Risk Everything for Family
by Dialecticdreamer/Sarah Williams
part 6 of 14
word count (story only): 1751




:: Part of the Polychrome Heroics universe, the Mercedes story set, and picks up immediately after “Popping In,” continuing from Graham's viewpoint. ::




Graham's feet refused to carry him more than eight inches past the front door. He took in the shape of the space, and the archway into the dining area, the counter and hanging cupboards that marked off the galley kitchen, and the tall bookcases flanking a field stone hearth, but despite the early Art Deco touches in the woodwork, reinforced by the color scheme, the overwhelming impression was not a subdued, harmonious pastel palette. “It feels like everything is almost shouting at me,” Graham whispered. “Would one of my shielding exercises help?”

“Yes,” Aidan assured, guiding Graham to the nearest recliner. He swept his hands over the back and seat, then eased the blond man through the process of sitting down. “You know, this may explain why so many of your children have open gifts like empathy; you're aware, receptive, and observant to a degree that startles me as much as it arms my heart.”

“I'm pretty average--” Graham protested.

Aidan cut off the comment with a quick shake of his head. “No. You aren't. You have a few biases, a few bad habits and unsupported opinions, but you are nowhere near the closed-minded maze of pigeonholes and dead ends that makes up an 'average' American, even when they think they're both liberal and supportive.” He snickered. “Now, I can't say this any less indiscreetly than,” he wagged his eyebrows playfully, “your wife has got to be something special!”
( Read more... )

What do you want to do with your life?

I always wanted to teach. When that turned out to not work out for me, I decided I'd collect information and teach it at SCA events. lol. I don't know that I have any other grand plans. I'd like to do a road trip of the northwestern part of this country because 5 of the 6 states I've never been to are up there. Finish out the country. Maybe hit every continent, too. I think I only need Australia and Antarctica to do it. Getting to Antarctica may be a trick.

( the rest )

This thing upon me, howls like a beast
You flower, you feast
- “Woman”



His weight beneath her anchors Augusta in the moment, binding her sails and building her moorings. She feels almost child-like - a woman grown, tall as a willow, her body devoid of grace and molded into severe lines (the resulting aftermath of a life of trials and tribulations, of crossing into adulthood fully) - but she is made minuscule by Radomir's mountainous size. She is used to having control, to maintaining order, to fulfilling responsibilities; she's grateful for the freedom and comfort his body provides. It's refreshing, even if it doesn't change the fundamentals of their dynamic.  As if to further establish this point, Augusta's arms cage his head, her wrists locking behind his neck, mimicking the way her legs circle his waist. She has circled her way around him, as much as possible. If she leans down more, she'll find a shelf for her head in the shape of his shoulders and chest. If she arches too much, her oak-colored hair brushes the top of the Cadillac. 

They are a knot, insidiously twisted, and difficult to untangle. 

Radomir's heavy hands grip her hips. When she rocks down, grinding against the hard length of him, he holds her like she's the anchor instead of the ship. It makes her laugh, slick and needy, against his lips. 

Forehead pressing against hers, and in-between uttering a Slavic curse and a groan, Radomir asks her what's so funny. 

"Sometimes I think you forget what you're capable of," she tells him, trailing her palm from the nape of his neck to his jawline, feeling the scratch of the day's stubble against her skin.
 
Radomir grins, leaning back against the leather seats, spreading his arms out over their curves. "No. I never forget."

She quirks an eyebrow at him, her mouth a thin scar of a smirk, then nods briefly. "You're right." Her hand scalds him as she runs her fingers down his neck, deliberately traveling the length of his jugular, circling away from his heart as she traverses over his broad chest, burning lower and lower until she palms the outline of his hardness completely. He grunts, guttural, and looks at her from between half-lidded eyes. 

"Show me then," she says, licking the corner of his mouth. "Show me what you can do." 





Augusta could talk the devil into setting himself on fire. 

She could get into anyone’s brain – into their teeth as well as their ears. She could vibrate in the knot of nerves below the breastbone and seem to eat the damp and delicate tissue behind the eyes.

