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pparacxosm · 2 months ago

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uta hagen

(divorced!art donaldson x reader; tw divorce obviously; tw sporadic mentions of violent or otherwise shitty partners; that sounds intense but this is actually a fun time i swear; cw a little smut; as a treat; tw ironic intimacy; kaz write a normal romance where one or both people aren't hypercritical of the other challenge ((impossible)); tw group therapy; tw condensing of tashi duncan's character for narrative reasons but i hope you know me well enough by now to know where my heart lies; whoever came up with the art donaldson calvin klein campaign headcanon i owe you a kidney; tw exploiting therapeutic exercises for sexual tension lol; tw hamfisted closure; raymond carver easter egg for all who have the eyes to see)

Before anything happens, Art Donaldson is just another guy in the “Learning to Let the Ex Go” group therapy session you signed up for.

It occurs to you, pretty quickly, that Art Donaldson has zero intention of letting his ex go. Dr Harper has this question he asks all the newcomers.

You’re having circle time with a bunch of adults on a Friday afternoon. So that look of longsuffering on the new guy's face isn’t particularly remarkable. You note a few furtive whispers and glances his way. But then this sad little workshop is mostly comprised of weepy middleaged women. They, too, kicked up a ruckus when that silver fox with the Harley—Rick—deigned to grace the room with his impossible biceps for a single, cigarettescented session two weeks ago.

What you’re saying is you know he’s handsome.

And, anyway, you’d never hold anything against your motley crew. Agnes invited you to her neighbourhood book club. Padma brings little clingwrapped trays of desserts every other week. These are your gal pals. Your bereaved bosom buddies. You wouldn’t begrudge them their eye candy.

Dr Harper says, “So,” and claps his hands the way he starts every session, narrowing his eyes with that scarily sentimental smile and sweeping his gaze around the circle. He makes a point to make eye contact with every single person for two whole seconds, as though he knows something you don’t. Then, “As you can see, we are not as few as we once were.”

He tends to speak in that meandering sort of way. He makes a flourishing gesture with his clipboard, as if setting a stage, and says,

“If you wouldn’t mind introducing yourself, and letting us know…” He pauses for effect. He tends to do that, too. “… Why can’t you let your ex go?”

You do the guy the favour of not laving him in that expectant stare people seem to love doing here. You fiddle with your fingers and listen to the uneasy knell of his sneakers against the linoleum. The stilted whine of his little plastic foldout chair. You cast him a glance as stands. He’s sort of tall, but not imposing. His fingers fidget at his sides like he’s awaiting a time bomb.

When he speaks, he looks so upset you’d think he’s getting a root canal. “Uh, hi. I’m Art, uh… just Art.”

And, at the time, you think this is kind of strange.

The next week, when Dr Harper brings a purple tennis racket with Just Art’s face on the front to get him to sign it for his daughter—which you already think is unprofessional and a bit presumptuous, considering how few people actually return for a second session, and how fascinatingly tortured he looked all throughout the first—you will think oh. And then his whole humble kicked puppy thing will feel a little annoying. But that’s besides the point.

On that first day, while he’s standing there awkwardly, and every shriek of his shoes against the ground is making him wince like he’s sporting stab wounds, and he keeps casting very conspicuous glances at the clock, Dr Harper asks why can’t you let your ex go?

And the thing about that question is it’s mostly rhetorical. Sure, it’s supposed to make you think. But the ultimate unearthing there is of the truth that there is no real reason. And such is the first step to selfactualising change and so on and so forth. You get it.

There’s a couple answers you come to expect. The notably lachrymose will get to weeping straight away. Because I’m pathetic! you remember someone wailing, which made you feel like a bit of a sadist, just sitting there and watching. You’re pretty sure you’d said a less than kind, I don’t fucking know, on your first day, but you’ve grown since then, and you appreciate Dr Harper’s abiding effusiveness despite that.

But Just Art releases a contrite sort of exhale and says, “Because I still love her.”

Which—okay—strikes you as a bit overkill.

A tissue discreetly finds his palm, but he only rumples it into a ball.

Dr Harper nods sagely, leaning back in his seat, steepling his fingers under his chin.

“Go on,” he prompts in that gentle, needling way he does.

You don’t Google him. You don’t really need to. Dr Harper keeps intentionally-unintentionally peppering sporadic little pearls of information about him into conversation like some sort of bizarre BINGO game.

Like—for example—when he’s passing out little notepads and outlining your task of writing unflinchingly honest farewell letters to your exes, he tacks on, “—it’ll be tough, but it’s no Wimbledon, am I right, Donaldson?”

And Just Art’s ears will turn a dazzling shade of crimson.

You file these little tidings away in some less important corner of your mind, passively constructing a criminal profile.

Padma brings her son to a session, which you’re pretty sure she’s not allowed to do. Luckily, the kid doesn��t internalise any of Padma’s scathing anecdotes about his father because he’s too busy marvelling at his own freshly signed Art Donaldson racket.

There seems to be a new racket to sign every week.

You doubt people actually give this much of a shit about tennis. But—anyway—you suppose if fucking Michael Cera rocked up and joined the circle, everyone would be hauling a Superbad poster out from some dusty corner, too. Such is the nature of celebrity.

Dr Harper, for one, appreciates the effervescence. He seems to think the mere presence of a famous athlete will motivate everyone in the room to face with renewed fervour their own pathetic little romantic quagmires.

Well, it’s that, or a strange personal infatuation he houses with the guy. Probably both.

You don’t Google him. You don’t Google him, nor his conceivably equally famous exwife. You don’t need to. Dr Harper seems to think it necessary to give you all regular progress reports on that whole imbroglio.

You know there’s news—perhaps unfortunate news—by the colour of Dr Harper’s voice when he says, haltingly, “And Art… how have you been doing?”

By the severity with which Dr Harper nods as Art reads his letter. (“Tashi,” he begins, and one of those not so furtive whispers ricochets around the room, another tissue in his hand; you think it’s Agnes who’s slipping them).

By the abject enthusiasm with which Dr Harper declares what real progress Art is making. Like he’s one of those zoo animals being parallelreared with a human child, and he’s starting to glean the art of speech without being prompted.

This is all saying something, for whom you know to be an already colourful, severe, enthusiastic Dr Harper.

What you gather is a vague impression that Art’s exwife tortured him psychologically by wielding his body and tennis career as serrated edges by which to flay their marriage intricately, slowly. And then there’s something about her repeatedly sleeping with his exbestfriend? Which—big whoop. Eleanor’s boyfriend tried to kill her, which you feel is a marginally more exceptional love story.

A month in, you realise what’s really bothering you is the untruth.

Art Donaldson has zero intention of letting his ex go. He still loves her. He opened with that.

He reads his letter (that reads a lot more like a draft for vow renewals) aloud to the room. Everyone looks at him with these misty eyes like he’s just chainsawed his chest open and wrested his heart from his arteries while simultaneously reciting Sappho.

Which is to say—and you’re no doctor, but—what fucking progress?

You don’t think you’re the patron saint of therapy or anything. But you’ve paid decent money to be here, and you’ve spent more afternoons than you’d stomach admitting on guided meditation. You’re doing The Work, as they say.

You get it; you do. Losing a relationship can feel like a death. Losing yours certainly felt like the Sun had imploded. But Eleanor—you’ll mention again—could be dead. Your jaded inner voice struggles to identify with this probably deplorably wealthy Adonis who can't seem to cut the racket strings.

So you think it’s a little irresponsible to glorify the abject pining of this crestfallen man. All flaxenhaired and broadshouldered like Prince Charming lamenting bedside of Sleeping Beauty.

This is a class about severance.

Art Donaldson seems to weave himself inextricably around something. The love of his wife, sure, that’s obvious enough. But there’s something. Something. Something very sad, sure, but not sad in the way you’re all so sad around here. A different kind of sad.

You’re trying to figure it out.

So you spend some time doing that. Trying to figure him out. You expect to start to hate him the more you stare. The more you note the weird slope of his nose, his selfdeprecating laughter.

But you don’t.

In fact, you find it delightfully, uncomfortably strange. He carries himself like an interloper to despair. Not like he thinks he’s above it necessarily—you’d thought that (reproachfully) for a while—rather like sadness is one of many things stored at the other side of the city, and he keeps missing the train.

Like these brilliant sorrowers are deigning to include him in their orbit, even though he doesn’t belong. If he remains silent, maybe they won’t notice that he’s not one of them. Better yet, conceivably, he’ll actually belong one day.

That’s what it’s like. Like he’s striving for sorrow. Like he’s working with something worse than sorrow and is saying, you know what? I’d rather take the sorrow.

In the exercise you’re doing this week, you’re supposed to personage your ex and act out your final argument. Take your scene partner’s hands and look into their eyes and everything. Dr Harper makes a big deal about how he's not trying to trigger anyone's relationship trauma, but that feels like a lie. You can’t imagine a productive reason to make a bunch of lonely, divorced adults hold hands in a cruel parody of their last brush with fleshdeep connection.

And anyway, fuck this shit.

That doesn’t mean you won’t communicate circles around it. You’re doing The Work, after all.

But fuck it hard.

His hands sort of swallow yours. They are warm and calloused and a little sweaty.

You were, at first, excited by the idea of this proximity. Excited in the way a cultural anthropologist would be, at the prospect of conducting participant research. But now you’re here. Sitting at the edges of your little plastic foldout chairs. Your knees between his. And his fingers are curled pretty firmly around yours. He looks about as comfortable as a grade schooler called to the chalkboard. And you’re the one who’s been sitting around observing him from a distance and gleaning your data and passing your judgement all this time, but it is he who makes—and holds—eyecontact.

His eyes are dusky and intent—molten navy—like he’s seeing past your skin and bone. And you are less than pleased by this subversion.

So when he shifts and his knee brushes your outer thigh, a potent shock of heat resounding through the denim, and he clears his throat and mumbles, “Sorry,” you say,

“You could back up a bit.”

His expression falters. You must admit, there is something alluring in his being disappointed by your little rejection. Anyone looking at it from the outside would find the whole thing pretty ludicrous. That you could say no, that he would even ask.

Dr Harper comes up and puts his hands atop both your heads, which feels more than a little patronising. He squats to be eye level between the two of you and whispers, “Do you know why I paired you two together?”

For a moment, you almost roll your eyes. When all is said and done, and the skull speaks and the bell tolls, your primary takeaway from your time Learning to Let the Ex Go is that Dr Harper has a spectacular penchant for assigning meaning where there is absolutely none.

If he paired you with Art based on eyelash hue, would he come up with some reason for that? Probably, you think.

But what he says next manages to throw you.

“You two…” he begins, pausing for effect. Because, of course. And Art shifts his weight uncomfortably, quite literally wincing as he accidentally bumps your knee again. He glances fleetingly in your direction, ears gone florid, but you have little time to delight in this before Dr Harper stands up straight again and delivers his verdict, “… have the same problem.”

You make a face like you have just seen a lizard eat a bird.

And fucking Art, of all people, has this look in his eyes, this look that’s almost hopeful. Like some explanation is finally to be offered for what the hell is wrong with you.

And you don’t care for that shit. At all.

You bark out a laugh. “I don’t think so.”

Which is, of course, when Dr Harper’s gaze sharpens like a scalpel and locks on you, like you’ve said exactly what he predicted you would say.

Which you care for even less.

He doesn’t look smug. Not exactly. He doesn’t even look vindicated. The only way to describe that look on his face is total delight. Cat with the canary in his maw.

Art seems very committed to staring at the ground, now. Trying, perhaps, to evade something of a brewing storm. You’re tempted to reach up and flick his head for his cowardice, but his hands are—very tightly, now, you’ll note—still holding yours.

“You two are both at mercy to judgement,” Dr Harper declares, and he’s still got your head in his palm like a basketball, and all that selfregulatory yoga feels fucking useless right about now.

You shift to look up at him better. “I’m not at mercy to judgement,” you inform him as calmly as you are able, and maybe you’re disproving his point in this moment by being so affected by this analysis, but you sincerely believe that you’re generally pretty hardwearing.

Dr Harper pauses for effect. “You are at mercy to your own judgement...” Another pause. And you’re about to tell him that—nice fucking try, but—you’re actually a remarkably selfassured person who rarely, if ever, gives yourself to negative selftalk. But then, “... Of others.”

And now it occurs to you that the fucking room has gone silent. And you feel like your eyes have all but crossed in simmering anger. Because—okay—everyone here is crazy, and miserable, and a little fucking pathetic, but you’ve prided yourself on being the least crazy one here.

And fuck.

Fuck if you’re not proving his point right now.

When you open your mouth to argue—because you are going to disagree, if only for the sake of disagreeing—Art Donaldson’s fingers screw up firmer around yours, like he’s some sort of sentient lie detector, and you’re about to ask him where the fuck he gets off, but Dr Harper isn’t done.

He turns, now, to Art.

“And you…” he says. You’re getting seasick with all the pausing. “Donaldson. You’re at mercy to others’ judgements of you, my man.”

So Art, you see out of the corner of your eye, looks like he’d rather debone himself than be sitting here.

And fine.

Okay.

Let’s all agree that that much is true. That Art Donaldson lives and dies by the judgement of others, and you live and die in the name of it. Fine.

Even so, you can’t help but think that these are directly antithetical problems to have.

And, in practice, if you’re a callous shrew, and he’s an open wound, you’ll probably kill him. Or something.

But now Dr Harper’s pushing your heads together like a ref before a rugby match. And he crouches down again. And Art’s nose brushes yours, and your lash swipes his cheek, and you can smell the coffee Dr Harper was just drinking.

And he says, “Let. First serve.”

Then he stands again and pats Art’s shoulder like they’re old friends, and gives a wink to the room at large.

He saunters away. Art looks like someone is pointing a gun to his head. But really it’s just your—heartlessly selfrighteous, apparently—forehead still against his. His skin is feverwarm.

You pull away.

Of course no one takes the exercise seriously.

In its defense, you think, there’s very little that goes down in this room that can be veritably labelled a ‘serious’ event. Most of it—the guided meditations, the writing exercises, Dr Harper’s entire vibe—feels like you happened to miss some crazy event that tore reality asunder and tipped you over into a sadistically tragicomedic alternate universe.

But if you all were to sincerely sit here, knees to knees with mourning strangers, and concretise this litany of other strangers who have wounded you all irrevocably in different ways—shit—Harper’d be sitting with a fetid heap of weeping corses.

So—well.

Eleanor’s chasing Ally around the hall with a her fingers hoisting an invisible shiv yelling, I love you, I love you, you bitch. Which is certainly one way to contend with a murderous exlover, you guess.

Padma and Colin are treating this as a gossip session. You can tell because you can hear that delighted peal of laughter she emits whenever someone interjects one of her—deeply engrossing, by the way—caustic vignettes about her exhusband with a little observational jab at the guy.

Most people are laughing. Or making fun. You catch fleeting dregs of remarkably hilarious conversation from all angles and are reminded why you keep coming back here.

The only person, however, who seems to have really taken Dr Harper’s thought experiment to the harp of his heart—much to your horror—is Art Donaldson.

He sets his elbows on his knees and leans forward. You get a waft of him. Something acerbic like citrus, and maybe pine. He blinks up at you with this almost regrettable intensity. Like he’s about to tell you that he has to pull your teeth. But he’s not thrilled about it. You’re still deciding if you’re flattered by the notion. He’s looking at you like he’s trying to glean the pattern of your sinew with his eyes alone.

“I’ll be you,” he says, his voice low and soft. And there’s a hoarse quality to it, like he’s just run up a staircase.

You’re suddenly very aware of all the noise around the two of you. The laughter, the bedlam. Something faintly percussive.

His thumbs swipe over your knuckles, which you’re hoping is an absent thing.

You blink. Your face is overcast with a less than kind, more than unimpressed glower.

“You’re serious?” you deadpan.

He looks serious as the end times. His fingers twitch around yours. You feel his knuckles like piano keys against your palm.

Dr Harper has essentially told this man that you have something he doesn’t. Something he needs. And now—with a tenacity you can only imagine churns through his bones by rote—he seems determined to find it.

He’s gripping your hands like you’re the fucking racket.

He leans down further, elbows pressing into his thighs, and his face gets alarmingly close to your fingers. A whisper of heat against your nailbeds.

When his tongue dips out to swipe the chapped coral edge of his upper lip, you nearly flinch, because you think that wet will touch you. But it doesn’t.

He peers up at you intently. You see the way his throat shifts under his wan skin as he swallows.

“I’m as serious as you want me to be,” he says. He is absurdly sincere, but also something else.

Your brows twitch, and you frown, because you are now realising that, even after several weeks of careful observation, you do not have even a remote understanding of this man to speak of. You feel like an academic whose thesis has just been rejected, and now they’re back to square one of some miserable odyssey. Moreover, this is all just unutterably ridiculous, so you sigh and roll your eyes and shift in your seat, your knee knocking against his inner thigh.

“Fine,” you say, “You be me.”

Art’s face is set in what you first think is determination, but are incredibly unnerved to discover is him getting into character. He’s trying to emulate that vaguely bitter perennial scowl of yours. He looks like a bitch—which means he’s pretty fucking dead on.

You’re almost impressed.

Of course, he still looks sad. There’s a vulnerability his mimicry cannot conceal. But you think he’s finding something cathartic in wearing the hue of your passive vitriol.

You tell him to express a perfectly reasonable grievance to you—and you yourself are now rolling your shoulders and slinking into the ethos of a gaslighting asshole—like how you never wash the dishes. Like, ever.

He clears his throat.

“You never do the dishes.”

You swallow.

“Right…” you murmur.

You’re still a little facetious about this whole thing, but there is that intensity in his gaze that wrests you into the moment like a fervid point of gravity.

