#*ask.

[soothfog]

don't be nervous. whatever has to happen will happen. no one gets out of that. / from castiel

"I can do it. Give me a minute." The tie hangs from Lee's neck—impotently. Some things a man ought to be able to do no matter his state. But Lee's hands are shaking. The silk tie—the only one he owns (the one he will wear to his first wedding in a little under three years, he recalls now (perhaps, he thinks, because his hands are just as shaky on that day (his gaze briefly, inquisitively flicks to Castiel's face to see if he can somehow detect Lee's act of remembering)))—is uglily creased in several spots from his last two attempts at tying the damned thing. The future memory does nothing to soothe him. Castiel's words do nothing to soothe him.

Lee's tone was curt, lashing; the distance of a simple minute allows for him to acknowledge that. Only because it has passed. Occurred, committed. The event now only ever as active as a modifier not a verb. His hands pause. Castiel does not deserve Lee's nervousness (knotted, as clumsily as his tie, into frustration). It's not for Castiel; it's immaturely displaced on him like a lazy litterer who doesn't want to walk to the nearest trash receptacle, where it belongs. He breathes. He looks Castiel respectfully in the eye, voice softened with shame: "I'm sorry."

Future memories are active.

Malignant. In ways the past can't be.

Lee tries again, twisting the tie around itself, fingers carefully stuffing the front through the collection of fabric: a simple oriental knot. His chin tilts up, exposing his neck, providing more space for his hands to blindly dress the clump. Not distractedly, the distractor: "It's one thing to know the devil exists. It's another thing to meet him. To know I will meet him." Lee tightens the tie and his fingers grope at the knot to assess his handiwork. Touch alone tells him nothing. He doesn't know what to feel for. He doesn't know why he thought he would. His chin tucks in skin-folds into his neck as he peers down far enough to see. The knot is bigger than he'd like and there's an amateurish ridge near one of the corners which he does his best to fix and then, when unsuccessful, hide (he hopes, at first without knowing, he does better on his wedding day; then he remembers his mother redoes it for him (this recognition of his mother (a figure from his past in his future) spurs a thought:). Quick enough from thought to mouth that the question remains curious and casual and hasn't been compounded with heavier, prerequisite implications that occur after: "Will he recognize you?" Lee asks while straightening his tie and rolling his neck to test the comfort (constricting, but he isn't redoing it). Ignoring the dawning weight of that question, he fans his arms out, presenting his appearance for approval.

[alulars]

it’s my life, i’ll do what i want. Mack Johnson

i know what you did last summer sentence meme.

Mackenzie leaves Elfgar’s place. Johnson had intended to approach Elfgar upon her departure. But she leaves—walking—without a raincoat or umbrella. He shakes his head, one fluid sway to the left then center, and sighs; the cold air hisses through his teeth and stings a back molar. He runs his tongue over the tooth. The enamel on it is thin, the nerve is exposed and sensitive. Weak. He considers ripping the tooth out—later: Mackenzie is walking. Johnson tilts his head back and regards the sky. Large clots of clouds push-pulse in the same direction like one great, gray vein close to rupturing. In exactly two minutes, it will rain. The walk to her apartment, from here, is twenty-six minutes.

Previously by a window, Johnson appears beside Mackenzie. The displacement of space—dry atmosphere, then suddenly solid body—generates a gentle gust. Obvious and indulgently lambasting: “Did the man not offer you an umbrella?” “I don't need one.” “Your body will grow ill.” “It’s my life, I’ll do what I want.”

Rain falls.

Drops that fall near them flare away like a lit sparkler. Johnson's jaw clenches. He attempts to distract himself: there are thousands of tiny, wet particle parabolas—he approximates to the millionth degree the numeric expression of each one before the drop reaches the ground. One droplet, he calculates, will bounce and hit Mackenzie's open eye. He flicks it (bursting it) with his middle finger before it can.

He is not distracted. The math is simple.

He can redirect the electromagnetic fields of Earth to deflect rain but he cannot ever seem to redirect her.

Johnson stops.

Mackenzie continues for a few steps before she notices. He does not shift the Earth's fields to cover her. She must stay in this small, now-stationary dome with him if she wants to remain dry.

Plainly, clinically, as though the list is grocery items and not invasively, wholly about her: “You cry in your apartment's south-facing bathroom because you have no private room of your own. You think of your father. You think of him dead. You want to kill him. You prayed for it. When you unload the dishwasher, you count the knives. Your favorite color—” He clarifies, he simplifies, he elongates the word: “Green.” It is said less like a magician revealing her chosen playing card and more like a cooing parent enunciating the applied names of things to their infant. “Is five billionths of a meter. The same size of simple bacteria. Yet only one of the two appears commonly in your home.” His gaze slides to hers, fastens to it. “All of it is your life, Mackenzie Knight. Little of it is what you want.”

