#this character is CRYING OUT for fanfic

[parttimesarah]

[patolemus]

and god will cry out

sterek | teen wolf | wip

No one knows what really happened in the preserve the night Scott McCall died. Some say it was an animal attack. Some say someone killed him and tried to cover it up. Some say he’s not even dead, and that he faked his own death to escape the small town life.

Stiles knows better though, knows that what he saw that night was neither a person nor an animal, and he’s determined to find out the truth behind his best friend’s murder.

Enter Derek Hale.

Or: the rewrite where Scott dies twenty minutes into the first episode and Stiles goes on a quest to avenge his best friend's murder, unknowingly stepping into the supernatural world until he's drowning in it. He meets Derek along the way.

[aiza-luna]

Watch Dogs Fandom Council... Send help.

I was on my way to write a mf fanfic, and I ended up giving Aiden kids... BIOLOGICAL KIDS.

I MADE OUR FOX DILF A LITERAL DAD, WHAT HAVE I DONE?! 😭

I'LL HAVE TO DEVELOP HIM AS A DAD??? AT THEM SAME TIME I LOVE THIS IDEA I FEAR I'LL RUIN HIS CHARACTER-

SEND HELP, I'M-

[keyh0use]

I was hoping the suspense would kill you

Months after Rafe supposedly passes from an overdose, Barry starts seeing ghosts. TW: mentions of overdose, implied suicide. NSFW

Four months, sixteen days and three hours since the police were called and Tanneyhill was swarmed with first responders. Only seventy-three minutes after Rafe had been released from county jail and five hours after Barry put him there.  

The scale rattles off a number and Barry twists the baggie closed tight, tossing it on the table to sift through a pile of green bills. He fucking hates drugs. All of them. Continuing to deal makes his brain foggy with too many big emotions and the sight of addicts begging for their fix has his teeth aching, a steady tremor in his overworked hands threatening to reach out and shake them by the shoulders, plead with them to stop. 

Because Barry has. Cold turkey. 

It's comical, really, belly-laugh inducing that a kooks death is what knocked him off a path he's always been on, but it did. Barry has watched friends get their brains splattered on the walls from intentional and stray bullets alike—yet he still touts guns. Watched his own father drink until the old man's organs gave out—yet Barry practically exists off a diet of alcohol to numb the pain these days. 

"It's all there," Garrett comments, bracing himself on the table to hover in the dealers personal space. 

Rafe has always hated Garrett, right from their very first interaction. For months the kook would return to the trailer, only to find them lost in conversation after a deal, and would wear a look of betrayal for the rest of the night. And then one day Barry was shoved down on the ratty couch after greasy red hair had retreated, Rafe saying sweetly I don't want that guy here anymore, okay? once they were rutting shamelessly, cock buried to the hilt in his boys tight ass when he replied breathlessly: okay, baby, alright, without argument. Because no matter how much Barry liked to claim it was the other way around, he was Rafe's bitch.

He would've done anything for that boy. 

Throwing the wad of cash back down soundly, Barry wipes at his tired eyes with his thumb and forefinger until they come together to pinch the bridge of his nose. This is all his life is now, monotonous and triggering, plagued with memories of what he had and lost.  Sucking in a deep breath to compose himself, Barry mumbles, "Yup, see that. Go on now." He almost has a heart attack when a hand settles on the nape of his neck.  "You know, Barry..." starts Garrett, ignoring the direct order in favour of shifting closer. "I heard something once about speeding up the grieving process." 

The change of tone isn't lost on Barry. He knows the touch of another might ease the loneliness for a pinch, offer comfort and warmth in his otherwise bleak and miserable life...but then when Barry tries to sink into the pleasure, if he can at all, he'll be snapped out of it by the sudden realisation that the hand wrapped around his cock lacks the usual cool tinge of too many rings and probably vomit.  It's too soon. A detailed suicide note, a missing boat and no body to beg forgiveness to. No answers, no sleep, or moment of peace for months. It's too fucking soon, too full on uncertainty and rapidly declining hope. Even considering it feels like cheating. 

"Get off me," Barry forces out, slow and careful. 

"Come on," Garrett flirtatiously continues. "You've heard the saying: fastest way to get over someone is to get under somebody else. Worth a shot, don't you think?" 

Yeah, Rafe always hated Garrett and now Barry realises he was naive to shrug the kooks worries off, so used to the all the jealous and possessive behaviour that it didn't even occur to him that this time all the insecurities could be valid. 

Barry remembers one night at a party neither of them really had any desire to attend in the first place, Garrett had shoved Rafe while mouthing off and three minutes later the dealer was cornered by his boyfriend, barely having enough time to utter a word before a tongue was shoved down his throat. 

