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thisweekingundamwing · 3 years ago

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This Week in Gundam Wing (August 22-28, 2021)

Hey Gundam Wing fandom! Here’s your weekly roll-up. Show your fellow fans some love.

--Mod LAM

EDIT (August 29): have removed tags for richardarmititty per their request (and for evan-wins for good measure). Please do not submit posts by either party going forward. I will also be BLOCKING both accounts to avoid future inadvertent inclusion (again, per their request to not be associated with the content captured in this roll-up).

Fanfiction

The Life of the Immortal Jellyfish (CH.14/35) by @lemontrash

Pairings: Duo x Wufei

Characters: 5 pilots + Relena, Hilde, Noin, Une

Rating: MATURE

Tags / Warnings: post-canon, post-Endless Waltz, UST, roommates, Preventers, slow burn, insomnia, friendship

Summary: Is it chance that lands Duo and Wufei in the same university dorm room? They're not stupid enough to believe that but too tired to fight it. Duo's dragged himself back from the brink of going too far and remains teetering on the edge while Wufei's doggedly trying to prove himself to the 'good guys' in the aftermath of the Eve Wars. Sleep and normalcy eludes them both. As they become increasingly aware how damaged they are, they start to edge towards friendship, or something more, but all too soon the peace seems jeopardised by a new and manipulative threat.

Thrash (welcome to the gutter) by @gemstonecircles for @noirangetrois

Pairings: Duo x Relena, implied Heero x Trowa

Characters: Heero, Duo, Trowa, Relena, Hilde

Rating: EXPLICIT

Tags / Warnings: safehouses, friends to lovers, unresolved (and eventually resolved) sexual tension, graphic sexual situations,

Summary: “Not that it’s not a pretty bitchin’ look,” Duo said, his words slightly distorted by the key-pin hanging from his mouth, both his hands engaged with the grocery bags from the pick-up location in the city outside, “And OverKill is an excellent choice, but don’t you have your own clothes?”Relena and Duo are pent up in a safehouse and something’s gotta give. Eventually.

Lucerne by katopiyo

Pairings: Duo x Quatre

Characters: Duo, Quatre

Rating: General

Tags / Warnings: canon insert, dancing

Summary: Duo and Quatre catch up in the Peacemillion's break room.

The Empresses’ Third by @tziganecaffiends and @zaganthi

Pairings: Wufei x Treize x Meilan

Characters: Wufei, Treize, Melian

Rating: EXPLICIT

Tags / Warnings: threesome, alternate universe - everyone lives, fix-it, happy ending, love, prisoner of war, coercion, Light Dom/sub, pegging, Porn with Feelings, families of choice, implied/referenced child abuse and suicide

Summary: Out of a war, she had secured the safety of her husband, obtained a third, and had a daughter. They had managed to fix their colony, and they now had viable economic gains that were steady and sufficient to support their people because she had felt greedy, angry, horny, and petty, yes. Because her husband had been fascinated by the man who was now showing Mei-Xing the parts of a rose bloom, and stumbling for a moment as Wufei gave him the right words in Mandarin.

Warmth by @noirangetrois for Purdys aka Diane

Pairings: Heero x Relena

Characters: Heero, Relena

Rating: MATURE

Tags / Warnings: huddle for warmth, only one blanket, resolved sexual tension, sexual situations, Heero’s an idiot

Summary: The front door opened and Relena heard the sound of rain pelting down outside. Heero entered and shut the door behind him, dripping water everywhere.“You didn’t wear a jacket!” She had been asleep when he’d left to scout the perimeter and hadn’t realized. “It wasn’t raining when I left,” he replied.

Stand Without Flinching (CH.46/?) by @angelselene

Pairings: Heero x Duo, Trowa x Quatre, Wufei x Sally, Steve x Tony, Wanda x Vision

Characters: GW and MCU cast

Rating: MATURE

Tags / Warnings: GW-MCU crossover, alternate universe, canon divergent, fix-it, romance, Preventers, PTSD, moral ambiguity, family reunification, slow burn, found family

Summary: Wufei wasn’t sure what to expect when Maxwell came back in by himself.

With Open Arms by @bryony-rebb

Pairings: Zechs x Noin

Characters: Zechs, Noin

Rating: EXPLICIT

Tags / Warnings: post-canon, post-Endless Waltz, reconciliation, emotional hurt/comfort, semi-public sex, porn with feelings

Summary: In the immediate aftermath of Endless Waltz, Zechs and Noin (ahem) reunite.When he looked back at her, there was a slight furrow between Noin's brows, a downward twist to her lips; her eyes seemingly stuck on the slim leather fold of his wallet. "The dead man carries cash," she quietly observed.

The Art of Making a Machine by @the-reanimated-bhg

Pairings: N/A

Characters: Dr. J, Professor G

Rating: General

Tags / Warnings: two brilliant minds bickering incessantly, failed NaNoWriMoFic, humor

Summary: A Story of Love, Friendship and Fisticuffs

Fanart

Heero Smoking by @bettertasting

No Sleep (Heero x Duo) by @bettertasting

Heero and Relena by @alphaikaros

Heero and Relena Halloween by @alphaikaros

Halloween Relena by @noromax

Wufei by @farshootingstar

Quatre by @darksharinganz

Other Fanwork

Cosplay and Gunpla

(RG) XXXG-01W Wing Gundam review by @reversemoon255

Custom EW Heavyarms 1/100 HG by @the-reanimated-bhg

Heavyarms by @christianmswanson

Sandrock and Deathscythe by @christianmswanson

Shenlong by @christianmswanson

Discussion and Headcanons

@kittykatz took and online survey and found 8w7 is Une’s enneatype according to PDB. Try it yourself over here!

Gundam Fuel Source by @meggie-stardust

@kittykatz is sharing some scans of GoL and their thoughts on the scenes

Wufei and Treize’s fight and the immediate aftermath

Miscommunication at its finest

The Lightning Count

Singapore base + more Treize and Zechs

Heading to outer space

Heero’s freak out

Duo and Hilde

Other Fun Stuff

@incorrectgundamwingquotes is still making us laugh

It’s Always Sunny in Gundam Wing by @incorrectgundamwingquotes

Skeletons by @the-reanimated-bhg

Make it happen by @the-reanimated-bhg

Helmet-ception by @the-reanimated-bhg

Too hot to handle by @vegalume and @janaverse

Calendar Events

@gwcocktailfriday is back with this week’s prompt! Be sure to post your responses on Friday (September 3) between 3-5PM EST!

@/ficwip (Twitter) is hosting a "Rise of the Dead Fandoms" event. Contributor sign-ups end on Monday (August 30), so be sure to register soon! Creation period runs September-October; posting will be in November. More info at their FAQ.

September is National Prostate Awareness Month and @expewrites and @boxofhatebrains are hosting a GW Prostate Health Event at @prostatehealth-gundamwing beginning September 1. More info is available on the Event AO3 Page but in brief, options are to (1) create something or (2) donate to your prostate health organization of choice.

@gundamzine has opened up the mailing list, so be sure to register to get your FREE PDF on October 1! In the mean time, be sure to follow the account so that you can learn about the stellar 2021 Zine Crew members. Also consider donating to the team’s chosen charity, World Literacy Foundation (donations are optional, but encouraged).

The @weedgrandpacookbook is a go! The project will be an homage to the fanon of Howard as the Gundam Wing’s chillest Weed Grandpa. Yes, this includes content that promotes/celebrates/normalizes the consumption of marijuana and adjacent substances recreationally. The FREE digital zine would be presented like a cookbook, with room for meta, fic, general advice, art, graphics, crafts (Gundam-themed pipes anyone?), and of course, dank recipes. More info to come this month, with sign-ups planned for October.

NOTE: Due to the nature of the theme, this zine will be considered 18+ NSFW. Be mindful of your local laws regarding creating and engaging with content of this nature.

Spooky prompt idea generation for the GW Hallows Event will kick off mid-September, and posting period will happen in October. Stay tuned to @thisweekingundamevents!

Keep an eye on @gwoc-october while you’re at it for news on the GW Original Character (OC) October Event. You can expect a prompt calendar to go live in September with posting in October...but you can also just use the month to showcase works with your original GW characters!

Also, @thisweekingundamevents will be opening sign-ups for the 2021 Holiday Gift Exchange in September! Participants will get their assignments in October, followed by the creation period November-December and finally posting in early January 2022.

Got an event you want us to showcase? Let us know!

#gundam wing

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whump-a-la-mode · 4 years ago

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Hiya! I saw Kirby tagged you and I like to find new writers so here I am!

