub cast is doing the goddamn most too, but feel free to consume it however you see fit.

[precious-little-scoundrel]

The Passion of Johnny 🥀

Summary: Bucky Egan takes it upon himself to give some wedding night advice to his dearest and most cunty, capable and very Catholic captain. Did it have to be five minutes before the aisle walk? Did it have to be by the stale communion wafers? Did it have to have include practice fingering? Brady has so many objections but better to get this over with than have it bleed into Egan’s best man’s toast…

Requested? OH YES ✔️

Circa: late summer 1945

Warnings: so much innuendo and dirty talk, this is sex Ed, after all. Catholicism but it’s not really impacting shit beyond vibes, and a decent amount of homoeroticism…it’s war buddies in a church y’all. That’s a staple. Brief illusion to past male SA.

Full credit to my babe Ashely who more than co-wrote this, she was possessed by the spirit of Bucky Egan in our chat and out came this, I have merley sprinkled verbs and adjectives and cohesion throughout her masterpiece. And to Christi who added copious devastating one liners throughout and held my damn hand while I choked on this hotness

They’re in the back of the church, in the vestry room, attending to all those last minute wedding details -the ring checks, the tie-fixing, the last minute dizzy spells. And once left alone with him, Bucky spots the lump in the groom’s pressed slacks from across the room. He snickers. Ah this'll be fun. “C'mere kid...come talk to me.” he cajoles, “Ya fast? Ya loose? Feel like throwing up?”

Bucky claps him on the back extra hard and Jack coughs dryly, hands falling from his tie.

“Listen,” Bucky goes on without being answered, “good ole Father Peter Paul Frank whoever is gonna get up there and try and tell you all about marriage and devotion and all that jazz...and he means well. sure... but I wanna make sure this marriage starts off right...so let's have a little chat. I ever steered ya wrong, huh?”

“Bucky, I uh...kinda wanted a minute alone.”

Bucky racks his eyes over the pristine and quite filled out uniform. “Yeah trust me I got eyes kid, we can get you all settled so ya don't make a complete fool of yourself in front of the entire church.” Bucky for his part is smoking in church, after having lit a cigarette off the candles, and Brady supposes this talk is necessary. Not he thinks, for the education Bucky so benficently seeks to relay, but rather to stave off the likelihood of all these tips and tricks of the trade coming out in a groomsman’s toast.

Bucky’s rowdy, handsy behavior normally never bothered him. Until now. Every back slap and chest shove and cheek pinch has him feeling funny, tingly, oddly eager and terribly alive. Johnny shouldn’t have spent all night trying to tug one out in vain, now he’s a goddamn confused mess. But he knows he wants to please Bucky, unfortunately always has and in lieu of a father in his life today -though god knows this dangerous, grinning man is no replacement- he acquiesces. Jack takes a seat in this same room he did as a child to review his catechism and Ten Commandments, and marvels how despite all the partying of last evening and the week before, with booze and anecdotes and bawdy jokes flying like flack, Bucky would wait until they’re beside the stale, surplus communion wafers to discuss conjugal functions.

He's absolutely sweating and that makes sense, it’s August. But Bucky is clapping him on the back again, beginning the talk like they didn’t already do this routine, “Ya look great kid.” He compliments. “Almost as handsome as Ida.”

It’s a very sincere compliment, Jack knows this, and it makes him roll his eyes all the harder although his cheeks burn.

“Ya nervous? Yeah? Good. You should be.” —this is followed by a signature cheek slap. “-you’ve got maneuvers to learn.”

Jack’s eyes grow a little panicked. More than nervous then. He wasn't this hard before. But the more Bucky talks about ‘maneuvers’ he's getting almost fully so. Frantically smashing the front of his pants down, groaning, “Bucky, stop. I beg you, stop. I'm about to walk down the aisle!”

Another cheek smack. “Don’t fuckin' roll your eyes at me kid, where else ya gonna learn this? The goddamn Padre? Now listen up, those two fingers, raise your fingers, those two- what the hell is that one even doing? -not like that, c'mon take this seriously.” Bucky presumptuously adjusts Jack’s long, elegant fingers, “You ever felt a cat's tongue? You know how it's sorta rough, like sandpaper? Well there's this spot inside her, it's gonna feel sorta like that, only softer. And that's the magic spot, kid. I'm telling ya, aim for that spot and you'll be golden.”

Brady, he was pleased to see, was no longer rolling his eyes. The pupils, however, had taken over the blue. "Can I- can i get to it with my tongue, Bucky?"

“Uh, no, my dear young novice, but that shouldn’t stop ya from trying. Never stop trying to get at it with whatever, anything God or your job gives ya. Christ kid, you even seen a pussy before?"

Brady manages nothing more than a big swallow, "She showed me hers."

"She showed you- when?"

"Last Wednesday."

"She showed you her Tussy Muzzy last Wednesday? Holy hell, Miss Tilly!" Egan whoops loudly before Brady shushes him with a few scowling smacks to his chest. "Well, tell me, wha'd she say when she showed you her pussy?"

Brady begins to retract, "Sir I can't

-I can't say,"

"Oh listen up, listen up good and hard, right now. What a lady says? She means, and you should always listen to her, but she never says it when she means it. So you gotta remember it and file it away. To use against her later. Nicely, of course. Jack? Wha'd she say?"

Brady, with eyes heavenward and looking like all he was missing were the drops of blood, "She said she wanted me to take her and that it -it-it was throbbing and -fuck uh, that- that it would be mine Saturday, uh that’s today, that it’d be mine anyway? Oh Fuck."

Bucky, he sees, is eating this shit up. Bucky practically whoops again, right here in church. “Miss Tilly.” he murmurs in the most salacious voice ever. “Goddamn.” he utters, “GODDAMN!” a second time much louder.

Brady stares at the embroidery on the chapel cloth. Green and gold stitching interweaving to make leaves. Eternal life and shit.