Neither of them were into voyeurism, no matter how touchy Rafe could get. Yet Barry couldn't stop violent waves of arousal from crashing over him or a wet patch soaking through his basketball shorts as the boy sat directly on his dick, thick outline pressed snug under Rafe's ass through thin layers of cloth as his bulge was ridden. The room was dark and smoggy with various types of smoke, but Barry knew Garrett had seen the aggressive show of ownership before stomping away. 

Rafe was just like that; needing constant reassurance. It used to make the older man uneasy, worried about what their friends would think at the very public displays of affection and how the behaviour was infectious, Barry growing more territorial over time but fuck did he miss it now. 

If he could only go back and get another chance, no fucking way would he feel even a smidgen of embarrassment over having the hottest piece of ass on the island fawning all over him. He would be proud and receptive and appreciative. 

Yeah, Barry would do a lot of things differently. 

Barry opens his mouth to protest, but then there it is—a flash of flesh and blonde hair. Just like he's been seeing all over the damn cut for weeks. Barry freezes his readied insult to follow it along the treeline with sharp attention through the dirty window splattered with raindrops, watching as the figure stills. The image is distorted, like a seers vision or a midday dream, clear enough to assume but distant enough to question. The skin wrapped around Barry's tense muscles feels too tight and bile rises in his stopped-up throat, choking him with emotion.  Another slew of unimportant comments fall from Garrett's mouth, close enough to make Barry stumble half a step back in surprise before he's caught by the bicep. The sting behind his eyes builds until salt streams down his cheek to drip off his jaw. Barry fights against the hold with languid, uncoordinated movements, still focused on his baby standing out in the muddy yard. 

Rafe is gone, the rational part of Barry's brain screams over and over but it's futile because Rafe—whether a figment built out of guilt or a fucking ghost—is right there!  There's a pocket knife open on the kitchen table within reaching distance. Barry's fingers itch to curl around the black handle so he can plunge it right into Garrett's voice box, shut the bitch up forever for even thinking anyone could replace Rafe.  Heavy footsteps on metal rungs make both men startle and separate, Barry's back bumping the fridge as the door handle jiggles in a specific pattern to knock it loose, a trick very few people have had the privilege to learn. And then all the oxygen is being sucked out through the entryway as the barrier is thrown open, a walking corpse storming in. 

Tension crackles through the air as rain pounds against the metal siding, all three men standing stock-still, predator and prey trapped in the same small enclosure. In all the years of knowing one another, through all the pogue bullshit and family drama, Barry has never seen Rafe so full of anger—he's vibrating with it, hands balled into tight fists at his side's. 

"Thought you were dead," Garrett stutters out. 

Quick as a whip, Rafe spits, "You fucking wish, dickhead." 

"Rafe?" Barry calls brokenly, shaking his head in confusion. Because Garrett can see the illusion, too...can communicate with it, and it back to them. 

Rafe answers through clenched teeth, "He's not allowed to be here." 

"Go," the older man demands, shoving at Garrett's shoulder, who doesn't need to be told twice before rushing by Rafe to escape. 

The man standing before Barry is undeniably Rafe. Though this tall, sturdy figure seldom resembles the boy he lost a few short months ago. Rafe is donning a golden tan, broad shoulders squared and stance defensive. And blonde hair has been buzzed short, much like Barry's own. He remembers staring at his reflection in the mirror after a shower, curls dripping lukewarm water down his back and no slender fingers carefully untangling them and suddenly he didn't fucking want the reminder anymore. Barry wonders if that's what happened to Rafe. 

Brown eyes trail down over a ticking jaw until Barry can take in what the kook is wearing: loose fitted jeans and a button-up plaid shirt, looking dishevelled and damp from the weather. It takes Barry a long, long time to be able to tear his attention away from the foreign sight. 

"What? Nothing to say to me?" Rafe probes, bringing the dealer out of his trance. 

"You've been stalkin' me," mutters Barry in realisation. It makes him dizzy. "Messin' with my head, fuckin' haunting me..." But Rafe is alive! Rafe is alive and that's all that matters now. Not his lurching stomach or cloudy vision, just that Rafe is here with a beating heart. 

Rafe purses his pink lips, says with a careless shrug, "Maybe...or maybe it was just your conscience catching up with you. A little too late, but—" 

"Ya' don't know what this has been like me," counters Barry in a rush. 

"I don't care," dismisses Rafe. It's almost convincing.  But Barry can hear a thousand echoes from previous arguments after Ward would go on some bullshit spiel to play on Rafe's fears; that dealer doesn't care about you, son. Time to give that lowlife up, he's only after our money. Do you really believe you're the only one he's doing this to? Probably has every naive rich kid in his bed, funding his lifestyle. And Rafe would come home with tears soaking the fabric of his polo shirt, seeking out hours of reassurance, Barry pressing gentle kisses into swollen eyelids and stroking soft hair.  Even though it was immensely selfish, Barry was desperate for those nights because it meant he was wholeheartedly wanted. Needed—just like he needs Rafe. 