“Well, now I—as my ex—would probably tell you—” You roll your eyes again, but now it is at the memory you’re unsheathing. “—oh, you’re being dramatic. I was just about to do them. Why are you always on my ass?”

And Art’s nose wrinkles, like the memory is offensive to him, too.

He looks you over like a sawbones trying to determine a patient’s symptoms. Mapping out the incision.

“Then I—you—would say…” He’s speaking really slowly, too. Like he’s giving you the chance to object where you see fit, on grounds of mischaracterisation. “I would say that you always say you’re going to do all kinds of things. But you never actually do them.”

“Exactly!” you blurt, kneejerk. But then you catch yourself. Flex your fingers a bit in his. Clear your throat and put on your best impression of a total dolt again. “Okay—oh, maybe you’re too busy focusing on the little stuff I don’t do to recognise the large sacrifices I make for our relationship.”

He scoffs.

It’s your scoff. A facsimile of that incredulous ire you seem to always be evincing. It’s deeply disturbing.

“What sacrifices?” You can’t tell who’s asking.

“W—” You falter. Swallow. It takes you a moment—like you’re emerging from deep water—to answer, as your ex, “Well, I moved here, didn’t I? Packed up all my shit and left my friends, my family, fucking everything. To be with you.”

“I didn’t ask you to move.”

“You didn’t,” you confirm quickly. And you can’t tell who’s saying that, either. But you put on the voice again, and say, “You didn’t. But I still did it for you. And I don’t think you’ve ever said thank you. Or sorry.”

A beat.

Your hands go slack in his. You sigh. “You never say sorry.”

Art’s eyes search you like a probe.

Your shoulders are stonerigid and the blood is rushing like torrent through your ears because—somehow—this feels uncomfortably like a fight. Like that fight. And your body seems keen on adjusting the scoreboard accordingly.

His thumbs rub your knuckles again, in a way that feels a lot less idle this time.

“I’m still not going to say sorry,” he guesses with a marginal tentativeness, but a general certainty in his assessment.

You swallow again. “Yeah,” you rasp, “You’re not.”

It occurs to you that this exercise is a little like immolation.

He’s supposed to be acting like you. But he’s acting like you at your worst, and doing so—to his credit—a little more accurately than you’d like to admit.

It strikes you as unfair. And excoriating. And you picture yourself tackling Dr Harper to the ground and choking him out.

And then Art says, “We’ve been having this fight for…?”

“Two months,” you mumble. You’re not even doing the voice anymore.

Art clicks his teeth, a sentimental crease at the corner of his eye. “I think we should break up.”

You sigh. “Yeah, probably.”

“It’ll be really hard for me.”

A guess again, but then you’re here. Doing The Work. Holding hands and roleplaying. It’s not inconceivable that you didn’t take the breakup exceptionally.

Your lip twitches. “You’ll survive.”

He pushes off his elbows and sits up straight, his knees sidling fully around your thighs, now unashamed. He gives you a look. A different one. His mouth purses to the side in some alloy of pensive amusement, a dimple delved into his cheek. His gaze coruscates with a deep cornflower intrigue.

“I think I will, actually,” he says finally.

And he has the nerve to smile. Revoltingly soft and sympathetic.

He gives your hands a parting squeeze before dropping them in your lap, his chair scraping loud the linoleum as he backs off.

You call your ex that night.

“Hey, listen,” you say, “Sorry.”

Dr Harper’s probably somewhere creaming his pants so fervently as to have rendered himself numb in a state of gleeful stupor.

“Hey,” husks your ex—who, for his flaws, has always been more magnanimous than you—before chuckling, “No worries.” You can hear that easy smile of a life unburdened by you in his voice.

Which is fine.

“How are you?” he asks then, “You good? You surviving?”

You smile wryly. You feel like you’ve been flogged by four consecutive eighteenwheelers. “I think I will, actually.”

You Google Art Donaldson.

You’re having a drink with Eleanor and Ally and Colin and a few others from the group, and you’re basically shitting all over the whole programme in a very hush-hush sort of way because you all know what an Opportunity For Growth this has been, when Art walks into the bar and spots your table and nods at the whole gang. The mood quickly shifts. Excitement, sure, but a collective wordless agreement that the lighthearted gossip between real friends ends here. You feel bad. It’s not his fault.

Art slides into your booth with beer floats and greets Colin, who’s looking at him with a senex’s disdain because he was just telling you all how he’s thinking of getting hair plugs. Again, not Art’s fault.

Art’s in camouflage, with his baseball hat and T-shirt, which you think is unnecessary because—again—you’re still quite certain no one gives enough of a shit about tennis as to recognise him in a bar.

When he slides into the booth—into the space between you and Colin—he’s careful to leave a distance between the two of you. Which you only really notice at all because you’re acutely aware of exactly how much space occupies the expanse between the two of you at any given instance.

A bunch of people at the table are already looking at him like he’s some sort of foreign dignitary.

You don’t think athletes are necessarily charming by nature, and you refuse to give Art Donaldson that kind of credit, but he doesn’t have to try very hard to make himself agreeable to everyone.

He buys a round for the whole group. He asks after jobs, and the state of marriage, and family, and life. He seems sincere enough.

You all start chatting about the various horrific relationships that lead you here, as though they were all particularly uninteresting ham and cheese sandwiches. Colin’s exfiancée diagnosed with early onset dementia. Ally’s exgirlfriend developing a heroin habit. You’ve all jabbed and scrutinised these woes to deflated nothingness, by now. None of it hurts anymore. Is that the whole point? You still don’t know.

No one knows by what fancy Dr Harper pushes you all about in his great cosmic dance of personal selfimprovement.

You do know that Art remains quiet. Generally inconspicuous, but then you’re you, so you’re paying attention. And you don’t think he should get to sit there like an archaeologist recording the fossils of your collective melancholy, as though his own warm and living bones are out of the question.

Maybe you all can pull up the People.com article, A Comprehensive Timeline of Art and Tashi Donaldson’s Perfect Relationship and Messy Divorce, and have it contribute to the conversation.

Eleanor’s telling a story about the time her ex wrested her from bed and lobbed her out of the house at 2 AM in midwinter.

“And we lived in Duluth,” Eleanor’s saying, and she’s laughing in that disconcertingly manic way she does when she shares these things. “And I sleep halfnaked, so I’m fighting frostbite, and I’m just totally mortified that one of my neighbours will see me.”

“There’s nothing embarrassing about being halfnaked,” Ally shrugs.

And then you say, “Ha, yeah, I mean Art would know.”

Art—who, until now, looked like he was studiously contemplating the meniscus of his beer, or the grain of the table—flicks his gaze up to you.

You snort. “What, I’m supposed to act like everyone here hasn’t seen you oiled up and smouldering to the camera for Calvin Klein?”

A brief hush descends upon the table like a falling guillotine.

Then, laughter.

Eleanor snorts her gin and soda with such force that she coughs for a solid minute afterwards. There’s tears in her eyes and Colin is laughing at her and Ally is laughing at them both. And Art looks as embarrassed as a woman strewn porchside in her panties in midwinter in Duluth.

And—okay.

You were trying to be tongueincheek about it. But his discomfort levels are seemingly off the charts. He doesn’t know how to react and it makes him unhappy. Clearly, ten and something years of public scrutiny—and, in your defense, actually doing that photoshoot—have not prepared him for this moment.

You lean forward and awkwardly bump his fist with yours. “Hey, I’m kidding.”

But you’re not, because it was technically true.

“I thought it was artistic,” says Ally.

Eleanor, still crying laughing, “What, the fullpage spread of him fully waxed and laid out on a clay court surrounded by Great Danes?”

“Someone paid attention,” Colin chuckles, and Eleanor erupts into vibrant giggles again. Colin gives Art a courtesy clap on the shoulder before saying to Ally, “Maybe I’m old fashioned, but a Billboard of a guy wearing whities so tightie you can see his dickprint isn’t exactly Starry Night. But maybe I don’t get it.”

“You don’t have to worry too much about that. The art has to get you,” Ally says, pointing at him with a fry. Ally studied theatre. “I mean, we are the most complicated machinery in our lives. You have to take yourself seriously to do something like that.”

Everyone’s looking at Art like he’s some kind of colourful textbook.

It’s not often people sit beside a guy of whom they can confidently guess the naked physique.

And maybe you’re thinking that, too; you brought it up, after all. His arms look strong in his T-shirt sleeves. Not, like, bodybuilder strong. But lean and cut. And there’s a sort of animal grace to his movements. Like a fox, or something. Even as his ears burn a practically neon shade of carmine in the dim lighting.

He clears his throat. “I doubt anyone took that seriously,” he says dryly, the corner of his mouth ruefully, if hardly, upturned.

Eleanor shoves Ally playfully, swiping her tears away in a blissful mascara smear. “My God Al, will you stop scaring him with your Uta Hagen spiel?”

The conversation meanders to other topics. Fringe stuff, briefly, like the societal implications of male sexuality and modern advertising. But then things branch off entirely—The Fast and the Furious franchise, artificial intelligence, Colin’s stepson’s career aspirations of becoming a TikTok street interviewer. Et cetera.

You hope Art isn’t looking at you when you chance a glance his way, but when have you ever been so lucky?

So he’s looking at you. He looks at you like he’s taking inventory of you at your expense. He gives a slow blink, an almost imperceptible smile, then he lifts his beer towards you and takes a swig.

At the end of the night, he asks for your number, which feels like a boot to the loins. Not because it’s profoundly unbelievable. Maybe a little surprising, but, if anything, it’s the conclusion you’ve halfanticipated all night. That’s the way he’s been looking at you, at least. It’s just the finality of it all.

But what are you gonna say? No?

You call him that night.

“Hey, listen,” you say, “Sorry.”

God, what have they done to you?

Art, on the other end of the line, presumably lounging in his stately mansion, remains cautiously silent. You sigh like you’re losing something here.

“I hope I didn’t upset you,” you say, but realise your tone is too grudging, so you adjust, “I got awkward, I was trying to be funny. Which we both know by now that I’m not. I’m just a bitch. So, I just wanted to say… you obviously look fucking amazing. And your shoot was great. Everyone can see that.”

You swallow the dryness in your throat.

Art makes his own pained noise across the receiver. “Everyone?” he groans, and you cannot tell if you’re imagining the fleeting hue of amusement you discern there. “Please no.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say here.”

“You called me,” he scoffs. It’s a good scoff, if such a thing can be said. But he still sounds pretty incredulous with you, and not in a way that says he thinks you a moral paragon. You think he thinks you’re a bit of a monster. Which doesn’t offend you, actually. “To apologise.”

“And I did!”

“Okay?”

A silence befalls you like a yawning maw, stretching out. He could hang up on you. He doesn’t.

“Look, you can internalise the things I say at your own risk,” you say.

“You’re telling me.”

“But it was a nice photoshoot. And, you know… pretty hot and stuff, which I guess was the intended purpose.”

You feel like a corpse whose arteries are being drained of blood and filled with embalming fluid.

“Pretty hot and stuff?” he echoes. You roll your eyes.

If you’re lucky, he’s tipsy, because you guys didn’t only indulge in beer floats. So, maybe—by God’s impossible mercy—he’ll have forgotten this conversation in the morning.

“I—” you hesitate, adding a small laugh, kind of hoarse, kind of unconvincing. “I—honestly—I can’t stop watching it.”

It’s not a joke, you both realise.

His voice drops an octave. “Really?”

And—fuck. Fuck, right? But you’ve made it this far.

“Really.”

You feel his eyes on you, not Tashi. Harper has you all thronged around a burn barrel in the community centre parking lot at 8 PM on a Wednesday. Scintillating honeygold flames lick at the night and shadow his face at pretty angles. And he’s reading his letter—that letter—and looking at you.

That’s bad.

This is supposed to be a cathartic and utterly sexless exercise in closure.

But you feel like a filthy fraud.

You’re crossing your arms, and blinking off the flameheat, and pretending not to stare at the scarp of his Adam’s apple and his tendons working beneath the skin of his hands.

He clears his throat, and his lips are moving like he’s trying not to laugh.

“Tashi,” he starts.

Her name, when he says it, still sounds like a tender orison. But last time he’d been reciting this thing, his eyes had been all flushed, raw, and misty, his voice abraded at its edges. Now—well—Agnes hasn’t slipped him a tissue in weeks.

“I still love— do we have to do this again? Can’t I just throw it in?”

The group sputters into giggles. You don’t know who brought the sweet Moscato.

Dr Harper pinches his nosebridge like an enervated preschool teacher. You think he, of all people, ought to be pleased—and you suspect he furtively is, but doesn’t want to discourage your good spirits with his approval—because, as much as you’re loathed to acknowledge it, all his forcible, unwelcome attempts at conjuring vulnerability amongst the lot of you have actually kind of worked.

The fire warms your brows to dampness, the saccharine acidity of the spirit seeping through your flesh and sweltering the rest of you. You should’ve worn a thinner sweater.

“Art,” says Dr Harper, “Your feelings are valid. Even—” The group interjects with a smattering of jeers, a slurred, densetongued amalgam of fuck you! and get a life, Harper! and other stuff to that effect. “—even your reluctance.”

The flames thrash deep indigo and copper. No one can quit laughing.

Dr Harper continues, “But the whole point of the exercise is—”

“Come on, Doc, we’re still pretending these exercises have points?” someone heckles.

“We’re still calling these exercises?” says someone else.

“Hurry up and cry already, Donaldson, I got work tomorrow.”

“Alright, alright,” Art raises a hand and everyone wanes to a simmer of firewarm drunken murmurs as though he’s some sort of Biblical king.

You roll your eyes, but you keep thinking of Great Danes on tennis courts and tightiewhities.

Everyone cheers like this is fucking Madison Square Garden when Art holds his hand out for the bottle, teeth scintillating in the pyreglow with a wry slanting smile.

He takes a long, healthy swig. You think you hear someone whistle. His lips gleam with moisture when they pop off the glass bottlemouth.

“You wanna see me cry?” he grins, eminently rueful and amused and resigned, all at once.

And everyone hurrahs and hollers and maybe some people even bark. He’s being pushed around affectionately from all angles. His gaze is sharp and garlanded by flames and trained on you. You raise your brows at him wryly, perhaps a little dubious, before lifting your hands and joining in the applause.

He clears his throat and sweeps his tongue over his upper lip and flicks the paper out like a Shakespearean scroll.

“Tashi,” he starts again.

You watch the fire lave and singe and swallow all your bitter, pathetic epistles.

Tashi.

I still love you. I’m still sorry. For something, or everything. For anything, really. It’s mostly okay, but it’s worse at night. And on weekends, and with Lily, and when the microwave starts making that shitty sound that you hated.

I miss you deep in my bones. I—

The flames scorch his words to flickering cinders.

You look at him, and he looks at you, and his bottom lashes glisten with tears. But he’s grinning widely. He’s laughing. He’s laughing a lot. Padma sings ‘Auld Lang Syne’, for some reason.

The goodbyes are a little maudlin, but sincere.

It’s time for you to all go home and actually get over your exes, which feels a bit jilting.

Art walks you to your car, and you let him, and you even let him get in your car, which is probably not a good idea. But it’s the end of the stupid workshop and you want to spend more time together. There, you can admit it.

You even say it out loud.

“I’m gonna miss this corny bullshit.”

“Yeah, me too,” he says, a little more quiet.

When the middle backseat belt buckle is digging sharply into your hip, and he’s got you pinned beneath him, and his hands are everywhere—seriously, it seems he was just waiting for your permission, because he’s squeezing all the flesh he can reach, slipping his hands under your shirt, between your thighs, just absolutely no decorum on this guy—you think to yourself, this motherfucker.

A spherule of spearmint gum slips from his mouth and into yours.

You’d thought, too, that he’d be more deft with this. And he is, but he’s also very clunky. Maybe because your car’s quite small. He’s not huge, but he is still fairly tall and broad and trying to fit himself between your thighs while covering you with his body in this small space, so it’s a bit chaotic. You don’t really mind.

And—yes—you have thought about it.

There’s a shot of him, in the Calvin Klein campaign, sprawled across the court in greyscale, his hand resting on his middle, his other arm above his head.

You know they edit those photos. That there’s some kid, fresh out of graphic design school, rubbing one out while airbrushing these halfnaked men to oblivion. But you now see—feel, more than see, really; there’s a streetlight nearby, but it’s blown, so you’re all touch—that such satin cannot be contrived. He really is that smooth. There’s not a bit of fat on him, but he’s oddly liquidfeeling, skin sloughing off like cream.

He’s always looked almost uncomfortably boyish to you. But you’re realising now that there’s an abrasiveness to his haggard breathing, and that potent, vaguely olid, mannish fume to his skin.

It's really doing it for you.

In that shot, he was lying right beside the polyethylene net and the sun was beaming down, searing alabaster, through the lattice, at an angle that splayed shadows all across him. The lines warping over the slopes of his body.

You feel the phantom crisscross of those shadows between your thighs now.

His eyes are still a little wet. He tells you he’s wanted to do this since he saw you giving him the jettatura while he was signing that racket for Harper's daughter. He also tells you he bets you’ve wanted to do this since you saw him in tightiewhities lying under a tennis net.

Can he be your tennis net?

You don’t even know what that means.

You laugh a little, but then he slips a finger inside you and latches his mouth to your pulse, and it is hot as magma, and you forget all about Great Danes and apologies and fires.

You would think they do some computer magic to make the cocks look bigger in those things, too.

They don’t.

To be fair, he doesn’t have some kind of doubletake worthy, John Holmes ordeal or anything, in the pictures. But the slope beneath the cotton, the bend of his hips like the handle of a water pitcher, all that pearlescent skin—so what if your saliva gathered on your tongue as you leaned in (way too closely) toward your laptop screen?

