#I got a twenty all three times

[nugget-child]

Me after scoring a ‘this area could definitely use some more work’ in all three sides of the health triangle

[north-wilkesboro-moonshine-cave]

congratulations to Mme. Pascale Leclerc, who has surely just experienced both the funniest and most unhinged weekend a mother could ever have. Dear fucking christ, I hope your middlest son brought you a bottle of champagne for yourself, ma'am.

[bright-and-burning]

sigh. they have bewitched me with their “practically built for magical realism aus” ways. have 500 words of nonsense that will become a real fic Eventually

When they bring out the bring out the little microphone and the camera for the video, Lando has to shove down the groan that threatens to escape. He’s been nursing a mid-level headache for an hour now, having accidentally bumped into Oscar on their way into the motor home, the lightning-fast wave of happy—hungry-for-more—exhausted flashing into shock—too-much—pain, and then into horrible emptiness when they’d both flinched away.

From the poorly hidden grimace on Oscar’s face, he’s in the same boat, head pounding, just as apprehensive of the tiny mic. Another touch, skin-to-skin at that, and Lando’s gonna be throwing up protein shake and champagne on camera. The last time they’d touched bare-handed, it was Lando’s fault. He’d forgotten, shoved his way into Oscar’s space just because he wanted to, no thought given to silly things like wild bonds or consequences, and was rewarded with a splitting headache and a very muddled memory of the sheer force of the fondness Oscar was feeling before everything twisted into suffering. Oscar had thrown up, then. Lando hadn’t, but only barely; shoving two people’s feelings into a space only meant for one along a bond that by any logic shouldn’t actually exist, well. It’s been unpleasant, to say the least. Even if they’ve been getting better at carefully dipping and dodging around each other. The less they speak of the nightmare that’s been filming for social media, the better. Lando takes the mic from Zak, fingers briefly touching, and feels absolutely nothing that isn’t already going on inside his own head. He lets his mouth run. Media training can take the wheel on this one; he’s got bigger things to focus on, like not exploding the brains of McLaren’s entire fucking driver lineup in one go. Andrea would not be very happy with him for that. Lando finishes rambling. “To everyone that was cheering us on and celebrating this with me, thank you very much, and I’ll hand over to Osc.” He holds the mic out, pinching it between two fingers so as much plastic casing is available to grab as possible. Oscar takes it, careful but smooth, pinkie finger slightly raised to avoid accidental contact, and Lando lets go. “To Osc,” Oscar repeats, relief obvious in his smile. He takes a deep breath and starts his own rambling debrief. Lando tunes out, just a little, relieved and exhausted and still battling that freaking headache. He’s nodding along mindlessly to Oscar’s thanks when another shock wave hits. Lando panics for a split-second, flinches hard and runs through the last few moments, wracking his brain for how he could’ve possibly touched Oscar with the careful distance they’d both put between them, and realizes Zak's dumped a bottle over his head. The cold shock of the champagne on his scalp and down his body had felt eerily familiar, too close to the feeling of touching Oscar and blowing out their bond. Lando pastes on a smile and lets Oscar handle the outro, ready to pop some paracetamol and get the fuck out of this minefield of a debrief video.

[megumi-fm]

.

[doctorbrown]

MCFLY JULY ‘24 ⸺ 「 24 / 31 * OUT IN THE DESERT 」

January—March 1943

From the moment he’d been visited at the university by Oppenheimer with Groves in tow, the latter a looming, intimidating presence towering over him in his uniform compared to the amicable and even friendly disposition of Oppenheimer, he’d felt the cold bite of the Sword of Damocles pressed against his neck, digging deeper and deeper with each day he’d been left in purgatory, waiting.

He feared he’d lose his head before ever hearing the official outcome of his new employment.

When one of his colleagues had approached him about a week and a half after their departure, informing him that he’d received a call from the FBI asking some questions about him, Emmett’s heart stopped then and there and he was absolutely positive he’d seen the moment his head was severed from his neck, rolling down the hallway.