[hypocratic]

you’re just trying to save yourself.

i know what you did last summer sentence prompts.

"I'm afraid—" A poor turn of phrase. Easily construed as a Freudian slip. Or, at least, a Freudian trip—the hand that holds his cane flinches like his body is ready to catch itself; that flexed tension gathers and pinches the skin of his right ring finger into fat folds stuck between his middle knuckle and the gold band of his class ring. His thumb instinctively slides the ring down, kneading out the skin and relieving its constriction. Frederick smiles, as quick as a pulse; the mood of poor circulation: it does not reach his eyes. He reopens his mouth, breathes in, and restarts: "Bats have... laid claim to my office fireplace." His eyebrows raise and his head bobs to the side; needless, but able to clarify and naturally yielding to the opportunity: "The desk-side fireplace."

"My staff considerately lent me this, uh," Frederick's gaze tours the dark, gaunt area, "considerable wing—for the time being." A lie. He has a second office. This section of the hospital inexplicably lost power two weeks ago. Security is still searching for the cause. All patients held in this wing have been temporarily relocated to another facility. "Lent or not, some areas remain authorized personnel only." His head tilts sideways to peek beyond the row of metal bars separating the control booth from the corridor—himself from Hannibal. "Exempli gratia." His arms fan out, almost curtsey-like, as an exhibitory gesture to the booth. Some electrical elements deemed vital still work, having fallen to the back-up generator.

Frederick, with intentional, weaponized slowness, tests each switch. Emergency lights, working. Intercom, not working. Automated locks, working. Landline phone, working. Monitors, not working. Security cameras, he chose, not working (it would be a futile expense: they can't see in dim lighting). Alarm sound, working. Alarm lights, working. He pauses halfway through the panel and peers up, now swathed in alarm-blue beacon lighting, to gauge Hannibal's patience. Cuts of blue-black seem to burrow and re-burrow into the sharp shapes of Hannibal's eye sockets, his cheeks, his temples. Seeing him is a dark prediction. Frederick's expression shivers slack.

[plackart]

MERCY :  for both muses to come across an injured animal. (Elfgar)

I come from behind. "Stop." I do not attempt to stop him. I want my plea to be enough; my plea should be enough. I stay behind. "Did you ask it? Did you ask it if it wants to die?"

[timeloooop]

this is a common theme found in a lot of lutece-fics but id love to see your take on the twins talking about and comparing the differences between their lives pre-particle and pre-columbia!! (you write them with such nuance and understanding and subtle eeriness it rlly hammers home the way they feel like . fae-like almost)

Last week, Robert existed.

This week, Robert still exists, but not in his world. Existence is less a question of evidence and more a non-compulsory attendance record. Robert remembers jumping through the tear: the unstable perimeter was a soft blue (blue, no doubt, because it is the smallest color; it spreads so easily and thinly, like butter) and buzzing from static electricity (a theory: two realties too similar will repel each other just as two negatively charged electrons do) that lifted the fine hairs exposed on Robert's neck and the backside of his hands. He also remembers seeing himself jump. He remembers first existing in this reality seven days ago, and he remembers existing in this reality thirty-one years ago, age four, ginger hair pooling past each shoulder (both longer than he ever remembers and as long as he remembers) and over a green striped shirtwaist with thin pleats (he both does and does not remember wearing as a child).

Robert's memories, it seems, are recessive. When entering another reality, the primary inhabiter's memories are dominant and chiefly expressed. All at once, upon entry, Robert inherited Rosalind's memories. A super majority of which are the same; most of his life is her life. Such unity provides stability. It is the smaller, intricate details that thin and scatter from him—like butter, like blue.

Immediately after Robert's arrival to Rosalind's reality, The Lutece Device short-circuited. Tears have been weaker and erratic, their strength and longevity far depleted.

In the shared Lutece laboratory, Rosalind slowly runs a rubber-gloved hand along a pair of thick fibre optic cables that are connected to the field conductor stationed in the middle of the room. Any fissures, no matter how minuscule, would be highly detrimental to the output levels. Luckily, they're easy enough to detect, if present at all: fissures in the cables, when touched, feel like tiny shocks beneath the skin even while wearing protective gloves.