“Well,” Bucky is rallying, “since ya seen one -fucking idiot not touchin' it when you could’ve…First rule of marriage: don't go turnin' down offered pussy. And you heard her, none of that timid chivalry shit, you take her, you hear me?”

“I’m hearing you sir.”

“Didn't think she was the type.” he whistles, still stuck on the fact that Miss Tilly Macon with her straw hats and white gloves begged Jack Brady to take her in a car seat just days before, “Right, well, tell me, did ya get a good look? Was she shiny?”

“It... glittered.” Brady spaces out recalling the petals of it in the red glow of the stop light.

“Well that’s good, we’ve got something to work from kid. Alright, that cat tongue I told ya about? Can’t get to it with your tongue, gonna need your fingers. Now c’mere, closer, come here dammit. Yeah ok, so,” Bucky holds up his palm, like he’s gonna swear an oath, “you're gonna find the spot and when ya do, you’re gonna rub and rub and keep rubbing -go on, try, try it against my hand, c'mon Jack don't be a prude"

Egan watches as Brady shamefacedly begins rubbing between Bucky's thumb and forefinger with surprising skill. The kid’s a natural. “Damn, fixing my headache, ok yeah like that uhuh.”

“It’s just the C major cord.” Brady rebuts with a small eye roll that morphs into a cringe in expectation of another loving slap.

But Bucky holds his peace and bites his lips, and Brady wants to please him so, he lets Bucky ramble on and do his odd little puppet show with his fingers.

When that is over, Bucky turns and casts about for his next prop before grabbing a stack of charity bibles, cigarette still hanging out of his mouth. He begins stacking the Bibles and pretending his fingers are now Tilly and Jack and the Bibles are a makeshift bed. Like Johnny doesn’t know what human limbs look like. And Brady, he knows he’s lost a great deal of mental capacity since seeing Tilly’s scared parts, -running into doorframes and spacing out during planning, to the point where Ida and Eugene think he needs to be shrinked- but this feels more than a little silly.

“Well that’s that part. But, back to the beginning.” Bucky straightens from his demonstration, puts one leg up on the desk and despite the absence of his animated fingers, the Bibles look terribly suggestive stacked there on the mahogany edge, “First thing,” he is pointing at Jack, “when you get upstairs, ya ask her...if she's ever had an ice cream cone in July.” Bucky is nodding with a big smirk that Brady feels like he should answer, “Know what I mean huh?”

Brady shakes his head and rubs his neck bashfully, to be perfectly honest he has suspicions but this is Bucky, and it’s safer to admit he hasn’t a goddamn clue. "I'm gettin' that the ice cream cone ain't literal.” He ventures.

“Trust me,” Bucky insists, “all this boring church business... the dancing, the punch, I'll make a nice little speech that won't make your ma keel over...soon you'll be the god damn ice cream cone right there in those nicely pressed pants.” Bucky saunters over to where Jack is sitting on the table top part of the desk, takes the back of his hand and whacks Jack's noticeable bulge. “There's your ice cream cone kid.”

Jack jumps back startled on the desktop, and Bucky cackles, muttering something about Goddamn Prudes and Jack has to keep shushing him.

“Anyway...so she gets a couple licks... and then..” Bucky is pacing and wagging his finger, “…you get a little taste of your own... real important now... work the tongue in that pretty little hole and get her started…”

Jack is about to hyperventilate at this point as Bucky starts throwing out more ice cream analogies. Lots about cream. And licking. Something about cherries. Then somehow baseball works it's way in. Predictably. So many bases, first and second and bats and stroking and more cream. There is a fly on the rim of the gold chalice, at least it’s stopped it’s buzzing little circles.

“Ya got stamina buddy boy?” -Jack has got no idea how to answer that. “Ya don't wanna be the husband who blows the second ya slide into home.”

“Trust me...after last night…” Jack grouches, letting the details slip through in his angry belligerence at his own stubborn erection.

“That sucker is from last night?” Bucky howls. “You friggin Catholics don't even wear rubber socks either do ya?” Bucky is rubbing his hands together, Brady feels half sick, half close to coming untouched from all this talk about condoms and such, “I'll be uncle Bucky before the year is out and the first one better be named after me!” Bucky crows, then softens as he sees Johnny’s overwhelmed face, “It's gonna be great kid, I'm telling ya.. worth all that Nazi camp bullshit.” He sniffs roughly, “Plus..uh, ya know Tilly seems like a swell girl...makes a decent meatloaf I heard...sickness and health all that jazz…” He comes closer and claps Jack on the shoulder a few times.

Brady feels the overwhelming and embarrassing need to assure him he’s always welcome to the meatloaf.

Bucky acknowledges this with a soft, saddened smile before his beautiful, capable hands slide up Brady’s stiff shoulders and come up to cradle Jack's sweaty, rosy face, “Damn proud of ya kid.” he swears gruffly, “Think of me when ya slide in tonight... Lord knows I'll be wishing I was there…” Bucky whistles but it doesn’t feel crass, not the way it did even ten minutes ago. Brady has a lump in his throat and a stupid desire to say ‘same’ but he doesn’t because it must be some sorta fucked for him to long after a man he fought for, a man he got ready to die with, a man he’d gone to hell for, a man who he’ll still be obeying. Even tonight of all nights. Maybe the camp fucked him up worse than he knew. Or maybe it’s just Bucky and how Bucky’s always been, how he’s always been around Bucky -always his aggravated fool.

Whatever Tilley will prove to be for Jack, she’s not that. And that’s as it should be. Still, he feels like meatloaf is a small thing to offer as those hands finally slide away.

💋 Hope you enjoyed! Feedback is a writer’s lifeblood, please feel free to scream in comments or the inbox, I love it and wanna hear it all. Trust me, nothing is “too dumb”. Your thoughts mean the world to me.

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[thefreakandthehair]

@eddiemonth prompt, oct 4th: Rejection | Arsonist’s Lullaby - Hozier | Lost a/n: pre-steddie post-s4, angst with soft, happy ending because I'm a marshmallow. un-betaed because I'm challenging myself to write these in under an hour. read on ao3 | link to series on ao3

All Eddie Munson has ever wanted to do is play music. 

