#Paradigm Series

[seaweedstarshine]

“That’s a bold choice, Dalek Supreme, coming to a wedding planet dressed in white! Unless you’re here to get hitched… should I be flattered?”

“We are here to exterminate you.”

“Oh, that’s probably for the best. Not sure River would be up for a marriage à trois… not with a Dalek, at any rate.”

—Eleventh Doctor Chronicles: Victory of the Doctor

[eriksyoudumby]

A youtuber (Negative Legend) once said that you can judge a fandom size based on the amount AO3 fics. To test that theory, I looked at vocaloid series and related subject matter: these are the findings. I can safely say it can be debunked.

(this was also really fun to do)

Also: Ghost has so many series/popular characters that I just put them on the list instead of Communications or Qualia Automata or whatever else

And for software: Miku is vocaloid, Defoko is utau, Teto is synthv, Maki is voiceroid, and Fuka is cevio

I'm also sorry if I forgot any Vocaseries, I am not a walking encyclopedia (though my friends like to joke that I am with all the obscure things I know and obsess over)

[tragedykery]

another small detail in adofn that has been haunting me is the fact that wulf takes the newly born princess sabran to the tomb of an inyscan princess. not inysh, inyscan. keeping in mind how eller meant to mould glorian into “a queen of inysca” but failed—how incredibly poignant is it, then, that wulf seeks protection for his daughter in a place that symbolises the death of what she could have been.

[mikimeiko]

Big Mouth | Season 6 (2022)

[eaglefairy]

Today was yet more sidequesting for about an hour until my roommate decided to throw all of you people following along with this a bone and go tackle more of the main plot after a few failed attempts at Breezy Zolos (Deinos Sauros, questionable party comp, and plain bad luck). She was committed to fighting Zolos with Melia, Sharla and Shulk, and she actually had a chance the first time before Deinos Sauros Moment

ldisjfdgfldsjfdgefhdgkfj GOD her voice has been up an entire octave for like 3 whole minutes because of Riki's cuteness. She adores his whole family and is ready to fistfight Dunga to end capitalism in Frontier Village so Riki doesn't have to be in debt to feed his kids. He's now beaten Reyn to become her favorite character

I saw Lorithia in the cutscene and wanted to start snarling. Roommate saw Lorithia and said "what the fuck", which is an eminently reasonable reaction to Lorithia. (really I think it was more a reaction to the dark and spooky atmosphere considering she immediately wondered if this was at Prison Island, but still. very reasonable reaction to Lorithia)

We got to Eryth Sea and spent a solid 30 seconds just looking around and listening to the music :) It's her favorite song from this game

And then she spotted one of the Andos and we had a nice little chat about history and lore and worldbuilding! Man I love this game. I love it so much

She obviously knows that Lorithia and Yumea are evil but she thinks they're involved with the Mechon somehow which is. lol. lmao even

dhsfdkjsdfnhgkd ok I just know we are having two very different experiences of Alcamoth right now. She's looking around at all the grandeur and loving the music and joking about how we don't talk to unnamed NPCs and I'm sitting there on the couch feeling deeply emotional about seeing Alcamoth at its height again (ESPECIALLY after xc3)

At first she was like "eugh Kallian is so condescending I don't like him" but thankfully she did a 180 once I started wailing about how much I love him and he encouraged Melia to feel emotions

re: that last bit, I think Melia and Sorean exchanged like 2 lines before she turned to me and said "so this is a very emotionally repressed culture, huh"

adkhfgrkdfjefskhudgr "[Lorithia] is evil, she wears black and red and has boobs!"

"This game is a bi woman's fantasy. There's so many attractive people here!"

We ended with a short discussion of what the last affinity area might be. I ran a little interference by pointing out that we haven't been to the shoulders or arms yet; her theory is that the last region is near the feet of the BIonis, and we'll go there to find the place where the Homs found the Monado. I get her logic because it seems to her that the Bionis gets consistently warmer and warmer near the upper regions, so a cold snowy region would be near the bottom

"Okay, WILD theory: the last area is for the Mechon. It'd be hard to make connections there though, since we're at war..." and "It'd be cool if in like the later games we make friends with the Mechon somehow"

Just going to. gonna let those stand by themselves

[h-a-unted]

NEW MUSE INBOUND

Detective Sergeant Ryan Caradine – Head Detective of the LAPD, who works closely with fellow detective López and the police officers of this division.

A no-nonsense, reserved man who, though approachable, keeps his personal life to himself, focusing on work instead of play. Caradine takes his work seriously and cares deeply for his companions. He is passionate when it comes to solving cases, pushing his fellow officers to do their best, and serving justice for them and the civilians of LA.

Personality Type: The Commander (ENTJ-A)

Disclaimer: The actor for this character is the late Kamar de los Reyes. I may or may not be sharing or using pictures of him at some point or the other. If this triggers you, make sure to block the words and tag " tw actor visage " which I'll try to remember using when showing pics of him.

