Log in

No account? Create an account

The Social Network: the kink meme!

It's Complicated: But sexy!

zuckonitkinkeme zuckonitkinkeme wrote in tsn_kinkmeme
Previous Entry Share Next Entry



IMPORTANT: please DO NOT post prompts about any non-public people as part of a prompt. for example: randi zuckerberg is fine as she is a public figure both on the internet and on facebook itself. priscilla chan is NOT as she is not a public figure.

if you're in doubt, please message the mod or leave a comment in the discussion post.

♥ post requests and responses in the comments to this post.
♥ be respectful.
♥ both a pairing/character AND a prompt/kink must be posted.
♥ one pairing/prompt per comment please.
♥ you are encouraged to try and write a prompt for every request you make.
♥ we are slash, femslash, het, three-and-moresomes etc. friendly. (we are even incest friendly what with some of our characters being twins and all...)
♥ no pairing bashing, OK? no need to wank over ships.
♥ long and short fics welcome. multiple responses encouraged!
♥ please try to refrain from saying 'seconded!' as much as possible.
♥ on RPF: Please disclaim that it is RPF, a work of fiction and in no way related to the actual actors/persons/etc. (i wouldn't even try and discourage RPF from this meme ;))


♥ alphabetize pairings/threesomes/moresomes. (e.g. Eduardo/Mark/Sean etc.)
♥ put [RPF] before RPF prompts. (e.g. [RPF] Andrew/Jesse)
♥ for crossover prompts: "[Crossover], The Social Network Character(s)/Other Character(s), [Fandom]" (e.g. [Crossover], Eduardo/Columbus, [Zombieland])
♥ no "!" in pairings, only in descriptions. (e.g. Eduardo/Mark, FacebookCreator!Eduardo, CFO!Mark)
♥ anyone, everyone, no one? Use "Other." (e.g. Sean/Other)
♥ put [GEN] before GEN prompts.


♥ please don't embed. link to images/videos.
♥ no locked material. this includes communities, even if membership is open.
♥ fills can be posted anonymously or not.
♥ fills can be anything: fic, art, vid, fanmix, podfic, etc.
♥ all prompts are open to fills at all times, even if they have been filled in the past or are being currently filled by someone else. multiple fills are positively encouraged; if something appeals to you then do not be put off creating a new fill by the existence of a prior one.






have fun!

THERE WILL BE UNMARKED SPOILERS. enter at your own risk! :D


i know you guys are enjoying this meme and i appreciate that but please can you put the SUBJECT HEADER on your prompt. you would REALLY be helping me out if you could do that. it just saves time for me when i'm trying to tag everything in delicious.

AND PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE DO NOT repost prompts from parts one, two or three over here again. the delicious is around for people to find prompts they may not have already seen.


YOU READ THIS PROMPT RIGHT, YOU KNOW IT. Mark and Eduardo are both tributes for the game, but from different districts. A temporary alliance turns into genuine friendship and maybe even something more?


Re: Eduardo/Mark, HUNGER GAMES AU

Now I just want to write a Battle Royale AU, especially since hacking skills are canonically useful in that verse. In THG not so much, in fact there is no district skill that could would easily take its place that would be particularly helpful when it comes to surviving. Not to mention that in BR it's possible to survive without killing which is extremely difficult in THG verse.

On the other hand Eduardo the career tribute teaming up with Mark the scrappy District 12 kid? Hmmm...

Re: Eduardo/Mark, HUNGER GAMES AU

I COMPLETELY forgot about Battle Royale! I read the manga adaptation when I was in middle school but I remember next to nothing about it anymore, but I can see what you mean about the hacking stuff. Though I think Mark's general intelligence would probably be a boon in a THG style AU.

And ugh, yes! I would read that! It'd be a different dynamic from the THG proper, and I have no idea how you'd reconcile them not killing each other in the end, but I still think it'd be interesting.

FILL (1/?); kindness is a card game

different anon from the one who claimed it, sorry! please let me know what you think!

At least he's managed to stick it out until the age of eighteen. That's all Mark's thinking as he steps up to the platform, not about the fate of his family, or the fate of himself, just that at least he's reached the maximum age and has transcended his status as a painfully undersized thirteen-year-old and blossomed into his painfully undersized eighteen-year-old self.

