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The Social Network: the kink meme!

It's Complicated: But sexy!

zuckonitkinkeme zuckonitkinkeme wrote in tsn_kinkmeme
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sorry about the delay in getting this up! please put all new prompts here.




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.
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♥ 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.
NEW: ♥ PLEASE comment with the first of your fill to the PROMPT and then all future updates as a comment to the FIRST PART of the fill. this makes it easier for both the WIP spreadhseet and for archiving stuff on delicious. it also helps people who are trying to catch up on updates and don't have to look through every fill on the prompt (should it have more than one). thank you.






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 three, four, five or six over here again. the delicious is around for people to find prompts they may not have already seen. (prompts for parts one and two are now up for reposting.)



[RPF]Andrew/Jesse, gif-inspired (possible) AU?

Okayyy, my prompt is actually these two gifs (from the film J'ai tué ma mère, which I have not seen but I have heard is amazing):



[Uh...mostly SFW? Clothed kissing, at any rate.]

BUT! I am getting some serious Andrew/Jesse vibes from those boys. Like, for real. So there is your prompt. Why are they covered in paint? Why would Andrew be wearing overalls? IDK YOU GUYS MAYBE IT IS A COLLEGE AU WHERE ANDREW IS AN ART STUDENT AND DECIDES TO RAVISH JESSE UNCEREMONIOUSLY ALL OVER HIS STUDIO. Idek but those gifs are beautiful and I cannot get the Andrew/Jesse-ness of them out of my head, so please. Anyone?

fill: living like the french connection (but we'll die in la) - (1a/?)

sidenote: ryan = ryan gosling

“You have to close your eyes and make a wish.”

Jesse blinks. He feels his face slowly contort to a look of confusion before he brings the red plastic cup up to his mouth and says, “What?”

“It’s 11:11,” Carey says, “Close your eyes and makes a wish. Everyone’s doing it.”

Jesse looks around the room. Emma and Carey’s small off-campus apartment has been transformed into a one-bedroom wonderland filled with twinkling lights running from the living room window to the kitchen. The stars and small balls are interrupted by fat paper lanterns wearing the soft colors of orange and pink, hanging low enough for Ryan, Carey’s boyfriend, to smack the back of his hand against them in time to the Vampire Weekend album that spins on the record player. Students dressed in all black stand illuminated beneath them, their eyes on one another or on the scuffed and dusty hardwood floor, but no one’s eyes are closed – not even Carey’s. She’s just standing there, watching Jesse with large, unblinking eyes.

He stares back at her for a moment before he says, “You just lied to me,” stating a fact before he takes a quick drink and swallows the cheap beer with ease.

When Carey sighs it fills Jesse’s ears like the first gust of wind after a six-hour stint in the campus library, welcoming and fresh, but tickling against the tips. His hand tightens around the plastic, resisting the urge to scratch at them as she says, “I was thinking you could use a bit of luck, Eisenberg. With that lit final coming up and all.”

“I don’t need luck,” he tells her, “I need a miracle. I need a prayer circle. I need my mother to start picking up the phone at two am to tell me how precious I still am.”

Carey snorts out a laugh. When Jesse looks over at her she cocks her to the side as a sign of an apology before she flicks at Jesse’s half-full cup and says, “You need to read the book.”

He pauses before he says, “Andrew has the book.”

He doesn’t look at her when he says his name because he can’t bear the way her eyes go soft around the edges and how her mouth melts with sympathy and an apology at the ready. It’s the same look Joe gave him when he wandered into the party alone, slipped off his jacket to throw in the closet, before Joe threw an arm around his shoulders, asking, “How far back did you leave, Andy?”

Jesse knew he meant, how far back in distance – in yards, in feet – like they had come in the same car together but Andrew had gotten caught in a conversation with art students Jesse didn’t care to know. It was evident in the way that the was beaming at him, in the way he said Andy like the two of them were always coming back from pressing each other against bathroom stalls and pulling one another in unoccupied spaces with their mouths on random strips of skin.

Jesse knew this but it didn’t stop him from telling Joe, “Two months ago,” with the sort of moroseness he could never fully strip from his voice.

fill: living like the french connection (but we'll die in la) - (1b/?)

He felt Joe’s arm lock up around him and his hand moved to tighten on his shoulder as he leaned in close, his nose brushing against his cheek in that drunken way of comfort before he said, “Hey…Hey…I’m sorry, man. Sorry.”

“It’s alright,” he told him, quickly shrugging him off and adjusting his black button down by tugging at the bottom, “he still might come.”

