#but I had to do something with this

[ozimagines]

I wouldnt call this a request, more of just a thought that needs heard about kirk as an actor in general, i absolutely would rip out the beating heart in my chest to use as payment, to see a rendition of frankenstein, with kirk as "the creature", like if i had the power to go back in time to about 1997 or 1998 and make it happen, i wouldve done it yesterday. There is absolutely no doubt in my mind, he wouldve absolutely KILLED, COOKED, AND ATE up that role.

like if they did a modern rendition ( more really like late 90s) rendition of frankenstein, it would be utter perfection, everything about him would work for the role, he's handsome in a different sort of way (book says the "creature" was supposed to be a perfect male specimen, but corrupted), he can be very sweet and innocent and puppydog like, while at the same time being an absolute psycho as well (showed us that PERFECTLY in OZ), and plus just those eyes, those big friggen round puppy eyes would just be the cherry on top, he would be the frankenstein that you would all three, be creeped out by, cry over (the thin red line and BOB anybody?), and thirst for, all at the same time.

Anyway this is just the ramblings of a theatre kid who saw a potentially missed masterpiece for an absolute BEAST of an actor, i hope i didnt take up any of your time, thankyou for listening to my odd ted talk

Holy fuck, you're too damn correct. I would absolutely die for Kirk as the creature; that idea of him being the perfect specimen corrupted is really just Miguel's story with a hat on lol. So fucking here for this take. In fact, I'm so here for it, I wanted to write something about it. I know you weren't requesting but even so, this gave me an idea. I know that wasn’t the intent but you can’t type something that fucking real and not expect me to go overboard with it lol. Really your fault when you think about it. 😉

Also I read the book a long ass time ago and watched the original movie even before that so bear with me. I’m trying to mix Mary Shelley’s style of writing with my own so the dialogue may sound dated. Also just rewatched the Cabinet of Dr. Caligari so the creature is also based off the somnambulist Cesare.

(Below is a song that inspired me to write this. Wael is a street musician in New Orleans, where my mom is from. One night, while picking up some food for my family, my mom and I were walking back to our place, food in hand, when we stopped at a light and waited to cross the street. There are street musicians all over New Orleans, and the world is filled with light and fire and sound and music. We were about to cross, when I heard a violin starting a song. It was hypnotic to the point of being cruel; gorgeous to the point of upset. It was the most lovely sound I’d heard in my life. I begged my mom to stay. I told her it felt like a sin to leave something this beautiful without hearing how it ended. We stayed, the food getting cold in our hands, as this marvel of a man, Wael Elhalaby, changed the way I viewed the world. I told him then and there, my being only ten years old, that he was what music was supposed to be. I went home and wrote poetry and stories, all playing that tune over in my head. My heart almost hurt it was so beautiful. My mother purchased me his album when it came out two years later, and his fame started to become a staple in New Orleans street culture. I reached out to him years later on instagram to tell him what an inspiration he’d been in my life. He responded and told me he was happy his music affected me so. Please listen to this if you can. It inspired this piece and is aptly called “Feeling”. This story is a mix between Frankenstein and this anecdote.)

Like God

His eyes cracked open. That’s what it felt like… cracked. The light flooded in, and his hands immediately raised to stop the assault. With the light on his face and the blipping and whirring and boiling of the lab equipment surrounding him, the shock from nothingness to sudden fullness was overwhelming. His voice strained into a kind of growl and hiss all in one. He heard someone chuckle, and the light was pulled until it faced the floor.

“He’s alive!” Dr. Morales reveled in his trophy; the perfect iteration of man, inked in strength and fortitude of the masculine identity. His assistant, Raoul, cut the power pulsating through the creature’s limbs and brain, charging him with life and fire and sound and music. Dr. Morales ran a hand over the creature’s face, marveling at the marble-esque taughtness of the skin.

The creature rattled and groaned and shook, moving his hands in his restraints, flexing each digit and limb, the passion of life already embedded in his blood.