And now, barging in to interrupt Barry with another man...it must mean Rafe still cares. That what they have isn't over. 

Barry asks, voice slow to enunciate every word, "You have any fuckin' idea what you've put me though? How much I've—" 

"Probably something similar to what I've been feeling since you betrayed me," Rafe fires back. "I was stupid enough to think you loved me or something." 

Barry wants to lash out, to beat on the kooks chest and hurl vile words until he feels better. Instead, he reasons, "You were gonna get yourself killed, probably me, too. That sound like love t'ya, boy? Hmm?" Some of the relief and confusion Barry has felt since the first sight of Rafe alive has drained, slowly being filled back up with rage. "I would'a never done this to you." 

Rafe has taken a threatening step forward, within reaching distance now and fuck, does Barry want to touch. "What you did was worse," he spits. 

Two sets of hands find purchase on the others body, knocking chests with an aggressive pull. There's so much between them, electric and addicting and it's the first time Barry's felt anything but sadness in too long, choking out something close to a sob. Rafe's hands—bigger and rougher than he remembers—cup his jaw, his own curling tight around the boys trim waist. 

Pushing, tugging, panting harshly...looking into bright blue eyes is like coming home, the trailer surrounding them nothing but a tin shell. 

Buttons scatter like the last remnants of Barry's sanity as the crisp shirt the kook wears is torn down the middle, feeling mad with want and disbelief. Their lips meet with a wet smack, not timid or gentle like a reunion kiss ought to be, all twisting tongues and nipping teeth. By the time the two stumble across the kitchen and into the bedroom, both are naked from the waist up, fumbling hands yanking impatiently at Barry's shorts.

And then Rafe jerks away like he's been burned, staring at a point over Barry's shoulder. An old chair sits tucked in the corner, taking up too much space in the small room, pastel clothing strewn about with right where they were dropped four months ago. 

Barry colours in embarrassment, every voice of support he had ringing in his ears telling him it's healthy to box everything up—something he couldn't bring himself to do. 

Blue eyes trail away from the chair to the far bedside table, still littered with gold pieces of jewellery and scraps of paper used to scribble Ward's rushed instructions on. Thirty minutes ago packing all this shit away felt like a task too heavy for Barry's grieving heart and now it just feels like a fucking shrine. 

"Did you think I was coming back?" Rafe asks, a mean bite to the question that's so foreign when directed at Barry. 

"No," Barry stammers, brows pinched as he scrambles for a way to salvage the mood. "I just...it was too...I missed—" 

Rafe unceremoniously shoves Barry hard, the older man stumbling back with a panicked shout before falling on the stiff mattress, gaping up at the ceiling. "I'm not coming back to you," the boy insists, toeing off his own shoes so he can drop his jeans. "I'm not! So don't think that's what this is." 

"Okay," Barry whispers in reply, swallowing around the lump of emotion that's once again found a home in his throat. 

"This is the last time we're ever doing this." Shorts are shimmied down to Barry's knees before Rafe crawls over him with determination, giving his girthy length a few dry tugs.  Barry wants to plead and cry, crush the boy to his chest and never let go, but instead all he does is nod in understanding. "Okay," he repeats on a whisper, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip as precome is smeared over the swollen tip. 

If it hadn't been so long, the words surely would have wilted his desire. Instead, Barry keens at the harsh touch as Rafe stretches to retrieve the lube, left right where it was. It's a shock to the system when a cool stream of gooey liquid pours over the purpling cockhead, the kook paying no mind to Barry's shocked gasp. 

"No, no, hey," Barry breathes out, calloused hands untangling from the bedding to grasp tight around sharp hip bones, now straddling his own. 

Rafe insists, "I'm fine." 

"You're not, let me—" 

"Just shut the fuck up, lay there and do nothing," orders Rafe, positioning the leaky tip against his unprepared hole. "I mean, that's what you do, isn't it? Sit back and let me take the fucking fall while you get off scot-free?" 

Any response Barry could have come up with shrivels up and dies as the boy sinks down slowly, strong thighs tensing on either side of his body, grimace firmly in place. Relief floods Barry as he takes in Rafe's uncomfortable expression and quickly softening cock, all the confirmation needed to prove he wasn't being fucked around on during their time apart. He can't help but let warm, sure palms stroke up and down the lithe body, a familiar urge to comfort bubbling up inside him. 

It'll be okay, baby, keep goin'—he'd say, just like the first time Rafe took him like this. It'll feel good soon, once your body's trained t' know better, promise. 

