handypolymath: (bruce is bummed you're dumb)
Am I biased because [livejournal.com profile] thassalia is an awesome playmate I love swinging around on the monkeybars keyboard with? Possibly.

Is my rec totally subjective because [tumblr.com profile] thassalia wrote this for me, channeling pure plasma electricity like a lightning rod? Eh, perhaps.

It's also amazing, spot-on, complicated and hot, gorgeous and lush and makes me so glad I not only get to read her, but floored i get to write with her, and honored to get to spend time with her brains, beyond tasty and off into ambrosia.

There's a Dearth of Poetry About Spies (17758 words) by Thassalia
Chapters: 6/6
Fandom: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: Bruce Banner/Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov, Bruce Banner & Tony Stark, Bruce Banner & Clint Barton
Characters: Natasha Romanov, Bruce Banner, Clint Barton, Tony Stark
Additional Tags: Post-Iron Man 3, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Spies, Pre-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Supposed to be a sex romp through Europe but it got away from me, Sex is totally a plot

"It’s truly a fantasy, and one she could spin, for him, but spies don’t work like that -- in breathless, charged teams. They need steady hands, even heart rates. And if she were somewhere she thought she’d get caught she’d just leave, or lie. Eliminate the threat one way or another."


Spycraft and control and letting someone peek behind the curtain...and monsters playing high-stakes hide and seek with their hearts.
handypolymath: (natasha renders judgment)
[livejournal.com profile] thassalia and I wrote MCU fic. To be completely honest, I think this story rode the two of us like a possessing demon. I posted last night and then my brain exploded before I could link to it here.

Frog in a Blender (70287 words) by Thassalia, feldman
Chapters: 15/15
Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Bruce Banner/Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov
Characters: Natasha Romanov, Bruce Banner, Clint Barton, Steve Rogers, Tony Stark, Pepper Potts, Thor (Marvel), Maria Hill, Nick Fury
Additional Tags: Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Red Room, Team Dynamics, Super Soldier Serum, Identity Issues

When she notices Banner's attention she doesn’t discourage it, because he lives a similar lie. Pretend this is safe, pretend he’s containable, pretend that unchecked aggression doesn’t tend toward slaughter. She can give him that much, as easily as letting him turn her foot over gently in his warm hands and build a hypothesis that she’d rather he left alone.

To console ourselves, we started on the sequel.
handypolymath: (camp)
...or perhaps I just went insane and didn't notice.

handypolymath: (bruce)
[livejournal.com profile] thassalia and I have written 65.5k words of MCU in the last 6 weeks.

It's now out for beta with the brilliant [livejournal.com profile] fbf .

We are taking 48 hours off at the behest of our SOs before diving into the sequel.

This is disturbingly difficult.

I also need an actual Natasha icon.
handypolymath: (reboot)
...but I ended up writing fic with [livejournal.com profile] thassalia instead.  Which is really a best-case-scenario for me in general.  I keep returning to our Google Doc like a coke monkey pushing a button.  I made a playlist.

It's been a long time since I've felt fannish about something, though it has the old school X-Files feel of the "Yes, but--" response to canon.

I also started "Zombies, Run! 5k" this week (day two was today).  So it's been a strangely productive and joyous week for no reason that I can tell.

Perhaps the lesson is that I can be driven by both good and failed narratives.
handypolymath: (storytelling)
 22630 words.
handypolymath: (camp)
So I signed up for Camp Nanowrimo, by way of a trial version of Scrivener that's good until May 8th.  It's like a cage match between my procrastination and my miserliness.

handypolymath: (storytelling)
Though I have to say, if it weren't for X-files Classic, I possibly wouldn't have taken the charming footpath into the deep dark woods of fandom.

Still, they can never really scratch the itch, because I always wanted the a mytharc and I will only ever get a mythairball.

So I'll nostalgically link to the story I'm perversely most proud of from my baby ficwriter days, a case file in ten stanzas called Limerick.

"Our perp is a master of thuggee,
Who enters through doors made for doggies."
The slide show commenced
With blood-smeared evidence
Of cereal untouched and gone soggy.

handypolymath: (Default)
Three Sentence Ficathon

Okay, so I wrote a little something.

