#first time posting my writing...

[eggbem]

Currently haunted by @dreamweave01's RotTMNT Separated AU. I couldn't stop thinking about Raph's backstory; it's so horrifying. I had to draw something about it.

Thanks for the shell reference, DW!

Went with the more pointy version of Raph's kraang hands, based on the baby CJ post:

[egophiliac]

So,I read silver's relaxation vigente and now I'm sad for the poor boy. If lilia broke up silver's curse why is it acting so strongly on him?

to be fair, the chronological placement of his birthday story just doesn't make any sense in general. like, it can only really take place during his second year, since Ace and Malleus are both there...yet we have seen pretty definitively what Silver was doing on the evening before/morning of his 18th birthday, and it was very much NOT his history homework. this myth?

jk jk I think it's just one of those card stories that's meant to be more...perpendicular to canon, if that makes sense? 😅 like a lot of them aren't really supposed to fit into a specific point in the timeline; instead all the characters and relationships tend to be somewhere vaguely post-episode 1 (occasionally with a bonus post-6 Ortho) except Yuu is already friends with everyone and nobody is surprised to hear them call Malleus Tsunotarou.

mostly they can get away with it, but it starts getting a bit weird with the cards that are supposed to be set at specific times. :T for those I think you gotta just kind of suspend your disbelief and take 'em as, like...little what-if AUs, or something like that! it's not exactly not canon, but more like. this is Silver's birthday if none of the narrative development happened and so his curse is still in effect, or something. 🤷 uhhhh basically Twst's timeline is an eldritch thing that cannot be perceived by mortal eyes, to try will lead to nothing but suffering, down this path dwells only madness.

that said I do 100% accept the presented canon that Silver's roommate is in eternal torment. this is the real victim of Twst right here.

[yeoldenews]

A selection of strange and cryptic personal ads from The New York Herald, 1860s to 1890s. 14/?

[necrobunni]

me, very high, just realized i unconsciously twerk when i’m baked. not like full ass clap or anything. just lil movements. lil grind. like my ass has a rhythm all its own.

and now I’m imagining being high with Simon Riley.

sitting on his lap, smoking, watching TV. chillin’. heavy thighs across his, ass comfortably posted. all chill. he's warm. a perfect human furnace

and outta nowhere you just start throwin’ it back. not even on purpose. just vibin'. slow lil grind. just a rhythm in your hips and you're too high to notice.

and Simon?? man’s stiff. quiet. doesn’t say shit. probably thinks you're just malfunctioning.

he's built like a fucking tank, and you can still feel him stiffen under you.

but you keep doing it. no awareness. you don't clock it, just baked and grinding.

and he’s under you, getting harder and harder, saying nothing not even daring to breathe. dying inside.

quiet. respectful. Suffering.

he doesn’t shift. doesn’t move you. just sits there letting you grind real gentle, real slow, like it’s nothing.

like it’s not driving him insane.

and then you shift a little more. sink down just a touch in his lap.

and you hear it.

a low. deep. barely there grunt:

"Fuckin’ hell..."

you pause. glance back.

"...you alright?"

his jaw’s tight. hands gripping your thighs just a little harder now. he clears his throat, looks away from you, and mutters something low that sounds like a prayer or a threat, hard to tell.

And you.

you just blink. Shrug. go back to watching tv like nothing happened, meanwhile he’s underneath you, chest rising hard, pupils blown, fists clenched just trying not to disrupt you.

Trying to be good.

he’s this close to snapping. but he won’t. not yet.

not while you're sittin’ pretty, high as hell, still lightly bouncin’.

unaware of driving a grown man to the edge of divinity.

pt 2.

[sihbisu]

binge read reprogrammed n decoded by @littlecrittereli a few days ago :3

its very neat -u-

so made fanart :D

SPOILERS FOR CHAPTER 6 OF REPROGRAMMED

TW BLOOD, PANICKNG

(The blood part is brief with only a lil bit on the 1st page, there's nothing super graphic but just a lil heads up)

Please be safe <3

[ejsuperstar]

Imagine you live in pelican town. The new farmer has been here a couple weeks now and seems to be settling in, except... He's picking the weirdest friend choices. Like sure it's not weird to befriend the local fisherman, especially when he has an interest in fishing himself, but you're pretty sure you've seen him rooting through the Saloon's garbage with the local homeless man. As well, he keeps harassing the poor guy who works at Joja even though you KNOW he doesn't want to be friends with him.

And since you're on the topic of weirdness, isn't it odd he seemingly runs everywhere at a full sprint? Or just... Eats entire raw fish while fishing for "energy reasons"...

...

Despite all that, it's too early to call him off putting or anything... He has been engaging in town traditions, and he's started helping out with the old community centre. He's probably like the rest of you. Someone with a few quirks, that will fit in with the valley great!

Surely he can't get any weirder... Right?

[frosted-woods]

autumn time to be gay and totally fine and not miserable at all

[is-this-even-relatable]

Misfortune Teller

tldr: An older Danny, apprentice to Clockwork, does a lot of field work across dimensions, resetting the timeline, queuing future events, and who knows what else. Occasionally, he warns people about such upcoming possibilities, to set them on the right path. How, you might ask? Well in this case... as a wandering fortune teller.

Crack-fic (oh god, it's getting long and my logic brain won't let it remain as crack) where Danny becomes Clockwork's apprentice after getting his GED. Living his infinite afterlife to the fullest. Inspired by this tumblr post.

Working for Clockwork had been... interesting so far. At first, Danny got frustrated by how vague and cryptic Clockwork was. He'd just shunt Danny off to some ancient time with a few words, his own time medallion (Danny carried it everywhere with him now), and then pop back into the portal, leaving Danny with only the faintest idea of where to go.

Eventually, after enough time (ha!) spent around Clockwork, Danny figured out that it just basically meant that he had free reign and to do whatever he wanted. Because if he went on the wrong path, (like that one time in Pompeii when he had almost caused the volcano to explode a few years too early), Clockwork would just pop on by, say another few cryptic words, and then it'd all be fine and dandy, or as he liked to say, "All is as it should be... Now stop practicing your wail by an active volcano."

After telling Jazz about that (it was supposed to be funny, not concerning), she just sighed and shook her head, with a forlorn "think before you act, Danny!" but hey, it'd turned out fine so far, so who cares how he does what Clockwork asks him to do, as long as it gets done, right? Even if it's with a liiiiitle more mischief than strictly required.

Besides. Danny was the one who had been doing time shenanigans across millennia, not Jazz. And he thought he'd been getting pretty good at it too! He'd actually started giving himself a different made-up background for each universe he visited. Sam and Tucker were helping him keep up with the identities on a spreadsheet, so if he had to go back to one he'd already visited, he'd remember who he'd said he was supposed to be.

---

He was on a call with them one evening while haunting Jazz's apartment, doing just that, when he felt a familiar tingle in the back of his throat, as well as a heightened awareness of the seconds passing by, that always accompanied his mentor's appearance.

Sam was talking about his past stint posing as a god of death when he cut in. "Hey- sorry to interrupt, Sam- Clocky's here, guys, I gotta dip."

"Aw, come on! We hardly talked any this past week since you passed your certifications, man," Tucker complained.

Danny rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "Yeah, yeah. Partly on you too though, you've been caught up outside of class, and Sam's schedule is nearly the opposite of yours."

Sam hummed in agreement despiter Tucker's scoff.

Danny missed hanging out with them as much as they had in high school, but hey, life goes on. Or at least, theirs did, to college. After finally flunking out of Casper High, he'd taken some time to get used to his responsibilities in the ghost zone, and when he had, he realized that he didn't really have much enthusiasm or timeleft for his human life.

And he didn't really want to go back home either.

But Jazz had made him tie up any loose ends before he noped-off to god knows where, which frankly, he had to thank her for. Getting his GED took a few years, but it was an accomplishment that could be attributed to Danny Fenton, no ghostliness required. Then he was able to let that tether go free.

Pulled out of his musings by a few more grumbles from Tucker, Danny said his goodbyes, promising to call the next time they were all available.

After hanging up, Danny swiveled around, anticipation already lighting up his eyes an ethereal green.

Clockwork, for his part, had been waiting patiently through Danny's lengthy goodbyes. Although he supposed that it tracked for the watcher of time to be patient. With his job, it'd be a nightmare if he wasn't.

"Phantom," Clockwork spoke, calm as always. "I have some tasks I need you to complete as my apprentice."

And Danny, always ready for adventure, didn't need him to explain any further. "Sure! When do you need me to be?"

Clockwork smiled at that. "I am fortunate you are eager. Follow me."

---

Danny popped into existence in this universe with a burst of cold air and static electricity. He found himself hovering by a clocktower above a sprawling, gothic city. Smog and light pollution obscured the stars above him, to his disappointment. He comforted himself with the fact that he'd probably have all the time he wanted to fly someplace less populated to see them later.

