Fandom things that make me even less sane than I was 5 seconds ago. Feel free to use any of these for RP purposes or just for general personal fun times. Requests are currently being accepted. Please include a YT link for specific requests.
Featured characters in this chapter are in the tags. Excerpt is under the cut.
"It's a little bit funny. This feeling inside."
Dean's head rose as AJ skipped into the room, his lips turning down into a semi-scowl. It was just enough pressure to show her his dimples, which was just enough to bring an even bigger grin to AJ's lips. Her Converse squeaked across the tile floor, then came to a skidding halt at the visitors side of the desk. "The hell are you talking about?"
AJ shrugged. "Have you never seen Moulin Rouge?"
"No," he said tersely, "and you're not going to make me watch it, either."
She put her hands flat against the desk and swayed slowly from side to side. "Oh, I don't know. A little bit of Sodium Pentathol and I could probably have you doing just about anything."
An instant look of shock covered Dean's face before it quickly turned into consideration. AJ loved the reactions that she was able to get out of him. Most of the time, he was so laid back and chill, watching everything with the ease of a predator, awaiting the appropriate time and place to strike. But, every once in a while, AJ threw just enough crazy his way to make him sit up and really react. And sometimes, she threw just enough sanity at him to get the same reaction.
AJ knew what they said, that if you know you're crazy, you're not really crazy, but she didn't believe it. She was aware of herself to know that there wasn't something quite right about her. Oh, she may not have been as crazy for cocoa puffs as she led people to believe, but it wasn't all an act. She was off balance enough that the company shrink stopped trying to talk to her. He didn't want to see inside of AJ's head. He just kept her prescription filled.
That was another thing. AJ was cognizant enough to know that she needed the small hexagonal pills that were filled regularly. She knew that they were the only reason she wasn't truly batshit insane. Because she'd been very close to that when Trish first brought her into Shield. Most of the people in there had been rescued from jail, and while yes, AJ was technically a convicted ward of the state, it wasn't from a regular concrete jail cell that she was plucked. She was taken from a nice little facility for the Criminally Insane, from a room within said nice facility that was all rounded edges and free of anything she could hurt someone with. Because they weren't ever afraid of AJ hurting herself. She was a strictly homicidal type of crazy.
"Fine," she said, "I wouldn't drug you to get you to watch a movie," she said, rolling her eyes. "I would just use your greatest weakness against you."
Dean snorted. "And what would that weakness be?"
"Your complete and total inability to turn me down when I stick my bottom lip out super far and give you the most adorable little sad puppy dog eyes in the whole wide world."
Dean rolled his eyes and snorted again, but AJ knew that she was right. With just the right level of sadness, she knew that she had Dean Ambrose by the short hairs. He was a tough guy, sure, and he was a cold-blooded killer, but he was also a human being. And unlike Roman, Dean did actually have heartfelt emotions. Dean could sympathize and empathize. She didn't have to spend too much time with Dean before she was able to distinguish his psychopathy from his partner's sociopathy. There was a very thin, fine line between the two conditions, and that line was blurry as hell, but Dean made sure that he was firmly on the side of psychopath.
Dean groaned, but there was a playful light in his eyes, a brightness that let her know that, no matter what he said, he wasn't completely annoyed at her company, that he might actually even be enjoying it. "I've got work to do, AJ," he said. "Can we get to whatever the point of your visit is?"
Chapter 3 has finally been posted! Sorry it took so long! Randy was fighting me the whole way with this chapter. But, here it is!
http://www.fanfiction.net/s/9441519/3/Shadow-War
Excerpt under the cut.
She looked dead. From this distance, he couldn't see her chest rising and falling. He saw no movement from her at all. Only the waves of the EEG and EKG machines, silent on his side of the door, showed that she was alive, that there was still life in the woman that he had not only loved more than any other person in the world, but hated just as deeply.