Radomir knows this. He has accepted it, has let himself be convinced by all her words and plans and promises, has even been enamored by it, but when he's deep inside of her, his hands buried in her hair, her body wet and yielding to him in all the ways he has often yielded for her, he wants to be the one who is silver-tongued and solid. He wants to lead as she follows. He wants to pave a path to a future where their footing is on equal ground, where he does more than guard her life, open her doors, and fuck her in secret. 

But then she catches his neck with one of her hands - hands that make him think of doves in their elegance and long-fingered poise - or her sweat leaves salt on his lips as he mouths the curve of her jaw and the desire to satisfy her, to be hers, battles with his urge to claim. 

Augusta is silk, spread beneath him, a leg curved over his hip, the other pinned down at the thigh and held open by his right hand. Her body is pressed against and into the Cadillac's back seats. The windows are fogged over. They're both sweating. She has a rope of pearls around her neck that glisten, sticking to her collarbone, the ends of her hair clinging to them. But she is still removed, still distant - he's only pushed up her skirt, only undone his trousers - and he's bracing his bulk above her, forced into the back of a car that suddenly feels like a coffin. His left hand had gripped the front seat for leverage and balance, but now he uses it to pluck at the matching pearl buttons of her blouse. Quick. Nimble. Too precise for a man whose history has covered his hands in blood. 

"Hold on," he murmurs, like his words are sticking to his tongue, then scowls when she groans with impatience. 

Augusta pushes her hands back through her hair, looking down at the progress he's making, inches of her skin slowly coming into sight as her blouse spreads open. "Radomir." There's a note of annoyance in the way she says his name - it's subtle, but he's been trained to notice it. 

"Augusta." He mimics, leaning down to kiss the tops of her breasts, his teeth dragging over the expensive lace of her bra. He guides the shirt off of her slowly, rolling it away from her shoulders, and feels her acquiesce when she arches up to help him. It slips from her arms, a snake shedding expensive skin. 

He curves a hand back, against her spine, and works the clasp of her bra next. When he moves to the line of buttons on the side of her hiked skirt, she huffs again. A simmer of anger from her mouth, disguised as a sigh. 

"Radomir," this time her tone is clearer - more obviously sharp, "we don't have time for this." 

"Why not?" he asks, the only part of him moving now his fingers at her hip. He's still inside of her, thrust to the hilt, but he is a creature of self-possession. 

She slaps him, her hand a viper. Three quick successions. His eyes flinch, but the crack of sound is louder than the pain. 

"No time," Radomir muses, feeling the sting of her nails. He lowers his eyes to her exposed chest, to the slender inward curves of her waist, his hand rubbing the buttons of her skirt now, feeling their worth. 

He seems reflective - humbled - so Augusta is surprised when he looks her squarely in the eyes. 

"Do you have time to undress for your brother?" The impudence is more in his eyes and the smirk his mouth makes than in his voice. That he keeps even and low. 

Although she considers it, Augusta decides to answer him earnestly rather than make him apologize. "No.” She uses her slapping hand to run her thumb over his full bottom lip, her nail scratching at the corner where his smirk is the most evident. “… and I don't fuck him in the backseat of cars either."

"Where then?" He undoes a button.

"Where I bury my skeletons."

Another button loosens, and now he can unwrap her fully, smoothing away the fabric to feel the way her thighs shiver and how her bones battle with her waist. He hums his understanding and dips his head to kiss her neck.

Slowly, ignoring the time she cherishes, he starts to move. He thrusts deeply, one hand at her hip, one arm curling around her lower back to pull her up and closer to where their bodies are joined. Augusta drags her nails across his shoulder, hooking her leg further behind him.





They fuck into dusk. Until Augusta’s skin is slick with sweat and flushed from her toes to the crown of her dark head. Until Radomir’s breathing hitches and his blood stutters in his veins.

She has crawled on top of him in the low-light, the muscles in her thighs straining, her fingers trembling. She mirrors how they began – arms around his neck, legs caging his waist – and his hands cup her ass. She rocks above him, chasing her rising crescendo.