He started off by familiarizing himself with the city. As he flew, he followed the trail of power and met the resident city-spirit, a spooky- but kind underneath- woman draped in black lace, who told him her name was Gotham. He spoke in length with her about this universe, its heroes, and her knights. On that, she was very enthusiastic... or at least Danny thought she was, her projected emotions belaying much more than her gloomy exterior. She told him how her knights had been through a lot and would need some guidance fighting the darkness that pooled in her deepest corners, smiling with too much glee, filling lungs with fear, and terrorizing with cold hard bullets.

Danny could sense that the dangers she spoke of were growing in power, ever slowly. The longer they shadowed people's minds and hearts, an intangible thing grew that lent them more otherworldly pull than their physical forms had right to hold.

That must be what he was sent here for.

But... they were weak, pitifully so for him, infinite king as he was. And besides, he wasn't here in that sense. He was a messenger, a simple apprentice. And he could do this however he wanted.

Cue his talk with Lady Gotham, and subsequent idea to arm her knights. With what? Well, he figured knowledge would be a start. Flying high above the city invisibly, Danny noticed a sea of colors and lights by what appeared to be the city's pier. He flew down, noting that it appeared to be the setup spot for a travelling circus or carnival of some kind.

He considered what to do. One of Lady Gotham's troubles was a madman clown, right? Well maybe he'd be attracted to his ilk here... and with the danger came the knights. Maybe he could catch one of them here?

Danny was floating around at the entrance and beginning to formulate a plan when a flyer caught his eye. Looking for a mystic to read fortunes. URGENT!

Hadn't Clockwork said something about fortunes? And he hadn't made an identity in this universe yet...

A mischievous smile crept across Danny's face, splitting it in two with far too many teeth.

---

Half a city away, a man in all black, perched on the very same clocktower that Phantom had Appeared by, shivered as he felt an ominous premonition about his sanity in the near future...

Said man quickly opened his comms to check in with his many, many kids. Yet even after hearing back from each, he still felt apprehensive.

Somewhere even further, Clockwork laughed.

---

And that's how Danny found himself seated at a fortune teller's booth at a pier in Gotham, two days later, for the Tricksy Traveling Circus's grand opening.

[siggiedraws]

Sonic is fundamentally unrelatable and unrealistic - and that's a good thing

I want to address a common sentiment in the fandom that I've seen countless times over the years - the idea that Sonic should be more humanlike. Specifically, the idea that Sonic should have more human traits, such as anxiety or insecurities, that make him emotionally vulnerable in some way.

I have always felt that this sentiment strips away what I love about Sonic so much—that it goes against his character as someone who is meant to be inspirational rather than relatable. From the bottom of my heart, I truly believe that making Sonic more relatable ruins his appeal and misses the entire point of what role he is meant to fulfill. Sonic being the way he is, an inhuman being that is extremely strong and unyielding mentally and emotionally, makes him an inspirational character that is appealing outside of the realm of relatability.

Please note that I am discussing Game Sonic for this essay, not any versions of Sonic from spinoff media.

(Special thanks to @blurredblu for helping me write this essay!)

Relatability =/= likeability

First, it is important to define "relatability" for the rest of the essay, as what is seen as relatable can vary across countless different cultures and lifestyles.

In this case, we are discussing facets of the human psyche. Traits such as emotional vulnerability, insecurity, or trauma are traits seen as humanlike because they imitate the depth of the human mind. They come across more realistic, and thus relatable to people in real life who have generally gone through emotional hardships.

Relatability is also considered with the implied audience in mind, according to Craft in the Real World by Matthew Salesses.

If relatability were somehow a goal of craft, then the question should be: How can a writer go about trying to make a piece of fiction relatable? If we mean “relatable” as sharing a reader’s experience, the first place to go is audience. We must always ask: Relatable to whom? Which brings us back to the elephant in the room—to call a manuscript “relatable” is really to make a claim about who the audience is or should be.

When writing relatability in fiction, what is important to recognize is who the target audience is. Sonic is a character that was initially created to appeal to a wide target audience, not only meant for young boys but for girls, women, and an older age range in general. When it comes to marketability however, Sonic is almost always advertised towards children, and this demographic is the most pertinent when we look at versions of Sonic written with relatability as a goal. With this idea of the target audience in mind, a character who is portrayed as young and having a childish temperament would be more relatable. The Paramount Sonic movies are a great example of a version of Sonic explicitly written to be relatable to the target demographic on a broad level, heavily influenced by the culture that the movies derive from: specifically a middle-class, suburban, small-town vision of American life. Sonic is portrayed as dependent, inexperienced, and abiding by a nuclear family structure who idolises many elements of American popular culture, such as Keanu Reeves or Marvel/DC superhero comics. Compare this to the games, where Sonic is shown to be self-supporting, wise, and living life as an unfettered vagabond, all without a trace of any pop culture utterances.

In other words, Sonic was created to be the height of unrelatability to his target audience.

It is not lost on me that the prevalent desire for Sonic to behave realistically ties into the idea that the goal of crafting a good character is to emulate realistic human characteristics. A character's relatability is what allows audiences to connect with the character, which is considered unequivocally a good thing.

What is forgotten in this rudimentary line of thinking is that characters in media need to fulfill a role. Characters are not people like you or me, but fictional creations made to serve a particular purpose. There needs to be thought put into what narrative role the character fulfills and why they are portrayed a certain way to the audience. Hence, there must be a reason for the relatability, instead of employing it haphazardly.

To quote Craft in the Real World once more:

"readers’ expectations for fiction are created by their previous experiences with fiction—in other words, by culture."

The desire for Sonic to be relatable can be attributed to people recognizing pervasive tropes present in their previous experiences with fiction, internalizing these commonalities as the correct way to write good stories, and assigning these to Sonic as a result. While I can understand the logic behind this thinking, it is crucial we don't limit our appraisal of media by saying a protagonist ought to abide by a certain limitation, when it's the breaking of rules, however rigid they are, that allow for different methods of storytelling. Sonic breaks the so-called rule that a protagonist must be relatable, and it's this unrelatability that enhances and strengthens the narrative in many Sonic games. In other words, writing Sonic in a relatable way can be a way to write him; that does not mean it is the only or correct way to do so.

We should bear in mind that there are usually financial incentives to cast characters as mentally or emotionally relatable to audiences. To create a protagonist that appeals to all audiences to maximize revenue, the solution is typically to make them broadly relatable. While this can be a successful formula, it is important to not apply it to media indiscriminately. If a myriad of works all prioritise having characters be relatable over what makes them unique, you may end up sacrificing creative integrity for the sake of following a trend. In Sonic's case, you would lose the inimitable appeal that makes him stand out. While relatability can be valuable in certain contexts, it should not dominate all other considerations of writing a character, especially when it is done for the purposes of profitability as opposed to earnestly conveying a character to, ultimately, tell a story.

What makes Sonic stand out

What, then, makes Sonic stand out as a character? His inhuman mental fortitude. In a wide and varied cast of characters such as the Sonic cast, each with their own unique emotional struggles, Sonic stands out as the sole character with no struggle. He has no weak point, no Achilles' heel. Though he is weak to water, that is only a physical weakness. Mentally, he is too strong for anything to affect him long-term.

As stated before, characters are designed to serve specific creative purposes. In Sonic's case, his striking mental resilience is to highlight other messages and characters in the story. This is because Sonic usually plays the guiding or support role in his stories. He is not the sole focus. There is always at least a second character that the story focuses on to highlight that character's problems and struggles, and how that character ends up overcoming that conflict, often with Sonic's help.

With all this in mind, would Sonic stories be improved if Sonic was, instead, a human-like character with human flaws and insecurities? Or would this muddy his core concept and require all Sonic stories to be changed unrecognizably to fit this new, different character?

Sonic has no backstory - and that's a good thing

Understand that this section is not an attack on backstories in general. For the most part, backstories provide insight into a character's motivations and personality. They are effective in accomplishing what they were meant to do - creating characters that are meant to be realistic.

Sonic is not meant to be realistic.

Yuji Naka once stated the reason behind Sonic's lack of a backstory in an interview: if you uncover all the mysteries, then the character will become uninteresting.

Very little information of Sonic's backstory has been revealed. We know that he is from Christmas Island (same interview link as above) and it is implied in the Sonic 1 manual that he and Eggman already know each other and have been regularly tussling before the events of the first game. These are vague and unspecific details that are not brought up in Sonic games at all, and for good reason.

Distance is required to portray a character who you are meant to be separate from rather than analogous to. Maintaining a certain level of mystery around Sonic creates intrigue, as a question is begged but never answered or even brought up in Sonic stories. This is because Sonic's backstory has no relevance on the narrative and delving into it is not necessary.

