some meme shit. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
unmemely) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
bakerstreet2017-02-11 11:54 am
unmemely) wrote in bakerstreet2017-02-11 11:54 am
otherwordly.
Otherwordly Meme
Sometimes all you need is a word to spark off an idea.
1. Post a comment with your character's name, canon, and any preferences you may have (no shipping, no smut, etc.)
2. Leave the comment blank or post a word or two in the body.
It may also help if you list scenarios you would like to play.
3. Reply to other people, either with words you picked out, or words they posted as prompts for a thread.
2. Leave the comment blank or post a word or two in the body.
It may also help if you list scenarios you would like to play.
3. Reply to other people, either with words you picked out, or words they posted as prompts for a thread.
( A cleanup of the previous Otherwordly Meme. )
peter quill | mcu | ota
no subject
it's been forever since i watched torchwood, so lmk if i'm off base!
Sometimes they end up in acquisitions, which is where this story starts. They make their way into the vaults owned by some avid collector of artifacts – strange, glowing devices that just scream bad news sitting alongside priceless pieces of art. They're only here for a statue, thank every star in the galaxy – because Peter is sort of over the whole "steal this magical, otherworldly thing that would cause untold amounts of devastation in the wrong hands" thing. And if he never had to do that again, it'd still be too soon.
But here's what happens: an alarm gets tripped. Guards come rushing in, and what ensues is a brutal fight among shelves of strange devices. And naturally, something gets broken.
The last thing Peter remembers is getting thrown into a metal shelf, objects falling around him. A flash of blue light to his left catches his attention, and his teammates shout his name. He only has time to mutter, Oh, mother fu— before the device shatters.
Blue light and howling winds and a force that feels like it's pulling him in every direction. Slamming into the ground and staring up at a black sky dappled with stars.
Huh, he thinks, before he passes out entirely.
Apparently he landed near somewhere near Cardiff – which he's never heard of before – and was fished out whatever middle-of-nowhere place and brought to this weird bunker. He wakes in a holding cell – and all things considered, it's not the worst accommodations he's ever had. What follows after that is hours of interrogation, and not once does Peter get to work in the phrase, Take me to your leader. Probably for the best, considering he's pretty sure most of the folks in this team think he's some alien invader, intent on taking over the world.
That world being Earth, he finds out later, once he's over the shock of finding himself imprisoned among strangers. He's back on Earth.
They let him out eventually, mention something about tracing the energy signature to see about getting him back. And maybe they can manage it – they've got some crazy tech that's wildly beyond anything he remembers of Earth – but he doubts it. But they let him stick around; he's handy with a gun, knows a thing or two about aliens – though not nearly as much as their illustrious leader – and, really, what else can he do?
He practically haunts the Hub, not entirely sure what to do with himself, though he finds Tosh to be the most patient with him. He sidles up to her work station, leans against her desk.
Then, without preamble, ]
I'm seriously bored, man.
it's perfect, and thank you so much for being so patient
Approximately a thousand questions are also on offer, but she's been trying very hard not to overwhelm Peter (per Jack's stern instructions to, well, specifically refrain from doing exactly that).
At the moment she's trawling through the data they've compiled from previous random Rift encounters, looking for patterns that could point toward a predictive model. It would be interesting purely for the physics of it, if the actually activity weren't so very dull. ]
Well, I could see if there've been any Weevil sightings...
[ The quirk in the corner of her mouth gives her away. ]
i hope you're feeling better!
[ Peter's been brought on a couple of hunts, remembers those things as being basically alien cockroaches.
That is, vicious, man-sized, alien cockroaches.
And, yeah, Peter has to admit that hunting those dudes down sounds a lot more fun than tossing a ball up into the air and catching it, as he's been doing for the past fifteen minutes.
He adopts a solemn air, something clearly for show, considering his next words: ]
Would it help if I batted my eyelashes at you? And asked pretty please, with sugar on top?
if it's okay (that infinity war got me hyped)
let's sit together on the hype train. hope this is ok!
It made for good TV, of course. Made for excellent films, as a young Peter Quill stuffed popcorn into his face, stared at the screen in wide-eyed wonderment.
Almost thirty years later, he never expected to live it. First, with the mess with Ronan and the Infinity Stone. Then, playing at being a hero throughout the galaxy. Then—
Thanos. The Mad Titan. One of the most frightening beings to ever exist, wielding the Infinity Gauntlet and wreaking havoc and devastation as he made his way to Earth. And what could the Guardians of the Galaxy do but give chase? Considering half of its members had a personal stake in putting an end to Thanos’ destruction, once and for all, it’s not as if there was ever much of a choice.
It was chaos. It was madness. It was terrifying, made no better by the weird politics going on with Earth’s mightiest heroes, the Avengers. The Guardians noticed the strange tension near immediately, once all members were on deck, and while the Avengers seemed to put a lid on it well enough, it still simmered quietly on the backburner. But together, they win, against every impossible odd. They manage to wrest victory out of the seriously purple, seriously square jaws of defeat. (Peter wonders how it is that any of them saw the fight through to the end, much less all of them. But he tries not to examine that stroke of luck too closely.
Seems like too much scrutiny would just prove it all to be a dream.)
It’s still a mess on Earth, considering everything that’s happened. Cities nearly leveled and so many killed, but they won, and that’s what matters in the end, Peter guesses. He and the Guardians stay planetside as their wounds heal – though considering most of the Guardians are genetically modified and heal faster than normal, they’re really just sticking around to let Peter convalesce in the Avengers Facility.
And so here they are, a week or two out from defeating Thanos. Sometime during the middle of the night, Peter sits on a couch in what looks deceptively like the family room of the living quarters. His right arm sits in a sling while he awkwardly navigates a laptop with his left hand. A white cord connects a flat black rectangular device to it.
“The ‘80s throwback was cute for about an hour, Quill, but you’re in dire need of an upgrade,” Stark had said when he slid the box to him. “Welcome to the 21st century, Space-Boy.”
Too bad Stark didn’t stick around and show him what he was meant to do with this new phone. Or how to even use it.
He’s lived in space, for Christ’s sake, Peter thinks as he scowls at the screen. He should be able to navigate quaint, Terran technology.
Except he can’t. And he hefts the phone in his good hand, still connected to the computer, apparently considering the merits of chucking the damn thing out of the floor to ceiling glass window. ]