#moth!crozier

[leadandblood]

Are you picking up what I'm putting down👀

Drawn side by side... for science

[holy-moth]

a little messy umbrella crozier to welcome the spring thaw

[maritime-matchups]

[nigesakis]

without naming them, post 10 gifs of your favorite TV shows, then tag 10 people.

tagged by @saintirulan Thank you ❤️

tagging: @1343-40 @crumb @croziers-compass @saintharrowhark @sophopolis @perenial @swifty-fox @thebuckys @morgan-the-lonely-brick @holy-moth @susiehunsecker @hesbianspock @filiocht-ag-fir-marbha which are more than 10 but idgaf. if i didn't tag u u can still say i did. cause i did in me heart

[psyduc]

get to know me game

thank you for the tag @tjarry mwah mwah 💛

do you make you bed? not really? my bed is Neat but not made, but i think it looks cozier that way and as someone who takes naps during my lunch breaks, i'm not making my bed more than twice a day lol

what's your job? adjacent to car insurance is the easiest way to describe it! when vehicles get totaled i deal with the DMV paperwork

if you could go back to school, would you? i don't think so, but only because i have absolutely no idea what i would even wanna go back for

can you parallel park? i've only done it once (1) in the middle of a anxiety induced disassociation episode (i don't drive for A Reason) and was told that i did a phenomenal job and nailed it on the first time so. yes, apparently i can sksks

do you think aliens are real? i do and every night i am blowing them a kiss and hope they enjoy their lives on their planets

can you drive a manual car? no <3

guilty pleasure? i don't believe in the concept of guilty pleasures tbh. like's too short, enjoy what u want man who cares

tattoos? not yet BUT i do have a friend who tattoos on the side and we have been chatting, so this might be the summer i actually get my deat's-head moth tattoo hehe

favorite color? YELLOW 💛

favorite type of music? god i have to pick one? love me some punk pop, love me some hard rock, but i've recently been into what i'm calling pretty girl pop so imma say that atm <3

do you like puzzles? YES SO MUCH

any phobias? spiders are a big one and like. deep, open water. like i can't even play video games that deal with it, the thalassophobia is That Bad

childhood sport? i used to play softball but you know the cliche/joke of like. the one kid standing out in the outfield picking flowers and chasing butterflies instead of focusing on the game? yeah. hello

do you talk to yourself? no because oscar is usually shadowing me so i talk to him instead (and he talks BACK it's great, highly recommend getting a cat to everyone)

tea or coffee? tea <333

what was the first thing you wanted to be when you grew up? a veterinarian because i wanted to chill out with animals. did u know that there is much more to being a vet than that. 5 year old emily did not know this

what movies do you adore? so many. labyrinth is my all time FAVE, but i genuinely... have so many, i just love movies yall

guilt free tagging some beloveds (idk who else has done this or not yet whoops): @muppetjohntavares @lasciatemi-stare @solittles @jirving @barkovsasha @guentzel @croziers-compass

[hetchdrive]

Saw art of Crozier as a moth and went :O !! My fursona is a moth…

[cozycapybara]

Fitzjames withdraws his arm. “How do I feel?” he asks, touching his own wrist with mock-wonder. “Cold? Filled with cogs?”

“You know you don’t,” says Crozier. He is, in fact, feeling alarmed by the very softness and warmth he could feel through the probably-chiffon. It’s been a long time since he laid his hands on another person in aid or tenderness. Define ‘tenderness’. It’s gentleness, and it’s also a place where bruises start. Why did Franklin make this one so lovely? What kind of joke is that? “You’re – very convincing. You were built that way.”

my friend moth wrote me a blade runner fitzier fic called "Desire, like a Dictionary" that occupies my mind at all times

[thegreenmeridian]

I haven’t been to a zoo in a really long time and I’m jonesing for it bad so here’s a niche Terror post.

The Terror characters on a visit to London zoo:

Franklin: Waxes lyrical about when he was a boy and zoo animals were made to do tricks. Makes a point of sponsoring the lions, but only if his name will be on the cage.

Crozier: Wanders off by himself after Fitzjames bangs on about having seen Komodo dragons in the wild. Is later found gazing wistlessly at the penguins in protest to everyone else discarding the map.