You feel especially shameless now as he slides into you.

Sure, the buckle is a bitch and the seatleather’s sort of chafing your ass and your elbow’s in a cup holder. But you take furtive pleasure in thinking that some people’s fantasies about him probably go like this.

The softest thing is his hand cupping the back of your neck, dragging your head up. It’s a weird contrast to the way his dick is pumping erratically in and out of you. Like he’s trying to control himself, maybe add a little romance.

You keep your eyes open to watch the way his body moves. Fuck it, you wanna see what all the fuss is about.

The talented Mr Ripley whose volleys (and probably orgasms) are intensive, frenetic affairs of selfpersuasion. Unless, of course, he’s fucking the random, judgy woman he met in a group therapy session. In this particular case—though laboured all the same—he comes harder and slower and you hear his panting groans in your ear as you shudder through your own pleasure.

He pulls your hips closer and empties himself in you and you rub yourself against him and you try to keep your eyes open, but, ultimately, you concede that you can only experience this pleasure in the dark.

You keep feeling his muscles work beneath your hands, though.

Dr Harper strongly recommends that you two not start seeing each other. He does just about everything but get on his knees and beg. And even that he nearly does. He reminds you that, on your Vision Tree, you mapped yourself single for at least the next two years.

But Art says he’s had enough of other people saying what’s good for him.

And your Vision Tree also forecasted you taking up jogging, which—come on.

#challengers #art donaldson #art donaldson x reader #art donaldson angst #art donaldson fluff #art donaldson smut #the art donaldson calvin klein campaign is canon to me #challengers fic #uta hagen was team tashi #dr harper is his own trigger warning #i am actually an artashi divorce denier #but i was too compelled by this idea #tightiewhities #tag yourself i’m eleanor trauma dumping on a fun night out

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hypewinter · 10 months ago

Note

3 HC/AU Prompt Game (3)

1). Baby Ancient Danny!

2). Liminal Batman

3). Ghost Adoption Instincts

Due to his overwhelming affinity and power, Danny becomes the ancient of space. Ordinarily, this would be a momentous occasion that would call for a lot of fan fair and celebration. After all, a new ancient being born is a really big deal. Doesn't happen too often. And when it does, everyone feels it. From the most powerful of ghosts to even the slightest of liminals. If you're even a smidgen touched by death, you're gonna realize something powerful has just awakened.

But there is no celebration this time. Why? You see, not for the first time, Danny's halfa status throws a little wrench in things. When one becomes an ancient, everything gets reset for them. It's basically like a new birth. You get a new form, new core, new haunt (etc) but you still retain key aspects of your old self. Like the general age appearance and memories. But this doesn't happen with Danny. Whatever power is involved with turning a ghost into an ancient can't really get a feel on Danny considering he's not a full ghost. So when this "new birth" happens for Danny, well he gets new everything. He's basically a new ghost. A new baby ghost. A new baby ghost with dominion over space. Yeah things are about to get fun.

It doesn't take very long for Clockwork to lose sight of his new godling ward. And by lose sight, I mean lose sight. No matter how many timelines he flips through. He. Can't. Find. Him. Why can't he find him? Where did he go?? Why is this happening!? Ahhhhhhh!!

Meanwhile, Danny is vibing as he stares up at the Wayne family. The Wayne family of the DC universe. The universe famous for its convoluted and twisted timeline. The universe that's gonna take CW a while to work through (good luck buddy).

Now remember how I said that all liminals recognize when a new ancient is born? Well that's not the only ghost sense they have. You see there are two reactions to the baby currently sitting on the table depending on when someone died or at least had a brush with death compared to Danny's death. The first is, "Very powerful. Must respect. Must garner favor. Must not show weakness." This sentiment is held by all those who had their tastes of death after Danny. This includes Damian, Cass, and Tim. Then there's the other side. The ones who tasted death prior to Danny. When they look at this baby the reaction is, "Baby? Why baby alone? Must protect baby. Must take baby under my wing and keep it safe until baby can be on its own." This feeling is strong with Jason, Bruce and even Dick. There's only one problem. There is one baby but three dad candidates. Let the adoption wars begin!

#dp x dc #dc x dp #dpxdc #dcxdp #winter answers #thanks for the ask!#poor clockwork #once he finally manages to track down danny #he's going to be thrown head first into a ghost adoption battle #i almost feel bad for him #almost #but unfortunately for him the shenanigans potential trumps my sympathy for him

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muniimyg · 2 months ago

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omg u should definitely do a scenario where oc is on some kind of business trip away from zion and jk and they are both sulky or arguing w each other all the time and they facetime oc (although with her taking off work for a year it might be too late for this but it could always just be an in the future thing!)

jungkook feels defeated.

he’s over it.

he’s fucking done.

it’s well past zion’s bedtime and he has tried everything. from stories, warm milk, even a short lullaby—still, zion is tucked stubbornly under the covers, his little face buried in the pillow.

jungkook sighs, running a hand through his messy hair, when his phone buzzes. it’s a facetime call from you.

he swipes to answer, and your bright smile fills the screen, the familiar warmth in your eyes immediately lifting some of the stress from his shoulders.

“hi honey,” you say softly, “how’s it going?”

jungkook groans, turning the camera to show zion pouting into the pillow.

“he won’t talk to me. he won’t even look at me,” jungkook says, voice laced with frustration. “he only wants you.”

you laugh lightly, shaking your head. “isn’t it past his bedtime?

“that’s the least of my problems,” jungkook whines. “i genuinely think our son hates me.”

you gasp. “you’re exaggerating.”

“i’m not.”

taking jungkook’s stern face seriously, you sigh and attempt to put things into perspective for him.

“honey, you two are too alike… that’s the problem.“

zion’s little head lifts at the sound of your voice, his big eyes peeking out from the pillow.

“mommy?”

“hi, baby,” you say, your tone softening instantly. “what’s going on? are you giving daddy a hard time?”

zion pouts. “he’s mean to me.”

jungkook’s eyes widen. mean to him? when? in between playing with him, feeding him, and bribing him with ice cream and new toys—mean fits in where?

you snicker at jungkook’s reaction. “zion, you have such a big heart. i know you do, my love. i think you can make some space for daddy for be in it.”

“but why?”

“zi, i love daddy… so i want you to love him too.”

zion fidgets, his face scrunching up as he mumbles, “fine…”

“zion…”

“i don’t know, mommy! i just… i miss you. i don’t like it when daddy reads my bedtime stories! it’s boring. he can sing good but he doesn’t even know the words to my favourite songs!”

your heart melts as you watch him pout, and jungkook sighs, clearly sharing the sentiment.

“zion, you know daddy is trying his best, right?” you say gently. “and i love him very much, so i need you to be nicer to him, okay?”

zion shifts, looking guilty.

“i’m sorry, daddy,” he whispers, glancing at jungkook through the screen. “i don’t know why i’m being mean… i just miss mommy a lot. she’s gooder at bedtime than you.”

jungkook softens, his earlier frustration fading.

“i miss her too, buddy,” he says quietly, reaching out to rub zion’s back. “but we gotta be a team while she’s away, right?”

zion nods slowly, finally sitting up. “okay… i’ll be nice now. i’m too sleepy to be mean.”

you smile, warmth spreading through you at the sight of the two most important people in your life working it out.

“that’s my boy. thank you for being so sweet,” you say, and then look at jungkook, who gives you a grateful smile.

“we’ll be fine,” jungkook reassures you, his voice softer now. “just… hurry home, okay?”

you laugh, nodding.

“i’ll be back before you know it.”

jungkook looks at you, gaze soft and heart full. he knows you’re right, but he kept help but feel uneasy. he truly misses you.

“goodnight, honey. i love you.”

you blow him a kiss and then lower your camera angle to your baby bump. smiling, you pat your tummy.

“goodnight honey. we love you too.”

#ask muni #bts scenario #jk dilf #jungkook marriage au #bts marriage au #bts imagine #jk x yn

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filthyslashertoad · 5 months ago

Text

Slasher First Date Headcannons

Oh yeah guys, guess who’s adding more characters! ME!!!! So…introducing…PETER STRAHM AND… MARK HOFFMAN!!!! (air horn noises)

Also just to be clear I’m writing for lestat and Louis from the movie NOT THE TV SHOW(It’s just not that good imo)

Peter Strahm

Is a hopeless romantic that 100% believes in love at first sight.

Talks way too much and gets very passionate when sharing his own interests.

Is the type to bring you multiple different flowers because he wasn't sure what you'd like.

Prefers first dates to be at restaurants or cafes.

Mark Hoffman

Is an asshole to you the first time he meets you because he thinks that it counts as flirting?

Quickly becomes absolutely enamored by you and wants to know everything about you.

The day after he definitely finds you walking down the street and blares his sirens to get your attention and say some cheesy pickup line to ask you out on another date.

Michael Myers

The closest you're gonna get to a first date with him is him showing up at your house and eating all of your food while staring at you from a nearby hallway.

Don't expect a first date kiss, but do expect a sentimental staring contest before he leaves.

Amanda Young

Your first date was probably being in a jigsaw trap she either made for you or both of you being in the same trap. (She doesn't have much of a social life)

Quickly becomes attached to you and goes out of her way to make you survive the trap.

Bo Sinclair

Hits on you when you pass through the town and invites you to have a picnic on his lunch break(Which consists of beer, crackers, a few blueberries, beer, and hotdogs)

Tells you all about mechanic stuff and some of the prettier parts of the town.

After lunch, he invites you to go out with him if you're passing through(fixes your car for free).

Vincent Sinclair

Teaches you how to make candles and mini wax figurines. (It's harder than it looks)

Makes a tiny doll version of you and him and gives them to you.

Not much talking happens during the date(obviously) but he makes up for it with hand gestures.

Patrick Bateman

Hears one of his buddies talking about you and how beautiful you are and automatically decides he needs you to be his girlfriend.

Pulls out the nines, I'm talking Dior suit, Givenchy shoes, and he even buys new hair gel before your date so he looks as fresh as possible.

Will most likely talk almost the entire date about his accomplishments while using business jargon.

Lestat(Interview with a Vampire)

Most likely had the intention of seducing you to suck your blood but realized that you had more to you than what seemed.

Invites you to go to the opera with him and Louis but ends up taking you to a much more secluded section of the opera house.

Wants to turn you into a vampire on the first date(I don't even know what base that reaches)

Louis(Interview with a Vampire)

Isn't much of a romantic(anymore) so it's more so a deep conversation shared between the two of you in a beautiful garden.

Asks you what it's like to be human and what you admire about life.

Gives you a bouquet of his favorite roses as a surprise.

Michael Emerson

Wants to really really impress you so he takes you to a bunch of places that are "hidden" and brings a bunch of snacks. (Doesn't mind also going to see a movie)

Definitely tries to kiss you on the first date.

After your date Sam teases him all night about his crush on you.

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son1c · 5 months ago

Text

hi, this is something i wrote for my sonic x dunmeshi crossover. in my mind i've been calling it SATBK 2: ELECTRIC BOOGALOO because i think it's funny. thanks and enjoy 💜

Sonic the Hedgehog was having a good day. In fact, it was a great day! The sun was shining and there were no ugly robots in sight. He was also hanging out with his best buddy, Tails the Fox. Tails was telling him about some new techno-thingamajig that he'd invented, and Sonic was bobbing his head along, listening but not really understanding as Tails rambled on and on about slicers or splicers or splinters.

"...But that's not even the best part!" Tails was saying now. "With just the press of a button, this device should be able to undo the damage caused by..."

Suddenly, Sonic's ear twitched. He was still listening to Tails' spiel, but now he was distracted.

Tails noticed Sonic's lack of attention and turned pink with embarrassment. "A-And that's pretty much it!" he said in a rush, hoping he hadn't lost Sonic to whatever white rabbit had caught his fascination this time.

Unfortunately for Tails, Sonic's quills were tense. "Something's up," he said cryptically as he scanned the horizon. But even with a hand placed across his brow and a strategic lean forward, he couldn't make out any rotten eggs in the distance; the only things he could see were grass, trees, and other people's houses.

Still, Sonic's eyes narrowed.

Tails stuffed his new invention into his backpack and hurried to Sonic's side. He thought about all of the things he could do to help--Maybe he could run inside and grab a pair of binoculars from his workshop?--but just when he opened his mouth to suggest something, Sonic snatched him up and held him over his head.

"Woah!" Tails said in surprise, his eyes huge.

"Check it out!" Sonic said, gesturing with his foot at the place where Tails had just been standing.

Tails looked, and saw a small... Well, he wasn't really sure what it was, exactly. It was round, so bright it was glowing, and growing larger every second. Not only that, but when Sonic took a step back, it seemed to move and chase after him, too!

With Sonic still holding onto him, Tails began to spin his namesakes so the two of them could lift off and escape the strange glowing circle. At first, that seemed to do the trick, but then the thing peeled itself off the ground and rose up into the air. Yikes!

"Hang on, Sonic!" Tails said as he flew up higher. But no matter how high he climbed, the mysterious circle followed them. "I think it's a portal!"

"That's no good," Sonic said, not sounding particularly worried. If anything, he sounded a little excited.

Typical.

Then, the portal swallowed them up, leaving Tails' backyard empty. It spat them out in an unfamiliar place--at least, it was unfamiliar to Tails. The dirt path they landed on was well worn, the sky was painted a dazzling blue, and the forest to their left was lush with life. In front of them was a lake with water so clear and still it could be mistaken for a mirror. Tails took a closer look and couldn't help but think that if he wasn't a boy of science, he might say the place had an almost magical feel to it.

Sonic rubbed his nose. "Y'know," he said, "I'm not usually one for return trips. What gives?"

Tails reluctantly tore his gaze away from the water so he could look back at Sonic. "You recognize this place, Sonic?"

Sonic stopped rubbing his nose. "Yeah, there's no doubt about it." He put his hands on his hips and then took a slow, sweeping look around. "This is the same place from the storybook!"

If this was an anime, Tails probably would've turned monochrome as a glass breaking sound effect played in the background. Unfortunately, it's just a fanfiction, so that can't happen. But the sentiment remained the same: Tails was shocked.

Sonic shrugged. "I guess someone wrote a sequel," he said, like that was normal. Then, his expression turned sly as he side-eyed Tails. "Unless you think we're both dreaming this time?"

Before Tails could reply, someone walked out of the forest. They were riding a black horse and their face was covered by a dark hood, casting their face in shadow. However, not even their cloak could hide the shining armor they wore, as it twinkled brilliantly when they stepped out into the sunlight.

When the stranger spotted Sonic and Tails, they pulled on the horse's reins and stopped dead in their tracks.

This made Sonic quirk an eyebrow.

Tails asked, "Is that a friend of yours?"

The stranger removed their hood and revealed their face. Or, what could be seen of it through the helmet they wore. The intricately engraved metal was accented with red, which matched the stripes on his quills. Then, the dark hedgehog pushed up his visor so he could get a better look at Sonic and Tails.

In a quiet, disbelieving voice, the stranger asked, "My king?"

"You haven't changed a bit, huh?" Sonic chuckled. "Still dramatic as ever!" With a shake of his head, Sonic's mouth quirked up in a grin. "Hey, Lancelot. Long time no see."

Lancelot quickly got down from his horse so he could kneel to Sonic. Sonic, of course, just waved his hand dismissively. "Let's skip all that royal stuff, okay?" Sonic said, acutely aware of Tails' huge, disbelieving stare as it flicked between him and the knight. "There's someone I want you to meet."

Lancelot looked up and was dazzled by Sonic's grin. The blue hedgehog then motioned to Tails, his hands practically radiating sparkles as he showed off the small fox. "This is Tails. My little bro. Whatever world-ending problem brought me here this time, he'll be sure to help us fix it!"

While Lancelot processed this information, Tails barely stopped himself from spouting off a million questions. The first and most pressing of which was: Why does this guy look exactly like Shadow the Hedgehog?

Sonic offered his hand to Lancelot. Tails watched as Lancelot froze in place, but he didn't smack Sonic's hand away like Shadow would've. In fact, he seemed almost flustered at the friendly offer. He pulled his visor down to cover his expression before eventually accepting Sonic's hand and pulling himself up onto his feet. Maybe he thought it would've been rude to refuse? After all, he did refer to Sonic as his "king"...

Tails' head was spinning. He felt like he was going to burst with all his unanswered questions, so he finally voiced one. "Since when are you a king?"

Sonic grimaced. Tails pretended not to notice when Lancelot bristled at the question. Instead, he stubbornly kept his eyes locked on Sonic so the hedgehog couldn't run away from his question.

Rubbing the back of his neck, Sonic said, "Since I caught that cold a few months back? I dunno, dude. To be honest, I kinda thought..."

None of it was real.

Sonic trailed off as his eyes drifted over to Lancelot. Then, he cleared his throat. "What's it matter, anyway? We're here now! There's gotta be a reason. Isn't that more important?"

Tails frowned. It was clear that Sonic was uncomfortable, if his anxious foot tapping was any indication. Tails knew his big bro hated the limelight, so it made sense that he'd hate being someone as important as the king. But that still didn't answer his question: how did this even happen?

Thinking back, Tails could indeed remember when Sonic had caught that cold. It was hard to forget, since he'd gone through approximately twenty boxes of tissues in the span of about a week. But... "Amy said you just made all that up."

Sonic rolled his eyes. "Does this look made up to you?"

Tails looked around at the very real-looking fantasy land they'd found themselves in, and he had to admit that it didn't.

"Great," Sonic said. "Now that that's outta the way..." He turned back toward Lancelot. "Any dragons in need of slaying? Or not-so-evil wizards who need a talking-to?"

Lancelot shook his head. "I'm afraid not, King Sonic. Your appearance is--"

"Just Sonic."