Could you do 'fainting' on your bthb card if you haven't already? Much love, Xx Dee <3

Thank you so much for your ask! I love your blog, and I’ve been reading it for a long time before I made this account ^^ I love your stories with the Assasin and the Queen (I forget if that series has a name or not, oops)

I’m really sorry about turning all these prompts into Villainsicle. Maybe I love these characters a little too much :)

This kinda happens in the same time period as the last prompt fill. No comfort for Villain this time around, though.

I hope you enjoy!

CW//Superhero whump, villain whumpee, conditioned whumpee, implied starvation, force-feeding, underfeeding, malnutrition, fainting, purposely making someone sick

“You aren’t going to have lunch?”

Leader raised a brow as Medic sat at the table across from them. The doctor’s possessions were few, and they carried with them little more than a messenger bag and a coat.

Around them, the cafeteria buzzed with activity. The meal of the day had attracted quite a significant portion of the base’s staff, leaving most of the tables full. Medic did their best to tune them out, though it wasn’t exactly easy.

Most of the tables were covered with trays and dishes, but that at which Leader and Medic sat was noticeably empty.

“You aren’t, either.” Medic replied incredulously.

“I had lunch with Engineer, earlier. And you?”

“I’m not hungry. Don’t have the time, even if I was.” They shook their head.

“If you’re so busy, then... let’s just get right to the chase. I’m tired. What is it?”

Medic frowned. Their boss wasn’t always the most professional, certainly not, but such a lack of grace was unlike them. Had the situation really been so stressful? At the very least, maybe they’d be able to get an easy ‘yes.’ It was all they were really seeking.

“I just wanted to ask about Villain.”

“Well, I could’ve guessed that much.”

Medic bit their tongue.

“They are still my patient.”

“You’re upset that I moved them from the hospital wing?”

“Less upset, more concerned. Did you forget that they almost died?”

“A repeat of that situation is exactly what I’m trying to avoid. Stress is dangerous.”

“Stress is unavoidable.”

“Maybe. But do you really think it’s a good idea to have the technopath have some kind of meltdown? I like it when my base is standing and my head is on my shoulders.” As they spoke, their voice turned to a snap. “If you want them moved back to the medical wing, I’m sorry, but it’s a no.”

“I wasn’t going to ask.” They had at least known that Leader would be stubborn on that front. They set their shoulders back. “Do you remember back at the hospital, you said that Villain could be useful?”

“You said that, right? I mean, I agree, but-”

“I don’t know, I don’t remember.”

“What about it, then?”

Medic took a deep breath, and made their request:

“If we’re ever going to get their help, we don’t have time to wait. The longer they’re here, the more agitated they’re going to become. I wanted your permission to begin... convincing them, for lack of a better word.”

Leader looked sick. A paleness had crept onto their face, the whole time that Medic had been speaking. It wasn’t fear, certainly not-- it was almost disgust.

“No.” They shook their head. “No. I’m sorry, but... at the hospital, I wasn’t thinking straight. I was tired, we all were. Villain is hurt. Right now, you’re right, they’re your patient, but that’s all. If we’re going to do anything, we’re going to do it after they get better.”

Beneath the table, Medic clenched their fists.

“Then, what do you want me to do?”

“You don’t have to be snippy about it. It’s been a rough day, but that doesn’t make me any less of your boss.”

“I- You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“You will take care of Villain. From now on, I’m leaving you in charge of their day-to-day care-- feeding, watering, and any medical needs they may have. That is all. Understood?”

Medic gritted their teeth.

“Understood, Leader.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Medic was a lot of things. They were a physician, a surgeon, and the world’s only expert on Enhanced biology. But they were not a babysitter.

They had expected to be put in charge of Villain’s case, of course they had. Leader wouldn’t trust anyone else with something so delicate. But, that had been back when they had believed Leader to be capable of any sort of strategic thinking at all.

Villain’s capture had been a boon, dropped right into their laps. An incredible power, possessed by someone they could mold like putty. Such an asset would be of incredible use, for recon, for missions, for anything, really.

And Leader had thrown it away, for no reason at all.

They weren’t about to let them give up on such an opportunity.

Medic placed a small cup on a scale, watching as the numbers flickered, before finally deciding on their answer. Too much. They poured a minuscule amount back into the container, before weighing it again.

They weren’t about to disobey orders, especially not ones so directly given. But, aside from their academic credits, Medic was one more thing: A master of loopholes.

Speaking to Villain was off the table. It would be too obvious. But, in the end, the brain is merely a slave to the rest of the body. Especially to the stomach.

The human body is dependant on a grand variety of minerals and vitamins and all of the like. A little too much, or just not quite enough, and the whole system would be thrown into a tailspin. The mind included.

The scale gave its final reading. Perfect. Medic poured the contents of the cup into a mixing bowl.

Leader had given no guidelines as to what Villain had to be fed-- only that they had to receive food. The mixing bowl on the table sat filled with white, powdery piles, all stacked atop one another, and flowing together. Potassium, sodium, amino acids, foric acid; everything one would need. All in perfect amounts, noted onto a clipboard.

They took a bowl of cornmeal and tipped it in, taking up a mixing spoon.

It looked disgusting. It was perfect.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Day One

Medic scrawled onto their notepad, before depositing it into their pocket. From the same pocket, they drew a metal key.

Key in one hand, food (if it could even be called as such) in the other, they entered Villain’s cell.

The prisoner was perched on their bed, halfway hidden beneath blankets. Medic could see their expression fall, as soon as the door crept open.

They supposed they were somewhat glad for the fact. Their captive was already feeble, and their nervous state was hard to ignore. Half of Medic’s work had already been done for them-- they merely had to finish the job.

They held their shoulders back, moving with firm steps, even if their movement was quieted by the carpeted floor. Villain bristled, as though a frightened cat.

Medic closed the door behind themself, ensuring that it was locked, before placing the bowl they held on the carpet before them.

A message. If Villain wanted to eat, they were going to have to work for it.

“Dinner,” Medic grunted. “Eat.”

Villain narrowed their eyes, practically baring their teeth with how far back they curled their lip.

“You have 30 seconds.” It wasn’t a request, not in any form. It was a threat. “Any longer than that, this goes in the trash, and you don’t get to eat ‘till tomorrow night.”

That, Villain took more seriously. They chewed their lip for a moment.

“Fuck you.” They spat, finally, though the way they said it, they sounded nearly to be fighting against their own voice. They wanted to submit. They would, soon enough.

Medic sighed, picking the bowl back up.

“I was bluffing. You don’t get a choice.”

Villain flinched, scrambling backwards. They weren’t quick enough to make any sort of escape. Medic slammed them against the bed, before they had time to react, or even to scream.

A brief struggle left Villain pinned down, atop the mattress, with Medic’s legs holding down theirs, and a firm hand on their neck.

A shove against their throat sent Villain gasping for air, only for a spoonful of colorless grain to be forced between their teeth. They swallowed it, desperately lurching for breath, but finding only more of the tasteless mush.

By the time the bowl was empty, Villain was shaking, struggling for any air. They were, at last, able to take a lungful as Medic climbed off of them, releasing them.

As their captive coughed and panted, Medic left the cell, taking their notebook from their pocket.

Day One

Success

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The human body is a balancing act. A seemingly innocuous ailment may have a thousand different causes. It could be an infection-- hostile bacteria from the outside. Perhaps a cancer, or something to do with the millions of digestive microbes.

Or, a vitamin deficiency. Those with powers were horribly sensitive to such things.

Medic placed the measuring cup on the scale, waiting for the device to give its final answer.

Perfect. Just a third of a gram less than yesterday.

Tiny. Unnoticeable. Perfect.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Day Two

“Eat.”

Medic dropped the bowl onto the ground unceremoniously, not so much as bothering to lean down, first. (Of course, though, they ensured that not a single particle was spilled in the process. They weren’t an idiot.)

Villain peeked out from the covers, under which they were practically huddled like a child. Their shaking was visible, this time, even from across the room.

The doctor forced back a smirk.

“30 seconds.”

That was all it took. In a moment, Villain was wolfing down the mush.

Day Two

Success

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Medic’s pen scrawled over their clipboard.

Intake reduced to .2 grams a day. Subject responding appropriately. Overall reduced food intake has aided process. Subject has not seemed concerned over receiving one meal a day. Whether or not they have noticed at all remains undetermined.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Day Thirteen

Villain didn’t react.

Medic opened the door-- the familiar creak echoing against the walls. They tossed the food down, hardly noticing as a few grains spilled over the edges.

It was hardly a concern.

They looked to their patient.

Formerly flush skin appeared horribly pale, stretched over a mouth hanging half-open, dumbfounded. If Villain had seen them come in, they certainly didn’t show it.

“Eat.”

The command was enough to awake them. They struggled off the bed, bracing themself against the frame before trying to stand.

“30 seconds.” Medic grumbled.