When she comes, she bites his shoulder, stifling the cry torn from her mouth. Radomir, never the nosiest of fucks, groans with pride.

Augusta nuzzles into the side of his neck, contended.

“What does Hatchet sound like?” The question settles along his throat and constricts like a noose.

Radomir wonders how long she’s been waiting to ask. He runs his hands over her back, counting the notches in her spine. Augusta laughs, breathy, at his silence. She nips his earlobe. “Did you think I didn’t know? What you do when you aren’t with me.”

“I am always with you,” he says, “even when I am not.”

“How romantic.” She knocks her knuckles against his heart.

Even though she’s patronizing him, he kisses her – long and deep - satiating himself.

Augusta presses her fingers to his mouth. “Are we done here?”

He nods. When she slides from him, the sudden loss of her is a void.






Radomir leans against the side of the Cadillac in the darkness as Augusta dresses. He smokes a cigarette, watching the horizon. There’s a clutter of brush along the seaside. Come fall, most of it will probably be dead, but now the branches bear leaves and makes it hard to see the crashing waves. A narrow dirt road, scattered with sand, curves back towards the city. Traffic will be light he thinks, and pitches his cigarette to the ground.

In the night, Augusta can hardly make out anything. She adjusts the fall of her necklace and pins her hair carefully using the rearview mirror. Her blouse sticks to her skin and her skirt is wrinkled, but her strict spine and sharp gaze are enough to make her look composed. She touches her swollen mouth and smiles before knocking on the window.

Radomir grips the steering wheel once he slides into the driver’s seat.

“I could kill him,” he says.

Augusta lights her own cigarette, following the train of his thought easily. She speaks around the smoke in her mouth. “It isn’t him I want you to kill.”

They look at each other, and Radomir says nothing (except with his eyes, and Augusta can read them easily, can see the way pain and obligation twist him up like a tourniquet, can see, too, how quickly his love for her outweighs his devotion to any other). He starts the engine, one hand falling to the gear shift, the other balancing on the wheel. Augusta places her hand on top of his, tracing the lines of his veins above his knuckles.

This morning started out a little rough. I rolled out of bed half an hour late. Then I went to the new parking lot for zoo employees and volunteers, and I couldn't figure out where it was. The only lot I found was being barricaded off by someone else's car. I wound up deciding to go to the Cherokee lot that we're not supposed to park in anymore. It was better than no-showing, right? So I got there, and I checked in with Sarah who asked if I had parked in the new lot. I was like "I tried, but I couldn't find it" she was like "it's okay, I was actually going to seek you out to tell you this since you're my only disabled volunteer that if you have handicap plates you can still park in the Cherokee lot." lol All that stress this morning for nothing. Although admittedly it may be better to park in the lot with a shuttle than have to walk in from street parking. Unless the shuttle is small and cannot take my walker? IDK.

Today was Boo at the Zoo, at which there is music, activities for kids, and trick or treating. I was responsible for passing out candy to kids who came trick or treating to my seat. Can I just say, what happened to "Trick or Treat?" More kids came up and said, "Can I have some candy please?" than actually came up and said "Trick or Treat." Although the most frequent response to seeing me was to open their candy bag and stand there silently. I gave each kid one piece of candy, and the ones who said, "thank you" got two although it very rarely actually happened. But good manners should be rewarded so if a kid said thank you unprompted I gave them extra candy. At least until the candy nazi came and sat beside me. She wouldn't even give kids another piece of candy if they'd already gotten candy from me. She was like "Just one!" I was like "bitch, did you buy the candy? (no, she was a volunteer) it's halloween. Give the kids their sugar rush." We wound up having plenty of candy, so there was no reason to be stingy.