Prompt: HIMYM, Marshall/Lily/Barney - they're protective, caring doms to his sub

The ache in his chest has been swelling for months, for trimesters, and he stands sullen before Little Fudge until he sways on his feet, until Big Fudge runs long fingers up the back of his head, presses them together to grip the hair, and with the pads at the tips forces him down to his knees with subtle pressure, scuffing his black lace-ups on the tilted wooden floor that's surely too cold for those tiny bare feet that are suddenly all he can see with his head bowed nearly into her lap.

She doesn't smell of hops and tobacco anymore, but of warm honied milk, wholesome and frightening like the slab of prairie towering behind him and gently shucking and tossing his suit jacket, and then she leans close with elbows on knees and sidles ink-stained fingers into the knot of his tie, heavy silk whispering away as a large hot hand cradles his throat and tips his head up into a kiss.

"Aww, now," she croons as he gasps, short-bitten nails twisting his nubbins like paint crusted caps off tubes of paint, "You'll always be our Goldilocks."

handypolymath: (oh dear)
 I shoveled 16.5" of snow, in three sessions since last night,  totaling 3 hours.  This morning I was at it for 90 minutes, serenaded by the weather sirens.  I didn't clear our cars so much as carve them out of snow drifts like huge bars of Ivory soap.

I'd like to be cosseted in Tiger Balm and fuzzy blankets now, please. A toddy would also be lovely.

Alas, I am at work.  
handypolymath: (storytelling)
From [personal profile] minim_calibre When you see this, share 3 random lines from 3 WIPs.

I'm enjoying the larger snippets posts people are putting up, so I went with excepts instead of stand-alone lines.  I also doubled down and sampled all six pots on the back burners.

I also apologize for length, but I've never been ale to figure out how to consistently make an effing cut-tag work.


~*~The Suburban Mythology - There are two sisters, a ghost, a nail-studded wish tree, guerilla knitters, elderly hippy cranks, and frankly this thing just won't resolve *or* die *or* stop giving me hives.

The kitchen was done in mushroom.
The full effect was stunning, as the high end appliances had been purchased at the tail end of when things were still built to last, and so the avocado finish had the patina of time.  The cabinets and linoleum were brown like beef gravy, and the backsplash behind the sink was well buffed copper peppered with hand painted tiles featuring vignettes of fungi that, while they lacked faces, were yet oddly anthropomorphic.

There was a braided rag rug, faded denim blue like a pond in a forest reflecting the sky, that was surprisingly soft on the soles of her feet.  Lena smoothed her foot along the edge.

"Ma made that when I was small." Hugh knuckled his glasses back up his nose.  "I think it feels so nice because she used old jeans her and dad had broken in for years, back before chemical pre-fading."

"I like the mushroom motif.  It's very earthy and foody while still rocking a penis theme.  Very masculine for a kitchen."
~*~The Dale Riordan Charitable Association - "Our aim is for weapons that are cheap, accurate, and require little training to deploy.  We reject the idea that sheep cannot become sheepdogs.  Our goal is sero-conversion until the morphotype reaches extinction."  [if vampirism was a parasitic infection, could you reverse it? then what?]
“Dale, these are predators, yes."  Constance used a slow blink to cover the roll of her eyes.  "But they are not cats.  Shiny is not the same as tactical.”  Dale was still terribly excited about the concept of a hive-minded swarm array of UV emitters, but like preparations A through G, the prototypes were turning out to be a huge pain in the ass.  “Despite their legal status, they retain a human learning curve.  We need it to work well enough right out the gate so that the next night, with the nest set of targets, it's still fresh and new.”
Constance chose not to remind Dale of the beta testing fiasco, when the swarm veered into the campus kitchens and threw Rajiv into a blind but effective panic.  Turned out Rajiv had mowed over a hornet nest as a teen.  He'd grabbed the crème brulee torch and in a trice half the prototypes were gone.    A highly useful beta test as far as Constance was concerned, but it still sickened Dale to learn just how many FTE hours of R&D could be defeated with a small household flamethrower.