If he was thinking objectively, Mark would realize that he's the last tribute to be called, now, and it's the perfect time to be sizing up the dark-haired girl standing to his right if he's ever interested in surviving this thing, but he's not thinking objectively, he's actually in quite a bit of a daze, staring open-mouthed into the crowd and trying to avoid the tearful gazes of his parents that are far, far too close. They'd been so upset when Mark entered the extra tessarae, but he'd known at the time that it was the only option; what meager game he could get by hunting outside District 12 hadn't been enough to sustain them in the past, and it wouldn't somehow magically change in the future. His sister did her part, when she was still the right age to be eligible for this thing, and it's his turn now; he's just the one with the misfortune to lose the odds.

They're asking for volunteers now and Mark can't help the ironic smile that plays out on his lips. There won't be any volunteers. There are never any volunteers, but more than that, there won't be any volunteers for Mark Zuckerberg. His family's liked well enough—his father has certainly helped enough people as one of District 12's few apothecaries—but Mark's cool, detached arrogance has never played well with the rest of the town, let alone his peers. He thinks he sees a few looks of excitement, even, on the faces of some of the kids left behind. He can't say that he blames them.

The bitch from the Capitol is saying something but Mark's not listening—he hasn't paid attention to the idiotic ceremonies in the past, and he's not about to start now, not when he already knows that whatever she's saying is some useless platitude designed to mask the the true nature of this fucking thing. Someone clasps a hand on his shoulder and draws him close and it's all Mark can do to subdue a jump. "Well, everyone, we can at least say that this is going to be an interesting year!"

Mark looks up, blocking out the noise from the crowd beneath him. Sean Parker. One of the few winners District 12 has seen, but a recent one—he was the victor about five years ago, maybe six, and Mark realizes belatedly that this means that Sean's going to be his mentor. Sean won through a combination of relentless paranoia and the uncanny ability to charm his opponents to their deaths—neither qualities that Mark has, or he thinks he can fake.

The mayor's done reading the Treaty of Treason, something Mark hadn't even realized had been begun in the first place, and then his body is being turned automatically, mechanically, so he can reach out and shake hands with the girl across from him. Her name's Erica, he registered that much from the first part of the reaping. A couple of years younger than him, dark, just as thin as everyone else in their district. She grasps his hand warmly, and Mark forces himself to look in her eyes. There's warmth there, and pity, which is stupid. She's just as fucked as he is.

"Never thought it would happen to me," she murmurs as their hands fall back down to their sides. Mark takes that as an excuse to look away. He has nothing to say to that. There's nothing to say, not when he can't empathize. The Hunger Games aren't entertainment to him, not when every year, all he can think about is what if that's me, puts himself in the place of the girls and boys who are crushed, stabbed, burned, ripped to shreds. He's thought it would happen to him. He's wondered about it since his first reaping, when he was twelve, when the tributes were a boy and a girl in the same year as him in school and were brutally destroyed on the first day.

No. Mark has thought it would happen to him. And that's how he knows that he will win.

Re: FILL (1/?); kindness is a card game

THIS!!!! oh my god!!! Hunger Game/TSN!! Just let me died now!!!!
I can't wait for more!!!

Re: FILL (1/?); kindness is a card game

SERIOUSLY THOUGH, excitement. <3

Re: FILL (1/?); kindness is a card game

Oh my goodness. I am dying of excitement!!! For serious. <3

FILL (2a/?); kindness is a card game

thanks so much for the feedback on the first part! fyi, i'm going to be very busy over the next few days, so updates will be sporadic until thursday. sorry!!!

There is barely enough time for the trembling fourteen-year-old boy whose name is called to stagger his way up to the platform before the shouts and hollers of the volunteers begin to ring out. There's a protocol for this, Eduardo assumes, somewhere, but it's one that hasn't been followed at least in his lifetime—who would try to make this neat and orderly when there's fantastic television to be found in hundreds of teenage boys screaming for their deaths?