Dr. Morales watched his creature struggle and panic, the torture of being born fully formed being a torture to him immediately. It is a horrible thing to be born with a grown mind, filled with sinister complexities and existential dread. The creature’s thoughts raced. Normally, one is born and must figure out the who’s and what’s and where’s before moving onto the how’s and the why’s. This beast was filled with all at once, and it is a savage existence to be pondering the who and the why at the same time.

Dr. Morales looked at his assistant, Raoul, who immediately returned the look, hands shaking and heart aching in its fear.

This was nothing like what they imagined. None of the beauty and light but all of the terror and anguish. The creature’s thoughts raced thrashed around, making horrid noises that one might hear from the undead. It was though; it was undead. It was alive by every technical denotation, but not by the connotation of life and love and sex and rock and roll.

The two scientists immediately repulsed in their creation, Raoul Hernandez in his fright, reaching across the laboratory and picking up some jagged metal rod, running at the monster and attempting to run him through. The creature, with reactions strong enough and rapid enough to give a jaguar a run for its money, ripped itself from the slab and plummeted to the ground, dodging the attack. Raoul impaled the slab, attempting to remove the metal and go back at the beast, just as its hand reached up and started choking the life out of him.

“Stop! You listen to me, monstruo, stop it!”

The creature didn’t stop. He squeezed the life out of Raoul, not stopping until there was a sickening crack and the cessation of spasms in the short doctor. The creature dropped him to the ground, staring at his cursed hands, not two minutes old, but now tainted. Dr. Morales, in his fear and anger, charged out of the lab and onto the streets, screaming something about a beast worse than Hel and Baphomet and Cthulhu combined; a fiendish thing hellbent on madness and revenge for having been violently ripped into this world in the first place.

The creature towered over the body he’d created, eyes still open and glassy, the terror of Death gripping them and filling them with juicy despair. He couldn’t stop looking at his hands; his terrible hands. The creature sprinted from the lab, rushing onto the street, clad in nothing more than what he had at his conception. He rushed past a shop window, stopping only when he saw movement, and alarmingly checking for whatever the new danger might be.

It was a reflection, and the monster took a moment to connect the reflection with himself. He touched over his face and abdomen, his finger flinching around scars forever old. His muscular body flexed and contracted with every moment, his mouth half hung open at the marvel that was himself.

He heard whispers that morphed into screams that morphed into accusations behind him, and turned to see the calamity his mere presence had caused. The flash of every camera was enough to put him off balance, the terrified clamoring clanging around in his head and driving him to madness, if he wasn’t already acquainted.

He rushed from his surroundings, a few people grabbing at his arms and pulling on them, trying to keep him from his escape. He cried out, terrified, brain being filled to the brim with words and knowledge and yet no context or information on how to use them.

“St-stop!” He cried just as the doctor had in the lab, seemingly his only experience with terror matched with this. He rushed from his persecutors, heart absolutely pounding in his anxiety. He got away from everyone, panting and straining those barely used lungs. His breath only hitched when he’d heard a sound… so unfamiliar to him in pitch and melody… but so familiar in his heard. The symphonic whine of the violin made his eyes water. He had no idea a sound could do that to a person. Taking a few cautionary steps forward, his eyes landed on the source of the musical cry. It was a single man, skin tanner than his, fingers more nimble, mind more at peace than his ever were or was. He peeked from the side so as to not bring on his assault.

His black hair fell into his eyes with every belt of the instrument, arms and fingers working wildly to produce a sound this insanely complex and concentrated in its love. The creature tilted his head to the side. The man was beautiful too, lips pursed and lazy eye searching everywhere, closing no at random intervals. How extraordinary a specimen, and he was made to perfection as much as the creature was. The monster knew in an instant that this is what love was; it was a beautiful pain that compels you to act. He knew, then and there, that the musician was to be his and his alone.

When the song ended, the monster felt he could cry forever in his grief, but the musician had a crooked smile on his face, taking a short, lazy bow. He collected his money and closed his violin back in its case.