Jesse knew that was bullshit. Emma wasn’t at the party because she had left after furiously buttoning up her pea coat, to her collar, stuffing a mission deep down into her small pockets. She was going to coax Andrew out of the studio he has inevitably locked himself in.

Emma would bang on the steel door before the lock would pop from its hinges and Andrew would slide it over, just enough so that a sliver of his paint covered form could be seen. Emma would have none of it and she would tug the door wide enough so that she could march inside, past Andrew, careful enough not to brush against him and the colorful streaks in his shirt and hair. Not one to beat around the bush she would turn to him and say, “Just because you two aren’t together anymore, doesn’t mean you can’t be in the same place, at the same time, Garfield. Not get cleaned up and find something black to wear to my party.”

Andrew would open his mouth. His ready to spin excuses would be on the tip of his tongue and Emma would hold up a finger telling him, “No buts. Pants, shirt, off and in the shower you go,” before miming with her hands a spinning and pushing motion, moving Andrew, without touch, past his tables and floors filled with art and supplies, to the bathroom in the corner.

There, Andrew would stand beneath the spray of water, his hand moving over his face to rub at the yellow spot nearest his mouth, his tongue darting out to taste the chalky paint, before rubbing his hand against it to get it completely clean. Jesse can almost taste it on his own tongue; the way blue always seemed cooler than red and orange burned while purple soothed. He takes another drink and attempts to wash out the taste of acrylic but Andrew’s tongue and kiss seem to have licked the taste into his mouth forever.

“You can always ask him to drop it off at your place,” Carey offers, “Maybe when he knows you aren’t going to be home.” Her voice carefully toes a line she doesn’t wish to walk and frankly, Jesse doesn’t want to either.

He tells her, “I sent him a message about it and he hasn’t gotten back to me,” seconds before he says, “I think Ryan’s going to pass out any minute now.”

He motions to where Ryan’s standing in the middle of the room, his feet steady but his knees wobbling, shoulders locked but swaying in no time with the smooth vinyl. A strong hand clasps his chin and works its way up, over his chin, over his mouth, over his nose, and when it leaves his eyes the whites are glimmering bright and colorless.

“Shit,” Carey says and she touches Jesse’s arm in a silent motion of “thanks” before she rushes to his side.

Jesse shrugs it off. It was just a diversion with a layer of truth.

fill: living like the french connection (but we'll die in la) - (1c/?)

He watches as Carey’s hands wrap around his upper arms and it takes him a moment to recognize who she is, but her mouth keeps moving and Ryan keeps watching the words spill out before something clicks in his brain and a small smile of recognition slips onto his face. Carey’s expression shifts from worry to elation to adoration as Ryan slips his arms around her small waist and pulls her thrush against him. Her grin is bright enough to melt the sun and she ducks her head into his chest as he begins a gentle one-two dance to some song Jesse doesn’t know but recognizes from all the evenings he and Andrew spent laying on his twin bed, shoulders overlapping, heads on chests, one ear bud placed in the other’s ear as they ignored the music for one another.

Jesse takes another drink to keep back the sickness that tastes of something bitter and sweet but he can’t stop watching them dance. Like the focal point in a frame of film, everything around them is out of focus and deemed unimportant, and Jesse’s sure that Carey is nothing short of the center of Ryan’s entire universe. He can’t stop staring down at her, even when he’s carefully leading her out of frame – one step to the left, one step to the left – and this is where the camera is supposed to softly follow but it doesn’t. It remains steady and Ryan and Carey move out of the shot, leaving nothing but the open front door of the apartment, where Emma stands removing her coat and Andrew slowly follows suit.

His jacket is heavy, gray and made of tweed. When it falls from his shoulders there’s nothing there but a thin black v-neck with a sliver of white paint at the collar. Jesse remembers reaching out to grab at his shirt, a slick of white paint against the inside of his finger as he pulled Andrew in close enough to sink his teeth into his bottom lip.

He hears the crunch of plastic before he feels it become sharp around his fingers and the sound is like the low rumble of an unavoidable explosion in his ears and in the room, but the only other person who notices is Andrew. It stops everything in each of their worlds – the movement of Emma’s mouth, the soft thrum of that familiar song – and all they can focus on is how the earth shifts to force their eyes to lock on one another’s from across the room.

Jesse swears to himself hat he can hear the slide of Andrew’s bottom lip being pulled between his teeth and Jesse wonders if Andrew can hear him gulp.

Re: fill: living like the french connection (but we'll die in la) - (1c/?)

I'm loving this so far!

Re: fill: living like the french connection (but we'll die in la) - (1c/?)