His stomach clenched as he reached out toward the doorknob, a knot tightening in the pit of his stomach. The last time he felt anything like that was when he saw Stacy coming toward him in the Middle Eastern town where she had found him, knowing that he had been caught, that the time had come to run again. And that's what he wanted to do. He would rather turn and run out of the hospital than face what was on the other side of the door. But, goddammit, he was Randy fucking Orton. He hadn't run when Mike and Stacy had found him, and he wasn't going to run from what was in that room.
Randy took in a deep breath and held it. He consciously forced himself to turn the doorknob. His next feat was to push the door open. Those two were fucking easy compared to actually stepping foot into the room. It was slow and painful, forcing his legs to move forward. He thought it would be easier once he crossed the threshold, but no. That only made it harder. It was like he was pushing against a wall, and every step he took forward, the wall pushed him back three more. By the time he actually reached the side of the bed, a thin line of sweat circled his head and slipped down the back of his neck.
This close to her, she didn't look dead anymore. Her brown hair was singed, and he had a thought that she would be pissed when she woke up and got a look at it in the mirror. She wasn't overly vain, but it was the kind of thing that would stick with her, more than the redness of her peeling skin, showing where the heat had touched her face, but not the flames. Trish's arms were covered in netting, the skin beneath patchy and flaking. If that was the extent of her burns, then she was lucky.
She looked like Sleeping Beauty. Fuck, why did he know that well enough to bring up a comparison? Somebody, somewhere, an old girlfriend, he thought, had loved it, and her idea of a romantic evening was curled up watching the prince kiss the princess awake. Randy had rolled his eyes at it, but obviously had tucked away the memory of the scene, because when he looked down at her, he saw her in that fuzzy lighting, and it was almost enough to make him kiss her right then. Because that's what the prince did, right?
But, Randy was no fucking prince, and Trish was sure as hell no fucking princess.
At least she didn't turn that bright ass light on. It was bad enough she came bouncing onto the bed. If he didn't sleep so light, she would have jolted him awake. As it were, she managed to land perfectly on his stomach and send a grunt whooshing past his lips. The chick weighed nothing and a half, but damn, that little ass felt like a ton of bricks when it landed on his stomach unexpectedly.
Dean peeked an eye open, then closed it again. The sight of AJ excited didn't do much for him in the way of surprise. She was almost always excited. Now, if he'd seen her face looking more grave, he would have sat up instantly. And when the words came out of her mouth, he understood more than ever that his girl gave a whole new fucking meaning to crazy cakes.
"Somebody blew up Trish and Paul in New York."
AJ's voice was the same as if she'd just said that daddy got her a pony for her birthday. Dean opened his eyes and stared at her face. His eyes didn't take as long to adjust to the darkness as other people. Within a second or two, he could see the shining excitement in her eyes. She wasn't smiling, but her mouth was wide with shock.
Dean groaned. "The fuck did you just say?"
"I couldn't believe Seth hadn't already told you! He and Kait were watching it, monitoring cameras and stuff. They have the car exploding on video!"
"Yeah, well, Seth doesn't have a death wish, like some crazy bitches I know around here." Dean groaned and ran a hand down his face. "He knows better than to wake me up."
"Oh, come on. This is totally worth waking you up for." AJ put her hands on his chest and bounced her ass up and down on his stomach. "Get up! Stacy and Mike are calling a full facility meeting, conferenced in with all the other facilities. We don't even know if they're dead or alive."
Dean grunted. "Probably dead. Bombs do that to people, ya know."
"Not necessarily." AJ slid off of him and Dean thought he was going to get a reprieve. Yeah, like that was ever likely. AJ tossed the covers off of him and grabbed his leg, yanking on him as she said, "Paul always takes a bomb-proof car. All kinds of extra protection, just in case something like this happens. Paul knows that people want him dead."
AJ was strong for her size, sure, but not only was Dean so much bigger than her, he also had no fucking desire whatsoever to get out of the bed, and that meant no matter how hard she pulled on his leg, his ass was staying planted until he wanted it to move.
The sequel to Welcome to the Dark Side! Chapter One is ready.