Fitzjames: Has seen many of these animals in real life and wants everyone to know it. Gets emotional at the plaque for the aardvark that died in a fire and drops an inordinate amount of money in the donation box as a result.

Little: Dislikes the noise and heat, retreats to the dark of the reptile house and spends a great deal of time trying to spot well hidden frogs. Buys a stuffed tortoise as a gift for someone but decides not to give it.

Hodgson: The only person other than Goodsir to be enthusiastic about the bug house. Gets lost on the walk back to the Tube after getting into a debate with the Jehovah’s Witnesses camped outside the zoo gates.

Irving: Talks too much about “God’s wonderful creations” at every exhibit. Sees two zebras having sex and goes quiet for the rest of the day.

Gore: A huge moth lands on his face in the butterfly enclosure and will not leave until a keeper pokes at it with a stick. The subsequent photo becomes his phone background for next year.

Le Vesconte: Crawls into the tube through the meerkat enclosure that is designed for children and has a great time despite the bruises. Buys a novelty plastic camel that poops chocolate raisins in the gift shop and thinks it’s hilarious.

Stanley: Complains a lot about the price of things in the gift shop and restaurant, and the tickets themselves. Spends some time drawing ibis in the aviary, shows the pictures to no one.

Goodsir: Has facts about every animal and earnestly expounds on the cuteness of the giant African millipede to anyone who’ll listen. Gets into an extended chat with a keeper in the Night Life exhibit about nocturnal adaptations.

MacDonald: Plans his day around animal displays and enthusiastically volunteers to have a peregrine falcon land on his arm. Buys an enormous stuffed sloth in the gift shop and is not remotely bothered by how impractical it is to manoeuvre through the barriers at the Tube station.

Collins: Categorically will not set foot in B.U.G.S. Absolutely enamoured by the jellyfish in the aquarium and briefly researches how to set up a saltwater tank at home before concluding it’s too complicated.

Des Voeux: Keeps tapping on the glass of various exhibits while complaining that the animals within are boring. Considers trying to shoplift a pack of erasers from the gift shop “for a laugh” but ultimately decides against it after realising Silna is watching him.

Morfin: Sees a bull elephant’s dick and finds it absolutely hilarious. Later makes eye contact with a coati and feels emotionally connected to it.

Blanky: Brings several cans of Marks and Spencer’s rum and coke into the zoo and somehow gets away with openly drinking them. Complains about the heat in the Rainforest Life exhibit but spends an inordinate amount of time in there anyway watching a sloth eat a mango.

Hartnell: A goat eats his pocket in the Children’s Zoo, for which he apologises to the keepers profusely. Sees an advert for the zoo lodge overnight stays and vows to save up for it.

Hickey: Finds it hilarious to jump out and scare people in the Night Life exhibit. Claims to have survived a bite from a “Saipan” and doubles down on that when someone asks if he meant “taipan”.

Gibson: Thinks himself far too grown up for a zoo trip of all things. Makes a pressed penny anyway.

Peglar: Gets into various debates with Bridgens regarding how Aristotle might have come up with his more fantastical descriptions of animals. Sneaks away from him in the gift shop to buy a him massive Blue Planet book as a gift.

Bridgens: Brings homemade quiche and posh crisps with him should they get hungry. Particularly taken with the red river hogs and the okapi.

Jopson: In charge of booking all the tickets and coordinating travel, for which he has many contingencies in case of lost personnel or Tube delays. Still manages to enjoy the day himself and falls utterly in love with the otters after hearing them squeak at feeding time.

Armitage: Follows Tozer and Heather around all day. Tries to temper his genuine enthusiasm for the animals for fear of looking childish but fails entirely at the gibbons.

Tozer: Adamantly claims to have no fear at all of the B.U.G.S exhibit but nearly shits himself when accidentally coming across the “encounter with spiders” event and seeing a tarantula on a keeper’s hand. Remains surly for the remainder of the day.

Heather: Strongly debated bailing en route to go to the Imperial War Museum instead. Lets himself be goaded into shoving his hand through the bars to touch the pygmy hippo.

Silna: Successfully spots a well hidden bush baby in the Night Life exhibit and points it out to Goodsir only once everyone else has moved on. Gladly listens to his factoids but flat out refuses to concede that a millipede could be cute.