Robert stands below the corresponding collider dome affixed to one of the two main metal pillars. His arm is raised above his head to reach the collider's conductive surface. In his hand, he holds a modified oscilloscope that translates the electricity levels emitting from the dome into decipherable green wave lines. He reaches for a dial just left of the collider to recalibrate the output, but it's absent. There is no dial. He rubs his hand around the flat slab of metal, groping for that which is not there. Blood trickles from his nose. The dial is on the right. He remembers the dial is on the right. A familiar yet foreign pulsating pain swells deep behind his eyes. Something clatters to the floor. He looks, Rosalind looks. The oscilloscope. The hand that was holding it is pinching the bridge of his nose.

Rosalind is near Robert in three quick strides. Her speed towards him physically imitates the sensation of falling backwards. Or, an alternative hypothesis: he is falling backwards. His head is light. Everything considerately and considerably softens in sound just as all noise feels shrill and distant. Splotches of black begin to enter his vision. He should sit down. Fortunately: his body may well already be rapidly approaching such a destination. Unfortunately: the impact will hurt. Fortunately/Unfortunately: he likely won't be conscious for it. Rosalind grabs the end of Robert's tie and pulls—hard—altering his fall trajectory to the opposing direction (i.e. towards her) and averting a collision with the metal pillar.

Twenty-two seconds later—Rosalind times it—Robert comes to. His lips feel wet. His chin, too. He's low. They're on the floor. He's cradled in Rosalind's arms.

«What did you think?» «Right.» «Right.» «Right is right.» «Yes...» «Left is left.» «And up is up and down is down. Now nothing is left: what did you think?» «Nothing is left.» «Yes.» «No.» He must think this correctly: «There is no dial on the left.» «I see.» Rosalind plucks a white handkerchief from a hidden pocket in the lining of her suit jacket and wipes the blood from Robert's face. That is a new habit of hers. She didn't have a handkerchief with her during his previous fit and had to leave his side to locate one. Robert finds this amendment equally touching and maddening. How often is she worrying about him? To divert her attention to him, with a mind like hers—like theirs—is like siphoning all the heat of the sun to hatch a single chick. He would like her to worry less. His eyes crinkle-twinkle:

«B positive.» «I’m trying.» «No, my blood is B positive, should the bleeding cease to stop and I require a transfusion.» Rosalind rolls her eyes. Robert smiles. «What de trop detail. You know we share the same blood type.» «Precisely so: we share everything. Including the same sense of humor.» Rosalind hides away a smile, poised and composed, in much the way a lady is meant to carefully fold and store her undergarments—as though the smile itself is, to her, far too defamatory or revealing. «Lean forward.» She hooks the side of her index finger beneath Robert's round chin and the pad of her thumb presses into the small dip of skin below his lower lip. The fit of her thumb in the delicate dip of his chin feels identical to her own chin. She finds this familiarity not likable or unlikable, simply likely (a cursory note: the skin of his face is smooth, as smooth as hers; might Robert's hormone levels prevent him from growing a beard? they've been together for a week and she's never seen him shave or any evidence of shaving (no hair trimmings clinging to the shallow basin of the bathroom sink, no razor resting alongside her perfectly parallel hair fasteners)). She tilts his head down.

«It is commendable your sense of humor still remains intact given your current state. But it is your other, more physical senses I worry for.» «I see, I hear. Yes, I smell blood. Yes, I taste it. An alarming state, but I propose the opposite would be far worse.» «Seeing and hearing blood?» «No, I mean, not smelling or tasting the traces of blood present on and in my person.» «Hm.»

Despite their similarities, there is still an entire lifetime of Robert's that Rosalind is not privy to. Not in the way he is to hers. For her, it's guesswork or interrogations. She's envious. She's curious. «Do we differ?» A perfect flash of overlap surfaces in Robert's mind. Of his world and of hers, different and alike; his nose does not bleed. «At university, they would not admit you due to your perceived gender. You told them there was a mistake in your application. You were, in fact, Robert Lutece, not Rosalind. For four years, you dressed like me.» She smiles. «I wore a lot of ill-fitting trousers.» «You had to be me. Let me be you for a time.»