Villain’s eyes widened, ever so slightly, in response to the threat. They fought to move faster, but-

They didn’t even make it two steps. For a moment, their legs stiffened, before they went down in a heap.

Day Thirteen

Success

Medic scrawled in their journal, before rushing off to find Leader.

#whump #whump community #whumpblr #whump prompt #bad things happen bingo #villain whumpee #hero villain whump #conditioned whumpee

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princeescaluswords · 4 years ago

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*puts on the funny looking hat of Fandom Logic* Lydia's banshee powers laid dormant so long and for why? Have you stopped to think how in that time, she suspiciously had Stiles obsessing over her? Knowing her measurements? That dastardly druid boy must have been siphoning her Banshee spark for years to try resurrecting his mom. And he never told her what she was! When he is a genius with a 200 IQ and an expert in all things Supernatural.

I look forward to your questions, because they always tend to make me smile. This particular question demonstrates the same level of imaginative skill and, forgive me, projective paranoia that it took for various BNF to interpret Season 5B’s plot to mean that Scott conspired with Deucalion to trick Theo into murdering Josh and Tracy.

You see, they can’t point to a single scene where Scott tells Deucalion to kill anyone. They can’t point to a single scene where Deucalion kills anyone. They can’t point to a single scene where Deucalion tells Theo to kill anyone. They ignore the scenes where Deucalion mocks Theo for killing Josh and Tracy. If you use the logic that Deucalion taught Theo how to take power, which is why Theo kidnapped him, and that makes Deucalion responsible, you still can’t connect that to anything Scott did or said.

You know what the difference is between your far-fetched theory of Stiles suppressing Lydia’s power and their paranoid fantasy that Scott ordered Deucalion to murder just Tracy and Josh, and not Corey or Hayden (with whom Deucalion was alone) or maybe even Theo? Aside from canon characterization, canon plot, and common sense? You don’t seriously mean it, and they do.

Oh, and the racism.

On this post, all the usual suspects came and told me that not only are they not motivated by racism in their hatred of Scott, but they can’t be because Scott isn’t Latino. Their argument? Well, no one ever came out and declared that he was word-for-word on the show (though somehow the fact that Derek, Peter, Jennifer, Deucalion, Chris, Noah, Melissa, Stiles and Deaton all said that Scott is a good person and a True Alpha does not make that statement true).

That’s all you need to see the racism. Latinos must declare themselves as such, or they’re not. The idea that to be a minority you must be written a specific way to be identified as a minority is in itself racist. All you have to do is look and you’ll see the footprints of racism in this fandom, which they can deny and deny and deny, but the double standards are easily found and they show up in their meta and they show up in their fanfiction and their gifsets and their snide-ass comments they put in the #scott mccall tag on Tumblr. There’s no other explanation for their interpretations but Scott’s not white.

I would love to hear the explanation of why it’s okay for them to write that Scott is responsible for Tracy and Josh’s death, while also writing that Peter cares for his family so much, especially when if you use their own arguments, Peter is responsible for Derek’s temporary death in Smoke & Mirrors (4x12). Peter was in conspiracy with Kate just as much as Scott was in conspiracy with Deucalion and Chris, so it stands to reason if Theo, who was being manipulated by Deucalion, killed Josh so that makes Scott responsible, then if the Berserker, who was being manipulated by Kate, temporarily killed Derek, so that makes Peter responsible.

You will most likely never hear this idea anywhere else. You will most likely never read about Peter’s sheer disdain for his family. Because while fandom likes to trumpet that it’s about exploring all possible combinations and deep reading, you won’t get this level of critical and accusative analysis about hot white men.

To them, that’s not racism. After all, Peter’s a villain! And Derek and Chris are as well in the first two seasons. The answer, of course, is to look seriously at the way they treat some hot white male non-villains.

Let’s look at how these supposedly better white male characters treat women. Stiles is prepared to make out with Lydia when she’s drugged up to the gills, shouts at her until she dances with him, spends an entire weekend waiting for her in a hospital, buys her a ridiculous amount of gifts for her birthday, among other expressions of romantic attraction. Isaac, on the other hand, wants to kill Lydia because she turned him down for a date, assaults Allison on Derek’s orders, and becomes sexually attracted and romantically involved with Allison who hunted down his packmates and stabbed him a lot. But I’ve never seen a single of one of these anti-Scott BNF call Stiles or Isaac ‘sexually obsessed!’ That’s only Scott who embodies for them the Latin Lover stereotype and who is excoriated in fan fiction and on Tumblr for the singular and unheralded crime of paying attention to his girlfriend.

I don’t know what the difference is, but apparently, it’s not racism.

Or how many of the hundreds (if not thousands) of stories have you read where Stiles shuns, punishes, strips Scott of his wolf with his super-duper magical powers, or literally kills Scott because he demonstrated his disloyalty and unworthiness by not submitting to Derek and/or Peter? Yet, there may be one or two stories in the nearly 120,000 Teen Wolf fanfictions on AO3 where Stiles reacts at all to Isaac abandoning Derek (and disliking Peter) and joining Scott’s pack. If fanfictions are transformative, and it’s only natural that they create stories where Stiles acts as the avenging angel for the poor widdle Hales, there would have to be stories where he avenges them against Isaac. Wouldn’t there?

I’d bet there are less than five, but apparently, it’s not racism.

And then there’s the terrible, terrible Neck Grab o’ Doom which is brought up again and again in fiction and commentary, which Fanon Stiles cannot stomach (even though canon Stiles argued for leaving Derek in the hands of his rapist). To them he must end his friendship with Scott over this dastardly crime, motivated as it was by pure animus (which is what they’re calling the threat of Scott watching Allison’s throat get ripped out). Scott was working with Gerard under duress, but to Stiles, that’s irrelevant. They can’t be around each other anymore. How many stories are there about this, do you think? Now compare that to the number of stories where Stiles drives Liam from the pack for his beating Scott to the point of death while working with Theo.

I’ve never seen one. Stiles is far more interested in who Liam is dating, but apparently, it’s not racism.

I can go on and on and on and on, and point out that these aren’t 40-60 splits. The preponderance of stories where Scott is held reprehensible for actions that white characters take and ignored without comment are incredibly lopsided, overwhelmingly in favor of turning the Latino hero into a monster while Stiles, Liam, and Isaac are “baby” who must be excused for their mistakes.

But Scott was written so badly! These BNF cry. Then where are the fix-its? If the story was so unsatisfying, and fanfiction exists to give us what canon didn’t, where are the fix-its where the story is written to give us Scott as a hero they can get behind.

Oh, they exist, but just with stories that approach white character’s misdeeds, they are in the extreme minority. The vast majority of fix-its aren’t about correcting the mistakes the production made in the presentation of the main character, they are about saving the Hale family or making sure that Derek stays alpha or telling how Stiles dropped his life-long loyalty to his best friend and switched to either of the Hot White Hales, either the middle-aged serial killer or the young adult would-be serial killer, overwhelmingly. And above all, Scott is put in his place - dead or unimportant or subservient or any combination of the three.

They don’t dislike Scott because he’s Latino, they’ll repeatedly tell you, even though he shares traits with every single white non-villain character on the show, even though the show is focused on his growth and the traits that he doesn’t share with them. Not at all. They dislike him because ... they dislike him! And instead of fixing what they don’t like about him, they’re going to demonstrate how much they don’t like him by repeating again and again just how ... bad he was. Remember, the transformative nature of fandom is to give us what the show didn’t.

And apparently, this is not motivated by racism.

#stiles stilinski #scott mccall #isaac lahey #liam dunbar #fandom racism #teen wolf racism #scott mccall defense squad #russianspacegeckosexparty

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alleiradayne · 4 years ago

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Submitted for the approval of the Midnight Society, I call this story…

THE MIDNIGHT RIDE

Long is our list of ghost stories laid to rest. But when the dark rider returns thirty years after his exorcism at the hands of the Winchesters, Sam, Dean, and I are faced with the possibility that we’ve been wrong about one thing.

Some urban legends never die.

Part II - Tales From the Crypt

Summary: In Sleepy Hollow, New York, Sam, Dean, and the reader begin their investigation. Warnings/Tags: A dead body, talk of bodily harm, language, alcohol consumption, and some flirting. Characters/Pairings: First Person Female!Reader, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester Word Count: 3,103

“We were able to identify most of the bodies, but a few are still John or Jane Does.”

The coroner led us around a table where a cadaver lay covered by a thick white sheet. She continued talking as she drew the sheet to the corpse’s waist, but I heard little and less of what she said. I barely stifled a yawn before sipping from my thermos. Coffee scalded my tongue but I’d rather deal with that than pass out on my own two feet at four o'clock in the afternoon.