[ferylcheryl]

Cathedral

Chapter 1

CW Infant Death

Private Heather’s exposed brain glistens oxblood and rose in the dim light.

“It’s a pudding, basically,” explains Stanley.

“I would have said ‘cathedral’,” McDonald retorts mildly. “I suppose it depends on the man.” He glances at Stanley, that ineradicable teasing glint in his eye.

And how much he has endured, Stanley thinks to himself. After all, there had been a time that he, too, might have likened man’s brain to a cathedral. Actually, he would have reserved that particular metaphor for the body, for it was more apt: the ribcage curved over heart and lung like the kerfed ribs of St. Paul’s vaulting up over the nave. A lavish miracle of engineering, man and cathedral alike; the one’s form echoing the other. The brain, he might’ve likened more to a clock. No less intricate, far less ostentatious of a metaphor. Or a lightning storm. A nebula of tree roots. Not a pudding, at any rate—but now, that’s what he sees, and that’s how he calls it.

Anyway, he grudgingly likes McDonald. He comports himself with a cheery equanimity more befitting a cook or a seaman than a doctor, and Stanley’s own effort to model a mien more befitting go largely disregarded by both him and Goodsir (who is such a soft, scuttling thing he hardly warrants notice). But McDonald: there’s something of steel in the man, a kind of grit; perhaps the ability to face up to the horror of the brain exposed and scry in it a holiness—and to speak of it with gladness. There was a time they might have been fast friends.

He casts a sidewise glance at Goodsir, who is busy with flame and sealing wax. He’d asked to stay and watch McDonald cauterize the edges, asserted his will in that cringing way of his: how timid he is, yet he seems always in the way, somehow. His mere presence grates. Now, the eyes having been sealed—at Stanley’s request, Goodsir notes—and the cauters heated, Goodsir takes a moment to inspect the brain closely. It is the first living brain he’s seen, the skull shorn away with unnervingly surgical precision, and it is enough in itself. What he means is, man’s engine needs no metaphor to claim divinity: it is out of this labyrinth of pink hillocks and blood vessels as finely-forked and intricate as lightning that the whole of human history is sprung. Yet removed from the context of its vast scope of accomplishment, one might think of it as so much meat. Both men are correct, but neither grasps the full complexity of it.

Nor does Goodsir, in terms he could explain. But for a moment its full complexity is unfurled before him—like Bernini’s St. Theresa, this vision of the brain’s thousand manifestations, transfigurations, iterations pours down around him like shafts of gold: a cathedral, a pudding, a geode hatched open. A chorale of light, of impulse, of blueprints and ecstasies. The holy symmetry of the lobes, their earthen ugliness; by the will of the great animator a thousand cathedrals erected and puddings confected—metaphor is inconsequential in the blinding light of this revelation. Metaphor is language: this transcends.

But it only lasts a moment. He is used to it by now, these—what else can he call them but visions? It is like his mind’s eye is momentarily deluged with a sight not his own, and his intellect (which he recognizes with conditioned humility is not insubstantial) is left to sort it out. When he was a child he tried to share it with others, he discovered that he not only lacked the language but that others did not experience the same. *A capital imagination*, his mother had beamed to a friend once. *Unnatural,* the woman had retorted darkly. He was eight then and never spoke of it again. Not even when it took the form of instructive presentiment. At ten, idly plucking blackberries on a country ramble, he fancied he could taste—for all of him was given to these visions, brain and ear, touch and tongue—within each black-shining drupelet smaller ones, an infinitude of — what might he call them? The matter of all things parsed into smaller, invisible things. And the next week he learned of cells, discovering their name only after tasting them.

He raises his eyes and glances from Dr. Stanley to Dr. McDonald to Stanley again. And again he sees the darkness around Stanley’s head, a scrambled etch-work of black lines, like a child’s drawing of cloud. He drops his gaze. This he is accustomed to as well: a crown donned by the miserable. A few other men aboard wear it—Captain Crozier, for one; Lt. Irving for another. One learns to disregard it.

The room warms incrementally as Stanley leaves it. McDonald crosses behind him in the small space, grazing his hand along the small of Goodsir’s back as he does so. This he does often, and it is such a natural gesture for a man of such bonhomie that Goodsir has only recently begun sensing something more in so many seemingly incidental touches: a brush of fingertips as they exchange an instrument, the older man’s gaze lingering—kindly, but lingering nevertheless—a few seconds longer than necessary.