The creature followed him, if only to find where an angel or demon as powerful as he was meant to go. The musician turned in the streets, feet rhythmically moving to a song only he could hear, show spins and saunters from time to time. He was greeted by a few shop owners as the monster slunk past the alleys and darkness like Cesare in the night, face gaunt and haunting.

“Buenos días, Chico!”

“Buenos días, Gloria! Happy St. Miguel’s day!”

(Hoping this is a thing in Hispanic cultures. For Italians, we have Saint Days, which are feasts to celebrate the saints and everyone named after them. We have St. Michele’s day in Italy, so I think it would be a thing in Latin countries. Couldn’t find a clear answer. It’s colloquially known as Michaelmas.)

“You too!”

The musician kept that little dance in his steps, a skip here or there, a side step from time to time. The monster was enthralled, elated, excited in his new love. New, virginal love was something too pure for this world, and too lovely to be denied. His heart physically ached in his now lifelong love, that haunting melody still rattling around in his brain.

“Chico…” his lips moved along with the woman’s. “Chico…” he said again, having been his second word in this world.

The musician stopped in an abandoned street, and looked over his shoulder, trying to find whomever had said his name. The creature didn’t move. He couldn’t afford to, hitching his breath and hoping that the man wouldn’t find him. Chico kept looking around, until his eyes spotted movement in the reflection of a puddle. He froze.

“Who’s there?”

“Buenos días…” the minster quoted without context. Chico relaxed, calling out to whomever was in the shadows to reveal themselves, as he didn’t mean any harm. The creature revealed itself. Chico gasped, sharply. The creature winced and turned to run, but the next words out of Chico’s mouth had floored him.

“St. Miguel?”

The creature quirked a brow.

“I’m sorry… it’s just that you bear a striking resemblance to St. Miguel…” Chico said again, and the monster tried to form words in his mind, having had some implanted upon his birth with barely an idea as to how he could use them.

“I’m… Miguel.”

“Are you now?” Chico smiled, and the creature, now Miguel, mimicked the motion back without meaning to. Chico had a breathtakingly handsome smile. “Well, happy Saint day.”

“Thank… thanks.”

They stared at each other for a moment, before Miguel’s eyes trailed down. Chico blushed for a second before he realized the man in the shadows was staring at his instrument.

“I’m a musician. Street one, anyways. This is my violin.”

“I heard you…” Miguel spoke gravelly, voice being used for the first time. “It… I thought it was beautiful.”

“Gracias, Miguel.” Chico ran a hand through his black hair. Miguel’s heart skipped a beat and a warmth spread throughout his body.

“Play for me again.” Miguel asked softly, his harsh and aching voice being too strained by these new phrases of his. Chico grinned.

“Sure, Miguel. It’s your day.”

He ripped his violin from its case, plucking at the strings like a second nature, hands moving immaculately along with the music. Miguel closed his eyes, his body and mind and spirit becoming one with those glorious sounds. It was almost sinful to be this beautiful. Miguel stepped out of the shadows, and Chico’s eyes widened. He went to scream but self aborted the attempt, finding himself lost in the creature’s eyes, dead flesh and marred skin being lost in his brain.

“Miguel?”

“Please,” Miguel croaked. “Don’t stop.”

Despite his reservations, Chico didn’t stop playing, only seeming to close his eyes and lose himself more in the movements. Miguel kept walking up to him, taking step after aching step, mouth parted open, eyes intense and fixated. Chico kept playing, as if he were playing for St. Miguel the archangel himself.

“Who is like God?” Chico suddenly asked the air, stopping the shredding of his violin if only for a second.

“What?”

“That’s what Miguel means. Who is like God? The answer is supposed to be no one… but…” he gestured to Miguel in his half human, half divine form, but said nothing. Miguel felt he understood well enough, anyway. He placed his hands on Chico’s hips, standing behind him as Chico got back to making his sweet music, Miguel’s lips grazing over the back of his neck, smelling his natural scent, falling in love with except aspect of his new love. Chico played as he would for any angel; with devotion and love.

