raptureofthemoon: (writing)
Title: Pushing Boundaries
Fandom: Skyrim
Characters/Pairing: Ulfric/F!Dragonborn (Seirian)
Rating: T

The last time he saw her like this had been the night of the battle for Solitude. The Stormcloaks had been victorious. (Only just, Ulfric admits to himself. Had the Dragonborn not taken a treated arrow during the midst of battle, well…it may very well have swung the other way.)

Feverish and sporting fresh stitches, she’d shaken off the healer, stormed down the main thoroughfare of the city. In only her night shift. So determined to see to her home, to the vagabond children inside—left in the tender care of her housecarl—that even the smoking husk of the city and the Stormcloak guards (who’d been advised not to impede her movements but to let Ulfric or Galmar know when and where she went) wouldn’t stop her.

Read on A03


raptureofthemoon: (fright night 2011)
Fright Night (2011) picture prompt short.

Dishonored short. (Still needs an ending.)

Half of "Show Me Where It Hurts," part of my Fallout 3 series Shaking the Bough. (Which will probably be eternally on going because there are always new stories to be found in the Capital Wasteland.)

Also, I want this for my apartment. 

raptureofthemoon: (Default)
On my Facebook feed, someone brought my attention to this post: My Husband Doesn't Need to See Your Boobs.

It's...rather amazing. A prime example of people shifting the blame and catalyst for their own issues onto others. I wasn't even sure where to begin analyzing this crap, so I just plucked out a few gems to respond to.

On the way to my first class, after three Dang, girl! comments from {ahem} fine, upstanding young men, I realized why Dad had hidden those suckers away.
So, early on you established that you should change your dress and behavior in order to both please and dissuade men (daddy and strangers respectively). And you also, quite likely, swallowed this idea (which is very much apart of the patriarchal crap that poisons our society) that men "just can't help themselves."
But I am writing to share the perspective of a woman who is fighting for her marriage. And for that reason, I want to tell you that I don’t need my husband to see your boobs.
And I'm writing back to tell you that this world is full of tits. Your husband's going to seen them, has probably already seen his fair share. 
By the grace of God I’m forever bound to the granny tankini with a built-in skirt. File that away with #thingsIneverthoughtI’dsay.
So, because you're uncomfortable with your body, your expectation is that all other women should refuse to wear what you (think you) cannot. 
But I want to tell you that it’s a stumbling block in our marriage.
No. Lack of communication, body image issues, and basic distrust is a stumbling block in your marriage. You've just pinned it on the bodies of other women because that's easier than taking a good hard look at your situation and figuring out what's wrong. 
Again, I am not faulting you. And by no means am I faulting him. This man of mine diverts his eyes from whatever questionable images flash on the screen before him. But sometimes the temptation is too much.
Save that you are. You're upset that women are comfortable enough in their skin to wear what they want. And you seem to have an obvious distrust of your husband which assumes he can't look at a woman in a bathing suit, find her attractive and yet still find you attractive. 
While I certainly don't know your situation (maybe you guys have dealt with infidelity in the past - but that's still not the fault of other women's bodies; it's the fault of whoever broke their vows), it doesn't seem you're giving your husband much credit. 
I mean, I find many men attractive (just look at my Tumblr) and yet...I find my husband attractive (physically and mentally) and am very happy to jump his bones. 
Well adjusted people understand that their spouses/partners are going to find other people attractive. If you don't understand that or you have this huge fear that you're not enough for your spouse/partner or that they're going to leave you for someone less stretch-marked, or more tan, or younger, then that's something you need to discuss with your spouse/partner. And probably a marriage counselor.  
When your bare shoulders and stretchmark-less bellies and tanned legs pop up, I not only worry if my husband will linger over your picture. I worry how he will compare me to you.
Then I suggest seeking the help of a good therapist. Because this is your problem. It is not mine (not that I'm stretch mark free by any means, but I don't fucking care at this point; life's too short to not enjoy myself). And it is not the problem of other women. 
Can I say it one more time? I’m not judging you.
Yeah. You are. Own it. A little judgment makes the world go 'round. 
But would you, could you, keep your boobs out of my marriage?
If there are other boobs in your marriage, it's because you brought them in as a diversion to actually figuring out your problems. 
raptureofthemoon: (joker)
 As an addendum to my last post, let me also say that lately (okay, I'm lying, it's always) my brain is like a crack addled squirrel. 