 ~*~Bug - space Venice, the human diaspora returning to the cradle planet, the careful explosion of all previous tight controls

As always, full court regalia was a heat stroke waiting to happen.  Each robe was vermsilk thin enough to read through at dusk, but after eight layers and strategic padding it was more like a shell than a wrap.  Once the sashes were tied, Nifale lost the ability to bend at the waist. 
Now wrapped, she perched on the edge of a tall stool while her hands and face were painted with the formal look and the sigils of her station, and her short limp hair bolstered with hanks of tiny braids and a beaded snood.  Powered bikrel chitin shimmered on her cheekbones and forehead, and made her laquered fingernails look like the elytra that covered their folded hind wings.  She tried to forget that she was to witness an execution today. 
In contrast to her formal packaging, Messenger Shoi Wenthin Cand was dressed for heavy gardening, down to an iron dibble in his hand.  All of the Messengers wore heavy canvas pants and sturdy boots, shirts cut close to the body and short jackets embroidered with Her Most Serene's imprimateur.  Some carried wooden mallets.  After conferring with the others he came over to her little party of three with a smile that disturbed her as much as the rough implement in his manicured hand. 
"Ready then, Keeper Nifale?" 
"Travelling gives me vertigo." 
"Your robes alone will likely keep you standing."  In the sunlight his eyes took on a reddish cast, like fermented tea brewed strong. 


~*~The Sublimation Sublimation - [Big Bang Theory] Leave it to Sheldon to not just go into Pon Farr, but to broadcast it as well.
“Is it just me,” Bernie's whisper is thin and shiny like a gold foil star, “or does he remind you of Lo Pan?”
Howard nods as Leonard squints after the waiter, who'd disappeared into the reddish gloom of the Szechuan Palace. “Lo Pan?”
“The metaphysical antagonist of John Carpenter's 'Big Trouble in Little China', an ancient wizard cursed to roam the earth in ghost form until he sacrifices a green-eyed woman to get his physical life back. Despite there being a surfeit of such in California,” Sheldon gestures across the table at Penny with a precision-halved pocket of dumpling, “Lo Pan fixates on only two, and hijinks ensue.”
“While I found it dated and cheesy, it did hold my attention with unexpected flashes of eye candy.” Amy nods, “Such as a young Kurt Russel in a silk kimono.”
Bernie grins, “I prefer the scene with him tied to the wheelchair.”
Leonard glances at Howard before his better judgement kicks in, and though he's focused down on his shrimp with lobster sauce, Leonard reads more than he wants to in the rosy flush creeping up from his dicky to stain his ears.
Penny narrows her green eyes at Sheldon and drinks out of his teacup. “I'm more of a Snake Plissken gal, myself.”
Sheldon's lips disappear and he neatly deposits his dumpling half in the cup, sloshing tea over her knuckles. “Share and share alike, apparently.”
Penny fishes it out with her fingers and pops it into her mouth with a grin at his shudder.

~*~Dirt [Bones] post-ep for The Aliens in the Spaceship
For a brief moment in the choking sunlight Hodgins heard Angela call him by his first name as she brushed his face clean, her warm sweat scent like a secret underneath the scorched dust and lost perfume when she kissed him, and he felt like he'd reached goal in the worst game of tag ever.
That relief had snowballed into a shaking weakness that clung to him for hours in the emergency department, and still shivered in the wings when they stuck him up on a ward for observation.  So instead he'd gritted his teeth through a terrifying cab ride, fled back to the lab bench, pulled an extra stool over for his throbbing calf, and focused on something other than the paranoia and the persistent itch in his nostrils of ash and singe.
Which is where Angie turned up, mauling a teddy bear in anxious hands, earnest and open as if she hadn't tasted him sour from sedation and fear earlier that same day.  She came as a friend, sporting him crutch money and listening in that signature tender wry way that even Brennan could never remain taciturn in the face of.

