raptureofthemoon: (Vulpes)
Isa’s not far outside Nipton when the wind changes direction.

Her sunglasses and the scarf she’d bought off a trader back at the Outpost give her some protection from the glass-shard sands striking her skin. But the acrid smell of old rubber burning, the scorch of sulfur, and a rancid musk slip right through the thin cotton and settle on the back of her tongue.

Years ago, she’d traveled with her father on one of his many trips from their shop in McDermitt to New Reno. He usually overnighted in Love Lock to resupply and catch up on the trade-route news, but miles outside the town, they were stopped by an NCR blockade. The people in Love Lock had caught a deadly and highly contagious virus. The order was quarantine. And containment.

As her father ushered her to the detour road that wound up a small plateau, she’d caught sight of a masked soldier carrying a long, wrapped package that he tossed on a fire at the edge of town.

Her father’d gone grey in the face when she asked him about it. But then, as always, he was honest with her.

The thick, sickly-sweet stench of bodies on fire had followed Isa for the rest of the trip.

In 16 years, she still hasn't gotten the memory of burning human flesh out of her nose.

And that's what she smells now; faint and lingering like a bad dream.

raptureofthemoon: (cheaper than therapy)
Title: "The Fort" (Working title; will likely change)
Series: Dispatches from New Vegas
Characters: In this snippet: Isabelle (Isa) Reyes, also known as: The Courier.
AN: Just a little sliver of something being (sporadically) worked on.... This comes from a piece that's a bit of an outlier currently, as it doesn't fit in with the other vignettes in terms of POV (and possibly tense; though at this point, it's possible that all the vignettes will vary somewhat in tense).


You’re standing outside of Caesar’s tent, waiting for the escort Caesar is supposed to send once the meeting he called is finished, and watching the to-and-fro of the crowd below: the stooped women and men hauling firewood, hauling water, and several children, just old enough to begin schooling, being run through armed drills and mock battles.

For a moment, you wonder about those children who are just babies when they fall into the Legion’s hand. Are they taken under wing or are they left out on the side of a cliff to die?

You put your back to the camp—the one display of disapproval you aren’t too concerned about making while companionless...weaponless—and glance at the entrance of Caesar’s tent, willing it to open, because the sun is edging toward the horizon and it’s a long barge trip back to Cottonwood Cove and an even longer walk to a hospitable overnight stop.

Your leather armor sticks to your neck, is sucking wet around your breasts and hips, the bends of your knees; your hair keeps escaping the confines of the twist you’d thrown it into as you’d left the arena.

And it feels like someone’s taken a rebar club to your body; there’s not a piece of you that doesn’t ache.

You’re sure your back is bruised from where Benny sent you flying into one of the support beams of the arena and the machete graze on your head—that keeps dribbling blood into your eye—is likely to scar. At least this one will be covered by your hair. But you shouldn’t have gotten hit in the first place.

Still, the “battle” with Benny had been little more than a lead to the slaughter; the Chairman was all fast moving limbs and unfocused charges that were (mostly) easy to avoid and you’d put him down fairly fast. And with only a twinge of guilt…

Long ago, you’d learned to look after your own ass like nobody’s business which is what made the decision between giving Benny over to the Legion or killing him yourself such an easy—well, an easier—one.

That and the fact that you knew he’d abandon you as soon as you gave him room to maneuver…

You’d seen that in his eyes the moment you walked into Caesar’s tent. The way he shifted, the way he looked at the stealth boy on your belt then glanced at the Praetorians; you just knew he was measuring the distance and the obstacles between his location and the door.

But even then, you couldn’t just leave the prick to be tortured; not when you could end it all with a quick blow to his head or slice of his throat.

Even though he was the one who’d shot you, stolen from you, and then run half way across Nevada after you’d found him, dragging you directly into the Legion’s line of sight which, especially after the experience in Nipton, is exactly where you didn’t want to be thank-you-very-much and…fuck it.

He should be damned grateful you just killed his sorry ass.

raptureofthemoon: (shame < fandom + porn)
AN: Another random idea I began playing around with a while back, based on a 5 Senses challenge that I saw someone doing. This is incomplete. I'm not sure it will be completed... (But, hope springs eternal.)