My average week consists of the following, multiple times per day: 

Drafting on Deus Ex (a Supernatural fix it fic branching off of Season 5 because I love Gabriel and he should not be dead, thank you.)

Outlining an original fic, involving reaper like characters and souls and things, that I've had in mind since last summer, when I drafted about 10 pages on it and then crumpled it all up and threw it away because it sucked.

Downloading videos off YouTube and taking snips of those videos in order to make gifs.

Photoshopping all the things!

Outlining another original fic that's ocean-centric with an ending that's full of tentacles and brine. 

Re-playing Mass Effect 2 and bemoaning the fact that I don't have ME3 and I'm not sure I'm willing to give EA money for Origin in order to play it but ultimately I probably will because I lack closure!

Re-playing Dishonored for the 30th time in order to take screenshots for graphics and gif making. (Also, scribbling fic for this world. And I just now have a new idea for a series capturing events in Dunwall as the plague descends on the city.) 

Starting up Final Fantasy VIII on Steam, because gods and demons know I don't have enough games to play. (I've also just gotten Assassin's Creed: Liberation. Thank you, Steam sale.) 

T-shirt surgery and yoga (I'm becoming an addict) and watching too much television and considering just what food I'm going to experiment with next (then mentally whining about the fact that I'll need to go to the grocery store...again). 


Also, I'm seriously considering merging this journal with my fandom journal because I'm tired of having multiple journals to log into in order to crosspost. Especially considering that I spend most of my fandom time over on Tumblr and AO3. The fanfiction, of course, would all be public. I'm sure you, my friends, wouldn't mind. Those of you who are still around. You can just ignore it, after all.  I'm going to give that a bit more thought, but it's looking probable. 

raptureofthemoon: (Default)
So, it's been about a year since I wrote anything here.

Don't worry. You haven't missed much.

My previous employer finally crashed. I received a small check last September. No word on work until December. By that time, I'd filed for unemployment and was then, officially, off the payroll. I completed a job for them (as a contractor) from about mid December to March. It's still not fully completed/paid up, so I don't have a check for that final bit of work yet. (I get in contact with the PM every couple of weeks.)

I worked another contract job for a former coworker from May to July. I'm really hoping he might be able to get me on full time come the new year, but I'm not counting my chickens. 

To top it off, the Knoxville job market fucking sucks for my industry. In the event that there is a job that speaks to me, I'm sure there are twenty other people applying for it. 

I spent this afternoon at a temp agency; I'm hoping for at least some part time work so I can get something coming in. I'm going to drop an e-mail to another agency contact I made back in the spring. And I have a few jobs saved to apply for this week. 

Luckily, Matt's job is good and steady and *knocks on wood* doesn't look like it's going anywhere. 

So, yeah. While I'm good at getting on with things (and Matt's encouraging me not to worry about money), I'm under a constant miasma of stress. I can bury it for the most part, but it's still there. 

So, that is what it is. 

In other news: 

I've gotten into the Supernatural fandom. (What took me so long?) If you're interested in fannish works, you can visit my Tumblr: Ilcuoreardendo-fic

I spent some time down in St. Augustine at the end of July. That was beautiful. I need to live on the coast....

And I'm gearing up for a potential NaNo 2013 participation. I used to have some of you LiveJournalers as writing buddies. I've since changed my name. You can find me here, if you're so inclined: Sangetencre

And that's about it. 

I guess I'll see you next year....
raptureofthemoon: (Starfleet)
AN: Written for the prompt "the world ended when 99% of the planet’s population just vanished” on LJ’s comment-fic community.