That’s it. There are other hobbies, of course, other things that bring him joy– D&D, fantasy novels, art– but ever since he was a kid, whenever a teacher would ask what he wants to be when he grows up, it’s always the same answer. 

I wanna play music. 

As a kid, it seems less daunting. He just has to practice, he just has to play, he just has to have the passion to make it big. To be the next Kirk Hammett, or Eddie Van Halen, or Ozzy Osbourne if he can teach himself to carry a tune. 

Making friends is hard, but he manages to find a few in middle school who can play the instruments he can’t– drums, bass. Eddie takes the role of frontman, not exactly a singer still but he’s charismatic enough to get away with it at their school talent show.

High school comes, and Corroded Coffin is revamped. New vibe, new members. He’s older now, a little more jaded with each rejection. 

No one wants their EP, recorded by hand in Gareth’s garage onto cheap cassette tapes. 

No venue will let them play, and Eddie knows that it’s probably because they’re in high school but hadn’t The Cure started in high school? 

No one believes in them, trying to push them– especially Eddie– to consider more successful careers, safer paths. 

But eventually, they book a regular gig at The Hideout and Eddie’s certain this is it. This is their big break. Until they play week after week, staring at the same five plastered faces every Tuesday. If they can prove themselves though, the owner will have to let them play on a Friday or Saturday.

He never does. 

The final nail in the proverbial coffin comes after Eddie’s final senior year. Being accused of murder should have beefed up his credibility if nothing else– he’s already been traumatized, terrorized, and hunted like a goddamn dog, nevermind almost killed via hoard of angry mutant bats. Surely, he’ll catch at least one break. 

And then the owner at The Hideout tells him he can’t play there anymore. 

The hoards of people who still blame him for Chrissy Cunningham’s death are too much for him to manage himself and, in his words, Eddie’s driving away good business. His heart shatters, his breath catches, and Eddie leaves without a word because if he were to try to speak, all that would come out is either an enraged scream or a choked sob and Eddie doesn’t want to risk either. 

He drives around aimlessly for an unknown amount of time, just circles around the outskirts of Hawkins. Maybe I’ll just leave, he thinks. Indianapolis might be far enough. Maybe Chicago. Fuck it, maybe Argyle and Jonathan can put me up for awhile in California. Eddie wants to go somewhere that makes him forget just how lost he is, how unwanted and forgotten he’s become. Being the social pariah is only fun when he’s making speeches on cafeteria tables, not when it boots him out of his one and only career path. 

Somehow, he ends up in Loch Nora. He can’t face Wayne right now, he doesn’t want to bother Robin or Nancy, he’s already let Jeff, Gareth, and Freak down in the worst way imaginable, and if he goes to his mom’s or Chrissy’s tombstones with one more sob story, he’s afraid they’ll start haunting him. Steve’s become a friend over the last year or so it makes sense. Process of elimination and all of that. 

He doesn’t have the mental bandwidth to realize that he’d started driving that way before he ruled everyone else out. 

Steve welcomes him like he always does and offers him a beer, sitting with him in companionable silence on the couch as they watch Monty Python and The Holy Grail and laugh at the same parts. Eddie knows Steve can see that he’s upset but instead of asking questions Eddie isn’t ready to answer, he just sits a little closer with their thighs touching and one arm strewn over the back of the couch, just barely grazing Eddie’s shoulder. 

The movie ends and Steve moves to switch the tape when Eddie finally speaks up. 

“The Hideout kicked us out. Can’t play there anymore.” 

Eddie sees Steve freeze from behind before turning, his eyebrows knitted together above his nose. “Are you fucking serious?” 

He nods and sighs, lifting one hand to chew on this thumbnail as he looks at the wall beyond Steve. 

“That’s bullshit, dude. Why? Because of the protestors or whatever?” 

He nods again. 

“Want me to go down there? I’ve still got my bat around here somewhere. It might be nice to swing at something that’s not trying to like, eat me.” 

Eddie huffs a small laugh through his nose and meets Steve’s eyes, their righteous anger blending with his own as he sees Steve cross his arms over his chest. It’s hard not to stare. 

 “Well, then at least I wouldn’t be the only guy in this town wanted for murder.” 

Steve shakes his head and just chooses another movie, Howard the Duck this time, before returning to his spot on the couch. It’s one of Eddie’s favorite movies but he can’t focus to save his life because Steve is even closer now, his arm draped fully across Eddie’s shoulders and creating a space for Eddie to easily just… rest. So he does. 

The title sequence starts and Eddie’s head drops to the side, resting on Steve’s shoulder. It’s one of his favorites but he can’t follow the plot to save his life. All he can focus on is the way Steve’s fingers trace symptoms and shapes against the cotton of his tee shirt, and the steady rise and fall of his chest, and the feeling of Steve’s head leaning against the top of his. 

“I had a new song and everything,” Eddie whispers, surprising both himself and Steve. 

Steve hums and tightens his arm around Eddie’s shoulders, a ghost of a hug. “Play it for me sometime?”

All Eddie Munson has ever wanted to do is play music. And maybe he still can.

[cowboygideon]

Hi, please enjoy this little Challengers drabble I wrote. It's mostly a character study of Art?? I guess?? And it's essentially artrick, but if I continued it, the intention would be throuple endgame, so keep that in mind. Also, it's tragically unedited, and sentence structure means nothing to me. Anyway, here it is—!

---

After New Rochelle, it’s like a switch in Art’s brain flips. He feels Patrick’s hands on his back, the sliver of skin at his waist where his shirt rode up when he jumped, ghosting over the scars on his shoulders—and, somehow, it twists his stomach like a betrayal.