Rafe's heedless act is dropped the moment he's breached, feeling uncomfortably stretched once the tip is fully inside, chest heaving and mouth slack. There's a nervous glint in his eye that Barry instantly picks up on—much to the kooks dismay—and soft-spoken praise is being muttered up at him, encouraging him to take the sizeable length at a leisurely pace. 

"Fuck that," Rafe spits, gritting his teeth to stop from crying out as Barry's cock fucks him open, wet shaft dragging along dry walls. "And fuck you." 

Barry's too busy focusing on not prematurely blowing his load to listen, stomach caving in with his effort. No matter how hard his fingers flex, digging painfully into Rafe's sides, the boy doesn't give him a moment to collect himself before starting to bounce.

Above Barry, Rafe winces every time he bottoms out, bracing himself against the older man's tanned chest. The stretch is bordering on way too much, more intense than ever before without being properly prepared, the kook scrunching his face up to keep quiet. 

There was never a time Barry wasn't eager to take full control in the bedroom—or wherever else they got into it—but this time was different. So different it's hard to stay erect, to stay in the moment. Barry wants to talk more than anything, despite his pulsating cock and pull behind his belly button begging for sweet release after weeks of denial, heart strings pulled too taut to get it up before now. 

But Rafe looks like this is what he needs more than anything else, grinding his ass down in Barry's lap with newfound vigour, distressed grunts giving way to needy whimpers. He's so beautiful and he's right here and he's alive, the dealer staring up at him in awe. 

All that shatters when watery blue eyes glance down to meet Barry's appreciative gaze. 

"This is..." Rafe gasps out between high-pitched moans, trying to school his cock-drunk expression into something more stern before continuing with, "The last time, yeah?" 

But Barry doesn't have half the mind to pretend anymore, shaking his head against the duvet beneath him, fucking up into his boys tight body with reckless abandon. 

Rafe warns, "Barry—" but it comes out breathless, wet tip smacking against him on every thrust, precome glistening on his abs. 

"No," the older man forces out. 

"Yes," Rafe hisses back. 

Barry plants his feet firmly on the mattress to ram into the bundle of nerves inside Rafe with precision, tough hands kneading the boys ass. There's no fight in him, now or maybe ever, overwhelmed with both bodily pleasure and relief. 

The new position knocks Rafe forward, catching himself on the bed next to the dealer's head, only inches between their ruddy faces, sweat pouring down his temples as he's fucked. Maybe it's to get the upper hand for once or maybe it's just to be mean, but Rafe forces himself through wanton moans to say, "I'm gonna find someone else." Beneath him, Barry's movements falter and the broken look that crosses the other man's face almost makes Rafe relent. Almost. "Someone better." 

Those words play on Barry's biggest fear: he's not enough. He's never been enough. 

They've never been into that sort of thing; teasing one another about cheating or leaving or both. If this were before, Barry would've pulled out the moment the sentence was uttered with a soft prick and direct threats. Before Rafe would have never said some shit like that. 

But that was before and this is now, and in the now Barry needs to prove himself. 

"Did you hear me?" Rafe whispers, ducking to nip at the other man's bottom lip. "We're done. I fucking hate you—" 

Barry can't look at him right now, just like Barry couldn't look at him on the marsh. 

A ragged sob wretches out of Rafe when the thrusting ceases without warning, barely registering he's being manhandled onto his stomach with a pillow shoved under his groin, Barry's slippery cock sliding back in from behind.

Its just a means to an end—Barry pulls out only to cram himself back in twice as hard, starting a punishing pace that makes the boy wail, pounding into the fucked-open hole like it belongs to a toy and not the love of his life.

Rafe needs to come, Barry resolutely decided. Then we can talk. 

The kook is a mess of whimpers and fresh falling tears on the bedding, absentmindedly squirming under the harsh onslaught against his prostate, stretched wide around the base and trapped under the weight of the older man, who doesn't let up no matter how much Rafe whines: too deep, too big, too fucking much. 

It may be too deep and too big and too fucking much but that's how Rafe liked to be taken, that had been abundantly clear from the first time Barry spread his legs open. 

Searing kisses are dropped along the column of Rafe's neck and he can't help but reach back, cradle Barry's head as bruises are sucked into his tanned skin. 

"I love you," Barry groans, for the very first time. 

Rafe tenses up, fingers digging into short dark hair to anchor himself as he comes against the flattened pillow with a cry of the older man's name.

Stilling his jerky hips to spill deep inside, violently constricting muscles milk every last drop from Barry, who's struck silent from the burning intensity, mouth gaping. Even though the orgasm was impending from their very first touch, it still takes him by surprise, nearly dropping the entirety of his weight on the kook while recovering. 