It was a joke, a comment thrown out during the existentially strange aftermath on the night Claire watched her brother—her last remaining relative—die of old age, surrounded by his family; she’d pretended to be a relation of herself in order to say goodbye at his bedside.

Drinking the equivalent of a liquor store had seemed like a really good idea at the time. Even when he’d shown up—as he always seemed to do, just when she was ready to throw it all in and shove a sharp object through the back of her head—and joined her, tried (again, as he always seemed to do) to get her into bed.

“I’ll make,” she’d said, her words slurring and her brain foggy, “you a deal.” And thank God she’d finally found the amount of alcohol that would allow her to get drunk, soften the edges of reality. “When the world ends.”

“When the world ends, Claire?”

“Come find me then.”

At the time, it had seemed laughable, impossible. The world ending? The world was a lot like her. Like him. But end it did. With no rhyme, no reason, no warning. She just woke up one morning, years and years later, to an empty city. She found some people, dotted throughout the country, holed up together, wondering what happened and looking desperately for messages from loved ones, words of comfort from a no-longer-existing government.

Standing on a balcony in an empty hotel overlooking the long, lonely stretch of highway, she contemplated flinging herself, head first, onto one of the pointed, wrought iron rails on the fence below her.

Then he was there.

“Hello, Claire.” His voice was in her ear, just as soft and beguiling as it had been the night she was left alone in the world; his fingers gripped her hip. “Don’t forget your promise.”
raptureofthemoon: (Default)
Title: A Taste of Life (1/1)
Characters/Pairing: Peter/Charley
Rating: M
Notes: Just a little, gratuitous scene between the boys sometime post-movie. I just needed to write something in fandom. This was the first thing finished.

Funerals make people want to fuck, he’d once heard.

As Peter shoves him against the bedroom wall, Charley thinks the same must be true for near death experiences. (Or near un-death experiences.) Being so close to death makes you crave a taste of life: a warm body, damp skin, the tang of sweat and come on your tongue.

Peter mouths over Charley’s pulse, sucks at the skin as if he could suck the heartbeat right into his mouth. (And maybe there’s a part of him that wants to.)

“Fuck, Peter.”

“That’s the idea, Charley,” Peter says. “A long…hard…fuck.” Peter curls his tongue around Charley’s ear, blows air along the sensitive skin.

Peter slips a thigh between Charley’s legs and pushes up until the boy’s bare toes are scraping for purchase. Not for the first time, Charley’s bemused at the amount of strength in Peter’s lanky frame, his domineering touch.

Peter gets like this when things go out of his control. The drunken insecurity is swapped for a hard-edged, often foul mouthed, bravado. You can see it with the way he deals with his manager, the orders he snaps at his stage crew when they blow a piece of the show. In the way he likes to fuck Charley when they’ve nearly lost one another.

This time, it was Charley who was nearly turned. Trapped underground, in a windowless room off the basement of what was once a buzzing hotel. Chained to the wall by steel manacles around his wrists as the vampire they’d been stalking knelt between his legs, tore through denim, bit into the soft flesh of his inner thigh.

The pierce of fangs and pull of blood left him reeling. For a moment, he wasn’t certain he’d ever see the sun again and then there was Peter all fire and sober rage, sending a bolt through the vampire’s neck and driving the blessed stake through its heart as it flailed like an injured, bloated tick.

And here Charley is now, watching the sun sinking toward the horizon as Peter licks a wet swathe across his neck and bites down on his shoulder.

The burn of pleasure shoots straight to his crotch and Peter is there to catch it, one hot hand cupping Charley through the fabric of his underwear. Charley’s not sure when his jeans went missing. But with a flick of Peter’s wrist, he watches the underwear receive the same treatment.