~*~Veered Science - [Farscape] the last installment of the John Hughes AU, written with Thassalia
Pilot finishes keying in a command sequence as he offers an arm to help D'Argo onto the console. "I would ask you how school is coming, but I understand if you do not wish to talk."
D'Argo tucks his boots under his knees and rubs his face, speaking through the muffle of his hands. "I've got two papers in peer review right now, one of them for the second time. My loan from the Eidolon archive was approved, though it'll be a few monens before the samples arrive and they probably won't have what I'm looking for. My best friend hates me, but she'll likely be dead soon, in mind if not in body. My mom's an assassin, my dad's a sociopathic bastard who may or may not be sane, my sister is no longer glad to see me--and did I mention the boatload of soldiers on board?"
"I am aware of the last, yes." Pilot taps a key-plate without looking at it. "Moya and I are monitoring through the DRDs."
D'Argo leans back against a strut and digs grit from the corners of his eyes. "You were there, on that day, Pilot."
"Yes." He turns to access an array of plates on the other side of the console. "Moya and I were a part of that day."
D'Argo isn't sure how to ask; everyone aboard was complicit somehow, even himself in a way, his very existence a spur. But how much of it was inevitable, how much was planned, how much was simply a situation gone off the rails? "Did you know that my father would do that?"
For a long moment Pilot works his console, but finally he swivels back to D'Argo. "Moya and I have always preferred to run. We have no weapons and we choose not to have any. Except for that day."
"I know, but Pilot, could you have really stopped it?"
“You misunderstand. We had no wish to stop it. Moya provided the seed energy, an aborted starburst channeled through the trigger cage, which was shaped and aimed by your father."
D'Argo closes his eyes, overwhelmed by the madness of it. His chest is locked between breathes, barely able to squeeze out the word, "Why?"
"For cycles afterward, Moya and I expected to be decommissioned by the Builders. But perhaps they understood that there comes a time when you can no longer run."
handypolymath: (number one)
 I'm not sure what it says about me, that even as a child,  my favorite part of the Star Wars Holiday Special was Bea Arthur.
handypolymath: (number one)
Looked up some IT band and hip physical therapy hoodoo techniques on YouTube and drifted into ballet foot workout videos.  Not as bad as when I went tumbling down the rabbit hole and spent an evening watching cyst-popping clips, but at a certain level of flexibility the human foot starts to move like a deformed hand (which is delightfully creepy) and so I quit while I was ahead.

Also Mr. F came home, so it's a natural stopping point.

I did find some things to try on Mr. F's hip, which will hopefully help until we can get him into some real physical therapy.  Nerve flossing!  Pin and stretch techniques!  Massaging perpendicular to the muscle and connective fibers to provide shear forces!  How awesome to find videos that not only address the anatomy involved but also have captions of study references!

In other news, the kittens are fucking bonkers tonight.
handypolymath: (apesuit)
 Sometimes we just want it to be worth the learning curve. 

I've updated my phone under protest, due to having to restart it thrice a day to force texts out of the buffer, usually once by pulling the battery.  If I didn't need it for work AND have the option of doing it roughly for free,  it wouldn't have happened. But I could upgrade and keep unlimited data on essentially two work phones,  so I bit the bullet.

I spent a good chunk of yesterday mucking through settings and menus,  installing my preferred software, pulling weeds off the home screens.  It's thin and light, but unwieldy for tiny hands.  I'm skipping a few generations of smartphone where they apparently interbred with tablets and fucking pinball machines. 

On the plus side,  this phone plays nice with the posting interface. 

handypolymath: (cigar)
Behind the cut are 15 reviews (L'Artisen Perfumeur, House of Gloi, Conjure Oils, BPAL).  All of these are available to go to other homes.  I have a swaplist, but I'm also open to suggestions and other offers, just let me know in the comments if you're interested in anything.

It's time to ramble on... )
handypolymath: (camp)
I've also started squatting in an empty office, which has a desk, a door, a bookshelf, and a lamp that looks like it came out of The Flintstones, but tasteful.

Trade ya!