Sonic's motivations are simple and straightforward. He likes to run and go on adventures because it's fun. He likes to help people not out of some heroic obligation but because he wants to do what he feels is right. There is no need for a backstory to explain Sonic's motivations when they are plainly presented to you in such an uncomplicated manner, and what's on the face of it is just wholly what it is.

Sonic is also a character that remains static rather than having a major character arc. While he can grow when it comes to things that don't affect his overall character, such as Sonic learning and overcoming Shadow's Chaos Control technique in Sonic Adventure 2, he has no emotional conflict to overcome. He has been a fully realized character since the beginning of the franchise.

Compare this to a character like Tails, whose character arc is about him being bullied for his two tails in the past and being inspired by Sonic to be more confident in himself, as communicated in the Sonic 2 manual and his Sonic Adventure campaign. Divulging Tails' backstory is necessary for the improvement of Tails' circumstances and confidence levels to be effectively communicated in the story.

Fictional characters are narrative devices created to tell a story. They are not real. Again, there must be narrative reasons for them to be the way they are.

Providing Sonic's backstory would serve no narrative purpose—none that would serve the themes his stories and character are meant to serve, at any rate.

Sonic has no trauma - and that's a good thing

Upon analyzing Sonic's character in the games for so long, it has become astoundingly clear to me that Sonic does not have an ounce of mental trauma from everything he has been through. This should not be seen as a bad thing, but rather a well-thought-out and deliberate decision that serves to reinforce the role his character serves.

In the face of situations that would be considered stressful or traumatic to the average person, Sonic remains unfazed and even excited. There are countless examples of this: Sonic jumping from a plane with nothing but shrapnel to use as a surfboard in Sonic Adventure 2; Sonic expressing excitement that he's near an active volcano spewing lava in '06; Sonic exuberantly grinding over pits of lava in Black Knight; Sonic burning up with excitement at the prospect of dangerous stakes in Team Sonic Racing while everyone else seems to be concerned.

For Sonic, danger and near-death experiences are not a source of emotional struggle, but rather a source of fulfilment and joy. He lives life on the edge; the excitement of diving off of a plane or nearly falling into lava only fuels his love for life.

Additionally, Sonic also enjoys the simpler pleasures of life. Exploring the world. Reading books. Going on relaxing vacations. Racing through open fields. Life is one big adventure and Sonic is having a blast living it.

The idea of Sonic having some kind of secret, hidden trauma that he hides under the guise of a fake smile can be a fun fanon trope, but, for the purposes of canon and official Sonic stories, there are clear reasons why they should stay as fanon. If Sonic had trauma, it would undermine his unrelatability and make no sense given his role in his stories. Tropes such as Hurt/Comfort and Angst are ubiquitous when it comes to fandom culture, and this could be a case of those tropes appearing in the Sonic fandom simply due to the nature of fandom itself. Enjoying fanon in and of itself is all well and good, but advocating for it in canon will homogenize it by stripping away what is unique about the media we love.

In the end, there is no reason to believe that Sonic pretends or does not behave genuinely when it comes to expressing his true emotions. Sonic simply has nothing dark inside of his heart to hide. This is confirmed in Unleashed, where Sonic's heart is strong enough to resist the negative emotional forces of Dark Gaia without him even realizing. The subconscious nature of the action combined with his humility even leads him to initially think it to be Chip's doing. His heart is so strong and so pure that it is incorruptible by negative forces. This shows how Sonic's resolve is effortless and practically baked into who he is.

Sonic's internal strength is completely unconscious on Sonic's part. He doesn't actively try to be the way he is. He just is.

Sonic doesn't cry - you get the idea

It has become a hot topic in the fanbase in recent years that Sega once provided a revision note for Sonic to not express excessive emotion such as outwardly crying or sobbing.

This idea has generally been met with hostility and aversion from fans. However, this negative reaction has always confused me, and I hope to offer a different perspective to the issue.

Why does Sonic need to cry?

Let's expand on this argument for fairness' sake. A common rebuttal grants that Sonic doesn't usually cry. But in extremely emotionally difficult situations, such as loss or mourning, Sonic should cry because it is only natural to cry in such a situation.

Again, I want to challenge this notion. We could approach it from the angle of human psychology and behaviour—it is far from the case that everyone cries in response to severe adversity, belatedly or otherwise—but instead I want to explore this with respect to the narrative angle we have covered so far. Specifically, with respect to the idea that characters, unlike you or me, are designed and portrayed with certain purposes in mind.

Why would it be natural for Sonic to cry?

To help understand Sonic's handling of loss, let's analyze four examples from the series of Sonic losing someone.

In Sonic Adventure 2, Sonic stays strong and composed right after Shadow's presumed death, paying respect to his fallen ally.

In Sonic Unleashed, after Chip leaves him, Sonic takes a deep breath before moving forward with a smile on his face.

In Sonic Battle, Sonic is desperate for Emerl to live and expresses this openly.

In Sonic '06, Sonic expresses a great amount of despair when Elise dies in an explosion aboard the Egg Carrier.

It is clear from the outset that Sonic is not an uncaring individual - he wouldn't do all the selfless things he does if not because he didn't care about people. He also still feels strong emotion at losing those close to him, but he handles those emotions with a great deal of fortitude. In Adventure 2 and Unleashed, his reaction is more subdued, while in Battle and '06, it's clear that Sonic is upset and isn't afraid to show it. The difference could be due to that in the prior examples, Sonic watched them die in front of his eyes, while in the latter examples, they were already gone by the time we see Sonic's reaction.

Nevertheless, Sonic feels emotion. It is only because he does not express himself in an adequately typical way that this idea is met with so much outrage and pushback. Because Sonic does not cry, and because an expected response in certain scenarios would be to cry, it is perceived as a writing mistake that must be fixed. Sonic is perceived as a bad character because he does not fit into a rigid box of socially acceptable expressiveness.

But why is Sonic acting outside the norm necessarily a bad thing? The fact that Sonic can go through such hard situations and remain positive is a testament to his strength. The fact he doesn't cry makes him come across as superhuman when it comes to mental fortitude. That is not a mistake of his character that needs "fixing." That is the entire point.

The animosity towards the idea of Sonic not crying, that he must express himself a specific way, a distinctly normal and humanlike way, is stirred from the irrational, yet sadly common, leap in logic that Sonic must behave and experience life like you or me.

There is an irony, too, to how localised this demand of realism is of Sonic. I've seen no outrage demanding that he spill blood or break bones like us. But, apparently, he must shed tears to be a good character. Sonic is superhumanly resilient while running, or fighting, or taking on the miraculous powers of the Chaos Emeralds. Chaos is power and power is enriched by the heart. Sonic's is shown to be one of the strongest and purest out there, one that moves ever on from and through the pain of loss, grief, and tragedy. Isn't it bizarre, then, that this is considered a defect to him?

The messaging of Sonic

Sonic's core concept as an inspirational character must be maintained because it is key to the emotional messaging of nearly every single Sonic game.

Right from the very first game, you play as a plucky little hedgehog, fighting against the tyranny of Eggman's industrialization threatening to destroy all life on the planet.

Sonic is small and unassuming. But he fights anyways, determined to stop Eggman. And he does.

This concept remains throughout the franchise. Sonic always remains steadfast in the face of great adversity. From Sonic CD's "You Can Do Anything" vocal theme telling the player to believe in themselves to simple yet motivational phrases—ones that Sonic himself has given to the likes of more normal characters such as Elise: "If you have time to worry, then run!"

There is even a quote on the Japanese box art of Sonic & Knuckles comparing Sonic to the Sun, the far and unreachable star in space that our entire galaxy revolves around.

We look up at the Sun like how we look up to Sonic.

As brought up earlier, Sonic is the antithesis of relatability to his target audience, children.

This is because he is meant to inspire children.

The fact that Sonic remains so popular and successful to this day is undeniable proof that relatability is far from a necessary ingredient for likeable characters. Given the fact that Sonic is such a strong-willed character, that he fights endlessly against adversity with a smile on his face, that he always gives positive words of encouragement, is it any wonder why he is so popular with children? Sonic is a wonderful role model that promotes living life to the fullest. Sonic is deceptively wise, seeming to know simple yet effective solutions to every problem. Sonic encourages you to chase your dreams, to stay strong through hard times, to enjoy life.

Sonic is a friend who is always there for you.

Not only does Sonic provide guidance to characters, he provides guidance in the real world as we navigate our lives and the trials and tribulations that come with them. Each character that presents a problem is the character we are meant to connect with, and Sonic is who we strive to be.

CONCLUSION

I do not hold any grudge against relatable characters. I love them, just as I love all kinds of different characters in all kinds of media.

I believe that coexistence is possible. I believe that you can praise a character for their relatability and realism, just as you can praise a character for being the antithesis of both of those things, and these do not have to be contradicting principles for one to have. It all depends on a character's narrative function and how their character traits – both relatable and unrelatable – serve the story that is being told.