He'd judge them, but Eduardo's among their numbers, yelling until his voice is hoarse and waving his arms with the best of them. This is District 4, where the warm weather and abundance of water mean prosperity yes, but also something else: Career. There's no need to force recruits when children are trained for the Hunger Games since as soon as they can walk; the opportunity for fame, to bring honor and prosperity to your family and district, is a desire bred in the collective psyche as deeply and fervently as possible. The volunteers have transcended simple peer pressure; they have started to want it.

Not Eduardo, though he'd never admit so out loud. He's volunteered every year that he's been eligible, even when he was twelve and had barely surpassed eighty pounds, but he's self-aware enough to know that there's no desire, only the constant presence of his father's stern gaze somewhere just out of his range of vision. It's there now, though for once, Eduardo isn't looking for it. He is eighteen. This is his last year, but in many ways, it is his first: the eighteen-year-olds are the only ones ever chosen, the ones with the largest bodies and the most experience. He's never stood a chance of being chosen from the sea of wannabes in years past. This year? There's a chance.

And he doesn't want it. It's more than just the fact that even at eighteen, even with a strenuous regimen of diet and exercise only afforded by his family's relative wealth, he has yet to fill any muscles out into his long and lanky frame. It's more than just the fact that the girl who has been selected, Christy Lee, is sweet and funny and someone that he's known since he was five. It's more than the fact that he doesn't want to die.

It's that Eduardo watches the Hunger Games every year sick to his stomach, the only thing keeping him glued to the screen the fear of retribution both from the Capitol and his father. He fosters no sense of competition, does not root for one tribute against the other or make bets with his peers, does not analyze the strategy to the utmost degree in an attempt to see which games have the most relative merit. Eduardo watches the Hunger Games and hears nothing but the sickening crack of broken bones and bodies or the soft cry of a small girl finally killed by her competitor. Eduardo has none of the killing spirit that his father so desperately wishes that he has. And Eduardo is grateful.

Until now. It takes a moment to register that it's his name that has been called out by the smiling blonde woman, and that the rest of the boys huddled around him are turning around to stare with envy at him. It's lucky that he's learned to turn his body on autopilot, because there's no way he would be able to make it up to the stage if he was relying on his mind to jump start things for him.

FILL (2a.5/?); kindness is a card game

"Eduardo Saverin, everybody!" the same woman calls out, and there are cheers that Eduardo cannot empathize with, even if he's smiling as broadly as he can muster and waving energetically into the cameras. Unconsciously, he seeks out his father's face in the crowd, and sees no new emotion there, just the steady gaze of a man waiting to see what happens next. His mother is beside him, smiling, and Eduardo knows that it is just as fake as his own. Somehow, that brings him no comfort.

"It's really us!" Christy squeals out, and it's really a fair guess as to whether or not she's putting it on for the audience or if she's really just that genuinely excited to be the female tribute from District 4. If Eduardo's not happy to play along, he's obliging, and he squeezes back when she grasps both of his hands in hers to shake him with excitement. Strategies immediately begin flickering through his head, ones that he'd never expected to actually have to put in play, and Eduardo's suddenly glad that his weapon of choice is the bow and arrow. At least that means he can kill from a relative distance.

Kill. It occurs to Eduardo that he will be killing, if he's lucky. He may even be killing Christy. He looks at her, the smile never leaving his face. Can he kill this girl standing across from him? It's a hard question, one that Eduardo would rather not face. But it's one that he already knows the answer to. No, Eduardo can't kill Christy, just as he can't kill any of the other tributes from the other districts. His instincts for self-loathing are finally coming into play in a meaningful way. Because Eduardo already knows that he will die.

FILL (2b/?); kindness is a card game


The next few hours pass in a whirlwind, something that Eduardo's currently grateful for but knows he should be regretting, considering how very numbered his hours are. There's a little while to gather his things and say goodbye to his family before he's ushered to the train station and onto a train to the Capitol. The last thing his father does is grab Eduardo's shoulder in a way that he's sure is supposed to be meaningful. It might as well be, considering that this is the last time that they will see each other.

