#I have so much various fandom brain rot going on I feel like I’m going to explode | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

swannkings · 3 years

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Do I want to wade into the murky waters of Ye Old Fanfic Vs Original Fic wars? Yes.

I don’t know who amongst Twitter or Tumblr needs to hear this, but your edgy as fuck takes on whether fanfiction has value or not aren’t new or enlightened. I tend not to get public with my takes on writing, because I was there 10+ years ago doing this exact thing on Quizilla & Mibba, and an individual’s medium of writing and impetus is their own damn business. Any and all writing has value. Sometimes it’s meant for personal indulgence or for small communities or friend groups, other times it has to pass muster for professional publication (which is a whole other shit bag of contention) or mass public consumption.

These arguments (they are never discussions) are also exhausting and pointless. Nobody wins these things.

I agree that Cassandra Claire/Clare and E.L. James are poor examples of professional writers having begun their careers in fanfiction. But, I’d also point out that actual literary agents and publishing houses signed and printed them, and professional editors did at least skim over their works. The authors aren’t the only ones to get blame for shit writing. And let’s not forget Anne Rice, infamously unfriendly toward fanfiction, chucked professional editors out of her equation altogether because she didn’t like them having opinions on her work.

Not all writers want to be published nor want fame.

It does seem to baffle when those words enter the ears of pretentious writers, readers, and others who don’t write at all. Some people write because it’s fun, like a hobby. Sometimes those people, who write for fun, will edit their work and sometimes they let it go as is because it’s just for catharsis.

My big personal project is to track down all digital and hard copies of my writing and catalogue them. I’ve been doing it for 10 years now. I’ve been writing and sharing my writings for the last 18 years. I have a hard copy of the very first major piece of fiction I wrote (a Lord of the Rings fanfic from 2002/2003) and a hard copy of the last piece of fiction I worked on (an AU fic for a Japanese otome game) and a hard copy of my first original novel (a urban gothic from 2017). There is an absolute difference in my writing from age 11 to age 28. And looking at my catalogue of writing, most of it is fanfiction. Do I have original works in there? Yes. Are they good? I think they are, and my friend thinks they are, but whether or not those works are up to snuff for a book deal—that’s up to an agent I haven’t sought out.

Improvements to my writing can be attributed to age (I’ll be 29 in a little over a week), to a university education (a BA in Performance Art from a STEM based offshoot of a way more prestigious school is the most I could afford after 3 years of community college), and alternating writing fanfiction online with a built-in audience/community and sharing original works online (where they got much less attention) and with writing groups/friends.

The truest rule of any endeavor is: you get better with practice.

Does fanfiction enable bad habits? Sure, but so does being educated at an Ivy League school. There’s no shame in acknowledging our own shortcomings. I mean, fuck though, I’d take overusing the phrase “carded his fingers” or inexperienced writers with funky grammar over being a snob with a Linguistics degree and a podcast.

What makes me, an unknown writer, a maybe valuable voice in this here shitkicking?

Because I’ve been doing this for half of my life and because I love stories. I’m an advocate for education and reading, and libraries and accessible information. I’m all for kids (anyone really) picking up comics or graphic novels, or reading fanfiction or webcomics, reading whatever genre or medium floats their boat if it means they’re engaging their minds and imaginations. This extends to film and video games and podcasts and audiobooks too because not everyone has the same level of literacy or ability to physically read or stay engaged with written text.

I don’t have a lot of experience in many things, and I am by no means a fabulous writer, but I am old enough to recognize an old argument and threadbare talking points coming from the mouths of unhappy people.

But is there really merit to writing fanfiction? Yes.

It’s a great way for people new to writing to learn how and practice creating engaging narratives.

It’s a great way for young writers to deconstruct their favorite worlds and characters in order to better understand both the creation of fiction and the types of fiction they enjoy writing. (Heads up: published literary fiction also uses tropes and archetypes)

Fanfiction has a built-in audience. This is perfect for any writers who a) are unsure of their abilities and wish to get feedback, b) wish to remain anonymous for various reasons such as being made to feel embarrassed for writing fanfiction but want a modicum of acknowledgment, c) have rich and engaging lives and just want to share some raunchy fantasies because they most certainly aren’t alone, and d) simply enjoy writing things that make others happy.

Have you seen the goddamned news? Let people have some silly little pleasures.

But what about... you know... brain rot?

That’s a real thing. Twitter has it too (have the last 5 years shown us nothing?) And have you met A Dude From Film School?

Let’s be clear: age doesn’t negate brain rot, neither does only writing original fiction. Young people who are Extremely Online, y’all can have brain rot too, it isn’t just Fandom Olds or your Uncle on Facebook.

You should never let your age dictate whether you are able to engage in fandom or fanfiction, but absolutely should in the ways you engage. Not every piece of fic is meant for you to read and not everyone has to praise the things you write, not even your friends.

For the record: writing tropes, even squicky ones, isn’t brain rot. Not believing fandom is racist or gate keeps is though.

The big take away...

Listen.

If you are a writer who primarily writes fanfiction and you want to someday be a published author of real live books, you do need to create original works and engage with writers outside of AO3, Tumblr, Wattpad, or whatever site is still hosting fic when you read this. It’s imperative you see other parts of the creative world. Stretch your wings, experience other ways of doing. Allow yourself to grow beyond what you know.

There is no guarantee you’ll have a career in writing. There is no guarantee your magnum opus will get you a publishing deal, or will even make it out of the slush pile. Writing to a career endgame can be just as detrimental as writing to a trend.

None of this is even getting into the gate keeping that exists in publishing already and only allows in diverse voices when it’s profitable, making fanfiction and online communities all the more important to marginalized creatives.

It’s perfectly alright to just write because you like writing, and it’s perfectly alright if you like playing in other people’s sandboxes. No one but you gets to place value on your hobbies or take merit from you for not writing like you have a MFA in Creative Writin. Writing a 100k Slow Burn fic takes just as much dedication as writing a 60k original novel, they just stretch different muscles.

#fanfiction #writing #will i regret this?

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prep4goth · 4 years

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I wrote a little thing about Alex "Trash Goblin" Torini based off a prompt I saw online. It's finished, though the ending is rushed and I'm bad at grammar so. I wasn't creative enough to come up with a title lmao

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Fandom: They're Watching (2016)

Characters: Alex Torini

Content Warning: swearing, light depictions of violence/gore, mentions of trauma

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Alex began the day similarly to how he’d start each and everyday for the past several months; heart thumping wildly and a cry dying in his throat. The details of the nightmare were unclear. As his heart rate declined, the fucked up imagery would fade into obscured whisps. He can’t remember the last time he woke up in the comfort of his bed. Every morning without fail, Alex came to face down on his couch. Fortunately, it was the largest piece of furniture he owned. He could easily stretch out without even bumping the other end. Sometimes having short legs wasn’t a complete curse.

Alex, convinced that his bones were made up of 40% calcium and 60% lead, fought the urge to remain in his current position. He felt like a boulder sinking into his sofa. Rolling onto his back, something that should be elementary, required a tremendous amount of effort. His eyes focused on the ugly popcorn ceiling. There was a crack- water damage from his pissbags neighbors above him- that ran from the furthest corner to the fan. The longer he concentrated, the wider the crack appeared. While he envisioned the crack splitting open and dumping gallons of water on his head, the rational part of Alex’s brain demanded that his body move.

With an Earth shattering sigh, he dragged himself into a sitting position. Alex rubbed his sore eyes. He couldn’t massage away the dry heaviness that seemed to permanently settle behind his eyelids. What time did he pass out last night? A glance at his still opened laptop and half empty coffee mug told him it had been an unplanned slumber. He’d probably intended to only rest his tired eyes for a moment and slipped into unconsciousness. Just as he had done the previous night. And the night before that. And so on and so forth. His couch had transformed into his office/bedroom/dining area.

Alex’s left arm was stiff from being tucked under his skull; a makeshift pillow. The tips of his fingers buzzed. Though, whether or not it was from holding that particular position or the dog bite, Alex had no clue. He curled his fingers into a fist. He watched the muscles in his forearm tense. With a slight grimace, he noted the rippling of the angry, pink marks embedded into his skin. Alex dimly recalled the searing pain of canines sinking into his flesh. He remembered the clink of teeth against bone and the ungodly amount of blood. Alex flinched as if the memory had physically burned him. But no matter how violently he jerked his head, the gruesome images were still imprinted in his mind’s eye. Hand cramping, Alex slowly unfurled his fist. With his fingers fanning out, he shook his hand until the cramping dissipated. It made no difference what he did. Numbness spread from the pads of fingers to his wrist, but feeling would eventually creep back. It always did.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Alex mentally prepared himself for another day of pacing his cramped apartment, slowly deteriorating his vision via computer screen, and consuming unhealthy amounts of coffee. That last one, however, was only achievable by getting his ass off the couch. As sizable as the couch was, it was destroying his back. Alex braced his hands against his lower back as he hefted himself onto his feet. He twisted side to side, spine popping obscenely loud in the quiet apartment.

Alex scooped up his phone from the coffee table, thumb pressing the home button. Though, the screen remained black. Well, fuck me. I forgot to charge this bitch. He realized with a weak chuckle. Not that he really cared that his phone died in the middle of the night. He hardly used it aside from emailing clients and mindless mobile games. Alex reflected on how he unintentionally severed ties with most if not all his friends while he plugged his phone in to charge. Occasionally, a film buddy would reach out, but responding to pointless texts was rather taxing. His friends had eventually gotten the memo. They figured he was pretty much useless.

Once, Alex was convinced the flame of desire he had for creating would never flicker out. He was determined to make a name for himself in the film industry. Being a sound guy for some home improvement show made for middle aged and hobbieless parents was not the end goal, but a starting point. Fresh out of highschool and hardly scraping by, Alex thought it was an incredible gig to dip his feet in. The plan was to save up enough money to move out of his parent’s place and gain some behind-the-scenes experience. He’d graduate to bigger and better things; directing. Plans change and aspirations are grated into something more realistic. Alex had not minded flying from country to country, slinging a boom mike over his shoulder. The fact that his boss wasn’t pleasant, to say the least, or that he could only afford a shitty apartment with cracks in the foundation hardly phased him because at least he had Greg. That bastard was the only thing keeping Alex from jumping ship and enrolling in law school like Alex’s dad begged him to. Then they visited fucking Moldova.

Moldova was a pair of bloodshot eyes that tracked his every move and reeked of smoke. Alex could feel its glare sorching his back every time the memories began to fade. The smoke burnt his lungs, choking him with shame if he ever attempted to forget it. Meeting the accusing eyes meant addressing the unbridled guilt eating away at his stomach whenever he so much as breathed. The weight of its scrutinous gaze left Alex wondering why he was the one left to poorly recite the witch’s tale. According to the witch possessing Becky, Alex was destined to capture the chaos that unfolded that night. Why him, out of every other person, she failed to clarify.

The witch’s carnage was the last thing Alex filmed. Everytime he picked up a camera, his stomach churned. He feared he’d lift the camera to his face and see Becky’s warped grin on the other side. Wallace, unfortunately the only other person alive, had kindly kicked Alex to the curb. The footage would never see the light of day. People didn’t seem to question the show’s new host, or even Kate’s whereabouts. Greg and Sarah, nameless crew behind the cameras, hardly hurt Wallace’s pockets to replace with other nameless crew. That soulless, corporate prick didn’t even blink upon hearing that his own niece had met the business end of an axe.

There was no hazard’s pay, not even after a 300 hundred pound man nearly strangled Alex to death. Alex needed to find another source of income to keep his lights on. So, he started editing other people’s work. The majority of his clientele were grown men screaming at video games and indie artists. Humorously enough, Alex favored editing the least. He was equipped with basics, but found it skull- splittingly tedious. It required sitting in one place for too long and extreme focus- something Alex had to shut his mouth for more than five minutes to accomplish. After watching his closest friends die horribly, however, Alex found it was much easier to be silent. A chatter box to a complete mute in months. Now, Alex slipped into the monotonous mechanics without complaint. The simple repetitiveness of splicing clips and adjusting audio levels allowed him to drift through the week without thought. It was slightly pathetic. He willingly chose to rot his brain on a day to day basis for the convenience of not having to think.

