#the nico curse is coming for lewis i fear

[panevanbuckley]

track on fire, max can't drive straight, zhou in q3, racing in the pit lane, lewis p1 just for lando's time to be reinstated and to steal p1 back, all whilst nico rosberg commentates. you can't write drama like this

[feuerspirit]

Do you have the word red in your wips? What about purple? And green? 👀

Yes, I have…a little😁

so, the word Purple is in my game-of-thrones-AU with Lewis and Nico who have two dragons:

Mercies met them at the very entrance, showering them with a cloud of warm steam, and gently nuzzled Lewis, almost knocking him off his feet. She looked at them curiously with a large black eye, gleaming with something purple in the depths, so similar to her father in this constant restless love of attention. Mercies escorted them deep into the cave, carefully sniffing each one and exhaling clouds of hot breath on them to rid them of all unnecessary, in her opinion, smells. She allowed them to take care of each other only when Quicksilver, who only briefly touched Nico with his muzzle in greeting, distracted her by gently biting the dense scales somewhere at the base of her neck with his long fangs.

the words Red and Green are in my motoGP fic where Valentino Rossi and Marc Marquez are going on vacation to India:

But Marc appears from somewhere behind his back, as if nothing had happened; his naturally swarthy fingers, covered with spots of calluses, bruises and rubbed with the handles of the bike, are golden with a barely noticeable tan and stained with something bright-red and garish-yellow (and Valentino cannot deny himself the thought that he likes it). Marc smiles at him with a wide boyish smile, charming wrinkles and small facial wrinkles on his cheeks, inevitable when approaching his thirtieth birthday. But Marc is still such a young enthusiastic boy that Valentino involuntarily thinks about making Marc then walk barefoot through the green fields in the mountains that they saw yesterday, and then take a picture of him secretly in order to put this photo in his personal collection. Marc grabs his hand, and there are now spicy spice stains on his skin too; Valentino is fascinated by their intertwined fingers, stained yellow, while Marc pulls them somewhere deep into the market. And Valentino doesn't find in himself the slightest desire to resist him.

and the word Green is also in my fiс with Mika/Michael and Ayrton/Alain:

"I heard Mika has a head injury…"

"A basilar skull fracture," says Michael. It was difficult to find out the exact diagnosis, but few people are able to stop Michael Schumacher when he really wants something.

"A basilar skull fracture," Alain repeats bitterly, and Michael is sure that it doesn't seem to him that Alain's voice has become more desperate and sadder. "Who do you see when you think about it, Michael?"

He's silent for a long time, not wanting to answer an uncomfortable question or not knowing the answer to it, but with some sixth sense he understands what Alain is talking about. He knows what he wants to hear from him.

"Ayrton," Michael breathes softly, closing his eyes, admitting that in his mind is imprinted a torn, broken blue-and-white car against the wall of the cursed track in Imola, a crumpled yellow-green bright helmet discarded in a hurry, and dirty dark pools of blood embedded in the gray asphalt. He was so afraid for Mika's life, he was afraid to come to the hospital, only to see a weak, limp body on pale sheets, entwined with tubes and wires, but he was hardly ready to admit that the main reason for his fears was that he had already seen it.

[robininthelabyrinth]

Countless Roads - Chapter 14

Fic: Countless Roads - Chapter 14 - Direct Link to 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.

———————————————————————————

Lewis Snart.

Father, abuser, terror of Len’s childhood.

Len’s mind blanks out, knowing only that he needs to get out, get away, and he instinctively reaches out to the ghosts for help.

Nothing.

It’s quiet.

“Oh,” Lewis says. “I don’t think your little ghostie friends are going to help you now.”

How does he know?

Len never told him, not once, never –

The ghosts.

Why can’t he hear the ghosts?

“I’ve taken certain precautions against your misbehaving,” Lewis says, with a smile. “Wouldn’t want you getting distracted when we have work to be attending to.” The smile broadens. “Seems like your old man still has a few lessons to teach you after all.”

Len closes his eyes and stops asking questions.

They only ever make it worse.

“Now get out and walk.”