Sam and Dean had insisted on driving through the night. Every time I had managed to fall asleep in the Impala, I had woken up sore and aching ten minutes later. So instead of risking another chiropractor bill, I had researched what I could of The Headless Horseman. Unfortunately, I had learned next to nothing besides boring variations on the same bullshit story from the urban legend.

Another yawn scattered my thoughts, and my vision finally focused on the exposed body before me. Headless as expected, no surprise there. Lacerations crisscrossed all over the torso and what remained of the neck, also expected. But something about those lacerations piqued my interest and so I leaned closer.

Thin black crusting outlined every cut, no matter how deep or superficial. The coroner and Dean were chatting amicably when I prodded Sam in the rib. He regarded me with a raised brow as I pointed at the lashes and said, “Look.”

Sam bowed in beside me, and the scent of his freshly washed hair filled my nose. So close, I eased into his warmth and leaned closer. “That,” I muttered as I pointed. “Aren’t those burns?”

He eyed me with a suspicious sideways glance before his smile spread across his lips, and he nodded. “Good catch, Y/N,” he started. “But the lashes alone are confusing. Since when does the Headles—”

“We’ll get back to you if we learn anything else,” Dean said loud enough to drown out Sam. “Thank you for your time, miss.”

Sam and I followed Dean’s lead and thanked the coroner for her time as well. She thanked us in return—flashing a warmer than casual smile at Dean, who blushed—and covered the cadaver as we headed for the door.

In the hallway, Dean breathed a sigh of relief. “Christ, she’s too smart.”

“What, did she reject you before you even asked?” Sam jested.

Dean tossed a tentative glance my way. “Nah, I got her number. But after that, she started asking about the decapitations and the lashes looking strange…” He trailed off as we stepped out into the cool fall breeze and pale October sun. “I don’t think she knows more, but I’ll have to be on my toes later.”

“And by later you mean after we finish this hunt, right?” I asked across Sam.

At the car, Dean popped the driver’s door open, then said, “She asked me out tonight.”

As they slid into the front seat, I eased into the back. “And you said what?”

He shot me a dark glare in the rearview mirror. “I asked her for a rain check until this weekend.”

Wow. “Okay, I’m impressed,” I replied.

“I’m… not surprised,” Sam replied. “Considering what’s going on.”

The Impala roared to life as Dean twisted the key in the ignition. When he pulled away from the curb, I leaned over the backrest and asked, “What is going on?”

Sam shot a nervous look at Dean before he took a deep breath. “Can we solve the case first?”

When he turned to look at me, I glared back. Earnest. Honest, even. But I wasn’t about to let my feelings for him cloud my judgment. “No. I need to know what we’re up against and...” I paused, my attention snared by the houses we passed. Every yard displayed a scene from the urban legend that had put Sleepy Hollow on the map. Various iterations on The Headless Horseman stood in every yard, myriad pumpkins and overly detailed horses impressively crafted. But each and every rider had a jack-o-lantern for a head or held one aloft. Not a single display had armed him with a whip or a cannonball. “Seriously, those lashes were burned into that victim. Since when does he wield a whip? And what kind of whip can do that?”

“One made from the spinal bones of human corpses,” Dean strained under his breath.

I blinked several times before I responded. “Excuse me?”

“Alright, here’s the deal,” Dean started. The Impala followed his command as it lumbered over the driveway into a diner’s parking lot. “We’re gonna eat dinner here. But we can’t talk about work. Once we’re in there, we’re FBI agents, and on-going investigations are off-limits. Got it?”

Better than nothing. “Once we get back to the motel?”

Dean pulled into a spot and slid the shifter into park. “We’ll tell you everything.”

Everything. So foreboding. As if all of their skeletons had been buried in an urban legend. Both of them turned over the backrest when I remained quiet too long. Weighed and measured, their expectant glares demanded an answer.

So I agreed.

“Deal.”

“I haven’t had a pot roast sandwich like that in ages.”

Dean covered his mouth with his fist as he held back a deep belch. “The pecan pie was damn near the best I’ve ever had.”

“And that hot cider!” I added. “That was definitely homemade.”

“Uh, you’re damn right it was homemade. Everything there was homemade,” Dean replied. “Well, except for maybe Sam’s salad.” He turned to Sam and his face fell. “Sammy?”

I followed Dean’s concerned glare and found Sam near the motel room door, eyes glazed over and staring into the middle distance. I knew that look. I’d felt it before, and I’d seen it on both of them too many times over the years. The severity of the situation sank in then, and reality returned in a rush. Forgotten was the pot roast, the pecan pie, and the hot cider. Abandoned was the lighthearted banter, and our carefree dinner.

Death stalked us in the shadows, no longer a friendly face.

“I think we should sit down,” Sam suggested as he crossed the room. When he slumped onto the bed, he said, “This story gets dark in a hurry.”

I shed my suit jacket and boots at the small table under the singular hanging lamp. “I get the feeling something pretty awful happened,” I said as I crossed the room and sat beside him.

Dean withdrew a bottle of scotch from his duffel bag. “Normally I’d save this for after we waste this asshole, but,” he paused as he popped the cork free of the bottle. “I have some doubts that’ll ever come to pass.” He pulled three short plastic cups from his bag then and poured two-finger pours into each. He handed a cup to Sam, who passed it on to me, and handed another to Sam before seating himself at the table with the third. A sip and a hum preceded his thoughts. “You got that picture handy, Y/N?”

I dug through my backpack at my feet and withdrew the article. “Right here. I saw The Headle—”

“Yeah,” Dean interjected. “He’s back there, in the field. Anything else jump out at you?”

Confused, my brow knotted as I focused on the article once more. “I mean, there’s this family standing in front of what is clearly the Sleepy Hollow museum. I recognized the building when we got into town,” I said. Another yawn reminded me I had not slept more than a couple of hours over the last twenty-four. "But I don't see anything else. No aberrations, no distortion, no orbs… other than Tits McGee up in the field there, I got nothing."

Sam pointed to the father. "Look a little closer here. You might recognize someone."

Recognize? The picture was thirty years old. Hell, I'd have been a kid back then. Probably just shy of seven years old.

Seven.

My focus snapped to the caption.

Thomas (7).

Something instinctual snapped my attention to Sam, and I saw it then. My jaw dropped as recognition crept along my spine. Boyish charm had grown ruggedly handsome, but the fear behind his wide stare had remained the same. I returned to the photograph, focusing on the older brother, and the truth settled in the pit of my stomach. A suave sense of confidence radiated from John (11). And he was the spitting image of his father, Richard Phillips (36).

He still is.

The image blurred as tears burned my eyes. I looked up to find Dean glassy-eyed and well into his cup. The start of so many thoughts stuttered on my clumsy tongue. How had I missed it back at the Bunker? Of course John Winchester would give an alias to a reporter. When I returned to the photograph one last time, I stared at their father, and the tears rolled down my cheeks.

"Every few months, John grew out his beard," Dean started. "He had this laser-like focus on hunting down the thing that killed Mary, and a time or two every year, he'd get a wild hair up his ass so bad, he'd forget to shave."

"That year," Sam said as he pointed to the photograph, "the wild hair was Sleepy Hollow. He was convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that we would learn something important here."

Dean finished his pour of scotch and refreshed his glass. "He found nothing except for a bunch of busted pumpkins and a vengeful spirit."

I wiped at my eyes with the cuff of my shirtsleeve. When I turned to Sam, I asked, "How did he exorcise it?"

He shifted closer on the bed as he looked at the photograph. "We don't know. I was too young yet."

Dean grunted as he sat up in his seat and stood, caught his balance, then shuffled across the room to sit on the opposite bed. "Dad had just started filling me in on what he was doing about a year before we came here. But he did his best to ease me into it. Sam had hardly a clue until that day," he said as he pointed at the photograph.

"What happened?" I asked as I turned back to Sam.

A deep breath allowed him space to stall, but that same fear in his eyes returned. "I saw something." His stare glazed as it drifted off into the middle distance once more. "Bodies. Headless bodies," he stuttered. "A headless rider on a dark horse." He continued through a stream of consciousness, as though he were somewhere else. Sometime else. "Cannonballs and a whip of human spinal bones engulfed in flames."

My heart railed against my ribs as if to escape. Numb with dread, my fingers and toes burned, and fresh tears blurred my vision. "You were so young. That must have been terrifying."

He nodded and sipped from his drink. "At the time, yeah. I had nightmares for months. Over the years, I must have forgotten about it or blocked it out. But then you found this case. However you ended up with that article, it was no coincidence."

I looked to Dean then, and he clarified. "Something wanted us to come back. I think. To actually finish the job Dad didn't."

Something about that statement sparked a thought I had not yet considered. "How do you know this isn't something leftover from Chuck?"