Clearing his throat, Alex realized he’d been standing next to his charging phone for several minutes. He frequently caught himself falling down a rabbit hole of damaging thoughts. His forehead creased, fingers twitching against his phone. He ignored the throbbing pulse where the scar from the dog bite was. Powering his phone on, Alex didn’t expect anything exciting. Maybe an email asking for an update or a notification from one of his various games. He was unpleasantly caught off guard by the blinking ‘missed call’ icon. Upon further inspection, it was a missed call from Bernadette- an old friend Greg introduced Alex to.

Apparently, Greg had played gigs at some dive bar frequently enough to earn some “street cred”as he often bragged about. Bernadette, when she wasn’t lugging camera equipment around archaic buildings, was bussing tables at that very same dive bar. With similar senses of humor, which consisted of constantly taunting poor, outnumbered Greg, Alex and Bernadette were instant pals. They were too eerily similar for Alex to develop any feelings beyond platonic, despite Greg’s occasional teasing. Bernadette was the only person left in Alex’s life that was too damn stubborn to let go. Desperate for some form of human reaction, Alex craved reaching out. He tried almost daily. Alex had typed out several messages to Bernadette but erased every single one. Of all people, Bernadette deserved to know what happened; she was practically a sister to them. Except Alex had no clue how to tell her. Whether it was guilt or fear of her not believing him, his basic vocab always disintegrated. There were literally no words to express the dread and sorrow that hollowed out his chest. Better to not have a conversation period.

Tucked away in the dusty corner of Alex’s brain, was a locked chest of traumatic souvenirs. It was splitting at the seams, yet Alex continuously stapled the cracks closed. He ignored the splintering wood. Any day, the chest would finally collapse under the weight and Alex would be flooded with blood tinged memories. He concluded a conference with Bernadette over the phone would be the final straw that broke the camel’s back. Or, in this case, the very thing that protected Alex from the shitshow that was himself. Alex had spent months building that damn chest. He’d lost friends and proper vitamin D, but was still clinging onto a microscopic amount of sanity. He was alive at least. Breathing stuffy apartment air and with the diet of a broke college student, granted. But that was more than Greg and Sarah could say.

His phone screen dimmed as he internally battled himself. He needed to talk to Bernadette, yes, but he was terrified. There was no danger in listening to his voicemail. Alex inhaled sharply as if he were about to be held under water as he tapped the message icon. He tucked the phone between his ear and shoulder.

“What’s up, assclown! “ Bernadette’s recorded voice shouted into the receiver. Alex winced at her sharp volume, but chuckled regardless.

“I know you’ve been avoiding me since you got back from where-ever-the-fuck, but that ends today. No more hiding out in that closet you call an apartment- time to get rolling, babbbby!” Alex shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Hearing her voice was a breath of fresh air. That feeling of lonely claustrophobia pressing on his chest faded slightly. Though, he was nervous for where this was heading. He pressed his lips into an anxious line.

“I don’t know what all went down over there, but it’s been months, man. You can’t keep this agoraphobe act up forever. That goes for that sonova bitch, Greg too.” Her laugh was soft, but still audible. Alex felt that familiar pang of guilt in the pit of his stomach. God, she thought Greg was alive and avoiding her. Throat tightening around a baseball sized lump, Alex pressed his knuckles against his mouth. His knuckles were flushed hard enough that his teeth dug into his lower lip.

“Did you guys decide you’re bigshots now? Cause, newsflash- that’s utter bullshit.” Bernadette must have meant for her tone to sound teasing, but the hurt was evident in her voice

“I’ve left Greg a fuckton of messages, but he hasn’t even opened my texts. If I didn’t know better, I’d be worried. But regardless, I know you’re back from Europe, so no excuses. Remember that show I do, the fuckin, uh, ghost hunting crap? Well, we’re down a camera and I thought you’d might be interested. Last time we spoke- which was, like, a century ago- , you said you needed a job, so… Here ya go, bud. It’s better pay than whatever you’re probably doing right now. Even if you don’t need a job, the least you could do is call me and tell me yourself. Just so I at least know you’re still breathing.” There was a beat where Bernadette paused to inhale quietly. She was right, though. Their last conversation was brief and impersonal. He offered the simplest explationations; the shoot was canceled due to creative differences and Alex was out of a job. As for what he yarn he spun for Greg, Alex didn’t recall. Probably some bullshit timeline where Greg was backpacking through Europe.

Bernadette wrapped up her message with a final jab at Alex’s lack of communication skills. In a poor attempt to center his roaring thoughts, Alex rested his phone against his forehead. The guilt that was slowly swirling in his gut developed into a full on Tsunami. For a moment, he wondered if it was possible to drown in it. Alex no longer had the option. Bernadette deserved the truth, no matter how painful.

More than that, Alex needed to get the fuck out of this place. His apartment had lost its safe haven appeal and felt more like a cage closing in on him. Whether or not he was prepared to handle a camera again was a different story. He didn’t resent the aspect of working with people again either. At one point, Alex very nearly achieved his dreams. It was still camera work, but he was more than likely rusty from his months-long hiatus anyway. He would have stood in his living room all day if he tried to debate why he should or shouldn’t take the job. This meant, on the other hand, calling Bernadette back. And eventually, he’d have to tell her that Greg was dead. How the fuck was he supposed to do that? Alex had survived an encounter with an actual blood-hungry witch, but his heart shuddered at the thought of Bernadette labeling Alex a lying ass and cutting him off completely.

Finally, Alex worked up the nerve to press the ‘call back’ option. His eyes stung with unshed tears as his heart nearly beat out of his ribcage. Alex tightly squeezed his eyes shut. The third ring droned obnoxiously loud and Alex silently hoped she wouldn’t pick up. But when did Alex ever get what he wanted? There was a soft click, followed by Bernadette exclaiming that Alex was a fucker.

“Good to hear your voice too, Bernie.” He shot for humor, but the tremble in his voice betrayed his bravado. Bernadette either failed to notice or was feeling generous.

Before she had the chance to strike up small talk, Alex launched into action. “Is that job offer still on the table?”

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#they're watching #alex torini #Maddy's drabbles

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crue-sixx · 5 years

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Hungry Like A Wolf

Title: Hungry Like A Wolf

Author: tiddly-winx

Fandom: The Dirt (Motley Crue Movie)

Summary: The reader is bitten by a big dog, but she's in for more than just an infection.

Warnings: Swearing, Blood, Gore, Sickness, Smut. Animal Death, Werewolves

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It was Halloween, the band's favorite holiday. You guys went all out, decorating the apartment, making your costumes with whatever you could find and throwing them together last minute. Of course you stocked up on candy-both for you all to eat and to pass out to the kids in the building. You and your boyfriend Tommy were handing out the candy, and when the trick-or-treating hours had concluded, the real tricks would start.

Nikki had bought five dozen eggs a month ago and let them rot, planning on having you all throw the putrid stink bombs at adult passerby who happened to be roaming around. You all had it planned out-two on the left, two on the right and one sitting in a tree or on the roof. You were with Tommy on the right, Mick and Vince to the left and Nikki up high. You bombarded a few groups of teenagers who were bullying younger kids for their candy. The little bastards deserved it.

The stink exploded on impact, causing the pizza faced boys to gag and scatter. "That's what you get for bein' mean to little kids, assholes!" Nikki shouted from up top. The teenagers all cursed and vowed revenge, but you all knew it was an empty threat.

When all the eggs were spent, you kissed Tommy on the cheek and said "Go on back to our room, Babe" you said winking "I gotta go pick something up for your treat tonight" he grinned, knowing full well that he was getting a special sex session tonight.

"Why didn't you just have it delivered or pick it up earlier?" he whined, not wanting to wait for his Halloween Treat.

"Because" you eyed them all "Most of you guys like to try and ransack my drawers for my underwear" except for Mick, they all nervously laughed and glanced down. "And I didn't want the surprise to be spoiled" you wrapped your arms around his neck and kissed him tenderly. He of course returned the gesture with aplomb.

"Hurry back, Y/N" he said, not wanting to let you go but he had to.

"I will, Tommy" you blew him a kiss, to which he caught it and sent it back. Nikki and Vince made mock gagging gestures and Tommy laughed at that.

You were on your way to the shop that was open late tonight when you had to cross the park to make a short cut. It was like Central Park in New York, but considerably smaller. You could see your destination just on the other side when you heard a rustling in the bushes. You turned and saw a rather large dog, you didn't think anything of it and tried to go on your way, but a supernatural force pulled you back to stare into it's eyes.

Your heart rate slowed down and you entered a dreamlike state. The dog's eyes were yellow and looking at you like you were it's next meal. You were in a trance, the creature having reared up and walking on two legs like a human. You knew you should have been terrified and run off, but the power keeping you there made that impossible.

You could smell and feel it's hot steamy rank breath as it exhaled on you. It's fangs were dripping with saliva and you could see it's mouth twisting into an ugly snarl. It then howled and lunged at you, knocking you over. The sudden movement snapped you out of the trance and you screamed for help. The thing clamping down on your arms with its jaws and scratching at your belly with claws so sharp it could cut diamonds.

It would have killed you if someone hadn't blown it's brains out just as it was going in for the kill. Your neck was exposed and it was about to bleed you dry when you heard a crack of thunder and then a pink misty cloud of blood and brain matter splattered the white rose bushes, painting them a brilliant red. The shooter stepped forward, a young teen boy right after him. "What should we do about 'er Pa?" asked the boy in a nervous tone.

"Let's put 'er outta 'er misery" the older man cocked the shotgun and pointed it at you.

You had tears running down your face as you tried to speak "Please no..." when you heard more people coming your way with flashlights.

"Damn it!" the older man cursed "Grab the beast boy and hightail it outta here!" The son did as his father bade, and they left you to bleed. It wasn't long however when a group of police officers came to your aid and radioed for an ambulance.

In your blood loss induced state of delirium, you asked "Why did they paint the roses red? They're gonna lose their heads..." before you finally passed out.

Back at the apartment, they were all getting worried. They knew where the sex shop was-they all frequented it for condoms and various other sex novelties. It didn't take two hours to get there and back. Tommy was pacing around in circles cracking his knuckles."Where the fuck is she?" he felt the worry puke coming on.

"Relax" Nikki tried to reassure him "Maybe there's a long line at the check out counter or something..."

Then the phone blared. An ominous pressure filled the room as they all stared at it. When the phone rights at two in the morning, nothing good ever happens. Tommy picked it up and said "Y/N?"

"No" an unfamiliar voice answered "Is this Tommy Lee?"

"Yeah" he had to steady himself on the table. From the expression on his face, they all knew it couldn't be good. They waited in uncomfortable anticipation for more information "Who're you?"

"I am Doctor Finkle from L.A. General. Do you know a woman by the name of Y/N L/N?"

"Yeah she's my girlfriend" his voice cracked "Is she okay?"

"I cannot say exactly" the sound of papers shuffling "from the police report, it states that she was attacked by a large animal in the park and was just bought into our operating room for emergency surgery. Please get here as quick as you can..." it sounded like you didn't have much time left, and Tommy bolted for the door without even hanging up the phone or putting shoes on. The rest of the guys followed him and he filled them in on the way in the car.

When they finally got there, Tommy ran in, knocking over a nurse with a cart full of medicine. "Y/N L/N!" he wheezed, out of breath "Is she still in surgery?!"

The receptionist typed in your name and your status was stated next to it "Yes, she is. The O.R. is on the fourth floor. Please fill out a visitors-" he wouldn't let her finish, him sprinting to the elevator and pressing the buttons repeatedly. His rational mind knew that pressing the same buttons over and over again wouldn't make the damn thing go faster, but his emotional side was nervously twitching.

"Come on, damn thing..." the others caught up to him as the doors opened and he went in, repeating the previous motions of button mashing the fourth floor button.

A passing orderly was unfortunate enough to be within reaching distance of Tommy's arms. He grabbed the poor unsuspecting young man and shook him violently "Y/N L/N! Where is she?! Where's the fuckin' doctor?!"

Dr. Finkle heard the voice he had spoken to fifteen minutes ago and came out in scrubs, fresh from surgery "Mr. Lee?"

Tommy's head snapped to him and he said "Dr. Finkle?!"