His song came to a close, and he turned his head to see Miguel’s eye shut and a peaceful expression on his face.

“Gracias, St. Miguel.” Chico made the cross on his body, kissing his hand afterwards.

“Demon! Monster!”

Miguel recognized that voice, and as Dr. Morales rounded the corner, he saw that this time, the doctor had brought an army of torches and pitchforks and angry faces. His eyes flicked to the fire on the torches, the fiery beauty being too much for him, and he recoiled as if he’d been burned at the mere sight.

Chico stepped out in front of him.

“Stop! This is St. Miguel!” Chico spread his arms in front of his new love, making lid protests. Dr. Morales went to shove the street musician to the side, when Miguel’s strong hands gripped his shoulders and threw him with ease at the wall opposite of them, another sickening crack and spurt of blood drowning out Morales’ cries. The crowd repulsed.

“Miguel!” Chico cried, grabbing his hand and pulling him into a run as they sprinted away together, hand in horrible hand. The creature picked Chico up by the waist and carried him up the fire escape of some dilapidated building. When they were sufficiently away, Chico turned to Miguel.

“Who are you?”

Miguel thought for a moment before stepping forward and placing his lips on Chico’s softly, placing heavy hands down on his abdomen and circling his thumb gently under his shirt.

“I’m Miguel… and I’m all yours…” he mumbled into Chico’s mouth, and Chico, knowing it was insane of him to accept that answer, leaned into Miguel and kissed him back.

“Come away with me… unless…”

“Anything for you, St. Miguel…” Chico wasn’t a devout Catholic, but he’d be cursed if he didn’t listen to the calling of his archangel. “I’m yours too, Miguel.”

Miguel and Chico turned to move, the quickness of their feet carrying them over rooftops and people who would wish them dead, but their hands never disjoining.

Many people speculated that they took residence in the old laboratory on the hill, but mob rule dispelled that theory months later. Some thought the men took to sea. Some thought they ran off into the stars. Truth was, they were lost somewhere in time between everywhere and nowhere, Chico playing melodies for Miguel that poets and symphonies could only dream of creating, each sound lost in love and light and fire and sound and music.

The creature knew, as he laid with Chico at night, that the love of his artist, the man who loved him, made Miguel like God.

[pocket-elf]

base photos by rosechata

[marfian]

So act 3 huh

[golyadkin]

you'll get the urge as an artist or a writer to say out loud the things you're worried about "the proportions are off" "kind of out of character" "i'm not good at summaries" "didn't get as much detail as i wanted" "i made a mistake and here's how" and that's the self-conscious part of your brain telling you "it's bad and if you don't tell them you know it's bad then they'll think you're stupid" but you've got to ignore that little voice and pretend you think it's good or else that little voice is going to ruin your life

[a-drama-addict]

not caring too much about a fandom’s favourite guy is the worst. you’ll think “oh i’ll look into the tag see if anything new and cool’s there” and it’s just that fucking guy again

[wishfulsketching]

So. All this to tell the idea "shimmer is used as a medicine that helps patients in critical condition to survive their surgeries". It's very regulated and Silco's ass is in the line if anyone abuses shimmer.

I also wanted to tie some scenes/lines etc from season 1 to the Alternative Universe. And make Silco a bit more, well, Silco but with the AU vibe. I am also not letting Singed go, he is gonna be helping Silco and getting something in return. Maybe the kids are gonna try to build Orianna her body. Also, whatever the universe, Singed will burn his face. No timeline will save him. He is just like that.

Vander almost lost half his family in one day.

This is like a regular fanfic. Just with pictures. Nothing deeper than that.

Happy one week of zaundads insanity!

[chloesimaginationthings]

Happy 10th anniversary to FNAF!!

[snarkspawn]

the devil you know

[egophiliac]

don't think I'm not still obsessing over 7-12

[eydilily]

would you bite the hand that feeds you?