"I love you," he repeats quietly, nuzzling Rafe's nape as they come down from the high. "Missed you so much, baby boy—" 

The contentment Barry feels is interrupted by a sharp elbow to his ribs, causing him to pull away from the warm body beneath him and in turn, yank his flagging dick free from the sensitive hole with a pained hiss. 

Rafe snaps, "Get the fuck off me, what the fuck. Shit. Get off me!" And rolls off the bed without word, working quickly to locate his jeans before slipping them on along with his boxers, all while Barry watches in shock. No cuddling, no shifting sore hips to get comfortable or giggly complaints about come soaking the sheets. 

Any warmth between them, any sliver of a chance at this being a sign they could return to normalcy is getting torn to shreds as Rafe readies to leave, bending to tie his sneakers after slipping his socks back in place. 

This is it. This is really it. Rafe is leaving him. 

"We need to talk," Barry stammers out, panic settling in his chest. "Rafe, I—look, what I did was wrong, I was wrong...wasn't thinkin' clearly, aight? I messed up, but I want—" 

"You're right, you weren't thinking," Rafe cuts in with a scoff, crossing the floor to pick through his leftover belongings on the nightstand. "And now I'm going for good and you're going to regret it for the rest of your miserable fucking life, I count on it. Actually, it's the only thing that brings me any peace these days." 

Barry guesses, "Daddy gon' kill me finally?" 

"No." Rafe's jaw jumps at the assumption, avoiding the other man's pleading eyes. "Don't get me wrong, he would if he knew but I told him some bullshit cover story about how you played into the arrest to help me from the outside, said it again and again until he genuinely believed one of the pogues was the rat. Fuck, he still thinks we're together, can you believe that? Such bullshit." 

"It's not bullshit," insists Barry. He doesn't reach out to Rafe, but he desperately wants to. "I want that—to be together. Let me...y'know, try to win you back. I'll prove how serious I am, just sit back down and we'll talk." 

Rafe makes a grab for Barry's discarded shorts, fishing around the pockets until his fingers curl around the dealer's outdated phone. "Why don't you call Garrett?" he suggests, tossing the device down on the bedspread. "I'm sure your little boyfriend would love to come talk to you. I've got better shit to do." 

It takes a moment for the words to sink in. Rafe, for the first time in their relationship, isn't doing as told and not just because he wants to be punished. The bedroom door is left open as the kook leaves. The sound of footfall carries in from the hallway, then the kitchen, and then a lock clicks back into place as the front door is shut. 

Then it's just Barry again. 

The next morning, when Barry has no choice but to roll out of his rumpled bed, a pile of tear-soiled tissues on the side table and red swollen eyes making it hard to see, he goes through his daily routine on autopilot. 

Piss, brush teeth, tie up wild hair, get a bowl of cereal, sink into the couch, scroll through his shitty phone...

The name Cameron glares like a beacon in the night, Barry's thumb flying across the screen to click the news article linked, reading and rereading the paragraphs in disbelief. They tell of honourable Ward Cameron, not just a leeching business man but a doting father, speaking freely in support of his recovering son. The story goes; Rafe confessed to a harrowing struggle with addiction while in a very dark place, which led to his father taking initiative by checking him into a rehab centre eight hours away, the family booking an Airbnb in the region to lend support. 

There's a special section at the end on how thankful and apologetic Ward is for all the concern, claiming the whole family had stepped back from social media to lend their full attention to Rafe's betterment. 

The whole thing has Barry's entire body aching with fatigue. Plagued with how he wept for months, sick every time he caught sight of a pink shirt in a crowd or heard the familiar rev of a dirt bike speeding by. How Sarah and Wheezie—whom he loved like his own damn sisters after all this time—ignored every text, every call. And he deserves it for what he did, he knows that, still he aches. 

Barry tosses the phone screen-down on the cushion beside him, stewing with his racing thoughts for well over an hour, now empty bowl perched on his lap. He tries telling himself over and over again it's enough to know Rafe is alive, even if his boy isn't his anymore. He repeats the sentiment until it's almost believable.  

Yeah, it'll be enough. It has to be.

[fumifooms]

Metal Sonic. He was also created to be a weapon but unlike Shadow as a robot he’s not raised with love at all. He has 1 purpose and it’s to kill Sonic, he’s the "superior Sonic", his identity is Sonic his purpose is Sonic killing his original is where his life starts and stops. But even being a robot, he has soo much anger. He’s reckless and does irrational things out of wrath and impatience.