Lancelot stiffened. Sonic looked at him expectantly. Like he was waiting for the knight to challenge him, like Shadow would've back in their own world. Tails almost laughed at the absurdity of it all, but thought better of it.

"...You've earned my respect, my king. I cannot simply refuse you your title."

Sonic's eyes twinkled. "Oh, yeah? Then how 'bout I cut you a deal?"

Lancelot was wary, but he waited for Sonic to explain.

Sonic jerked his thumb at the forest. Tails realized he was pointing at the treetops--no, at what was beyond them. Barely visible, the top of a grand castle could be seen peeking out from the distance.

"Let's race. If you win, you can call me your king. But if I win, you drop it. Sound good?"

Under the visor, Lancelot's eyes hardened. "I won't lose."

"I'm countin' on it," Sonic replied easily, but there was an undercurrent of excitement running through his words. Then, he turned to Tails. "You take care of the horse, okay, pal? We'll meet you there!"

Before Tails could object, the two hedgehogs were off. In their wake, they left a cloud of dust, and Tails sighed a long-suffering-but-fond sigh. No matter where they were, Sonic would always be Sonic, he supposed.

Taking the reins of Lancelot's horse, Tails began to head toward the distant castle. However, when he was about halfway through the forest, he stopped. The fur on the back of his neck stood up. Looking around, he couldn't see much amongst the thick foliage--just a mass of homogenous green.

Tails forced himself to relax and keep walking. Maybe a little faster than before.

Eventually, Tails made it to the front steps of the castle. It was even bigger up close; the massive structure towered over him, its tall stone spires piercing the sky. Lavish tapestries fluttered from the windows and golden ornaments glinted in the light of the setting sun. It even had a moat!

Lancelot stood proudly in front of the grand doors, his smile visible even with the visor shadowing his face. Sonic rolled his eyes as he stood next to him, but he was smiling too.

"I would've won if that frog hadn't been there," Sonic said.

"Of course, King Sonic," Lancelot replied, emphasizing Sonic's title a little more than necessary.

"C'mon, dude," Sonic said, exasperated, "you saw it! It was in trouble. If I hadn't jumped in, something bad would've happened!"

Lancelot nodded. "Yes, my king," he said again. "Helping the frog was much more important than claiming victory."

Sonic groaned.

Tails cleared his throat.

Sonic perked up immediately. "Buddy! You made it."

Taking the steps two at a time, Sonic joined Tails at the foot of the stairs. Lancelot joined him shortly afterward and gratefully took his horse from him. "My sincerest thanks for guiding Dark Rider, young Tails," Lancelot said.

Tails offered Lancelot a small smile. Dark Rider, huh? That sounded familiar. "You're welcome," Tails said. Then, after Lancelot disappeared around the corner to return the horse to her stable, he shot Sonic a pointed look. "I still have questions," he said seriously.

"Yeah, I figured," Sonic replied.

"A lot of questions," Tails added.

"Just you wait," Sonic said mysteriously. "There's more where that came from."

Lancelot returned. "They won't be expecting me so soon," he told Sonic and Tails. "When I discovered you on the outskirts of the forest, I had only just left in search of the mad mages."

Sonic raised an eyebrow. "The mad mages?" he asked.

Lancelot's face darkened. "Yes," he confirmed. "There's much you don't yet know, King Sonic. Things have changed since you were here last... and not all for the better. But this is no place for conversation, let's head inside."

The three of them did so. Once the giant wooden doors closed behind them, Tails had to try his hardest to keep his eyes from popping out of his skull. There was just so much to look at: the mounted suits of armor, the stained glass windows, and even the wonderfully detailed carpet. The whole castle also had a unique smell, like that of a delicately scented candle. It really was like something straight out of a storybook!

Lancelot led Sonic and Tails through the halls of the castle. Occasionally, Tails could catch bits of whispers as the staff noticed who exactly it was that was wandering the halls. Their excited chatter made Tails feel excited too--excited to learn exactly what was going on here.

Finally, they arrived before a set of important-looking double doors. Lancelot went to push them open, but then stopped.

"What's up, Lance?" Sonic asked.

"There's no telling how the Round Table will react to your return," Lancelot said slowly. "We've remained together despite some... differing opinions."

Sonic tilted his head. "Trouble in paradise, huh?"

"It's far from that."

Tails bit his lip. "What's going on here, Sh... Lancelot? Really?"

Lancelot looked from Tails to Sonic.

Sonic snorted. "Anything you tell me, you tell him. He's with me no matter what."

Lancelot gave a small nod of acknowledgement. "Very well," he said. "In truth, your departure left us in a bad state. I had faith you would return, but the wounds of the false king were still fresh for many. Sir Gawain, among others, couldn't move on so easily. To say nothing of the wizard's sudden betrayal..."

Sonic held up his hands. "Woah, wait. You mean Merlina?"

Lancelot replied in a grave voice, "The very same."

Suddenly, the doors were pulled open. From inside the room, a purple cat poked out her head. "Ah! Sir Lancelot, I thought I heard your voice. Was there something...?" she started to ask, but her question was forgotten when she saw Sonic and Tails.

Sonic waved. "Hi, Percival."

Percival covered her mouth with her hand to stifle a gasp. Then, she snapped to face Lancelot. "Swear to me that the mad mages aren't behind this. I have no time for trickery now, Sir Lancelot!"

"I swear, what you see is true," Lancelot replied. "Our king has returned along with his brother, the fox."

Immediately, Percival dropped into a respectful kneel. Tails cringed in sympathy for Sonic, sensing that this would become a trend. But Sonic just ignored it, saying, "Yeah, yeah. Nice to see you too. You know, we were just talking about Gawain. Is he in there with you?"

Percival tensed, then stood. After not-so-subtly pulling the door shut, she said, a little tightly, "Yes. However, it might be best to return later. Sir Gawain has become somewhat... prickly... since your departure, my lord."

"So I've heard," Sonic said, sounding bored. "Look, I know he's a knucklehead. That's not news to me. But from the sound of it, things are a bit rocky here. I'd like to be able to count on everyone if things get tough."

"'Rocky'...?" Percival repeated. Her face softened somewhat as she made a realization. "Oh, well, yes. They have been. But now that you've returned, King Sonic, the political unrest will surely resolve."

Sonic tapped his foot. "I'm not talking about politics," he said, irritated, "I'm talking about Merlina. I thought we'd buried the hatchet last time, but I guess some people need a Round 2."

Percival glanced at Lancelot, whose expression remained hard. She clasped her hands tightly in front of her. "If only it were that simple," she sighed. Then, she explained what had happened in Camelot since Sonic's departure.

Sonic struggled to pay attention through it all. Mostly because it involved a bunch of complicated political stuff that he couldn't care less about. Basically, the void of power left by Sonic returning to his own world had fractured the kingdom. Cool. Personally, he thought these prim-and-proper types should've been able to figure that out on their own, but maybe he was being insensitive.

...Had there always been this many flowers in the castle? The vases were a little gaudy for Sonic's taste, but the flowers were nice...

When Percival finally brought up Merlina's name, Sonic started listening again. Apparently, she had disappeared without a trace not too long ago. But recently there had been sightings of her alongside another magic user. They weren't pleasant reports, though; wherever they went, destruction was sure to follow. So, that explained the whole "mad mages" thing. Sonic's expression soured. Something about this whole thing didn't sit right with him.

Last time he was here, he'd been called by Merlina. So, how'd he and Tails get here this time?

By the time Percival finished speaking, Sonic was deep in thought. Tails, too, was pensive.

"I understand it's a lot to take in," Percival said sympathetically. "But we need not worry ourselves over it all at once. After all, you've returned! The tide of Camelot's misfortune will turn, I'm sure of it."

With that, the doors behind them opened. "I've heard enough," Gawain said as he appeared in the doorway. "So, you're back, are ya? Had enough of running away, huh?"

"Sir Gawain..." Lancelot warned, his hand moving to the sword sheathed at his hip.

Sonic stepped between the two of them, facing Gawain. "I missed you too, Gawain," Sonic said. When Gawain just growled, Sonic held up his hands placatingly. "Look," he continued, "I get it. You're mad. So, let's cut to the chase, alright? Meet me out front and we'll duke it out like old times. Cool?"

Gawain glowered at Sonic. "A deserter is hardly worth the effort," he spat.

"Even if I let you pick the terms?" Sonic asked.

Lancelot and Percival's eyes widened.

Gawain considered this. After a moment, he said, "Your defeat ends in banishment. And your victory..." Gawain leaned fully into Sonic's space, attempting to intimidate him with his cold stare and bared teeth. "...It shall not come to pass."

Sonic crossed his arms over his chest, refusing to back down. "Uh huh. Deal."

"M-My lord!"

"King Sonic!"

Sonic waved his hand. He didn't look away from Gawain. "I'm looking forward to a real challenge. It's more fun that way. So don't let me down, got it?"

The preparations for the duel were carried out quickly. That was good, because Sonic didn't want to wait--he was practically buzzing with anticipation. One of the castle staff had brought him his old gauntlet, but Caliburn was nowhere to be found. Sonic didn't know whether to be happy or disappointed to be given a non-talking replacement sword instead.

By the time the knights, Sonic, and Tails had gathered in the front courtyard, the news of the king's return had spread through the whole castle as well as the town. Spectators ringed the courtyard, whispering to themselves about who would win.

Sonic and Gawain stood opposite each other. The crowd hushed when Gawain shifted, his gaze intense. "I'm Sir Gawain of the Round Table," he stated. "My duty is to protect this kingdom and its people."

Sonic leaned on his sword, a small smile playing at his lips. "Yup, that sounds just like you. But where's the rest? C'mon, I'm waiting."

Gawain's nose twitched. It was obvious he wanted to curl his lip in disdain, but instead he settled for setting his mouth into a hard line. "You call yourself king, but you abandoned your own people. I refuse to bow to a deserter!"

Sonic sighed. He couldn't argue, because Gawain was right: he did leave. Instead, he said, "I don't want you to bow, Gawain. Don't you get it? Your kingdom's in trouble!"

"And what of you, knave?" Gawain hissed, and the crowd gasped. "Could you be an omen yourself?"

Shaking his head, Sonic replied, "I'm here to help."

"Enough!" Gawain snapped. He raised one of his swords, and with that, the duel officially began.

Gawain was faster than Sonic remembered--had he been training since he'd last seen him? The red knight crossed the courtyard in the blink of an eye, slashing at Sonic with what must've been months of pent-up frustration. Sonic raised his own sword to block Gawain's attack, and the subsequent clang of steel resounded throughout the whole courtyard.

Then, Sonic tried to knock Gawain's feet out from under him, but the knight blocked his kick with his other sword. Dang! That was annoying. Even so, Sonic couldn't help but grin. After all, he did say he'd wanted a challenge.

Flipping backwards, Sonic freed himself from the stalemate. From the relative safety of a few feet away, he taunted Gawain with a wink. The red knight grew angry and charged at Sonic again, not unlike a bull.

This time, Sonic dodged Gawain's attack with a simple side-step, but he quickly realized that Gawain wasn't as nimble as him; while Sonic could stop on a dime, Gawain, being taller and heavier, could not. If their fight was happening in the middle of an empty field, then that wouldn't be a problem, but there were people surrounding the arena!

In a flash, Sonic spun around on his heel, and with his super speed, he managed to catch the back of Gawain's metal collar before he could barrel into the crowd.

Gawain blinked in surprise, but quickly recovered. "You won't be so lucky a second time," he told Sonic.

Sonic let go of Gawain's collar and replied, "Prove it!"

They clashed for a while longer, a blur of blue and red across the cobblestone courtyard. Gawain managed to graze Sonic with the business end of his blade a few times, but so did Sonic. Maybe if Gawain didn't want to look like he was covered in paper cuts, he should've designed his armor more effectively! At least, that's what Sonic thought, anyway.

Finally, Sonic managed to knock one of Gawain's swords out of his hand with a well-timed kick. His second sword was soon to follow. Then, Sonic slammed into him, sending him to the ground. With one shoe, Sonic pinned Gawain to the ground, his sword held against the red knight's neck.

"I win," Sonic announced.

The crowd cheered while Lancelot and Percival let out a sigh of relief. Tails, on the other hand, just snorted. Leave it to his big bro to be a drama king!

Sonic sheathed his sword and stepped off of Gawain. Then, he extended a hand to him. "We're stronger together. Will you help us keep Camelot safe?"

Gawain glared up at Sonic. When Lancelot and Percival appeared at his sides, he glared at them too. But eventually, he let out a sharp breath. "Yes, but not for you." He accepted Sonic's hand and said with conviction, "For the kingdom."

Sonic grinned.

Afterward, there was a party. The threat of the mad mages had brought unease to the kingdom, but with Sonic's arrival, it seemed as though a beacon of hope had appeared in Camelot. So, the townsfolk decided to celebrate. As night fell, the castle and its surrounding town became aglow with lantern light. Upbeat music drifted through the streets while people danced. The warm smells of street food wafted from stalls, making Sonic's stomach growl.

"Man, I'm starving!" Sonic said to no one in particular.

In response, approximately twenty vendors suddenly appeared with their freshly baked bread, meats, and cheeses. Sonic blinked in surprise before graciously taking what he could carry, then enlisting Tails' help to grab the rest.

The three knights were there as well, although Gawain was keeping his distance. Sonic offered a spiced bread roll to Lancelot and a sticky pastry to Percival. They accepted with their heads bowed. Sonic also offered pieces of his mountain of goodies to the townsfolk he passed, which eventually left him with a much more manageable hill of treats that he happily stuffed into his mouth.

Tomorrow, he and the knights would need to make a plan for dealing with the mad mages. But for right now, Sonic was content to fill his belly and enjoy the party.

Tails bit into a meat-and-cheese-something-or-other and chewed it thoughtfully. It tasted good, and it was still hot, which made the flavors pop out and swim across his tongue. No food he'd ever eaten in a dream had tasted like this, so he had to accept that it was real. Even though it was hard to believe, he and Sonic had been transported to another world. A world of knights and mages.

Tails' expression soured. He thought about the invention in his backpack, the same one he'd been showing off to Sonic earlier back in their own world. It seemed so small in comparison to this bizarre place filled with magic and mystery.

Speaking of which...

Tails was wrenched out of his reverie when he heard someone scream.

"Monsters!"

Tails dropped the rest of the food he was holding. It all tumbled to the ground dramatically, and the narrator urges you to mourn the loss of such delicious food. Especially since things are about to get much, much worse.

A flight of winged, human-faced monsters had arrived. They swooped down to crash the party, their wicked talons swiping this way and that. People shouted and ran for cover, but not everyone was fast enough to avoid their grasp; a small child was plucked from the street by the arm and lifted into the sky by the harpy.

"Hold it!" Sonic shouted. Then, he took a running leap at the kidnapper, using a nearby food stall to bounce off of and gain height. In midair, he tackled the monster, which then released the young girl in its grasp.

She shrieked as she fell through the air, but luckily Lancelot was there to catch her, his armored skates sparking from use.

The streets were chaotic. Townsfolk continued to scream and run, ducking into buildings and slamming the doors shut behind them as harpies terrorized them. The knights fought valiantly, their swords slicing through flesh and feathers. Despite the large number of winged monsters, they fell quickly, and so it wasn't long before their ranks thinned to almost nothing.

But that wasn't the end of it.

After spin dashing into a group of harpies and knocking them over like bowling pins, Sonic froze. He realized the ground was shaking beneath his feet, and looked around wildly to find out why. It wasn't long before he spotted the source: a giant red dragon. Or, what appeared to be a red dragon. Upon closer inspection, it actually looked like it was part dragon, part bird, and part human. And it had just crashed through the town’s protective wall.

Percival gasped. "A chimera?"

Sonic shook the monster blood off his sword before rushing over to where the knights were gathered. "You guys keep these birdbrains busy," he said. "I'll handle the big guy."

"Sonic, wait!" Tails said, grabbing Sonic's wrist before he could run off.

"No time, buddy. Tall, Red, and Ugly over there is big trouble. I'm countin' on you to back me up!"

Tails pressed his lips into a thin line, but nodded. Then, he let Sonic go.

With his super speed, Sonic was able to dodge fleeing townsfolk, hop over toppled food carts, and run along the roofs of buildings. He stopped on a tiled roof not far from the chimera, cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted. "Heeey! Over here!"

The chimera ignored him. It bulldozed its way through the town, crushing stalls and carts underfoot. Sonic chased after it, jumping across rooftops like he was in Assassin's Creed, careful to keep his soles from slipping on the inclined surfaces. Where are you going? he wondered as he watched the chimera squeeze through a narrow alleyway, smashing in windows with its huge scaly tail as it did so.

Sonic's eyes moved in front of the chimera. Up ahead was the courtyard and beyond that, the castle. That must be it!

But, wait, that was bad. Like, really bad! Because that was where the townsfolk were headed! The strong stone walls of the castle offered the best protection from monsters. That was, until a huge chimera came knocking at their door!

Sonic zoomed across the rooftops until he got close enough to the chimera to leap onto its back. He nearly slipped when he landed on the slick red scales, but stubbornly held on by grabbing a fistful of feathers. By now, the chimera had burst out into the open courtyard. Sonic didn't have a lot of time to redirect it before people got hurt.

Setting his jaw, Sonic crawled up to the chimera's head like a little blue bug. It only noticed him once he was face to face with it--or, maybe it was a her? She bared her teeth at Sonic and swiped at him with her big dragon claws, but Sonic was too agile for her to catch.

With his feet planted firmly on her shoulders, he leaned upside down in front of her face and blew a raspberry. His hand made the L-shape as he held it against his forehead, the moonlight glinting off his gauntlet.

