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Oct. 23rd, 2010 02:56 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
slashburdContinuing from ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sarisynn's idea of a Zombie Meme - i.e. a meme where you pick out your favourite bits of fics that have died/never been published or finished - I decided to have a trawl back through some of my dead documents and was surprised at some of the stuff I have still kicking around unfinished. So, here's a few odds and ends of what is likely to remain a bunch of 'also rans'.
First one comes as a result of a bunny I had following last year's Bragging Rights Cena/Orton match. I still adore that match and it's something I go back and watch often.
As it progressed John laid beat down on the mat, chest heaving and looking for all the world like he wasn't far off submission. Nobody knew how close to the truth that was until Randy slid off the apron and retrieved the cuffs, slinging the keys around his neck on a chain that looked alien against his skin. Usually they would have the sweat of his lover dripping off them as their bodies united in the peak of a punishment; the beatings he craved followed by the sex that he'd become addicted to. The metal felt good against his skin and he caressed the cold steel of the cuffs, undoing them as he walked towards John. As he finally appeared in John's vertical eyeline he lifted an eyebrow, asking the question one last time whether or not they should go ahead. John could only reply with by turning his head towards the ropes and twitching his arm slightly to expose the smooth skin of the inside of his wrist, the way Randy would indicate to him when he was ready to be cuffed when they were together.
Securing the metal around his lover's wrist felt right and wrong in equal quantities to Randy. He wanted to sink to his knees and apologise, to beg forgiveness for the things he was about to do but he knew that he couldn't. In character he was the single-minded and merciless assailant that the fans and the storywriters wanted him to be. Storywriters who right about now were running about frantically backstage and trying to figure out where the break in script had come from. The fight out into the crowd didn't appear to be happening as Randy reached up and secured one of the cuffs to the top rope.
Standing over John pretending to admire his handiwork he began to kick at John's midriff, the kicks landing as hard as he dare, knowing he didn't want to leave any bruising. As the blows connected John caved at his middle, drawing his knees up to be able to take more so that the warmth spreading across his body would intensify. He felt the rough sole of the boots pulling against his perspiring skin and savoured the smell of the leather as it flew through the air above him before smashing the air from his lungs once again. Inside he fought his own battle, knowing that this shouldn't be doing what it did to him, knowing that he should want to stand face to face, eye to eye with any opponent or lover that dared to treat him like that.
The next one is a very short fic that I never got anywhere near completing the first thousand words of before I got mega bored of it. The images in my head seemed much more appealing that anything I could turn them to in words.
The full and pouting lips pressed together at the corner of his mouth and curled into a smirk. As he looked down he saw the slender legs parting until they were spread wide and what lay between them was clear to see. He'd never seen his lover act so sluttishly, this kind of self-confidence a totally new concept to him. There was no giggling, no shyness; it was brazen in motive and method and it had other effects on him other than just causing a smile.
From his kneeling position he leaned down and pressed his lips to the inside of the ankle to his left. The smooth skin brushed against his own and he couldn't resist but to plant a string of soft, warm kisses along the shapely calf muscle but then pausing briefly at the crease of the knee. Teddy moved his hand so it captured the outside of the bent joint and pressed his lips to the skin more firmly earning a soft groan of pleasure from the slowly squirming body beneath him.
That sweet spot had been discovered by hand only minutes earlier when he'd slid his fingers under the edge of the luxurious bathrobe and felt the shiver as they brushed the tender area.
Thirdly, something I had an idea for after hearing the perfect song. I started it, really loved the first part that I wrote and then the second not so much, the third never got to more than a few lines. This was written just after Samoa Joe went missing, I'm not sure I ever really got him down more than adequately and the rest of it escaped me totally.
So, here I am. All there is in this room is me, a bed and a television set. Dirty curtains frame what I'd hardly call a picture window as what I can see through it hardly classes as one. Smog blows into the cold air of another April morning and I'm alone. Sure, I wake most mornings alone. The life of a pro-wrestler is a one that is more than likely going to give you plenty of experience of that. It means years of rolling over to find the lump under your duvet that you think is your lover is actually nothing more than the pillow you held in your sleep just to feel something other than pain and loneliness.