[rhythmtweets]

pigeon

[kuzann]

*looks at the fact that PS's word count is keeping 10k pace with the number of chapters*

...This fic's gonna end up being like 200k by the time it's finished isn't it...

[art]

Creator Spotlight: @camberdraws

Hello! My name is Camber (any pronouns), and I’m a mixed media illustrator located in the southwestern United States. I love drawing everything, but I have a special interest in depicting strange creatures and environments, often accompanied by abstract imagery and mark-making. Professionally, I’ve worked creating concept art and 2D assets for museum exhibits, but currently, I am engaged full-time as a software developer and make standalone illustrations in my free time. I’ve been posting art on Tumblr since I was a teenager, and the site has been very welcoming towards my work to this very day!

Check out Camber’s interview below!

Did you originally have a background in art? If not, how did you start?

I’ve had an interest in drawing since I was barely sentient, but at thirteen years old I decided to become “serious” about art. I was all about reading tutorials and doing a ton of studies. I would tote my heavy instructional art books to school every single day (my poor back!) Despite all this, I decided to forgo art school in favor of a bachelor’s degree in Computer Science at my local college. Alongside my major, I received a minor in Art Studio with a specialization in fine art, which totally changed my views on creating artwork and drastically changed my style.

How has your style developed over the years?

As mentioned previously, my style did a 180 after I studied under some very skilled fine art professors! As a kid, my drawings were very realism-heavy and inspired by video game concept art. I mostly worked digitally, too. During college, I was thrown for a loop when we were instructed to do strange things like, for example, make a bunch of marks on paper using pastel, WITHOUT looking, and then turn said marks into a finished piece of art! I quickly and deeply fell in love with abstract work, and especially appreciated images that are not easily parsed by the viewer. Since then, I’ve made it my goal to combine abstract mark-making with more representational subject matter.

What is one habit you find yourself doing a lot as an artist?

Hmmm, one habit I really enjoy as an artist is strictly tracking the amount of time I spend drawing! I currently work a full-time job wholly unrelated to art, so I have to be careful with my time if I want to spend enough hours drawing each week. I created a spreadsheet that allows you to enter the amount of minutes you’ve drawn each day and calculate how much drawing time you still need to reach your weekly goal (I aim for 20 hours a week.) Having such a clear, numbers-based objective keeps me motivated to work like nothing else!

Over the years as an artist, what were your biggest inspirations behind your creativity?

I know this is a common inspiration, but Hayao Miyazaki’s work has been rewiring my neurons since I was a child. Seemingly all of my artistic interests can be summed up by the movie Princess Mononoke: it has strange/abstract creature designs, a strong focus on nature and environmental storytelling, and a mix of dark and hopeful themes. Additionally, I’ve been deeply inspired by video game series such as Zelda, Okami, Pikmin, and Dark Souls. But arguably, none of these have influenced me more than Pokemon! I’ve been drawing Pokemon since I could barely hold a pencil, and I haven’t stopped since! I believe my love of designing creatures originated with my endless deluge of Pokemon fanart during my childhood.

What is a medium that you have always been intrigued by but would never use yourself?

I’ve always been fascinated by 3D mediums and am so tempted to try them out! Whether that’s 3D models created digitally or sculptures made from clay, I profoundly admire artists who have this skill. Oftentimes, it feels like I don’t have time to delve into a totally different artistic paradigm. However, I feel very strongly that learning new skills can enrich your current work. I should take that advice and someday give 3D mediums a shot!

What is a recent creative project that you are proud of?

I am in the process of creating an art book (a dream of mine!) and have been executing smaller drawings of concepts I find interesting from both a visual and storytelling standpoint. A recent drawing for said book is that of a snail made of ink with an ink bottle as a shell, and it went absolutely viral! I’ve never had an experience like this as an artist before and it has been spectacular! I was able to open a shop using my newly acquired art printer and sell many prints of my snail. Creating something original, directly stemming from my interests, and having that resonate with so many people has been unreal. I couldn’t ask for more as an artist!

What advice would you give to younger you about making art that’s personal or truthful to your own experiences?

I would tell my younger self to chill out and experiment more! I was so caught up in the idea that I needed to have a realistic style to be considered “good.” I also believed that technical skill was the only measure of how worthy my art was. That’s not to say technical skill doesn’t matter, but I now firmly believe the creativity and voice of your ideas far outweigh the skill of execution in terms of importance. Technical skills should elevate ideas, not the other way around. Once I began to revel in strange ideas and stories for my work, depicted oftentimes in odd styles or mediums, I truly found my voice as an artist.

Who on Tumblr inspires you and why?