Twenty long seconds later, when his senses had returned to him, he learned that the sensation was just dizziness and he was still firmly intact.

Three weeks later, the hell had ended. To say his official acceptance onto the project was a weight off his shoulders would be an understatement. Emmett breathed a long sigh of relief, nearly giddy with the excitement that he’d come through the process relatively unscathed; his frayed nerves were the only real casualty of his stint in purgatory.

Why the outcome should have been anything other than this, he couldn’t say, but that didn’t stop his mind, already having latched onto the mystery and thrilling scientific intrigue that Oppenheimer had offered, from conjuring up the what-if possibilities while unseen hands manipulated the course of his life. He’d never been in legal trouble, no criminal record, his father was an incredibly prominent and well-respected, if feared and disliked, member of the community, and his academic achievements had been exceptional.

But now it was official and the part that should have been the most daunting brought him the most joy. Two months was more than enough time to wrap up his affairs in California nicely.

His courses at the university would be discontinued and his students would be disseminated out into the other professors’ courses. The small home he’d been provided here would go back to the university and whatever he deemed unimportant to take with him to New Mexico would be discarded. The head of the department wished him well, and after a brief exchange steeped in rumour and hearsay, he’d left, returning home to pack up the last of his things.

How fascinating that an entire life could be stuffed in a couple travel bags.

—

When Emmett returns to Hill Valley, tugging the last twenty-three years of his life up the pathway to the mansion he hadn’t seen in almost five years, it is his mother’s joyful cries that greet him, her hands that all but pull him through the door, and her voice that fills the living room as she sits down, harmonising with the song of time played by his favourite Grandfather Clock.

Emmett, the doctor. Emmett, the scientist. Emmett, her son, doing his part for his country, whatever that meant, because it was secret, secret, secret—all so very secret all he could say was “I can’t talk about it but I have to travel to get there”—and while she looked ten years younger, radiant with motherly pride, his father scoffed and harrumphed, making his opinion known in no uncertain terms.

You would’ve done better for the war as a soldier, not some damned-fool scientist.

‘But at least maybe you’ll have a chance to be useful. Do something good.’

This time, his father’s barbs do not sting. They strike at him from all angles, jabbing at his skin but never piercing, and he lets them fall to the ground at his feet, unwilling to have this argument again, as they did for so many long nights in his youth. With the prospect of unforetold scientific progress right there at his fingertips, he could find it in himself to forgive his father without a fight. He didn’t understand. He wouldn’t let him spoil this.

Science—science was the future. And they would see.

His departure comes as quick as his arrival, his mother asking when he thinks he’ll be back in California.

“Soon,” he says, unable to give her any definite number, pulling at the hope this project is supposed to bring. “When we’ve won the war.”

Alone, he arranges to have himself and his entire life brought to San Francisco, where he’ll meet the train that carries him to the future.

—

San Francisco to Santa Fe.

Emmett spends most of his time in comfortable silence, watching the touches of humanity upon the land slowly and slowly being stripped away. Pavement gives way to dirt and grass and unsullied earth and the towering buildings of the cities sprout leaves and stretch up to the heavens, basking in the afternoon sunlight.

He remembers the itinerary—cryptic instructions written on a packet of papers shoved into his hands and the explicit instructions to allow nobody else to see the contents of this folder. Emmett doesn’t think he could forget it if he tries, burning a hole in the inner pocket of his overcoat, searing his chest even through his clothes.

More often than not, he tries to imagine the stage that will hold what is supposed to be the greatest scientific advancements of the last three centuries—what we’ll be doing here will be the culmination of the last three centuries of physics. Don’t you want to be a part of that?—I want to take on this challenge—only to imagine something even more fantastical than its predecessor every time he tries.

A fully functioning laboratory and city do not just spring up overnight in the middle of the desert, but Oppenheimer had said it would be ready in time, and Emmett found himself almost immediately assured by that, half-convinced that Nature itself would bend to that man’s charm.