A thoughtful look twisted his face. "We took care of Chuck and his mess. It's definitely a hunch but, I'd wager this isn't related. No, I think Dad just got this one wrong. He thought he did the job and we skipped town. But he screwed up and now The Headless Hessian is back again."

Hessian.

"What did you just call him?" I asked.

Dean regarded Sam, and they shared an equally confused look. "The Headless Hessian."

"I thought Hessians were German soldiers that fought for the Brits in the Revolution," I said.

When Sam nodded in agreement, he said, "You would be correct. And that was the original story until more retellings of the urban legend were printed."

Retellings. Talk about wild hairs. I dove for my backpack then and tore out my tablet. As it booted, I said, "I tried doing some research on The Headless Horseman on our way out here, but all I found was bullshit about the urban legend. Pumpkins and horses and heads and Ichabod Crane and crap like that. Nothing about cannonballs and whips made out of human spinal columns."

Sam propped one leg up on the bed as he turned to face me. "Regardless of what I saw as a kid, that story sounds familiar, too. I know the Hessian angle but I know I've also heard a version with a whip and a cannonball."

"Those," I started, then paused to type furiously, "I never knew. I always thought the myth was Ichabod Crane. But yesterday when I was searching for information, I think I found a website that mentioned a Hessian soldier as a part of the myth." Once I had found what I searched for, I turned the tablet to face them. "I thought it was a mistake. I know way too much about American history and its bullshit colonialism, so I wrote it off as a discrepancy. But when Dean referred to him as the Headless Hessian, it clicked."

The image on the tablet flipped through several iterations of a headless rider. The first carried a jack-o-lantern high over his head, then a headless horse with a headless rider appeared on the screen. Next, a rider carrying his own head, followed by a headless rider brandishing a sword. Then another hefting a muzzleloader, and finally a headless rider wielding a vicious whip made out of bone.

"Wait, which legend is that one?" Sam asked as he pointed.

The image of a man carrying his head under his arm while astride a horse froze on the page. "According to the website, that appears to be the dulachan. Irish folklore. The whip is a part of that legend, too."

"But our guy doesn't have his dome on him at all," Dean clarified.

"Exactly," I said, "Which was why I basically wrote this website off. Came to the same conclusion."

Sam pointed to the screen as the image changed to a giant man astride his horse brandishing his own head high above his shoulders. "That's the Gawain myth. Gawain beheaded the Green Knight."

Excitement flooded my senses as I exclaimed, "Yes! The Green Knight returns to challenge Gawain to a duel every year." The image changed again to that of a headless rider and horse. "And that's the Scottish story of the would-be chieftain, Ewen, who was decapitated at the battle at Glen Cainnir."

"And the headless man on a carriage?" Dean asked as the image changed once more.

"The Coiste Bodhar. Sometimes referred to as the gan ceann," I explained. “Damn, this website has everything…”

"But what does it all mean?" Sam asked.

I opened my mouth to reply but found I had nothing to say. A sudden silence filled the tiny motel room, all the wind sucked from our sails. It had to mean something. So many stories with their variations. Then again, they all shared a singular consistency.

“Maybe they’re all correct,” Dean mumbled.

Confusion scattered my rambling thoughts, and my focus snapped to Dean. “What are you saying?”

“Every story has the same headless dude in it, right?” he asked, echoing my idea. “Even the Hessian myth isn’t the original story. Irish, Scottish, English. They all have their own versions that are way older than the American story.”

“But a lot of Americans are the Irish, Scots, and English,” Sam added.

“Son of a bitch, we are English. I bet our forefathers fought in the Revolution,” Dean concluded and Sam agreed with a confident nod.

With the pattern weaving before my mind’s eye, I found a thread, a singular frayed end, and tugged on it. “So it’s not surprising at all that the stories are so similar. Immigrants made up the Headless Hessian based on their own urban legends from the motherland.”

“Exactly!” Dean declared.

Elation filled me for a brief moment before Sam ruined it again. “But then what is it?! A fae? A spirit? A curse? It could be anything with that theory!”

“You’re a real party pooper, you know that?” I said as I flopped back on the bed. “We were so close to something, I know it!”

Dean stood in a rush, then quickly returned to the bed. “Okay, that’s enough of the hooch,” he said as he crushed his empty cup and tossed it into the bin. “Let’s pick something and go after it. We’re never going to figure out what it actually is in a reasonable amount of time.”

“That’s a terrible plan!” Sam barked. “We’ll waste more time just trying random shit.”

Both of them fell quiet at that. My brain, on the other hand, was anything but. We had everything to handle a fairy, a vengeful spirit, even a curse. But how? How could we blindly choose? I agreed with Dean; we needed to do something and fast. And yet, Sam had a very valid point. I gritted my teeth against the frustration that supplanted my hope. What kind of spirit manifested once a year to kill a bunch of people? How, if all the stories are true, could we put down a fae-curse-spirit?

Then it dawned on me.

I bolted upright on the bed and blurted, “It’s all three.”

“What?”

Between Sam and Dean’s incredulous faces, I forced myself to grasp the last shred of confidence before it fled. “It’s all three. A spirit cursed by the fae.”

They regarded one another again, then turned away, silently considering my theory. Even I struggled to believe it. But then Dean snapped his fingers and said, “If it’s ultimately just a cursed spirit, all we need to do is roast his bones.” He pointed at the tablet as he jumped to his feet, steady as a rock. “The Headless Hessian was buried in an unmarked grave of the Old Dutch Church!”

I turned to Sam then, tense as a drawn bowstring. When his crooked, knowing grin spread across his lips, my stomach jumped into my throat. I hadn’t seen that smile in what felt like a century. And when he spoke, my heart nearly burst with relief.

“Looks like we’re doing some digging tonight.”

REBLOGS AND FEEDBACK ARE AWESOME. IF YOU WANT IN ON THE TAGS, SEND ME AN ASK OR A DM!

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niallloverontheloose · 4 years ago

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https://princeescaluswords.tumblr.com/post/647720374839214080/puts-on-the-funny-looking-hat-of-fandom-logic#notes

@russianspacegeckosexparty: Lydia’s banshee powers laid dormant so long and for why? Have you stopped to think how in that time, she suspiciously had Stiles obsessing over her? Knowing her measurements? That dastardly druid boy must have been siphoning her Banshee spark for years to try resurrecting his mom. And he never told her what she was! When he is a genius with a 200 IQ and an expert in all things Supernatural.

@princeescaluswords:

Oh, and the racism.

I don’t know what the difference is, but apparently, it’s not racism.

I’d bet there are less than five, but apparently, it’s not racism.

I’ve never seen one. Stiles is far more interested in who Liam is dating, but apparently, it’s not racism.

They don’t dislike Scott because he’s Latino, they’ll repeatedly tell you, even though he shares traits with every single white non-villain character on the show, even though the show is focused on his growth and the traits that he doesn’t share with them. Not at all. They dislike him because … they dislike him! And instead of fixing what they don’t like about him, they’re going to demonstrate how much they don’t like him by repeating again and again just how bad he was. Remember, the transformative nature of fandom is to give us what the show didn’t.

And apparently, this is not motivated by racism

~*~*~

“Stiles is prepared to make out with Lydia when she’s drugged up to the gills, shouts at her until she dances with him”

Isn’t it curious that the rabid Scott/Posey Stans who accuse Teen Wolf fans of painting Scott as a rapist are the very same ones who systematically ignore canon and try to paint Stiles – a canonical neuroatypical character – as a rapist? It doesn’t matter than Stiles respects women (unlike Scott) and never shouted at Lydia until she danced with him, or that Stiles went to visit Lydia because he was worried about her and to investigate on the Alpha with Natalie’s permission, or that Scott is the one who wanted to leave Derek in his rapist’s clutches in canon. Antis will make shit up in order to paint the character they are obsessed with as a rapist to make Scott look “better”.

But let’s take a look at how Scott McCall, this supposedly better male character, treats women in the series, shall we?

• spies on Allison while she’s undressing

• tells his mom that she doesn’t care about her love life and that he’s going to get Allison back

• creeps into Allison’s bedroom without her or her parents’ consent to watch her sleep

• forces Allison to go out with Matt (her stalker) to get Allison’s mom off his back

• yells at Allison in the middle of a crowded club and makes her cry just because she prioritized innocent people’s life above Scott’s jealous fits and temper tantrums

• stares at Allison’s ass at gym class

• calls Allison psychotic for setting boundaries

• creeps on Allison in the showers (guess he was prepared to make out with her, too)

• pushes his tongue down Allison’s throat to convince her to to break up with him because “I know we are gonna be together

• physically assaults Isaac just because he dared to like and interact with his ex girlfriend

• pushes Allison against her bedroom’s door to prove how ‘strong’ and ‘right’ he is

• gets boners whenever he’s in close proximity with Allison

• lies to Kira to control her and then cheats on her with Malia

And these are only a few canon examples at the top of my head – feel free to add to the list if you want

Scott treating girls (and Stiles) like an exclusive property of his and being sexually obsessed with Allison (his password and username is Allison) is NOT a Latino thing: it’s a Scott McCal thing.