Summary: AU -The sequel to Welcome to the Dark Side. The people behind the treachery of Barrett, Slater and Summer Rae are still out there and they're tired of waiting. They are making their move, and it's going to be up to the operatives of Shield to save not only their bosses and their jobs, but their own lives.
http://www.fanfiction.net/s/9441519/1/Shadow-War
Excerpt under the cut
The eyes on him were uncomfortable. The space between his shoulder blades itched, and he had to fight against the urge to scratch. Randy turned his head to the side and sneered. He didn't know the guy who recoiled from his look, and at the moment, he didn't care to know him. He didn't really give too much of a damn to know any of the new people in the installation. He wasn't all that sure he'd be around that long, anyway.
The only thing Randy could be sure of was that they weren't going to kill him. Paul would have never let him out of the dungeon if he weren't meant to live. Randy woke that morning to find a suit hanging behind his door, a slip of paper in the pocket of the jacket. The paper told him two things. One, the code to get back up to the main floor. Two, that he needed to get his ass up to Heyman's office as soon as his eyes were open.
Randy showered and dressed. The suit wasn't too ill-fitting. The pants were loose around the waist, but he was able to belt them into place. The shirt and jacket hung on his frame, his body smaller and more lean than it had been when he was last in the Alpha home base. He recognized the suit. Trish had bought it for him on one of their missions, a last minute black replacement for the navy suit that had been torn when he dodged a car that had come barreling toward him in the street. As a joke, she had inked "Watch where you're going" on the jacket lining.
Stepping into the hallway had been easy. Walking to the elevator, not so much. He had been tempted to go down to the torture rooms, to look inside and see if there was anything left of Summer Rae. He knew there wouldn't have been. He had watched Trish walk out, her white suit covered in blood. An hour later, he watched the clean-up crew go in. He hadn't bothered watching for when they left. He knew that the room would be spotless again, hosed down and disinfected, waiting for the next person who needed to be decommissioned.
He'd always wondered if there was something off about him, about all of them, that they did the things they did, and reacted to them the way they did. The things that excited him probably shouldn't have brought such a thrill, and the things that riled up his emotions, more than likely, should have scared him. Trish didn't look at him as she made her way back to the elevator, but he had looked at her. He had stared at the bright red against the stark white, and the love for her fought its way to the top again. It wasn't necessarily the blood, itself, as much as the fact that the blood was there at all. She had killed for him, for his loss in her life.
There will be a sequel. I've been thinking about it for a couple of months now and since the original is done, I'll be starting the sequel very soon. I'd just like to thank everyone who read this story and if you enjoyed it, I'm so very glad.
As always, the excerpt is beneath the cut.
"You don't have to say anything."
Roman leaned against the doorframe, his arms folded across his chest. He knew what this was. He may not have had the same emotional attachments as most people, but he understood the composition of them. He understood that people felt the need to talk things out, that they needed closure. Considering that Roman's idea of closure involved a lonely grave in the middle of nowhere and an eternity of "missing" posters yellowing on public billboards, Roman didn't think anyone who knew him wanted his kind of closure.
"Excuse me?" Trish placed her hands against the face of her desk and pushed herself up to her feet. Looking at her, Roman almost wished that he could feel something for her more than a general ambivalence mixed with lust. She was a beautiful woman, and she obviously had the ability to care. She cared about Roman's feelings, even though he couldn't care that much about hers.
Roman shrugged. "I know what this is," he said, staying at the door. "Orton's back. We won't be fucking anymore. I get it."
She winced at the harshness of his words. Roman didn't. That's what it was, and he knew it. He could tell when she first came to him that he wasn't even a distraction for her. He was the hand that could extend down to the unreachable places and scratch that itch. Which was fine, because wasn't she the same for him? They weren't dating. They barely spoke outside of business or the bedroom.
"That's it? You get it?"
"What else is there, Trish?"
She let out a heavy sigh as she stopped walking. She stood in front of him and folded her arms over her stomach. She pursed her lips. Roman thought of all the places on his body those lips had touched. He would miss the time he spent with her. He would miss the calm that came over him when they were finished and she lied on top of him panting, waiting for her strength to return so she could get up and leave. But, that was a sensation he could find anywhere, with anyone who knew what they were doing. He knew that while he would miss the things they did, he would only miss her in relation to those things.