This is so wonderful. Your writing style is just perfect. The emotions are so real, it's like I am there in that moment feeling everything Jesse feels. And your descriptions have me melting over your words.
I am in love with this story already and I can't wait to see where it goes.

OP \o/

Gah, I am so excited that this is being filled, and so well, too! I am intrigued and your writing style is positively beautiful! THANK YOU SO MUCH AGFGKJDFKGDL I am beyond words. I just got home after a long long long day of school and work and I come home to find that someone positively brilliant is filling my prompt? it certainly turned my frown upside down. :D

Re: fill: living like the french connection (but we'll die in la) - (1c/?)

this is just lovely, anon. <3

fill: living like the french connection (but we'll die in la) - (2a/?)

In the kitchen Jesse pretends to be manning the cooler of beer that’s really just a tin bucket with rust around its edges and a dent that’s been kicked in its side. He isn’t positive but he thinks the dent might be Justin’s fault, a sunken-in bruise given to it after too many margaritas at the first Cinco de Mayo where Jesse was too wrapped up in a corner, wearing face-paint and burying his mouth beneath the collar of Andrew’s plaid to make sure Bartha wasn’t doing anything stupid. It doesn’t make the bucket look more or less worn; it doesn’t even disrupt the flow of ice that piles like a mountain inside of it. It doesn’t do much of anything, much like Jesse’s hideaway does nothing to keep Andrew’s light laugh from flowing between the walls of the kitchen and the notes of music that’s shifted to Corinne Bailey Rae. All it does is shield him from having to face Andrew though he knows that the rest of the party can feel him taking up space against the counter and against the bucket, as a sweaty Brooklyn Brewer goes untouched in his hand.

He’s been undisturbed thus far but when Emma stomps in, her knee-high boots crashing against the linoleum floor, Jesse tells her, “I was wondering when you were going to find me.”

With her hand on her hips and the collar of her shirt creeping all the way up to the start of her neck, Emma does not look amused. Her mouth twists in upset and Jesse twirls the bottle in his hand before holding out his arm and asking, “Want a drink?”

She’s the only person, he’s sure, floating around the room without one and the way she’s looking at Jesse, cold and stone-faced, makes him believe that she’s too sober.

He’s too sober for the next words out of her mouth, which are, “I don’t want a drink but Andrew does,” her hand jerking towards the archway behind her, the only space in the room that opens him to Andrew. Jesse ducks his head and starts counting the specks on the floor when Emma continues. “He also needs a light and while I could let him borrow mine, I know for a fact that you still carry one around, waiting for the day this opportunity presents itself.”

He counts thirteen, fourteen, fifteen before he feels the weight of the red lighter become heavy in the pocket of his jeans. He half-wonders if Emma’s stare is giving it all its weight and half-wonders how she knows that he’s been carrying it with him since the night Andrew decided (they decided) that they would be better off alone. He decides that Emma just knows everything about him, acting as the goddess he’s always wanted but has never had the courage to believe in, and he curls his hand around the neck of the beer before he says, “Well Ryan, Carey, and Joe have all got a light. He’ll probably get one from them.”

His voice drops from his mouth and piles onto the floor pathetically. He feels Emma’s darts of pity from across the room and lifts his head to tell her, don’t, when she says, “No he won’t. He’s hoping you’ve still got that lighter like you’ve been hoping that one day he’ll ask for it.” Jesse scoffs and Emma steps forward. “It’s the truth, Eisenberg. The whole party knows it. That’s why everyone is keeping their conversations with him short. They’re all waiting for you to come out and say something to him.”

The laugh that boils up inside of him is filled with disbelief and wretchedness. He follows it up with the shaking of his head as he feels the neck of the bottle, sweat warmly against his hand. “I’m not having a reunion in front of an entire party of people I only sort of know,” he tells her.

Emma crosses her arms at her chest. “Would you like it if I threw out all of Ryan’s friends and Carey’s theater club?”

fill: living like the french connection (but we'll die in la) - (2b/?)

Jesse stares at her. He strips his eyes of all emotion, leaving them nothing but void blue circles that attempt to bury into her. She isn’t bothered, she never was, and Jesse drops his gaze once more before he says, “No. I just don’t want everyone listening in.”

Emma bops her head to the side in a small manner of understanding before she says, “That’s why we’ve got the balcony, I’ll even shut the door for you.”

Like he turns the idea in his head, the bottle in his hand moves in a small circle. “It’s cold outside,” he says and the way Emma rolls her eyes and waves her hands is large enough to almost bat at the swinging light overhead.

