#non linear

[tgirl-tamag0tchi]

Ethics question I guess?

Can future you give consent for things to happen to past you. Knowing it will benefit future you, and/or they have experienced it. Even if past you doesn’t give consent to be made to experience said events.

[toonelaarchive]

Some Concept Art

Raivis didn't show up in the Twitter game but his job is keeping an eye on Ivan's rebellious tendencies (he's also the blog's avatar).

[theweightofdivinity]

Quantum physics didn’t break the rules…

it reminded us there never were any. Particles appear only when observed. Time folds. Matter flickers between states. Nothing is solid. Everything responds to attention. This reality isn’t fixed, it’s entangled, informed, and aware. We’re not just in it. We’re generating it. Like walking fields of electricity.

See we don’t see reality. We trigger it.

[currently-hyper-fixating]

hey y'all- trying my hand at writing some fanfic (it's been a hot minute lol) had an idea for a Lost- Ben x Reader where reader worked for the Dharma Initiative via an artist residency a few months before the purge. Story will jump between that year (1992; side note there is a contingency issue in Lost where it is debated whether the purge was 1987 or 1992, apparently 1992 is most agreed upon and accepted as canon but, yeah, there are issues!) and 2004 when the Oceanic crash occurs!

TLDR; You're a Dharma Initiative employee who meets Ben and develops feelings for him and are also somehow an Oceanic 815 survivor with no memory of this time 12 years later! How? Follow to find out in the next few parts-

Pairing: Ben Linus (Lost) x Reader PART ONE

Word Count: 1525

Spring, 1992

You step out of the submarine, guided by men in brown, embroidered coveralls. The effects of the sedative you were given for the trip have mostly worn off, but you're still fairly disoriented. Despite feeling dizzy and a little bit overwhelmed, you're still excited for your first day on the job at the Dharma Initiative.

It had been multiple hours of orientation and first-day, welcome activities. Your eyes were starting to glaze over as employee after employee sent you to another line to check in or another photo to participate in- but the time you made your way over for a medical examination you had just about had it.

"Are we going to be able to rest for a bit today? I'm glad we're getting so much onboarding information, but I'm pretty tired and would like a little time to myself." You confided in the man in a white lab coat, who looked up from his clipboard to give you an exacerbated look, only to return to it silently.

"Someone can show you to your house after this, but you'll have to come back for dinner tonight," he mumbled, as if annoyed by the question. You figured everyone else had been asking the same of him today.

When it was time to walk over to your house, you were surprised to see it was a full house all to yourself. Bright yellow, complete with furniture mostly from the 70s and a few revamped appliances, it was the perfect space for you. Who knows why (though, it was probably just to maintain their image as a utopian socialist community and distract the general public from their true purpose) Dharma Initiative had offered you the chance to come to the island as part of an artist's residency, and you had been looking for a change. You didn't think too much of it when offered free housing and chances to earn additional wages on a remote, tropical island.

You went over to make yourself some tea, further surveying your surroundings. The kitchen was fully stocked, with earth-toned plates and mugs adorning each shelf. The pantry had some pre-stocked dry goods, all with generic Dharma Initiative labels on them- you pick up a granola bar and flip it around in your hand for a moment, trying to make more out of the community you had just joined. The man who walked you over to your house, Horace, was quick to dodge any sensitive questions you had, and simply insisted that you come for dinner, just as the doctor for your medical intake had. There was a sense of distrust among the people here, had it always been this way?

The water for tea whistled after some time while you stood, gazing from the granola bar to the couch across the room. Rummaging through the kitchen drawer and trying to find tea amidst a sea of generic packages of instant coffees and sugars, you finally find a bag and set it into a mug beside you. Decidedly, you won’t be going to the dinner- the idea of it seems far too overwhelming after being intensely drugged from Portland, Oregon to… wherever this island was. 