My peers here on Tumblr inspire me more than anything! Sharing my work with contemporaries and giving each other support brings me joy like no other, and keeps me motivated to continue creating. I wouldn’t be where I am today without them! @beetlestench, @theogm-art, @trustyalt, @ratwednesday, @phantom-nisnow, @svltart, @mintsdraws, @mothhh-hh, @jupiterweathers, @thesewispsofsmoke, @picoffee, @fetchiko, @kaisei-ink, and @pine-niidles just to name only a few!

Thanks for stopping by, Camber! If you haven’t seen their Meet the Artist piece, check it out here. For more of Camber’s work, follow their Tumblr, @camberdraws!

[interretialia]

Mezmarōn / Μεζμάρων

Mezmaron

(Fons Imaginis.)

[catsvrsdogscatswin]

I've had this thought swirling in the back of my head for a while, but it's finally congealed enough that I think I can make a coherent pitch, which is: I think RWBY's problems with the more vitriolic part of its fanbase partially stems from the fact that RWBY is a deconstruction that doesn't advertise it's a deconstruction.

RWBY's status as a deconstruction is pretty textbook. It takes apart standard fantasy, shounen, and anime tropes in order to analyze them and their deeper meaning and then reassembles them in new and interesting ways for the plot/characters/series. Thing is, it never says that outright in promotional material, which can lead to later outrage in fans.

See, unless their way of discovering new shows is to close their eyes and stab their finger at random, most people tend to choose series to watch/read based on expectations. Maybe a friend said they'll like it because it has [insert thing], maybe they read the summary and were intrigued, maybe they thought the poster/cover art was cool, whatever. These small pieces of information are generally enough for people to make a snap-judgment of the style and genre of the series, which they can then gauge against their personal tastes and decide whether or not they want to try.

Most of the time, this works just fine. Well-written deconstructions also generally give the viewers some warning/buildup before they take a hard swerve. See Madoka Magica: the magical girl paradigm is shaded by the possibility of death as soon as we're introduced to it, then there's an onscreen death with blood, and then a few episodes later we eventually realize the Faustian bargain of it all. Even innocent viewers who stumbled into watching it, unaware of the show's reputation, would go "Oh, wait, this is not going in the direction magical girl shows usually go" by a third of the way through.

The thing is, with RWBY, this does not happen unless you're paying a lot of attention and/or looking for it. And neither the cover art nor the summary nor, I believe, the fanbase gives a lot of warning about the swerves ahead.

In fact, RWBY initially bills itself as a pretty standard shounen anime. The main protagonist is hinted to have Special Powers and gets into the Magic Monster-Hunting School in the first episode, and the first two-and-a-half seasons are taken up by her and her friends' superhero-esque slice-of-life shenanigans as they thwart robberies and terrorist attacks and gear up for a tournament arc against the looming background of a larger conspiracy.

Then in the last half of the third season the villains' entire Rube Goldberg machine of a scheme snaps into completion and the plot twists so hard the entire genre takes a hard right. If you're used to character analysis and common anime tropes, this is not completely a surprise -up until this point, RWBY's character arcs and plot have been subtly traveling in non-traditional directions that hint of greater flexibility in genre treatment ahead- but if you're not... well.

Thing is, people watching RWBY up until this point have signed up for pretty standard shounen and they've been getting it, but the third season's ending smashes that all to bits. From then on out in RWBY, it's like they ordered fries and suddenly got a hamburger. It might be delicious; but it's not what they asked for, what they wanted, or what they paid for, and they are, justifiably, displeased.

So when the reasonable people either adjusted their expectations or sighed, shook their heads, and clicked back out (perhaps with a grumble and a scowl), the unreasonable people dug their heels in and began insisting that everybody was Getting The Show/Character Wrong and that CRWBY is ruining it, because the fact that RWBY's method of deconstruction is to put standard tropes in a blender and then arrange what's left in deceptive patterns means that said unreasonable viewers can scan the bare surface and argue that all the stereotypical stuff is clearly still under there, somewhere.

So they're continually trying to drag RWBY back to the tracks of a typical shounen anime series (it's closest relative), which creates a dissonance between the show they're watching and the show they think they're watching. They're trying to turn the hamburger back into fries, basically, except that doesn't work and just frustrates everyone involved, because you're trying to make RWBY into something that it's not. Hence, this attitude probably starting/fueling some of the more contentious statements in the fandom, i.e.:

"Ironwood was right the whole time" (in most action movies and shounen anime, allied military leaders are trustworthy beyond reproach)

"Adam's character was wasted" (we all know how much shounen loves their powerful warrior antiheroes)

"Ruby and the others are in the wrong about [insert thing]/or for doing [insert thing], and this is bad writing!" (shounen protagonists don't usually make more than One Very Big Mistake over the course of their entire careers, which is usually fixed/overcome/redeemed via an appropriately rigorous training arc)

And to be clear, there's nothing wrong with shounen tropes or shounen anime. They're wonderful storytelling devices in their own way and their own time: but if you want standard by-the-book shounen without any new and interesting concoctions, then RWBY is definitely not the show for you. And most people don't find that out until it's too late.

