Post #1

[fringekink_mod]

This is a kinkmeme. You may just be familiar with the concept.

If not: explicit, adult content; read at your own risk, and keep the kids -- wherever that arbitrary line is in your jurisdiction -- out. Also, please wear your seatbelt.

RULES

1. When prompting, use the comment field to jot down character, pairing, or moresome first, then the kink(s), then any other prompt elements; after a line break, you can elaborate via words, images, or links. Like so?



2. When responding, use the subject line for the original prompt (plus your title, if you have one).

3. All kinks are welcome -- sexual, emotional, conceptual, likewise all gen, het, slash, bitextual and other fic from crack to drama.

4. Anon is encouraged but up to you.

5. Mark all spoilers, mmkay?

6. Go for it!

REMINDERS

7. With a view to some prompts: Spell Check is your BFF. Don't make Alt!Astrid cry, please?

8. A kinkmeme's more than a promptmeme. Here's eliade's non-definitive and non-exhaustive (but pretty illustrative) List of Fan-fiction Kinks, Tropes, Clichés, and Fetishes.

9. Could you -- in the subject line or the first line of the body of text -- draw attention to the fact there's rape or non-con, major character death, underage, and/or graphic violence in your response (which is the Archive Of Our Own (AO3) policy).

Comments

[(Anonymous)]

It's a kink-meme, how about some actual kink? bdsm - pairing of your choice, hard core, dark fic, non-con - slip off into another universe if you need to, to make it work. Like Walter said, there's more than one world

Nameless - bdsm - eventually

[(Anonymous)]

It’s the jackboots that she sees first. They’re frayed, scuffed at the edges, so well worn there’s no hope of ever seeing a reflection of one’s face.

Once military always military, Olivia supposes, because it catches her attention when her vision’s still woozy from the drugs.

His face is sharp with deprivation. Like his boots, there’s a thin layer of dust on his clothing, staining his hands, smudging his cheek. His her own age, Olivia notes, or maybe a year or two to either side of it. “Who are you?” she rasps.

He coughs once, a rattle in his lungs like a sleeping serpent. “You were dosed with cortexiphan when you were a child.”

She’s never heard of it.

Olivia turns her head. Her limbs have been tied down, stretched like a starfish. The table beneath her is industrial, cold metal. There’s a groove running the perimeter for draining purposes. A cadaver’s rack, she thinks grimly, and stretches her neck a fraction further. The room has the stale taste of recycled air. There are no windows, a solitary door to her left. The cement of the four walls is cracked, discoloured as if sand-blasted. She listens.

“What’s cortexiphan?” Olivia refuses to react to her own nakedness; her voice remains polite with inquiry. He smiles. It’s wrong – pleasant - it makes him appear handsome. His eyes are blue, swimming toward green; she can’t tell in the dim light. He rocks forward on his heels as if abashed. She catches a glimpse of dulled dog-tags and feels her eyes harden, her muscles gather and release. “Do you work for Sanford Harris? He liked tying up privates, too.”

“Sweet, tree,” he sing-songs. “The Bell rung so hard it knocked all the olives off. He preferred fear but there are other methods, too.”

“You need to listen. My name is Olivia Dunham, Special Investigator with the Military police…”

“You were dosed when you were a child and you’ve forgotten all about it,” he interrupts, and there’s something in his stance that screams military, or para. “That hardly seems fair.”

He doesn’t look handsome any more; he looks mad, fresh out of the insane asylum. He turns a half pace and Olivia sees the gun tucked into the back of his low-slung pants. Her fingers flex in their restraints. “What’s your name?” She tries, she never had SERE training, distract, her instincts say, because she can feel something building, pressing behind her eyelids like a vibration.

“Peter,” he says. “Or maybe it’s Lincoln. There’s a Nick and a John somewhere too, but they all get messed up in my head.” He runs his tongue over his lips, knuckles one eye as if half asleep, or as if contact lenses are irritating him. “John Scott.”

Olivia goes cold, she’s never heard of the other men but that one she knows. “You’re not John.”

The room shudders, heaves. Dust drops like a curtain.

Olivia freezes, heart tripping in her mouth. She spent three months in Japan, she’s familiar with how the earth rolls; how it stirs beneath in the dark, like a lumbering beast. She spent three months in Afghanistan, and she knows the whine and rattle of a surgical strike as it tears down buildings and flattens cities.

He grins at her cheekily, and he’s young again, sane, even as he’s stripping the glock from his pants, aiming it low as he checks the firing chamber. His movement are economised and sharp.

“We’re not in Kansas anymore, sweetheart.”

The door closes behind him, the room’s plunged into pitch-black.

Olivia breathes. The dust alights on her bared skin like crawling insects. The ventilation system kicks in with a groan. Air-conditioned, she realises. Shortly it will be too cold for comfort on her metal tray. It’s a beginning, although Olivia has no clue what they want, where she is, or how she went from John’s bed to a war-zone. He didn’t question her, she rationalises, and he’s not after information, he was rangy, dishevelled as a wolf.

She shivers as the hours pass, as her muscles lock down first with the cold then begin to shake. Olivia tells herself to remain calm, analytical, to bid her time until the scales change. She listens to the sound of distant warfare and wonders where the hell she is.

Re: Nameless - bdsm - eventually

[(Anonymous)]

This is spellbinding. Olivia backstory? No one has ever tackled that (but you are clearly the one to do it ;)!

Re: Nameless - bdsm - eventually

[(Anonymous)]

wow, this is promising!