Peter’s mouth is like magic, warm and wet and pulling all of Charley’s focus to a single, bright pinpoint of pleasure that goes suddenly nova, turns the blackness behind Charley’s eyelids to white. With a gasp that’s half moan, half choked off scream, he comes into Peter’s mouth.

“Oh, you beautiful boy,” Peter rasps a moment later, leaning his forehead against Charley’s hip, long magician’s fingers stroking the bandaged wound on his thigh. “I’m never letting you out of my sight again.”

raptureofthemoon: (Default)
I have so many homes on the Internet, it's hard to live in all of them. Anyone on Tumblr, in addition to DW/LJ?

You can find my Tumblr home over here.

I've been doing more scheduled blogging over at Chaotically Yours.

Lately, that includes:

Waxing fangirly about the remake of Fright Night.

Which I, surprisingly, enjoyed. I'd intended to see it when it came out in the theatre back in Aug/Sept and then I completely forgot about it. Of course, once I learned David Tennant was playing Peter Vincent, I sought out a copy, immediately.

I'm also now playing around with Peter Vincent/Charley Brewster fic, in part because I fell into a funk the other day and writing brain candy fanfic always seems to help me feel better. (I'll probably mention it here if I ever get around to sharing.)

Also, in other fandom news, I got a TARDIS key necklace:

So, no more worrying about being locked out of the phone box.
raptureofthemoon: (writing)
Because I know I have some writers on my list...

I'm starting up (or attempting to) a weekly writing prompt challenge on my blog.

First prompt is here: Wednesday Writing Romp #1

And if you're on Facebook, you can follow the blog and thus the prompt announcements here: Chaotically Yours.
raptureofthemoon: (filthy victorians)
Butt Matt sent me this the other day and it makes it so much better. V-Day in Skyrim.

I used to be an adventurer like you...then I took an arrow in the heart. )

Incidentally, I started a new character in Skyrim last week. A Breton this time, heavily focused in magics--including enchantment, so I can have awesome armor and weapons--and an assassin to boot. As such, I've been completely reimmersed in the game.
raptureofthemoon: (Default)
Previous Fic: Strange Elations

Stand out on the edge of the earth
Dive into the center of fate
Walk right in the sight of a gun
Look into the new future's face

“Edge of the Earth” – 30 Seconds to Mars

The woman's body lay crumpled at the foot of the bed, like a puppet whose strings had been cut. One of her hands curled loosely around the butt of a revolver. The other grasped at the ragged hole in the middle of her belly.

The sour tang of blood and cigarette smoke combined with the death room odor of urine and feces and flooded across the back of Faith's tongue, stung her eyes. She stumbled away from the body, crashing into a wooden armoire. Sinking to her haunches amid a shower of empty glass bottles, she covered her mouth with her hand and tried to swallow down the burn in her throat.

She shouldn’t be here. What the hell did she think she was doing here?

And then Moriarty’s voice, with its rolling accent, slid sinuously through her head, insidious as a brain tumor. Take care of Silver, get me my caps, and I’ll tell you where your da’s gone. Simple as that. And if you don’t? Well…it’s a mighty big Wasteland to be searchin’ through.

Continue Reading )
raptureofthemoon: (Default)
Previous fic: Keep Calm and Carry On

And there’s a strange elation in your subtle assassination
I thought I saw a glimmer of hope,
I thought I saw a glimmer of hope

~ Lily Holbrook, “Better Left Unsaid”

Strange Elations

Gob was used to ridicule. Cruel names. Crueler stares.

After so many years, you either grew a thicker skin—there was a saying that never failed to amuse him—or you went off the deep end and took as many staring, epithet snarling Smoothskins with you as you could.

He’d like to think he’d “grown a thicker skin” over the last thirty years, able to stand whatever got his thrown his way. And then she walked into Moriarty’s.

Fresh out of the Vault she was. No doubt about it. Even if he hadn’t already seen one vault dweller today, and even if she hadn’t been wearing the jumpsuit, he’d have known it. Beneath the spatter of blood and the fresh wasteland dirt on her cheeks, she was pale and perfect, untouched by the harsh winds and the scorching sun.

