The Marquis de All The Knives (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
balsamandash) wrote2017-01-18 02:59 pm
balsamandash) wrote2017-01-18 02:59 pm
Entry tags:
Memes!
I will attempting an actual update sometime in the next couple of days, especially because I mean to go rifle belatedly through friending memes, but for now, I am stealing memes.
Which fictional setting would you put me in, and what sort of role would I play there?
Or alternately:
Comment with a fanfic trope (and a character/pairing for it, if you want) and I will tell you:
• How likely I am to write it
• A few lines of a theoretical fic
(Fandom list, if you need it)
Which fictional setting would you put me in, and what sort of role would I play there?
Or alternately:
Comment with a fanfic trope (and a character/pairing for it, if you want) and I will tell you:
• How likely I am to write it
• A few lines of a theoretical fic
(Fandom list, if you need it)
no subject
alpha/beta/omega - Firefly
D/Sverse - Newsflesh
Apocalypse/post-apocalypse - MCU
Curtainfic - TDC (Because curtainfic in Hell would be hilarious)
A/B/O + Firefly
If I ever DID end up writing A/B/O, it'd either be because I decided to fuck with exactly that assumption and like... write a d/s relationship where the omega was the dom; or because I wanted to fuck with the pregnancy aspect of it, which is less likely, for me. I'm not gonna say never, but unlikely.
The amount of hormones running around makes River's head spin, and sometimes she hides in Inara's shuttle or Kaylee's cot to get away from the burnt-crackle-crunch-rustle-black of Mal's heat being suppressed, from Simon and Zoe and the Alpha's roar of mine-away that rises each time they catch each other and only wants to get out more because they're both so good at ignoring it. It clogs her nose and throat and ears and head and she forgets sometimes she can only hear it because she's wrong-wrong-wrong.
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D/s-verse Newsflesh
... I would actually totally do it for Newsflesh too, because two ideas immediately jump to mind and I feel like either could make an interesting story -- so while I could also probably write the one where they're both switches and kind of angry at the world about it, I'm much more here for either: sub!George who is SPITTING GODDAMN NAILS ANGRY AT THE WORLD ABOUT IT because fuck you subs are totally valid; or sub!Shaun who is cheerily spitting in your face about the idea that all Irwins are doms.
Either way it involves a lot of "your social set-up is bad and you should feel bad about it COME TO THE SITE AND LET ME LECTURE YOU ON WHY also zombies" from both of them really.
There's always been a couple of people with weird genetic markers, people who can't test right or whose markers have to be specially interpreted -- or at least, that's what the books say, and if they're all people with a little too much money and connections to have to deal with the blow of having that 's' for life, nobody's admitted that yet. And Shaun knows that, even if for some reason his tests did come out weird, that's what he should be marked at.
"It would be so much easier for you," Mom continues, serious and gentle with him like she was when they explained George's condition, and Shaun's stomach flips between nausea at having to have this conversation at all, at the stupid feeling that he's letting her down somehow by being a sub, and anger that she can make him feel this way. "If your father hadn't started so soon after the Rising, even he'd never have gotten as far as he did."
And he's a Newsie, she doesn't have to say. In a lot of fields, subs can get a lot farther than they could before the Rising -- Shaun's done all the required reading, and then more, when he started having the feeling he might end up on the wrong side of the line -- but Irwins are weirdly traditional about it. Subs just don't sit well with people who pride themselves on having a death wish. Newsies have a better time, and even that's hard to break into unless you've got a lot of steam behind you and a little bit of luck finding the big stories; most of the big-name subs in blogging are Fictionals or Antis.
Mom is waiting for an answer still, looking at him like it's all worry, all for him, not like she'll have to figure out a new way to spin things if he can't be the big, brave dom Irwin to follow in her footsteps, and Shaun pastes on his best camera-ready grin like he's been practicing for years.
"I'll think about it," he says, and she lets him go even though they both know it's a no.
George is waiting for him when he walks through the door that connects their rooms. She doesn't even look up from what she's typing when she says, "Fuck her. You shouldn't have to lie."
He lets out a breath that takes effort to keep steady, his shoulders relaxing at the permission that he didn't want to admit he needed, and takes a seat on the floor next to her chair, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against her knee so he can't even see the glow of her screen. Another second of typing, and one of George's hands comes to rest on the back of his neck.
They'll have to talk about this soon; now that they've admitted that he's a sub and they both know she's not, they're going to have to talk about all the things they've been getting away with by pretending they didn't have orientations. But right now, he just wants to sit here in the darkness and listen to her write.
Re: D/s-verse Newsflesh
Re: D/s-verse Newsflesh
(I also want sub!Shaun and dom!George and hidden collars, both before Feed and during.)
(And sad deadline!Shaun having additional issues because people make stupid jokes about how his sister is no longer there to keep him in line and him being angry because NO YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND THAT IS EXACTLY THE PROBLEM FUCK YOU.)
(... and head!George trying to be a dom for him and it just. being painful for everyone all around.)
Re: D/s-verse Newsflesh
(...I need all these things. Give them to me. Please? I love you?)
MCU post-apocalypse
Have a ficstart that probably makes little logical sense but is the first tihng that came to mind.
"Steve?"
"Peggy!" There isn't room for relief even at the sound of her voice; not with the timer still ticking. "Peggy there's a timer -- it's --"
"A virus," she interupts. "Yes, we know. Come back; Howard's found a way to--"
"I can't. Even if I could get back," he adds, glancing at the smashed navigation, "there's not enough time. It'd release before I got there. Peg... I gotta put her in the water."
His voice wavers. It isn't the last time, before the radio cuts out, but Steve plunges into the icy water with a sense of relief, the timer still ticking with eight minutes to go. The world wants to go dark, but he fights, his lungs burning as he listens; finally, the ticking stops, and he lets go.
*
He wakes up to a steady beep, beep, beep and a sterile, alcoholic smell stinging his nose, and everything is white when he opens his eyes. It takes a second to remember where he was, and he springs forward, yanking blindly at something that tries to hold him back. The beeping turns into a mechanical screech, and he's yelling without realizing it as four sets of hands try to hold him down.
"It's going to get out, the virus, it's going--"
"It's too late," says a too-calm voice, and Steve focuses on the new set of footsteps, the man in the long coat and eyepatch standing in front of him like he hasn't just said the worst thing he possibly could. "It's already out, Captain."
Steve barely feels them pulling him back into the bed. He doesn't bother fighting. If they're telling him the truth, what's the point in fighting anything, now?
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...Also this turned out significantly less ridiculous than I expected. I don't even know.
The schedule is as set as the rules. Evenings are for the show. Afternoons are for set-up, clearing the stage from last night's work and frivolities; for preparation, whatever might come up; for whatever business brings itself to light. Mornings are slow, in comparison; mornings are awakenings, reviewing notes, whatever personal business the performers might concern themselves with.
Mornings are for books and breakfast and slow conversation. Occasionally it's the slow scratch of the quill as they plan together, but most mornings are greeted with softness, shedding the layers and make-up and hardness shown to the souls trapped there, living their eternal night and unaware of the full lives the workers have earned.
Mornings are a hold-over from before they had so much space and so many to fill it. They started long ago, when there were so few people to work and so few souls to work for that there were hardly any rules. It was during the mornings that that list began to take its shape; during the mornings that they first spoke of giving the others who had followed Lucifer down a purpose, a way to channel their anger and their pain. It was in a quiet morning that Lucifer had first suggested, smiling like he'd already planned it all, "Why not a carnival?"
And he'd already decided to follow him; to help build whatever image Lucifer had in mind was far from where he'd draw the line.
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