Sonic the Hedgehog is a character whose role in the narrative is to inspire and guide other characters. From a Doylist perspective, he represents the prominent, all-embracing messaging about staying strong and positive despite all odds, inspiring and guiding his target audience.

Every decision put into Sonic's character traits serve his role perfectly. Of course this extraordinary character does not behave like you or I do. Why would he? That's simply not his nature; a gust of wind in the breeze, moving endlessly all throughout the world. A pure and positive heart who has achieved the innate desire of all humankind in a way that we will never truly understand, free from the burdens of human nature. Freedom.

Sonic is unrelatable and unrealistic. And he is an amazing character.

[inkskinned]

crows use tools and like to slide down snowy hills. today we saw a goose with a hurt foot who was kept safe by his flock - before taking off, they waited for him to catch up. there are colors only butterflies see. reindeer are matriarchical. cows have best friends and 4 stomachs and like jazz music. i watched a video recently of an octopus making himself a door out of a coconut shell.

i am a little soft, okay. but sometimes i can't talk either. the world is like fractal light to me, and passes through my skin in tendrils. i feel certain small things like a catapult; i skirt around the big things and somehow arrive in crisis without ever realizing i'm in pain.

in 5th grade we read The Curious Incident of the Dog In The Night-time, which is about a young autistic boy. it is how they introduced us to empathy about neurotypes, which was well-timed: around 10 years old was when i started having my life fully ruined by symptoms. people started noticing.

i wonder if birds can tell if another bird is odd. like the phrase odd duck. i have to believe that all odd ducks are still very much loved by the other normal ducks. i have to believe that, or i will cry.

i remember my 5th grade teacher holding the curious incident up, dazzled by the language written by someone who is neurotypical. my teacher said: "sometimes i want to cut open their mind to know exactly how autistics are thinking. it's just so different! they must see the world so strangely!" later, at 22, in my education classes, we were taught to say a person with autism or a person on the spectrum or neurodivergent. i actually personally kind of like person-first language - it implies the other person is trying to protect me from myself. i know they had to teach themselves that pattern of speech, is all, and it shows they're at least trying. and i was a person first, even if i wasn't good at it.

plants learn information. they must encode data somehow, but where would they store it? when you cut open a sapling, you cannot find the how they think - if they "think" at all. they learn, but do not think. i want to paint that process - i think it would be mostly purple and blue.

the book was not about me, it was about a young boy. his life was patterned into a different set of categories. he did not cry about the tag on his shirt. i remember reading it and saying to myself: i am wrong, and broken, but it isn't in this way. something else is wrong with me instead. later, in that same person-first education class, my teacher would bring up the curious incident and mention that it is now widely panned as being inaccurate and stereotypical. she frowned and said we might not know how a person with autism thinks, but it is unlikely to be expressed in that way. this book was written with the best intentions by a special-ed teacher, but there's some debate as to if somebody who was on the spectrum would be even able to write something like this.

we might not understand it, but crows and ravens have developed their own language. this is also true of whales, dolphins, and many other species. i do not know how a crow thinks, but we do know they can problem solve. (is "thinking" equal to "problem solving"? or is "thinking" data processing? data management?) i do not know how my dog thinks, either, but we "talk" all the same - i know what he is asking for, even if he only asks once.

i am not a dolphin or reindeer or a dog in the nighttime, but i am an odd duck. in the ugly duckling, she grows up and comes home and is beautiful and finds her soulmate. all that ugliness she experienced lives in downy feathers inside of her, staining everything a muted grey. she is beautiful eventually, though, so she is loved. they do not want to cut her open to see how she thinks.

a while ago i got into an argument with a classmate about that weird sia music video about autism. my classmate said she thought it was good to raise awareness. i told her they should have just hired someone else to do it. she said it's not fair to an autistic person to expect them to be able to handle that kind of a thing.

today i saw a goose, and he was limping. i want to be loved like a flock loves a wounded creature: the phrase taken under a wing. which is to say i have always known i am not normal. desperate, mewling - i want to be loved beyond words.

loved beyond thinking.

[reader-from-nowhere]

A little writing for this au by @yuukirita, the brainrot...it's killing me...take this and save urself... I'll write more, probably.

B-127 hurts, he’s bleeding on the rough ground of Cybertron itself. Or is he? Why is he bleeding, anyways?

There was a fight, he thinks, maybe. B-127 remembers, the Decepticon were setting base on a stray planet, to refuel? Yes, probably, they were low on energon. At some point, Autobots appeared, Optimus was there too! Megatron and he were shouting at each other for a while.

B-127 never really liked it when they fought, Elita wasn’t even here this time.

There’s shouting again, not at him, though. They sound panicked, did someone get hurt real bad? Did he get hurt real bad?

There was someone moving him, their touch was nice, rough hands, but gentle.

Dee?

Right then, B-127 was struck with a realization that maybe, just maybe, he might be dying. It’s getting dark, and he can’t see.

No, no, he can’t die. He’s not leaving Dee alone, how would he know to get back to recharge after another bad dream? What about Orion? Elita? Steve 2.0? His body was being lifted up, and more shouting and loud noises, but it was fading away. His already blacked-out screen beeps with frantic error pop-ups, notifying how his system is shutting down one-by-one.

It’s getting very, very cold. B-127 still can’t see.

B-127 still wants to hang out with his friends for a little longer.

________________________________

Inside a long-abandoned, dusty trash bin, a small bot activates.

[dandelion-roots]

[ID: a digital drawing of riz gukgak from fantasy high. in the front is a relatively small drawing of riz juggling books that are falling out of his hand and a phonecall, and he has a huge backpack on. he looks a bit overwhelmed, hair flying in all directions, and has a nervous smile on. in the background is a large shadow of riz, only one glowing eye and a shining gun visible. the background is red, giving an eerie feel. End ID]

Kill your best friend

Cheat your way to your rogue teacher

Announce your presidential campaign

Don't let them know how angry you are

LEARN TO RECOGNIZE A MONSTER

[rawbin-hsr]

Aventurine x Reader

You treat Aventurine with more respect than he deserves.

Read part 2 here !

Only barely proof-read, guaranteed to have lots of grammatical errors, English is not my first language and I am experimenting with my writing style <3

CW: smut, handjob (Aventurine receiving), dehumanisation (internal, thoughts Aventurine has of himself, referring to himself as a “monster”), feelings of inadequacy, hurt/very little comfort, crying, mentions of death, at some points this seems like dubcon because Aventurine speaks of feeling “dread”, but it’s NEVER intended to be read as him not wanting to receive touch from reader, it is meant to convey how little he thinks he deserves this. The smut is soft and gentle, but Aventurine’s internal thoughts definitely are not <3

Lmk if there’s anything else I should warn about !!

18+, minors will be blocked <3

Your touch is so kind. Soft and gentle, as if he is made of the finest porcelain, as if he is a fragile flower, as if he is delicate. It is cruel, he thinks, that he has made you think he is any less than a monster. It is cruel that he hasn’t pushed you away, when he knows he will devour you. It has become part of his nature.

But how can he push you away when you are so persistent? How can he push you away when you roll with his punches, when you go along with each and every one of his pushes and pulls? It is hard to keep you out when you insistently pry your way into what’s left of his soul, when you gaze upon the rotten corpse that he is and still claim him to be beautiful. He thinks you must be blind at best and naive at worst.

“You’re so pretty,” you whisper reverently, and though Aventurine knows his body is, he also knows that is not the part of him you’re referring to. Not when your hand rests on his chest, above the empty cavern where his heart is meant to be.

You kiss his neck and he shivers. There’s a pit in his stomach, knotting his insides with dread.

He should tell you to stop, should warn you that he’s deceiving you, that he’s not the person you think he is. Should show you that he is a wolf in sheep’s clothing, that he is a bad omen. But he can’t bring himself to. Not when being with you feels so good, not when he’s self-indulgent to a fault, and he can’t help himself with you. He is the worst mistake you could ever make, in part because he can’t even stop from letting you continue to make it.

His hands rest on the back of your neck, fingers tangled in your hair. It is unfair how good your touch feels, his back arching just from mere caresses upon his skin. You play him like he’s an instrument you’ve practiced for years, despite never having fucked him before. He digs his heels into your back as your hand wraps around his dick, and he whines into your shoulder when you lovingly stroke it.

“I love you,” you murmur as he pulls on your hair, as his nails dig into your skin, and he wants to cry. He will destroy you from the inside out, he knows, or maybe he will kill you before he gets the chance to. He can never keep the things he loves alive.

Your lips kiss his skin, and he moans brokenly as your thumb glides over the head of his cock, pushing down on the tip. His hips rock up to meet your hand, and he feels ashamed of how blatantly he allows himself to enjoy you, how blatantly he allows himself to use you. You deserve so much better, but you are the best thing that he has ever managed to get his bloodstained hands on, and so he can’t help himself. He wants you to remain unaware of how much better you could do. He wants you to stubbornly remain by his side even when he makes it hard for you to do so. He wants to bare every part of his being to you so you can see how little worth he is to you. He wants you to run from him before it’s too late.

