Trollfic is made of fail
So I wrote a fic to troll the abominable BISHIEBISHIESQUEE Red vs Blue slash community.
It's also a bit of a poke at the idea of wing-fic in general, which I probably don't get.
It was good, so I have obviously failed. Read for yourself:
Suddenly Growing Wings would be Fucking Painful
Church doubled over and tried to reach around to his back with both hands, his rifle dropping to the dusty ground. He’d expected it to hurt, but not like this. This pain was unlike anything he’d ever felt before, unbearable and unrelenting.
He clawed at the clasps and buckles securing his breastplate and tore into them, finding no purchase as his fingers shook from the agony gripping him. He could feel his shoulders shifting, bones cracking and tendons splitting as the new growths forced their way from beneath his aching flesh.
At last, the suit compensators kicked in, stilling his fingers long enough for him to gain a grip on the catch which held his chest armour in place. Flicking it roughly, he felt the depressurisation and the separate breast and back plates fell away.
Church’s vision began to blur and his helmet’s heads-up display flashed bright red, an automated message warning him of suit integrity loss while a far smaller indicator told him that he was being pumped full of morphine. Memories came back, and he knew that he couldn’t allow himself to pass out. Not after what had happened to the other guy.
His desperate fingers flew under the neck of his helmet, clawing at the gap between skin and steel. He felt the compensators die again, his fingers losing dexterity once again, and felt the metal of his armoured gauntlets begin to dig into his neck as he strained to pry off his headgear.
He was screaming through gritted teeth, the pain still not letting up, although the loss of his armour’s torso had lessened the pressure somewhat. Now Church felt less of a crushing, more of a stabbing beneath the skin and muscles of his back.
As the first fingers of bone pierced his skin, with an agonised cry his helmet cracked and came apart, sparks and shards of ceramic armour flying out from the shattered equipment. Blood trickled from Church’s eyes and the corner of his mouth. He looked down into the remains of his helmet’s visor and saw reddened eyes looking back at him, imploring and terrified, their normal colour indistinguishable in the gold-tinted reflection.
The pain intensified, if that were possible, and with the sound of tearing flesh amplified by the canyon walls, two titanic wings erupted from Church’s back. Immediately, they extended fully and caught the slight breeze, billowing in the warm air.
They were fifteen feet across and terrifying: bones like a demented, distorted hand formed the frame, while membranes of skin stretched between them. Slowly, fresh blood and fluids dripped onto the dirt.
Church turned his pained eyes skywards.
“Son of a bitch.”
It's also a bit of a poke at the idea of wing-fic in general, which I probably don't get.
It was good, so I have obviously failed. Read for yourself:
Suddenly Growing Wings would be Fucking Painful
Church doubled over and tried to reach around to his back with both hands, his rifle dropping to the dusty ground. He’d expected it to hurt, but not like this. This pain was unlike anything he’d ever felt before, unbearable and unrelenting.
He clawed at the clasps and buckles securing his breastplate and tore into them, finding no purchase as his fingers shook from the agony gripping him. He could feel his shoulders shifting, bones cracking and tendons splitting as the new growths forced their way from beneath his aching flesh.
At last, the suit compensators kicked in, stilling his fingers long enough for him to gain a grip on the catch which held his chest armour in place. Flicking it roughly, he felt the depressurisation and the separate breast and back plates fell away.
Church’s vision began to blur and his helmet’s heads-up display flashed bright red, an automated message warning him of suit integrity loss while a far smaller indicator told him that he was being pumped full of morphine. Memories came back, and he knew that he couldn’t allow himself to pass out. Not after what had happened to the other guy.
His desperate fingers flew under the neck of his helmet, clawing at the gap between skin and steel. He felt the compensators die again, his fingers losing dexterity once again, and felt the metal of his armoured gauntlets begin to dig into his neck as he strained to pry off his headgear.
He was screaming through gritted teeth, the pain still not letting up, although the loss of his armour’s torso had lessened the pressure somewhat. Now Church felt less of a crushing, more of a stabbing beneath the skin and muscles of his back.
As the first fingers of bone pierced his skin, with an agonised cry his helmet cracked and came apart, sparks and shards of ceramic armour flying out from the shattered equipment. Blood trickled from Church’s eyes and the corner of his mouth. He looked down into the remains of his helmet’s visor and saw reddened eyes looking back at him, imploring and terrified, their normal colour indistinguishable in the gold-tinted reflection.
The pain intensified, if that were possible, and with the sound of tearing flesh amplified by the canyon walls, two titanic wings erupted from Church’s back. Immediately, they extended fully and caught the slight breeze, billowing in the warm air.
They were fifteen feet across and terrifying: bones like a demented, distorted hand formed the frame, while membranes of skin stretched between them. Slowly, fresh blood and fluids dripped onto the dirt.
Church turned his pained eyes skywards.
“Son of a bitch.”