Push him the wrong way and he does a takeover, gets delusional enough — desperate enough that being the ‘superior’ Sonic has failed him, that it may be untrue — to think he’s the original Sonic, and ultimately when Sonic defeats him then again in his last effort he transforms into a huge monster and it’s such a striking visual of just how he has such little sense of self beyond the goal that he thinks will make him worthy of existing and how much he’s willing to self-destruct for it. He finally gets a mouth and he screams. What comes after proving he’s the better Sonic, after crushing him? Then what? What? Even at his highest level of power and social hierarchy and closest to his goal he’s miserable.

Like he hates Sonic he hates him for who he is, for what he represents and for being all that Metal isn’t, but also he wants to be him so so bad. If he could just defeat Sonic, everything in the world will fall into place and everything will be crystal clear, he knows it.

No but truly, the way time and time again he throws himself into death if it means having even a shot of beating Sonic in any way. He’s always like "being a robot makes me superior, organics are pathetic" but in Reflections he wishes he was as weak as one if it made him closer to being Sonic. He’s not Sonic he can never be Sonic and he knows it but he can’t do anything about it and he can’t handle it. He’d rather die to feel like he’s closer to being Sonic than be superior and apart.

Dying would have been the preferable outcome, just for a confirmation he can die the way Sonic does. Something that by all accounts should seem meaningless to a machine, but cognitive dissonance is the only way things make sense anymore. He just wants to go off in fireworks. He craves attention, he craves recognition, he craves an identity and for people to acknowledge it, for it to feel if only a little more real.

He’s tired of failing and failing and failing and failing but it’s his fault if he always fails, it’s his hubris, it’s his temper, it’s the choices he actually makes. Or is it his fault? Can we blame him for failing, can we blame him for not being able to best Sonic, the undefeated, the cosmic hero? Or was he just born without the power to best Sonic? Was he just made too weak, his body not strong enough and his program too unwise and dysfunctional. By all accounts if there was a healing arc for him it should be about accepting his limitations, but how crushing it is to even consider that he truly could have been born Not Enough for what was literally his reason to live. Being Sonic is an impossible goal, of course, but beating him is just as hopeless, but a hope he clings onto nonetheless. What else does he have?

He’s mute he’s so so angry he has literally no way to externalize anything. After all he’s a robot and robots don’t need to talk! Robots only have to fulfill their tasks and that’s it! And Metal has been failing his one task for years and years and forever since his first moment of life.

It drives me crazy how much and how often the symbol of Sonic is weaponized. Sonic, The Hero, the virtuous compassionate saint, the fastest thing alive. Victory seems effortless for him. He simply is, as fast as the wind and a living hurricane. He’s even cocky. He rubs it in. By being such a force of nature that so many misguided villains have to overcome as an obstacle on their own personal journey, he becomes the Great Power to defeat to achieve happiness, our protagonist’s triumph feels like fate and it feels cruel.

It’s him, it’s his story, he always triumphs and whatever failures that means for others they’re theirs to deal with. How can you possibly grow past him when he’s everywhere winning everything and all you know is losing. Did he ever have any shot? Just once. Just once let him prove himself. Sonic is a plague on Metal Sonic’s life. It’s not his fault, it’s never been his fault, but he is, things just are, it’s fate, maybe, and it’s cruel, surely.

Except it’s not inevitable, because several times he gets offered an olive branch and always he agressively refuses it.

He has some degree of free will, we know it, and he does get opportunities, and yet. He has the key but chooses to shackle himself. He cannot be saved he won’t be saved he’ll never let it

It’s the curse of comics needing a status quo that he doesn’t never redemption arcs except Shard I guess, of course, but tragically it also just… Fits Metal’s character so well, it makes perfect sense. He’s the one doing this all to himself, in a way. The circumstances of his creation and his environment molded him to a degree so existentially intense that the right to exist is achievement-based, what else is there for him? Failure is painful, but escaping the mold you were made for can be so much scarier. The pain, at least, is something you know, have learned to handle.

So he gets comic issues and games showing slivers of him, having an identity crisis and suicidal ideation and breakdowns, but that’s it. He’s a robot so his body doesn’t really matter so he can die all the time, and he does! He usually ends up dying in lava and whatnot, pushed foward and never letting go, always clinging onto his purpose with claws and fraying engines, trying to kamikaze enough for the explosion blast to do what he never achieved in life. Even if he wasn’t desensitized to his own death and didn’t have an infinite amount of bodies because of the AI situation, I don’t think he’d act one bit different tbh. He’s reckless because he’s replaceable, but would he feel any less if there weren’t other copies of him, himself a flawed copy?

He always just… Chooses to not grow, because it’s too painful to acknowledge that your life has been a lie and meaningless and you’re wrong about everything. He chooses to go back to his abusive creator, he always stagnates in evil and does it again and again every day and keeps the rage burning because that’s the only thing keeping him going.