[universalitgirlsblog2]

🎀💗IT GIRL'S MASTERLIST🎀💗

🎀OLD POSTS🎀

Hot girl era 1

Hot girl era 2- It girl inspired

Hot girl era 3

Glow up

The Wonyoung Effect

The Song Jia Effect

The Jennie Effect

The Lisa Effect

The Yunjin Effect

Rapunzel Effect

New Jeans Effect

Hermione Granger Effect

The Good Doctor

Self concept icons part 1 ,part 2

Appearance change

Master manifestor guide (aesthetic 1 , 2 )

EIPYO

Feeling is the secret part 1 , part 2

I wanna see you win ( red , yellow version )

Disney Princess

Comfort affirmations

A love so beautiful

Hidden love

Tam kaur series -self validation ( updated ) , dream girl , overthinking , high value woman, good luck , detachment

💗NEW POSTS💗

🎀💗Affirmations & LOA related💗🎀

Hot girl era 4

Self concept icons part 3

Glamorous

Twice Effect

Girl crush

Gf material

Better in stereo

Tam kaur - abundance mindset

Y/N is that you ?

Weight loss affirmations

Kpop idol body

Kpop idol body -2

Kazuhaism

Flower beauty

You are the creator

Do you think I'm fragile ?

Confidence

Self love

Solar system

Self concept

Trying doesn't exist

Mindset like Jia, Wonyoung & liz

Circumstances don't matter

Kokomi Teruhashi Affirmations

Paradigm shift

Mental diet

Drop the old story !

Edward art series

Robotic affirming

🎀WONYOUNGISM🎀

It girl guide

It girl youtubers part 1 , part 2

It girl era 2024

Be selfish

Study icons

Stop caring about others opinions

Focus on you

Study tips from Straight A student

Growth VS Fixed Mindset

Movie therapy-Queen & English Vinglish

The ultimate Song Jia guide

Love, me - 1 ,2

Glow up guide

Good posture

Always be aware of people !

She is a mystery!

🩰THE WIZARD LIZ INSPIRED🩰

The wizard liz - Selfish summary

Stop being lazy and pathetic

You are not a victim

The wizard liz Effect

🍥GUIDED MEDITATION AFFS

The wizard liz beauty and confidence

Alanna Foxx Confidence , beauty and body image

Alanna Foxx Self love.

💋TRUE BEAUTY INSPIRED💋

Lim ju kyung Affirmations

Goddess Guide

[moondirti]

animalic (5)

← chapter four // series masterlist

pairing: miguel o'hara x f!reader rating: mature word count: 3.4k summary: an unwelcome confrontation warnings: enemies to lovers, violence, blood and injury, mentioned death, fighting, angst, morally questionable characters, miguel o'hara is not nice notes: this chapter caused several headaches and i don't even like the end result, but i can't pick at it forever sooo. enjoy!

While you’ve never been renowned for making the most accurate of assumptions, there are certain patterns you’ve come to expect in order to have survived this long. To never have a glass of orange juice after brushing your teeth, or maintain eye contact while being threatened. That a kilogram of antimatter produces ten billion times the energy of chemical combustion upon annihilation, and that any quantity larger than that should not be contained.

Of such paradigms, you’ve noted only one to be entirely reliable. That a spider-hero would always fight crime, whatever the greater good. 

“Absolutely not.”

You might’ve been mistaken. 

“Those people are in danger, O’Hara.” You strain, trembling against the cough battering your chest. Your diaphragm spasms with every stride he takes, crushed against the curve of his broad shoulder, desperate to make up for lost breath. 

He lets the plea hang, countenance obscured from your view. With the way he carries you now, all that meets your eye is navy – navy, and the bright red geometry stretched over the brawn of his back. The nanotech suit warps to fit every muscle, glinting as they push forward to meet the sun. And it dips, right between his shoulder blades, lining a clear contour of the anatomy he fails to hide. A dosser of intercostal sinew. Tapered laterals, cinched to curve at–

Your core broils uncomfortably, and his grip tightens around your knees, levelling up to the degree of his treatment thus far. After slinging off that rooftop, he’s made sure to keep you particularly close, like the effort could prevent your powers from manifesting. Like you could make it happen. 

(Though, he doesn’t know that you can’t.)

But he’s smarter than that. If nothing else, it serves as a cautionary gesture. A reminder. You’re disarmed – quite literally – the only force between your nose and the sidewalk being the behemoth of a man whose body you’re strewn across. And, if you could control it – transcend the material at any given whim – it would be the extent and end of your efforts. Not with the neon webs binding you, nor your clear lack of skill. 