In response, the chimera's eyes snapped to the gauntlet. She no longer attempted to swat Sonic like a pesky fly, but rather, she tried to snatch the gauntlet. Sonic flipped off her shoulders, landed on the ground in the courtyard, and then looked from his gauntlet to the chimera.

"You want this?" he asked.

Her yellow eyes seared against the darkness, never looking away from Sonic's hand.

The blue hedgehog grinned wildly. "Then come and take it!"

Sonic led the chimera away from the castle and into the nearby forest. He didn't stop running until he could no longer hear any sounds from the town, and then he kept running for a little while longer, just for good measure. He deliberately slowed his pace so the chimera wouldn't lose him in the tangled mess of foliage, where the darkness blended together with the roughage.

When he finally stopped, he skidded in the dirt. The chimera wasn't far behind, so he had to think fast: what was the best way to slay a dragon?

The chimera burst out from the bushes as Sonic unsheathed his sword. It lunged at him immediately, but was still too slow to catch him. Instead, Sonic ran underneath her scaly arm, only stopping once he was directly underneath her. Before she had time to react, he plunged the sword upward into her chest... or, he tried to.

The chimera's super tough scales broke the sword when it made contact. Sonic dropped it and hurried back out into the forest. So, that didn't work. Now what?

Suddenly, Sonic heard someone's voice. He looked around, worried someone from the town had wandered out here and was now in danger, but quickly realized it was actually the chimera. She had her hand raised in front of her as she spoke--no, chanted.

Uh oh.

Spikes shot up from the earth, and Sonic narrowly avoided being skewered. The forest floor was now a mess of jagged spikes, leaving very little room for Sonic to run. He had to navigate between the closely-packed spikes, which took precious time and attention, and it didn't help that the chimera was shooting fireballs at him now.

"Sorry, lady! Hedgehog's not on the menu tonight!" he quipped as he ducked under a particularly large fireball. "These quills weren't meant to be barbecued!"

Eventually, the fireballs stopped flying.

A drop of sweat slid down Sonic's face, but he didn't stop moving. He couldn't afford to. This monster was full of surprises, and one wrong move could land him six feet under.

Unfortunately, Sonic had gotten so fixated on her human half that he didn't notice when her dragon tail arced through the night until it was too late. It slammed into his side, knocking him off the top of the spike he'd been perched on. He soared through the air, stunned, until he landed in the palm of the chimera's huge draconic hand.

Oof!

Sonic tried to wriggle out of her grasp, but without a running start, he couldn't overpower her. Black spots swam across his vision, but he just gritted his teeth. If it was the gauntlet she wanted, then he wasn't going to let her have it, no matter what. Using the last of his strength, Sonic removed his gauntlet and buried it deep inside his un-barbecue-able, super sharp quills.

Then, a sickening crunch echoed through the forest, and Sonic drooped in the chimera's grasp.

Without a word, she brought Sonic's body up to her face, searching for the gauntlet. When she realized it was no longer on his hand, she almost dropped him--but then she caught sight of the silvery prize between the hedgehog's quills. With her soft human hands, she reached for it... only to immediately recoil, because she'd been poked!

Scowling, the chimera tried again, only to be poked a second time. Ouch! She sniffed, a single cartoon tear dripping from her eye. Then, she tried to get the gauntlet with her dragon hands... but they were way too big. There was no way she'd be able to finagle that tiny gauntlet out of Sonic's quills when her claws were the same size as his head!

Pouting, the chimera resigned herself to just taking Sonic's entire body back to the Dungeon Master. She'd gotten what he’d wanted, anyway--surely, he could figure out the rest?

So, that was what she did. With Sonic's body held in her arms, she trampled through the forest, back to Thistle.

He was waiting for her along with the female wizard, Merlina, at the lake where Lancelot had originally encountered Sonic and Tails. The two mages were discussing something in hushed tones, but stopped once they heard the booming footsteps of Thistle's chimera approach. Then, they turned toward the forest to watch as the dragon with a human head emerged from the shadow of the trees.

Merlina’s heart dropped when she saw what the chimera was carrying.

Thistle had no reaction to Sonic's body. Once the chimera was close, he simply asked, "Well? Did you get it?"

The chimera knelt down so she could show Thistle the gauntlet trapped in Sonic's quills. When Thistle reached for it, the chimera pulled Sonic's body against her chest and said with difficulty, "Sh... arp..."

Thistle lowered his hand.

It was then that Merlina stepped forward. Her face revealed none of her true feelings, but when she placed her hand on Sonic's head, her fingers trembled slightly. "I sense a great power within this creature," she said cryptically. "Perhaps he could be of use to us?"

Thistle frowned. He looked closer at Sonic, but he didn't see whatever it was that Merlina saw.

"Some artifacts are protected by narrow passages," Merlina added. "In that case, a... smaller... creature would be valuable."

The chimera puffed up her cheeks indignantly. How rude!

Thistle considered this. Then, he looked down. His arms were overloaded with two large books. Carrying them both this far had been a hassle, but he couldn't leave either one behind. They both had to stay where he could see them. But, maybe...

"Dragon," Thistle said, causing the chimera to snap to attention. "Set it down here."

The chimera did as she was told. Now, Sonic's body laid flat in the grass at Thistle's feet.

After rummaging around in his pocket for a moment, Thistle pulled out a glass vial with a single drop of blood inside. While Merlina watched, he popped the lid off the vial before turning it upside down and letting the droplet stain Sonic's chest red. Lastly, he moved one of his books under his arm, then opened the other one and began to read.

Sonic's body glowed as the droplet of blood soaked into his fur and disappeared. Then, he gasped and sat up, clutching his chest. Life had returned to his body, but his head was spinning, and when he looked up and saw Merlina, his head hurt even more.

"What--?"

Thistle didn't let him finish. He transformed the book into a pulsing ball of light that squirmed and twitched as if it was alive. Before the strange orb could escape the mage's grasp, he shoved it into Sonic's open mouth.

Sonic, startled, swallowed it.

Merlina was glad Thistle couldn't see her expression as Sonic transformed before her eyes, his whole body burning with the fierceness of a small star. Feathers grew from his fur and his legs twisted into the body of a lion, all the while Merlina looked on in horror.

When the light finally faded, signaling the end of the transformation, the dragon chimera cocked her head curiously at the newly made lion chimera.

Sonic shivered in the grass, his long tail flicking back and forth.

Thistle gave him no time to acclimate to his new body. "Lion," he said. "Give me the gauntlet."

Sonic growled.

Thistle held out one of his hands expectantly. "Now, Lion," he repeated, more firmly this time. "The gauntlet."

Sonic looked up at Thistle. When their eyes met, Sonic's stiff, defensive posture evaporated. With his strange new eyes, the lion chimera could see something floating just above Thistle's hand. It was about the size of a blueberry and just as round, but glowing with the warmth of a freshly baked biscuit. It looked delicious.

Sonic reached into his quills and pulled out the gauntlet. Now, he offered it to Thistle without hesitation, his head bowed slightly. But his eyes remained locked on that strange magic blueberry.

Thistle nodded, pleased. "Good," he said. And then he took the gauntlet from Sonic.

When he did, Sonic was able to taste that strange blueberry. And it tasted better than anything he'd ever eaten in his entire life--including chili dogs! His wings fluttered in delight as his eyes filled with sparkles. Now, there was only one thing on his mind: how could he get more of those blueberries?

#sonic #sonic the hedgehog #i don't have a writing tag #chimera sonic #now introducing: a guy who loves set up and character interactions saurrrrrrrrrrr much #(it's me. i'm the guy.)#usually i don't put fandom tags on my writing but i worked hard on this and it's long. please appreciate it or i will be sad ok thank you

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weebsinstash · 13 days ago

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I know it's dumb but I keep thinking about the whole applemedia x reader soulmates idea but it occasionally drifts into "what if they're not poly or ever become it over time BUT they're chill with sharing you BUT for the rest of forever they keep being super competitive over your affection" type shit and. Just.

Imagine Lucifer getting you pregnant and you think it's this, one time thing because, oh wait yeah he's the Devil, that makes sense, and he's lording over the other two that you and him are gonna have a baby, that now he has this extremely special connection to you and there's a piece of you and him now, and maybe you had wanted to be a parent anyways so they also see how happy it makes you

Then the new tiniest Morningstar is born and, you know what? Vox and Alastor ARE jealous. They're just. Forced to third wheel watching you and Lucifer with your new baby and, of course they still get included in things too, but... they hold your baby and suddenly they're painfully aware they can't have one with you, which starts to suck when spending time with you and Lucifer's baby makes THEM kinda want a baby of their very own too 🥺👉👈 they can't help it that your baby is a piece of you and it's just so cute and precious to them and they wanna love and protect it forever

I just started thinking about. The scenario being that everyone just assumes you got pregnant because Lucifer was the father but it turns out to actually be, either soulmate magic or whatever or, you as the mom have this unique special power and, thus. You get knocked up again by one of the other ones. Imagine sitting there in the OBGYN having your magic ultrasound and whatever and Lucifer finds out he's not the dad. It's less anger and more shock, confusion

I keep thinking of cute scenarios, like... you and Lucifer have your little baby and like months and months later Alastor is watching you cook at the stove with the baby in a sling as you talk to them and kiss the top of their little baby head and, it makes Alastor feel all warm and tender and sentimental, watching you be a little homemaker with your little baby, cooking a delicious hot meal... and then later that night you're just so tired from working so hard all day, and he's all too happy to tend to you now, pampering you, getting you whatever you please, leading to some cuddling, which leads to... other things...

Boom. Pregnant again. Everyone thinks it's Lucifer's until the first prenatal check up where it turns out to very obviously not be his. Vox is jealous in a very "well why them and not me" kind of way but he's also a sort of "ugh, snot nosed kids" kind of guy and tries to maintain a facade that, actually he's just so based and cool being the only one who ISN'T a dad

...until one day you're walking around your living space and you poke your head into a room and, there's Vox, showing some or his trading cards to you and Lucifer's daughter because she liked the pictures and he's answering all her little questions of 'what do these ones do'. In another instance, Vox achieves the most personal victory over Alastor by getting his and your son into video games and you walk in and your little boy is in the tech mogul's lap with the controller in his hands, "so then I use this one, right?" "Well, I dunno, remember what I taught you about the type system? I dunno if that one would work very well, little buddy" and you're just, melting a little, and you talk to him about it later, how you've noticed him bonding with the little ones, kind of teasing him a little bit about, 'is he going soft', 'wouldn't he want a little boy or girl to run up to him all 'Daddy this level is too hard can you help me beat it'' and stuff like that and, maybe he's even 🥺 insecure. He doesn't really have much experience with this kind of thing. He's not Lucifer or Alastor and, what if you don't think he's a good dad? What if his kid doesn't like him? What if he messes up and you hate him 🥺

So of course maybe you're even a little baby crazy because you know he wants one and, you might joke a little that, "it's only fair each of you gets at least one right :)". But. Then. Boom you're pregnant but, different! Cause now it's twins and Vox is gloating to the other two about 'his magic cock' and. They're both just. Almost like little kids, it flips this switch in them like, "well why does Vox get TWO kids, that's not fair 🥺"

You could still be in the delivery room holding little Gas Pedal in one arm and Radiator Fluid in the other and you're just watching the three of them, "well, I've wanted another baby for a while! I was just... being patient!" "You snooze you lose, asshole!" "Well there was never any formal agreement upon stopping at just one child each, so-" "oh, oh what, so you're both just gonna make another kid just to get one over on me? You're so petty, fuck both of you!" "Pettier than you having twins to beat us?" "That doesn't even make sense!" "Oh, so you admit it WAS out of your power then?" "Oh fuck you!"

You're just looking into the camera like you're on The Office because you've already endured several years of them being like this and you suppose This Is Just How Your Life Is Going To Be Now. Your new horny chaotic loud obnoxious lovable life as you now have to convince these three not to turn your body into a clown car as their baby fever and competitive edge spirals out of control forever and ever

#bruh imagine taking alastors like virginity and that shit knocks you up #Lucifer shaking his fist up at god like i know this was you stop making my life suck #yandere x reader #yandere hazbin hotel x reader #yandere hellaverse #sinprompts #yandere stuff

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slocumjoe · 6 months ago

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in other news, is there any romance quite as frustrating and stupid as danse x sole, when you look at it from. Any other companions point of view.

Preston Garvey has his whole world chewed up and spat out at his feet. Everyone he knew and loved is dead. Maybe he had a best friend, a lover, a brother or sister in the Minutemen. Maybe they were a civilian in Quincy. It doesn't matter anymore. This guy who's given you this second chance, you go with him to try and redeem yourself.

You are Preston Garvey, the last original Minuteman. You are tired, down in your bones, but you follow this stranger in a strange land across what you call home. While you're both picking through the ruins of Lexington, finding the corpses of the last of your friends, their pipboy gets a signal. A call for help.

You go to Cambridge. You help a dude in power armor gun down some ferals. As you reload your musket, dust yourself off, you look up as the big guy starts talking to your pal. And you can hear the white noise behind their eyes. You blink as they agree without question or hesistancy to do anything this dude needs. They're pretty nice, they're a good person, but usually you're not worried about if they're using their brain or not. Now, you're kinda worried. So you follow your buddy and Paladin Danse (What kind of name...) to some space station or whatever, watch them cook the man alive after some button mashing gone wrong, and then he can barely offer them a place in the Brotherhood before they're verbally signing their life away.

You are Preston Garvey. Your General has joined another, foreign army because this one guy, who had the charisma of a bag of corn nuts, asked. You are Preston Garvey. You are tired. Your general is now wearing a rival army's uniform because it makes that one guy happy. You want a nap so fucking bad.

You are Nick Valentine. You are a synth. You just helped this dude find out their baby is in the Institute. You walk out some security doors and see this big, hulking shadow in the sky, smothering the land from the sun. It bellows out that it comes in peace, heralded by armed air support, spotlights glowering down. You smell war and you don't even have a nose. As you stand there, in the wind, covered in blood and oil from the synths you've helped kill, you watch as your...client? You watch the dweller turn on their pipboy, mark Cambridge on their map, and make their way to the road.

You follow, of course. You follow, stupid sentimental bot you are, to thr Brotherhood of Steel. The dweller is vibrating to get on the death blimp. The guy offering the ride, Danse, is both sizing you up like you're a hot meal and like he wonders if you're actually a synth, because how the fuck would the dweller think bringing you here was a good idea? You shrug at him. You don't know either. You get on the vertibird. You get on the blimp. The dweller bats their eyes at Danse as he stomps down a catwalk, and they snap back to their normal selves once they talk to Kells. They balk and turn green and scoff out in the hall as you both listen to Maxoson's speech. They wonder how dumb a man could be as you venture deeper into the bowels of the beastly aircraft. People sneer at you. You are in danger. You stay very close to the dweller. You both find Danse again. He asks what they think. They don't say what they were just saying. He believes in himself, he sounds like he cares, he seems to truly trust in this army and it's cause. Not "what a load of horseshit." Danse beams with pride and they drink it in like clean water.

You are Nick Valentine. You wish you could drink.

#fallout 4 #fo4 #paladin danse #nick valentine #preston garvey #like do you understand my vision #everyone else is watching obvious x idiot. sole knows. danse doesnt. this goes on for too long.#sole wades increasingly deeper through and into BOS bullshit like but i can fix him!!!!#hancock is in the back like BITCH GET BACK HERE NO YOU CANNOT

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mcleantriestowrite · 1 month ago

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Bad Idea - Pt 1

Synopsis: Your step-brother is in debt to Rafe Cameron. Knowing he won’t be able to pay Rafe back, you step up. What a bad idea.

18+

Series content warning – smut (not yet), swearing, slow burn, depictions of aggression, jealousy, drug usage, violence, underage drinking

Chapter content warning – mentions of drug usage, violence

***

pt 2

Life sucks – that’s what your dad always used to say when you would complain about anything.

Something among the lines of: “Life sucks, kid. Get used to it.”

In response, you would argue with him that life was great and that he was just being negative. Your dad would always do the same thing once you began your argument with him. He would look at you with that same patronizing look, shake his head, pat the top of yours, and reply: “You’ll see.”

You did see.

You saw what he meant the day you realized that he wasn’t coming back from that fishing trip with his buddies.

You saw what he meant when your mom met someone new. You saw what he meant when she fell in love. You saw what he meant when they eventually got married.

You wanted to be happy for her, and you actually really liked the guy, but your mom moving on meant that you needed to as well. You couldn’t live in denial anymore. Your dad was never coming back. And even if he did, he wouldn’t actually be back. That man – your dad – would never really be your dad again.

You continued to see what your dad meant so many times in the next five years of your life after he left. You tried to not let the pessimism cloud you, but it was hard when your dad’s theory was consistently proving itself right.

Now, coming home from a double shift that was originally supposed to be a single, you couldn’t help but remember that very same sentiment.

Life fucking sucks.

You shut the car door, and made your way into the house. All you wanted to do was shower and go to bed. If only life were ever simple for you.

A loud crash from the backyard makes you snap your head over to where the noise came from. It was dark out, and despite living in a much wealthier area than you did five years ago, you still felt as unsafe as you did when you were living in that small house on the Cut.

You look towards the glass doors leading to the backyard. Hesitantly, and very stupidly, you took a step towards the noise.

“You dumb bitch,” you mumbled to yourself. “This is literally how you get yourself killed.”

As you got closer, you heard more noise – grunting, cursing. You almost turned back around to run up the stairs and lock yourself in your room, but you heard your step-brother cry out. All worries about personal safety were thrown out the window. You ran outside without thinking. The sight in front of you made you freeze up.

Your step-brother was pinned to the ground by Rafe Cameron. And he was getting the absolute shit beat out of him.