You think a big man like me don't feel like that from time to time? I miss having someone to cling on to. I have a lot of bad dreams, had them since I was a kid. All those traditional stories of warriors, men of honour and impeccable character that I was supposed to look up to and aspire to be. The tall tales of men who survived tortures and trials that no human could be expected to endure. Every night a vision that always ended the same. I was always the lesser man, always the failure.
And the last one, well this came as a result of a realisation that I had about WM26 and the significance of a particular number. I got into writing it until I came back to write this part and it kinda broke my brain a little. So yeah, this is almost finished and I may throw it out there one day but meh, who knows.
Bret blamed Vince; blamed his created culture, his drive for money, his determination that bigger was better. A lot of his friends were dead and the guy everyone thought was his mortal enemy was only still around because he dropped lucky and got off the pills when he did.
The one exception was his baby brother, the apple of his eye. He was gone because some madcap idea had gone wrong. The corporate machine didn't get a chance to eat him up, it never got the chance. Part of Bret found that comforting. Owen wasn't left with a broken neck, busted knees, an enlarged heart; all the conditions that the guys seemed to pick up by the time they'd barely hung their boots up. He'd died young, died quick but never really died at all. He just wasn't around but had never left Bret for a moment. Every morning he was what got Bret out of bed, made him get up and get on with his life because he was so grateful to still have one. Owen would never die while there was a breath in Bret's lungs, he swore that the minute the covered gurney trundled backstage and it was the one promise he would always keep.
So, there we go. It was fun to go and do this, made me do some housekeeping and a tidy up which is always good. It also made me want to go back and finish one of the more controversial fics that I wanted to write. Maybe that's what will keep me out of trouble over Christmas! So now go read the one posted bysarisynn and the others done by nera_fiore and neonaxelgrease - it all makes for interesting stuff!
sarisynn's idea of a Zombie Meme - i.e. a meme where you pick out your favourite bits of fics that have died/never been published or finished - I decided to have a trawl back through some of my dead documents and was surprised at some of the stuff I have still kicking around unfinished. So, here's a few odds and ends of what is likely to remain a bunch of 'also rans'.First one comes as a result of a bunny I had following last year's Bragging Rights Cena/Orton match. I still adore that match and it's something I go back and watch often.
As it progressed John laid beat down on the mat, chest heaving and looking for all the world like he wasn't far off submission. Nobody knew how close to the truth that was until Randy slid off the apron and retrieved the cuffs, slinging the keys around his neck on a chain that looked alien against his skin. Usually they would have the sweat of his lover dripping off them as their bodies united in the peak of a punishment; the beatings he craved followed by the sex that he'd become addicted to. The metal felt good against his skin and he caressed the cold steel of the cuffs, undoing them as he walked towards John. As he finally appeared in John's vertical eyeline he lifted an eyebrow, asking the question one last time whether or not they should go ahead. John could only reply with by turning his head towards the ropes and twitching his arm slightly to expose the smooth skin of the inside of his wrist, the way Randy would indicate to him when he was ready to be cuffed when they were together.
Securing the metal around his lover's wrist felt right and wrong in equal quantities to Randy. He wanted to sink to his knees and apologise, to beg forgiveness for the things he was about to do but he knew that he couldn't. In character he was the single-minded and merciless assailant that the fans and the storywriters wanted him to be. Storywriters who right about now were running about frantically backstage and trying to figure out where the break in script had come from. The fight out into the crowd didn't appear to be happening as Randy reached up and secured one of the cuffs to the top rope.