Perhaps, Emmett thinks, a flutter in his stomach equal parts dread and excitement, it just might.

What else would require some of the greatest scientific minds to gather in one remote location under the strictest security imaginable?

The possibilities lull him into a dream-filled sleep.

—

They’re waiting for him there, just as they said. Two large uniformed escorts that Emmett easily has several inches on tower over him, usher him into an ordinary old car—grey, unassuming, rather mundane, actually, but when discretion is key—and expertly fit an entire life into the boot.

As if they’ve done this before.

Clement and Rosario, Lieutenant-Commander and Lieutenant, respectively, as he’s come to learn from the intermittent conversation, were the ones assigned to bring him to the site, get him through security, and make sure everything went off without a hitch.

Emmett watches, his face all but pressed against the window in the back as the landscape overrides the thoughts about this project that have been playing on a loop since he first alighted the train back in California. The desert is beautiful, nothing like the views in the city, and maybe he views the wide open area through the tinted lenses of lingering boyish romanticism for such an environment, but there is a rough, rugged beauty to it all in reality that Emmett is pleased to know for himself is not just a result of the films.

He must have said that out loud, because the younger of the two—or the one Emmett assumes is younger, given the softness still present on his face that looks out of place with the gun strapped to his hip—Rosario, says, “Yeah, isn’t it? Beautiful place out here. Shame we went and ruined it.” Before Emmett can ask what that means, he just says, “You’ll see.”

He does see, almost immediately.

This complex—‘Welcome home, Doc,’ Clement jokes in that gruff voice of his—looks more like a prison dropped in the most remote location they could think of, where they’ll work and torture them until they get what they want or die trying. That fence must be ten feet high, topped with barbed wire, and Emmett wonders how many scientists they know of that are athletic enough to even attempt scaling a wall like that.

They preferred to scale theoretical hurdles, not physical.

The cold feeling of dread slithers up his spine. He dismisses it the moment they reach the security checkpoint, telling himself he’s being foolish—the military is involved; everything with them is cloak-and-dagger.

Processing takes an eternity, and Emmett feels a rush of dizziness he can’t quite explain when a thick set of papers are pressed into his hand, followed by a white identification badge that has immortalised his awkwardness in a frozen snapshot of time.

“Housing information’s on the first page. You’ll get used to the layout. Keep that badge with you at all times, Doctor Brown.”

[welcometogrouchland]

I think that Donna Troy and Garth/Tempest should have their kids restored to main continuity (maybe at the age they were last seen pre-52 bc I know they??? Died?????) both bc it'd be nice for those two to get closure/second chances at parenthood but ALSO

Because I think it'd be funny if Dick Grayson. "chronic over achiever used to being labeled the defacto Most Adult of all his teen associates" was in his late 20s surrounded by friends who are all (mostly) either married or separated with kids (some of whom are teenagers due to time shenanigans) meanwhile he's got like. A dog

[peaches2217]

Okay, who kickstarted the return of the Mareach baby fever? Because I logically shouldn’t post even more Expectant/Parent Mareach when I literally just posted one such fic two days ago but DAMMIT NOW I’M IN A MOOD.

…in my defense, for all the crap I’ve posted, I still haven’t given my fankid a name. 😅

[petricorah]

in the end, she drew this instead

[rideroftheoctocorn]

Maybe this is my “I’m from New York so I didn’t choose to live here I was just already here” kicking in but can we actually learn to respect people’s privacy and acknowledge the fact that not everyone who lives in a major city is doing so because they want to be famous or the main character or an influencer or whatnot. I’m so sick of seeing tiktoks go viral that are just plainly stalking or doxxing random people who didn’t ask for attention or fame and are just living their lives. Especially given how many people in NYC are living with a wide variety of mental states, abilities, divergencies, and diversities treating them as a spectacle for your entertainment is deeply dehumanizing. Particularly in the past few years seeing so many content creators move here and gain their fame here it is becoming increasingly frustrating to feel like just existing in my home is not coherent with the burgeoning voyeurism culture that’s growing online. I, nor anyone who lives in a large city, should have to leave their homes every day worrying about the potential of being recorded and ridiculed online for just being a person.