But part of him knows he already has shown you himself, that you’ve seen who he is and you still love him. You must be stupid.

“Use me,” he begs you, wishing you’d do something with him to alleviate the guilt he feels, so it would at least be mutual. His hands cling to you, and he whimpers pathetically when you lean back to look down at him. “Use me, please. Please…”

And your eyes are so kind. Your eyes are so sweet and soft and human, and everything he is not.

“Shh,” you hush him, tenderly pressing a kiss to his lips. He sobs, feeling embarrassing tears fill his eyes as you press closer to him, the touch so caring and innocent yet so lewd as your hand tugs at him. “Just let me make you feel good, okay?”

And you do. You always keep true to your words, unlike him. It’s barely a minute later that his breath hitches and he keens, nearly wailing into your neck as he comes undone under your too loving hands. It’s obscene, and he feels filthy as his semen paints your hand and splatters on his lower stomach. He has soiled your perfect skin, has dirtied your perfect body. He hopes you will let go of him and wash yourself up, then leave him here, broken on the bed in the mess he’s created. That you will leave him to pick up the pieces of himself he has left. He is undeserving of you.

And yet he only feels your love swaddle him when his body relaxes, adoring praises and sweet words tumbling from your perfect lips as your perfect hands gently stroke his body, soothing him as if he is deserving. Your perfect body presses closer to him, no doubt getting his mess on your perfect abdomen as you almost lay yourself flat on him. You pepper perfect kisses all over his face, and he realises belatedly he’s crying. For the first time in ten years. Fat tears rolling down his cheeks, and he doesn’t know for what reason.

But you seem like you do know. You look so understanding, wiping his tears with an achingly kind, perhaps slightly sad smile, and you don’t ask him why.

“I’ve got you now, it’s okay,” you say instead. And you do, because you always keep true to your word.

And he is selfish, because he doesn’t stop you. He lets you clean him up, lets you kiss his tears away, lets you take care of him. Lets you climb into bed with him afterwards, unaware that you have brought the monster under your bed up into your loving arms. He hasn’t felt so much love since he was nine.

And he is selfish, because even though he can already feel his claws dig into your flesh as he holds you in return, he cannot bring himself to pull away. He can only hope he won’t dig in his heels when you eventually see reason and try to leave. He can only hope you will have the time to get away before he kills you.

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

My inbox is open, feel free to send in asks or requests, I'd love to ramble about things <3

[clickety-clacker]

Been seeing so many cool Clickies on my dashboard since getting into GGG, I just had to take the time to draw a few of them- plus, it was a bit of a challenge to try new styles. A lot of these guys were also super influential to how I draw and even think about Click Clack on my own time, so you should definitely check them out! Names below the cut cus it got long heehoo

Top left: @malartsorte

Top middle (holding papers): @scribblelimbo

Top right: @wishgraanted

Leftmost middle: @beastwhimsy

Middle (peace sign!): @sootnuki

Rightmost middle: @molabuddy

Bottom left: @pespillo

Bottom middle: @artuurle

Bottom right: @modmad

I know I said it already, but all of yall are super cool and I had a lot of fun challenging myself to make this! Keep on being awesome 👍

[moonshapedbox]

swan shaped heart

arthur morgan x preacher’s daughter 

a/n: whew! this story is finally leaving the confines of my drafts and i’m so happy!!! it’s longer than I anticipated it would be but ultimately decided that this will be a series. longer chapter to start with to set up the storyline. extremely self indulgent bc i want a man like this. reader is pretty freaky but we’re all adults here okay sdfjkf special shoutout to @dilf-luvr-4evr who wanted me to tag her, tysm to u and to my other dear moots for hyping me up and encouraging me to write !!! ok i think that’s everything! :D

tags: reader is in her twenties, lots of fluff, hint of age gap, ton of romantic tension. no blasphemy bc i’m religious <3 hands..lots of hands (you’ll see) no smut but heavily suggestive, lots of religious themes throughout obviously, no use of y/n (I wrote in 3rd person hehe), read at ur own discretion !!!

wc: 6.5k

part one | part two

He arrived in a little town 15 minutes outside Valentine– couldn’t remember the name of it nor did he care. Hell, he didn’t know why he was riding there or what he was going to do when he did get there, but he was exhausted from casing banks and stores, or sizing up the potential jobs in the area, he needed a place to rest.

He looks up at the sky, the sun had just gone behind the mountain; he was too far from camp to head back now, there was no reason to risk being caught in any attacks from rival gangs if he were to travel during the night. The slight breeze was cool and wet, there was rain coming. He needed to find shelter–and quick.

The town hardly changed at all since he last visited 4 years ago, maybe a fresh coat of paint on the post office or the new signage on the general store–it was like time stood still. As he rode into town, there were a few people who knew him, giving him subtle nods as he rode past, others not at all. He found some lodging to stay in overnight and took inventory of his saddlebags, counting all the things he lacked. He decided it was smart to make a run. Soon enough, he secured his horses outside the general store, only buying a couple things before he left town again in the morning, enough food to last on the trip and a new pack of smokes.

He got what he needed and packed his saddlebags– when his eyes met with the church. He wondered how she was doing, what she looked like now, if she even remembered him at all—the preacher’s daughter. He heard a lot of stories about preacher’s kids; lascivious, wild and unruly. Although she was different– an honorable woman, who took everything her father taught her to heart, and tried to be her best when the Bible instructed it. Her even-tempered and friendly demeanor was like a calming balm on his aching soul. It was something so refreshing, so sweet in comparison to the life he was living. If life was a long and painful drought, then this woman was the rain– and he needed rain desperately. 

“Mr. Morgan?” a voice broke him out of his train of thought. Mr. Morgan. That voice–he’d know that voice from anywhere. He looked back and sure enough there she was, standing there with her ruffled white dress, burgundy boots with laces wound up snug against her ankles, and a dainty swan pendant necklace that adorned her neck, glimmering in the western sun. 

He inhales into a small grin, “Well, I reckon I know you from somewhere” he smirks. “How you doin’ little lady?” She squeals loudly and hurries over to him, wrapping her arms around his neck in a friendly embrace, “I can’t believe you’re here I thought you’d never come back,” she says, holding onto him for a moment longer before he pulls away. “Can’t have you be huggin’ me like that in the street or else people’ll think we’re sweet on each other” he jokes. She finally steps back to look at him and there’s a beat of silence, so short that if you were to exhale you’d miss it, but Arthur picks up on it. It’s awkward, in a sweet way. She looks down for a moment before looking up at him again, “Town missed you Mr. Morgan, where you been?” she asked. 

He felt guilty at the question. He’d been robbing, scheming, hurting, killing. Although he couldn’t tell her all that, she’s a preacher’s daughter. He felt so surely that if she ever found out what he did for a living she’d shun him for the rest of his life, “Uh, work mainly. You know how it is darlin’,” he replied, putting a lit cigarette up to his lips, taking a drag. 

“How long you plannin’ on stayin’ for?” she questioned, looking at his face for any clues to why he’s here. He shrugs, honestly he wasn’t planning on staying for long at all but since she’s standing right in front of him, with big glossy eyes and the hint of her sweet orange and vanilla perfume catching every now and again with the slight breeze– he couldn’t say no. 

“Not long darlin’, just for the night and then I leave in the mornin’,” he explains, that should give him enough time to visit without raising suspicions. She flashes him a melancholic smile and nods, wishing that he’d stay longer. She never got a chance to spend any time with him when he came to visit for the first time. 

Arthur Morgan–what a man, it would be an honor to get to know him behind his mysterious and aloof nature. To know what he was thinking, what he was feeling, she wanted to be the one to break his walls and scoop into his soul. Her mind starts to race with thoughts as her eyes gloss over his features: warm dark blonde hair, big blue eyes and scruffy beard–he was perfect.

He gets even more handsome than the last time I’ve seen him. He must have a girl–there’s not a woman on earth that hasn’t claimed him for herself yet. I wonder if he thinks I'm pretty…Lord, he’s so much older, so much more experienced– what am I thinking I ain’t got a chance. 

“You okay darlin’?” his voice broke her train of thought, she watched him put the cigarette back to his lips. She nods, “You was always an inquisitive one.” she teases, trying to change the subject. He raises his eyebrows and scoffs playfully, he never thought of himself as the inquisitive type. “I could say the same for you missy…’sides why’s your Daddy lettin’ you in town all by your lonesome?”