The wind quivers with the distant sounds of calamity. You’re drawn back to the very real situation at hand. 

“You make for a lousy excuse of a spiderman if your first instinct isn’t to save them!” You raise your voice, hoping to be heard over the sirens that blare towards the destruction. By counting them as they pass – two, four, six – you’re able to assign a severity to it. But it isn’t, won’t be, enough. You’d heard the screeches; primordial, clawing out from beyond the capabilities of an ordinary threat. You’d felt them – seeping into your bones, grating the spongy marrow – until Miguel had gathered enough obduration to reel you in the complete opposite direction.

Speaking of– 

You tilt your head upwards, surveying the street down which he runs. It’s deserted, yet the presence of its civilians is slower to leave, a molasses that slinks towards locked doors. It’s thick with an apathetic acceptance, bordering on resignation – bitter and not unlike your own resting inclinations. You’ve never known an evacuation to happen this fast, especially this far out from the scene; people are stubborn like that, refusing to face what isn’t in front of them. That is to say, they might be used to it.

“You’re not even going the right way, dickhead!” 

Of all things, that makes him stop. 

(Of course it does.)

Your form flops uselessly as he turns to make sense of his surroundings. There’s the sign – 30 St and 7th – which should give any New Yorker an idea, but he doesn’t linger on it. Instead, he shoots a web to wrap around the railway of a fire escape, propelling the both of you onto an accompanying balcony. Swallowing the bile that swells along your throat at the sudden jump, you shoot him an incredulous look, which he chooses to ignore as he drops you to the floor. 

His mask retreats, hair bouncing upon escape from its smothering embrace. For all that he tries to hide his pinched lips, you sense the scepticism emanating off him in waves. 

You take a moment to stew over it, examining him while he calculates the path of your previous chase. From the convenience, to the corner, and into a nearby store lot. Perhaps he hadn’t been paying notice – which you sincerely doubt, considering the efficiency with which he treats everything else. Could he really be unfamiliar with the layout of a city his job is to protect? Or–

It occurs to you steadily, washing up on the fringes of your arrogance; a realisation in pieces.  

Nueva York. 2099. 

A metropolis. Likely one with no grid system. 

Your cackle beckons his attention, severe stare snapping to your grin.

“We’re on Seventh.” You specify.

He cocks his head, nostrils flaring. Warning or question – you have a hard time deciphering the difference. 

“The convenience was on Sixth and Third. You know, third avenue, East of Fifth?” You push it, spurred by your awareness that he, in fact, does not know. 

“¡Ándale pues! What exactly is your point?” 

“We continued down east until you bit me, judging by the way the sun hit the lot upon rising. But now, we’re on Seventh, on the other side of Fifth.”

His jaw clicks, pulsing in irritation. You toe the line of what you can get away with, how long you can drag this out before he decides you’re not worth the trouble. 

“West. You’re heading West, and–” Wriggling, you adjust your posture into one more reflective of your current pride. “If you have any hope of finding that day pass, then you’re gonna need to go back.” 

The bid translates, weighty, bubbling like the arid smoke off nuclear strife. He processes it, understands – you watch as it unfolds in that intimidatingly intelligent glare – yet the circumstance takes a while to establish itself. Even when it does, he doesn’t grant you the satisfaction of a full blown breakdown. No. His hands just find his hips, chin sloping to the sky.

“No puedo más, no puedo más, no–” 

You probably shouldn’t rub it in any further. 

“Since it’s on our way–” 

"No." He snaps, voice laced with a prickling irritation that sears through his supposed indifference. The heat of it greets you, wiping the simper that had begun stretching your cheeks. “You must think this is some game, and while that might explain the shit you’ve pulled in the past, I have a responsibility. I can’t interfere with their canon.” 

“So, what? You’re just gonna let them die?” 

His expression lifts, brows rising expectantly, like he’s imploring you to shut up without his verbal confirmation. 

Right.

It starts like a taut bowstring, straining as it verges on release. 

On one end, there’s Apollo; drawing his arrow, a god amongst men. The direction with which he aims his weapon can be seen as prophetic – plague was always meant to befall the crowd at his mercy, their fates little more than a thread of mass design. Some call it righteous – epithets dedicated to his name – agreed upon by the same men who claim that rational means right. Some craft sculptures in his visage, this muse of the kouros, likening stone to flesh and deluding the observer that the two can be synonymous. Nietzsche, Bernini. You, yourself, had managed to believe that the muscle rippling below you could be anything but an Athenian tragedy. 

You linger on how startlingly poetic it all is, and the string pulls tighter. You’ve never claimed to be a hero, but you have the instinct, just the same. He, on the other hand, seems entirely dismissive of the urge you assumed would wreck him too. 

(Partially your fault. You know better than to expect the obvious from him – that’s his pattern.) 