Nov. 10th, 2014 02:37 pm
handypolymath: (trelawny)
agnes nutter
bewildered in a dream
hand of glory
medicine show
robotic scarab
squirting cucumber
tacitus' phoenix
the bow and crown of conquest
the great sword of war
tzadikim nistarim
white rabbit

BPAL imps:
fog machine juice - 'single note' [no description]
against idleness & mischief - Pollen-dusted honey, diligent tonka, steadfast chamomile, and goodly hyssop.
tweedledum - Absurd! Green mango, fig, patchouli and green tea.
harlot - Somalian rose, Moroccan rose and Bulgar rose with a sultry dribble of cinnamon.
mary reed - Salt air, ocean mist, aged patchouli, sarsaparilla, watered-down rum, leather-tinged musk, and a spray of gunpowder. 
the light of men's lives - The wax and smoke of millions upon millions of candles illuminating the walls of Death's shadowy cave: some tall, straight, and strong, blazing with the fire of life, others dim and guttering..
mantis - Crushed herbs and sweet amber resin with a streak of patchouli, neroli and golden musk.
psyche - Bulgar rose, Chinese white musk, lavender, orchid and frankincense.
Prototype PPV662- "a soft musky/amber blend with rose throughout."
Prototype ICD23- "A sort of jungly, feral green."
Prototype PPN143- "herbs? green? fir? bracing, went soapy on me"

Conjure Oils samples:
la maceta - vibrant marigolds, scarlet geraniums, green leaves and fresh soil smile up at you from their terra cotta home.
odin - Mist- covered Norwegian ash, mossy emerald lichens and the smoke from the Fates' campfire
four leaf clover - Lucky sweet clover, lemon sugar and green fig, wisteria for hope and a drop or two of raspberry for gorgeous love 
the pernicious parasol - cherry, plum and apricot are cloaked in black vanilla and slathered with bitter almond, tart green apple, d'anjou pear and the tiniest tinge of cassava.

House of Gloi samples:
insalata nocturna - Italian lemon, rubbed tomato leaf, olive leaf, black fig syrup and basil. 

Perfume samples:
l'artisan parfumeur: fou d'absinthe - absinthe, star anise, dry pine, cistus, angelica flower, blackcurrant buds, clove, ginger, nutmeg, patchouli, pepper, pine needles, fir balsam
montale: intense cafe - coffee, rose, amber, vanilla, white musk

Lace edged hankies:
lace hankies

[edited 4.4.15]


Nov. 9th, 2014 05:31 pm
handypolymath: (Default)
 ~*~ Did the first week at the new location/position, which I think went well.  I'm a tad weirded out by the clear evidence I've jumped a few rungs up the socio-economic ladder with my new batch of co-workers--and as I'm not in a default support position, I'm being treated as a professional-class peer who's simply not yet obtained all her degrees.  It's...so odd.

~*~ Had a very brief bout of dizziness this morning, stemming from the other ear this time, but I did the head maneuvers and it cleared right up.

~*~ Wish I could just as easily treat the severely impacted wisdom tooth, which is testy due to clenching my jaw from nerves, but it's buried deep in bone and not going anywhere, so I can deal with the occasional pressure-ache.

~*~ Got my internet turned back on after having to let it lie fallow for a week, that's an exciting payday development.  Onward and upward, heave ho.

~*~ Going from retail type hours to standard office hours I've had some wicked REM rebound now that I'm sleeping regularly again.  The DST shift and being hip-deep in job training only exacerbate this.

~*~ The concept of NaNoWriMo shouldn't make me angry, I mean, there are a couple worse months it could be in, like February.  It's not really a plot against those of us prone to hibernation.

handypolymath: (number one)
 I was not expecting the weird hash of sadness, benediction, congratulation and I'm-joking-but-35%-serious abandonment issues that my last few days at the old position stirred up among my co-workers and supervisors.

As someone who has ended jobs in a variety of ways*, this one was new and quite touching.

I have also procured a starter set of dress pants to conform to the higher office clothes standard.  Five pairs of pants and a set of dressier flats for less than forty bucks, shopping at the Salvation Army in the better part of town.  While there's truth to the need to spend money to make money, I'm ramping it up slowly.  Luckily it's fall, so the sweaters will see me through until I can rebuild a professional wardrobe.

* 1. not showing up for three days (undiagnosed seasonal depression)  2. standard 2-4 week notice with optional potluck farewell  3. being escorted out of the building (bitter merger; I went to a competitor two days later)  4. flaming 20 minute tirade against horrible manager (in retail, mere days before x-mas, at a job I'd left peaceably months before but came back on school break to help for the shopping season) 5. silently walking away while being yelled at "are you coming back on Monday?!" (hint: this was her third strike in treating me terribly, so no, I was not coming back on any day).
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