“I’m just going to get a couple things, we ran out of some food back at the house,” she explains, kicking some of the dirt on the ground with her foot. Arthur nodded slowly, he was nervous. Why was he so nervous? Words not coming to him with such ease, that beat of familiar silence encompasses the air again. She looks over at the entrance of the general store, “Well, I guess I must go now, it was nice seeing you again, Mr. Morgan.” she softly bows her head and turns away. The sight of her leaving pains him, even if it’s just for a moment. There is something stirring in Arthur. Something big and explosive —yet strangely familiar. Before he can even think about what he’s saying, he hears the words leave his mouth, “Wait– I’ll go in with ya.” he says, stamping out his cigarette and catching up beside her, “it ain’t safe… a young lil thing like you by yourself.”

She stops and looks up at his big looming figure standing next to her, “I can manage just fine Mr. Morgan, but I will not turn down your company.” She quietly thanks the Lord under her breath and enters the store with him. She greets the shopkeeper while he follows her around, making mental notes of the stuff she’s buying, looking over her shoulder for trouble so she doesn’t have to.

“Y’know Mr. Morgan, you were our hero 4 years ago…helping us round up all our missing cattle that those awful Montgomery boys stole from us.” 

Hero? A title that he rarely heard attributed to him. Her words transported him back to that time. He couldn’t believe it had already been 4 years since a trembling, fresh faced, beautiful young woman begged him to take care of some seemingly rotten men. Men that did nothing but terrorize the town by fighting, stealing, and getting into all sorts of debauchery– including looting and descrating her father’s church. As the tears ran down her soft and supple cheeks, she didn’t know that the man she was pleading to help save them from misery– was planning to rob her townsfolk and shoot them dead if needed to. A plan that would inevitably fail, all because his heart got the best of him.

He blinked back out of thought, “It was nothin’ really. It was nice spendin’ the week in only one place for once– speakin’ of them boys; they been givin’ you any trouble lately?” he exhaled, scanning over her features. “No, you must have scared them real good Mr. Morgan, ‘cause I haven’t seen them since.” she replies, checking the pears for bruises.

Of course, because he shot them dead. 

“Well…maybe they moved away.” he gestures vaguely. She smiled politely and continued to shop for the ingredients she needed. She fidgets with her swan pendant necklace and he picks up on this small habit too–trying to etch every aspect of this woman in his mind so he’ll never forget. When she had gotten all she needed, he offered to pay for her groceries. A gesture that restored her faith in man. She insisted it wasn’t necessary but Arthur paid for them anyway. As they walk back out, they loiter around the front of the store for a moment.

 “Thank you for courting me Mr. Morgan, y’know you really didn’t have to.”

“Oh sure, I wanted to, really.” he smiles softly. 

They gaze at each other for a moment before she smiles back, “It was nice seeing you again Mr. Morgan. God bless you.” 

He nods and smiles back, watching her walk away, wicker basket of groceries cradled in the crook of her arm. He sighs to himself, it was all so soft and so sweet, truthfully, he needed this. As he began walking over to his horse, thinking over the interaction, a soft ping of metal reverberated against the wood paneling on the steps. He looks down by his foot and a glimpse of something bright catches his eye, he picks it up and studies it. 

It’s her swan pendant necklace. 

“Shit…” he mumbles to himself. He looks around the building to see if he can catch up with her but it’s too late. He sighs and gives it another look over. The picture of the elegant swan on the pendant with gold trim perfectly catching the sunlight stared back at him. It was a beautiful pendant– while her family wasn’t dirt poor, he knew her folks were certainly not rich, especially given her father’s profession. There was no way she could have the money to buy this on her own–this must have been a family heirloom. He shoves it in his pocket for safekeeping.

That evening, the rainstorm he predicted was currently pounding against the glass of the window in his room. He shuts the door behind him and thuds himself down heavily on the side of the bed. He starts to rub his eyes, watery from exhaustion, with his index finger and thumbs. The events of the day weighed heavy on him, from having to stay overnight, to having to go back to camp empty handed, it was like a weight of stress was congregating in his chest. Despite all of this, the image of her stayed in the back of his mind. She looked well off and healthy, getting to see her after so long was pleasant to say the least. He sighs deeply and kicks his boots off. 

He lays on the bed, adjusting his weight to the mattress to get comfortable. He feels something in his pockets that prod at his hip, before reaching back in only to pull out the preacher’s daughter’s necklace. While he knows it’s just an object, he shares a moment with it— reminding him of its owner. Oh how pretty she looked today, like an angel. She smelled so sweet, her smile so soft, she was divine in so many ways. He thought of how the cool enamel of the pendant would touch her warm skin. His mind starts to wander, thinking about her only wearing the pendant, how it would glimmer under the low light of a bedroom, as he caresses her soft, untouched skin. Guilt stops him for a moment, and he curses himself for thinking such a thing– this was the preacher’s daughter he was thinking about. It would never work and he knows it, she’s forbidden fruit–but there’s something that courses in his veins, something that makes his mouth water for just a small bite.

He lovingly caresses the pendant with his thumb, the ghost of a smile visits his lips. Strangely enough, he found himself dreading to give it back to her. The pendant was expensive enough that he could have just sold the damn thing and went on his way–or at least that’s what Micah would insist him to do. Although he would never inflict such cruelness on this innocent daughter of the Lord. No–he didn’t want the pendant for monetary gain, all he wanted a little memento to remember her by. He closes his eyes and places the softest kiss on the enamel of the pendant before opening his eyes again. 

“The preacher’s daughter, of all women–,” he mumbles to himself, “you sure know how to pick ‘em…don’t ya?” He exhales as he rolls over, before placing it on the nightstand. He stares at it once more before putting out the candle.

“Goodnight girl.”

The next morning, Arthur finds himself on her porch, the sun barely cracking the sky open. He knocks a rhythmic pattern on her front door, and clears his throat. He’s nervous–strangely enough. He sniffs a few times and clears his throat again. He looks down at his hands and takes another glance at the pendant, he’s shaking just a bit. He should have been back on the road by now, but here he was, waiting for the preacher’s daughter to answer the door. What was taking her so long? Maybe this was a sign from God that he should just leave and take the pendant with him–the door swings open, he shoves the pendant back into his pocket before she can see, her eyes widen at his presence.

“Mr. Morgan!” she smiles with bewilderment. Arthur looks her over– she’s stunning even for so early in the morning. He takes his gambler's hat off and holds it against his chest, “Morin’ little lady,” he responds, “I–uh, found something yesterday,” he reaches into his pocket and extends the pendant out in his hand, “I think it might be yours.”

She audibly gasps and places her hand on her chest before clutching the pendant, “Oh my stars, I have been looking for this everywhere I was sure it got lost forever!” she beams with excitement, “Praise God you found it! Where was it?” 

“Outside on the steps in front of the general store,” he replies. She lovingly stares at the pendant before looking back up at Arthur. She pauses and opens her mouth to say something, before closing it again. He cocks his head at her in confusion, she exhales and starts over, “You want to come in for a bit?”

Arthur grimaces and shakes his head, before exhaling, “Ah, I don’t know about that darlin’, I’ll gotta be gettin’ a move on. Besides I ain’t wanna intrude on y’all’s activities.” 

“Oh I insist! I know, Papa would love to see you,” she explains. Her father would love to see him? He mentally rolls his eyes at her naivety. While it was true that the preacher didn’t actively hate Arthur, he wasn’t fond of him either. She frowns at his disbelief that laid evident on his features, “Really Mr. Morgan! I’m serious, let me repay you for finding my necklace.” 

“Just a little bite before you go,” she smiles and sways her hips innocently. “I’m sure you’ll have a long journey back and you gotta eat, right?” 

He sighs and smiles softly in return, “Okay. I guess I do gotta eat…just as long as I ain’t intrudin’.” He shifts his weight on one hip.

“Not intrudin’ at all. Breakfast is almost ready, come on in and make yourself comfortable.” she stands by the door and watches his big and broad figure walk through the threshold, “You’ll have to forgive Papa for his temporary absence, he’s in his room finishing the last part of his sermon. so I’m afraid it’ll be just us for now.” she says, closing the door behind them as she leads him into the kitchen. He was more than okay with that. It was already nerve wracking enough sitting alone with her, he didn’t need anymore stress from her father picking him apart in his head, cataloging all the sins that he’s riddled with.

He looks around the living room as he follows her into the kitchen. The house is quaint yet congenial–just how he would imagine a pastor to live. The scent of breakfast wafting through the air was wonderful, he hadn’t had a proper meal in days. He does what she says and makes himself comfortable at the table as she returns to the stove to gently stir the contents of the pan before joining him. 

He sees the Bible open on the kitchen table, assuming she was reading it while she was cooking, “Didn’t mean to interrupt your routine,” he gestures to the table. She adjusts herself at the table and meets his eyes, “Nonsense, you’re not interrupting anything,” she picks up the Bible, and quietly continues to read, “I just like to read a little bit of scripture in the morning to get my day started. Let me finish this passage real quick.” 

Arthur didn’t mind, he sits and fidgets with his lighter for a moment. After a few beats of silence, he puts his arm on the table and leans, trying to see what she was reading on the page, “So what’s it say?” 