It’s the only thing he has, the rage is the only thing that’s actually his. It’s the thing that fuels him whenever he disobeys orders, it fuels every action he initiates. The only thing he has is rage and he has to keep it this way because otherwise it’d be fear instead.

"See me as I am! No longer afraid of anything!"

Metal only you can fix yourself and you won’t, but know that at your funeral I’ll be there and sobbing

Sonic as an unattainable symbol of excellence and love and goodness and strength and power. Sonic as a reminder that you’ll never live up to what you wish you could be. Sonic as the identity reference point to overcome. The Hero to beat to step out of the shadows and become your own person. The hero to defeat to stop being the villain. Losing my mind

It feels like he kicks them while they’re down and it’s just not true, but I think it’s crazy good that they manage to make us feel it from the villain’s angle even just from composition sometimes.

[pjlotrkwt]

it would be amazing if there were more reader insert that have a storyline about being family from your confort characters

[hecksupremechips]

Minor thing that really irks me is when people treat the femc route in p3 portable as like the lesser story or like it’s a fanfic where nothing that happens in it is the “true” canon like. Bitch. The femc and everything that happens in her version of the story is just as canon as the male protagonist and everything that happens in his story. And there’s literally been so many fucking versions of p3 at this point like the base game, fes, portable, the movies, stage plays, reload, as well as spinoffs and manga and they all do things differently. I don’t see anyone acting like the base game is more canon than, say, reload so why do they do this with portable? Why can’t the (infinitely superior) version with the female protagonist just be respected for five fucking minutes goddamn

[ebbyxiii]

I'm very happy to be making progress again on my beloved fic since the last-- FOUR MONTHS?!

No way, you can't tell me it's been four gosh darn months since... oh. Oh wait. No. It has. I checked. I made the note just to embarrass myself as a reminder. A stab at future me. Yeap. I did that. Welp. That's just how it is folks.

Anyway, my darling torment "We Fear the Cry of Monsters" fanfiction is taking off. It just passed 1,000 views on AO3 for the main body and is doing pretty well in other (smut) areas. Which is incredible. I'm so thankful for all the comments and the interactions I've received because of its contents. As a merge between the games Cry of Fear/Afraid of Monsters/ and "Grey", the themes are dark, morbid at times, and indicative of the interpersonal battles of self-control. We all struggle with something. To write about such specific traumas has been very cathartic toward my own. This project has helped me grow as an author and as a member of a weird and awesome community.

In this group of tales, Simon Henriksson takes on the challenge of facing the truth about what really happened to him on The Black Day - the worst event of his young life. Through moments of doubt, perseverance, and opportune interactions, the Author is able to uncover his memories both through a new novel entry as well as in the hospital where he permanently lives. Simon reunites with David, the man behind the wheel of the car that crippled him, who harbors a sinister secret. Grey, a companion from Simon's teenage days. Sophie, his romantic obsession. And Purnell, a pharmacist and mentor who refuses to give up on his patient. (Set in the aftermath of the events of the good ending in Cry of Fear - there's your warning for any spoiler alert concerns.)

I sure would love if you'd come have a peek if you're a fan of the strange, dark and mysterious delivered in story format ;) It's coming close to a conclusion. I can't promise when, but I'll be finishing this project as strong as I can. I'm excited for what's to come. Maybe I'll find you there... at the Source of everything.

We Fear the Cry of Monsters

[nyxypoo]

live laugh love my local library

[carlosoliveiras-wife]

i like to think about my guys getting spoiled with love. its healing to my brain

[doctorweebmd]

coming out of my baldurs gate 3 delirium (aka i am working a night shift and can't physically play it. at work.) to say that horikoshi. horikoshi when i GET YOU. you are NOT leaving izuku with no quirk and no arms. i am in your walls

[aro-aizawa]

seemingly the only way i can ever get into any new thing is if i spontaneously decide to watch/read it

[aceghosts]

Chin lift to make you look directly at their eyes that just make you follow aimlessly and without much force really. (bonus if they kiss afterward) - Blue and Joseph

Thank you for sending this one as well! Sorry, it took a little longer. (Also, shout out to @derelictheretic for the banner.)

[Prompt List]

Summary: Deputy Blue Murphy really needs to leave, especially before Joseph Seed gets to them.

Words: 887 words.

Content Warnings: Despite the ominous summary, this is mainly fluff. Just a brief reference to pregnancy and canon-typical violence.

AO3

Blue lifts their navy-blue baseball cap, running a hand through their brownish-blonde hair. They let out a relieved sigh, glad to see the couple disappear into the room with the nurse. When they stumbled upon the pregnant wife and her husband earlier, Blue couldn’t leave them on the side of the road by their broken-down truck, even if they were part of Eden’s Gate. That seemed to be a running theme in their life lately. Someone, Peggie or Resistance, needed help, and Blue was unable to stand by, drawn by the urge to help. It’s what anyone else would have done, they reassure themself. But Blue knows of certain Resistance members who would have left them there or worse.