"We both know what I am," Roman said with a grunt. He pushed himself off of the wall and stood up straight, dropping his arms to his sides. "Dean calls it my pathology, but it doesn't really matter. We know what this was, and we know why it's going to end."
Chapter 22 is up! There are only two more chapters left in this installment of the story. And then I'll be working on the sequel, which I have already started to plan. Thanks to everybody who has been reading this story, and I'm so happy that many of you have enjoyed it. Here's the next chapter.
She was surrounded by examples from the DSM-IV. Was it any wonder that Trish had a psychosis of her own, something that put her not necessarily in the same category as, but near enough to have a kinship with Ambrose, Lee, and Reigns. She let that psychosis show when she walked Summer Rae slowly past Randy's room.
Ambrose had left her surprisingly clean, and stable enough to walk on her own. She needed only one guard, and Trish told him to stand to her right as Summer came out of the elevator and proceeded into the bright light of the Dungeon. Trish watched Summer's skin pale even more, her face left untouched by the assassin upstairs, as she caught sight of Orton. Trish turned to look at Randy and watched him stand up from his bed and walk slowly toward the door.
Summer shrank away from him, even though Randy never came out of the room. She pressed herself against the guard standing on her right, trying to get away from him, from what she had done. Her fear made Trish smile. She wondered if her sadistic streak had come from Heyman, or if he'd only brought out what was already inside of her. Not that it particularly mattered, but it was something to chew on every now and again.
Trish kept her eyes on him as she moved past his room. There was surprise in his eyes, as though he hadn't really expected her to do this, as if he hadn't really taken her words to him to heart. She was going to destroy the bitch in front of her, and she would make her pay for breaking her heart. She would make her pay for taking Randy from her. And she would pay for the fact that while Trish only wanted to hold on to Randy and feel his arms around her, he could barely stand to look at her.
Trish turned her head away as she passed the room and focused on the back of Summer Rae's head. Her focus was momentary, however, as Randy called out her name. Trish turned around and he was in the hallway. Video surveillance proved that it was the furthest he'd been out of the confines of his room since he had arrived.
"You're wearing white," he said.
Trish looked down at herself and nodded. The only darkness about her was in her eyes, the light browning darkening as it filled with hate for the leggy blonde being walked in front of her. She looked up at Randy. "Yes."
"You're really gonna do it, then."
She smirked. Trish was an angel of death, and she wore her white so she could look at the blood and know she had completed a job well done. She wore the white for the fear it gave her victims, when they realized she didn't care to cover the blood. She wore it for the fear that showed in others as she walked back to her rooms within the compound and they realized that someone had just been decommissioned. The white pants suit was her sadism on display.
"I told you I was going to take care of her," Trish said to him. "I told you what I was going to do to her."
"For me."
"For myself," she told him. "Because I—" She paused, unsure of the words that swirled in her head. There were too many emotions when she looked at Randy, and standing in the hallway, she didn't know what to do with them. Once she had Summer Rae in the room, she would know. She would take all of those emotions and shove them down that cunt's throat. But standing in the hallway with Randy, the emotions did not equate to anything but shaking her head.
Trish sighed. "I have to go," she said. "I have someone to kill."
As usual, the excerpt is under the cut, and featured characters are in the tags.
Awake now, she didn't need to look around the room to know where she was, at least, not in general. She had seen enough interrogation rooms to know that was where she was. Her arms were strapped to the arms of the chair with zip ties. She pulled at them anyway, even though she knew that it would do her no good. She pushed herself up and stared at the three men in front of her. Now, she knew where she was.
Shit.
"Seth Rollins."
"Dean Ambrose."
"Roman Reigns."
She stared at the three of them as they formed a triangle across from her. Rollins was seated, his fingers tapping against a manila file folder. To the side of his right hand was a tablet. Ambrose stood at his left, on the dark side of his hair. Reigns was on his right, on the bleached blond side.