She giggled at his curiosity before clearing her throat, “It says, ‘Let all bitterness and wrath and anger and clamor and slander be put away from you, with all malice, and be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ forgave you,’ that’s Esphesians chapter four, verse thirty-one and two.” She smiles softly. 

Arthur nods, it all sounded lovely to hear. Although bitterness, wrath, and anger was all he was filled with– he couldn’t remember the last time he felt any differently. He felt like his whole life was one big sorry situation, tired of the ache of ruminating over the things that had gone wrong, people he lost, and regrets that plagued him. He was mad at everyone and everything. In Arthur’s case, forgiveness felt like water that was just out of reach for him. The thud of her closing the Bible jostles him back into the moment, he watches her get up and place the book back on the shelf in the living room.

“Y’know, you’re good at that.” he calls out to her, adjusting himself in the chair, his hips bucking forward a tad to get comfortable.

“What. Reading?” she calls back from the living room before walking back to where he was.

“Sure. If I was guaranteed you’d be the one preachin’ then maybe I’d start goin’ to church.” he smirked.

A rosy pigment of blush spread across her cheeks, “Now Mr. Morgan, what exactly is that supposed to mean? I’ll have you know Papa has wonderful sermons.”

That’s not what he meant– her obliviousness to his gentle flirting was endearing, he chuckles to himself. “I don’t doubt it darlin’” he mindlessly fidgets with his lighter again. 

“--Hey, that’s a wonderful idea. Why don’t you come to church with me this morning?”, she inquired, “You can sit next to me the whole time.”

His eyes widened before grimacing at the idea, that really wasn’t the best move considering who he was–although she was none the wiser, “I don’t know ‘bout all that, darlin’...” He hadn’t stepped foot in church since–well since the last time he saw her 4 years ago. “Why not?” she asks innocently, her big eyes gazing back at him. “If it’s about how you’re dressed the congregation won’t mind.”

He looks down at his attire and exhales a chuckle through his nose, mentally rolling his eyes at her assumption, “It ain’t about the clothes… it’s–” he sighs in between his words, “you know church..ain’t my thing,” he rubs his jaw, thinking over how awkward it would be to sit at one of those pews. 

“How do you know if it ain’t your thing if you don’t try?” 

He scans her soft features, “I been around a lot longer than you, trust me on this.” 

She gazes back at him and nods, walking back to the stove to finish preparing breakfast. There was a significant amount of silence that unaccounted for, Arthur who usually didn’t mind the stillness of the morning, grew restless in his chair.

“So…uh..whatcha makin’?” he asked, trying to find something to talk about. 

“Biscuits and gravy” she replied, stirring the gravy in the saucepan to keep it from burning. 

“Sounds good, ain’t had biscuits and gravy in a long time,” he taps his fingers against the table rhythmically.

Arthur was never good at small talk– he wasn’t like Dutch in that respect. That man could talk his way out of a death sentence, and God did he wish he had Dutch’s silvertongue right about now. Instead, he silently watched her cook, as a warmth spread in him. She’s wearing her Sunday best– and he notices the way her dress hugged her body and her bodice cinched her beautiful figure, how concentrated she looked when she was taking the biscuits out of the wood-burning oven, it strangely felt like home. For a moment, he forgot he was some outlaw, but just a simple man in the kitchen with his beloved. 

“Mrs. Hawthorne was askin’ about you yesterday. She saw you ride into town” her voice snapped him out of his trance, he grunted an acknowledgement, “The lady who was convinced her dolls were talkin’ to her?” he replies.

“Well she– now wait there Mr. Morgan she certainly does no such thing,” she explains, “That was just a rumor.”

“Ain’t a rumor if I seen her do it,” he laughs, “Sometimes she talks back to ‘em. Gives ‘em funny voices.”

“That’s not funny Mr. Morgan,” she frowns, trying not to laugh, wooden spoon still in hand, “Besides it’s not right to gossip.” 

“What’d I say?— Oh so it’s not okay to gossip but it’s okay to laugh at her expense? I get it now…” he jokes. She turns away, hiding her face from him. He stands up and saunters over to her, “Don’t think I ain’t seein’ you fight back a laugh. You think it’s funny too.” He chuckles. She eventually bursts out in laughter, the original joke not even that funny, it was something about his tone that tickled her. Suddenly, they both erupt in big laughter together.

The atmosphere in the room is light and airy–like both of them could breathe for once. “I think the gravy is done, you wanna taste?” she asked, her voice easing from laughter into a normal speaking pattern, wiping tears with the back of her wrist. Still grinning, he nodded in response, and leaned his hip on the side of the counter. She pulls open the silverware drawer and sighs, “Oh darn, I thought I had a spoon but I guess they’re all dirty.” she shrugs and fixes the issue by innocently tapping her finger into the saucepan, holding it out for him to taste. In her mind, she thought he would have a quick taste and tell her his opinion. Oh to the contrary. 

His heart jumped at the sight of her outstretched hand, slowly but surely he wrapped his lips around her finger, licking the sauce. The pent up desire that was bubbling deep inside of him started to rise to the surface, and before he could catch what he was doing, he began to deliberately yet gently suck on her finger. The feeling of his tongue wrapping around and in between her two fingers, made her lightheaded, electricity ran through her body and caused a heat to pool in her stomach. After licking her fingers clean, he pulled away and gazed into her eyes for just a moment.

“It’s perfect,” he murmured, his voice low and slightly shaky. She gazes into his eyes for a moment, before responding with a small and trembling voice, trying to pretend she wasn’t affected. “You sure? Does it need more pepper?” 

He knew exactly what she was doing, whether she realized it or not; and he couldn’t help but find her innocent curiosity endearing. A small smile appears on his face, “I don’t know, let me taste it again.” 

A justification to have her fingers in his mouth.

Without a second thought, she taps her two fingers in the gravy again and holds them out for him, this time her hand trembles at the thought of re-experiencing the feeling. His big, calloused hand wraps around her soft wrist to steady her fingers for him. He takes them in his mouth again, gently caressing them with his tongue, silently wishing to himself that he could kiss her with this much fervor and passion. He looks into her eyes before closing them, letting out a soft groan of contentment before pulling away. “Tastes amazing.” he says, wiping the corners of his mouth with his fingers.

Her fingers miss his mouth, they feel cold and incomplete without him. She felt lightheaded and breathless. There’s that beat of silence again, but this time it's longer than before. She pants ever so slightly, and he notices, “You alright?” he smirks. 

“Fine…breakfast is ready then,” she replies, her voice trembling with this new feeling coursing through her body. It was warm and soft, unlike anything she had ever felt before, she turned away and faced the stove again, “Go sit down, I'll fix you a plate.” refusing to make eye contact with him. They finally sit down to eat, although this time it’s different. She stares at him while he eats, trying to figure out this newfound warmth pooling in her, why everything he does makes her heart race. 

“Missed your cookin’, forgot how good it was.” he says, before taking another bite. “It ain’t that good, I appreciate your kindness though.” she replies, pushing her food around with her fork. “Compared to the stuff I gotta eat, this is like society folk’s meals.” She flashes him a small smile in return, her thoughts are loud and her heart is racing, “Society folk, huh?” her voice warbles, she tries to continue the conversation, but her thoughts are clouded by him. The way he ate was almost bewitching to her, she stares at his hands and looks away trying not to get caught. Her own fingers twitch watching him take bite after bite, reminding herself of the feeling of his mouth around her.

“When you leavin’ town?” she asks, not really wanting to know the answer. The soft early morning light starts to peer through the kitchen window. The atmosphere is still, yet full of meaning. He puts the cup up to his lips to drink long enough to ponder her question, before swallowing the warm liquid and placing the cup back down. “In a couple hours, most likely. Why you askin’?”

She shrugs and continues to eat, her left hand resting on the side of her neck. Her eyes refused to meet his, scared that he might see the disappointment in them. He exhales, something is off about her, “Somethin’ botherin’ you?”. She shrugs again and stares at her food, moving it around with her fork once more, “Why you leavin’ so soon?” she asks in an exhale, worried that she might be overstepping. 

He sighs, she didn’t need to know the real answer. “Work, darlin’...I’m on a...business trip,” he gestures vaguely. She doesn’t meet his eyes purposefully, trying to hide the tears in her eyes, it wasn’t fair that he made her feel things she never felt before, only to walk out and leave her forever. She prided herself to not be one of those girls that cry over boys. She always believed there were bigger and better things to fuss over–yet here she was. But what was the crime in missing someone? “Business trip…” she repeats under her breath before clearing her throat.

“What? Do you not believe me?” Arthur scoffs incredulously.