Perhaps he is imagining it. He hopes he is. Not just because he dreads disappointing McDonald with his eventual rebuff, but because he senses—again, it is nothing he can explain, nor does he see it the way he sees the naked brain before him, the low wooden beams of the sick bay, the anatomical drawings pinned to the wall—a weak, fluttering light, like the beat of moth wings, emanating from Stanley’s heart when McDonald is near. In close proximity, it flickers nearly steadily; it gutters and fades as McDonald moves away. Goodsir knows what it is, though he’s never experienced it firsthand: longing, affection. When shared between two lovers, it buoys him—an aimless sunniness, like one felt as a boy the morning of one’s birthday. But suppressed, as with Stanley’s feeling for McDonald (not even, Goodsir guesses, acknowledged by the sour-tempered veteran to himself) it is an agitation; one’s hands shake and all things, even breath, taste of ash and iron.

———

Stanley sits up in the dark, willing his breath to quiet. He can almost still feel her scant weight in his palms. A skeletal pink thing she was, grotesquely proportioned. All skull and looming eye, like an unfeathered chick. In the dream he bears her before him like an offering, walking down a sun-blown lane of cypresses, birds darting back and forth overhead. She’d come too early, and with her characteristic stoniness Mary had declared it useless to name her. But in his heart he called her Mercy. In the dream he knows without seeing—in that way that dreams manufacture context with no care whatsoever for waking reality—her face, luminous eyes and a prim mouth belying an adamant will. Not here but somewhere else she grows to be willowy and tart-tongued; she marries and bears children of her own. Not in this life but in another will she make him proud and glad. In this life, he wakes tasting ash and iron, his palms open as in supplication to a weight too phantom to quantify.

Goodsir, too, wakes. He does not sit bolt upright in bed but rather lies bleary-eyed, assembling the disparate elements of the dream. Not being his dream, per se, he is detached enough to hold it before his mind’s eye like an anatomical model, turn it this way and that. He does not know whose dream it is. He does know, however, that the dream lives of most of his fellows are dreadfully tedious, and so he’s grateful for this startling departure. Generally, men’s dreams are panting, damp, carnal messes: curves of flesh, gliding hands, blurts of soaked heat. He wakes embarrassed, his own body inert but exhausted. Or he’s seen the million fears any man can have transcribed into just a handful of symbols: the dream of the teeth falling out. The dream where you can neither scream nor run nor speak nor hear; you may as well be a girl’s doll. The childhood home distorted: these, at least, interest him vaguely, for it is a bit like travel. His own dreams? He doesn’t dream them. He sometimes wonders if someone else, someone like himself, does.

But in this dream he is standing at the end of an avenue of cypresses. At his feet, a neat dirt path, impeccably clean edged. A warm day but the breeze bears a chill and the smell of blood, and at the far horizon clouds curdle into smoke. Someone far away, arms held out before them, bearing something small in their cupped hands. The figure shimmers and twitches and he can make out nothing about it: male, female, what. He only knows that the clouds have turned to smoke, conflagration not far behind. It keeps coming and coming, never drawing closer—then it is there before him—first a shuddering dark slit in the horizon and then standing as close to him as only lovers stand. His face is a mass of scarlet and char, but he knows him, he knows him like he’d know his own face in a mirror, but now, upon waking cannot recall who it was.

Peculiar, that he should remember the rest so clearly, but not that crucial detail. Equally peculiar, he realizes, is that he is uncertain of the time; doesn’t know how long he’s slept. Now he’s wired awake in that way his body has of feeling tense and angry if he lies about, so up he gets, dresses in the weak light, and steps out into the dark. Most but the watch are sleeping: late, then, rather than early. He climbs stealthily onto the deck, startling Mr. Hickey, who by his crumpled posture and crabbish, ruddy expression—what Goodsir can see of it between his cap and his scarf, mostly those glittering inscrutable eyes and that outsized nose—was probably woken.

“Warn a man,” he grumbles.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Hickey, I didn’t mean to disturb you,” he says tartly, hunching his shoulders as he passes him.