Here's what currently exists. Unedited, unrefined.

If that is his choice...



Bumblebee sat low on his tires in the Witwicky driveway, enjoying the warmth of the afternoon sun along his body, occasionally scanning the quiet neighborhood. Months of living here and curiosity still moved him to watch the everyday actions of the surrounding humans.

Mrs. Sutterly and her Scottish Terrier out for their mid afternoon walk. The postal worker a block over, delivering the last of the day's mail. Down the street a teenager playing with his newly installed car stereo system, the bass thrumming through the air, vibrating along Bee's sensors until he tuned out.

And inside the Witwicky home, two figures, only. Sam's creators...parents...had left for the week to visit friends a few hundred miles North.

Mojo was a small blot on his sensors, kicking legs and rapid heartbeat as he recharged in one of the rooms at the base of the house. And Sam, a strange and wonderful new presence in his systems, was just rising from an "afternoon nap."

He tracked Sam through the house--rising from the bed, visiting the room Bumblebee often heard him call the "John," (again, he'd had to scour the Internet for the reference, and he still puzzled over its use) then moving down into the kitchen and finally out the front door, dressed haphazardly and blinking into the light of the setting sun.

"Hey, Bee," he said and Bumblebee softly revved his engine before opening the driver's side door.

Bumblebee enjoyed the feel of Sam shaping his body to the seat, sleep-warm human skin on sun heated leather.


Sam didn't hide surprise well. He'd worked at it, but always failed miserably, his cheeks heating without his approval or his mouth falling open despite a clenched jaw.

When he walked out on Sunday afternoon to greet a just-returning-from-a-meeting Bee and found, leaning against the side of the Camaro, a slim, dark figure, he stopped short, blinking, and tried very, very hard to keep his mouth closed. But didn't succeed.

Dark hair, burnished gold, as though it had been bleached. Eyes of that color he could never quite identify, even on humans--a base green with a mixture of brown-turned-gold--dusky skin and a delicate facial structure that hinted at a cross of Caucasian and Asian genetics. Tiniest human imperfections, faint crinkles forming around the eyes, what looked like a healing burn--shiny and smooth hiding near the hair at his temple--and a mass of white scar tissue flowing along his neck, dribbling down onto the collar bone like molten wax.

"Bumblebee?" he asked, moving slowly toward the figure. "Wha--How?"

"The closest word in your language is hologram," Bumblebee said, flashing very white teeth. "There are limits, of course, on our transforming abilities, so this is how we interact with smaller, organic life forms. Some of us are better at blending than others." Bee winked at him, finding the action he'd often seen demonstrated simple in its execution and pleasing in the reward it brought: a quick, faint, rush of blood to Sam's cheeks.

"Do you all get one of these?"

"The generators are not standard issue... But with the odds of us remaining on Earth, I have a feeling Ratchet will be outfitting the rest of the Autobots as quickly as Wheeljack can get new generators together and running."

Sam took a tentative step forward, then another, coming to stand beside the strange new figure. He held out his hand, starting in slight surprise when the "human" Bee raised his own, touched Sam's fingers, slid their hands together until their palms met.

It wasn't quite like touching another human, though he wasn't sure why not. Too much warmth in the skin, maybe? Or a smoothness in the palms that just didn't exist. He turned Bee's hand over, examined the palm, finding the lengthy heart and life lines and hundreds of smaller ones that may have been etchings of a life that had lasted a millenia.

"You ready?"

"What? Where are we going?"

[...No transitional material at this point...]

"I was very pleased when Ratchet repaired my generator. I've missed being able to blend... And as I've said, humans are unlike other life forms we've come across and I've...been..." He paused. "I've been told my curiosity is insatiable."

"What were you curious about?"

"Humans. Certain....interactions. I've wanted to know what it feels like."

"What what feels like?"


He cupped Sam's face in his hands, fingers tracing the fine shape of bones beneath the warm and delicate skin, sifting through the soft fringe of hair that Sam had been letting grow out for the last few months.