People should be able to live their lives with the right to privacy. This isn’t to say that certain instances of internet activism shouldn’t have happened; for instance the Central Park bird watching incident (google it if you aren’t familiar but a woman was being racist towards a black man bird watching in central Park and his recording on the incident vindicated him). But instances like those are the exception and not the rule and many cases of publishing interpersonal conflicts/interactions is not from good faith activism or even from an activist point at all. Honestly what sparked this for me was that dumb tiktok that blew up of that girl looking for the person who kept writing “monke” on the whiteboard at her gym and the series of videos she made amassed more than 25 million views as she made a very public game out of trying to find the identity of this person. Some of her tactics included staking out at the gym waiting for this person or even asking the employees at the front desk who the person was. Maybe this person didn’t want to be a viral tiktok sensation and just wanted to write something goofy on the whiteboard at their local gym. Instead, this person has millions of strangers online seeking them out using unethical/invasive methods. All over someone who just wanted to write “monke.” Can we not just be a little silly in public without being at risk of it being the next internet sensation? If you live in a busy metropolitan area is it now your responsibility to make yourself as invisible as you can every time you step outside your front door? I genuinely leave for work each day wondering if I’ve maybe picked the wrong outfit, makeup, or maybe there’s an embarrassing stain or issue with my appearance that someone is going to see, record, and share online. I’ve even now seen TikTok’s of people recording through peoples windows commenting on how they’re living in their private lives now as well (the video in question is of a young woman recording a couple dancing through their apartment window). Even the guy who goes around “turning average people into models” initiates these videos by first taking non-consented photos of strangers on the street. Invasion is not flattery as much as people on the internet might like to think it is.

It is deeply unfair to ask human beings to live their lives in an unending panopticon. We should be able to go outside, make a joke, leave a silly note, have a bad day, an embarrassing moment, an emotional outburst, leave the curtains open with the knowledge that these moments belong to ourselves and are not suddenly (and without our consent) just become something for the masses to consume. Small spats that should remain small spats become global debates, a conventionally attractive or unattractive person becomes the internet’s object of desire or disgust. Let people exist. Let them have their dignity.

[magpiesbones]

worst thing about being disabled is that now I am fully and completely aware of exactly how much I am worth to everyone I know. And it is not a lot!!

[pencildragons]

ok but. glenn spent twenty years in the supermax. that's a long fucking time. do you think he forgot morgan's face. do you think he forgot nick's.

[guinevereslancelot]

i highly recommend going to the thrift store and getting a nice sweater for like six dollars btw

[damnedtreasure]

Gosh for so much of glass onion I can so very easily imagine the fun they were having making this. Like I can imagine them going "okay so we have this slow zoom on the Mona Lisa and have elon Bron talk about the interpretations of her expression- and then we CUT TO ANDI" or "oh so one of the puzzles is a fugue how should we explain it? YO YO MA!" or "y'know what'd be cool as hell? Having a guy walk through the shot and disrupt things while saying 'ignore me,' right? But we have him always holding a bottle of Corona!!" or "what if we play the Nat King Cole song? Wait, no, to really hammer it home, we have the ending shot be of andi in the Mona Lisa pose!" Or "this character who no one believed despite telling the truth and predicting downfall, y'know what her name should be? CASSANDRA"

It was an incredibly fun film to watch. I can't imagine how much more fun it must have been to write.

[fingertipsmp3]

Save me skincare routine. Save me stupidly expensive skincare routine in tiny bottles

[obitohno]

.

[blubblegumblub]

Me when I take myself out on a bookstore date on my sad day.