As for Scott conspiring with Deucalion behind everyone’s back to kill Josh and Tracy, that’s not a fanon theory. That’s Canon. Deucalion could have easily stopped Theo from killing Josh and Tracy if he wanted; but he didn’t. And we know Scott couldn’t care less about chimera victims, that’s why he patted Deucalion on the back for pushing Theo to kill his own pack.

#anti scott mccall #anti tyler posey #submission

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libermachinae · 4 years ago

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Drops in a Bucket, Splashes on the Ground

Also available on AO3! Tags: Mature, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Gen, Whirl (Transformers), Implied/Referenced Abuse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Whirl is Primus AU, Angst, would you believe me if i said i didnt set out to write another angst fic, whirl's just like that Wordcount: 4202 Notes: I would highly recommend you read "Bullets" or at least be familiar with Whirl's abuse of Rotorstorm before reading this fic. The scene containing graphic violence begins with "Tacticians always struggle..." and the scene referencing abuse begins "He shoves his way..." Please feel free to reach out if you need any further information.

~*~

“And I guess old Primus makes five.”

“Hah! No, no, no. That’s not Primus… you’re Primus.”

~*~

Whirl has never been intimidated before. Not so intentionally, not by bots whose forged bodies have been piled on with armor and weaponry, no expenses spared by the ganglords. The Heavies rolled up on treads that left gouges in the streets, painful marks that tomorrow’s taxes will go to fixing, and their transformations took a full five seconds as excess plating moved out of the way while their protoforms tried to bend per their original configurations. They wear identical red visors and dark gray masks: faces, certainly, but only in the barest sense of the word, enough to separate them from lowlifes without affording them identity. It is impossible to tell one from the other and Whirl knows, intrinsically, that it will not matter.

~*~

Rung is the only one who doesn’t flinch. Whirl stands over Adaptus’ body, freshly relieved of what they can all agree was a spectacularly ugly head, and puts away his gun.

“Right,” he says, with a meaningful glance out the window. “Want to agree none of us heard that?”

“Whirl!” Rodimus shouts. “You can’t just kill a god!”

The body explodes into a pile of dust.

“Sure I can,” Whirl says, shaking it off his foot even as he leans down to inspect the scrapple. “Hey Ratch, can you rig me to explode next time I get shot?”

“Is it true?” Nautica asks, doing her intellect a massive disservice by stepping in front of the unhinged bot with a blaster.

“Obviously not,” Ratchet says. “He was lying.”

Whirl nods.

“Yeah. You think I would keep it a secret from any of you if I was a god? You think Cyclonus would ever hear the end of it? Nah.” He stands, kicking pile and sending a spray of metallic dust into the air. “Awesome way to go, though, can’t say I’m not jealous.”

“That doesn’t mean you had to kill him for it.”

“So, you’re not Primus?” Nautica asks. She hasn’t moved, her arms crossed in front of her. If Whirl had been her creator (and he isn’t, he already has his claws full with a nest of scraplets), he would have been pretty proud of her right now.

“Nope!” he says. “I’ve never vouched for the universe before, but that kind of joke would take on an extra level of cruel, don’t you think?”

“Got to agree with Whirl, here,” Rodimus says, a hand on Nautica’s shoulder drawing her back. “I could buy pretty much anyone else. Maybe not Rung, but, say, Velocity? She could be Primus. Or Roller. I guess not Megatron, since we saw him come online, but—”

“The point, Rodimus,” Ratchet deadpans.

“The point is, not Whirl,” Rodimus said, sweeping his hands up to gesture at him. “I get Primus is disappointed in us. We are a textbook example of why a race of sentient war machines should never be left to their own devices, combined with a case study on how to avoid learning from every mistake you’ve ever made. But I really don’t think that disappointment would translate to actively hunting us for sport. Isn’t Primus supposed to be all about forgiveness and loving your cellmate?”

“Right,” Whirl says, clacking his pincers together in his approximation of a snap. “An angry god is so cliché.”

“I don’t think anyone knows what Primus believed,” Rung says. Oh no. He’s taken off his glasses. “I don’t see any reason he couldn’t be Whirl.”

“How about we start where the part where gods don’t exist, and Whirl does?” Ratchet suggests.

“I… I am Solomus, though.”

The whole group turns to the offending voice. Whirl goes for his gun and Rodimus knocks it out of his hand, a stern finger silently telling him not to kill any more gods. As if being an ex-Matrix bearer gives him some sort of say.

Tyrest has not stopped touching his gaudy mantelpiece, poking at the holes. It wouldn’t be so disturbing, except he’s staring at Whirl while he does it.

“Primus, don’t you remember?” he asks.

“Hey, let’s watch the fragging language.”

“Adaptus wanted to send our creations to pointless war,” Tyrest goes on. “Violence for the sake of violence, conquests built on the backs of others. We fought him.” He steps forward and reaches for Whirl. “Together, we—”

Whirl jerks back with his claws extended out.

“I will cut your hand off, I swear to—I swear.”

He is saved from any more interrogation by the ground violently rumbling underneath them.

“Okay, so regardless of whatever’s Whirl’s deal is, we do still have at least one Primus to worry about,” Rodimus says, looking out the window at the approximation of what Whirl, personally, had always assumed god would look like. “Solomus, you still got your teleporting rigged up?”

~*~

No one ever considered giving The Institute a waiting room, so Whirl stands to one side of the hallway while the butchers discuss his case. He knows his proposal intrigues them: they have never had an opportunity to shadowplay a willing subject before. What is there to learn from a brain that does not fight them every step of the way? What backdoors exist that every other victim kept hidden? Whirl does not care about the potential scientific advancements his offer provides. He just wants to stop dreaming of gears, lose the phantom aches of his fingers. He wants to look in a mirror and see nothing: not himself, not a monster. Just an object, fulfilling its purpose.

The scientists who walk by him in the halls stare. Everyone stares, but the look they give him is different. They do not find him exceptional, nor do they feel for him pity or contempt. He is no marvel. He is a creation, perfectly engineered to suit its purpose, every detail minded with care to ensure it all works together as an ideal mechanism. He wishes he could see himself through their eyes.

The door beside him slides open and a bot he has never seen before steps out. His helm comes up no higher than Whirl’s waist and his large yellow optics do not look up from his datapad.

“Whirl of Polyhex, the panel has elected to reject your petition,” he says. “I am to remind—”

“What?” Whirl startles; his new head shoots upward, forcing him into an angle that is both unnatural and instinctual. “Why? Ice Pick said he could—”

“I am to remind you that you have signed a nondisclosure agreement; failure to comply will result in penalty of death.” The little bot flares his plating, the click of a motor lock setting it in place. “You will now submit to full stasis and be escorted back to your home.”

The jack comes from behind.

~*~

“This is my hab suite.”

Whirl knows the tonal difference between a bullet hitting living metal and a wall. He scowls and gives up, waving Cyclonus inside.

“My room’s a mess,” he says. “Think I’m gonna crash here for a while.”

Cyclonus comes in and sits beside Whirl on the berth. When the door slides shut, they are visible only by their biolights: Whirl closed the shutters when he came in, the stars too much like blinking numbers. Cyclonus is a surprisingly quiet machine. His presence comes with none of the usual hisses and clicks one would normally get with their kind, like each component was designed specifically to work with those around it. Compared to Whirl, whose body is a wreck of pieces that almost fit together, clinking and scraping through their standard functions, he practically doesn’t exist.

“This is slagged, huh?” Whirl asks.

Cyclonus thinks on it a moment, then there is a shift of plating as he nods. Is it an admission, a confession? Pri—frag, Whirl doesn’t want to have to start thinking about that.

“Sorry,” he says.

“You don’t need to—”

“Scrap, you’re right. What am I doing?” Whirl laughs. “I’m infallible now, right? It’s all been part of my grand plan for Cybertron. I should be saying you’re welcome; you should be thanking me.”

Cyclonus sighs, a rush of air out his vents.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” he asks.

Whirl pokes and pinches at his own plating, trying to make sense of it.

“Yeah,” he says. “Start praying, and keep Megatron far away from me.”

~*~

He’s spent two days in the holding cell before he realizes no one else is coming for him.

That Orion Pax… he’s good, and Whirl’s not sure whether it’s the kind that gets people hired or gets people killed. Not that it matters, not that he cares. The Senate’s going to crush all of them one by one, like little cans of oil under a rolling tank. He thought being a tread would come with some measure of relief; instead, it just landed him in a hole.