"Yes, that's me. If you'll stop terrorizing my orderly I can fill you in on your lady friend's condition" Tommy let the trembling man go, offering him an apologetic look. "The consultation room is this way" he motioned with his hand to a small room that could only fit two maybe three people.

Tommy went in and sat with him while Mick, Vince and Nikki watched from the waiting room trying to read their lips. Dr, Finkle looked haggard, he had been working all day on idiotic drunkards who had gotten themselves into ridiculous situations. Most of them were minor injuries, cuts and scrapes that the patients INSISTED were broken bones. But this woman was the real deal, her blood tests showed no alcohol or any other substances in her system. She was just a poor soul in the wrong place at the wrong time.

"How is she, Doc?" Tommy's voice cracked, on the verge of tears.

"She's stable" the doctor answered. Tommy breathed a sigh of relief. "She lost a lot of blood, but we were able to stop the bleeding and replace what she lost. She'll be alright, she just needs a few days in here to recover and to make sure she didn't get any diseases of whatever animal attacked her" he took a deep breath and rubbed his eyes.

"What's the damage?" Tommy wanted to be ready for what he was going to see.

"She has extensive bite marks on her arms-most likely defensive wounds-some deep. She also has claw marks on her chest and abdomen, but those are superficial. They're not much concern at this time."

Tommy swallowed hard and asked "When can I see her?"

"In about ten minutes. She's being settled into her room right now. The anesthesia may last longer than that, but that's to be expected" he took off his glasses and added off the record "you can stay as long as you want. I recon that you'll be the first person she wants to see when she wakes up..."

"Thanks Doc" he was very appreciative and shook his hand "For taking care of my girl..."

"She's in room 509 on the recovery floor" the doctor added. She should be settled by the time you get up there" they then parted ways, Tommy grateful for the man who saved his lover's life.

The others got up when they saw him come out, the waiting game being too much for them "How is she?"

"She'll live" Tommy said flatly "Go on back to the apartment, I'll stay with her" they looked at each other uneasily and agreed.

"Do you want us to get you anything before we go?" Mick asked, being uncharacteristically empathetic.

"Nah, I'm good. I'll just have the shitty coffee and snacks to hold me over" he tried to smile, but it was very weak and unconvincing. They reluctantly left but they knew he needed alone time with his girl.

You were still in your drugged sleep when he came in. He thought he'd mentally prepared himself for what he might see, but he was wrong. Most of your upper body was bandaged up like a mummy, but your head was still visible. He let out a few whimpers before breaking down like a lost child. "Y/N...Baby..." he took your hand and held it. "I'm so sorry...I never should have let you go alone..."

You were starting to wake up then, saying "Don't beat yourself up, Tommy" he jumped, startled at your quick recovery.

"Y/N!" he was both happy and perplexed "How are you awake so soon?!"

"I heard you crying and thought I'd wake my lazy ass up and see what's going on" you smiled at him, still groggy from the drugs. He was just so happy that you were okay, that he leaned down and gave you the sweetest, softest kiss he ever did.

"I love you" he confessed through his sobs, snot dripping down his face.

"I love you too, Tommy" you reached up to try and clean his face, but you were seeing triple and couldn't tell which Tommy to wipe.

"I got it, Babe" he laughed and wiped his face.

All the tests came back negative for any animal borne diseases, and you were clear to go back to the apartment. Tommy was there by your side all the while, the guys bringing him clothes and toiletries so he could be clean. He hated being able to smell himself and it was nasty.

The guys had a small party when you came home, just the five of you and a little welcome home cake. You thanked them and had a few beers, Tommy leading you away from them to make love to you in a proper fashion. He gingerly touched your scars and kissed them, You tried to shy away from his touching them but he insisted "They're a part of you now, and I love everything about you..."

"Tommy..." you sighed a ragged breath of carnal desire. "Fuck me..."

"Don't gotta tell me twice" you were already so wet from just him touching you that he didn't need to do anything like oral or fingering. He was rock hard too, so he just slid inside easily. He let out a gasp of pleasure and commented "Oh fuck baby you're tighter than usual..."

"Well, I have been out of practice for a week" you whispered into his neck before kissing it. You then felt a strange savage second nature begin to wash over you. You smelled his blood pumping through his veins. You wanted him. His flesh. His meat. You were able to push the urge down and he continued to fuck you.

"Jesus Fuckin' Christ" he moaned into your mouth "You feel hotter too..." he grunted loudly "my dick's on fire...fuck" he had you against the wall, holding onto you tightly. You turned your ass to him.

"Do me from behind Babe" you groaned and dug your nails into the plaster. He happily obliged, liking this new angle. You could hear his balls slapping against your ass gently, serving to draw the both of you closer to your climax.

"Oh God" Tommy gasped, bucking his hips wildly "I'm gonna fuckin' cum..." you quickly pulled away from him and took him into your mouth, deep throating him as he pumped his seed down your gullet. He held your head in place, his own falling back in exhausted pleasure.

After you had swallowed his semen, you looked up at him and said "Was that hot for you baby?"

"So fuckin' hot Y/N" he was panting "I could feel your nose against my stomach..." he gulped hard "I love it when we try new stuff in the bedroom..." he picked you up and kissed you tenderly. He was spent, but you hadn't finished. You didn't care about that, you had your man with you and that's all that mattered.

The next morning, you smelled the sweet aroma of frying meat. It lulled you out of bed and into the kitchen where Tommy was making breakfast. "Mornin'!" he greeted, but you didn't answer. You smelled the raw bacon on the counter and couldn't take your eyes off it. Your mouth began to water, just the thought of tasting fresh meat driving you mad with ravenous hunger.

You scooped up the raw meat and tore into it like a wild animal, your teeth making it easier to shred than before. Tommy watched you in amazed horror, then put a hand on your shoulder to stop you from eating raw meat. You snarled at him, your eyes full of pure rage at having your meal interrupted. "The fuck you want?!" your voice wasn't just your own, but a deep throated. rolling growl. You were so pissed that he'd interrupt your meal like that! You imagined ripping out his esophagus and making his intestines your meal but you realized how fucked up that was and calmed down.

He was actually scared to respond at first but he said "Dude, you're eating raw meat...that's got bacteria in it..."

"Erm...right..." you put down the raw meat and looked down "sorry..."

He gave you a strange look, but let it go.

Things went back to normal for a few weeks, then exactly one month after the attack you fell ill. First, you were burning up and sweating buckets. Then the vomiting when you had nothing in your stomach. Everyone thought it was just the flu and they stayed clear of you, Tommy bringing you soup and some crackers.

Then your insides started burning, and the vomiting turned more violent. It was when you saw blood in the toilet that you started to panic. "Tommy! I need-" a new round of blood vomit came but this one actually hurt. It was then your skin started to itch-like tiny bugs were crawling all over the surface. You started scratching.

Tommy had heard you call for him, and when he came in the bathroom, he saw you clawing at your arms "Y/N, what the fuck?!" he grabbed a towel "You're bleeding!"

"I'm just so itchy..." you brushed him off and continued to scratch, drawing more blood from your body.

"Fuckin' stop!" Tommy grabbed both your hands to keep you from doing more damage.

"Tommy what the fuck's going on in there?!" Nikki shouted.

He didn't have time to answer, you had stood up, whipped your head back and headbutted him, breaking his nose. Nikki and Vince burst through the door when they saw the carnage. They stared speechless, Tommy knocked out on the floor and you bloody with your muscle meat on display. "T-Bone!" Nikki went to his fallen friend, and you had thrown up blood all over him.

You were then on the ground twitching. They thought you were having a seizure and Tommy was trying to help you, but then they saw your features begin to change. Your bones began to break on their own, your skin tore away from your frame, the largest organ of the body unable to contain the new growth. In it's place, coarse fur and animal skin grew. Your nose elongated into a snout, fangs protruding where your teeth once were.

Nikki and Vince didn't wait around to see what was happening next, instead grabbing Tommy and dragging him out of the apartment and hauling ass out of there. You-or whatever version of you that was followed them down the hallway on all fours. "Holy shit!" Tommy had woken up and was staring a behemoth of a dog in the face.

The thing had leapt up, ready to completely devour them all when a soft whistling was heard, then a yelp from the animal and then the thing skidded across the floor. They looked up and saw Mick with a hunting rifle, but a tranquilizer dart in the animal's thigh. "What the fuck was that?" Tommy asked.

Nikki and Vince looked at each other, unsure to what to say. They knew what they had saw and weren't on anything that would make them see that. Mick spoke up and said "That's Y/N. She's a werewolf" as easily as saying "Pass the fuckin' potatoes".

"What the fuck?" Nikki whispered.

"How do you know?" Tommy looked at Mick.

"Shut up and watch, Drummer" he said, and you started shrinking back to normal size.

"H-how is this possible?" Tommy stumbled back, his broken nose the least of his worries.

"It was on Halloween when she was attacked. A few of my buddies heard about werewolf activity in the area and decided to check it out" he pulled the dart from your thigh, you giving a small yelp of pain as he did so.

"How do you know all this shit?" Vince questioned "Werewolves and all that crap are just myths!"

Mick took a long while to respond, but when he did "There are things that go bump in the night, boys. I'm one of the ones who bump back" he grabbed you by your foot and began to drag you across the floor.

Tommy got up and shouted "Hey! Where you takin' her?!"

"To a place where she can turn and not hurt anybody" he took you down the stairs, being careful not to smack your head against them.

"You're not takin' my girl anywhere without me!" Tommy grabbed a hold of his arm, but Mick gave his signature glare and he backed off.

"You really want to be around the thing who just tried to eat you?" he asked sarcastically.

"She's not a 'thing' Mick! She's my girlfriend!"

"Get that nose looked at first, then I'll come back and take you to her. I promise..."

Tommy let him go, Nikki and Vince having been shell shocked into silence. After he got cleaned up, Tommy waited for Mick to come back, When he did, he kept his word and took him to the police station. "Mick why the fuck are we here?"

"To see Y/N" he gave an unfamiliar hand gesture to a guard and he let them in a secret passage. At the end of the passage, there was a group of fortified cells with all sorts of giant dogs in them of varying colors and ferocity. Then at the very end, they saw you in your human form, still knocked out from the drugs.

"What did you shoot her with?" Tommy asked, caressing your face.

"Wolfsbane" Mick answered "It reverses the transformation and makes them sleep it off. Too much will kill them though" he slipped a freshly dead goat into your cell, to which Tommy gagged.

"How do you know about this Mick? I mean really?"

"My family have been monster hunters for generations" he washed his hands of the blood "Going all the way back to Abraham Van Helsing and Dracula" he loaded his shotgun with a round of silver bullets and waited.

"Hey, what are you doin'?" Tommy protested.

"If she wakes up and turns again, then there's no hope for her. I'm going to put her out of her misery" he cocked the gun.

You woke up a few hours later, still your normal self. You were confused about your new surroundings. "Good! You're awake and you!" Mick smiled warmly.

"What happened?" you asked "Why am I in this dank cell?"

They had explained what happened, you not believing them until you talked to Vince and Nikki, then seeing the damage of the bathroom for yourself. You certainly didn't want to die or kill anyone, but you couldn't resist the transformation. "What do I have to do?"

"Keep track of the lunar cycle and lock yourself up in the cells when the full moon comes around" Mick answered "eat all the raw meat you can get to control the hunger."

You looked at Tommy and started to cry. "Baby what's wrong?" he hugged you close to him.

"I tried to kill you guys" you sobbed into his shirt "I can't be around normal people anymore!"

"Are you breaking up with me?" Tommy whispered quietly.

"No, but I understand if you want to break up with me..."

"Babe, the thought never crossed my mind" he pet your hair.

"You sure?"

"Of course! If I wanted to leave, I'd be gone by now!" he smiled down at you. "We just got to get used to the new you..." he grinned into a kiss. You remembered how great the sex was the last time you did it with him, and that seemed to quell the beast inside you for a moment, but you knew that at any time, your inner wolf could strike and you counted on Mick to put that silver bullet in you before you could harm anyone.

#motley crue #mötley crüe #the dirt #tommy lee #mick mars #nikki sixx #vince neil #motley crue imagine #mötley crüe imagine #tommy lee imagine #submission #not mine

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chromecutie · 5 years

Text

Not A Ghost - part 18

A/N - Multi-part fic. Colossus x OC where OC has come home after being wrongfully imprisoned in the Icebox. Warnings for whole fic - references and flashbacks to harsh prison environment, including various types of abuse. Takes place shortly after events in Deadpool 2. Whole thing will end up on my AO3 eventually.