“There’s no smoking allowed in this apartment,” she says, continuing to wave her hands for emphasis.

“You and Ryan do it all the time,” he tells her, matter-of-factly, and Emma’s hands fall as well as her mouth.

“Fine,” she says before she takes two steps forward, the tips of her boots mere centimeters away from Jesse’s scuffed and dirt-patterned sneakers. She wraps a strong hand around his wrist before tugging him hard enough to send him stumbling forward, forcefully leading him out of the kitchen with a, “You can use my bedroom then.”

The bedrooms are settled next to the kitchen, away from the living space and outlining the bathroom that stands occupied at the end of the hall. Emma pushes Jesse inside, the back of his shoes catching on the carpet and Emma looks down at his faltering feet before she says, “Shoes off, Eisenberg.” She flees from the threshold, leaving nothing but the ghost of her touch in her wake.

Jesse peaks out of the room. He watches the back of her head bob with her walk and wonders if he can sneak out. He could run to the kitchen, hide himself behind the open door of the refrigerator as Emma walks by with Andrew in tow. As they disappear into the bedroom he could rush out of the kitchen, past Carey and Ryan, and right out the front door. He would be left with nothing but himself, settling against the opposite wall to catch a small amount of breath, sliding down until his knees were propped up front of him. He would watch the closed door vibrate with the music and wonder just how dejected Andrew would look.

It’s that that keeps him grounded. That, that toes his shoes off and settles them next to the open door; the image of Andrew, with his wide eyes rimmed with tears and his mouth parted with regret, looking as crestfallen as he did the night that Jesse left with his studio without glancing back.

fill: living like the french connection (but we'll die in la) - (2c/?)

Jesse’s been in Emma’s bedroom more times than warrants counting but he can’t find a good place to settle. He turns his back to the door and surveys the queen-sized bed with its warm brown sheets, the wooden brown wardrobe, the colorful typographic posters, and the painting Andrew had done for her on her twenty-first birthday. She had hung it over her desk, over her books, computer and work and Jesse could see her now. She would be boggled down with work, so much so that her fingers would tangle in her hair, tugging and pulling the strands every which way before she glanced upward. Her eyes would settle on the painting and watch as the stiff movements of Andrew’s work flowed. The way the bold blues and muted greens surrounded a thin woman with a red halo of hair, rising and overcoming the waves’ attempt to suffocate and pull her under. Emma would smile the same way Jesse can’t help but let the corners of his mouth be tugged wide with what he can’t ignore is pride in Andrew’s sheer range of work.

The subject matter and sometimes the medians change but all of his works possess the magic that Jesse constantly finds in his eyes. The sorcery that unknowingly pulls Jesse close enough so that he’s standing with his hips brushing against the desk, his finger tapping mindlessly against the neck of the beer bottle. He’s so enraptured, so captivated, that he doesn’t hear Emma push Andrew into her bedroom. He doesn’t hear Andrew open his mouth, not to protest but just to bargain. He doesn’t hear Emma shush him and he doesn’t hear the door click shut. What he does hear is Andrew’s nails raking across the back of his neck, nervously and cautious before he says, “I always forget I did that painting.”

His words shake Jesse out of his mind and he feels himself blinking back into reality, ears tuning into Andrew as he says, “Funny thing though. Haunted me for more than two weeks now it never wants to be in my head.”

Jesse turns around. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands now that he’s set the bottle on the desk but his eyes only want to drink in every aspect of Andrew. His black shirt, his dark jeans, his wild hair and his bottom lip that he pulls between his teeth before he blushes at the apples of his cheeks and says, “Hi.”

Jesse wants to rush up to him and touch him. He wants to grab at his shoulders and press their mouths together, allowing Andrew to lick in his hello. He wants but he stuffs it all in his pockets, almost with his hands, the tips of his fingers knocking against the lighter as his thumbs hook out. He begins rocking back on his feet, softly but enough for Andrew to notice before they meet eyes again. Jesse can’t contain that smile from spreading across his mouth, brighter than it’s been in months, before he says, “Hi.”

Re: fill: living like the french connection (but we'll die in la) - (2c/?)

and painter!Andrew is ridiculously hot.

Re: fill: living like the french connection (but we'll die in la) - (2c/?)

ugh! this is amazing, really!


Re: fill: living like the french connection (but we'll die in la) - (2c/?)

this is so sad ;____; ♥

Re: fill: living like the french connection (but we'll die in la) - (2c/?)

Wow. I reeeeally love this. I hope you're still planning on continuing with this, anon! It is really really lovely.