Patrick wins the match. He tries to talk to Art afterwards, chases him off the court, but Art just can’t. He can’t talk to Patrick, not after the match they just played. It’s not even about the signal, that goddamned serve, even though it should be. Really—and he doesn’t want to admit this to himself, inside his own brain, even—it’s about the fact that it’s been thirteen fucking years and playing tennis with Patrick still feels the way it did at Mark Rebellato, still lights up every synapses in his brain, still feels like really good sex, or something equally euphoric. It’s also about the fact that there’s been a hole, a giant gaping wound, in Art’s gut for over a decade, and now it feels like it's scabbing over.

It’s about the fact that Art doesn’t even care that he lost. It’s about the fact that he knows that he’d lose a thousand fucking matches, a million, if it meant getting those years back; if it meant he wouldn’t have Patrick’s hurt, confused expression outside of that room at Stanford tattooed on the back of his eyelids, burning there everytime he blinked.

Tashi finds him afterwards—he can’t hide from her, not anymore.

He tells her he’s quitting tennis.

He tells her he needs some space.

What the fuck does that mean, Art?

I—I don’t know, Tashi. I just need a second.

A second?

He leaves her, standing in the waning afternoon light, outlined in the sun like a fucking angel, wondering what he meant by a second. He wants to tell her what he meant. He doesn’t know what he meant, he realizes, and then he goes to the bathroom and vomits up his breakfast. When that meager meal is gone, he sits on the grimy tile with his head in his hands, wondering if he’d just fucked up his entire life.

---

By a second, Art meant a separation—or, at least, that’s how Tashi takes it. She doesn’t yell at him, doesn’t say anything, really, as Art packs some of his clothes into a couple suitcases. He brings his tennis gear, which Tashi also, very pointedly, says nothing about.

She follows him down stairs—a giant sweeping staircase; white, sterile, like everything else in this monster of a house, which Art has many times considered throwing himself down, bleeding out just to give the place a little color—and outside into the driveway.

She stands, their mansion at her back, arms folded across her chest, nails digging into her biceps. He wants to go to her, take her hands in his and work the tension out of them. He still loves her—so fucking much, a painful amount—but he also knows that he needs this. Tennis is Tashi is tennis. It doesn’t matter how many years stretch between now and the last time she actually played a match, Art knows the sport would never relinquish its hold on her.

And that’s perfectly fine. But if Art wants to quit, and wants to really commit to it, he can’t be falling asleep, waking up next to a constant reminder of everything he was leaving behind. After so many losses, after his blatant loss of passion, anyone would believe that this was Art Donaldson simply giving up, giving in. They’d believe it was easy for him, like he could just put down his racket and never pick it up again, and that was the end.

But he knows it isn’t going to be easy. As much as tennis has ripped him apart these past couple of years, it’s a very real, very big part of him. It’s his childhood, his college experience, his livelihood. It’s how he met Tashi, it’s why he has a beautiful daughter.

It’s how he met Patrick fucking Zweig.

“I slept with Patrick,” Tashi says, after a couple very long minutes of silence. She’s staring him right in the eyes, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth, unashamed but sympathetic. “Before the final.”

Art shifts his weight onto his back foot, clutches the strap of the duffel on his shoulder. He knows, of course, but he didn’t expect her to just come out and admit it.

“And I talked to him afterwards,” Tashi continues. Now she looks away, training her gaze on the concrete. “He wants me to coach him.”

That is a surprise. Art’s heart seizes in his chest, and he feels the same way he felt after he lost the Junior Open final to Patrick and lost Tashi to him, too. Like one game had just determined his entire future. Like he’d really, truly failed.

“Are you going to do it?” Art asks. “Coach him, I mean.”

There are a couple more moments of tense silence, which is familiar. Their marriage has consisted of a lot of those silences the past couple of years, disjointed conversations mingled with stale air, pulled taut between them, like a tightrope of pain and indignation.

“I’m considering it.”

Art nods. There’s not much else to do besides that, he thinks, but he says something else anyway, not really knowing why: “You should.”

Tashi looks up from the ground, a plain shock opening up her face. It’s not often he surprises her. “Seriously?”

Art shrugs. “Why not?” There are a lot of answers to that, but he continues, “I think he has a few good years left in him.”

A beat. Tashi’s mouth pulls up at the corner, tucking a small smile into her cheek. “That’s what he said.”

Art hums. Of course he did, Art doesn’t say. Of course, even after all these years, they’d maintained some of that signature synchronization.

Tashi tells Art to pick Lily up this Friday, at around lunch time, and Art agrees. A quick, perfunctory hug that neither of them wants and he’s off, driving fifteen minutes away, further into the heart of Palm Beach, where he’s renting an obscenely expensive apartment. While he drives he thinks about how close they are to the academy he’d grown up in; Mark Rebellato sat only half an hour or so south, near Delray. With the thought comes that familiar roiling in his stomach, a painful twist of nausea so powerful he considers pulling over.

It was funny when they bought a house here—Tashi and Mark Rebellato had been slotted into very separate parts of his brain, a kind of before and after. He’d (they’d) met Tashi at the beginning of senior year, the end of August, so, really, he’d had about nine months of both Tashi and the academy mingling in his mind. But the entirety of that year had been permeated by both the thought and the absence of her, the memory and the repression of what had happened in that fucking hotel room. She and Patrick’s phone calls started to take up half of the time that he and Patrick used to dedicate to each other.

Before and After.

---

Art and Tashi are separated for six months—half a year, Jesus Christ—before he sees Patrick again.

He knows she’s training him. It’s all over the sports channel, for one thing, stories about Tashi Donaldson’s new project spliced with stories about his own retirement. It's a devastating, headache-inducing loop that he cannot bear to turn off.

He keeps playing tennis, somehow. Not as often, obviously, but just enough to keep him sane. He’d tried to go cold turkey in the beginning, spent an entire week laying on his bed in his empty apartment, dreaming about the New Rochelle match; the win in the doubles tournament; his loss to Patrick the next day. It was enough to make him consider taking a dive off the balcony.

Still, it’s nice. Eating a burger for the first time in a decade, sleeping past five-thirty, playing for fun, not to get somewhere.