The boy sat frozen in surprise, but Bee felt the muscles relax in increments as he continued his slow examination, caressing the brow, the arch of the nose, following the line of the jaw.

Bee had seen other organics in his travels, some undeniably strange looking, and though there was a definite peculiarity to humans--he still wasn't sure about the design of eyebrows, for instance--the similarities in their two species were undeniable.

There were more expressions, more ease of movement in malleable human skin than in metal, certainly, but he admired the zygomatic arch, the shape and color of human eyes--the flecks of green that shone inside Sam's and the way they gave Bumblebee back his reflection--and the clean, strong line of the jaw; just as he might admire, in one of his kind, the design of the malar plating, the clearness of the optics, the length and strength of the mandibular ridge.

And then there were things that were undeniably different...

He traced his thumb over the full curve of Sam's lower lip, admiring the softness of the skin there. He did it again, a little firmer, watching the flesh yield to him. And again, sliding the very tip of his thumb just beyond, feeling the damp heat.

And with that, he dipped his head forward, making up for his hologram's slightly greater height, and brushed a closed mouth along Sam's, heard and savored the responding gasp. He edged his tongue against the parted lips, dipping inside to trace the fine edges of teeth, rising up to brush against the hard palate.

Gustatory sensors ran riot, perusing and adapting the information--chemicals in the makeup of the apple recently eaten, registering the taste as sweet like oil truffles, sharp like well aged energon. Faintest taste of blood rushing beneath the skin, metallic sweet and he calculated the iron contents. Then, something unique unto itself, unidentifiable, a taste that was all Sam's own, crafted by that special combination of human genetics.

Bee sampled, stored the information away for future analysis.

Then tentatively, oh so tentatively--yes--he felt Sam's tongue move, brush against his own and the feel of it was almost electric, like a short in his wiring. Yes. He slid an arm around the boy, one hand resting at the base of his spine, the other cupping the back of Sam's head, a movement designed to soothe as well as dominate.
raptureofthemoon: (tom whisper)
A little vignette.


In delirium
Things are not what they seem
I am not alone
I dream

~"Delirium," Emilie Autumn

She always knew when she was dreaming. This time was no exception.

The sky was a shade of crimson she'd not seen since her parents had taken her on a trip to the Painted Desert. Red merged into silver merged into blue-black and the pinpricks of stars were growing brighter toward the apex of the sky.

She was barefoot.

She was always barefoot in her dreams, but nowadays the textures beneath her feet were much more prominent. She could feel the sharp tickle of the grass blades as she walked, the crumbling earth, the occasional jagged edge of rock or pebble unearthed from the soil. She could smell the rain dampened trees. Feel the ephemeral breeze that stroked her skin. And she could move herself along whatever path she chose, explore the shadowed corners of her ephemeral world at her choosing.

Lucid dreaming had been a practice she'd put time into for the last two years. Since the Department of Mysteries. Since the nightmares she'd found herself facing most every time she closed her eyes, nightmares that locked her down, froze her mind.

And if there was one thing Hermione Granger detested, it was not having her mind under her own control.

And so she spent many late hours in the depths of the Hogwarts library, researching sleep and dreams. A few complexly-simple charms and she found herself, if not able to prevent the nightmare, to at least wake herself up before screaming became necessary.

Tonight, she glanced behind her dream-self, saw the world drop off into a smoky abyss. Before her lay stone studded ground, a mesh of wrought-iron surrounding it, silhouettes of tombs rising out of long grasses like slivers of bone.

She felt it then, that tug in her belly, an invisible chord wrapped around her abdomen, pulling her toward whatever she was meant to see.

Time eclipsed, as it often did in dreams, and she found herself further along the sandy path and moving into the grass, toward a hulking shadow of a tomb.

Death in all his dark glory spread his angel's wings and held his scythe close to the tomb as though protecting against any who might draw too near, or guarding against that which might leave. She moved closer, ran her forefinger along the granite, traced the dagger sharp edge of the lettering that was so dark and shining it seemed to swim just above the stone.

Thomas Riddle

Witch mother, she thought, tracing the letters of the name, dead at his birth. Muggle father. Patricide.