Taglist: @emma-frxst @ra-ra-rasputiin @holamor @empressme-bitch @marvel-is-perfection @hazilyimagine @marvelhead17 @rovvboat @angstybadboytrash @whitewitchdown @master-sass-blast @mori-fandom @mooleche @dandyqueen . Wanna be added or removed? Holla at me.

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Piotr had made a massive platter of tacos for lunch. Piotr, Ellie, Yukio, and Rhonda sat around the table and had just started eating when Wade and Cable showed up.

Wade gasped in dramatic mock-offense, “What the fuck, Colossus? You made tacos and didn’t bother to invite me?” He pulled his phone from a pocket and after some taps and swipes, showed the table an Instagram post--Yukio’s smiling face in a low corner, holding a taco, while Ellie and Piotr were behind her, assembling more tacos. “I gotta hear about this shit from Yukio’s adorable Instagram! -- Hi, Yukio!” he waved cheerfully at her.

“Hi, Wade!” she beamed and waved back. “Happy to see you!” When she gestured toward the tacos, Wade snatched one up and started crunching away.

Piotr hesitated and almost turned them away, but he checked Rhonda’s face. She held her head tall, shoulders down in a posture that didn’t look nervous. Her eyes had the slightest squint in a reserved smile, but she didn’t look afraid like she had when she first met Cable.

Turning his attention back to his boisterous friend, Piotr said firmly, “A plate, Wade. Hello, Cable.”

Cable, quiet as ever, got plates for himself and Wade to join the table for lunch. He gave everyone his typical curt nod, but gave Rhonda an actual verbal greeting with his nod, “Rhonda.”

“Hey,” she returned politely between bites. It might be surprising for a Russian to be good at cooking Tex-Mex, but Piotr certainly made some fabulous tacos. The seasoning was flavorful and spicy, without being overbearingly hot.

“Oh, heyyy!” One of Wade’s cheeks bulged as he eyed Rhonda. “Look at you! Less Shawshank, more spank bank. I like it.”

Piotr’s eyes bulged and he nearly choked on his food. Rhonda almost spat the drink she’d just sipped. She checked her clothes, scoffing. “What about sweaty hair and old hoodie says spank bank?”

Wade shrugged, “Ask the Venom fans, I honestly don’t know.”

As she thumbed away the little spot of sour cream on her lip, Rhonda shot Ellie a look, hoping for an explanation for what the hell he was talking about. Ellie rolled her eyes and shook her head.

This visit was going much better than the last one. Cable usually matched Ellie for hard scowls and pretending nothing has ever been fun ever, but even both of them had some laughs. The group generally caught up and shared news.

“So wait,” Wade interrupted Piotr in the middle of some updates about the school. “Who did your wife try to stab last week?”

Yukio and Ellie hesitated, Piotr tried to shut down that line of questioning, but before he could, Rhonda thumped one hand on the table. “Okay, look,” she said, defensive and irritated, “Kurt did his bamf-out-of-nowhere thing, like he always has, because he thought it would be funny to startle me, like he always has.” She huffed. “It’s just that my...startle reflex is no longer jumping or shrieking--it got re-trained so I now go straight to stabbing a motherfucker. But I did not actually hit him.”

In truth, the fact that Rhonda had almost stabbed a close friend had scared her as much as Piotr. The look on Kurt’s face when he’d bamfed away to avoid the shiv, however, was priceless. Who’s startled now, bitch?

Rhonda grumbled into her taco, “It was nice to see him get scared for once, though.”

Wade’s face was lit up with pure joy as he slapped at Cable’s shoulder, “Oh my god. We gotta take her to a haunted house in the fall!”

A worst case scenario flashed in Piotr’s brain that involved several people missing their kidneys and his wife shaking in a corner. “Absolutely not,” he said.

“We’ll see!” Wade insisted.

Cable did his best to rein him in and shift the subject. “Rehab, though?” he asked, “The music helping you?”

Rhonda brightened. “Yeah! Well, sort of. It helps me focus.”

Yukio beamed, “Have you listened to Hozier yet?”

Ellie and Rhonda exchanged sly smiles before Rhonda answered, “Next on my list.”

Piotr beamed proudly, gesturing to his wife, “She had wonderful breakthrough yesterday! Lit a bulb so bright, it shattered.” He said more quietly, “Though, perhaps don’t hold it so close to your face next time, sladkaya.”

Steri-strips still criss-crossed her face over the nicks as she gave a halfhearted eye roll. She only kept the strips on so Piotr didn’t force something more drastic like a cone of shame.

Scooping up little taco remnants onto her fork, Rhonda admitted, “It’s not like when your abilities are new and you’re just trying to do better than running on raw emotion.” She tapped one of the steri-strips, “This caught me by surprise while I was venting about something, but otherwise...I know exactly how I used to control it, I just...it’s like I can’t reach it.”

That just-out-of-reach feeling itself was frustrating, but what made it even worse was not knowing how to make her friends understand. Why would they, if they’d never experienced something like this themselves? She gestured, struggling for words, “Like if you...took a ton of piano lessons as a kid, didn’t keep up with it, and tried years later to play piano.”

Yukio nodded sipping her water, “You might remember a few of the easy songs, but nothing fancy?”

Rhonda nodded and shrugged, “Yeah. Yeah, I guess that’s close enough.”

“So what I’m hearing,” Piotr teased with a gentle smile, “Is that perhaps we don’t have to worry about you frying all the wiring in the house?” At his wife’s sigh and snicker, Piotr clarified for the rest, “When we were young, this one would blow the circuits in half the house every time she got nervous.”

Glancing around the kitchen, Rhonda added, “I did get pretty good at fixing the wiring.”

Lunch was wrapping up and Ellie, Yukio, and Cable moved dishes to the kitchen. Wade playfully poked Rhonda’s arm, shoulder, and face. “Well, come on, show us what you got!”

Rhonda glanced at her husband, then back to Wade, swatting his hand away, "I dunno, um...there’s really not much to see yet." She shifted in her seat, folding her arms and pulling her hoodie tighter.

"Last time we saw you,” Wade gestured wildly, “you could do the human sparkler thing." He waited, and when she was still narrowing her eyes at him, he added, “PLEASE, what the fuck, COME ON, I just wanna do the Uncle Fester thing!”

“Who?” Ellie asked in disgust.

Rhonda leveled a disbelieving sneer on Wade. “You want me to light a bulb in your mouth?”

Cable’s face fell. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he murmured to himself.

Pointing at the steri-strips on her face, Rhonda said, “You realize that’s dangerous, right?”

Wade just laughed. And laughed and laughed.

Rhonda turned to her husband and shrugged. “It wouldn’t be the stupidest thing I’ve done.”

Piotr wasn’t happy about it, but they all went into the backyard to see if Rhonda could actually light a bulb held in Wade’s mouth.

Yukio was earnestly excited. With some electrical abilities herself, she liked finding new party tricks, even if this one seemed risky for her taste. Ellie started recording a video, not because she doubted Rhonda’s control, but anything involving Wade had potential to go hilariously wrong.

Cable and Piotr wore matching exasperated frowns, both crossing their arms as they watched their respective partners. Leaning his head just a bit toward the Russian, Cable asked, “Any advice for how to rein him in when he’s a jackass like this?”

With a halfhearted shrug, Piotr said, “With her, sometimes I just have to wait until she falls asleep.”

“And?”

Piotr blinked and shook his head, “And then she is asleep. Wade is like that too, in my experience.”

Rhonda carefully considered between two light bulbs which she would use for Wade. The lower watt one was more likely to shatter if she accidentally hit it with too much power, but the higher watt bulb might be tougher to sustain a light.

“I want the big one!” Wade pointed, eyes and smile wide with glee.

Hoping it was the right choice, Rhonda handed the smaller bulb to Yukio. Wade looked directly into the camera on Ellie’s phone and made his best Christopher Lloyd impression, “My name is Fester! It means...to rot!” He was practically bouncing with excitement as he beckoned Rhonda, “Okay, okay, put it in me!”

“Wow,” she said simply as she set the fitting in his mouth. She backed away a few feet to get clear of Ellie’s shot, and focused.

Rhonda could feel the electricity that was in the air and pulsed through everyone’s bodies. It pulsed and flowed through her, stronger than through other people. Carefully targeting the bulb in Wade’s mouth and nothing else, she sent a pulse. At first it flickered. For about ten seconds, flicker was all it did.

“All right, Wade,” Cable grumbled, “You had your fun--”

Wade indignantly waved him off. Rhonda was about to give up when she decided to push just a little harder. To her surprise, and everyone else’s, the light suddenly grew stable and bright.

Yukio clapped, Piotr beamed with pride, but Wade made an alarmed sound and dropped the bulb into his hands. Rhonda immediately dropped the pulse and reached for him to see if he was okay.

“My mouth started buzzing!” Wade yelled. “Fuck! That was--that was like doing a BUNCH of cocaine, and then eating pop rocks! Or sucking off a Tazer.”

Rhonda took back the bulb and chided, “We said it was a dumb idea.”

Wade’s voice came out smooth and sultry, “I didn’t say I wasn’t into it.”

Unsure what to say to that, Rhonda turned to head into the house. Behind her, she could hear Ellie’s quip, “Yeah, I’ll get some good memes out of this one.” Piotr caught up to Rhonda, with Yukio and Ellie behind him and Cable and Wade bringing up the rear.

A trio of teenage boys were getting snacks in the kitchen when Rhonda and the rest came back in from the yard. A particularly chunky boy narrowed his eyes at Rhonda before pleasantly smiling in recognition. “Hey! Guestbook! I didn’t know you live here!”

Rhonda’s blood went cold and she froze. Piotr stopped short to avoid bumping into her. She recognized this kid as the one who had tried to pick fights and assert dominance over the same thugs she avoided at all costs.

“Russell!” Wade yelled excitedly from behind Ellie.

Russell, for his part, wasn’t particularly good at reading people, but he knew he’d said something wrong when the strange woman’s smile turned to a murderous glare. She crossed the room, not too fast, but certainly full of intent. She stopped slightly outside of arm’s reach.

“Sladkaya?” Piotr asked behind her.

She ignored her husband and looked Russell directly in the eye. In a low growl too quiet for anyone else to hear, she said, “My name. Is Rhonda Rasputin. And you do not call me by any other name.” Her dark eyes were hard like onyx as Russell swallowed, trying to look less afraid than he was.

Before he could answer, or apologize, Rhonda spun and headed for the hall, calling over her shoulder, “Yukio, I heard you wanted to play with some hair dye? Let’s go.”

Elated, Yukio practically skipped after her, tugging Ellie behind her.

Piotr watched his wife stalk off, deciding he would have to see Wade and Cable out as soon as he could before he could ask her what that was all about.

#piotr rasputin x oc #colossus x oc #fluff #angst #so glad i managed to finish this chapter tonight omfg #it's been all over the place oops #not a ghost

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fromtheringapron · 5 years

Text

Reviewing Google Audience Reviews of WWE Raw

One day, I searched Monday Night Raw on Google for reasons even unbeknownst to me. What is it out of boredom? A sliver of hope that I’d discover Raw had been canceled and replaced with a rebooted Prime Time Wrestling? I don’t know, but I did stumble upon some treasure in my aimless journey: Google Audience Reviews of Raw! This is apparently a new feature to Google. It allows people like you and I to give our baseless, uninformed opinions on any TV show at any time. Isn’t the Internet great?

But, man, if that wasn’t good enough, the real treasure are the reviews themselves. Such an intriguing look into the jaded, ignorant, infuriating, hilarious, and naive group of folks who make up WWE’s fanbase. The thing about the Internet, for better or worse, is that it gives a platform for all sorts of people to voice their opinion, even on a silly wrestling show. However, I’d like to think that also means it gives me the platform to give my opinion on their opinion. There are countless Raw reviews in this new section of Google, but here are a few that have really caught my eye:

Review #27: The AEW Truther

Okay, I’ll start out by sussing out some bullshit: All Elite Wrestling has a lot of promise, but we need to stop with the narrative that they’re going to be breathing down the WWE’s neck right out of the gate. They haven’t even put on their first show and don’t have a TV deal. In addition, outside of the diehard Internet fans and wrestling journalists, the casual fan who tunes into Raw isn’t going to give a fuck about AEW, mainly because they haven’t heard of it. So, no, “us Pro Wrestling fans” aren’t just going to turn to that. Again, it’s got potential and the excitement over it is valid, but I can’t help but feel the ones hyping it up the most will be the first to voice their disappointment when it doesn’t match even a fraction of what they expected.