Anyway, this was a lot of fun and I didn't even look at my watch until 2pm (it ran 11:30-3). I thought it was supposed to run until 3:30 but they shut down at 3, and I left. I got home and Kevin said Todd, Tara's husband, had been by to put up blinds, but they were the wrong size. I'm not sure how this has happened to him twice since he did measure, but whatever. Then around 4, Tara, Todd, and Todd's daughter showed up. Todd and his daughter moved the trash to the curb so they can more easily pick it up when they get a truck, and then built my bookshelf. Tara cleaned the kitchen. I talked to Tara while she cleaned. You guys, Tara cleaned the stove, and now it turns on all by itself without a match! Apparently all it needed was to be cleaned! I can cook all by myself now! This thing hasn't worked since before we moved in.

Todd and Tara left a bit after 7, and I went to take a shower.

Did I tell you guys how the infants I worked with when I worked at a preschool are graduating high school this year? Yeah, I feel old. lol. That was my first college job. Before I even had an LJ.

Also, my parents did end up extending an invitation to Klepto to come to our Thanksgiving. So that was nice of them :)

@DialMforMara prompted me
Write about the sensory experience of drinking your favorite tea or coffee.


Comfort.

If it’s my mug, it’s the best. I tested every mug in the craft festival until I found one that my hands wrapped around perfectly.

The pain in my joints fades. Any chill - there is often chill - is banished. I put the mug against my sternum and breath in the steam and my breathing is easier, my chest hurts less. Everything is calm.

The taste, when it cools enough to drink, is slightly bitter, a tannic brew that clears my throat and wakes my brain. The smell is lighter than the taste - it smells mostly of the steam, most days. Even with the cool enough to drink, the mug is comfortable, nice against my hands. Thick ceramic, it holds the heat for a long time.

Coffee is a drug and a calorie delivery system. Tea is slower, clearer, feeling more like clearing out, cleaning out. My lungs feel more open. My brain feels more open. I take another sip. I take another moment to hold the mug.

Comfort.

I was tired and needed some words.
This is Penny.


Penny liked working with the hatchlings.

It wasn’t a particularly true-to-type thing for him, he supposed. Breed nor flight were inclined for such soft pursuits, yet when Sernade had assigned him to the hatchling cave, he’d found himself exactly where he needed to be.

Right now, he was up to his haunches in fur, three brand-new tundra babies curled up against him as if longing to be back in the egg. A youngling fae perched on his shoulder, his mother already having gone to serve the Gladekeeper.

Hatchlings left the nest. Penny understood that. He’d left his own nest, his own flight, his own life, long ago, and come here, never looking back.

But sometimes Penny hated the times when they’d be preparing for some big gift to the Glade. Not that they hadn’t done the same thing back home, more times a year than Serenade’s lair did now.

Watching the juvenile dragons, barely past hatching and already bearing battle scars from their hurried lessons in the arena, Penny wanted to bring them all back into the hatchling cage. He worked the little Gladekeeper puppet as he told the story, yet again, of the history of their lair.

Take this story to the Glade, he told them, for we all go there in the end. Remember for the end of your days - and they will stretch on for a very long time, little ones, by the Glade-keeper’s side or here in your mother’s lair - how we came to be.

He petted soft sapphire fur with a claw and wondered, somehow, if there was a way to keep them all.

What’s your favorite song? What does it say about you?

We didn't start the fire by Billy Joel - I like it because when I was little I would listen to it with my dad on the way to school and he would explain one more thing to me each time we listened until I knew what most of the song meant. Though admittedly I was still learning some of them in college.

( the rest )

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Steve Rogers did, in fact, realize that something was off when he saw the outline of the woman’s odd bra (a push-up bra, he would later learn), but being an officer and a gentleman, he said that it was the game that gave the future away.

#EXCUSE ME MA’AM BUT YOUR TITTIES ARE NOT CONES I’M CALLING BULLSHIT (via)

No, see, this scene is just amazing. The costume department deserves so many kudos for this, it’s unreal, especially given the fact that they pulled off Peggy pretty much flawlessly.

1) Her hair is completely wrong for the 40’s. No professional/working woman  would have her hair loose like that. Since they’re trying to pass this off as a military hospital, Steve would know that she would at least have her hair carefully pulled back, if maybe not in the elaborate coiffures that would have been popular.

2) Her tie? Too wide, too long. That’s a man’s tie, not a woman’s. They did, however, get the knot correct as far as I can see - that looks like a Windsor.