Nice.

How he manages to avoid Patrick for so long, he isn’t sure. An act of God, maybe. Maybe some very intentional scheduling on Tashi’s part, maybe some subconscious effort on his own. Either way, his breath catches every single time he leads Lily up to the house, peering up and down the street for Patrick’s shitty white Honda CR-V, listening for the tell-tale sound of a ball hitting a racket out back. But there’s nothing. Six months of nothing.

It’s enough that he gets comfortable, simultaneously grateful and disappointed in the fact that he clearly isn’t meant to ever see Patrick Zweig again. He’d walked away from that part of his life: Tashi and tennis, and by extension, Patrick.

So, when he sees that familiar head of dark curls behind Tashi when she opens the door, his heart plummets, from his chest into his gut.

Tashi looks surprised to see him. “Art,” she says. “You’re early.”

Patrick is in one of the chairs in the sitting room, which is past the entryway, all the way across the room, beside the sliding glass doors that lead to the backyard. He’s so far that his head is really more a dark smudge against the bleached white of the house, but he turns around when Tashi says Art’s name.

Art checks his watch. It’s ten forty-five, he usually drops Lily off a little after eleven. “I guess,” he says.

He can hear the sounds of a bag being packed, the sound of rackets clacking against tile and clothing shifting against polyester. Then, Patrick-smudge stands up, heaves a bag-smudge onto his shoulder.

“Hi, Mommy,” Lily says.

Tashi’s shoulders, squared and tense, relax at their daughter’s voice. She smiles—uninhibited, all teeth, a smile she reserves for Lily alone—and opens her arms. “Hi, sweetie,” she says, and tucks Lily into her side in a tight hug.

When they separate, Lily turns around and hugs Art. “Bye, Daddy,” she says, muffled against his shirt.

“Bye, Lils,” Art says. He wraps his arms around her, feels his shaking hands still against her tiny shoulders, his one constant. “I love you so much, okay? I’ll see you next weekend, baby.”

Lily pulls back, an affronted look on her face. “Um, no!” she says. “My show’s on Wednesday, remember?”

He does remember. Her dance recital, he’d been looking forward to it all month. It was marked on the calendar on his fridge, a reminder on his phone.

The sight of Patrick had thrown him off more than he’d care to admit.

Art brought his hands to his mouth, a show of exaggerated remorse. “Oh, my God,” he says. He kneels in front of her and puts his hands on her shoulders. “Of course, I remember, Lils, I’ve never been this excited for anything in my life.”

She giggles, and he pulls her into another crushing hug, pressing a dozen kisses to the top of her head. “Okay, okay!” she says, pulling away.

“One more,” he says and presses a last kiss to her forehead.

“Gross, Dad,” Lily says, nose-wrinkled, but she’s smiling at him, and so is Tashi. For a moment, they aren’t living in separate houses, trading their daughter back and forth at the end of every week. For a moment, they’re a family.

Then Art stands, and looks past them. And—Patrick.

He’s smiling, too.

Lily takes her bag off the steps and slides past Tashi to head inside. She waves to Patrick as she passes him. “Hi, Patrick,” she chirps, and Art is thrown by the familiarity there.

Patrick glances at Art, so quick he almost misses it, and then waves back. “Hey, Lily,” he says. “You have fun with your dad?”

“Yeah,” she says. “We went to the zoo!”

“Awesome,” Patrick says, grinning like it really is awesome. “I’m about to head out, so I’ll see you later, kid.”

“Okay, bye, Patrick.”

Art watches them, a little bewildered, before returning his gaze to Tashi.

She talks before he can: “He’s here for training, and he stays for dinner sometimes,” she says. “That’s it.”

Art thinks this is her way of telling him that she’s not sleeping with Patrick, but it's hard to say. Not that he could object, exactly. He’s the one who asked for a second.

Patrick-smudge becomes a full-fledged Patrick as he approaches them in the doorway. There’s this stupid fucking sheepish look on his face, like a kid who’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar—which, on anyone else, would look just that: fucking stupid; but on Patrick is irritatingly endearing. Art remembers Patrick was always good at that, at making his bad qualities look like good ones.

Regardless, it doesn’t lend much credence to Tashi’s proclamation that she and Patrick aren’t fucking, but Art attempts to suspend judgement. If they are, he thinks, he can’t blame her. Not really. Not when Patrick looks—well.

Back in New Rochelle, he and Tashi had caught a split-second of one of Patrick’s matches, his third or fourth, maybe, not long after the tournament started. As they headed back to the hotel, Tashi had talked at Art about how terrible Patrick looked, with the scruff and the track marks and the general air of a stray dog that’d wandered onto a tennis court.

Art hadn’t contributed much to that conversation, for the simple fact that he didn’t entirely agree with her. Later, in the sauna, his suspicion was only further proven: Patrick Zweig, thirty years old, living out of his car, maybe addicted to drugs, still looked really fucking good. The universe was truly cruel.

Crueler still is the fact that now, under Tashi’s care, with a workout regime and a real bed, he looks impossibly better.

So, yeah, if Tashi is fucking him, Art won’t—can’t—blame her. Patrick has that effect.

Patrick hovers around Tashi’s shoulder in the doorway, staring at Art. Art deliberately does not stare back.

“Tomorrow,” Tashi says. “Six a.m. Don’t be late, Zweig.”

She says Zwieg like people usually do, pronouncing it with the w sound, instead of like a v. Art used to correct people when they were kids. He doesn’t now.

Patrick salutes. “Yes, Coach.”

“I’m fucking serious, Patrick,” she says, casting a glare over her shoulder.

Patrick throws his hands up. “So am I, Tashi! When am I not serious?”

Art has to look up at that, out of habit, leveling Patrick with a glare that used to say you’re being such an idiot, and they make eye contact. Patrick grins. Art doesn’t.

“Art,” Tashi says, voice softer. “I’ll see you Wednesday, okay?”