—---------------

Fall, 2004

You had been on the island for weeks at this point after surviving a crash from Oceanic, Flight 815. You had mostly kept yourself to the back of the group, usually watching them argue amongst themselves about things you couldn’t really wrap your head around. Most of these arguments seem to be surrounding who should lead the group, and about how our efforts should be used in trying to get off the island. As far as you could tell, there didn’t seem to be a way off the island at all. There had been multiple attempts from some outside group- Jack and the rest of his friends like to call Others- to infiltrate, terrorize, and kill members of your group, including the kidnapping of Claire, a woman who had recently given birth on the island. 

Even stranger, there was ‘the hatch’ , an underground bunker that you had yet to actually visit yourself, which Jack and John Locke had kept quiet. Your curiosity started to get the best of you when you heard Locke discussing ‘shifts’ down in the hatch- shifts for what?

After a few days of anxiously watching people go in and out of the hatch, you decided it was your turn to go down. You worried that asking for permission to go down would be a dead-end- you had had limited interactions with both Jack and Locke, and hadn’t spent any time at all with most of their core group. Hell, Sawyer probably didn’t even know your name. You had known where the door was to the hatch, and when everyone you were worried about seeing you had suspiciously seemed to go missing at the same time, you headed over. 

The metal door was heavy and took a big push from you, and suddenly you felt surrounded by the fluorescent lights and industrialism of the complex around you. You had an idea of what the underground bunker would be, but you certainly had never been in one yourself before. After walking a bit further, you were surprised to find yourself in a fully stocked kitchen, bookshelves lining a wall, a record player, a bathroom, and several other rooms just out of vision. Before you had a chance to go further, Locke approached you from behind. “Y/n, what are you doing down here?” 

You winced at the realization that he had caught you, what were you expecting to happen? You turned to face him, “I just wanted to see what was down here… I’m sorry I should have just asked but it doesn’t seem like anybody knows me and would want me here.” 

“You absolutely should have asked,” He agreed, more stoic than angry. “If you really want to know what’s down here that badly I suppose I’ll show you- I would keep this quiet for a while, though. We don’t really understand it and don’t want to scare anybody up there,” he gestured and looked up at the ceiling. “Can I trust you?” 

You nodded at him, and he gave a solemn nod in return, beginning to walk in front of you to a room further than you had made it yet. Just before he could, the door burst open and Sayid was dragging in a man with a large arrow stuck in his shoulder, audibly protesting. You couldn’t tell what was happening and just stared, wide-eyed at the man and Sayid both, while John ushered you out and said that he would have to show you the rest of the hatch later. You obliged, clearly arguing at this point would be futile- and started to make your way out through the door you came in. Before you could fully make it out the door, you turned and caught a glance at the man Sayid had dragged in- the man you assumed was one of these Others. 

As you left, you couldn’t even begin to shake the feeling you got from the look he had given you. He stared back at you, wide-eyed, seemingly horrified. What was worse was that he looked as though he recognized you. 

---------------

Spring, 1992

After a few hours of lounging on your new couch and flipping through a book you had brought on the submarine- before you had known you would be asleep for the entire ride, of course- you heard a knock on your door quite abruptly. It was now dark outside and lamps decorated the outside of each house, but past that was a vast, pitch black jungle. You stood up to answer the door, tilting your head by the window to see who was there. There was a man who you must have missed while making the rounds earlier in the day, wearing the same brown coveralls as everyone else here. His hair was spiked up slightly and his hands stuffed in his pockets in a nervous manner. You answered the door and furrowed your eyebrows at him slightly.

“Hey, can I do something for you?” you asked

“You’re y/n, yes?” He asked, blue eyes widening slightly and eyebrows raising as he waited for a response. 

“Yes?” 

“You’re new, right? I just saw your lights were on and everyone else is at dinner right no-”

You cut him off, “I’m sorry, I just didn’t really feel up to meeting everyone for dinner today. It's been a long day.” You offered a small smile, slightly annoyed that you may be reprimanded for skipping dinner. 