3) That. Bra. There is so much clashing between that bra and what Steve would expect (remember, he worked with a bunch of women for a long time) that it has to be intentional. She’s wearing a foam cup, which would have been unheard of back then. It’s also an exceptionally old or ill-fitting bra - why else can you see the tops of the cups? No woman would have been caught dead with misbehaving lingerie like that back then, and the soft satin cups of 40’s lingerie made it nearly impossible anyway. Her breasts are also sitting at a much lower angle than would be acceptable in the 40’s.

Look at his eyes. He knows by the time he gets to her hair that something is very, very wrong.

so what you are saying is S.H.E.I.L.D. has a super shitty costume division….

Nope, Nick Fury totally did this on purpose.

There’s no knowing what kind of condition Steve’s in, or what kind of person he really is, after decades of nostalgia blur the reality and the long years in the ice (after a plane crash and a shitload of radiation) do their work. (Pre-crash Steve is in lots of files, I’m sure. Nick Fury does not trust files.) So Fury instructs his people to build a stage, and makes sure that the right people put up some of the wrong cues.

Maybe the real Steve’s a dick, or just an above-average jock; maybe he had a knack for hanging out with real talent. Maybe he hit his head too hard on the landing and he’s not gonna be Captain anymore. On the flipside, if he really is smart, then putting him in a standard, modern hospital room and telling him the truth is going to have him clamming up and refusing to believe a goddamn thing he hears for a really long time.

The real question here is, how long it does it take for the man, the myth, the legend to notice? What does he do about it? How long does he wait to get his bearings, confirm his suspicions, and gather information before attempting busting out?

Turns out the answer’s about forty-five seconds.

Sometimes clever posts die a quiet death in the abyss of the unreblogged. Some clever posts get attention, get comments, get better. Then there’s this one which I’ve watched evolve into a thing of brilliance.

#his little jaw twitch well done chris ( @thewomaninthetanjacket )

Oh shit I hadn’t noticed that, god this just gets better and better.

I love everything about this.
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Title: Dinner Disaster
Author: badly_knitted
Characters: Dee, Ryo, mentions Bikky.
Rating: G
Setting: After Vol. 7.
Summary: Dee and Ryo are looking forward to a hot dinner.
Written Using: The tw100 prompt ‘Raw’.
Disclaimer: I don’t own FAKE, or the characters. They belong to the wonderful Sanami Matoh.
A/N: This one’s a double drabble.



( Dinner Disaster... )

 




Title: Shadow Men
Author: badly_knitted
Characters: Eleventh Doctor
Rating: G
Written For: Challenge 189: David Bowie – Shadow Man at dw100.
Spoilers: The Impossible Astronaut.
Summary: The Silence are a mystery, even to the Doctor.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Doctor Who, or the characters.




( Shadow Men... )

 




Title: Prisoners
Author: badly_knitted
Characters: Ianto, Janet, other aliens.
Rating: G
Written For: Challenge 470: Prison at tw100.
Spoilers: Nada.
Summary: Ianto cares for Torchwood’s inmates, but sometimes he wonders…
Disclaimer: I don’t own Torchwood, or the characters.




( Prisoners... )

Risk Everything for Family
by Dialecticdreamer/Sarah Williams
part 5 of 14
word count (story only): 1507




:: Part of the Polychrome Heroics universe, the Mercedes story set, and picks up immediately after “Popping In,” continuing from Graham's viewpoint. ::




Aidan shrugged. “She's a foster child right now. That means that the psychologist at the relevant office will want to observe her several more times before the adoption is fully approved and legal. I know that she will need more therapy than they have time for in a dozen years, let alone one, but… I'm hoping that the two of you will be a good match, since I doubt that she'll be ready for preschool at four without a great many hours of effort from all of us.”

Graham nodded. “Okay, got it.” He pointed at Aidan. “Just so you know, I'm a lot harder to scare off than the feeble effort you're putting in here.”

“Feeble effort?” Aidan's eyes widened. Slowly, he began to snicker. “You're even braver than I suspected.”