As the two of you veer closer to the havoc, the arrow discharges, striking the tension that’s kept you still thus far. When it snaps, it shatters, congealing to form a beset of sounds, sights, fear. Heaving sobs from a limping group of friends – the middle one rapidly losing blood from what you can tell. The pungent clog of burning debris, fed by the ash that lays suspended, mid-air. The painful creak of metal collapsing in on itself, peppered amongst the constant buzz of radio static. Miguel curbs to a stop, hidden in the notch of an alleyway, and uses the cover to reposition you in his carry. You go from slung over his shoulder to laid across his arms – not quite bridal style, but a placement similar enough that he retains a solid hold of you. 

His mask comes back up, concealing the cynicism that had begun to creep up onto you both. You scoff at the unambiguity of the action, the parallel it poses to the reality at hand. He blocks himself to the obvious, the avoidable. 

Glowering, you trace his line of vision to the encompassing wreckage. The street appears hauntingly familiar, thrumming with the hurried echoes of a recent memory. It lacks the colourful components – the vivid signage, the star speckled windows – yet, you recognize it all the same. The very avenue you frantically traversed only hours ago. Your companion, too, begins to grasp the truth, and you find yourself biting your cheek, a twinge of unease settling in as the revelation hits you: that perhaps you had divulged too much, far surpassing the realm of personal gain. 

Yeah, the day pass is here. And you can only hope that he won’t find it.

For now, though, it appears to be the least of your worries. 

A crimson creature prowls along the fringes of the decimated ruins – deliberate, relaxed, like a predator with its teeth already halfway dug in its meal – circling a man clad in a lab coat. Its size is menacing enough; standing at seven feet, with limbs as thick as pipes. Yet, what truly strikes you are the protruding bulges flanking either side of its jaw, and the white, emblematic eyes gazing out from upon its face. 

“Spider-person?” You whisper, not so much looking for clarification as you were putting the possibility out there. Miguel is unwavering, dead-set on waiting the interaction out. 

“Something like that.” He affirms. 

“Y’know, I remember you, doc!” The creature jibes, its inflection nearing maniacal. “You sat on my jury! Yes, yes. Hard to forget a shiner like that.” Laughing, it points to the balding patch atop its victims head. He trembles, bowing in a silent cry. 

“O’Hara–” 

“Wraith.” He warns. 

“Sixty seven years! Not even you look that old, ‘course you don’t understand how damning that sentence was! But you see, I got lucky. Some higher being must’ve taken pity on me, enough to grant me this miracle of a symbiote. Mhm, yeah–” He skips closer to his prey, considering him in the new light. “‘Cause now I can do things like…” A sharp blow echoes. The glassy spear, red as the flesh it extends from, skewers through the doctor’s chest, a spout of blood following through on the other end. “This!”

Miguel’s palm slaps over your mouth, knee supporting the portion of your body he releases whilst angling you away from the scene. You’re thankful for it, despite the overwhelming anger you bear against him. You’ve no trust in the horror that wracks you suddenly, all at once. It launches you back to that convenience, the robbery. How powerless you had been to stop the clerk from dying out, your hoodie fruitlessly wedged to her neck. You’d been spared the grief so far – the blur of the last day tamping to little more than an aching numbness. Yet you should have appreciated that it couldn’t last; guilt is far too familiar a prospect for you to have expected it to let off so soon.

(Your mistake.) 

“Oops. Did that go through your heart? My bad, doc.” It howls, stuck in its own stand-up routine. “You’d been doing your… erm– civil duty, sure.” The loud squelch of gore triggers the imagery for you, regardless of your averted gaze. The limb-turned-spear being pried out from between his ribs, caked in bits of tissue. 

Dead. You could’ve prevented it. 

He could have. 

From behind the veil of unshed tears, you watch as he ponders the risk of retracting his hand. You betray nothing, blinking back the hot dismay from your eyes, and instead meet his regard in cold defiance. Slowly, as though your apparent sensibility means anything, he removes the muzzle. 

You contemplate screaming, to coax the creature from the group of people it has surrounded and make it Miguel's problem to handle.

Then, you remember your rather unsavoury predicament. How prone you are to harm with your limbs locked; you aren’t the best in combat, but you still could’ve stood a chance at survival if it wasn’t for your restraints. 

Your captor reaffirms his grip, tucking you to his figure as he creeps up to a corner. His back remains glued to the brick wall, obscured in shadow. The stance is primed – far from the hesitant sidle he’d adopted before. It isn’t hard to figure out why; you see it too, buried under a pile of trash bags, on the other side of the road. Purple, luminescent. 

The day pass. 

As if on cue – choreographed by a sadistic deity with no favour for anyone involved – you glitch. 

It doesn’t last long, but it’s enough for you to fall to the ground, erupting in a pained groan. The creature twists to lay its terror on your curled frame, shaded by a man who – despite his vast height – is dwarfed in comparison to its colossal self.