He digs a claw tip into the wall, another score among a small collection. He has been trying to reconstruct the miner’s face, what it looked like in the split second between recognizing he had been struck and realizing there was more to come. He can’t relish a memory if he can’t keep it, and he’s already struggling well enough to accomplish the former. This assignment was supposed to be a release. Look down at the big thinker and imagine in his place Senator Proteus, Sentinel Prime, the faceless Functionist Council. Tell himself that this is what it would feel like to rip their plating open until their priceless energon spilled onto a dirty floor.

The face, though, it’s escaping him. How can he fell anything about a person with no face? What relief is there to be found in beating the slag out of a nobody? He is trying so hard to adapt, but it’s like his processor is working against him, reminding him how far he got before he was reeled back in. The silhouette of his sketch is familiar.

His claws hurt where he has worn the tip blunt, and the portrait is still incomplete.

~*~

“I don’t make Matrixes,” he insists. The group was polite enough to knock once they found him, but they’re failing to pick up the hint that he wants all of them to go away, right now, and leave him alone forever.

“Well, Epistemus says you can,” Rodimus says, dentae blocked together. “Why do all the other gods have their memories back, but not you?”

“I dunno, maybe Needles can stick me and figure it out.”

It’s almost cute, the way Rewind steps protectively in front of Chromedome.

“Rodimus,” Rung says, trying to get between them, “this isn’t helping.”

“Thank you,” Whirl says. “Now can we get to the part where we storm the planet, guns a-blazin’?”

“That won’t help either.” Rung turns to look at him. “Your memories haven’t been deleted, Whirl. Somehow, there should still be some part of you that remembers creating the Matrix.”

“The Functionists probably took it out,” Whirl says.

“That’s not how mnemosurgery works.”

“Says the dropout.”

“You told me once about your earliest memory,” Rung says. Whirl should be furious that he’s doing this here, in front of people who have no business knowing what’s in his head, but he’s more interested in the way Rung has taken off his glasses and is squinting up at him. “What happened just before it?”

They did not bring Ratchet, a testament to the fact that they will not leave before he gives them answers. He could start lying again, or find another way to forgo the question, but something about Cyclonus’ presence at his back helps him settle down the compulsion. Everybody lies about their forging. Everybody wants to say it was overseen by the Prime, or that they settled into their form like resin poured into a mold, instant and perfect. Whirl has a set of seven stories he deploys on rotation, ranging from heroic to beautifully tragic, and he spends a moment picking through them, trying to remember which was the real one.

“I showed up at the Functionsts’ place to get my docs in order,” he says. “I was… I was trying to get Polyhexian citizenship.” Awful city, but he had always sworn the energon tasted better there than anywhere else.

“But you said you were forged in Polyhex,” Rung says.

“Yeah. It was easier that way.” Whirl puts a claw to his head. “I… augh, nope. No, this is stupid.”

“Whirl—”

“No, I’m done,” he says, pushing Rung away. “Fully done, Rung. That’s right. You were god’s therapist, and he fired you. I’m gonna go take out a planet.”

~*~

Tacticians always struggle with where to put Whirl on a battlefield. On the one hand, he’s an attack helicopter, equipped with long-range cannons and advanced aiming modules. Keeping him in the sky is the perfect way to set up a terrible surprise for Cons on the ground. On the other, he’s Whirl, and facing him head-on can be just as chilling and or fatal.

In the end it rarely matters which call they make because, as stated before, he’s Whirl. He will do whatever he damn well feels like. Right now, that means skimming over the top of the battlefield, sights trained on the odd dot who tries to disgorge themselves from the fighting mass. He is supposed to be providing support to the ground troops, peppering the Decepticon line so they can break through, but no one is going to complain about a few more dead soldiers.

A truck breaks free and he pitches down, giving chase, machine guns firing before he’s got a lock on. The ground explodes in shrapnel as they try to serpentine out of the way, but he keeps firing and soon enough their paths cross.

He riddles them. Their roof is already a puckered, punctured mass of warped metal before their back tires blow and they go skidding and flip onto their side. Their plating shuffles, uncoordinated, as they try to transform, and Whirl goes for the underbelly, shattering the exposed protoform in a burst of pink energon. They slump with their legs disengaged. There is a buzzing, crunching noise as the dying t-cog tries to settle into either mode, then a jet of smoke erupts from the body. The engine has seized, locking it in a permanent limbo.

Whirl spins around to track down his next prey. He loves his job. The Autobots have a need, and he fills it with a gusto that only occasionally gets him in trouble. He’s no hitmech: he lacks the finesse, the style. But he can rain irreverent murder down from the sky, send Cons fleeing just long enough to make them think they had a chance, and he can do it without questioning an order. The war needs people like him.

Two soldiers are trying to escape together, one with their arm over the other’s shoulder, a sparkling stump of a leg between them. Whirl gets low, following them until the roar of his rotors is unmistakable, until they cannot help but turn and he sees their optics. Then he fires.

The wounded one falls first, knocked onto their front and grasping uselessly until their hand is blown off and they go still. The other gets their legs knocked off and goes spinning, landing on their head with a crunch. Whirl keeps advancing, keeps firing, tearing open their plating and reducing their inner working to molten slag, spattering the ground with used energon. They flop, over and over, until Whirl gets bored of the show and hauls off, leaving them almost indistinguishable from the carnage of the land itself.

Whirl hovers over the fighting and looks down while he scans for a target. This high up, visuals are useless for determining Bots from Cons. Little Cybertronians run around, whacking and shooting at each other, falling down, down, down. The metal under their pedes is slippery pink with energon. It splashes against their plating, over their insignias, until they are all just little wandering targets.

Whirl has his job, and he loves it, and he does it well.

~*~

He should feel something, but his spark is a void as he tosses the rest of the guns into the shuttle, all the stuff he held off using because he wasn’t ready to get kicked off the ship. He is not coming back from this. He knows it, so better to take it all.

He’s just fastened the locker when he hears the footsteps on the hatch and looks up. It’s Tailgate, of course. Tailgate, who has a pack hanging from one shoulder and a gun holstered at his side. It’s a shrimpy thing, something Cyclonus taught him to shoot in case they ever got separated, more useful for making noise than taking down an aggressor. It has room for one round of ammo and Whirl doubts he brought a bullet more.

He comes aboard without saying anything and stops beside world, continuing to say nothing. The hand on his pack is clenching: he’s being brave. He’s also waiting for some grand speech, some sacred insight to the nature of their quest and their places in the universe. Well, tough. He should know Whirl better than Primus.

He lifts a claw to shove Tailgate backward and down the hatch, but it stops an inch before Tailgate’s plating. What does it matter? Cyclonus can’t kill him where he’s going and Tailgate himself is just a drop in the bucket. Standing there with his chest puffed out, optic band steely and focused, he looks like any other Cybertronian, never mind a few years left behind.

Whirl retracts his claw. Tailgate nods at him.

Another drop in the bucket.

~*~

He shoves his way to the front row, slamming himself into his chosen seat just ahead of a little spy plane who had been angling for the same spot.

“Buzz off,” he says. Never mind the spy plane outranks him. This is his big day! He got here early so he could get this seat, right in front, though he can barely hold it as the audience fills in around him, so many Bots he does not know and who do not matter. The only one he cares about it up on the stage, smiling with an air of detached cooperation, off in his own head again like he always was. Whirl thought they had made progress on that, but some habits were just too hard to break.

The opening speech is long and predictably boring, lots of talk about this base he has never been on before. Whirl’s engine clicks in agitation. When bots give him dirty looks, he sneers.

“Chronic fanbelt lockup, ever heard of it?” he hisses at them, adding in a few extra ticks for good measure. They go back to minding their own business, but Whirl still catches the optics glancing at him, and his engine goes from annoyed click to angry hum. He knows what they see.

Luckily, the speaker eventually gets over himself and moves on.

“Rotorstorm, will you please step forward?”

Whirl is on his feet before the other copter has a chance to rise, his cheering rising well above the swell of the crowd. He shouts, he stomps his feet, and he bangs his claws together until the bots on either side of him wince, and he gets even louder when he knows Rotorstorm has noticed him.

“Go on, get up there!” he shouts. “You earned this, didn’t you?” The rest of the crowd has calmed down, but he stays standing, arms dropped to his sides. He stares at Rotorstorm as he crosses the stage, shoulders pressed back, each step placed so precisely in front of the last that it must be calculated. He waits until Rotorstorm has reached the edge to sit back down, and then still his optic is pointed, refusing to let Rotorstorm look anywhere else. Rotorstorm’s own optics are wide, though the rest of his expression is slack. His biolights are steady, his ventilations manual and even. He’s perfect.