Standing over John pretending to admire his handiwork he began to kick at John's midriff, the kicks landing as hard as he dare, knowing he didn't want to leave any bruising. As the blows connected John caved at his middle, drawing his knees up to be able to take more so that the warmth spreading across his body would intensify. He felt the rough sole of the boots pulling against his perspiring skin and savoured the smell of the leather as it flew through the air above him before smashing the air from his lungs once again. Inside he fought his own battle, knowing that this shouldn't be doing what it did to him, knowing that he should want to stand face to face, eye to eye with any opponent or lover that dared to treat him like that.
The next one is a very short fic that I never got anywhere near completing the first thousand words of before I got mega bored of it. The images in my head seemed much more appealing that anything I could turn them to in words.
The full and pouting lips pressed together at the corner of his mouth and curled into a smirk. As he looked down he saw the slender legs parting until they were spread wide and what lay between them was clear to see. He'd never seen his lover act so sluttishly, this kind of self-confidence a totally new concept to him. There was no giggling, no shyness; it was brazen in motive and method and it had other effects on him other than just causing a smile.
From his kneeling position he leaned down and pressed his lips to the inside of the ankle to his left. The smooth skin brushed against his own and he couldn't resist but to plant a string of soft, warm kisses along the shapely calf muscle but then pausing briefly at the crease of the knee. Teddy moved his hand so it captured the outside of the bent joint and pressed his lips to the skin more firmly earning a soft groan of pleasure from the slowly squirming body beneath him.
That sweet spot had been discovered by hand only minutes earlier when he'd slid his fingers under the edge of the luxurious bathrobe and felt the shiver as they brushed the tender area.
Thirdly, something I had an idea for after hearing the perfect song. I started it, really loved the first part that I wrote and then the second not so much, the third never got to more than a few lines. This was written just after Samoa Joe went missing, I'm not sure I ever really got him down more than adequately and the rest of it escaped me totally.
So, here I am. All there is in this room is me, a bed and a television set. Dirty curtains frame what I'd hardly call a picture window as what I can see through it hardly classes as one. Smog blows into the cold air of another April morning and I'm alone. Sure, I wake most mornings alone. The life of a pro-wrestler is a one that is more than likely going to give you plenty of experience of that. It means years of rolling over to find the lump under your duvet that you think is your lover is actually nothing more than the pillow you held in your sleep just to feel something other than pain and loneliness.
You think a big man like me don't feel like that from time to time? I miss having someone to cling on to. I have a lot of bad dreams, had them since I was a kid. All those traditional stories of warriors, men of honour and impeccable character that I was supposed to look up to and aspire to be. The tall tales of men who survived tortures and trials that no human could be expected to endure. Every night a vision that always ended the same. I was always the lesser man, always the failure.
And the last one, well this came as a result of a realisation that I had about WM26 and the significance of a particular number. I got into writing it until I came back to write this part and it kinda broke my brain a little. So yeah, this is almost finished and I may throw it out there one day but meh, who knows.
Bret blamed Vince; blamed his created culture, his drive for money, his determination that bigger was better. A lot of his friends were dead and the guy everyone thought was his mortal enemy was only still around because he dropped lucky and got off the pills when he did.
The one exception was his baby brother, the apple of his eye. He was gone because some madcap idea had gone wrong. The corporate machine didn't get a chance to eat him up, it never got the chance. Part of Bret found that comforting. Owen wasn't left with a broken neck, busted knees, an enlarged heart; all the conditions that the guys seemed to pick up by the time they'd barely hung their boots up. He'd died young, died quick but never really died at all. He just wasn't around but had never left Bret for a moment. Every morning he was what got Bret out of bed, made him get up and get on with his life because he was so grateful to still have one. Owen would never die while there was a breath in Bret's lungs, he swore that the minute the covered gurney trundled backstage and it was the one promise he would always keep.
So, there we go. It was fun to go and do this, made me do some housekeeping and a tidy up which is always good. It also made me want to go back and finish one of the more controversial fics that I wanted to write. Maybe that's what will keep me out of trouble over Christmas! So now go read the one posted by
sarisynn and the others done by nera_fiore and neonaxelgrease - it all makes for interesting stuff!