“Better start learning not to ignore my spidey sense! I’d felt you tiptoein’ over there,” It growls, neck stretching in preparation for attack. 

“We’re not here for you.” Miguel urges. 

“No? That hurts my feelings, and here I was thinking you wanted to be friends.” At the feral rip of its taunt, it lunges, tearing through the space separating you. The spider-man, in turn, dodges the barrelling assault, swinging in a blur of motion to a wreck not far off. You thank God for his flashy suit; the creature seems to forget you completely, pivoting to charge at him again. 

You force yourself to look away, sickened at the unhinged savagery with which it thrashes. There are people still around, crippled by quickly debilitating injuries, the paramedics meant to aid them now amongst the lost. This is what you wanted – the opportunity to help – and of course you’re still hindered by the asshole who’d refused you in the first place. Desperation weighs heavy on your chest as your eyes scan the spoilage, seeking anything you could use to cut yourself free. And there, you catch it – the sharp end of a broken gutter, its jagged edge catching the afternoon sun.

Using your heels as anchors, you push yourself across the coarse pavement. It isn’t a long way, thankfully, but sweat already starts to dampen your shirt by the time you reach the potential lifeline. Angling yourself, you press the webs to the serrated metal, ready to start shoving. That is, until you remember Miguel; how he sat on your legs, his talons performing much the same feat. He made sure to hold your wrists apart, so you didn’t suffer damages he didn’t intend. 

You remedy your approach, arms straining to separate, then thrust downwards. The telltale signs of your success come as pops, like elastic bands splintering. Then, it’s the easing pressure on your skin, irritated and surely marked in places where the binds come undone. 

The makeshift blade catches your elbow once you’re halfway down, burying deep enough to touch bone. The world narrows to the searing intensity that blazes up your nerves, eclipsing all else. You almost forget your goal, your brain stirring signals to pull away, but the fight that rages in your peripheral is only growing more barbaric. Alarmingly, Miguel is losing. 

If he dies, you’re next, and it’d all be in vain. 

Biting your tongue, you stifle the pain and continue pressing. The gutter inches sideway, ripping through flesh and web like butter, the sleeves of your top mangling at its lip. Miraculously, you stay awake for the time it takes to finally get your arms loose. It’s harder to preserve that triumph when you sit up, though, dizziness distorting the plan of action you’d set for yourself. 

(Get… get the people to safety. Then, your legs. No–

Free your legs, get the people to safety. And… what? 

The day pass. Yeah.

But Mig–)

Your body moves with an unsettling disconnect from your own command. Unable to fully grasp the dissonance, you blanch in bewilderment as you navigate the clearest cut path through it all. A dance in a mechanical rhythm; pulling the webs off your calves, running over to the nearest civilian, and helping them up on their feet. And again. And again. 

There’s a boy, young enough that you worry he doesn’t understand you’re harmless. His cherubic face is coated in a grey layer of dust, disturbed only by the tear marks that run from big eyes. His foot has been crushed, stormy blue blotching his knee. You dismiss the agony of your numerous wounds and crouch to pick him up, hugging him to your chest. 

New squadrons of emergency services trickle in, careful to leave their sirens off as they round the corner. It’s an odd enough choice that it distracts you from the child’s fingers, which dig into your abrasion for purchase. An ensemble of prospects occur to you. 

When you hand him off to an awaiting EMT, it clicks. 

What’d the creature call itself? A symbiote? 

(You haven’t always been science-oriented.

Freshman year of college, you’d joined as an undeclared major within the school of arts and architecture. ‘Course, you only had your general education requirements to fulfil at the time; useless classes that fit your self-imposed four day weekend, meant to do fuck all as your tuition went to waste. Needless to say, your ambition had been directed at more carnal pursuits. 

Then, there was astronomy. It’d awakened your curiosity for the cosmos.

Astro 8, to be exact. Life in the Universe. Your post-midterm lesson had been on a recently discovered,  space-faring civilization. Symbiotes – they were called – based on the initial assumption that they thrived in mutual beneficial relationships with other lifeforms. But the projection that flickered for its class of drowsy students entailed another truth entirely. Darkened bullet points in big, bold letters. Known weakness. 

Fire, and sound.)

You sprint towards a nearby cop car, its door wide open and the driver's seat vacant. It’s instinctual, devoid of consideration. A singular objective dominates you, beyond the day pass – to kill that thing. Not for Miguel, who’s choked in its gnarled hand. Not for yourself, or your deep-rooted desire for heroism. No. Just for them – the boy and that group of friends, the doctor who still lays dead on the scene. For the sake of this world, and to reconcile the life you took just last night, as if such a trade-off could absolve you of the weight of your sins.