“It’s not that…you ain’t given me a reason to think otherwise but…” she pauses, trying not to overstep. “...But what?” He crosses his arms over and leans in closer against the table, the buttons of his work shirt pulling from the broad of his chest, she can’t help but pan down for a glance, her heart rate picks up at the sight of him. He was such a man– in the best ways possible. It was in his essence, his scent, the way he walked and talked, it drove her mad— it was so heavenly it agitated her.

“I don’t know, I ain't see why you gotta hightail it outta here. It’s been 4 years since you last been here and I mean for pity’s sake you just got here–”

“--And that bothers you?” he interrupts, slightly cocking his head at her.

She stammers, “I-I mean I feel like it’s not polite–”

He scoffs loudly, “Sorry I didn’t know you looked at me and saw the pinnacle of manners,” he places the cup of coffee back down,“Tell me what’s actually goin’ on,” he was starting to get to defensive. What had she heard about him that was making her so skittish?

The bantering conversation dies down and there’s a shared, intense silence between the two of them. 

Oh. Oh.

He felt like a fool for not realizing it sooner–or more accurately making a wrong assumption about how she felt and potentially wrecking a beautiful friendship. He stares at her across the table as she continues to eat.

“You gon’ miss me when I’m gone?” he murmurs low, studying her face, his voice shattering the silence in the air. His words suspended in the air like a fruit ready to be plucked. “We’ll all miss you,” she replies softly, trying to avoid what he’s implying. He shakes his head and grunts loudly in response, “I ain’t talkin’ ‘bout them... I’m talkin’ ‘bout you.”

She nods silently, before looking back up and meeting his gaze. For a moment, just a single, solitary moment–he forgot about the war raging in his mind of whether he was a bad person, or feeling like he wasn’t good enough for her. It was just him and the preacher’s daughter, sharing a meal and a loving silence. 

“Mr. Morgan–”

“You ain’t gotta be so formal with me hon, just call me Arthur.”

“Okay, Arthur, can I ask you something?”

He perks up at her statement, his curiosity giving her permission to ask. “I know you ain’t comfortable goin’ to church and I respect that,” she pauses to search for any discomfort for where the conversation was going, there was none, so she continues, “but I was wondering’ if you’d come to our annual picnic, this week. If you’re apprehensive about it being a church event– it's not. The whole town is gonna be there. It’s a town event, but I thought you'd like a bite to eat before you leave.”

He exhales and grins, “First breakfast and now a picnic? You’re really worried I'm gonna miss a meal huh?” he jokes, but she stares back at him, searching his face for an answer. His thoughts all align and he prepares to explain his reasons as to why he can’t come and that he’ll be back on the road in a couple of hours, but his words betray him, and he hears himself say something unlike him, 

“I’ll be there.” He looks at her free hand resting on the table, and gently envelops it in his.

“I’m glad, it means a lot.” she murmurs, a sparkle of joy in her eye. She stands and starts to clear the table, placing all the dishes in the sink.

There is a deep well of feeling and connection between the two of them, one could cut the chemistry with a knife. It pounds in his chest and he doesn’t know if he should act on his instincts–but dammit if he wasn’t going to at least try to do something about it.

He rises from his seat and approaches her, standing as close as he can to her. Feeling his presence, she laughs, “ain’t they ever taught you about personal space?” She looks over and he’s smiling back, but there’s a seriousness to him. She does a double take of how close he is, her smile faltering a bit, realizing he’s not kidding.

“I reckon you ain’t ever been this close to a man before, huh?” He ghosts the side of his finger against her chin. She shivers, goosebumps rise on the back of her neck and down her arms, before shaking her head.

“Why you tremblin’ doll? I ain’t gon’ hurt ya.” he murmurs. 

“I know,” she pauses, trying to find the words, “I just—never been looked at in this way before.”

He scoffs playfully, “Oh you’re more naive than I originally thought,” he looks over her face and down her body once more, “Men are definitely lookin’--  they just ain’t sayin’ nothin’ ‘cause you’re the preacher’s daughter–and they have a hell of a lot of sense to not say anythin.” he leans closer to her. 

“Well…what does that make you then?” she shifts against him.

“A fool–probably. But it ain’t stopped me from sayin’ anythin’ before,” he exhales and continues to gingerly stroke her chin, admiring her beauty. 

His voice becomes low, “You ever think ‘bout a man lovin’ on you baby?” The question vibrates in his chest. Her heart rate quickens, a beautiful shade of crimson spreads across her cheeks at the idea of something so scandalous, “Lovin’ on me?” she repeats. 

“Yeah, you know, what married people do.” 

For the first time in her life, she didn’t know what to say. She often would imagine in vivid detail, what she would do if she found herself in a scenario such as this. It was essentially drilled into her mind from a young age– that a man making advances was to strictly be condemned. That her purity was to be intact for her husband and only for her husband. The script of her imagination playing in her head, she’s seen it a hundred times–”sorry sir, I’m flattered but I ain’t interested”. It’s all she had to say…although for some reason she was rendered speechless, hanging onto his every word like her life depended on it.

in this moment– in some sick and twisted game of life, it was almost as if Arthur was forcing her to pick between which sin to commit– lying: claiming to not be interested in him; when in reality, the curiosity was gnawing in the pit of her stomach, or lust: throwing caution to the wind and letting him carry her bridal style to defile her in the bedroom that she grew up in.

She decides lying would weigh less on her soul.

“Mr. Morgan this ain’t proper…it’s immoral. I-I don’t entertain thoughts like that. I ain’t got a reason to.” she denies, refusing to acknowledge something so foul. It pained her to lie, she felt the guilt starting to creep in. Arthur smirks at her response, he doesn’t buy it, although her defiance and naivety makes his own pulse quicken. “Mmph, I see. So you don’t ever think about what your wedding night would be like? To finally have a man to warm your bed? Touching you all over and keepin’ you satisfied?”

Her breath hitches at the idea, never considering that a thought so filthy could have a moral loophole; but she dismisses the thought as soon as it comes, she continues to shake her head. The improperness of the conversation and her willingness to lie starts to make her feel sick with guilt. She shouldn’t be talking like this, not with a man no less. The mix of good and bad emotions swirl in her stomach like a bittersweet concoction about to boil over. As for Arthur, that insistent attitude of hers turns him on even more, and he can’t help himself to gamble how far he could go, “Oh c’mon darlin’, not even how it would feel? To have a man take his time with you and run his hands up your–” 

He found her limit, she cuts him off before he can finish his sentence. “No Arthur!” she barks, “I don’t wanna talk about this anymore! You will not bring this–this debauchery in this house; especially with my Pa in the next room, have you no shame?!” 

He knows he should take her seriously but the way she’s yelling at him is getting him even more worked up. He laughs a hearty chuckle, “yeah for somethin’ so repulsive to ya– ya sure are flushed!”

“Stop it Arthur it’s not funny.” She frowns, the guilt washes up in her like a shoreline. This must be what Papa was warning about on Sundays, the sin that drives a person crazy, to commit crimes and all sorts of deeds all in the name of passion. Arthur was creating new emotions she had never experienced before, the only cost of receiving it was with a backing note of remorse. Although, there was a cadence to Arthur that beckoned her to his presence. Like a siren beckons the sailor out to sea–only she was the sailor.

They gaze into each other’s eyes, unwavering and raw, “Arthur,” she exhales, leaning softly into his touch. He grunts in response, gazing lovingly back at her, his index tracing down her neck, making its way down to her collarbone, the other hand resting gently on her hip. She squeaks at the sudden weight of his hands on her, newfound warmth spreading in her. He scans her face for any hesitation, when suddenly she finds the words she’s looking for.  

“I’m waitin’ til marriage…”

He figured as much. What was he even doing? He knows this already. Lightly removing his hand, his palm hovers over her hip. He treats her like glass, scared he was gonna break her if he touched her at all– what a delicate little thing gazing up at him. He blinks and clears his throat, staggering a couple steps back. “Right. I know…I don’t know what I was—I’m sorry if I’ve overstepped, miss.”

She crosses her arms and as if she is trying to warm them, her fingers finding a way to the pendant Arthur rescued for her, fidgeting with it between her fingers, “You didn’t…I’m not upset… I just– I think– it would be best for you to leave now. For both of us.” she murmurs, “I’ll give Pa your regards.” He nodded in response, pressing his lips into a fine line, “Okay” he says barely above a whisper.

“Mr. Morgan?” his heart sank at her sudden formality— a fear that he ruined everything between them began swirling behind his chest, he came to a halt at her words.

“You still coming to the picnic?” 

He stands by the backdoor, loitering around the frame, before looking back over his shoulder, he exhales and gives her a small, sad, smile, “Thank you for the meal, darlin’. It was nice seeing you again.” The door hinge squeaks before he walks outside, the sound of boots shuffling against the gravel becomes quieter and quieter before it dissipates completely. She’s left with the burn of his shadow haunting the doorframe and the ghost of his touch printed permanently on her frame.

thank u sm for reading it means so much to me truly <3 hope you all enjoyed part one !!!

[chimeride]