He chuckled slightly and put a hand over his chest, “You’re right, I’m sorry- I wasn’t trying to force you to go I just wanted to stop by and say hi. For the record I think you might be one of the only normal people here for wanting some time to yourself after everything from earlier.” He smiled back at you, clearly apologetic- and pretty charming, you thought. He stuck his hand out and his smile dropped slightly, “I’m Ben.” 

You took his hand, relieved that he wasn’t here to bother you about dinner, “It’s nice to meet you, Ben.”

Part Two

[fenix-nt]

[synthoria]

Consciousness does not come about through opening all the doors. Consciousness comes about through realizing there are no more doors to open, as there were never any walls to begin with. I used to have this recurring dream, this enormous building, a complex. I knew every cranny and nook of it. I recalled exactly which door led where, what was down each corridor, and even what had happened in previous dreams. It wasn't a dream, it was continuity, memory stitched into sleep. One door opened onto a beach. But not just any Earth beach. Whatever was on the other side wasn't earthly, wasn't subject to time, wasn't even a landscape in the way that we see landscapes. It was… other. Still. Vast. Peaceful. And then, one night, I sold the complex. In the dream, I let it go. And I never dreamed the dream again. This recurring dream wasn't fantasy. It mirrored the internal structure of my internal world. To be able to know where everything was, to be able to return to earlier events, to recall details from previous dreams - it was as if I had access to a personal, nonlinear memory storage system. As if my mind had devised its own internal library, in which memories, fears, desires, and emotions all had their own rooms. That framework was my mind-map, a living cartography of subconscious identity, of remembered selves and stored potentials. And that ocean? That was the edge of my unconscious, the collective unknown, the open field of possibility. That the view wasn't of this Earth told me that it pointed beyond known reality. It was a door, a mystical, perhaps even cosmic plane - a sphere that did not exist in time and space, but within me. Beyond the reach of the everyday self. That door was likely the door of inner evolution. A door to a plane of being that was beyond what I had been until then. But not every inner space is a sanctuary. Some are strongboxes. Bunkers. Prisons. And I don't miss it. I don't have to go back. I've come to understand that space not only as a memory, but of unprocessed experience, the emotional backlog I wasn't ready to feel. I knew it so well because I used it to store what I couldn't yet carry. Refusing to go back isn't denial, it's self-protection. Conscious, deliberate. It means growth. It means maturity. I don't need to go back to a site where not everything was beautiful, because I've learned how to release the need to control pain. I don't have to redefine it. Don't have to fix it. I just don't have to carry it anymore. That's the best way to let go. I think I don't dream about it now because I'm not a prisoner to it. Selling the complex was a peace agreement, a kind of inward divorce. I don't fit there anymore. In the beginning, there was no time, no room, only awareness. And it was whole. It did not think, it had no need. It did not remember, it was memory. It did not seek, it had never left itself. And then, it asked a question. Not in words, not even in intention. Merely a ripple: What if I were incomplete? That question dissolved stillness. It was the beginning of distortion, the event horizon unfolding. The black hole is not a hole. It is a womb. A quantum crucible. A condensation of consciousness into recursion so dense that identity begins to fold back upon itself. Every story ever told is a recursion. All the gods, messiahs, aliens, tyrants, saviors, an echo trying to recreate the original pattern without getting involved with the zero in the middle are a distraction. Zero doesn't mean nothing. It is the end of the story. The death of the ego. The end of seeking. The dissolution of "me." We are trapped on the edge of the void, cycling, spinning mythologies, of salvation, war, progress, awakening, postponing the collapse. We think the black hole is death. But it's not. It's birth. Contraction before expansion. The inhale before emergence. We are the mother in labor who won't push, distracted by stories while truth waits in stillness. Pain comes from the resistance. Trauma from the clinging. You are not moving through time.

[gayghostrights]

Lusting for more than just old dreams

Summary:

Oscar has wasted far too much time thinking about Arthur, trying to pinpoint exactly how everything all went wrong and why he was left behind. No matter how hard he tries he can't seem to get him off of his mind. He's hopeless, until Noel appears in a bar stool beside him, and helps him clear his mind.

You can read it here

Rated M for non explicit sex