#( *ask.

[eyeshone]

🍓 🍓 🍓

send a strawberry 🍓 if we've written together and i'll compliment you.

there's a lot to say, but i'm going to keep this concise. you are one of the most unique voices in the tumblr rpc. i couldn't mistake your writing for anyone else's. you have an earnest yet esoteric (complimentary) way with words that i can never quite anticipate and that makes reading your work like one long undressing. very poetic. i like keeping up with hara and feyd's interactions.

[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.”

[shutupvital]

buzzfeed unsolved sentences / accepting

@curseofabel​ sent:

“ the way you shushed me was quite rude ”

“When someone shushes you, you’re supposed to stop talking.” Now both hands just raise to clap over Mika’s mouth, remaining there as if it might smother the air out of the man. An empty hope, but a lovely image to Vital nonetheless. Maybe if he keeps his hands there long enough then the other will simply lose the will to talk...? “So shush. You're distracting me.” 

[corazcnvacio-blog]

VORE?

NO.

[eyeshone]

philip marlowe. nick AND nora charles both

ugh. i’ve been percolating on writing a somewhat satirical noir detective character for over a year now so this is fanning that.

thank you for the rec. I am watching the movie TOnight. it sounds delightful.

[eyeshone]

🍓u already complimented me a bit ago but i would like a version to reblog thank u.

send a strawberry 🍓 if we've written together and i'll compliment you.

without a doubt the funnest writing to read here in the tumblr rpc. i love how stream of consciousness julie's dialogue and narration is. julie is so funny and you know exactly how to exaggerate it. she's a really engaging balance of repressed and chatty. and that tension makes for great shenanigans and reading. i love it/her a lot.