With all of that said, I absolutely agree with this fan on the egregiousness of WWE putting an actual fascist dickhead and a convicted rapist into their Hall of Fame, especially when there’s inexplicably more rage geared toward the likes of Koko B. Ware and Torrie Wilson getting inducted, two people who were company employees for several years. I’m usually never the one to be up in arms over who gets inducted in the Hall of Fame because it’s a fake hall for a fake sport at the end of the day, but I do earnestly believe the focus should be on the workers who clocked in the hours.

Review #352: The Benoit Truther

Look, even though many will disagree, it’s okay for you to think Daniel Bryan sucks. Everyone has their own unique set of faves and least faves, and yours is no less valid than anyone else’s. Consensus in the fan community is boring, anyway.

Well, within reason anyway, because I’d like to think that the probability of Chris Benoit rotting in Hell right now is something we can all agree on. And, honestly, still listing Benoit as the greatest of all time feels wrong on a deep, moral level. The dude did some great things in his career, yes, but that’s besides the point. That doesn’t cancel out that he murdered his wife and son. Is defending the name of someone who will always be associated with a slaughtered family a hill you really want to fight on?

I don’t want to make it seem a comment like this is totally uncommon. It’s not much different from the various Youtube comments that linger on to this day about how Benoit should be inducted into the Hall of Fame. It still infuriates me though, largely because it feeds into the cesspool of Benoit apologia that’s only swelled since that fateful weekend in 2007. It’s the kind of language that words Benoit as ultimately a tragic figure whose poor brain was so damaged that his crimes were practically unavoidable, an explanation that wouldn’t be afforded to him if he weren’t so widely regarded by smarky wrestling bros. And that’s a bunch of shit.

The first half of the review isn’t so bad, which is why I didn’t include it. Maybe this fan just isn’t aware of what they’re saying, and I get that, but intentions can only go so far with me. The scariest part though? 78 people found the review helpful. The most of any review I’ve seen so far. Fuckin’ balls.

Review #658: The Anti-Bullying Crusader

Okay, so I kinda love this. It’s such a nice reminder in a time where kayfabe is long dead and the WWE roster, regardless of heel/face alignment, will post pics with each other out in the town on social media that there are still fans who eat all of this shit up. I obviously know nothing about this person, but the review conjures up the image of an ornery senior citizen sitting ringside ready to whack those dastardly heels with a cane.

The bullying argument is hilarious. We all know WWE’s anti-bullying campaign Be A Star is hypocritical, disingenuous bullshit, largely birthed out of Linda McMahon’s failed run in politics. Like, how many of their storylines involve and normalize bullying? How many times have guys like The Rock and John Cena engaged in homophobic and misogynistic taunting on-screen over the years? There’s nothing wrong with informing your younger viewers on why bullying in real life is wrong, but you can’t deny the WWE has certainly trivialized the message.

And it’s even more ridiculous when someone stops watching because of all the fake, scripted bullying on the show. Honestly, my friend, what are you expecting out of a wrestling product then? Bobby Roode vs. Heath Slater in a Handshake Contest? Also, this fan has been watching since they were five years old, no doubt remembering a more innocent time where Steve Austin would give the Stunner to someone who completely didn’t deserve that.

I also love the last line. After bashing Raw for its bully-enabling platform, they at least concede that the ladies are killing it right now. Such an encouraging feminist stance!

Review #229: Everyone Had Fun and Nobody Got Hurt

Um, what? I do get what this fan is saying in the sense that, yes, wrestling is just play fighting, but “their policy of no violence”? Do I need to bring up that Roode/Slater handshake battle for the ages? And the wrestlers may sell fake injuries on TV all the time, but they can sustain injuries that are real as hell and carry some severe long-term repercussions. I feel like I’m being way too harsh, but come on now. If you’ve been watching since 1999, you’ve probably seen plenty of guys take unnecessary, dangerous bumps that shorten their careers. Watching even a small bit of Mick Foley’s work can probably tell you that.

With that said, I do love the refreshing stance in loving wrestling because it’s scripted. People usually hate on wrestling for that reason alone, largely because the business has historically gone to great lengths to make it seem real. It’s great to have someone who basically says, “You know, this is scripted bullshit and I’m okay with it.” And honestly, girl, I feel the same way. We need more people like us.

Review #44: Garden Variety Lapsed Fan #15,712

This certainly is a take. I can’t comment on what it’s like in other fandoms, but so many wrestling fans love to engage in the narrative that WWE stopped being good a long while ago and the current product is the worst it’s ever been but because they’re such a diehard fans they’ll stick around until it gets good again and willingly suffer through all of it due to the innate goodness in their hearts or some shit. The only difference in each of these arguments is that the date of the tipping point always changes. There are fans right now who’ll tell you WWE circa 2019 is the worst it’s ever been, but this was also true back when I first started traversing the Internet back in 2004 or 2005 and fans then were talking how that period was the worst it had ever been.

With that in mind, I find this review a bit refreshing in the face of Attitude Era truthers, who’ll repeatedly tell you wrestling, and seemingly all of pop culture, stopped being good sometime in the early 2000s. But as we near closer and closer to 20 years since that era ended, the more likely we are to see younger fans who have no real nostalgia for it. It won’t be long until we hear more and more talk about the salad days of Roman Reigns, Braun Strowman, and others. This fan says WWE stopped being good in late 2016/early 2017, which obviously wasn’t that long ago. I’m sure some fan daydreaming about the days of the Monday Night Wars would find this completely baffling.

It begs the question: when exactly was the WWE good? Has it ever been good? I don’t think any one answer is the sole correct one. None of these perspectives are invalid by any means. Every era of wrestling has had its pros and cons, and everyone has their own set of standards on what they consider a quality wrestling product. And, to be real, I don’t want to excuse the WWE of their shitty, at times irredeemable, booking and creative decisions. Fans have been driven away for numerous, valid reasons over the years.

But there’s that whole notion that nothing can ever bring back those early feelings of puppy love, and that’s just as true with the way wrestling first captivates you. Perhaps the constant frustration with present day WWE is partly the inability to rekindle what first hooked you in and never being able to recapture that feeling because, well, it’s simply not possible.

Review #788: Our Savior

We are not worthy of this review. A true diamond in the rough. So many good bits here. The prediction that Seth Rollins and Dean Ambrose will compete in a “no holes barred” match, which sounds like something out of a Sean Cody wrestling parody. The invention of the “Tang Tang Championship” featuring the likes of “Pop Scott Dulson and his tag team partner." The referring of Baron Corbin as not only “Barry Korgan,” but also as “Brian Corbin.” The passage that merely says “All winding.” The passage that merely says “Bobby Lashley.” That it’s not even a review of Raw, the TV show, but more a comment on the existential nihilism we feel in the Trump era.

I’ve never seen a review that makes no sense but also says so much. I love the complete refusal of punctuation marks. Who needs those archaic things, anyway? It just makes it all one, continuous thought, a stream of consciousness that could make even James Joyce blush. I also dig the experimentation with spacing. After all, why do we need to just one space? Why not several? It’s important to give our thoughts the space they need and this fan understands that. Plus, it makes for poetic reading.

The review ends on an ominous note, with the fan’s last message being “My name Matthewhisee.” Is this meant to be a threat? A coded message of some sort? Matthewhisee, if that is your name, please let us know more. The world needs your insight. Oh, and to the 7 people who found this review helpful, you are the vanguards of the resistance. Bless you all.

#wwe raw #wwe #google

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pass3rby · 6 years

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Caught By Your Past

31st Part

Fandom: Assassin’s Creed Pairing: Altair x Malik Warnings: modern AU, mature, OOC, original female character; unbetaed.

A/N: So, first of all, I'm sorry for the 'There must occur an accident in order for them to get their act together' drama. It was not the point there. Instead, I wanted to address that horrible (for Altair a lucky, in the end, really) thing that happens in your life sometimes? The one where you pretend something to get out of whatever and your life throws it right into your face the very next moment. Like, I still remember my classmate missing one day at school. The next one, she attended and after the classes I heard her whispering to a group of her friends that she "just didn't want to go to school, so I've told them my grandma/aunt died." (not sure which one that was anymore). I cannot remember exactly (yeah, I don't remember A LOT) if it was the very next day or just a few after when I saw her shaken up and crying at school. Turned out her grandma/aunt just died. So... There's that. Dun dun dun dun. Sorry for ruining the mood, but I kinda felt the need to explain why the story ended in such a cliché manner. (Yes, you heard right.) So, without further ado...

Lucy loved cognitive neuroscience and all the mysteries and possibilities it had to offer. Think about the various studies which were only asking for substudies and evolution. Attending university, she inhaled any information she could get. She had ambitions.

As much as she wasn't stingy with her smiles and at least a few polite words, that wasn't what she studied for. As if that hadn't been enough, she had to watch as those in power and with opportunities to move her chosen field further didn't care about it one bit. All they did was patting each other's shoulders, while the real progress in the field was rotting in the corner just because a few elites weren't capable of accepting that the world was changing, evolving.

What wasn't as painfully obvious when she had loads to do and learn, turned into a nightmare now as she was basically forced into twirling her thumbs. As much as she enjoyed digging deeper into her chosen field, everything has its pros and cons. For example.

Be a “genetic freak” and there you have it – a lonesome life right there. There's simply no time for anything else and frankly, why would you waste your day on whatever when what you wanted to do was right in front of you? Her obsession proceeded to swiftly bite her in the hide, though, as soon as they kicked her out of the university.

Wait. They kicked her out? They...?

Beep beep beep beep.

Her eyes opened on reflex, her cheek suddenly pressed against a pillow. Her pillow. And her old alarm clock was blaring full force.

Damn.

Another morning.

***

Arriving at the hospital meant undergoing the same ritual she had done twenty-four hours ago. Then the coffee, the to-do list, the new patients and old; the stories. When it was a turn to check one Altair Ibn-La'Ahad's room and the patient himself, there was no telling what sight will greet her after the event from yesterday.

What she did encounter was atypical silence. Locating the reason of that wasn't hard. Taking in Altair's silent nod in greeting, her eyes immediately slid down to his hip and the extra heap of dead-to-the-world human.

Half-sitting on a chair, half-slumped on the side of the bed. Jet black hair. Male. Wearing the same clothes that he stormed the room in hours ago, his fingers partly threaded with those of their patient.

For the little time she had the... pleasure to know Malik Al-Sayf, she had no doubt that he must have been all-out knackered to allow himself ending up in such an undignified, hand-in-a-jar heap. As she looked back up, the brunette mouthed a “please, don't wake him”.

Giving a nod to signalize that she understood, she began the regular checkup of the IV and whether any of Altair's wounds reopened or bled through the bandages while quietly maneuvering her way around the sleeping visitor.

The bed's rightful occupant kept still – or at least much less animated now than what she had gotten used to. Not in a bad way, though. Nothing forced, stiff or that whipped kind of behavior, no. Somehow, the until-then very lively, socializing-addicted guy was more than happy to stay like that, silent.

Content.

That was the word.

In the end, it wasn't so bad to end up where she was. Contact with humans and not just the central organ of their nervous system had its perks. Instead of just picking at their brains, she got to talk to people or see this. That didn't change her opinion about the stuffed piñatas called higher-ups.

Almost done with the check-up, she carefully redressed one wound that seemed to be acting up a bit before getting her things and the old dressing, intent on soundless retreat to give them their privacy back. Only to be stopped half-a-step away from the bed.

“Hey, could you-” Altair whispered, pointing to his side table drawer messily, the gesture just barely clear enough for Lucy to understand what he wanted her to do. However, as he previously shared with her what secret the drawer held, she frowned.

“Are you sure?” After all, the other man was deeply asleep.

“Positive.”