At least Len manages to stop shaking by the time they get to their destination, Lewis prodding Len along any time he even thinks Len is slowing down, Lewis’ fingers managing to perfectly find the bruises he’s already left behind from manhandling Len into the van earlier. Len forces himself to be as calm and cold as possible – he has to be. If there's work ahead, other people maybe, he'll expect Len to behave. Lewis always hated it when Len showed weakness in front of people.

He might become angry.

Len’s long since learned to fear Lewis Snart’s anger.

And if his dad has figure out a way to stop the ghosts -

He can't think about that right now, or he'll freak out, and then Lewis will definitely be angry.

Len studies the building they’re walking towards. A Santini property, but old school – very old. A wretched old bed and breakfast, vulgar and garish, where the inside men used to bring their mistresses; it’s been abandoned by the Family for years, ten at least, though the hotel itself has chugged on, catering to the local prostitutes and the like.

Neither Len nor Mick would ever have bothered to check it out.

Santini -

The assassins.

“You had them shoot at me?” Len asks through numb lips. He hadn’t thought…he never suspected…sure, they hadn't exactly gotten on in recent years by any stretch of the imagination, but to have people try to kill him...

Lewis snorts. “You’re as over-dramatic as always,” he says. “No, it wasn't me. The young Santini idiot was the one who tried to have you killed, slipping money under the table to people so corrupt or stupid that they wouldn’t recognize you because he couldn’t admit that his official attempt to get back at you – through that lout you call your partner – failed without losing face. He had to play it off like he didn’t think it was a big deal, but he brooded over it long enough to want revenge anyway. I was brought in when they realized it was in their best interest to acquire your services instead.”

“My…services? You want me to run a heist for you?”

“If I wanted a heist done, I could have planned it myself,” Lewis scoffs, which is a lie. Len’s a far better thief than Lewis ever was – though Lewis’ approach is always far more brutal. Probably why the Families like him so much, and why Len refuses to work for them. “That isn’t to say we won’t be doing some thieving along the way. But the goal’s a little different, m’boy. Just wait until you meet my employer.”

“Your employer,” Len echoes, only scarcely paying attention. He’s been reaching out this entire time, calling to the ghosts, the dead, even the unquiet dead if it would get him a response, but there’s nothing, nothing at all; it’s so quiet. No ghosts, the background patter he’s always heard, his whole life – gone mute.

What has he done to me?

“Pay attention, boy,” Lewis snaps, and his fingers dig painfully into Len’s side.

They go inside the bed and breakfast.

Inside the lobby, there's a young man standing there with a nervous look, twitchy fingers like a drug addict, so unmemorable it takes Len a moment to place him. Nicolas Santini, of all people! The small fish, the useless Don, the one who'd barely been able to splutter out a denial because he'd been sweating too hard.

He doesn't look good.

No, little Nicholas looks paranoid, rich clothing and cheap jewelry, a short beard grown to add respectability but unable to disguise the way his eyes keep darting around the room like a drug addict with a looming deadline. “Is it done?” he asks Lewis, ignoring Len yet unable to keep from staring out of the corner of his eye at him, like Len’s a bomb about to go off. “Is he…?”

“I assure you my son will be causing us no difficulties, Don Santini,” Lewis says, ingratiating and fawning the way he always is around the Families. He simpered to their faces and cursed them behind their backs. “Shall we go upstairs? Your grandfather’s awaiting us, I believe.”

“Grandfather?” Len says, thrown for a moment. But no, that doesn't make sense; Len knows his Family bloodlines as well as any other criminal in Central. Nicholas Santini is the son of the daughter of - “Don Tomio, you mean? But he’s…” The words fall away from his mouth as the realization crashes down on him.

No.

“I think you, my boy, are the last one to complain about someone being dead,” Lewis crows. “Now why don’t you come inside?”

Len follows mutely.

He’s half expecting to see the ghostly form of old Don Tomio, sitting regally in his chair like the asshole he was, but – no. It’s another man, instead; his clothing is rich and elegant, but ill-fitting, like it was made for a much taller man. There’s a box of cigars next to him and an empty plate, resting on a side table.