It's lavish, the train is very lavish, even by Eduardo's undeniably inflated standards. Christy's maybe a little less well off than he is, and can't contain her considerable awe at the plush seating and exorbitant amounts of food that is pushed at them at mealtime. A few days ago, Eduardo would think that it's cute, even be forced to quash the sense of superiority that threatens to boil over at times, but now he can't really feel much of anything. He's happy that she's still managing to find enjoyment somewhere, he guesses.

It's at this mealtime that Eduardo meets his mentor—well, that's a lie, he met his mentor at the reaping, but one has to be mentally present in order to register an introduction, something Eduardo assuredly wasn't. His name is Sy and he's the oldest living victor that District 4 has, the one who has guided all of the other tributes either to victory or to their deaths. "I'm going to make sure that both of you are ready for this," he says in a tone that Eduardo thinks may be supposed to be soothing. It comes off as ominous more than anything.

And then it's time for the evening broadcast of the day's events. Eduardo feels like he shouldn't have to watch this, like living through it the first time is punishment enough, but Sy says that it's his first real chance to gauge the competition and Eduardo knows that he is right. There are a few minutes of bullshit by the broadcasters, detailing what everybody already knows about the annual Hunger Games, doing the best they can to point out that twenty-three of the following twenty-four teenagers will die in the next few weeks, before the broadcast gets to what everybody is really waiting for: the display of each district's reaping.

It's hard to say that many of them make much of an impression on him. There's a gigantic blonde boy from District 1 who Eduardo is sure could break his neck without even putting forward an effort; a thin, dark girl from District 5 who looks borderline feral; another blonde boy, this one from District 10, this time with sleepy eyes.

And then there's District 12. Eduardo's always been mildly fascinated from what little he sees of them on the television—not just the blatant poverty and the desperation of its citizens, but how it seems to be the direct antithesis to his own district, with their telling silence every year as each name is called. This year is no different. He doesn't catch the name of the boy who walks up to the platform, and Eduardo's about to write him off as someone just as scrawny as himself, but then the boy brings his clear blue eyes up to look at the camera. And Eduardo can't look away.

Re: FILL (2b/?); kindness is a card game

You write rather powerfully and I'm really anxious to see where this is heading.

Re: FILL (2b/?); kindness is a card game

I can sense that this is going to be one of my favourite fic!
I love it already!!!

Re: FILL (2b/?); kindness is a card game

Oh, wow, I agree with leladancer18, your writing is very powerful. I can't wait to read more!

FILL (3a/?); kindness is a card game

thanks everyone for your encouragement!!

"Separate or together?"

It's breakfast now. Mark's not as tired as he should be, considering that he slept for barely four hours last night, but it still takes him a moment to register that Sean Parker is talking to him. Well, him and Erica, but she's so far out of the scope of his attention span at this point that she might as well not be there.

He mostly hasn't touched his food. It's good food, ridiculously good, much better than he's had up until this point, but the sensation of it in his mouth does nothing but bring up bile. He'll eat the plainest bread and cheese he can find, but Mark has no interest in the waffles and pancakes and omelettes that flood the table around him. Food keeps you going, nothing more than that.

It's a direct contrast to Sean, who's surely used to fine food after spending so many years as a victor, but still can't seem to resist licking the remnants of syrup off his fingers while he waits for Mark and Erica to finish. Sean's impressive, Mark has no doubt of that—his cool calculation had been apparent in the arena when Mark watched his Games on television all those years ago, and his time in the Capitol seems to have done nothing except exacerbate those traits.

The problem is not what Mark thinks of Sean. The problem is what Sean thinks of Mark. His casual nonchalance, the way he leans back in his chair and lets it balance on just the back two legs as he considers the two of them, might have been infuriating if Mark hadn't seen him break a girl's neck with his own two hands at the tender age of fifteen. Sean Parker is the closest thing to a celebrity that District 12 has ever had, at least in Mark's lifetime. It's not as easy to shake that off as he wants it to be.

It occurs to him that he still hasn't answered Sean's question. He looks up thoughtfully and is about to respond when—"What?" Erica's appropriately bewildered, Mark supposes, for someone who has just been wrenched away from her everyday life and shoved into imminent danger, but he can't stop the creeping irritation that she's slow on the uptake.