“Shouldn't he be awake for that?”

“Absolutely not.” If anyone were to witness their back-and-forth whisper game, they would laugh for sure. She, personally, would. Also, she was starting to suspect that the room's dark stowaway might be actually dead, because the acoustic here was doing them no favors.

No, he was good; his chest moved just now.

“You know, I still think that doing this while he's asleep is kind of wussing out.”

“To the contrary, hun. Braver man has not walked this Earth.”

“That doesn't make any sense,” As if going through with this while the man was awake would equal intentionally running onto a scalpel... Well, considering the previous reaction, the thought of modern seppuku wouldn't be entirely baseless. Yet, “You're a BASE jumper.”

“Exactly. Excitement. Adrenaline. Hardly suicidal. Malik?” pointing at his partner as successful in that as with the drawer a minute ago, “Waking him up now, you might as well start thinking about what to write in my obituary. Now, c'mon, before he really wakes up.”

Not entirely convinced, she pulled the drawer, taking a small box hidden inside and passing it to the suddenly impatient patient. Not that he didn't politely thank her before diving into work.

“Fuck. Dammit.” Swearing in a subdued voice, he kept trying to open the box. Since he had one arm in a cast and the other bandaged heavily, rendering it a basically mummificated appendage, they were unsurprisingly, visibly and frustratingly close to no use in his endeavor whatsoever.

Before he could swear any further – and possibly also louder – she took the box away from him, opening it herself before returning it to its owner.

“Aw, thanks.”

“You're welcome.”

Ungracefully shaking the box upside down resulted in dumping its content into his palm.

“Now the fun part,” he chuckled and wasn't he right. Since his only hand that had a chance to actually do the deal was the one further away from where Malik lied, this was hands down going to hurt. Nothing that would pop his stitches open or setback his healing if done carefully enough, but it'll have a bite. Lucy watched as he stubbornly pushed through anyway.

He took a deep breath before turning his upper body towards the slumbering man as much as possible; reaching with his hand out...

Almost...

Almost-

Defeated, he was forced to lay down on his back again, eyes closed, mind obviously whirring. After a bit the amber showed again with renewed fervor shining through.

“Maybe if you held his hand up?” The thoughtful voice was soon covered in a layer of plea frosting on top. Lucy sighed but did as he asked, careful not to wake the dark-haired man up. It was much better option than him really ending up doing some serious damage to himself.

“I feel like I'm being a part of a conspiracy here.”

“Well, darling,” Altair moved again, painstakingly slow, the arduousness of the exercise easy to read on his face. Nevertheless, he kept up with the conversation despite the physical pain, “You basically are. But no worries, he likes it.”

“He's asleep.”

“He still likes it.”

She snorted. This man was impossible. While objectively a tempting specimen of a man, it was more of a relief that he was spoken for, because taming this wild being? That would be a hardwork. But clearly an ordeal somebody had under their belt already anyway.

After a few dozens of very dragging seconds full of hand-handling on her part and careful cooperation from them both, she could finally be a witness to Altair painstakingly – if shakily and quite gingerly – putting a shiny new ring on the literally oblivious man's finger.

With the deed done, Altair wearily slumped back to his original position, eyes squeezed shut, breathing labored.

“Aw shit, that was harder than I thought.” She closely, if secretly, monitored his pulse slowing down back to normal. His eyes shone with quite a deal of pain when he blinked them back open again, though. She went to re-read when was the last time he had something for pain.

“I presume you're not talking about the nerves.” She noted dryly, humor on par with his. Hmm. She'll check up on him in an hour again and if he'll want, she'll have it ready.

Altair's shit-eating – if tired – smile was answer enough. He was obviously satisfied with himself.

“That was the least romantic proposal I ever saw.”

“Thank you, dear.”

The proud grin never ceased.

Gie was starting to understand why Malik was so exasperated with Altair at times.

Let's start with that fake episode with cast and brace... he even had the gall to ask her to pinkie-swear! The offer alone was utterly ridiculous, since the only one getting something out of that deal would be him; she wasn't in any danger from Malik finding out.

Although he and Malik seemed somehow gotten over the matter the morning Altair left again, the experience could be hardly forgotten. No wonder that the drive to the hospital looked the way it did.

Since Malik was the one driving, there was enough space in terms of opportunity to notice things. Things like Malik not being stressed. As in really not stressed. At all. Even her brother had certain tells, but none of them were showing. If anything, he seemed irked. When she asked if he was alright, the answer was a curt “Perfect.”. Go figure.

Now, Altair had been hospitalized, seriously hospitalized and while in no way would anyone plan that, it was heck of a timing to get into an accident anyway. All Gie was saying here was that even though she loved them both, she could finally see where Malik was coming from. Altair tends to do dumb shit and when something really happens...

This, though; this was truly something else. Altair Ibn-La'Ahad worked fast. There was no question about that. Awestruck, she just stood there, in the hospital room, her eyes firmly held and fixed by the metallic shine coming off her slumbering brother's finger. Ring finger. Left one.

Her eyebrow went up.

Altair's wiggled in answer.

One leaves for a couple of hours to preclude an end of student privileges and obligations only to return to a completely different world. One she never even imagined that she'll find herself living in for how far off the concept was. Strange to see but great all the same.

Time didn't wait around even then, though, and so it happened that Malik – engaged Malik? – started to gradually wake up. Taking stock of his surroundings, nose wrinkling... his fingers gave a strange kind of spasm upon encountering steel andwaitaminutethere. Did she imagine it or-

Don't tell me...

Gie didn't even get to decide how she felt about the revelation before Malik's head went up, eyes forcefully blinking the sleep away. Not daring to even imagine what will Malik do when he finds out, her eyes hunted down the amber hue.

Unapologetic in all its glory.

For the love of- that man was an accident waiting to happen combined with utter disregard for basic principles.

No matter the amount of desire to kick someone in the shin, they both stealthily watched as Malik was little by little shaking off the fog of sleep, in silent truce. True to his fashion, Malik was a bit slow in the mornings without a proper kickstarter – a very useful knowledge to wield – and today was no different.

Not fully focused, yet his littlefinger and middle finger kept subtly, inconspicuously brushing over the new adornment, evaluating the situation for sure. He didn't take a look – he was too awake already to be that obvious. Shame that she and Altair were focused exactly on that particular area, rendering all his efforts vain. But they better come up with a cover up themselves, because Malik was bound to look up any moment.

What's your plan now?

“Morning.”

Cheery, huh? Satisfied with the evidence that Malik noticed the ring much? He might've notice it way easier, if you gave it to him when he was conscious.

On one hand, she recognized the daring person, on another she couldn't believe that his ability to think quick on his feet failed him so bad. Neither of which meant she was thrilled. She inclined more towards-

“Hmph.”

Well, that's one way to say it.

“More like noon.” Opposing with pure facts straight away was an automatic reaction. One of which Malik would be proud. It wasn't her looking for a fight per se, as much as Altair deserved a good smack, no. More like a 'what the hell' statement of her inner self if anything, only continuing with the topic where it was left off. Whatever. She might as well play distraction so as to give Malik an opportunity to take a good look with his own eyes.

“Semantics.” Altair winked, taking cue from her and intentionally switching his full attention her way.

Forcing a frown on her face, she ignored it. She was trying to stay mad at him here. She was doing this for her brother, not confirming their renewed conspirators-in-arms status. Nope.

“Did you take a look who we're talking about?” Speaking of which, Malik was yet to take a look. What? She was his sister, she had to check! But he did stop with the ring nudging, fingers idle again; there was no way he didn't realize what the constricting band around his digit was and its meaning.

Nothing.

No reaction.

“If you want to bicker, there better be a coffee available.”

Except this one.

Malik got up from the chair to stretch, his joints cracking unnaturally loud.

“It is. In the hall. The vending machine is fully operational.” Okay, maybe she was starting to get annoyed by both of them this little bit. Is he really not gonna say anything?

“Ever helpful, little sister.” And here they were, back to the dry ribbing – as if she'll back off.

“Don't mention it.”

“I won't.” He checked for his wallet before heading for the door.

What the-As he was leaving, Altair gave Gie a beaming smile.

“Unbelievable.”

A/N:

Well, this is it, guys. Now, please, if you give me a minute of your time, I'd like to explain this whole thing (CBYP in the form it is). Aside from my obvious weak spot for AltMal, in overall, I just wanted to include all the situations that happen in stories and completely ruin them for me just because they are written in that soap opera-ish manner, you know the kind of thing? Namely, I'm talking about:

1) love triangle between siblings and a third person 2) accident being all relationship trouble solution (okay, now, I know I'm walking a very thin line here, but you gotta admit that eventually Malik and Altair would be able to solve their shit even without Altair falling with no hay safeguard) 3) way too feely, overdramatic reactions to everything happening in the story. (what I mean is feelings are good, but that overplayed kind I'm having serious trouble with)

So, I've decided to give them a try myself to draw them differently. Because I believe all of these can happen. What I also believe in is, that they don't have to necessarily result in Esmeralda field of doom if there's a valid explanation at hand.

What do you say, how did I do?

Also, you didn't believe I'd left you hanging like this, did you? (actually, you could and you probably did, fuck. x.x) Anyway, be prepared for an epilogue the next week! ;)

#cbyp #assassin's creed #altmal

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robininthelabyrinth · 6 years

Text

Countless Roads - Chapter 21

Fic: Countless Roads - Chapter 21 - Ao3

Fandom: Flash, Legends Pairing: Gen, Mick Rory/Leonard Snart, others

Summary: Due to a family curse (which some call a gift), Leonard Snart has more life than he knows what to do with – and that gives him the ability to see, speak to, and even share with the various ghosts that are always surrounding him.

Sure, said curse also means he’s going to die sooner rather than later, just like his mother, but in the meantime Len has no intention of letting superheroes, time travelers, a surprisingly charming pyromaniac, and a lot of ghosts get in the way of him having a nice, successful career as a professional thief.

———————————————————————————

"Boss?" Mick says.

Len blinks. That might not be the first time Mick’s said that. “Yeah?”

"You okay?" Mick approaches Len almost warily. Len checks his mental clock; they haven’t moved a muscle for near on five minutes.

"Why wouldn't I be okay?"

"You keep rubbing your chest for some reason."

"It's cold," Len says.

"It really ain't, boss." Mick hesitates. "If you're spooked about what happened with your dad – "

"I'm not spooked," Len protests immediately. "I'm the one with the spooks, remember?"

As if that's the words that open the door, Len is suddenly hit, dead in the chest, with –

"Unquiet dead?" Mick asks, instantly on the alert, looking around.

– euphoria.

Not Len's, though; he's vaguely aware that it's not him that's happy, but rather that someone very close by is very, very happy.

"No," he croaks. "Not unquiet – happy?"

"Happy? What's that mean?"

"They're – happy."

And then they come.

Ghosts.

Hundreds of them, pouring in from everywhere, streets and sky and sewers, swimming towards him, swirling in an ever-narrowing circle like they're caught in a giant drain-pipe and Len's the grate at the bottom.

Mick swears and jumps in their way, fist making contact with the first ghost that comes for Len.

"The unquiet dead in this world are happy?!" he yells, beating them off, but barely.

Len scowls even as he tries to back away. He doesn't understand, they don't feel like the unquiet dead – the difference between the worlds couldn't be that extreme, could it? Unless...

He licks his lips and swallows to wet his throat, and then he bellows, "Stop!" at the top of his lungs.

The ghosts freeze in place.

They're all smiling. Their hands are outstretched, but they're smiling, all happy, all delighted like kids out to the zoo for the first time –

"You don't have people like me in this world, do you?" Len asks, inspiration hitting. These aren't unquiet dead - these are regular old run-of-the-mill friendlies. Just...very deprived ones.

He points at a nearby ghost, a man in his early thirties with an earnest face. Kind of reminds him of Barry, if Barry had been a fighter pilot wearing an eye-scarring shade of green. "You, answer."

"Not in years," the ghost says promptly. "Before my time. They were all killed off."

"That sounds bad," Mick says, arms crossed and eyes narrowed, still standing protectively halfway in front of Len. "By who? They still a threat?"

"No, no," the ghost says quickly. "It was many, many years ago. That era is long gone."

One of the other ghosts twitches.