The man looks squirrelly.

Sick.

There are rings under his bloodshot eyes and thick lines around his mouth and eyes; he’s far too thin and his hands shake as he drinks a slug of what smells like cheap whiskey from a flask. His nails are filthy and bitten to the quick.

“Where’s my grandfather?” Nicolas barks.

“Soon,” the man croaks, his voice a harsh rasp like a man dying. “I cannot ��� is this him? Is this the necromancer?”

“I’m not a –”

Lewis’ hand falls heavy on Len’s shoulder. Len shuts his mouth.

“Now, son,” Lewis says. “Don’t be shy. Mr. Cabrera here is a great admirer of your work.”

Cabrera grins. His teeth are yellow and his breath is foul; Len can smell it from across the room. “Wanted to see what all the fuss was about, I did,” he says. “He don’t look like much, to be causing all this trouble.”

“Trouble?” Len can’t help but ask, even though Lewis’ hand tightens in warning.

“Oh, yes,” Cabrera laughs, picking up a cigar and snipping it down to a stub. “Little Nico here’s been having ghost trouble; s’why he called me. I’m a specialist, y’see – nothing on your caliber, no, nothing like that; this whole bloody city’s positively rotting with ghosts, all swarming here to see you and beg for a little of your time and attention, aren’t they?”

“Get to the point,” Nicolas snaps. “I want that damn ghost gone.”

“Now, now,” Lewis says, and his voice is syrupy sweet. “We’ll take care of that soon enough. But first, I think we want to speak with the Don, isn’t that right?”

Len’s own eyes dart around the room, looking for the ghost, but he sees nothing. Hears nothing.

It’s so goddamn quiet.

Cabrera lights the cigar that he cut down to a stub and settles himself down in the chair. Fluffs himself up, straightens his back, pushes his legs together in a way that’s clearly not his natural way of sitting. It’s like he’s playing a terrible charade.

"To this place, to this time, I call upon thee, restless spirit of the dead,” he says in a grand tone. “Thou who wish't to come to this place, I call upon thee by name.”

Len swallows. This is bad. This is a summoning - not that he's ever seen one, but he can put two and two together easily enough. This man is no Santini flunky. He’s a medium, a real medium, not like those two-bit hacks who pretend at it for money. What the hell is going on?

“I call upon thee –” There is the smallest of hesitations, the slightest hint of reluctance, before Cabrera goes on. “Thomas Antonio Salvatore Santini."

He inhales from the cigar.

And then it happens.

Len sees it.

Filth, black filth, crawling up Cabrera’s face from under his jacket, like a thousand little bugs, streaming upwards towards his eyes and mouth, streaming down from his sleeves, covering every inch of skin, and Len takes an involuntary step backwards, face twisting in disgust and –

They’re gone.

Cabrera’s face is clean, or at least no more dirty than it was before.

But something’s changed.

The straight back is natural, now; the hand holds the cigar casually, not clutching at it like Cabrera was. The legs are held at ready, the real thing to Cabrera’s fake.

This thing might wear Cabrera’s face, but he’s not him.

“Don Tomio Santini,” Lewis says respectfully. “Welcome back.”

Don Tomio’s lips curl up. “Indeed,” he says. “I am pleased to see that you were able to live up to your promises and deliver that son of yours, Snart – no unnecessary failures. This time.”

His voice is curled in a sneer, rich in disdain. It’s clearly aimed at Nicolas, who flinches.

“I’m the one who brought you back, Grandfather,” Nicolas argues, clearly not for the first time. “The rest of the Family, they forgot about you, but not me, no, I found Cabrera for you, I did –”

“And for that you have been richly rewarded,” Tomio’s voice is hard, carelessly cruel. “I have guided your steps to rise in power within the Family, and you have received all the benefits thereof.”

“I still need to get rid of the damned ghost –”

“That, too, will be done,” Tomio says, holding up a hand, causing Nicolas to fall silent. He turns to Lewis. “You have bound him?”