"And you are Summer Rae," Ambrose said. She didn't like the grin on his face when he said her name. "You look like a liar, Summer Rae. I'm gonna have fun with you."
Summer swallowed hard and shook her head. "What's going on?"
Rollins opened the folder and flipped it around, turning it toward her. He pushed it into her face as he said, "This tells us that you took a phone call that you didn't log, Summer."
"I'm sorry, what?"
"Oh yeah, she's a liar alright." That was from Reigns. He wasn't the tallest, but in physical presence, he was the largest. He was a scary guy, that was for sure, and the laughter in his voice was frightening.
"And thanks to your rules," Ambrose said, "she's all mine."
They had unfastened the restraints. That was a plus. Of course, Randy was well aware that even if they weren't keeping him sedated most of the time, he still wouldn't have made it that far. In the three years he'd been gone, they would have already changed the codes on the elevator, and the lift wouldn't open without the correct passcode. The wrong passcode entered three times would trigger an alarm and enough knockout gas to keep him unconscious for the next six hours, at minimum. So yeah, there was no point in keeping him restrained, because he couldn't go anywhere, anyway.
Randy squeezed his hand around the cool metal dog tags, edged in rubber. They were the first thing he reached for when he first woke up with his arms free, and he hadn't let them go since then. He didn't look at him, though. Looking at them brought too many memories, and those flashes of the past only served to confuse him more. Because Randy fully believed that Trish had tried to have him killed, that she had never really loved him, but the memories were just- They were too strong, and made him question his own mind.
There was just too much sense to it for there to be any other explanation. He remembered the night before he left for that mission, recalled it as easily as he recalled the fight with Miz before Stacy drugged him. Trish always told him that she hated to send him out there, wished that someone else would step up and be good enough to take his top operative spot, so he could take an administrative job, so he could have an office like her and stay safe within the confines of the compound.
But that night, she didn't say any of that. They made love, and Randy remembered how soft her skin had been. He had taken care to touch every inch of her, to kiss every place that his lips could touch. He always did that just before he left, in case the mission turned out to be longer than expected and he could remember her during the long nights. They told each other they loved each other that night. His dog tags had looked like the finest jewelry around her neck.
She never told him not to go, though. She didn't even joke about some bedroom gymnastics causing him to break his arm and giving the job over to someone else. She didn't tell him that she wished he wasn't so good. She didn't tell him anything other than that she loved him, and when he walked out the door the next morning, his bag over his shoulder, she just looked up at him with the sheet clutched to her chest, her hair a frizzy mess, and told him, again, that she loved him.
And that was the problem, though, wasn't it? The fact that he kept remembering what she did say, along with what she didn't say. Because no, she didn't bemoan her timestamp on the file that approved this mission for him, but she kept saying she loved him. Randy knew how much Trish hated to say those words, hated the weakness that she thought being in love caused in her, but that night- She said it like she was never going to see him again, and he needed to know, that she needed him to know.
Which sent him back to her setting him up. Because she did say it like she was never going to see him again, and that's because the bitch fucking knew he was never coming back from the desert hell to which she was sending him. He had worked with Trish. They had put in their fair share of long term missions, and he knew she was a damn good actress. He just never thought she was that good. He should have known better than to underestimate her.
But, still, that nagging voice told him that he was bitter and he was angry, and he was confused, and he was being a fucking idiot. That voice told him that Trish was in love with him. Why else would she wear those tags for the last three years?
Of course, who was to say that wasn't just more bullshit. That it was some kind of show she put on for everybody. Granted, that was assuming that Heyman wasn't in on it, too. Not like he'd put it past that fucking walrus. Son of a bitch would sell out his own mother if it made him a quick buck and probably had.
And that voice told him, again, that he was being an asshole for the sake of being an asshole. If they wanted him dead, Randy wouldn't have made it back to Alpha's base. Stacy and Miz would have taken him out and buried his ass out in the desert. Hell, Stacy would have put a stiletto in his neck instead of a needle.
"So, why the fuck am I still alive if they wanted me dead so badly?"
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