“Yeah,” Art says. He doesn’t want to watch the two of them say goodbye, deal with the fanfare that a goodbye entails, so he turns and starts down the driveway. He can hear them talking as he walks, and then a door shutting. Then there’s the sound of slides scuffing against concrete.

“Hey, man, wait up,” Patrick says.

Art hesitates, mid-step, and is reminded of Patrick following him after winning the challenger.

“Art, man, come on,” he says. “Just talk to me for a second.”

Art stops. Turns around.

Patrick is wearing one of his stupid muscle-tees, a pair of his even stupider mid-thigh length gym shorts. So, to put it plainly, he looks fucking stupid. He also looks so Patrick that Art swallows.

“What?” Art says.

There’s a smile on Patrick’s face, as there usually is, but it’s not as sure as Art remembers it. His eyebrows are pushed together, his grin failing a bit at the corners. He looks hesitant, cautious, which are both decidedly not patented Patrick emotions. “Uh,” he says, like now that he has Art, he doesn’t know what to do with him. “I just wanted to, I don’t know. Say hi. I guess.”

Some of the anger simmering in Art’s gut fizzles out—he can’t help it. “Hey,” he says quietly.

“Hi,” Patrick returns. His smile regains some sincerity and he drags his eyes over Art, appraising him. “You look good.”

Art huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, you, too, dude.”

“That’s what having a mattress will do for you.”

He says it jokingly, but at the same time it's a reminder—of Patrick’s years spent without him, of Art’s spent without Patrick, of the fact that Patrick was living out of his fucking car and doing drugs which is still an idea that Art can’t wrap his head around.

They stare at each other for a moment.

Then Patrick says, hooking his thumb over his shoulder, “I still can’t believe you had a kid, man.”

It’s not what Art’s expecting him to say, treading over another reminder of their separation, but Art hums and nods anyway. He isn’t sure how else to respond. There are some thoughts swirling around in his head, prospective replies piled up beside things he would never fucking say under any circumstances, the loudest of which is: I still can’t believe I had a kid without you, which Art understands is a very odd thing to think, so he mentally scratches it out and replaces it with: I still can’t believe I had a kid and you weren’t there, which he also understands is only marginally better.

Art casts a look around, checking the driveway and the street, and finds only his car parked up by the garage.

Patrick says immediately, like he’s reading Art’s mind, “Tashi picked me up today. My car’s in the shop, its—”

“Shitty, yeah,” Art finishes.

Patrick hesitates a split-second before laughing. “Yeah, it is,” he says. “I’m just going to get an Uber back to my apartment.”

Some deep-rooted urge to take care of Patrick, fostered by six years of living out Patrick’s pocket and Patrick living out of his, of pushing their beds together and operating in complete synchrony, compels him to say, “I can take you.” He pauses, then adds, “If you want.”

“Oh,” Patrick says. His eyebrows have shot up to his hairline, and he’s momentarily stunned into silence. Another unfamiliar occurrence. “Uh, yeah. I mean, yeah, if you don’t mind. Thanks, Art.”

tbc.

[moofuuu]

The Triple S

The Triple Threat~☆

And some headcanons below about these guys!! And I mean all six of them!!

V So a big post if you press past this point!! V

Here's some headcanons and other info I have for my own characters and designs in general to the triple S!! I am very passionate how I represent these guys, and I would like to note that now, before you guys read any further, I AM MYSELF A TRANS MAN!!! I DON'T SPEAK ON MOST PEOPLES BEHALF, BUT I WOULD LIKE TO SAY THAT SOME THINGS MIGHT BE OFFENSIVE TO SOME OF YOU IDFK

Now without further adoo, let's get on with the headcanons and information about the hedgehog's!!!

Sonic Headcanons

He/Him! Bisexual!

24-25 yr old

People say his boobs are growing, and yes I fully agree with that, and yes I do prefer him as a Trans man... but I love the idea of a strong muscle man with Trans scars is so goddamn UGH ♡♡♡

Sonic is getting built, growing some more muscles, and getting stronger with each series and or game!! It's the reason he's getting so big!!

He's also had both surgeries!

Top and bottom scars and also he's way more like the cocky type if you think Archie comics a bit, but of course he cares for his friends!! A whole lot actually and plays around with them too.

Amy gave him those knee and elbow pads to prevent a whole lot more scraping

even though it doesn't help much It still looks nice and it fits him, and the amount of times he slides against the grass and grounds a lot, of course he's gonna rely more on the knee pads a lot.

He wears hiking boots/shoes because they last way more longer than regular running shoes! It's something he prefers and well, the kicks have a lot more "oomf" to them when he does kick with those boots of his.

It takes a lot to take him down!! He's not your average soft man or gentle guy, he's more of your tough brother and he does get emotional!! But it's not usually the way you'd typically think, for he just gets a bit more colder to the shoulder when it's a serious situation with a more cutting edge.

Sonic's a goofball, just like it shows in the Sonic boom series, he loves just fucking around and doing silly things on the side really.

He's still learning a lot and still has that young college boy mentality to be honest.

Also well versed in close combat because of his best friend and rival Knuckles! He learned some moves from him when they met and all!

He has hyperactive ADHD!!

Sonic is a close combat character!! He prefers to fight his enemies as close as he can as he can hit powerful kicks and can throw powerful punches.

Has PTSD

His relationship with Shadow is mostly rivalry, and the two butting heads all the time!!! But never actually hanging out casually as Shadow refuses to hang out with him, and Sonic is fine with that; besides, he gets on his nerves intentionally... Never unintentionally, and the two of them know when to take matters seriously. He also thinks Shadow has a thing for someone, but he ain't no gossip-er... though Rouge brings that out of him, and he hates it.

His relationship with Silver is casual rivalry, but he can't even trash talk with him!!! He takes things to literally and doesn't even understand half the words he's saying!!! It's like he's an old man!! But Silver isn't even the oldest of the three!! In fact, the youngest and yet Sonic can never find himself having fun trash talking to the guy, but he is fun to hug though and a great listener...