[amartworks]

had a fun experience on the subway the other day

[thepurplepope]

saw this absolute king at the Paris Miku Expo

[EDIT] : THIS IS @funnyparadox PRESENTED TO YOU, OUR PATHS FINALLY MET

[koobiie]

shoutout to everyone who wants to infodump but cant string together coherent thoughts to form sentences and instead just look at you like this

[twinliches]

i had a dream that time travel was invented and too many people choose to travel back in time to save the titanic from sinking (the question of whether unsinking of the titanic deserved so much attention in the face of human history was the subject of both heavy academic and online discourse), which caused a rift in the space-time-continuum that led to the titanic showing up indiscriminately all over the world’s oceans and sea in various states of sinking.

this caused a lot of issues both in terms of fixing said space-time-continuum and in terms of nautical navigation, and after a long and heavy battle in the international maritime organization it was decided that the bureaucratic burden of dealing with this was to be upon Ireland, much to their dismay. the Irish Government then released an app for all sailors and seafarers so they could report titanic sightings during their journeys, even though they heavily dissuaded you from reporting them given the paperwork it caused.

anyway i woke up with a clear image of the app in my head and needed to recreate it for all of you:

[miyoriia]

if i answer wrong theyll fucking kill me

[many-sparrows]

I'm very tired of this "queer college students should stop supporting Palestine, they'd kill you there!" I watched a hijabi ask a trans man, "but what name do you want to go by?" A butch giving a woman their hoodie so that she could keep her hair covered after the cops took her scarf. Muslim girls making sure the lesbian couple got through the system together. Religious men making sure purple haired protestors got out safe. I don't want to hear it. Solidarity forever, free Palestine.

[sirompp]

hi. i made some images.

feel free to take them and use for whatever you may need them for. no credit required

[alulars]

❛ you weren’t careful. you didn’t see. ❜ from castiel for johnson

Death comes or death is brought. The man deserved nothing gentle.

This white tent Johnson and Castiel are standing in was pitched a month ago (a month of Johnson praying, and no one answered). It is a large, white cube in a tall grass field in rural Kentucky. From the nearest road, a mile out, the tent almost looks like a descended cloud, a prolapsed piece of heaven which no other angel felt. Inside, there are rows of cheap, plastic garden chairs (all the same as though bought in bulk) split into two sections by a long aisle (the grass there unclipped, unneeded to be because it's flat from daily foot traffic) that leads to a low, wood stage painted white.

It's easy, now, to ignore the man on the stage—he is silent, he is dead.

To describe his appearance would be a misappropriation of attention, a wrongful implication of sustained interest or import. Johnson slit his throat, it's simple and obvious. What cannot be so easily seen is what Johnson said or how as the man bled out Johnson laid his forehead against his, gripped the nape of his neck, and pressed his thumbs below the corners of his jaw—just above the gurgling gash—to feel the arteries that carry blood from the brain because, when touched, it allowed Johnson to listen to his thoughts; he held him until he heard his confession which rushed out of him as fast as his wound.

Johnson thinks of that confession now and the frictionless slide of his silver blade, the bizarre fuse of hot-cold blood spraying his face (hot because the man's blood is warmer than the winter air and cold because human bodies don't possess the ability to sense wetness and rely, faultily, on temperature); he thinks of all he did see, for weeks.

His gaze meets Castiel's and he wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing away the half-dried blood. Air pushes out of his nostrils: a laugh or a grunt or simply clearing his airway; there is no smile, the reason hidden or unknown.

"I find it..." a feeling so filling it's buoyant, it rises out of him, airy, puffing out his cheeks as he carefully misnames it: "humorous... you think you get an opinion. I distinctly recall you not being there."

Johnson regards the body next to him with a quick glance.

"He claimed he could speak the language of angels. He amassed a large crowd for it. I watched, in disgust, as he gargled his own spit and called that Enochian, waiting, each day, for Metatron's retribution. Then, when it did not come, anyone's. No one came. I am done waiting."

A child too young to have outgrown the meter-high grass peeked inside the tent moments after the man's last breath. Johnson did not chase him; the field is wide and the boy's legs are short, he must still be running. He does not regret not noticing the boy in time, he regrets Castiel does notice: their solutions will be diametrically opposed.

"Let them see. Let them be afraid."

[bonesandthebees]

one of the most infuriating things about becoming an adult is when you realize that it actually is 10x easier to solve problems by making a phone call vs literally any other communication method

[vamprisms]

i feel like a lot of the 'i hate kids' crowd would be more tolerant if they understood that due to a kid's limited experience of the world that 4 hour flight might just be the longest they've ever had to sit still for or that trapped finger might literally be the most pain they've ever felt in their short life or they might not have ever seen a person with pink hair ever so of course they want to touch it or nobody's told them yet that they can't run around the museum and they only just learned cheetahs are the fastest animals so of course they want to put that to the test. how were they supposed to know etc etc.