“Rotorstorm,” the presenter says, “I hope you will forgive us; this is an honor that is long overdue. During the Simanzi Massacre, you singlehandedly scouted a pass through Mount Helix that allowed for the rapid evacuation of the 9th Battalion. Your commanding officers estimate that your decisive actions saved upwards of one thousand Autobot lives.” Whirl’s engine is silent. He’s drinking in every word. “Today, we present you with the Novic Medal for Outstanding Honor. ‘Til all are one.” Rotorstorm ducks his helm as the award is magnetized to the right of his cockpit, finally breaking his optic contact with Whirl.

“’Til all are one,” he repeats, though most of the crowd does not hear him over Whirl’s cheers.

Rotorstorm turns without looking up and returns to his seat. The next recipient is called forward and Whirl walks out.

~*~

He can’t do it. He’ll blame it on the way Tailgate’s plating quietly rattles or Cyclonus’ entire personality as he starts to board, but he shuts off the shuttle’s engine and disembarks with them trailing behind. He retreats to his hab suite, and though he does not invite them he’s glad when they make it inside before the door closes.

“Nobody in the mutiny is allowed to have any of my stuff. I don’t care if Thunderclash is dying again and my innermost energon is the only compatible fuel in the galactic sector, he can’t have it.”

Tailgate nods along, his fingers in a death grip around Whirl’s pincer.

“And when you guys are talking about me later, no one call me anything but Whirl. I’m serious. I don’t know about anything I did before that, so what could it matter?” He looks up at the ceiling. “In fact, don’t tell anyone about the Primus thing. No point.”

Cyclonus is a solid, immobile presence on his other side.

“Am I forgetting anything? Oh, tell Roadbuster I’ll be waiting for him in the pit.”

“Do gods go to the Afterspark?” It’s not clear who Tailgate is asking.

“I definitely don’t plan to stick around and watch over you or whatever. Think I’ve had enough of this universe.” He chuckles, a strained sound. “Yeah. So, that’s it. Better get this show on the road, huh?”

“We’ll be with you the entire time,” Tailgate promises.

“For as long as you want us,” Cyclonus amends.

“Yeah, I know.” He shrugs, laughs again. “I’m not even really scared of the whole dying thing. I’d made peace with that. Whenever there was something I needed to do, I took care of it, so I wouldn’t have to worry about it if the right bullet finally found its mark.” He glances between them. “Now, though… you two better behave, I swear. I’m making it your Primus-sworn duty to take care of and listen to each other, okay?”

Cyclonus nods, and the way he takes it so seriously makes Whirl almost glad he’s on his way out. He couldn’t handle being looked at like that all the time, and especially it’s the way they reach across his lap and entwine their hands that really does him in. He hates them dearly.

“Okay,” he says, winding up his t-cog for the big spin. “Okay, twelve Matrixes. No problem.”

~*~

Whirl times the blinking numbers to the rotations of his spark. 1,600 exactly. He’s done it.

He leans back in his chair but cannot stop staring at the little device in his hands. It is perfect. After years of researching, studying, trying, and failing, the pieces have come together to allow him to create this one perfect thing. He loves it, and a dangerous feeling of pride fills his spark, the kind that has so long been missing from his work in the Aerial Corps. If there is a Primus (and he’s still not sure, whatever the Functionists insist), this is what he built Whirl to do.

He gets up from his desk and walks across his small living space to a shelf. Nearing capacity, it has just enough room for him to push a few previous attempts aside to make room for the latest version. Surrounded by its brethren, it becomes lost almost immediately amid the sea of blinking lights, indistinguishable even from those he considers lesser. Some defects are more obvious than others: one has sat at the same time since the moment he brought it online, while another counts one klik backward for every two forward. But most are just slightly imperfect, necessary steps to get to this point, and he loves them all dearly.

He stands back. It feels like the work of a lifetime, these clocks, though he knows he took up the pursuit relatively recently. It’s just hard to remember how he filled his time before he had this project to work on, and he is again grateful he discovered it at all.

It is a gift to be able to create, he thinks, to cast a broad eye over his creations. The numbers blink at him, all out of tune, and he lets himself imagine being content doing just this for the rest of his life.

#maccadams #transformers #idw #whirl #abuse tw #death tw #my writing #oneshot #drops in a bucket #tbh im just so glad this is done #put too much time into it

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tolkienrsb · 4 years ago

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Hi, TRSB-ers! This is our last showcase post before reveals (if you think you have been missed out, please double check the previous showcase posts as tagging has been a bit awry thanks to Tumblr being its usual self - if you still can’t find something you submitted for the showcase, contact a mod ASAP).

We’re finishing off with a TRSB stalwart who has supported the event since its inception, the wonderful...

ZHIE

( @z-h-i-e )

I was introduced to Tolkien by my husband (who is also in the fandom and write/arts under the name Smaug) when we first started dating, though someone made a Glorfindel reference prior to that, and, that's a fun name to say, and I remembered the name, so I put it together when he started to read the Hobbit to me on dates we had, and he finished off reading the last chapters of it to me on our honeymoon. I saw the Rankin and Bass adaptations just before the live action films came out -- and my alpha fandom is ThunderCats, so there is a bit of a connection there. A mutual friend of ours convinced us to go to the live action Fellowship because he was able to get tickets for $1 each, and after seeing it, the three of us and another friend started playing D&D, and my sister was in love with both Legolas and Boromir, and one brother began to cosplay as Rumil, and my mother would roleplay as Galadriel at family gatherings, and now it's basically a family thing. No one gets into this family without passing the Tolkien test now. ;) So I've been here for over half my life, and I don't have a primary activity because I do a little bit of everything. Non-fannish hobbies...what are those? Pets. I already wrote a LOT, but, there is a pet who shares my current writing space, and that is Felix the very tiny parrot. If you've been with me in vc on Discord, you've heard Felix. He's obsessed with the bird in the mirrorverse and also post-it notes. Mainly with perforating all of my post-it notes. He also likes to fly up to my Gondolin diorama and knock over my Glorfindel action figure. We've had words about this behavior.

Where can we find you? You can find my stories here https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zhie/pseuds/Zhie but you'll find me on Discord in my kingdom - https://discord.gg/HtuZZ4N

How are you joining in with TRSB20? I thought this would be everything except betaing but then a thing happened and I guess that, too.

Citius, Altius, Fortius

Mature story; I tend not to use warnings, but there is some dubcon and there are scenes related to a character's eating disorder, and probably some other things I'm not recalling on the fly

Info about your piece: This is a coming of age story that follows Aredhel, Turgon, and Fingon, interweaving their experiences together over a period of a few months as they each learn about themselves, consider their family relationships, and engage in some romance with their chosen partners. I wrote this for NaNoWriMo in 2008, but I didn't start posting it until 2010 and I didn't finish until 2014. This was very much inspired by the 2008 Olympic Games, which I spent a lot of time watching. It was the last major piece I finished while living in my previous home, which was the place where Bunniverse was born and the place where much of what I wrote in this fandom was conceived. I still haven't found a good replacement for whatever was special about that location, but there was certainly something extra creative about the view of the pine trees and the northern exposure and the balcony there. About 10,000 words in, I was having breakfast out with my husband, at the time my other co-ML for NaNoWriMo, and he asked how my story was going after we ordered and I looked at him and flailed with "I'm 10K in and I don't have a plot! This is Valinor! Nothing scary happens in Valinor before it all goes to hell!" and he told me I needed a bear at the door. So we plotted out how to get something that was at that point just character study and conversation to a story with some substance. (And, that year was the best year I had with writing, clocking in the 50K+ for this, plus another 13K on a story which has sadly become mostly lost about a relationship between Feanor and Fingon, but I digress.) I had been asked a few times who each of the parts of the title is meant for, and I never really answered clearly, but I created a piece of art this year specifically for the Summer Showcase that goes with this story and covertly answers that question. I am aware that there are bits with the names that are a hot mess; I started with Sindarin, I had people complain it should be Quenya, I switched back, I had complaints about that compared to what's in the Silm, I eventually just decided, screw it, it's a free story, do what you will with it, I have other tales to write and I can't remember which way I left it all, but I think 'Felagund' even sneaks in there at some point, so, eh.

Top creative tips/words of wisdom for fellow participants: Come over here. Come closer. A little--whoa, hold on there, let's just take a measure...okay, just stay there at six feet. Now, where was I... advice.

Don't stress. Have fun. Make friends. Be proud of what you accomplish--even if something happens and you have to drop out, because a lot of people can't even make it to the step of trying. It is not a failure if you manage to learn something from it. For those who see the journey through, enjoy the reward of seeing the finished collaborative project. Creating is usually such a solo adventure, which makes challenges like this special. Also, if you're trying to figure out, does my story need more Glorfindel? The answer is always yes.

#TRSB2020 Summer Showcase #zhie #trsb20 #tolkien fanfic

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