"You," Len says, nodding at her. Latina girl in her late teens, maybe early twenties. College student, he’d guess. Also wearing an eye-scarring shade of green, amusingly enough.

"It was less than a hundred years ago," she says apologetically. "Not that many years."

"That's plenty of years," the first ghost grumbles.

"No, it really isn't," Mick replies, scowling. "You made it sound like it happened in the dark ages or something. Less than a hundred years ago? What the hell happened?"

"Well, when they were eliminating the human targets for missile strikes during the Great War –"

"Great War – wait, you mean World War I?" Len asks.

He's met with a sea of confused faces. "There's only been one World War," the Latina girl says. "1914 through 1945, thirty years of endless war. And it was followed by the Rebuilding - and the Witch Hunts of the '50s, of course. I was a dual history-architecture major; we went into it in detail because that's the reason all the buildings in Central City are so new and shiny. They all date back to the Rebuilding. The post-war economic boom."

Len looks around.

She’s right – Central City is a positive smorgasbord of shiny new buildings: a monorail, skyscrapers, lovely art deco as far as the eye can see, even when you squint over in the direction of the slums. Even the slums are all gussied up and that’s just wrong.

The only way something like that would ever happen if is - well, if there weren’t anything left there to build on top of and you had to rebuild from scratch.

Mick and Len exchange alarmed looks. "Central City got bombed?" Len asks, because his brain can't even comprehend it. Central City's in the middle of the goddamn country; how could it have been bombed? Much less - “To the ground?”

"Forget that," Mick says. "What's this about witch hunts? Is that when they went after the people like Len?"

"Well, you see, by the end of the war, when things developed into a race between the remaining major powers -"

"Cold War," Len murmurs.

"- there was a lot of weapons development by that point. Specifically, both sides had started using biomechanical targeting systems for their long-range missiles - in particularly, there were these homing beacons that could be ingested, so that they could smuggle them in just about everywhere, extract them, and then plant them to achieve a precise strike target. These beacons were powered by human heartbeats, too, so they’d stop working if the person died; that was a sort of fail-safe, you know, in case the enemy side found out about it, because if they killed your agent, then they were calling down a missile strike on wherever the homing beacon was. And, well, there'd been a solid war-time effort to find anyone who was giving off unusual energy readings -"

"Like me," Len sighs.

"And after the war they got paranoid about spies and sort of stepped up their efforts to find anyone with weird readings, no matter how faint, and that's why all the necromancers died."

"I'm not a necromancer," Len objects automatically.

Mick looks around at the army of ghosts for a quick second. "Course not, boss," he says. "But the name'll do for now, I think. Any chance of that sort of thing picking up on Len now?"

"Highly unlikely," another ghost chimes in, a portly older guy. "There was a pretty big backlash after the Witch Hunts, politically. We're much better now."

"Are we really?" the girl asks skeptically. "We still have all the laws on the books – they're the same ones that they use to target metahumans, or to allow those awful meta-detecting watches to be used to identify any meta as dangerous, no matter if they've done anything – "

"No wonder all those metas joined Zoom's army," Mick mutters to Len, who nods. What a shiny little dystopia there is here, hiding the rot under the surface.

Harry hadn't mentioned it when he briefed them all on what to expect on Earth-2, but then again, he's a rich white scientific corporation owner and probably the guy who invented those awful-sounding meta-targeting watches. It’s probably never even occurred to him to wonder what sort of impact that type of automatic detection device would have on a population already terrified of their new-found powers and desperate for support – yet equally afraid of the sort of summary executions that had occurred within living memory.

Harry had been in favor of re-using the pipeline to store metas on their Earth, Len vaguely recalls Barry telling him. And had possibly killed a man imprisoned in the pipeline.

And, somehow, he isn’t a villain.

What the fuck, Earth-2.

"Thanks for the intel," he says to the ghosts, trying to ignore how many there are. "I’ll keep it in mind. You can go now."

Nobody moves.

"No, really. Free to go. Anytime."

"We don't want to go," one of the ghosts says, staring at Len almost beatifically. "We want to be next to you."

Len stares. He's not sure what to do with that. He doesn't want to order them to leave, even if he could manage to order around such a large group, but he can't cart around a massive entourage of ghosts – sure, if he doesn’t power them up, maybe no one else can see them, but it's distracting as hell to Len.

"Mick, any thoughts?" he murmurs.

"Yeah," Mick says. "What d'you think of this: 'why do ghosts/suddenly appear/every time/you are near/just like me/they long to be/close to you'."

"I'm gonna punch you in your grinning smug face, you asshole," Len says after a long moment of shocked, horrified (and appreciative) silence.

"C'mon, boss, you've got to admit it was a good one."

"I admit nothing," Len says, even though he's having trouble keeping his lips from twitching. "Okay, all of you – how about a nice perimeter? Go back to about 100 feet away from me and hang out there unless I call you or look like I need your help."

There's a lot of ghosts pouting.

"Try ordering them," Mick suggests.

Len makes a face. He's still not sure he can order this many ghosts around, but they're only pouting, not actually objecting, so maybe a sterner tone of voice would work. "All of you," he says, raising his voice. "All but Mick. Go to the perimeter until I need you. Now."

They go.

They're still not that far away, perching on all the buildings like a giant flock of pigeons, peeping through alleyways and sometimes through buildings.

"That's a bit creepy," Mick says.

"A bit creepy?"

Len's Cisco-enhanced Earth-2-compatible phone – because the comms wouldn’t work for some technobabble reason that Len had stopped listening to about two minutes in – picks that minute to start buzzing.

He checks it – shit, he's missed a whole set of calls and messages.

"Yeah?" he asks, answering the phone. "Who's in trouble?"

"Firestorm," Cisco says in a rush. “The police station – there was an ambush – well, I think we were supposed to hit the ambush first, but they got there first so the group watching STAR Labs left and went there –”

Len straightens. “Lisa’s in that group.”

“She’s okay,” Cisco assures them. “The police thought she was the mayor, so they leapt to her defense – just her, and she’s kind of pissed off by that, actually – and got her to safety, then Barry picked her up before the actual mayor found out about it.”

“Good.”

“Oh, and, like, apparently you don’t exist in this universe? Or maybe died as a baby or something – Lisa asked around, but we weren't able to get anything out of them –”

Len thinks about watches designed to detect and out all individuals with the metahuman gene, witting or unwitting; thinks about fear and paranoia and biomechanical targeting systems; thinks of people being afraid of unusual energy readings – thinks, finally, about how far advanced genetic testing for infants has gotten back on Earth-1, much less in this shiny advanced and absolute awful universe. “Yeah, let’s not go into that, I don't care,” he says shortly. “Everyone’s safe?”

“Yeah, they’re all here at STAR Labs now. Caitlin's group is still out, though; they've reported in that they're still doing okay.”

"Good," Len says. "So what happened?"

"Zoom's people attacked, but it wasn't real, it was to distract us while Zoom attacked Firestorm. He hit them with a lightning strike, split them apart, and then he grabbed Ronnie and ran him away!"

"Shit. Did Barry follow?"

"Yeah, but no luck. We have no idea where he might be – or even if he's alive."

"Hold on a minute," Len says, then covers the mouth of the phone. "Ronald Raymond," he says. "If you can hear this, come here."

He waits a few beats.

Nothing.

"Okay, so I don't think he's dead," Len tells Cisco, then pulls away again. "Can you guys go check where a man named Ronnie Raymond is for me, and bring him back to me if you can?"

The ghosts pour out of the square – not all of them, but a good number. It's a little freaky how eager they are to do what he wants. With the exception of leaving him alone, that is.

"I have some people searching," he informs Cisco. "We'll find him, with luck."

"Well, if we can't find him soon, Stein's going to be in trouble," Cisco says grimly. "He collapsed a few minutes ago; we've got him hooked up to the equipment here, and it's not good. The Firestorm matrix in his cells is deteriorating rapidly – way too rapidly. It shouldn't be happening this fast, but we have no idea what's causing it."

"Didn't they say that was what happened when they didn't merge for too long?" Mick, who's been eavesdropping, asks.

"Yeah, that's it," Len confirms, glancing at his partner. "Got an idea?"

"Well, if it's only when they don't merge for too long, then why's he dying already?"

"Maybe 'cause Ronnie's dead."

"Nah," Mick says. "Then Zoom'd leave us the body to taunt us. Is there anything that doesn't involve killing that'd put stress on their bond, make it more unstable somehow? Kill 'em slow?"

Len conveys the question, and Cisco replies, "We don't know. We'll run some tests – you think maybe Zoom just took him somewhere that hurts their bond?"

"Stretching too much for too long can sometimes cause more stress than a clean break," Len says. "At least with bones, anyway. Anyway, Zoom's a sadistic serial killer, so I'm with Mick – if Ronnie was dead, we'd see a body. If we don't, it's 'cause Zoom wants us to see 'em die slow. At least, here's hoping that's Zoom's plan, 'cause otherwise I don't see why he'd keep him alive..."

Len's voice trails off as he watches a small crowd of ghosts, some of the more powerful poltergeists, zoom cheerfully towards him, a brightly flaming Firestorm in their hands.

It occurs to him, belatedly, that he didn’t specify which Ronnie Raymond he wanted the ghosts to bring him.

"Uh," he says. "Cisco. You said Stein's with you, right?"

"Yeah, why?"

Len takes in the darker uniform, the twist of a snarl on the man wearing Ronnie's face as he struggles to get free. The poltergeists are losing energy fast, holding onto him; the blows he strikes can't hurt them, of course, but a few more hits and they'll be too incorporeal to hold him any longer. "Then I think I found his doppelganger. I'll call you back."

Len focuses on the ghosts holding Earth-2 Ronnie and pushes some life towards them. At first it doesn't go right – slippery and sideways, not having any impact – but then he figures out that if he aims right next to them, kind of like trying to aim through the reflective surface of moving water, then it works just like it always has.

The poltergeists yelp like they've been zapped with static electricity, but he can see their grasp on Ronnie get stronger.

Good to know his curse still works here.

"Boss, you're pale," Mick murmurs.

Len feels it a second later, a rush of weakness, but it's only momentary. "Harder to power up Earth-2 ghosts, I think," he says. "I think I've got the hang of it now."

The ghosts drop Ronnie at Len's feet.

"Hi there," Len says, and points his cold gun at Ronnie's head. "Let's chat."

"Breacher!" Ronnie spits. "You're not from here."

"No," Len says mildly. "I'm not. What did Zoom do with your duplicate? He took alternate you away."

Ronnie sneers. "Good riddance. I don't – "

"Do you know how you got here?" Len asks.

Ronnie pauses.

"Invisible hands, huh? Grabbing you? You know what that was?"

"Telekinesis – "

"Oh, no. Nothing like that."

Mick chuckles, dark and dangerous. "Tell him, boss. Or better yet, show him."

Len focuses. It's the barest sprinkling of energy, all around him, but the nearest few dozen ghosts shiver with pleasure.

And, as he'd intended, become visible. Just barely, but there.

An apparition usually appears in the corner of your eye, not apparent dead on – pun intended, of course – but this square has far too many apparitions for that.

Ronnie's eyes go wide.

"These are the dead," Len says cheerfully. "Some of them may even be your victims. Now, if you tell me what I want to know, I may let you go. Of course, I could be lying. Maybe I'll still kill you when I'm done – but I swear this much: I won't let the ghosts do it."

Ronnie swallows. Clearly, Len's threat is having some serious effect - and no wonder, with all of these ghosts hanging around.

"Well?" Mick rumbles.

"I - I told Zoom about the connection," Ronnie says. "Stein and me – we die if we're separated."

"After a few months, though," Len objects.

"A few months if we're in the same city or if someone dies," Ronnie corrects. "It's shorter if we're still connected, but located too far apart from each other."

"So Zoom took him away?" Len says, nodding a little.

"Zoom planned to take him through a breach," Ronnie confesses. "To your Earth, then close the breach behind him. That way, they'll both die pretty rapidly."

"And you're not scared of him pulling the same trick on you?"

"I'm not scared of Zoom!"

Len rolls his eyes. "Sure," he drawls. "Trust the serial killer. Good idea."

"What're you talking about?" Ronnie asks suspiciously.