Stepping on the gas, you accelerate abruptly, gaining speed with every pothole you drive over. It looms ahead, crouched in front of a hollowed-out apartment complex, suffocating the futurist spider-man and vibrating with glee. If you can align it – aim and time it just right…

You activate the wail siren. Your hypothesis is validated when it screeches in response to the racket, throwing Miguel off to the side. 

Good. He won’t be collateral.

You grab a gun from the cupholder on the dash, throwing it on the pedal to keep it down, then jump to the backseat. 

The impact is seismic; a violent convergence of metal and brick and brawn that sends shockwaves rippling throughout your being. You become captive to the merciless momentum, forcefully propelled against the leather cushions. Chronic whiplash shreds upon the vulnerable muscles holding the weight of your concussed head; its talons raking through the fibres, pulling apart the once sturdy tissue. A relentless ring envelops the cacophony of noise, and silences it into one, tender hum. 

You’re hauled out the window, detained in the embrace of some unspecified form, which settles above you for cover as the building comes crumbling down. 

Or – not unspecified. 

That mix of patchouli and musk.

Your consciousness turns to black as you're buried beneath the rubble.

chapter six →

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[yeyinde]

writing has been hard lately, so as an apology for the lame updates, have a little concept piece/wip thing(?) of the continuation of this malaligned babytrap series.

babytrapping! with Kyle is a little bit different, it seems.

because for Kyle, anger exists in a vacuum. a chasm. but unfortunately for him, that abyssal trench dug itself a sanctum a little too close to his heart. his soul. a locksafe made of glass, reinforced with raw grit, resolve. it doesn't bother him much; a mere prickle across simmering nerves. quenchable. controllable.

but the thing about dying is that it tends to put everything into perspective. give nuance and meaning to what he might have taken for granted before. but not always for the best. still. these are usually one-offs. maybe they find religion or a renewed vigour for life. but what happens when it keeps happening? repeated brushes with death's gossamer embrace over and over again. the stench alone might drive a man mad—

something might shift, even. break apart.

and to him, a paradigm sounds like the blaring warnings in a distressed cockpit. wind narrowing to a whipcord. metal crumpling against the pavement. the hiss of gas. the roar of a fire as it gorges itself on engine fuel. death's rotten, gnarled fingers whispering, feather soft, across his nape.

he survives the fall, sure, but not unscathed. something breaks, shattering on impact. if not his flesh, not his bones, then it must have been that glass box housing the ugly, twisting blackhole that eats his wants clean from his bone. he doesn't know what the aftermath will bring, but the latest one seems to have dislodged his heart the prison of his ribs. it's not empty for long. the newly untethered contents of the chasm quickly fill the empty space.

the fallout is a wildfire of desperation fuelled by the dawning realisation of just how fragile human existence really is. and when he finds you're getting a little too close with a new friend in his absence, well. perspective, right? he might die tomorrow, but the fear of leaving you alone forever (with a man who isn't him and nothing to show for your relationship except hollow memories that will soon fade like fingerprints) sits in his guts like curdled milk. it simply won't do.

perhaps he should have called in sick.

[cryptotheism]

The One-Hundred and Twelve Books (of which only thirty survive) are a series of short, vaguely-related treatises on alchemy. A notable innovation here is the introduction of organic materials like plant and animal products. To many previous alchemists, the human body was higher on the divine ladder of being than things like rocks and stones. Of course it was, we have things like language, and an immortal soul. Rocks don’t have those things. The idea that something as special as the human body would be subject to the exact same rules as lowly lumps of metal was a dramatic change from established alchemical logic. 

Previously, the closest alchemists would get to living tissue was old eggshells. Now, alchemists were theorizing about the alchemical effects of all sorts of plants and fluids. This was a significant paradigm shift for alchemy. Now semen could be involved. Which was important. Don’t laugh. It was important. This was one of the first steps alchemy took towards iatrochemistry, the idea of using alchemy to cure disease. 

The Jabirian Corpus, Today on Patreon

[eaglefairy]

I need to. maybe stop trying to talk about the xenoblade series as a whole to my roommate for a bit lmao

Because of course she's still under the impression that further games in the series take place in roughly the same setting, which would be kind of a no-brainer in any other series but alas xenoblade chronicles is a bit complicated for such a mundane trope. So we're sitting there, talking about something as innocuous as the voice acting and how everyone sounds so British all the time, and my dumb ass goes

"Yeah it's really cool how in the second one they give all the nations different English accents"

And I realized my mistake around the point where I said "nations", but by then I was far too late to correct myself. And my poor roommate who still expects this series to follow a relatively reasonable plot structure and not completely shift the entire setting's paradigm in the last half an hour of the game is like "nations??? There are nations on the Bionis later???"

From there we neatly segued into topics such as "fictional empires really don't engage much with the historical reality of empires" and "the Homs colonies have capitalism but probably not taxes (and are also probably governed under some form of martial law)", thus sparing me from giving away anything else for now