Her hands, he saw as she laid them on the bar, were well cared for; fingernails smoothed and buffed, skin soft. And—just for a second, really, less than the space of his heart beat—he wondered what it’d be like to touch her.

When he finally met her eyes, the look she gave him struck something in the back of his throat and his “What do you want?” came out gruffer than he’d expected.

She blinked, opened her mouth and stuttered, “…look—looking for my father. Have you seen him?”

“Think he passed through here…,” he muttered. Of course, her father had definitely passed through; you didn’t randomly get two vaulties in one day.

“Where is he?”

Gob hauled another glass toward him, opened his mouth, closed it, and glared at a smudge on the side that looked an awful lot like Moriarty’s fist coming at him. “Look, kid. I’d like to help. Really. But Mr. Moriarty’s in charge around here. You need to talk to him. He’s in back taking care of some business.” He nodded at the tables in the front of the room. “You can wait.”

Nodding, she slid onto a bar stool. Stared at him.

“What’s the matter,” he said, setting the newly polished glass down, “ain’t you ever seen a Ghoul before?”

Of course she hasn’t, you idiot.

“A ghoul?” she frowned. “Is…that what you are? How did—“

“Radiation. Lots of it. And then time. All the time in the world for things to start falling apart.”

He dropped his rag on the bar, rested his elbows on top of it.

“Oh,” she said, biting the inside of her cheek. She was looking closely now. Following the line of exposed muscle down his face and neck, over his arm.

That, he expected.

What he did not expect was for her to reach out and lay one of those fine, soft fingers on his wrist, at the edge of torn, tattered skin and smooth muscle. And he shuddered under her touch.

“Do—does it hurt?”

Ohh. And fuck him. She sounded genuinely concerned.

He swallowed. Opened eyes he didn’t remember closing.

“Just my pride.” Shifting uncomfortably, he moved closer to the bar to keep everything from the waist down out of sight.

Among other things.
raptureofthemoon: (drink early)
Despite the fact that it's Tuesday.

Tomorrow, I "go back to work" after two weeks off. I put the phrase in quotes because, well, I don't actually go anywhere with the whole working-from-home thing. Hell, some days, I'm lucky I make it out of my pajamas. (Maybe I should have made a New Year's resolution regarding getting dressed everyday...)

Regardless, it still drops me into the typical Sunday-mood, lamenting the end of my time off.

I think it's exacerbated this time around since I've been sick since the 24th and spent most of this last week on the couch, drinking tea and Theraflu and trying to avoid coughing fits, so I haven't done anything I thought I might do while having time off.

Hell, I should be honest with myself. I probably wouldn't have gotten much done even if I hadn't felt like a used tissue (ragged and snotty) most of the time. The fact is, I usually am more creatively productive when I have other (mundane, daily) obligations poking at me. (It stems partly from some internal juvenile rebellion I never managed to shake.)

I do this to myself after every scheduled vacation. Lament the end of it, bemoan having to go back to work, console myself with my Furlough Fridays and the slow procession of us gaining new projects (a double edged sword; I'd take the shitloads of work over having no income, of course), which means I have additional time--to myself--to get to the things I didn't get to during my vacation.

So, with that in mind, I'm setting a goal, for this Friday, of making the last few tweaks to an old short story I just had my new writers group critique; I doubt it'll go out this weekend, but it needs to be readied.

Beyond that, I'm going to get back in the groove of scribbling in my impossible things journal, responding to writing prompts over in the blogspot community, and continuing on with drafting vignettes for Dispatches from New Vegas.
raptureofthemoon: (filthy victorians)
The yearly "Year In Review" meme. Behind the cut.

1. What did you do in 2011 that you'd never done before?

Got married.

Year In Review - 2011 )
raptureofthemoon: (Eyebrow)
Seem like total douche canoes.