Len arches his eyebrows. He can feel Mick shift behind him; he doesn't need to see him to know they're of the same mind. "Oh, he didn't tell you?" Len says as casually as he can. "Zoom also goes by the name of Hunter Zolomon."

They don't actually know that for sure yet, but it's having a great effect on Ronnie – his eyes bulge out, his lips go pale, he swallows. "I heard about him," he says. "Oh god – Cait – Frost – she doesn't know – "

Nice to know some things are the same, assuming that 'Cait' refers to Caitlin.

"Don't worry, I'm sure he won't use your weakness against you," Len drawls as sarcastically as possible. "Being as he cares so much about being on the same team."

"I'm joined up – "

"So were they," Mick says. "Zoom split them, then took one. But hey, good luck with that."

"I'll let you go," Len decides. "But next time, I won't be so nice."

Ronnie's head jerks in a nod.

"One last question. Where can we find Zoom?"

"He's gathering the army at the CCPD," Ronnie says. He can't share information fast enough now. "I'm technically one of his lieutenants, but he hasn't shared his plans with any of us."

"Who are his lieutenants?" Mick asks.

"Me, Cait – that's Killer Frost to you – Reverb and Black Siren."

"Real names being?"

"Uh, Ramon and – Lance, I think? Laurel Lance. She's from out of town. She has scream powers."

"Ramon," Len says. "Francisco or Dante?"

"Francisco. The other one isn't a lieutenant – Rupture is more of a back-up, really."

"Good to know," Len says. "Now go."

Ronnie flies away, presumably to go find the Earth-2 Caitlin. Who apparently goes by Killer Frost – either she has meta powers in this universe or she has really badass taste in nicknames.

Len dials up Cisco. "Zoom took Ronnie back to Earth-1," he says when Cisco picks up. "That's why Stein is dying – too much strain."

"But our ride back to Earth-1 isn't for another 24 hours!"

"Find someone else who's compatible with Stein," Len suggests.

"From Earth-2?"

"Why not? Use those – one of the ghosts told me they have meta-human detecting watches?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah, Harry showed us. Pretty snazzy stuff."

Len rolls his eyes. "Cisco, you ever read X-men?"

"Sure have; why?"

"Mutant – I'm sorry, meta – detectors for the general populace is a surefire way to radicalize an already oppressed minority."

"...oooooh. Shit. No wonder they all join in with Zoom. He's like Magneto, but, you know, badly written Magneto. The one they retconned to be Xorn or something."

Mick is nodding enthusiastically, because he’s never stopped being ridiculously into that comics stuff. Len just sighs. "Cisco. How do the watches work?"

"It's really cool – er, I mean, awful. Totally awful. It basically detects the presence of the metahuman gene in anyone in your surroundings - wow, that is totally like X-men -"

"Cisco. Focus. Can you use the meta detectors everyone's wearing and program them to track for Firestorm compatibility instead? That possible?"

"Yeah! I can totally do that."

"Good. I'm going to call Caitlin now."

Len hangs up and redials. He's painfully aware that he's just standing on a street corner surrounded by quiet, watching ghosts. A lot of ghosts.

Mick shifts and stands closer. Len relaxes a bit. At least he's got Mick.

It takes a few rings, then Caitlin hisses, "I'm busy."

"With what?" Len asks skeptically. She still answered the phone, after all.

A moment's pause. "Wally and I are about to go into Zoom's lair."

"You found it?"

"Yeah, I, uh, have a guide. Don't tell Barry! Zoom is tracking him. Uh. Apparently."

Mick is silently laughing.

Len closes his eyes. "Is your guide named Killer Frost?"

"...maybe."

"You know she works for Zoom, right?"

"We bonded! And – hey, cool, it's Ronnie! Er, Earth-2 Ronnie. Anyway, I have to go – "

"You know it's probably a trap, right – " Len starts, but she's already hung up. "Well, crap."

"They're real good at this whole being subtle crap, ain't they, boss?" Mick says, shaking his head.

"No kidding," Len sighs and redials. He feels like a goddamn telephone operator. Next rescue mission: conference call lines. "Cisco, send me the coordinates of either Caitlin's or Wally's phones. Preferably both. Then focus on saving Firestorm and, I don't know, send Barry out as a distraction. Zoom’s tracking him in specific."

He hangs up. "Wally first," he tells Mick. "Then back to Firestorm. At least Jax and Lisa are fine."

"I'll get a car running," Mick says.

"The jeep down the way still has its keys," a helpful ghost chimes in.

"...well, that takes all the fun out of it."

#dccoldwave #mick rory #leonard snart #cisco ramon #Ronnie raymond #Caitlin snow #my fic #deadfic

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droewyn · 7 years

Text

Question Game!

I was tagged by @phlintandsteel!

rules:

1. answer the questions given by the person who tagged you

2. write 10 questions of your own and tag 10 people

1. Have you ever truly hated another human being?

Yes. My stepmom’s son. She raised him as a single mom, and while she didn’t have much of anything, she gave it all to him. He wanted to go to broadcasting school to be a radio DJ. She was terrified that he’d fail, but supported him anyway, and when he didn’t fail, she was his biggest fan. Then he met and married Old Southern Money, and became ashamed of his roots. He cut off all contact with her -- told her via fucking certified mail that she didn’t “do enough” for him and he wanted nothing more to do with her. Periodically he calls just to fuck with her brain, saying that he wants to talk, only to go off on her and belittle her. When his first kid was born, he invited her and my dad to the baptism, and when they flew down to New Orleans on their own dime he bitched her out and told her he didn’t want her there. Like he'd never intended for her to attend, he just wanted to humiliate her in person. We had her on suicide watch for weeks after that little trick. I've actually wondered if driving her to suicide is his goal. He is staggeringly cruel, an absolute waste of humanity, and the world would be so much better off without him in it. At least then my stepmom could have some goddamn closure and stop getting tortured every six months. I hope his wife has a billion affairs, gives him crotch rot, and leaves him for the mailman. I hope his kids grow up to break his heart. I’d also really like to kick his balls into his throat. Repeatedly.

... sorry. You asked. :/

2. How do YOU pronounce caramel?

CARE-uh-mel.

3. What was your first fandom?

Um. Okay, so, like. I'm old. Tumblr OldTM, but still. So I'm kind of not sure how to answer this question.

The first thing I went absolutely nuts over was My Little Pony. I was four, and there were these pastel unicorns and I. Had. To have. Them all.

The first thing I made up stories in my head about was Rainbow Brite.

The first thing I had headcanon for was She-Ra, Princess of Power. When the DVDs came out and I rewatched the series as an adult, I was genuinely shocked that the episode where Adora had to earn everyone's trust because hello, there's usually a step between "I've decided to quit being the enemy's greatest general" and "I accept the position of leadership in your rebellion", didn't actually exist. I still "remember" it vividly, and I'm not entirely convinced that there wasn't some history rewriting or parallel universe involved.

The first fanfiction I wrote was for Final Fantasy I. I wrote a Save Our Princess! flyer for some spelling test or something in sixth grade.

My first actual online fandom was Sailor Moon. I had a 2400 baud modem, and the tiny, distorted, 300x400 video of the Japanese opening credits took two days to download. Fanfiction.net didn't exist yet, never mind AO3. We had WEBRINGS. It was barbaric.

4. Guys in high heels, yes or no?

Doesn't do anything for me, but then I'm demi, and my boy has never been into that. You do you and don't worry about what I think.

5. Did you go to college, and if so, was it worth it?

I dropped out as a sophomore, so no. It was not worth it. I'm making decent money as an entirely self-taught Salesforce admin.

6. What is your favorite type of AU?

Something that gives me an entirely new experience while staying true to the characters. I've loved me some A/B/O, and I've also been utterly revolted by A/B/O. Ditto for soulmates, fake relationships, pretty much all of it. It's all the writer and their storytelling for me, not a specific setting.

...

OKAY FINE GIVE ME ALL THE LEVERAGE YOI AU IN THE WORLD AND I WILL BE SO HAPPY THERE I SAID IT

7. Would you hide your orientation/stay in the closet to get ahead in your career (I guess I’m assuming since this is tumblr that we’re all queer here)?

I joined the workforce in the late 1990's. Of course I have been in the closet at various workplaces, though much of it was less being concerned about possible advancement or lack thereof and more not wanting to deal with being the freak in the triad relationship. These days I'm open about being queer with my coworkers, though I have not laid out any actual details to anyone. Except for the one adorable little baby gay who worried that I might find some people's behavior shocking if I went to Detroit Pride this year. Then I was all oh sweetie you think I'm vanilla that's so cute let me tell you exactly how wrong you are.

8. What is your favorite flavor of popcorn?

So I take about a quarter cup of olive oil, right? The regular stuff, not EVOO; EVOO can't take being heated without losing flavor so there's no point in spending the extra money for the sake of being fancy. I grind up some salt and pepper with a mortar and pestle until it's super fine and add it to the oil, stirring so the particles are evenly suspended throughout. Then I crush about 4-6 cloves of garlic and add them. Yes, cloves. More than that if they're small. Next, I turn the stove on to the popcorn sweet spot (just past the 7 line on my range) and add a single kernel of corn. When that pops, it’s time to add the rest of the popcorn, about a half cup. It has to be kept moving! I use one of those hand-cranked popcorn kettles that lets me continually stir; if I don't have that it's shaking the (lidded) pot like a savage and trying not to get burned by escaping steam. When the popcorn is done, it gets dumped in a very large bowl and sprinkled immediately with powdered parmesan cheese so that the remaining oil will allow the cheese to stick to the popcorn. Sometimes I add some fresh chives if I'm feeling precious.

That is my favorite popcorn, and it is the fucking bomb.

9. What character do you think deserved a better redemption arc (or to get one when they didn’t)?

Actually, I'm going to go back to my She-Ra headcanon from above. I know it was a child's cartoon from the 1980's. But even when I was a child I understood that some transgressions are just too big for "Whoops, sorry I was like brainwashed and stuff" to cut it. She needed trials, tribulations. She needed to earn her place. Earn the right for redemption. I'd love to see a take on the series that digs into that. (That and the Hordak/Adora relationship. Why the fuck did he raise her to be innocent when keeping her that way was so much trouble? Was she a trophy? Was she the one good thing in his life? If so, why did he make her fight for him? Did he ever care for her at all? These questions should keep her up at night. She should be torn between hatred and love for the father figure she thought she'd had. IT WOULD BE SO DELICIOUS)

10. What element would you choose if you could bend/control ONE.

Carbon. I'd basically have control over everything organic and RULE THE WORLD MUA HA HA HA HA

I’m tagging the following people (entirely voluntary, of course):

@mercury01, @minttytea, @doesitlooklikeineedanotherfandom, @silvercrystal1, @basedpandesal, @cinnamonviking, @spideypool-snarryalways, @planeoftheeclectic, @ihaveacrappyusername, and all of the porn bots.

My questions:

1. What would your ideal T-shirt slogan read?

2. What is your comfort food, activity, and/or piece of clothing, and why?

3. Which fandom are you the most proud to be part of? Which fandom are you ashamed of? They can be the same fandom.

4. Name one thing about yourself that you like. This must be genuine. NO SIDESTEPPING, SELF-NEGGING, OR BACKHANDED SHIT. IF I CAN DO IT YOU CAN.

5. Do you have any traditions in your family that you’ve inherited and are happy to carry forward? Are there any traditions that you’d like to start yourself?

6. What are your pet(s) name(s)? If you don’t have a pet, what would you name your fantasy pet?

7. What of yours would you like archaeologists (alien or future humans; your choice) to dig up one day? Why?

8. You’ve done all of those “What’s your porn/writer/Star Wars/etc name” memes. We all have. What’s your favorite one?

9. What song summarizes you?

10. What’s your superpower? Will you be a hero or a villain?

BONUS QUESTION BECAUSE MY HUSBAND WANTS TO CONTRIBUTE BUT IS A SMARTASS:

11. If Richard the Lionheart had actually taken his shit seriously, do you think he could have spanked Saladin, or did existing socioeconomic and political conditions doom his Crusade to failure?

#question game #phlintandsteel #tumblr game #original content #i kind of want to answer my own questions now #personal stuff #question 1 basically sums up why i'm a slytherin btw #i try to be kind #but nice is situational #and DO NOT FUCK WITH MY TRIBE

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