“What are you doing up, eh? I’d give my left stone to be abed—“

“I thought you were,” Goodsir says, a bit unkindly perhaps—for he’s never done anything wrong that Goodsir’s aware of, but how he slouches about, the hungry way he is always listening, like a dog watching for a morsel from his master’s table. His proportions all out of sync: that round mouth big nose, all that muscle on a dwarfish little frame. Goodsir chastises himself: <i>he’s an inch on you</>, he reminds himself. <I>And the ladies probably fancy him a yard more for it.</I> Not that Goodsir cares for ladies. He’s simply rather put out that they don’t seem to care for him.

“You’re a funny kind of man,” Hickey tells him.

“I beg your pardon?”

Hickey grins. “You know things.”

“Oh? And what kinds of things do I know?” He turns too quickly and looks Hickey too hard into the eye, sure the witchy vagaries of his brain are writ plain as ABC across his brow. (<I>not that he can read,</I> says Goodsir’s bitter half.)

But then Hickey cocks his head. “As the ship’s doctor, I mean. You must learn a great deal.”

“I’m not the ship’s doctor. Dr. Stanley is. I merely... assist,” he finishes lamely. The ladies must love that knowing grin of his.

At that moment, there’s a creak as Lt. Irving climbs onto deck. His eyes are hard. “Is Mr. Hickey ill, Mr. Goodsir?”

Hickey beams at him. “I’m right as rain, lieutenant. The doctor was having trouble sleeping, I expect, and thought a turn in the brisk air might do him good. Isn’t that so?”

Goodsir nods vaguely and makes to go back down. How funny it is to constantly receive these vague little pricks and pops of energy—like static electricity or near lightning. Like, he intuits now what he could not quite make clear before: first, that the collective fancies of all of London’s fairest would do Hickey not a whit of good, and second, that Irving knows it. By the time he settles back into his own bed, Goodsir’s fretful near unto tears. It’s much too much for one man, to bear scraps and fragments of all other men. He reads until the words blur and drift on the page, falls asleep, and blessedly does not dream.

[jellyfitzjelly]

To be or not to be: James Fitzjames' dilemma

I think the scene just before the opening credits in episode 6 sums up very aptly James Fitzjames. He wears a mask. He has worn a mask for most of his life. He's a bastard of mixed origins who never knew his parents (I truly doubt he met his father more than once in his whole life). He's an embarrassment, an unfortunate consequence to hide under the carpet. Shame is embedded in James Fitzjames. It's a part of himself he has always tried to fight. He climbed his way up in the Navy, learned all the tricks to become society's most charming man, schooled himself to behave like his fellow genteel officers. He tried to become another person altogether. Someone he wouldn't be ashamed to be.

Enters Francis Crozier. James dislikes the man as much as he envies him: intensely. Because as much as Crozier is a boring, joyless alcoholic, he's honest. He's real and raw in a way James never dared to be. Crozier is Irish, a working class man who worked his way up in the Navy. Yet Crozier doesn't hide his accent under a polished received pronounciation. He doesn't act genteel and bourgeois with his colleagues. He blunders his way about, uncaring of the intrigues of the high circles of society and of the Admiralty. He shows himself as he is and is successful despite it. That's something James admires, envies even. It attracts him to the man like a moth to a flame despite the bad blood between them, despite the fact they can't help but be at each other's throat. Perhaps that is why James can't stand the man. He's everything he had ever wanted to be.

Himself. Just himself.

[leadandblood]

I'm too scared to ink it😭😭😭 just fixed a few things and traced it with a tougher pencil :')

[holy-moth]

Polaroid taken by James Ross in the Swiss Alps, ca. late 60s to early 70s

(continues to have brainrot caused by @nonagethimus and @jacquelying Everest AU)

[laissezferre]

How about Goodsir? :)

How I feel about this character: whenever i think of goodsir my face just goes D: his arc is the most damn tragic of the lot, i think. francis defeated the drink, james found a true friend, but goodsir is a downward spiral. his is a journey of losing faith in humanity, and while that’s already terrible for a normal person, for a healer it’s just tragic.

Any/all the people I ship romantically with this character: macca would be the closest

My favorite non-romantic relationship for this character: silna! i love what they’ve built with each other in such a short period of time. i do view it as more of an unexpected friend found in the most bizarre of circumstances, but it’s precious all the same.