You felt your heart hammer in your chest. Rafe was from the wealthiest family in the Outer Banks. Kook king. Gets everything he wants. Drug addiction. Anger issues, to put it lightly. You had seen those anger issues be taken out several times from afar. Seeing it up close and personal made you feel overwhelming dread.

You decided to act first and think later. You ran at full force towards the kook, using all strength to shove him off your brother. Rafe stumbled a bit, not expecting anyone to interfere.

“What the hell, man?!” You yelled at him. You stood in front of your step-brother, trying to act like a shield.

Rafe stared at you, his chest heaving. He gave you a once over, but it was obvious he wasn’t really paying attention to you. “Go inside, pogue.” He waved his hand to dismiss you like you were nothing but a small nuisance to him.

You heard Carson on the ground behind you groaning in pain. You felt protectiveness swell in your chest. “The fuck are you doing?” You repeated with more force.

It was hard, but you kept eye contact with Rafe. You knew he was trying to intimidate you. You weren’t going to let it work.

“Carson and I were having a discussion.” Rafe gave a small shrug as if the answer was obvious.

You nearly laughed in anger. “A discussion?”

Rafe didn’t say anything, he only continued to stare at you. It remained clear to you that he expected you to do as he said and to just go inside.

To just go back inside and ignore the fact that someone you loved was getting hurt.

Fuck this guy.

You tilted your head up towards him defiantly. You said the first thing you could think of, despite how dumb it was. “Leave before I call the police.”

You heard Carson groan louder, obviously upset with your sentence. You ignored him.

Rafe laughed, taking a step closer to you threateningly. “You’re gonna call the cops on me?”

A prickle of fear hit your stomach as he began to close the distance. You held your arm out in front of you to stop him from getting any closer.

He stared at you like you were nothing. Like your threat meant nothing. To be fair, those things were probably true to him. Rafe Cameron had the means to get out of any situation. Even if you did actually call the police, you were sure that Rafe would get out of it without a scratch.

You did your best to keep your voice steady. “Leave.” You seethed.

Rafe brushed you off with a small shrug of his shoulders. “I’m not leaving until I get my money.”

That single sentence felt like a push the way it caught you off guard. You looked behind you to Carson, who had his eyes shut tightly in pain. You grimaced at the blood on his face. You turned your head back to Rafe hesitantly.

You watched him for a moment, hoping he would elaborate, but he just stared at you expectantly.

“...What money?” You asked.

Rafe started laughing, making you pull your eyebrows together. You hadn’t felt this confused in a long time, but you tried your best not to show it.

Rafe walked closer to you making you tense up, but he didn’t touch you. He looked over your shoulder to your step-brother, who was just now starting to get up.

“Oh, does she not know?” Rafe taunted. He pointed at you while talking to Carson as if you weren’t even there.

You looked between your brother and Rafe slowly, trying to fill in the blanks. Carson was completely tensed up. You eyed him carefully.

What did you not know?

“I told you. I’m getting your money–” Carson said, lowly.

Rafe shook his head, a deceiving smile on his face.

“Been hearing that for a week now, man. I want my money. Now.” Rafe tried to walk past you, but you stepped with him to prevent him from getting to Carson.

“What money?” You repeated. You tried to put more distance between yourself and Rafe. You didn’t like how close he had gotten.

“Your big brother over here,” Rafe gestured to Carson mockingly, “is a coke head. He’s late on his payments.”

Your lips parted in shock. You quickly shut your mouth, trying to seem unphased. “He’s the coke head here?” You shot back.

You heard Carson say your name in a warning tone. Yeah, it was probably a bad idea to rile up someone like Rafe, but you didn’t want him to think that he had the upper hand here. Even though he so clearly did.

Rafe clenched his jaw. “I’m getting my money one way or another. Either he coughs it up, or you can explain to your parents why their shit is missing.”

You shut your eyes, trying to remain calm. You let out a deep breath. “How much money does he owe you?”

You stood there in silence, waiting for Rafe’s answer. For a moment, all you could hear was Carson’s labored breathing.

“$750.”

Your eyes snapped open. This time you weren’t able to hide your reaction. Your head flew towards your brother in disbelief.

“Seven hund–?” You cut yourself off. Carson looked away, unable to meet your eye.

How the hell did he manage to spend that much? Carson didn’t even have a job. How was he planning on paying Rafe back? Was he going to steal it from his dad?

You shook your head to clear it from the questions flying in your mind. Those were going to have to be placed on the backburner. You did your best to focus on the pressing matter at hand.

Carson owed Rafe money. Carson did not have said money. Rafe was going to do whatever he needed to do to get what he was owed. You needed to step up.

You felt yourself getting distracted by your thoughts again. Why did Rafe need the money so bad anyway? Wasn’t his family millionaires or something? $750 had to be, like, pocket change or something to a guy like him.

You took a deep breath.

“I, um, I have, like $350 on me right now.” You pat your pockets for some reason as if the money wasn’t inside.

“YN, I can–” Your step-brother started.

“Shut up, Carson.” You snapped. You looked back at Rafe. “I’ll have more after work tomorrow.” You assured him.

Rafe shook his head, irritation on clear display. “I’m not waiting anymore–”

You looked at him sharply. “Well, you’re gonna have to.” Your tone was harsh, and it clearly caught Rafe off guard. He masked the shock quickly.

“I don’t know who you think you’re talking to, pogue, but it ain’t me.” He got in your face, and you tried your best to remain looking confident.

You didn’t feel confident, but maybe if you pretended like you were then eventually you would be for real.

“If you want your money,” You told him calmly while stepping towards him so that you were toe to toe. “Then you’re going to wait.” You flickered your eyes between his, trying to look stern.

Rafe stared at you for a few moments before an amused look graced his features. He looked away, laughing to himself. He nodded his head a couple times and looked back to you.

“You work at The Wreck?” He asked.

You were a little surprised that he knew this, but you didn’t dwell on it for too long. You nodded your head.

“Alright.” He smirked a bit, looking you up and down. He laughed to himself once more. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

He brushed his shoulder past yours as he made his exit from your backyard through the gate.

You closed your eyes and took a deep breath.

“YN, I’m so sorry–” You heard Carson speak up.

You held your hand up, cutting him off. “Just give me a minute.” You told him.

You walked towards your home and tried to control your breathing. Panic was fully setting in. You felt the coldness of it traveling through your veins.

Your step-brother was in debt to one of the most powerful people on the island.

Oh God, you thought. What were you going to do?

#rafe cameron #rafe obx #rafe x reader #rafe fanfiction #rafe outer banks #rafe #obx fic #obx #outer banks #rafe fic

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 1 month ago

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So... twst anime—

I feel I should be much more excited than I actually am. Don't get me wrong- I am excited ( for Leona animated content ) to see how they'll handle some things- but apart from the worries you listed, I just... I know this sounds a little gatekeepy but an anime will mean more ppl will know and talk about the story and I fear that they won't go into the game/other content and thus have a limited opinion on characters/events and misunderstand them. Basically I fear that characters will be even more mischaracterized than they already ( sometimes ) are by the current fandom 😭 ( specially Leona- gunshots )

[Referencing this post!]

I feel like there's for sure been mixed reactions to the recent anime news. The general consensus is excitement, but occasionally I've also seen skepticism or worries that the anime won't be as good as the long period since the initial announcement would have had us believe. That's to be expected; we won't know the quality of the anime until we watch it ourselves.

Mmm, there's that age-old sentiment again 😅 The thought of, "More people will be exposed to Twst because of this; I'm worried they will misunderstand the story/characters." It always seems to make a comeback whenever a new major piece of Twst media is announced... It happened when the official EN localization was announced too. People were jumping to conclusions and worrying that the influx of "EN-only" folks and/or a sub-par localization would lead to newer fans not seeing the story and characters the same way as the JP side did. I'll repeat what I said back then (as I think the same logic applies), along with a few additional points/expansions, as are relevant:

As you've said, mischaracterization happens, even now. This is normal in fandom, and it doesn't necessarily make fandom a "bad" space. Variation in thought is a normal human thing in general and I don't think it should be discouraged. If everyone thought the exact same way, life would be boring and we would have a limited number of ideas circulating.

This thinking sort of presupposes that the Twst fandom is currently without issues (or has few of them) and that it is the growth of the fandom that will cause problems. From experience, I can tell you that fandoms always have their toxic pockets. Fandoms growing larger just exposes more of those pockets because, statistically speaking, with more bodies present, there's a higher chance something will come to light, be it a personal squabble, a cultural difference, actually serious allegations, etc. It's a natural part of a fandom's lifecycle.

How other people interpret the story/characters should have limited or no bearing whatsoever on your own enjoyment. It does not erase your own views on the story/characters either. If you find that your concerns about others are becoming overwhelming, I'd encourage you to take a step back and think about what in this fandom makes you happy.

I feel that the mentality I mentioned earlier stems from an "us versus them" mindset. We're viewing current Twsties as the "in" group and everyone else as the "out" group... when, really, I think it might be healthier to perceive the "out" group as potential Twsties. Like... instead of fearing them as strangers coming in to "taint" the fandom, let's try to think of them as "friends we haven't met yet". After all, these anime-first or anime-only Twsties could end up being your next buddy, someone cool you meet at an event, a Twst content creator you enjoy, etc. Try to reframe your thinking!

Lastly!! We have no idea how the anime will go. They might not make it solely the main story just because it’s a manga adaptation. The team might have weaved in vignettes/event stories or bonus content exclusive to the anime which helps flesh out the characters.

I think that about wraps up my thoughts. I hope that helps alleviate some of your concerns. Hang tight, keep an open mind, and pray that the L*ona content in the anime is good 🤡

#disney twisted wonderland #twst #twisted wonderland #disney twst #twst en #twisted wonderland anime #twst anime #twisted wonderland en #notes from the writing raven #advice

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lizaluvsthis · 8 months ago

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SMG4: The PuzzleVision Movie

[SPOILER ALERT and more into the ship]

VERY.

MAJOR.

SPOILER.

PLEASE.

Its funny enough how i predicted spongebob squarepants in my theory

(It even also has the ship I had a true pairing with. Squidbob.)

When old fandom meets the new fandom I'm currently in be like-

I see how they got each other's backs...

Suprised that SMG4 has done this- because last time we remembered, Smg3 is the one who comes risking his own life to save his buddy.

Now it's giving the DEJA VU moment but this time SMG3 is the one who gets saved by smg4.

"You saved me!"

Notice how different they act around their partner when they get saved?

Smg3 during wotfi 2023 AND in his recolor design during the 10 year anniversary.

He himself has pushed those things away or pushing out the soft stuff saying— "yeah yeah" or "I'd like to see you die otherwise"

BUT HIM? He still couldn't accept himself with the softness he's gained alot. He still calls his FRIEND. Baka.

(Hah idiot.)

One thing to say that it WAS AWKWARD SMG4 just looks at our guy. My man... my homie... buddy chum pal old fella amigo-

You. Are not. Okay. My man. (GAY PANIC SAYS OTHERWISE)

I know its not relevant but I drew this back in march 25 believe it or not I may have predicted this as well

Me and my brain goofing around telling me what if the gays did do that.

Anyways- back when Three lets Four carry him, as much as they both hate each other they atleast had to do it somehow inorder to escape.

Yet four could ever care less and he was still grabbing his waist at that time, and Three not giving a sh-t just looking up at the sky noticing how pretty it is.

Three... DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHOSE GRABBING YOUR WAIST RIGHT NOW??????????

Two siblings getting both of their fingers broken.

And its even in the right hand! Since Mario is immune to broken bones, Meggy however gets to be on the same place Mario has been in IGBP. NOW she gets to feel the pain what Mario may had felt.

And thus at the near end where SMG4 hits PV with a meat hammer or aka luigi- HE LITERALLY KICKED THE HEAD OUT- AND THE ANIMATION THAT MADE IT SO SERIOUS.

I think I understand his anger so much from this clip that everyone would agree.

Ever since PuzzleVision gave back everyones conciousness- he showed the Western Spaghetti and IGBP act of the crew on how emotional things became.

"And SMG4... who knew you could play an antagonist so well! High ranks for me!"

He felt so guilty. He looked down. He knew what PV was talking about.

By an antagonist' actions.

Just like how he was possessed by the goop itself, he started going crazy during that time and he let his anger get on to him.

SMG4 DID NOT WANT TO BE THE BAD GUY.

He was so scared and felt pity to himself because of that. And it was all ruined because of PV himself.

Smg4 didn't want to remember what happened during that encounter and never will.

Besides on the deal with PuzzleVision. SMG4 and Meggy's traumatic experiences weren't talked enough from their problems during the movie.

So much things are happening from the show that no one is talking much about it while watching.

"Is... is it over?"

Smg4 proceedingly cried emotionally because of the torture. He was apparently too blind enough to notice now that he realized it was him to blame. He was so dumb enough and so angry that he could cry.

Three didn't even slapped him or shut him off, he lets him cry over there due to the fact that he may need to release his emotions.

Because he knows how sentimental Smg4 became when it involves with dealing his own emotions that HE couldn't even give an advice for. But could only stay quiet.

Because at what hell of a state would he even say to SMG4 when they're trying to escape from this hell of a nightmare?

Four still doesn't accept himself, and neither does Smg3 too. From everything that happened.

Our boys are suffering enough and its hurting us like hell.

#smg4 #smg34 #smg3 #smg4 smg3 #tv adware #lizafixates #smg4 x smg3 #smg3 x smg4 #mr puzzles #smg4 puzzlevision #puzzle vision

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maychorian · 9 months ago

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Found Family Anime Recs

I recently reblogged a list of found family anime recs and was a bit surprised by how many reblogs and likes it got. I had really reblogged it just so I can find it later to watch the shows I hadn't already seen on the list, but apparently I have a lot of followers who are interested in this topic! Well, I've watched a lot of anime, so here are ten found family anime shows that I absolutely love. These are in no particular order.

Buddy Daddies

This show is similar enough to Spy X Family that you might be tempted to call it a rip-off. It's really quite different though. There's a lot less comedy (though there's still SOME comedy) and a lot more healing from past trauma. The animation is gorgeous, and the relationships really tug at my heart. It's more realistic than Spy X Family, in some ways, though it's still pretty ridiculous. The melodrama in the last couple of episodes did annoy me a bit, but it's still a very satisfying show. It's like a fanfiction I would write, which is really the highest recommendation I can give, haha, because that means it's exactly the kind of story I would like.

2. Samurai Champloo

This show was made by much of the same team that created Cowboy Bebop, but for some reason it never got the same cult status, which is really too bad. I love Cowboy Bebop, but I love Samurai Champloo more. It's about two ronin and a teenage girl traveling through Edo-era Japan to find someone the girl is looking for. Throughout the series, the three form a very strong bond, despite all of their communication difficulties and past traumas. I've rewatched this show probably more than any other anime. It's brutal at times, but so very satisfying.

3. Natsume Yuujin-cho

Natsume lost his parents as a young child and was passed around from relative to relative, most of whom couldn't deal with him because his ability to see yokai (Japanese folk spirits) made him a freak in their eyes. As the series starts, he's finally taken in by an older couple in a rural village who actually want him, and he's finally able to start forming connections with other people and find a support system with his new caretakers, his peers, and the yokai he tries to help. It's a very sweet, sad series, much more sentimental than the first two entries on this list, but a very soothing and lovely watch when you are in need of some relaxation. Warning, though, the flashbacks to Natsume's past families can be truly gutwrenching. He was not treated well for a very long time, and it's hard to stomach.

4. Barakamon

Handa is a calligrapher who gets essentially exiled to a remote island after causing problems on purpose. He has a hard time connecting with people and is struggling with his art. Over the course of the story, he forms relationships with his neighbors, especially an adorable child with possibly the best child voice-acting I've ever heard, and slowly rediscovers his joy in creation again. It's cute and funny and beautiful, and it makes me want to live on a remote Japanese island.

5. My Roommate Is a Cat

Subaru is a young novelist who recently lost his parents, who were pretty much his only connection to humanity. While trying to recover from this massive loss, he adopts a stray cat who quickly becomes the most important creature in his life. Through the cat, he begins to form relationships with other people, as well. The show is unique in that the first half of each episode is from the human's POV and the second half is from the cat's POV. It's a very lovely and soothing show. Pets are family, too!

6. Haikyuu

Haikyuu was the show that opened my eyes to the aspect of found family in sports anime. I know a lot of tumblr enjoys Haikyuu for the shipping, but to me it's more satisfying to view it through the lens of found family. Each team is essentially their own found family, in their own unique way, and the relationships are particularly realistic and well-depicted by this mangaka. I love Tanaka being a big brother to the first years, Kuroo and Kenma's mutual protectiveness and support, all of it.

7. Kuroko no Basuke

This is the silly basketball show, and in my opinion it's not as good as Haikyuu, but I love the relationships here as well. Especially between Kuroko and Kagami, of course. Their mutual protectiveness is just chef's kiss. But the whole Seirin team is really great. I love them so much. The teamy goodness is what makes the silliness watchable for me.

8. One Piece

What is there to say about One Piece? This is, like, the ultimate found family show. All of the pirate crews with any kind of goodness at their core are found families, but especially the Strawhats. Luffy is just going around looking at people and declaring, "Okay, you're in my family (on my crew) now." If you've never watched One Piece before, I'm going to make an unorthodox recommendation and suggest you watch the live action Netflix adaption first. It does a really good job of capturing the feel and aesthetic and just pure loveliness of this story in a much more compact and approachable way than the anime. However, if you like it, I do recommend that you watch the anime from the beginning, because there is a lot of expansion on the themes there, and the characterization is slightly different. Usopp in particular kinda got shorted in the live action, so you'll understand him a lot more if you watch his introduction arc in the anime. But honestly both versions are great. I'm on my third rewatch of the live action version already, and I will watch and rewatch the anime until I die, probably. One of my favorite stories of all time.

