alulars - Tumblr blog

[alulars]

btw, quick, someone get harlotto here stat. johnson/elfgar is sooo Who's Lila? coded.

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man, i am loving johnson just so wet cat interacting with mack's partners. he WILL escalate things. but right now... hilarious.

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Forthright—not goading but not propitiating: "You wouldn't like what I have to say."

j.m nods, careful, slightly unsure. it's not like they have much experience with otherworldly beings. the world is strange enough to them as it is.

"okay," their hands at their sides, feeling useless, "so... do you want to talk?"

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it's not rebloggable anymore but this is very much in the realm of long term effects angel possession has on the corporeal body.

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johnson has been alive for over a year now...???!! time flies. my boy... my truly unwell boy.

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CLENCHED IS A HAND WORD. HIS HAND IS CLENCHED.

#𝙰𝙻𝚄𝙻𝙰𝚁𝚂. independent original characters within the narrative of @soothfog. two angels. written by jordy. themes: determinism, the body as a machine and a cage, existential physiological angst, recognition and rejection and repulsion of the self, duty in conflict to will, reason and burgeoning feeling, life as an ordained procedure.

[alulars]

A high level of amusement reacts within Johnson that he quickly neutralizes. Expression cool and cold: "No. I don't imagine you can."

@alulars

this has been a long time coming. in their shared kitchen, j.m. innocently asks:

"can i get you anything?"

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It is common practice for a partner to adopt the other's surname. Neither of the two "life partners" have taken Mackenzie's. Johnson has rarely heard them speak it.

The first command, he begins, while the second command is intolerable. Despite that: perfectly, reservedly obliging, Johnson kneels. The intent of the movement is, at first, delayed and languidly deferent. Almost made a show of, the way a feline lounges with their belly exposed amongst lesser predators. Then, purpose revealed, he unties the thin lace of the black cap toe shoe of his un-knelt leg.

Both shoes hang by the hook of his fingers at his left side—purposelessly off; the soles face Cass, polished and clean.

"Does her surname—" The syllable drags, bright and scratchy, like a match head striking phosphorous: "Knight—disturb you?"

Cass cannot calculate much in the way that Johnson can. He does not know the exact degree measurement to his smile's curvature, does not know how deeply his skin wrinkles around his eyes. All Cass knows is that it looks wrong, when he tries to do it — smile, that is. And it compels Cass to smile back — frigid, unfriendly, well-practiced upon their features.

She will be called a great many things. It is not the first time he has said something vaguely prophetic about Cass's life partner. Surely it won't be the last. It harkens images of a crowd going Hail Mack and makes Cass think of Idris — which is, of course, unpleasant.

"If you're going to insist upon making yourself a houseguest, take your shoes off. And just call her Mackenzie." Not Mack.

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not to dox myself but they have a George Bellows at the museum I’m at rn! Johnson Johnson Johnson

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jenny holzer's plaques; cast bronze, 1980-1982. "YOU'RE HOME FREE AS SOON AS NO ONE KNOWS WHERE TO FIND YOU."

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been thinking about fantasy/scifi rule systems and free will

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The corneas and lenses of Cass's eyes are uneven. Astigmatic. Like small globs of poorly layered varnish. It's plain to see—to him. As plain as her eye color. And impossible to not notice the exact difference in parabolic angles when she rolls her eyes: four and fourteen hundredth degrees. Now, whenever Johnson sees that number—four and fourteen hundredths—he'll think of Cass. Irritating. The discrepancy irritates him, too. He wants to squeeze Cass's eyeballs, remold the shape. Rent. Mail. Economy. Evanescent rules. He's older than all of these manmade concepts. He's older than man. Johnson smiles, a loose flexing of muscles. "She will be called a great many things. The very least of which—Ms. Knight."

Like he's the guardian of Pandora, or some shit. Cass rolls their eyes, makes no show of hiding the expression.

"You're in my apartment," Cass counters. "We split the rent. We get packages addressed to each other." A sneaky grin.

"Do you call her that to her face, too?"

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@vitalphenomena for cass.

Johnson's jaw tightens at the sight.

He leans over Cass's arm, the one reopening the box, and shuts the lid with a downward flick of his index finger. "That is for—" with intentional inclusion of and emphasis on her honorific: "Ms. Knight."

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Johnson's head cants. Gaze stilled on her face like fingers on a carotid pulse: "Would I be wrong to?"

"My Lords," she repeats, putting upon no small degree of shock at his choice of word. Then there's a mischievous smile.

"Is that what you would call my father?" A small pause. "My brother?"

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gotta pick things up here again. like or reply for a starter. or send in sentences.

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nothing, null, hollow, hole

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frog4scalpel