My unpopular opinion about this character: goodsir/silna fics kinda squick me out. just... no, they were important to each other, but not that way

One thing I wish would happen / had happened with this character in canon: i wish they made him proper scottish, ilu paul ready but this was such a missed opportunity. imagine goodsir, macca, and crozier having a secret meeting in the great cabin. “man the english suck dont they?” “aye they do”

Favorite friendship for this character: the brief scene where goodsir acts like a huge nerd while gore politely goes mhmmm-oh really-thats cool at him always makes me smile. gore is a good egg

My crossover ship: ooof ok ok ok, the first time i read this: “goodsir is enthusiastic about all ‘ologies, draws the insides of microscopic animals with an imaginary-pointed pencil, catches phenomena in a bucket, looks at the thermometer and every other meter”, my jaw dropped, because who else does that remind you of? who else??? “combeferre read everything, learned the polarization of light from arago, grew enthusiastic over a lesson in the carotid artery; he deciphered hieroglyphics, broke the pebble which he found and reasoned on geology, drew from memory a silkworm moth, pointed out the faulty french in the dictionary of the academy” like dude d u d e, can they please meet? can we transpose goodsir from 1845 to 1825 just so they could meet at a safer time (when both are alive)?

send me a fandom/ship/character and i’ll tell you

[henrylevesconte]

@mimibelle76 asked you:  .how bout MOTH? 

My pleasure, dear! 

M - Say something genuinely nice about a ship that you don’t ship (or its shippers, or anything related to you

I like the concept of Silna/Goodsir and everyone who has written or done art for the ship has done such a fantastic job at it. I do like that it is a pairing that is platonic and built on a strong and genuine friendship 

O - Choose a song at random, which ship or character does it remind you of

Spotify gave me: All For You Sophia by Franz Ferdinand 

literally the title says it all. Francis RM Crozier pining after Sophia Cracroft 

T - Do you have any hard and fast headcanons that you will die defending, about anything at all (gender identity, sexual or romantic orientation, extended family, sexual preferences like top/bottom/switch, relationship with poetry, seriously anything)

I will forever defend the found family in the Terror and Francis always collecting sons along the way. He may act stand-offish but really he’s a giant soft dad that gets torn up whenever he loses a boy (I mean look how hard he mourned for Evans in episode 4)!

H - What is your favorite source text for fandom stuff (e.g., tv shows, movies, books, anime, Western animation, etc.)

TV shows typically or specifically TV shows based off of books so I can consume both at the same time 

send me a letter and I’ll answer fandom questions 

[eduardomarin90]

Crimson Peak Main Titles - Behind the Scenes from IAMSTATIC on Vimeo.

Process video for Crimson Peak main title sequence. Behind the scene footage by Steve Michaelides (Thanks Steve)

There is nothing we enjoy more then working on title sequences, especially when it's super dark and moody and ‘Stabby’! So, as you can imagine we were over the moon to be chosen to create the main title sequence for Guillermo Del Toro’s gothic romance CRIMSON PEAK. This project, built entirely in CG, was an exercise in careful pacing and art direction. Like the film, we wanted the titles to drip with detail in every shot with moths leading us through each eerie scene. Working closely with Del Toro and our production team at Topix, we worked 5 full months to craft this project into a piece of design that would flow and compliment the overall tone of the film.

Read more about it here: artofthetitle.com/title/crimson-peak/

Credits: Director: IAMSTATIC Creative Director: Ron Gervais, Dave Greene Production Company: TOPIX Senior Producer: Cathy Jefferies Lead Animator/Rigger: Kevin Vriesinga Storyboard: Ron Gervais Lighting & Rendering: Abdul Mohamud, Dave Greene Layout: Abdul Mohamud, Dave Greene Modeling: Chris Crozier, Abdul Mohamud, Dave Greene, Ronak Shah, Pearce Perkins, Steve McArdle, Chris Johnson, Livio Passera, Compositors: Rob Del Ciancio, Ron Gervais, Dave Greene, Abdul Mohamud Editor: Ron Gervais Client: Legendary Pictures / Guillermo Del Toro

[houstonpress]

It Came From The Americas — And It's Bad News For Africa

Armyworms — caterpillars of a moth species — are creeping across ever wider swaths of southern Africa, munching their way through crops.

(Image credit: Jayne Crozier/Centre for Agriculture and Biosciences International)