“Brave, perhaps reckless, but definitely focused and determined,” Graham agreed, sticking out his hand. “I am also firmly on your side and Saraphina's. Truce?”

“It wasn't a conflict, or even a full-scale test,” Aidan admitted, clasping forearms with the blond. “Friends,” he offered.
( Read more... )

I feel like I might as well make a series of this, because that does seem to be all I've got to talk about right: how damn tired I am. I seem to lack the ability to stay awake long enough to even type up this journal post. Which is pretty sad, I'm thinking, based on how short it is.

So I think I'm going to drag my ass back the hall and lay down in my bed instead of one end of the couch.

Today was a total waste. Tara was supposed to come at 1. She texted and said she'd be here at 2. Then at 3 I texted and asked where she was. She got back to me at 4 and said she'd be here at 7. It is currently 8 and she's asking me what I want to eat next week, so I assume she's not coming over today. She wants to come tomorrow, which will be fine except Kevin will have to deal with her on his own, and I won't have a cell phone on me to be called home. So... Oh well.

Anyway, I read on the internet, reading some of the more modern research about Khazaria. I think they ignore too many things in trying to say "no it never happened" - ok then explain all the burials with Jewish symbols? And explain why all the names are Jewish names? Sighs. Some people's children. There's just too much evidence that it did happen, even if it is what passes for evidence of stuff that happened over 1000 years ago.

NaNoLanta chat is becoming active. But there is a Sushi and a SushiSandwich and I'm not sure if they're the same person or not.

That's about it for the day. I've mostly been bored and tired. Even when I woke up from my nap I was tired. I've done a lot of wandering from room to room today.

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Title: Running Late
Fandom: FAKE
Author: badly_knitted
Characters: Bikky, Carol, OCs.
Rating: PG
Setting: After the manga.
Summary: Bikky gets distracted and ends up being late for basketball practice.
Word Count: 414
Written For: My own prompt ‘FAKE, Bikky, Late for basketball practice,’ at fic_promptly.
Disclaimer: I don’t own FAKE, or the characters. They belong to the wonderful Sanami Matoh.




( Running Late... )

 




Title: The Devourers – Part 2/2
Author: badly_knitted
Characters: Owen, Ianto, Jack, Tosh, Gwen, OC.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 4022
Spoilers: Nada.
Summary: The team are in trouble, surrounded by creatures intent on making a meal out of them. Will they get out of this in one piece? They could use a little help...
Written For: spook_me 2017, using Scarecrow and these two pics here and here. 
Disclaimer: Sadly, I don’t own Torchwood, or the characters. Think of the fun I could have with them…



Part 1




( The Devourers – Part 2/2... )

If you could have one person alive today call you for advice who would it be?

What do you worry about the most?

Kevin's health


( the rest )

Risk Everything for Family
by Dialecticdreamer/Sarah Williams
part 4 of 14
word count (story only): 1310



:: Part of the Polychrome Heroics universe, the Mercedes story set, and picks up immediately after “Popping In,” continuing from Graham's viewpoint. ::




“Abioud,” Aidan began, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, “would you please keep an eye on Saraphina and Edison while I offer the good doctor a brief magical mystery tour?”

Graham chortled. “That's a description I can get behind!” He held up a finger. “One thing. If Aida offers to spar with you in the salle, I insist that full padding be worn.”

“I'm not much of a fighter, but I know enough not to hurt a teenage girl,” Abioud protested.

“The padding is for you!” Graham countered, still smiling. “Aida is… relentless, even when she's trying to relax. It's just her nature, even when asking you to spar is a gesture of friendship to her. If you don't want to risk it, believe me, I understand. It's perfectly fine to say no If she asks, though, she's likely to be ready to socialize a little more.”

“You have an interesting family,” Aidan mused, laughing softly.

“The longer you associate with us, the more that word will drift toward 'terrifying' instead,” Graham offered, then licked his finger and pretended to check for breezes. “So far, the wind is holding steady at Interesting-by-Weird-Interesting.”
( Read more... )