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
Bodyswap - October Daye
Amnesiafic - The Devil's Carnival
Cooking/feeding - Newsflesh
Deathfic - New Albion
Drunkfic - Sanctuary
First time fic - MCU
Fusion - Eastwick
Deal with the devil - MCU but I was thinking Peggy in particular.
Am I allowed to do original universes for trope things too? Cause I would do that....
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If you are open to it, then I suppose I am as well.
(We are going to be doing this for weeeeeks)
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(Doooo it. I am so good with this.)
Wings and spies
"Less than one in ten thousand," Mom used to say, like it actually meant something. "You and your brother are special."
Michael guesses that's technically true; the chances of his parents having two sons with wings were pretty slim. He might believe it more if his father didn't have them too, mottled brown and big enough to fly on if he'd ever bothered to learn. His mother might have believed that wings meant something about him and Nate -- that they were good, that they were destined for better things than they grew up in, that they'd be okay -- but Michael's first memories of wings were his father's trailing to the floor at an angle that made his stomach squirm even before his grew in properly.
No, Michael knew what wings really were: tools. They were never going to do anything for him; it was what he made of them that counted.
But Nate never seemed to learn that.
Re: Wings and spies
I want this too. I want this kind of badly because ow and I don't rea denough BN fic but I would read the fuck out of this.
Bodyswap + Tobyverse
"No, you're trying too hard." Tybalt's scowl on May's face is almost as weird as Tybalt's face screwed up in concentration, mouthing words as stripes surfacing and then disappearing across his skin. "Trying to cast it will only make it harder. It's already in you."
"Still not helpful," May snaps, taking a deep breath and glaring at him. It should be more intimidating with Tybalt's height and grace behind it; instead it just looks squinty, her hands on her hips giving the impression that she doesn't know what else to do with them. "Don't you have to teach kids how to do this? Pretend I'm a kid."
"Most of them don't have to be taught."
"Try shaping it like a spell." Toby's voice makes both of them jump; Quentin thinks maybe they forgot anyone was watching. "Obviously it's not working for her the way it does for you, Tybalt, so -- trying something you know better."
May looks thoughtful, closing her eyes again. Her hands move through the air after a moment, but this time there's a grace to it -- maybe not a cat's grace, but some kind of grace; and then there's the familiar sight of Tybalt's cat form on the ground in front of them, looking smug. It's harder to tell the difference that way; Quentin could mistake her for Tybalt if it wasn't for how obviously it isn't May in the scowling body next to it.
Toby's nose wrinkles. "Your magic smells weird."
(I realize belateldy that I have used fairly non-Toby words for things in this. I am tired and hot, I consider writing at all a victory.)
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Oh kids! <33333 Tybalt and May are kind of my favorites and I have no idea why but I love them so much.
Amnesia and the Carnival
That said: I don't think I could do justice to the ridiculous fic that is "Lucifer gets cartoonishly whacked on the head, gets amnesia, and the carnival has to sitcomishly run on around him for a night while he does something utterly ridiculous", but damn do I want it now. Here is about as much of that premise that I think I can ever manage.
The Ticket-Keeper gets down on one knee next to Lucifer's nearly-still body, tuning out the expressions of fear and worry going on behind him and particularly, pointedly ignoring the Scorpion's intermittent wails of "he walked into it!"
The master is still breathing, and that is at least a relief. The Ticket-Keeper touches his shoulder, and is rewarded with Lucifer's eyelids flickering.
"Sire?" he says quietly, but it still brings all the activity behind him to a halt, the carnival breathlessly waiting for the punishment sure to come. "Are you all right?"
"Hmmm?" Lucifer's eyes take a moment to focus on him, and an exaggerated frown crosses his face -- at least, compared to the amount of expression he'd usually give at a time like this. The less he shows his aggravation or frustration, the more terror his anger holds for everyone else. "Why am I on the floor? Who are you?"
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Newsflesh and Food
Specifically the Newsflesh I'd write for the theme honestly would have nothing to do with George, Shaun, or anyone else in AtET; I... guess it would have to be about their parents, if I didn't want to make it about OCs, because I'd be more interested in writing about like... the changing culture during and after the Rising, and the relationship with food and cooking for people who remember what it was like when meat was safe.
I don't actually know if I could write that fic properly, but I'd definitely want to.
This is not that story, but, eh. Also man would I need to reread at least some of Newsflesh to try and write fic for it, I feel kind of rusty. I could maybe do George and Shaun but that's about it.
Maggie considers pushing for a moment, but she gets the feeling that if she pushes Mahir too fast, he won't break; he'll just shore up his walls and pretend there was never anything to see. Instead, she turns back to the pantry and busies herself with digging out all the ingredients; she's already setting up pans and pots on the stove, fiddling with them too long so that she doesn't have to walk away after turning the burners on, when she finally hears him speak again, muffled and so quiet she almost misses it.
"I can cook, I swear, I just haven't much lately. Nan -- she likes to experiment." His voice wavers; his face is hidden in his hands when she turns towards him again, leaning on the table like it's the only thing keeping him up.
He's silent for a minute. "She sounds nice," Maggie says, more to prompt him than anything else, and Mahir gives a quiet laugh.
"She's wonderful. Terrible taste in husbands," he says dryly, scrubbing at his eyes and finally looking back up at her. "But she more than makes up for it everywhere else."
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But I would totally read that fic, it would be super interesting. Also, I understand needing a re-read. I need to do that at some point soon myself. One day. Maybe.