“Oh, yes,” Lewis says. “He won’t touch a ghostie ever again, not without my say-so – and he’ll do anything to have that arsonist at his side again. I guarantee it.”

Len swallows, hard. “What have you done to Mick?” he asks.

Lewis shakes him.

Len shuts up.

“Nothing yet,” Tomio says, though he’s clearly disinterested. “But there are always options. I am informed that it is possible to bind a ghost with rituals, bloody ones. Cabrera has made a study of them over the years, in addition to his natural talent for serving as a medium. Though he is not as useful as he thinks he is.”

“You’re unquiet dead,” Len says, understanding, unable to look away even though he wishes he could. He’s never met another cursed one like him, but he’s had a perfectly reasonable interest in any sort of business involving the spirits of the dead. Mediums – Len remembers his mother telling him about them, how she always said they were incredibly creepy, how he always got a feeling of disgust deep in his belly any time someone tried to compare him to one. Looks like she was right. They're creepy as fuck. “That’s why he looks so sick. You’ve been feeding off of him, stealing his life away even as he lets you use his body.”

“It’s amazing what people will do for money,” Tomio says dismissively; it’s clear he doesn’t care that he’s talking about a man’s life being wrenched out of him, drip by painful drab. Tomio puts the cigar down carefully on the plate, though he doesn’t put it out. He looks Len up and down. “You really aren’t much. I would have expected more.”

“Don Santini –” Lewis starts.

“Do you know,” Tomio says, his eyes fixed on Len, “how long I had to rest to recollect the energy that I was forced to spend? The precious life energy that keeps me here, all wasted on shepherding children?”

Children? Why would an unquiet –

Ah.

“The black hole,” Len says.

“You ordered,” Tomio says, sneering. “And I obeyed. And my dear young Mr. Snart – I don’t like taking orders.”

“It wasn’t aimed at you,” Len says, though he knows something like that is worthless to a man like Tomio.

“Irrelevant,” Tomio confirms.

“Why didn’t I see you when I first came in?” Len asks, changing the subject. “How did you take away – why can’t I see you, ‘cept through Cabrera?”

“Only your father knows the secret to that,” Tomio says. “I, however, know another of your secrets.”

“And what secret is that?” Len asks, even though he knows it’s a bad idea, even with Lewis jabbing painfully at his ribs to get him to shut up.

Tomio smiles, twisting Cabrera’s cheeks into a distended grimace as muscles contort into a smile that’s not quite the right shape for the mouth. “I know about the black book.”

Len goes still.

“I was receiving treatment for the early stages of the cancer that would kill me,” Tomio says, “in a hospital long ago. You were in the room next door, speaking to the air like a madman – except when you walked out, there was a boy with you, a boy that hadn’t been there before. And I started to wonder, just enough – enough to start doing some research of my own – but then you decided you didn’t work with the Families and disappeared off the face of the earth just when I needed you.” His hands clench on the chair, his face purples a little. Rage. Entitlement - like Len had wronged him by going his own way.

His eyes flicker to the cigar stub, which is starting to burn out, and he straights himself again, mastering himself with an effort. “But although I was not able to have you save me before my death, I have learned enough after it. You will repair the error that has occurred. You will fetch the necessary ingredients,” Tomio says. “Nicolas and your father will supervise. If you disobey, Cabrera will bind you to his will and force you to do it.”

Len’s mouth goes ashy in horror. He doesn’t know what Cabrera is capable of, but the idea of binding another person like that…stripping them of all free will...

“You will then raise me up,” Tomio says, and his eyes glow with fervor and barely leashed fury. “And then I will return to the Santini Family to take my rightful place at its head, and I will show them my displeasure at how they have wasted the empire that I built.”

“Grandfather,” Nicolas says. “The ghost girl –”

“Yes, yes,” Tomio snaps. “That will be done as well.” His eyes flicker to the cigar again. “Enough. I must rest.”

The cigar burns out.

Tomio abruptly exhales, expelling foul smoke from his mouth like he’d been holding it in the entire time. Then he starts hacking, his body loose again – Cabrera returned.

“Come on, then,” Lewis says, and forces Len away. "We have work to do."