However, that notion to help left Blue in an odd position with the Peggies. They were confused by the idea that Blue could help a kid with a broken leg but go back to blowing up silos within the same day. Yet, some of them, namely a certain father figure, believed that it meant Blue could be redeemed, become a full-fledged Peggie. They snort as they place their cap back on their head. Blue’s loyalty was with the Resistance, which they needed to get back to. If they were smart about it, Blue could disappear before the Peggies realized they had left. Since Sharky and Hurk weren’t with Blue, it would mean fewer explosions. Hopefully.    

“The Deputy is here?” Oh no.

“Yes, Father. Just this way.”

Well, shit. Tucking their baseball cap down further, Blue heads for the nearest door away from the voices. They step out into the warm Montana sunlight, keeping their face down. A traitorous part of Blue wants to go back inside, let Joseph find them. The responsible part of Blue, for once, wins out as they steadily continue towards the truck. Blue’s loyalty is to the Resistance.

And it almost works. They reach the dark green truck, opening the slightly scratched driver’s door. Freedom is so close that Blue can almost taste it. “I thought I might have missed you; I’m glad that God allowed our paths to cross.” They freeze, like a deer in headlights, torn between two choices. Scramble into the truck and get the hell out of dodge. Or turn around and face Joseph. “Blue.”

Unable to resist the siren call, Blue turns toward him, keeping their gaze down towards their brown, slightly scuffed working boots. They can’t look at him, or it’ll break their resolve. “Hey Joseph,” They greet, a little too friendly and nervous at the same time, “Love to stay and chat, but I have stuff to do.” Blue winces at their lame excuse, kicking themself for not coming up with anything better.

“Stuff?” Joseph asks, sounding vaguely amused. “And what would ‘stuff’ be?”

“Oh, ya know, stuff,” Blue awkwardly rubs the back of their neck with their left hand, “Anyway, I should head-.”

“Blue.” Joseph calls their name so softly, Blue melting a little at the sound. They really need to leave now before they do something they regret. His hand comes up to their face, calloused fingers softly tracing the edge of their jaw. Blue swallows nervously as Joseph gently takes their chin in their hand. He tilts their face upward as Blue offers no resistance, just going along with the ride. Eventually, their own eyes, behind dark grey aviators, meet his soft baby blues hidden behind yellow aviators. Unable to resist, Blue allows a goofy grin to slip onto their face, their cheeks heating up slightly. “I missed you; I hoped God would allow us to see each other again.”

“Missed you too.” Thoughtlessly, those words slip out of Blue’s mouth. Joseph smiles kindly, a shine of happiness in his eyes.

“It heartens me to know that you have thought of me just as much as I have thought of you.” He leans down towards Blue slowly, giving them one last out. Instead, Blue hooks their fingers into his belt loops, pulling Joseph closer. Despite the talk of responsibility, they’ve always been one to throw caution to the wind, to think with their heart rather than their head. Joseph presses his lips to theirs, the scruff of his beard slightly ticklish against Blue’s skin. His other hand finds their hip, gently holding onto them. In the kiss, Blue senses Joseph’s longing for them, a mutual feeling. When he pulls away, Joseph softly states, “I would like for you to stay. Please, even for a little while.”

Damnit, they really need to grow a stronger spine. “Why not,” Blue gives in with a casual shrug, “Can’t stay too long. I really do have stuff to do.”

“Oh?” He asks curiously, raising an eyebrow. “Does this involve Sharky and Hurk?”

Blue pauses, perhaps a little too long. “Nnnoooo…” Joseph shakes his head, always having been baffled by Blue’s friendship with Sharky and Hurk. What could Blue say? Sharky just got Blue; trouble and chaos seemed to find him just as it always found Blue. “Alright, I have plans with Sharky and Hurk later, but-,” They emphasize the Joseph releases them as Blue unhooks their fingers from his belt loops. “I did,” He says, taking their hand in his, “I missed you very much.”

[rebelrobinrules1984]

it’s almost 2am. And I just got done reading a fanfic. I’m crying lol. Although now that I’m done reading it I can sleep at a normal time lol

imma just say this

“I know things, remember?”

if you know then you understand lol

[squeiky]

People are really liking the "silver scares me" post. Its seems my fears are somehow shared

[c0rpsedemon]

it's soooo fucked to think about how everything that's ever happened in your life is connected, no matter how mundane. what do you Mean my 5th grade teacher's seating arrangement is the reason i lived past the age of 13