Death, she thought, recalling a quote she once read, is terrifying because it is so ordinary. It happens all the time.

She flinched as long, cool fingers swept along her neck, drawing her hair back, gathering it at the nape.

What do you think, Hermione? came the voice over her shoulder, a mere whisper, chilling her skin.

"I think you traded one kind of ordinary for another," she said. "How uncommon is a serial killer who was abandoned as a child, bullied, abused? Really. There are myriad profiles for this sort of thing."

Silence followed. Then...

You've an answer for everything, don't you? Fingers curled hard into her collar bone, making her wince and she wondered if she'd ever be able to keep her mouth shut at appropriate moments. But that's alright, he continued, his breath was scalding her skin as he spoke, flowing down the line of her exposed neck. Just fine. Muggle science, he spat, and even magic theory can't even begin to ken the things that I do...

Rush of warm air and she felt his teeth close on her. Vicious bite into the oh-so-tender skin at the juncture of her neck and shoulder and she opened her mouth to cry out only to find his hand pressing tight to her lips. He pulled back, tongue laving over the wound he'd made; he blew air from his mouth making it sting. Warmth trickled down her skin, slipped between her breasts; she knew she was bleeding.

Go now, he said, wake, seek your answers. I'll be seeing you, soon.

The rest... )
raptureofthemoon: (eyes)
::Part 1:: ; ::Part 2::

Eyes I Dare Not Meet in Dreams

In death’s dream kingdom
These do not appear
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column

30 years of sleep had dulled neither his natural instincts nor those given him by the fumbling science of a madman. He knew it was only a matter of time before she sought him out again and standing in this little valley, downwind from the rest of the group, he was able to fixate on her scent before she drew close, that blend of lilac and light sweat coupled with the more private heady scents of womanhood.

The first time he’d caught the heavy aroma of copper he’d asked if she were wounded. The look she’d given him had prompted his clarification. I can smell blood on you. She’d turned away from him, blush staining her features, and he’d then realized the faux pas.

Read the Rest )
raptureofthemoon: (eyes)
This is the first part. I posted the second part first. You can find the second part here. I will also be organizing them in the Memories section.

Shape Without Form, Shade Without Color

Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats’ feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar

The Hollow Men
~ T. S. Elliot

In the early days of his sleep, he had become accustomed to the comings and goings of the scientists. Accustomed to the strange sounds that emanated down the hall from his room, the whir of machines, the footsteps, and the conversing voices.

And then they had all faded.

And for a time his sleep remained uninterrupted by any presence other than the rats that shared the cellar. Days, Months, or more passed; he could not be certain when, from the place of his dreams, he felt the house stir around him with the nuances of human sounds, of human emotions.

You can smell her, can’t you?

Be silent. Be still. His words were not spoken but pushed firmly against the entity sharing his form.

Read the rest )
raptureofthemoon: (consumation HxC)
Trial Run!

I've never written this pairing before. I was thinking of a short series with some erotic tid bits...

This is the dead land
This is the cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man’s hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star

“The Hollow Men” ~ T. S. Elliot

She came to him the night before they entered the Crater.

He’d sensed her presence as he sat before the fire checking and cleaning his weapons. She’d stood watching him for a moment, the steady movements of his hands as he oiled the Quicksilver and wiped it down with a soft cloth, before she came out of the darkness, a quilt from the barracks of the Highwind wrapped around her body, doing little to keep out the chill. Shivering, she sat on the ground near him, eyes focused on the fire, but occasionally flickering to watch him.

Vincent could see her eyes taking in the angles of his face as he concentrated on his weapons. She was always watching him, stealing quick glances when she could. Glances she thought he didn’t notice. She’d been observing him since he joined the party in Nibelheim. It didn’t surprise him. The others watched him too, though not nearly as close as she.

And he’d be lying if he said some part of him didn’t enjoy her eyes on him… There was a certain satisfaction in her observations, as though his most miniscule movements were of the greatest importance whether he was seeing to his weapons or refastening the clasps on his cloak after a transformation…

Read The Rest )


raptureofthemoon: (Default)
dreaming through the noise

September 2015

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