Just from reading the posts here: Reasons for Moving to Dreamwidth. (The thread itself is full of user experiences with LJ staff.)

And here

I particularly wish the fandom journals I follow would bite the bullet and move to Dreamwidth. (After catching up with the friends who still post only to LJ, I spend most of my time there in communities or posting fic.)

Anyway, if any of my LJ friends would like - Dreamwidth is doing open account creation through the end of the year.

Now, after this fairly minor little vent session, I'm going to go back to blowing things up in Fallout 3 and trying to not hack up a lung (the cold is going away, but it's determined to take the flesh of my throat with it).
raptureofthemoon: (scream and cry)
I've managed to avoid it for the last two winters, but this year it seems bad luck caught up with me - I woke up yesterday morning feeling off and by 7 a.m. this morning it seems to have developed into an actual cold. Though it seems to be rather mild.

For that, I'm thankful, as it hasn't totally ruined my sense of smell/taste, so I was able to cook dinner (my first time for this holiday - normally we spend the day with my parents) and enjoy the outcome.

And now, I'm thinking a glass of wine might be in order.

I'd planned to veg out with video games today, since we finally got everything (Steam & non Steam games) set up again after installing Win 7 on my desktop. [As an aside, Microsoft's Games for Windows Live can go gnaw on a porpoise.] But I'm not sure I have the energy or attention span--or, come to think of it, the equilibrium--so I may fall back on movies (though I've already watched so many - last night I had an AVP/Predator fest) and a re-read of a favorite book (Emma Bull's War for the Oaks) that M got me.

Scribbling may also be a possibility...but having a foggy head, I won't put much stock in that idea at this point.
raptureofthemoon: (Hatter)
Collection: The Other Side of the Mirror
Title: "On the Sea"
Characters/Pairing: Alice, Tarrant
Songs: Crazy For You and Ray of Light – Madonna
Notes: Music Meme drabbles. These two came out linked.

Can't you feel the weight of my stare?
You're so close but still a world away

She’s come to know well the early hours of morning. Those dark hours where it seems you are the only person left in the world. On the sea. Hours that make you feel small, as if you’ve drank much too much Pishsalver.

Sleep has had trouble finding her, since her return from Underland nearly a year ago. She blames it on her never-still location, the incessant rocking of the ship that drives her from her bed to sit before the mirror affixed to her cabin wall, staring into it as if it might hold the answer to her sleepless nights.

And perhaps, she thinks, blinking as she watches the image unfold before her, the Hatter’s hands moving deftly over a bolt of blue silk—thimbled fingers carefully marking, measuring, cutting and stitching—it does.


She's got herself a universe gone quickly
For the call of thunder threatens everyone

They are not two evenings from the last port when the storm hits them.

She has never seen a storm such as this. It eclipses the moon, disappears the stars, makes the world go black.

The last thing she hears before the waves cover her head is a thundering crash, the unmistakable pistol-crack of breaking wood and the captain’s voice shouting over the din.

When she surfaces, the sea has swallowed everyone. And she is alone, floating on the back of what was once the captain’s cabin door, the rain beating down on her head, stinging her eyes. But that doesn’t matter, because she can’t see anyway.

All around her is dark. Dark swells. Dark clouds. Not even a flash of lightning to brighten the way.

Her fingers, chilled to the bone, lose their grip on the cabin door and she slips beneath the waves. The dark grows deeper. Her head feels strange, too big and too small all at once.

She opens her eyes; they blur and sting with the brine. But! There is something there. Just in front of her. A smear of a glow, like flame behind oily glass. And it’s coming closer.

She reaches out; her fingers brush smooth glass, find a wooden frame of worked roses and vines. The mirror from her cabin.

What fortune that she should just so happen to find it here in the depths of all things dark and ending. And she hopes it is not merely her mind playing tricks on her when her arm slips through the glass, up to her elbow, and warm fingers tangle around her own, gripping…grasping…tugging.


raptureofthemoon: (Default)
dreaming through the noise

September 2015

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