[catboybiologist]

By now, there's lots of people have heard about the internal CDC memos for all newly prepared manuscripts (like future scientific papers waiting to be published):

There's so much to comment on, and I'm seeing it all right now. What the state of science is. What this means for the queer community. All of that.

But fuck, I think I might genuinely start crying over this. As a transgender biologist, this feels like a brutally personal blow. I slowly accepted my gender alongside my biology education. The more misinformation that was spewed about "biological sex" by mainstream media, the more my professors, colleagues, and primary sources would casually drop information that proved they have no idea what they're talking about. I'm not an expert on sex determination, gender, or transgender biology specifically by any means. But my worldview has been crafted by my studies in genetics and molecular biology.

Engaging with this research helped me demystify transition. It helped me optimize my transition. It helped me explain how HRT and other steps of trans healthcare work to other people. And it helped me overcome my own internalized transphobia, and finally start transitioning, despite knowing I wanted to since my preteen years.

Who knows how enforceable internal guidelines like this will be. But its certainly going to scare a lot of researchers away from transgender healthcare and science in the coming years, and that breaks my heart.

There's a lot I can say here, but fuck. I just needed to vent for a moment. Fuck.

[artsymeeshee]

🤨

[soldrawss]

Something something 16yo 2k12 Mikey gets sucked into a portal and sent into the RISE universe and ends up helping raise the RISE kiddos AU

[biggest-gaudiest-patronuses]

main take aways from Halloween (1978) rewatch:

michael myers is canonically 21??? this bitch should be at the club

*sees tiddies* ***MURDEROUS RAMPAGE NOISES***

that's it that's the movie

outside of the fact that everyone who has sex is murdered by the narrative, this is a surprisingly chill portrayal of female sexuality? these teen girls are horny and actively enjoying Getting It On with their boytoys. no pushy boyfriends sneaking in through their bedroom windows--these ladies are taking the initiative to sneak out and GET SOME. one of them gets laid and then immediately orders her boyfriend to get her a beer. (yes she gets Slashered soon afterward, but so does the boyfriend so honestly, gender equality.) yes the Final Girl is the only one not having sex, but she's not bullied for that, nor are her friends slut shamed except possibly by being murdered by the narrative

actually the only character who is shown being morally condemned on-screen is michael myers. specifically FOR his violent overreaction to other people's sex lives. (people he is spying on). metaphorically, the villain is American Puritanism sticking its judgy nose into other people's business.

aka Michael Myers Is A Republican

but actually the real villain is the doctor. guy's a judgemental, shaming, pathologizing asshole. and he's been in charge of michael's care since he was SIX YEARS OLD? kid never had a chance. i'd go on a killing spree too

also the parents. where are the parents? it's halloween night and all the teenage girls are home babysitting their younger siblings? come to think of it, michael's first victim was his own older sister, whom he killed while she was babysitting him. teen girls are really shouldering a labour burden here. maybe parentification is the true villain

side note: mike commits his first murder wearing a clown costume...which is never referenced again? his 'iconic' costume is a generic mask and wig and jumpsuit, when we coulda had a Killer Clown Michael Myers??? travesty

i like how the Final Girl and her friend casually smoke weed in her car. yeah she's an honor student and her friend is the sheriff's daughter. yeah they smoke weed. so what it's 1978

(to reiterate, mike is 21 and should be at the club. im not saying he shouldn't be rampaging, im saying it's sad that he broke out, tasted freedom for the first time in his life, and immediately snuck back into his childhood home to go rampaging. let's have a remake where he goes to a nightclub and has a few beers. maybe some slutty dancing. then rampage)

oh no he's hot

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

It's just guys night talk! Don't worry about it!

(Read Tiger Tiger and shake this man awake so he can finish that thought!)

[turtleblogatlast]

Leo learns something about himself 🏳️‍⚧️

Based roughly on this old post.

Bonus:

[Leo is taking the fact that he was born biologically female simultaneously very well and also not so well but overall he’s mostly coping with the fact that it was Draxum that just essentially gave him the turtle equivalent of ‘The Talk’.]