Shadow Headcanons!

Any pronouns

• [Usually default to he/him though]

Demiromantic

30-50 yrs old

He doesn't really know nor really cares to know. Also, the oldest out of the triple S but not the tallest despite his alien genes.

He's in the middle... though mostly fighting close as he uses guns when necessary. Shadow is a close combat and ranged combat mobian, his muscles mostly in his arms as you need to keep your guns steady and able to handle the recoil in guns in general.

He has a bunch of old accessories! Like old patches from old bands, stickers and magnets but he hides those in small containers because he doesn't want to stick the stickers on anything.

It also usually works in the night!! He can't really work during the day as his black fur sticks out like a sore thumb and he also can't really sleep anyways sometimes.. as his nightmares sometimes gets to him.

If he doesn't have anything to do, he'll be pacing around in his office, wanting something to do, someone to talk to or listen to... but he's not about to go bother someone as his colleagues might be busy. Definitely won't go talk to Sonic as he's annoying.

He wears shades!! Mostly because the sun hurts his alien like eyes sometimes on some days where he pulled all nighters and hasn't seen the light of day.

He definitely has some routine going on as he has too stick to it, he's always so strict on himself because if he isn't, they would only end up thinking to much about their past and they're not about to deal with that.

They look great for their age, it only makes sense though as part of his life was in a tube, grown and raised in space.

After crashing into earth after escaping the A.R.K and leaving Maria behind [against his own will], it traveled the world for a bit, for Maria, for it... for itself as it was curious about the world... but eventually, G.U.N. caught up to him and, with the lack of fighting skills, eventually caught.

His shoes are bulky!!! Being made in the 1950s, there's no way his shoes look that sleek, and I will continue drawing them bulky.. also, I'm keeping the rings to how they originally looked in the SA2. Instead of straight-up rings on the hands... some rims are on the rings as they show that the ring inhibitors can come off.

Shadow is known to keep to himself most of the time and is close to his friend Omega and Rouge

He has autism, PTSD, and a bit of auditory hallucinations..

The hivemind is a part of the reason it's still there, but he destroyed that long ago! Yea, he did, but he's still needs to get used to the sounds in his head about needing to renew his own species.

Relationship with Sonic •

Its relationship with Sonic is... rocky, he gets that he's the hero and everything, supposed to keep the world safe, but he won't leave it alone!!! Of course he's better at everything than him!! Fighting! Guns!! He can do it all! But racing!! Gah!! He won't shut up about it! And how he won't shut up about how much shorter he is... but seriously, it seems like each time they're in the same room, Sonic's goal is to annoy him or get on his nerves... which works each time not going to lie.

Relationship with Silver •

For Silver, his relationship with him and all that, despite being the one to almost kill Sonic when meeting and killing him, he learned a lot, and he's glad to have shown the bad things and bad intentions Mephiles was planning. The fact that he doesn't even try and do anything suspicious either is refreshing... The fact that he holds no judgment to anyone too is something new and refreshing too, meeting Silver was like... for once someone doesn't judge him and just listens... he also lost a best friend, which was Blaze. He gets it.. doesn't he..? Why does he feel this way..?

Silver Headcanons!!!

Pansexual | He/They

20-23 yrs old!

Wears a jacket for warmth, a binder for comfort, and pants for comfort plus warmth as well! He wears these rings to keep his own magic in check, and so it's much easier for him to not always focus on the target he's holding.

From the future, but a devastating one... no matter what he did, no matter what he said!! The future never changed, and it was always some wasteland. He needs to check up on it every once in a while, though, to make sure the future is still the future and that he should figure out how or what to defeat their enemies with!! They don't know specifically or much details but with their small Itty bitty skills of detective work from reading books, they will be able to help at some point... right???

Shortest of the three and lacking muscle, but there's a reason for that!

They are mostly ranged fighter as they rely on their telekinesis a lot and can not fight close for the life of them.. can't even use a gun without being scared of it!!

They are well versed in the books, and had read a lot of things, when they read instructions, they can get it not instantly but with a few trials and errors they can actually perfect the thing they're learning. Cooking? Yes! Baking? Yes! Sewing?? Few pokes by accident but yes!!!

Though his build is small, he's actually pretty brave, as he grew up in an apocalyptic world, learning to scavenge and fast with food and water... learning about plants and all!

He infact... hates the cold but wants to see winter snow... he got way too used to Crisis City and its extreme heats!!! His body is cold like a fridge, but... luckily, he has friends that can keep him warm!

He lost his best friend and sister, Blaze; her sacrifice to sealing away the evil that was in the future and now wears red earrings to represent her. Though... the Blaze he met that's from another realm... reminds him too much of his old sister... though she seems a lot more strict with herself than anything.

Learned most of his knowledge in books!! No matter how bad the writing may have been, he would read it... and tries his best to keep an open mind to a lot of things... Blaze (from his timeline and world) had even helped him read and learn some things from the books.

They're indeed the fluffiest

Has albinism!

Got their powers from when they're young, telekinesis is actually quiet rare!![I rarely see anyone use this and just IMO!!! Concludes to being it a rare super power..]

Telekinesis/Psycokenesis is actually quiet rare, how he got it was through an attack, an attempt was made at his life by flames and Blaze wasn't there to help, but luckily his powers activated in time, blowing away all the flames that threatened him.. though now he's scared still

Has Audhd!!

Introverted as you can't just shove someone into a group of people even though they haven't even been around anyone but ONE person all their life!!

Though he does have lots of interest and loves listening in on everyone's conversation.

He thinks out loud to himself

PTSD as well...

Trust issues after Mephiles.