9. The Weakest Tamer Began a Journey to Pick Up Trash

I found this one slightly annoying in how it was obviously carefully designed to tug at my heartstrings, but it's working, so I don't have much right to complain. It's about a little kid driven out of her home who gradually gathers a found family of both monsters she tames and adult adventurers and guardsmen who take one look at this lonely child and go, "Well, guess I have a baby now." The isekai element is very lowkey, in that she basically just has a voice in her head giving her advice, and I like that it's about fighting local corruption instead of a demon army or what have you. I want more shows like this and less shows like every other generic isekai, haha.

10. Dungeon Meshi

This show is blowing up tumblr right now, so you've probably already seen it a billion times, but I'm going to make one more appeal for you to watch/read this story. It is so, so so good. And in my opinion, it is much MUCH more about family, both born and found, than it is about shipping. I could write a whole essay about Marcille and Falin's relationship that has nothing to do with romance, as I could for any other two (or three or four) characters in the main party, plus those outside. There is a LOT going on. I've been playing RPGs and LARPs for twenty years, and one reason I love the hobby so much is for the joy of creating found families with my best friends in new and different worlds, over and over again. This is the first piece of fiction I've found that really captures that particular aspect of party-based fantasy stories, the relationships that form and grow, the tight-knit bonds that keep everyone moving forward despite the monsters you must face (and consume).

#anime #anime recommendations #buddy daddies #samurai champloo #barakamon #my roommate is a cat #natsume yuujinchou #one piece #dungeon meshi #haikyuu #kuroko no basuke #found family #the weakest tamer began a journey to pick up trash

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eightstarr · 1 year ago

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hello baby i’m here to request some gym hcs for both abby and ellie (abby for sure goes but does ellie??)

💗💗 it have overtaken my life as you know

hi princess <3 i just got this but i immediately had more thoughts than i expected so here it is!!

abby has a strict routine that she designed a long time ago and hasn't changed in the slightest since. i'm a firm believer that she goes to the gym at night!! it works with her schedule and she likes that there aren't as many people around.

she has never missed a workout a day in her life. i know we know this but it needs to be stressed!! she has gone in tired, hungover and sick— or all three things at once. you tell her she should stay in bed when she has a cold and she says, "it'll be good for me, baby, i'll sweat out the germs."

you look unimpressed. "is that a medical term?"

she slips on a loose tank top over warm skin stricken with chills and comes to kiss your forehead, something quick, her lips barely making contact. a sentiment more than a gesture. she doesn't want you getting sick. "it's an abby term," she explains, and smiles like she does when she wants to get out of trouble. "even more official than a medical term."

i know everyone wants to go with abby to the gym and live out the plot from a lesbian porn video but i'm sorry to say that if you do come along, she's not paying attention to you <3 she'll compliment you to death on your outfit before you get there and kiss you stupid right before you go in, but as soon as you cross the door she's gone!! she's been doing it for too long to let distractions slip in. she clicks into that comfortable headspace and wears expensive noise canceling headphones and she loves you, she really really does, but she's not looking at you once until she's done. she'll let you come if you really want to, though, she likes knowing that you're watching her. sometimes she'll avoid her carefully prepared towel and wipe the sweat from her forehead with her shirt, just for you! but that's all you're getting.

abby has like, two gym buddies and they're both men in their early 60s that go there maybe once a month but they chat for like forty minutes when they see each other! she gets really excited. every cool gym person that's there everyday wants to be her friend but she doesn't wanna talk about working out, she wants to hear about paul's granddaughter and dan's new lawnmower, thank you very much!

definitely has strong opinions on water bottles. has tried so so many and you cannot tell her that her current one isn't the best in the market. i will not elaborate on the details because i do not know enough about the subject, but she can tell you all about it if you ask! please ask.

ellie doesn't go to the gym but she runs after the bus when she's late sometimes :) does that count? i just asked her and she said that it counts.

#doctor!abby #modern!abby #loser!ellie #modern!ellie #abby anderson x reader #abby x reader #ellie williams x reader #ellie x reader #abby anderson headcanons #ellie williams headcanons

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yournecessaryevil · 10 months ago

Text

🥀 Scream For Me 🥀

💀GHOSTFACE! CHRIS X READER ONESHOT💀

He's the one with the dark secret you were never meant to discover. And you're the one who almost got away....

• smut; language; TW dark themes of death, violence, blood/gore, and a knifeplay kink

You were never meant to find out.

He'd worked so hard to keep all of it from you, everything. And now, here you both were.

Him, towering over you, his anxiety and nerves and all that stress concealed ever so easily behind that familiar mask, his blade at your throat.

And you, lying prone and helpless beneath him, those eyes wide with fear.

He hated it, hated himself.

How had things become such a fucking mess?

"You guys leave to come home soon, right?"

You stared down at the sleeves of your sweater, your fingers toying with the edges of the fabric as you waited for Chris's response.

Him and his bandmates had gone on their tour about four to five months ago, and while you knew they were due to come home soon, it still wouldn't be soon enough.

Why, exactly?

About a month or so before Chris and his band were supposed to go on tour, there had been headlines in the news of a sudden string of murders a few cities away, with the location of each murder growing closer and closer still, up until the most recent one.

That one had occurred only within a two hour's drive away from the city you lived in. A month or so had passed without any news after that, everything seeming to calm down a little.

But while you were trying to remain positive, deep down, you knew it would only be a matter of time before the one responsible for the murders would strike again, maybe this time choosing your own hometown as their next target.

"Baby, I promise, we only have one week left, and then we're home," Chris's voice cut through your thoughts, startling you. Your wide eyes locked with his as you nodded, though the traces of a frown still marred your face.

Almost like he knew where your thoughts lay, Chris spoke up again.

"Y/N, sweetheart. I know you're worried about what's been happening in the news, but I promise, I'm gonna be home so soon, and then I can keep you safe," he tried to assure you.

"They got really close before you left, Chris," you mumbled, your gaze dropping to land once more on your sweater. "They won't this time, don't worry," he immediately answered.

There seemed to be something almost unintentionally dark about the way he said it, like he somehow knew. Then again, maybe you were just imagining it.

"Hey, so I know Halloween's coming up soon..." Chris began, trying subtly to change the subject. You couldn't help the smile that slowly made its way onto your face.

He knew, he always did.

Ever since the two of you had started dating and he'd learned that Halloween was a favorite holiday of yours, he'd made it his personal mission to go all out for you, every single year.

And each year somehow seemed to top the last, if that was even possible.

You nodded, grinning as your fingers began to toy with the edges of your sleeve again.

"Only one more week," you echoed his earlier statement.

"Any plans? Just- please, don't do any of the haunted fairs or anything without me. I want to be there to do that with you," Chris said with a grin.

"Nah, she's gonna go get possessed in a haunted house or some shit!" you heard Vinny chime in from the background.

You were unable to keep from laughing as you nodded, answering with a "Yeah, just for you, buddy," much to Chris's disapproval.

"You guys are the worst," he grumbled.

You grinned at him, offering an apologetic "I love you?"

He stuck his tongue out at you, before calling you a brat and returning your heartfelt sentiments.

"Also, to answer your earlier question, yes, I do in fact have plans. Might catch up on the Scream franchise," you said with a grin.

Chris raised an eyebrow at you, shaking his head. "Those old movies? Haven't you seen all of them already, babe?"

You shrugged in response.

"I dunno, can't beat the classics. It's like you with the entire Halloween franchise," you pointed out.

Chris shook his head, making a face of disgust. "Nope, not all of em. Halloween H²O was the worst one of the franchise, and everyone knows it," he countered.

"Agree to disagree. Anyway, you know why I like watching all those horror movies," you said with a smirk.

Chris did indeed know why you liked horror movies so much.

There was just something about the fear and the adrenaline that kind of got you going, and when he'd found out your little secret, he'd been more than happy to indulge and explore in it with you.

If you were being honest with yourself, it had led to some of the dirtiest, (and sometimes borderline dangerous) sex you and Chris had ever had.

You could feel your thighs clench together now as your thoughts drifted back to some of those nights, when he'd had you trapped beneath him during sessions involving knifeplay...

The way you'd been so willing for him, craving his touch and the touch of the blade, the way Chris was always so careful and his intentions nothing short of pure, even if the act itself definitely said otherwise...

"Pretty baby, penny for those thoughts?" Chris teased you, startling you out of your brief daydreams.

The smallest of gasps slid from between your lips as you met his eyes, noting the way a smirk now rested on his perfect face, making him very much resemble the cat that ate the canary.

Your cheeks flushed with heat as you stared back at him, unable to form words. His smirk only grew as he stared back at you, those warm brown eyes seeming to darken a shade or two.

"Oh, I bet I know where my pretty little baby's thoughts went..." he said with a wink, dragging his bottom lip between his teeth for a second before letting it go.

Your eyes locked onto the minute little movement, and you swear, you could feel your heart stop for a second or two.

"O-only a week left before y-you get home?" you asked him, your words stumbling over one another in their rush to get out.

Chris nodded, a familiar look settling in his eyes. It was a look you knew well, one that never failed to excite you.

"One more week, baby, and then I'm coming home to have my way with you," he confirmed.

"O-okay," you breathed, your thighs clenching together once more. One week, that wouldn't be so bad, right? Still...

Your mind once again started to conjure up the images you'd seen in the news, crime scenes and death tolls and pure horror...

Shaking your head, you bit back a frown, quickly masking it with a smile that you hoped would fool even Chris himself. And by some miracle, it seemed to work.

"Hey, Y/N, baby, I gotta go. We have to start getting ready soon, but I'll text you the minute we get back in that break room, okay?"

You nodded, exchanging farewells with Chris and the rest of his bandmates, before the video call ended, leaving you sitting there in silence.

One week...

Why did that suddenly feel like an eternity?

Only two more days.

He could make it that long, right?

Part of him felt incredibly guilty for not texting you to let you know him and his bandmates were already back in LA, had been for the past three days, actually.

But right now, there was an entirely different emotion taking over everything else, a much darker emotion, one he had grown quite familiar with.

There was just something so thrilling about all of it, about the fact that nobody, not even LAPD's finest themselves, had caught onto it yet, had caught onto him yet.

Not even his bandmates knew, although he could have sworn that his guitarist and closest friend, Rick, was slowly starting to suspect.

But how could he?

He'd been incredibly careful, very meticulous with the way he'd gone about it, never leaving any evidence to suggest that he'd been the one to commit such horrendous acts.

No blood, no foul, right?

Except there'd been plenty of blood, exactly the kind of thing you just couldn't seem to avoid with these types of situations.

The faintest of smirks pulled at the corner of Chris's mouth as he recalled the most recent of atrocities he'd committed.

The way the light had slowly left the man's eyes, the way he'd begged and pleaded before he'd been slaughtered like an animal...

It was always one of the best parts, hearing them beg, seeing the fear in their eyes when they realized that no, in fact, it wasn't a game, it wasn't just a movie, it was actually happening.

It was kind of ironic, really.

His sweet, adorable little Y/N wasn't the only one who got off on horror...

And now, as he donned that familiar mask, another smirk crossed his features, concealed by that ever silent, eternally screaming face he wore so proudly.

Tonight was gonna be such a fucking scream...

Tomorrow.

Chris and his bandmates would be coming home tomorrow, and then you'd have him home with you for another several months, maybe even a year, before he'd have to leave again.

The thought made you smile, although unbeknownst to you, your good mood wouldn't last. Your phone pinged on the bedside table, and in a hurry, you snatched it up, expecting to see a message from Chris.

But what you were most definitely not expecting was a panicked text from his bandmate and closest friend, Rick Olson.

'Y/N. News channel, now. You need to see this, it's... bad.'

With a frown passing across your features, you slowly reached for the TV remote, switching the set on and flipping to the local news station.

And as you sat there watching, your heart slowly sank, an odd sort of cold settling deep within your bones.

Splashed across the bottom of the screen, a single news headline: 'DEATH TOLL RISES AS LA LOCAL IS FOUND MURDERED'.

You sat there, listening with an anxious sort of desperation, your heart thundering in your chest. LA, that was... here. Had it finally come to this, had the person responsible for the slaughter finally made their way to your hometown?

You continued to watch the ongoing news with rapt attention, until something the news anchor said caught your attention, something about how they had given the suspect a new moniker, "the Ghostface killer".

No... this had to be a joke, right?

It had to be a mistake, right?

Surely there wasn't actually some sick fuck out there taking inspiration from a movie franchise... right?

Your phone pinged once more in your hand, startling you, and as you glanced down at the text, your heart dropped as far as it could possibly go.

'There's something else. Chris is gone. He left an hour ago and hasn't been back since. And he's been acting... weird... lately.'

What exactly was Rick implying here?

Wait a minute... was he assuming Chris had something to do with all of this?

You typed out a response, your fingers working quickly, almost in desperation.

'Are you saying you think Chris has something to do with the murders?'

Almost immediately, Rick's reply came through.

'I don't know yet. But something isn't right. I think- I think I know what's going on, but I really hope I'm wrong...'

You were about to respond when there was a muffled clatter from downstairs, sending your heart into a frantic staccato within your ribcage.

Phone in hand, you slowly got up off the bed, trying to make as little noise as possible. You stopped near the bedroom door, glancing down to send a quick text to Chris.

'Babe, when do you guys get in tomorrow? Are you able to come home early tonight?'

You waited anxiously, but five minutes went by without a reply, so you sent another text.

'Please, I really need you right now... 😰'

Another five minutes went by, and still no response from him. Rick was right earlier, something was very wrong about all of this...

Slowly opening the door, you crept out and down the hall as silently as you could, your breath trembling as you carefully leaned over the banister to sneak a look downstairs.

Several seconds went by, until you heard footsteps, accompanied a moment later by a dark shadow cast on the floor.

You scrambled back from the railing, your heart pounding, each beat sounding rather loud in the silence of that dark hallway.

Back pressed against the wall, you stood there, waiting, hoping anxiously that your little intruder would give up and leave.

But to your horror, you heard footsteps ascending the stairs.

Trying not to panic, you made a beeline for your bedroom, and that's when you heard those footsteps behind you, growing louder before they suddenly stopped.

You cast an anxious look over your shoulder, immediately wishing you hadn't.

Behind you, standing at the end of the hall, was a black-cloaked figure, their face concealed by none other than... a Ghostface mask.

Fuck, they were here-!

You stood frozen in fear, watching as the figure stared at you, their head slowly tilting first to the left and then the right, almost like a hunter regarding their prey.

And then they were running towards you, before you had time to react.

A cry of fear left your mouth as you turned and ran into the bedroom, trying desperately to close the door, a struggle ensuing between you and the intruder.

Your phone clattered to the ground as you pushed against the door with all your strength, trying hard to get it to latch shut so you could lock it.

There was a loud thump from the other side of the door, and you staggered back a little, another cry leaving your mouth.

Abandoning the door, you ran over to the window, trying desperately to throw it open so you could escape, but you had only gotten it up maybe an inch or so before you felt strong arms close around your waist, yanking you away from the window.

Several pleading screams clawed their way up your throat, echoing off the walls of the bedroom, and you kicked your legs, fighting as hard as you could to get free.

Tears streamed down your face as you were slammed down onto the bed, your breath nearly knocked out of you. As gasping sobs slipped free from your parted lips, you stared up at the masked killer with wide eyes, your body numb with fear.

Is this really how it would end for you, dying at the hands of a masked murderer-?

Fuck-!

He had made sure to be as quiet as possible, and it still hadn't been enough.

Y/N...

You'd heard him.

As he made his way towards the stairs, he cast a glance upwards, and he could have sworn he saw you for a second, leaning over the railing.

But when he'd started ascending those stairs, all hell had broken loose.

You'd ran from him, actually ran from him-!

Why the fuck did they always have to run??

He stood there at the end of the hallway, staring you down, noting the fear in your eyes.

And you'd stood there, staring back at him like a little deer caught in the headlights.

His little deer...

In that moment, he wanted so badly to unmask and show you that it was okay, it was just him, nothing and nobody would ever hurt you.

He wanted to stand there and scream at you to move, fucking run, do something-

But it was too late. That familiar look of fear had already settled in your eyes, and Chris needed this, as sick as it sounded.

He needed you to feel that fear, he needed you scared for him, his frightened little bunny.

Taking a deep breath to steel himself, he took a running start towards you, and that's when you'd finally moved, running into the bedroom and throwing the door closed.

Or you'd tried, at least. He was faster.

He leaned heavily against the door, trying to push it open, to get inside and get to you, but you fought back, pushing harder against the door.

Under any other circumstances, he'd have been impressed, even a little proud of you.

You were fighting back so well for him, such a good girl. He'd have to reward you for that later.

But right now, all he felt was irritation.

If you'd just let him in, let him explain himself-!

Gritting his teeth, he threw all of his weight against the door, hearing you cry out in response, the noise igniting something deep within him.

God, you were so fucking good-!

But once more, the irritation flared up, drowning out any other emotion he may have felt in that moment. Jaw clenching, he slammed his weight against the door one more time, the wood easily giving way beneath him.

For a moment, he stood there in stunned silence, watching as you tried desperately to open a window, to get away from him.

That wouldn't do, he couldn't have you ruining everything for him just like that-

In three large strides, he was behind you, arms circling around your waist and yanking you away from that damned window, your screams echoing out into the night.

Again, something ignited deep within him, and he was unable to keep the tiny smirk from making its way onto his face.

Little Y/N.... you'd always been quite the screamer for him, hadn't you?

A soft groan left his mouth, too quiet for the voice modifier hidden within his mask to pick up on.

He threw you down onto the bed, leaning over you and pinning both of your wrists beneath one gloved hand.