"Separate or together," Sean repeats, and he's not afraid to hide the annoyance that Mark feels. "For training. Both of you have to train—unless you're interested in getting knocked out on the first day, in which case, don't let me get in your way—but since you're both from District 12, you can train together, if you want." An animalistic smile curves over his face. "Or not. Your choice."

Mark's not waiting to see how Erica feels about this. "Separate," he says immediately, eyes barely flickering up to look at either of his companions. If they're expecting any further justification, Mark's not offering it.

It's enough for Sean. He raises his eyebrows slightly, looks at Erica as if to make sure that she's okay with it—as if she could force a joint session, even if by some minuscule change she wanted one—and shrugs slightly. "Your choice. Now go get your shit together. We'll be in the Capitol soon, and today? Opening ceremonies."

FILL (3b/?); kindness is a card game

Mark hates the Capitol already. Well, he's hated the Capitol for a long time now, the irretrievable side effect of being raised in the district most maligned by its benevolent overlord, but less than five minutes within the city limits is more than enough to let Mark know that this might be literal hell on earth. Or contains it, at least.

He has a stylist. He has multiple stylists. Like the city they live in, one look at them is more than enough to let Mark know that his patience is going to be running thin. The head stylist is young and blond, male, relatively unornamented, even taking the ostentatious standards of the Capitol into account. He still cringes every time he hears that fucking Capitol accent.

"Into the bath with you first, then." Mark knows for now that his name is Chris; he's liable to forget it within the next several hours, but it's hard to ignore a man who's pressing him into a washroom and stripping off Mark's clothes simultaneously. "We can't get anything done until we get this grime off."

Mark's first thought, as he slips into the pool of warm water, is that he likes the grime. He knows that grime. It's District 12 grime, and though Mark's never been one for patriotism, even loyalty to the blighted district in which he has spent all of his life, he can't help but think that he prefers the dirt he knows to this perfumed, overly sanitized Capitol shit.

He's not left to his own devices for very long before there are hands on him again, hands that make him jump with their forwardness and the strange sort of soap that coats their fingers, digging into Mark's skin carelessly, seemingly ripping away protective layers with every touch. Chris has disappeared, replaced by some worker drones who Mark doesn't care to acknowledge—he supposes that Chris and the other one, Dustin, are probably too high up on the great chain of being to be seen forcibly scrubbing a teenage boy.

After what seems like an unnecessary amount of time, they haul him up to towel him off. Mark can't help but examine what he can see of his own body beneath the flurry of towels and movement. He's pale, strangely so, a result of a continued resistance against the amount of time he's been forced out into the sun. Mark knew that, though—he's more fascinated by how thin he is. There's not a lot of time for self-contemplation in Mark's life, but there's something compelling about how far his wrist bones jut away from the rest of his flesh. He smiles grimly. Maybe he can gouge someone's eye out with an elbow.

Someone ties a towel around his waist, a courtesy that Mark wonders if he'd receive if his glare was a little bit less blatant. And then: "Mark Zuckerberg!" The tone's warm and Mark doesn't have to look up to see that Chris has made his triumphant return, back to investigate his handiwork. He doesn't wait for a response, or permission, before flitting close again, touching Mark's face and neck and chest and ignoring every flinch and jump that his actions bring.

"You've got gorgeous curls," he says, almost sadly, reaching up to pull on one of the still-damp corkscrews until it frames Mark's face. "But there's no way we're going to get a District 12 theme in here, no...I've been talking to Dustin—as far as I can tell, you and Erica have completely incompatible complexions for any sort of consistent color scheme, there's no way we're managing a theme this year." He looks up to eye Mark sharply. "Not that I'm guessing you mind, hmm?"

Chris moves to his bag, pulls out what looks to be a sketchbook from inside. "Now I've already got a number of choices planned out, but let me ask you this, Mark: how do you see yourself?"

The response comes automatically; Mark doesn't even have to stop and consider. "Alive."

A slow smile spreads over Chris's face. "Perfect."

Re: FILL (3b/?); kindness is a card game - (Anonymous), 2011-04-01 12:46 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: FILL (3b/?); kindness is a card game - (Anonymous), 2011-04-02 08:36 pm (UTC)(Expand)