Relationship with Sonic •

His relationship with Sonic was rocky at first, and he hates how he was so mean to Sonic! Trying to kill him and all for the right reasons!! He swears it was for the right reasons!! He almost did it, and he was so glad Amy was there to stop him... though it was hard to understand at first, but lucky for his open-mindedness, he was able to get over it. Finding out Sonic was actually the good guy and learning that he was actually the one he read in all the books about the legendary blue hero and not the so-called "iblis trigger." To meet your idol and the hero, and he's so calm and nice and oh— never mind he's fighting with his friends again... well, at least he's so forgiving and forgetting... but Silver sure as hell ain't, he hasn't even forgiven himself yet for being so mean to him at first. But he keeps trying to do this trash talk??? Sometimes Silver gets it...

Most times, not getting it one bit. Though his charm and skills are very admirable, and they want to learn it someday.

Relationship with Shadow •

He's the reason he even got out of killing the blue hero in the first place and sure was cold-hearted and rude at first.. even kicked him in the head, but that was well deserved, honestly. But seeing through the lies and actually the original form that Mephiles had taken!! And to learn he was actually manipulating Silver!? Agh! It's hard to read someone, but... Shadow just looks like he needs a friend and someone there to show him it's okay to open up at least a bit! That's what Sonic showed him, and that's what Blaze did too!

Silver can't help but look up to Shadow sometimes though, admiring him and his work and how well organized he is! Better than Silvers chaotic schedule that they try to keep too!! But learning that Shadow had a friend and lost them ... Silver can't help but feel closer to him in some way after learning such detail.

v The Triple Threat v

Scourge Headcanons!!

24-26! He/Him

Bisexual

He's the shortest of the three cause, well, he's a hedgehog! He's insecure bout that, but not as much as you think. He is also a big-time flirt and puts up a big tough guy front. Has commitment issues and also hates really keeping up with any friends, especially after how many times he been fucked over.

But that didn't really seem to stop him getting to more other buddies, Venice and Terios, who's actually not as bad as the rest and actually have been on the same level as him

Terios is intimidating and strong, sure, but he Scourge can never get that guy to get angry at him and it's fair, guy seems like he's been through a lot.

Venice just so happens to come from some future, but he said he was sent back to save the past... but surprisingly, the guy just didn't want to and joined Scourge's ruling.

So his new friends are really okay to say the least, they can care less about others as much as him but no matter what Scourge is still some type of Sonic, so of course he has some respect for his two buddies...

Pathetic really as he can't get over his ex Fiona, and everytime he complains about it Venice is there to slap that outta him, he's not about to go through another pathetic crying session.

Scourge wears all this outrageous stuff because of how he has very much a identity crisis every other week, trying to separate himself and his own looks from Sonic, trying to remove the title of "evil sonic" off of him, gets mad each time he's even referred to the name as he screams out "IT'S SCOURGE!!!" Hating how he's always compared to Sonic as well as he's not at all like him!!

His quills are much shorter but well kept, despite the punkish look to him, he's a lot more cleaner than Sonic himself, as he also likes to plan ahead of time too, but can't really read people well like Sonic though..

Has a dead dad

Ain't as built like Sonic

Just as chaotic, if not worse, and evil at that, who cares about who gets hurt??

Other than his two pals.. don't hurt his two pals.

Venice the mink

21-24 | He/him

Unlabeled.

Despite the looks of it, he's not at all well put together, screaming and yelling at everyone who gets him pissed off, and even dares to make fun of his interests, very closed off as he's always pushing away everyone from him.

Note; as surprising it is, Scourge and Venice are still buddies, though, as their goals in life are really just the same.

Unlike Silver, he doesn't have that pretty privilege that the white hedgehog has, as he always thinks his scar is awful, tanking his insecurities more and how much he hates his looks.. so to combat this, he built his own body to make up the scar he's so insecure about, wrapping what he could in bandages.

He hates seeing Silver and hates how he acts as he sees too much of his younger self in him. He also hates how open they are.

Very much has inner homophobia of himself and has VERY FRAGILE masculinity

Venice would rather get shot in the head before admitting to himself for liking anyone, as he has his feelings locked away deep inside himself so even the smallest fuzziness he feels he would immediately try and push the person away or just be meaner. Self-destruction if you will.

Despite this Terios and Scourge stick by, it's not like they both heard worse and by this point they're starting to learn that Venice's aggressive behavior is also becoming a bit more like aggressive love..

Says lots of death threats to both Scourge and Terios but he can't actually kill Terios, and Scourge, he's why he's okay with being friends with at least a few people.

He hates the other for teasing him so much but it's not like he makes fun of the hedgehog back..

Keeps Scourge alive because Scourge is his kill, no one else's, despite how gay that might sound they're only just friends with benefits and rarely go at it anyways.

His relationship with Terios, he's also somehow less hostile towards the porcupine, but that's because of the power the guy has, and what he's capable of doing.

Terios the porcupine

40 to 50 yrs old

He/him Unlabled.

He's the tallest of the three and is the strongest, waken up too many times and also been resurrected to many times for his own good.

Doesn't like getting into fights much and rather avoid everyone at all costs, but because of Venice and Scourge freeing the guy from his prison, he's tolerant of those two, and ONLY those two.

Full of anarchy baryl, but is weak to the chaos energy from mobius...

He very much has a dad bod and he also just stays out of trouble for the most part because he rather be left alone in nature where no one's there to bug him and actually hurt him... mostly passive and he's also originally a porcupine that was swept off the streets long ago.

A science expirement gone wrong, and left alive for as long as they can... Lucky them, Terios got out, and the island blew. .. well not lucky for them nevermind.

They all said it was for the greater good.. science...

Terios hates technology... not because of his age and non understanding of it...

It's because of how much it terrifies him and actually what the thing is capable of, he's not about to go back and listen to all the humming and buzzing of machines.

Terios sneezes like a dad would, loud and noisy

He rather avoid everyone and everything, not really liking technology or even the city in general.

Has multiple bullet wound scars, but the fur has overgrown them.. but if you touch the body sure can feel them.

He was originally a normal porcupine actually, from the earth instead of space

Not many things can hurt or kill him like his counterpart... he actually died multiple times before but brought back alive each time.

The Triple Threat has a lot more headcanons, but I realize how big this post is getting lol