You opened your mouth to call out for help, but before even he knew what was happening, he had drawn his knife, the blade toying with the delicate skin of your throat, your cries dying out into silence.

And as he stared down at you, taking in everything about you, his former irritation and arousal was slowly replaced by something more potent... a shred of remorse, perhaps.

Fuck.... what was he doing??

You weren't supposed to find out, it wasn't supposed to end like this. Something in your eyes made Chris briefly suspect that perhaps you already knew it was him beneath that mask, and that's why you were so terrified.

Because you'd trusted him and he'd gone and done terrible things in return.

He'd worked so hard to keep all of it from you, everything. And now, here you both were.

Him, towering over you, his anxiety and nerves and all that stress concealed ever so easily behind that familiar mask, his blade at your throat.

And you, lying prone and helpless beneath him, those eyes wide with fear.

He hated it, hated himself.

He hated how sick he'd become, getting off on this, getting off on you like this.

How had things become such a fucking mess??

Chris swallowed hard, staring down at you, and before he could stop himself, the words came tumbling out of his mouth, modified to sound exactly like the character he'd been masking behind this entire time.

"Hello, Y/N... This horror enough for you?"

The answering look in your eyes, the way you swallowed nervously beneath his blade, the way you clenched your eyes shut tight, tears streaming down your face as you just lay there...

It was like you were giving up, accepting the possibility that you might die tonight.

He hated that.

Where was your fight from earlier, where was his feral little thing from a few minutes ago?

It's like all the fight had gone out of you the minute he'd had you pinned beneath him.

"Y/N..." he breathed, leaning closer, his face inches from yours.

You stared up at him, unresponsive and numb with fear. This wouldn't do at all, he missed the excitement and the way you'd look at him when he'd play on your fear during all those knifeplay sessions, times that now seemed to be a millennia ago.

"Little mouse, pretty baby..." he tried again, his nicknames for you a last-ditch effort to get through to you.

And at last, his words triggered a response.

"Little mouse, pretty baby..."

Those words, spoken in the masked killer's rasping voice...

Your eyes went wide at the familiar nicknames.

There was no fucking way-

Chris??

He wouldn't really do all of this, would he?

Except... you cast a look down at the blade held against your throat, and that's when it dawned on you.

Though it may have been spattered with blood, probably from the most recent of murders, it was still familiar, nonetheless.

You recognized the engravings along the dark handle, the way the blade curved ever so slightly near the tip.

It was the same knife.

It was the exact same knife Chris had used on you countless times before, his hands steady and his focus only on you, always on you.

Even now, with your wrists confined beneath one gloved hand and his face inches from yours, the focus was entirely on you.

And you swore if you looked hard enough, you could see those familiar dark brown irises behind the mesh eye-holes of the mask.

You sniffed, blinking away more tears as you inhaled a shaky breath.

"C-chris?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

The grip on your wrists subtly loosened, just enough for you to feel the difference, to gauge the current mood in the room.

"No more tears, little mouse..." the voice rasped again, and the cloaked figure raised the knife, waving it back and forth once, twice, almost as an imitation of scolding you.

And then lightning fast, before you knew what was happening, he was bringing the knife down towards you, making easy and immediate work of shredding your thin nightwear like it was nothing, until you were laid bare before him.

You visibly flinched, and you could swear you heard a soft groan emit from behind the mask. "Now that's much better, isn't it?" the voice rasped, taking on a rather condescending tone. You couldn't help the spark of indignation that flared up within you, despite the lingering fear.

And the words left your mouth before you could stop them.

"Fuck you."

The masked figure tilted his head to the side a little, his blade once again inches from your throat.

"Are you asking me or telling me, little mouse?" he teased.

And before you could stop it from happening, he had reached down towards your thighs, dropping his blade for a moment to wedge one gloved hand between your legs, prying them apart and exposing everything for the world to see.

You watched as he dipped one gloved finger down along the spot between your thighs, looking on in silent, horrified shame as he brought that now-glistening fingertip towards the mask, slipping his hand underneath to taste your essence on his tongue.

"Fuckkk..." the voice groaned, the single word almost a growl.

"Still as wet for me as always, pretty baby..." he continued. With that, his grip on your wrists loosened just a bit more, but the gloved hand that had been between your legs was now wrapped around your throat, squeezing lightly in warning.

"You gonna be a good girl for me, Y/N?" he asked.

This was wrong, all of it, it was so wrong, on so many levels.

You knew that, you had already wasted so many tears on it tonight.

And yet...

No. No, no, no.

You had to know why, first.

"Chris, why?"

The words left your mouth before you could stop them, and you watched a sort of change come over the masked figure kneeling above you.

His grip on your wrists and throat loosened, a soft sigh coming from behind the mask. A moment or two of silence ticked by, and you almost didn't think he'd answer you... until he did.

"You don't get it, do you?"

The figure heaved another sigh, before he abruptly reached up and yanked the mask off, revealing a familiar head of purple hair.

Chris looked ragged beneath the mask, which he now let fall to the floor beside the bed.

"They all deserved it. Every... every single one of them," he said, a weary expression on his face. "Every single one of those greedy, self-centered, fucking narcissistic assholes-" he ground out through gritted teeth, reaching up to run one gloved hand through his hair, "they all deserved what they got. All of them."

You almost couldn't believe what you were hearing. All those times you had told Chris how you were worried, how you wanted him to come home, and the whole time... he knew.

Of course he knew, he'd been the one committing the murders in the first place.

Despite the fact that it was your boyfriend sitting here in front of you- or maybe it was because of your boyfriend sitting here in front of you- anger flared up within you, hot and quick.

"So all those times I begged you to come home, to stay with me, to be careful on tour... none of it fucking mattered, did it?" you ground out through clenched teeth.

Chris heaved a sigh, releasing his grip on your throat to push back the few sweat-drenched purple locks of hair clinging to his face. "Baby, I-" he began, but you cut him off.

"No! You don't get to justify this! Instead of coming home and spending time with your girlfriend, you'd rather get your fucking kicks murdering people!" you spat.

Chris immediately went on the defensive, grabbing the knife from where he'd dropped it and pointing it towards the spot at the base of your throat, his face contorting into a snarl.

"Do not be a fucking brat!" he hissed, leaning closer to you, those brown eyes like dark embers scorching through to your soul. The way he said it, the dark inflections in his voice, something about the way he was glaring down at you right now- you hated it, hated him.

And yet... it ignited a spark of arousal in you, starting from deep in your lower belly and spreading all the way to the tips of your toes.

You narrowed your eyes at him, the words lingering on the edge of your tongue before they slipped out.

"Fuck you."

An irritated growl rumbled deep within Chris's chest before his mouth was suddenly on yours, silencing any further sharp words and choking them out on your tongue.

"Gladly, little mouse," he hissed, his mouth working furiously against your own, his tongue and teeth working in unison to send you down, so far down, into that familiar spiral, unraveling so easily beneath him.

With another irritated growl, Chris broke the kiss for a moment to sit up, yanking off the glove on his left hand with his teeth, tossing it aside before he grabbed you by the jaw, forcing you to look at him and only him, always him.

"Open your fucking mouth," he growled, glaring down at you. You stared defiantly back up at him for a moment, drawing it out as long as you could before he raised a brow at you.

You did as you were told, opening your mouth and sticking out your tongue for him, just how he liked it. "Good fucking girl," Chris muttered, before he shoved two inked fingers into your mouth, nearly choking you.

"Suck. Now," he growled, staring down at you with narrowed eyes, that knife once again pointed towards the base of your throat.

You glared up at him through narrowed eyes before reluctantly doing as you were told, but not without biting down softly once, twice.

Chris let out a hiss, gripping the sides of your jaw with his few free remaining fingers, his eyes darkening. "Don't you dare bite, you little fucking brat!" he warned you, his tone firm. With that, he withdrew his fingers from your mouth, but the minute you went to close it, he shook his head at you.

"No. Mouth open, now," he ordered. You rolled your eyes at him, but complied, opening your mouth for him once more.

And Chris leaned over you with a snarl, his eyes narrowing as he spit into your mouth, the taste of him lingering on your tongue.

"Fucking swallow."

You did just that, glaring him down the entire time, your former hatred for him flaring up again, along with that delicious little spark of arousal.

Chris offered you a smirk, though there wasn't a single trace of humor within it. "Good girl," he muttered, the words of praise only adding further fuel to the steady blaze slowly burning away in your lower belly.

And yet that hatred was still there...

"I hate you-" you started on a hiss, but Chris shook his head at you, his gaze softening the tiniest bit.

"No. You don't. You love me, Y/N, you always have," he argued, before leaning down to kiss you.

And it was true.

You hated it, but he was right.

There was a small part of you that refused to be silenced, refused to die out.

You still loved him.

You hated him and you loved him, all at once.

You know what he'd done, the atrocities he'd committed, all of it was an unspeakable sort of horror. What he'd done to you tonight, was another horror entirely. And despite all of that...

You couldn't bring yourself to hate him, to truly hate him. At the end of the day, he was still Chris.

Chris, the sweet man with a heart of gold for those he cared about.

Chris, the goofball of his friends, the one who could make anyone smile, even on the worst of days.

Chris... the man you'd fallen hopelessly and endlessly in love with, who you'd given your entire heart and soul to.

You knew you'd always love him, you knew it in the way you kissed him back right now, in the way your leg slid up just enough to rest against his thigh, in the way his touch left you wanting more.

And he knew it too.

A soft groan left his throat, followed by a mumbled expletive, his mouth working urgently against your own. "Shh, baby, that's my good girl," he whispered, his tone less harsh than before. Your hatred slowly ebbing and fading into nothing, you let natural instinct take over, too exhausted to keep fighting, to keep trying.

You loved him too much.

Your leg hitched up a little further against Chris's thigh, a groan leaving his throat as he set the knife aside to grip tightly on your outer thigh, keeping you pinned against him as he kissed you.

"Such a good fucking girl for me..." he breathed against your lips, his forehead resting against yours for a moment. You arched up into his touch, wanting more of him, all of him.

"Need..." your breath was coming out in soft pants as you stared up at him, silently begging him to take control, to give you what you needed, what you always desperately craved from him.

"What, pretty baby, what do you need?" Chris murmured, leaning back to smirk down at you, a knowing look in those warm brown eyes. He knew exactly what it was you wanted, the smug little fucker. You glared at him, your breathing heavy as you waited.

"Don't look at me like that, use your words, Y/N," Chris told you, his eyes narrowing for a split second. You huffed, your gaze softening and turning into a pleading look, begging him again.

"Please?"

That one word seemed to set something off inside of him, because in one second, you'd been silently begging him, and now here in the next second, he was leaning down over you, his inked fingers reaching down to toy with your clit.

Then before you could even blink, you felt him push two, three of his fingers inside of you, curling perfectly against that sweet spot deep within. Your back arched up off the bed, a soft cry leaving your throat as Chris slowly worked his fingers to bring you closer and closer to that edge, ready to fall at any moment's notice.

And then all too soon, right as you could feel that warmth blaze deep in your belly, he was withdrawing his fingers from you, eliciting a noise of disappointment from deep in your throat.

"Shh, little mouse. Don't worry, I'm not fucking done with you yet," Chris murmured, his eyes darkening a shade or two as he stared down at you. "On all fours, now. Turn around," he added, leaning down to kiss you once, twice, before releasing you.

Your thighs trembling, you got up on all fours, turning to face away from him. "Head down, eyes closed. I want you to fucking feel this, all of it," Chris's voice was in your ear, all dark seduction.

And how easily you obeyed him.

A satisfied growl rumbled from deep within Chris's chest, and you had maybe all but five seconds before you heard the sound of a zipper being undone, followed by the feel of Chris pushing into you, burying himself deep inside, his hips settling against yours.

"Fuck... You're so fucking wet for me, you don't even need lube, little mouse..."

His words brought back that fire in your lower belly, a groan leaving your throat as you tilted your head back. His hand was on your throat in an instant, his fingers curling to grip just tight enough, exactly how you loved it.

All of this felt so familiar, so easy...

He had you exactly where he wanted you, and you didn't mind in the least.

Your thoughts were suddenly disturbed, your mind going deliriously blank as Chris's hips met yours repeatedly, each thrust seemingly rougher than the last, his hand holding ever steady to your throat like it was his own personal lifeline, his salvation.

And then he pulled you up by the throat, your back meeting his chest, the new angle causing little stars and dots to splash across your vision, soft cries to rise up from your throat.

Looking back over your shoulder, you saw him use his teeth to rid his other hand of its glove, before those inked fingers grabbed ahold of your jaw, tilting your head back far enough for Chris's mouth to meet your own in a harsh, unforgiving kiss.

"Still... fucking... hate me?" he gasped, in between kisses. You inhaled a sharp breath, your eyes meeting his as he waited. "No..." you finally breathed. And you could see it in his eyes, the way he knew you were speaking the truth.

Sure, you'd probably come to regret this a little the next morning, but here? Now? Right in this very moment? You still didn't hate him, you couldn't.

How could you hate someone who, despite having a near god complex this evening, despite committing horrendous atrocities, even despite hunting you down like nothing more than weak prey, still somehow had your best interests at heart..?

How could you hate the one person who had been there for you from the beginning, who had loved you more than you loved yourself at times?

"Say it," Chris's voice cut through your thoughts, his words firm.

"I... I love you," your answer was immediate, your breath coming out in soft pants.

"Mm... of course you do, pretty baby..." Chris buried his face in the crook of your neck, leaving little kisses and bites along the skin there, bruises sure to form the next morning.

The hand on your throat moved down to rest between your thighs, his fingers toying with your clit and drawing you closer and closer to that sweet high, the blaze in your lower belly burning brighter than ever.

"Hah... fuck... m'close..." you groaned, leaning your head back to rest it on Chris's shoulder. He nodded, his grip on your jaw tightening a little as he bent down to kiss you softly on the mouth. "I know, baby... come on, Y/N..." he gently coaxed you, his words only adding fuel to the fire.

And then his next words had you tipping over the edge, falling blissfully down into that delicious darkness, his name leaving your mouth in a garbled shout.

"Scream for me, little mouse..."

Scream you did; your throat felt raw as your hands rose to claw at his, clinging on tightly almost out of fear of losing him, your first climax only working to bring on a second, more powerful one in its wake.

Somewhere in the white noise filtering in through your brain, you could hear Chris groan from behind you as he reached his own high, finishing inside of you, your name leaving his mouth like a swear word.

"Y/N, fuck, that's my good girl..."

His words of praise had you going completely stupid and sick in the head, your thighs trembling beneath you, and had he not been holding you tightly to him, you're sure you would have collapsed under your own weight.

As the two of you slowly came down from your unified high, Chris gently pulled out, tugging you down to lie next to him on the bed, shoving the earlier discarded knife to the side until it clattered to the floor, where it would most likely remain until the next morning.

Your heart thundered in your chest, the white noise gradually fading as you curled into Chris's side, your hand resting atop his still-clothed chest, your fingers tracing the collar of his robes, before a frown marred your features.

"Off.." you murmured, earning a deep chuckle from Chris as he sat up, tugging the black fabric over his head before discarding it on the floor, next to the knife.

"C'mere, lay down. Is this what you wanted, mouse?" he asked, pulling you closer to him. You nodded, your hand resting atop his chest again, your fingertips tracing over the ink there.

"Subby as shit, look at you, Y/N..." he teased you. Trying to hide a yawn, you lightly swatted at him, grumbling to yourself. "Shut up, I could kick your ass, you know..." you sleepily mumbled. A deep chuckle rumbled in his chest as he kissed the top of your head.

"Says you, who wouldn't even have survived in her own horror movie," came his lighthearted response. "That's 'cause the villain is always hot..." you mumbled in response, yawning again.

That earned you another laugh, followed by a soft kiss on the forehead. "Hard to argue with that. Here, stay here a second. Let me clean you up, baby..." you heard Chris murmur, before you felt the bed dip under his weight.

You could hear his footsteps fading away, followed by the distinct sound of the tap running in the bathroom, before he came back.

And despite you trying your hardest to stay awake, there was just something so soothing about the warmth of the cloth down your back, in between your thighs, along the back of your neck...

"Stop fighting it, mouse. Get some sleep for me..." Chris gently chastised you, before you felt him lean over the bed to kiss you gently on the cheek. You mumbled a response before your eyes grew heavy, sleep waiting to overtake you.

And as his footsteps faded again, you finally gave in, letting your eyes fall closed, succumbing to the welcoming darkness of sleep...

You had done... surprisingly good.

Not even that, you had done exceptionally well for him. Better than he'd thought you would.

He had expected you to put up a bigger fight, sure, but... he knew you better than you knew yourself.

You loved him, you always had, always would.

The way you'd surrendered so easily to him after putting up quite the little fight... he had rewarded you decently enough for that.

At least he thought he had.

Either way, judging by the way you were currently passed out on your bed, tucked under the blanket he had taken great care to drape over you so you wouldn't get cold, he had worked you over pretty good.

God, the fucking noises you'd made for him tonight-! Always a good girl for him...

A gentle smile passed over his face as he leaned against the bedroom doorway, watching you sleep for a moment or two.

And then he noticed your phone lying there on the floor, completely forgotten from when you'd dropped it earlier.

Crossing the room to lean down and retrieve it, he glanced down at the screen, a small smirk settling over his features as he read the most recent text, from his bandmate and closest friend.

'Y/N!! Where the fuck are you??'

Ah, so that's who you'd been texting earlier...

Unable to help himself, he opened the chat, snapping a quick photo of you asleep in your bed, before hitting send and typing a reply, his smirk still in place.

'Little mice asleep in their beds... Y/N is safe with me now, she sends her love...

XO, Ghostface'

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