#spirals brain worms

[spiralghoul]

Thinking about the new lighting rig for tours (credit to Erich Bertti their lighting designer on insta for all the photos and ya know for designing the rig and lighting for the show)

like it's just so gorgeous and they do not get enough credit for how much work and money goes into making sure everything is just right so all of the ques go off at the right time and all of the tracking lights are staying on the people they're supposed to I just it's SO COOL and their rig is so beautiful

[monarch-ambrosia]

on today's episode of "thorne only ever posts about tma"

michael's voice actor: the worker of clay had labelled for decades--

me: so THAT'S what happened to my gender i knew it got spiralized somehow

[sappholotl]

Hitting the fun and funky limit of things I am Stressed about enough that the cap resets and I space out and do twenty things I’ve been putting off at once

[ninthpresident]

I haven't been blogging about it because I'm shy and because I don't wanna subject anyone to unwanted gory photosets but my mind palace has been covered in Saw merch for the last month I'm obsessed with those freaky fuckers

[youssefguedira]

the thing is you spend so much time in other people's identities that it becomes second nature and so much time building up this myth about yourself and what you can do that people talk about you like you're a monster in a story and you don't even have a name of your own that isn't inextricably linked to this myth

[yellobb]

Working from home is very nice because I can wake up at 7am and clock in at 7am instead of 8:30

[vampiremansionpoolboy-moved]

dude. oh my god. newt is so transgender fr. i need to look thru ur pac rim tag bc i love him so much.

YES HES SO TRANS OMG

[fellpyrean]

I said I love writing corruption & Jon and I am not lying. A little snac.

Baby Jon makes a new friend. (touches of post-canon) 1100 words.

___________

Jon has always seen weird things. Too much, he thinks sometimes. Like he’s in one of those bad stories, the ones he doesn’t like to read because they make part of him feel bad, like he can imagine it if he just lets himself - like he could maybe imagine what it’s like to dance on a puppet’s strings, to feel hot, hungry breaths and the snap of sharp teeth on his neck, like he knows the shadows can reach up from under a bed and just make someone be gone. 

He’s seen the shadows dance. 

He’s seen a man walk into the fog on the dock and never come back. 

He’s seen a person who wasn’t pull on their skin like a glove and wiggle the plastic below and knew if he hadn’t darted off and hid when he did, that those wrong wrong fingers would have dragged him away. He heard them laugh. He smelled them when they walked by, something sharp and bright in their hand, heard their hollow voice speak words he knew but shouldn’t and when he came home, gran didn’t believe him. 

She said it was a costume. 

She said the spiders couldn’t sing or eat people and neither could books and eyes in pictures can’t really watch him. 

She lies a lot. 

He doesn’t think she means anything bad by it, but he knows it’s all true and he sees it all right there, every day, but nobody else does. The mirror thinks it’s funny. Jon doesn’t like the mirror much. It’s a bad friend. 

… But it’s still a friend. Jon doesn’t have a lot of those. 

He sees too much and he scares people. Not the things he sees, though. The mirror isn’t afraid of him. The spiders aren’t either. 

And… not the moth. 

He’s not seen it before. It sits on his windowsill, big as his hand and so fluffy and fat it reminds him of a puppy. It’s not really a moth. He can’t see the truth of it because the truth is just too big, but he can hear the song in the gentle jitter of its wings and knows it has too many voices for one moth. It sits and it sits and Jon watches it. 

Just watches. 

It smells too sweet, like a warm, happy home a-and his stomach turns even if he doesn’t know why. 

Being home is a bad thing, maybe. 

But the moth doesn’t move. It just sits and sings and Jon… relaxes. 

When it rains, he holds his breath and reaches around and above it to close the window and it steps forward like a lazy cat, like its little clawed feet can’t possibly carry its ponderous weight and Jon can’t stop his giggling. Its antennae twitch like big fluffy ferns in a breeze and its song trills like a laugh and its wings flutter like it’s having fun and. And Jon thinks maybe, it wants to be his friend, too. 

The rain patters against the old, empty house - gran would be back before dinner, Jon knew, but he misses before - and Jon holds his book in his lap. It tap-taps against the windows, plunks on the rooftop, splashes and ripples in the puddles in the garden. And. 

He cocks his head. 

There’s something else. 

Under the puddles. Down in the dirt, he hears a quiet, gentle song. Muffled, but happy. Moist and full and wriggling in the dark; in tunnels and tunnels, a million more voices in unison, working working working. A stranger song waits under the bushes in the wet corners of the yard - like strings and pipes in a great big web, waiting and waiting for their chance to come up and sprout and Jon gasps as he sees cottony white mushrooms pop up from the earth. Knows there are so many more, singing their own songs and just waiting waiting, loving. 

They are all so strange and different and so full, full of love. 

His eyes open in tears he doesn’t understand and he sees the moth. 

It’s singing. Its wings flutter, powdery soft as it sits on the corner of his book, and he can hear it. 

We would love you, it says, in words that shift and writhe and purr. 

All you ever wanted was to be loved. To not be left alone. 

We would always be there for you, it murmurs.

It is fat and heavy, its abdomen swollen and furred. And Jon knows how heavy it must really be. How full, how cold. 

How it longs for a home. 

(He misses home, too.)

Jon’s chest hurts. He knows his face is probably a mess, and he hiccups into his arm as he tries to scrub it clean on a sleeve. 

He doesn’t like to be alone. 

He does want friends. Friends who would listen when he sees weird things and love him even if he’s weird - and he must be, because isn’t it only the weird things that like him? 

The moth places a delicate claw on his hand. 

It still smells kind of bad. Like old potpourri, maybe, in a dusty old dish. 

We would love you the way your patron never could have. Know you and love you as you are. 

Isn’t that what you want? 

It’s heavy on his hand. Its little claws scratch at his skin, poke so gently as it looks up at him with those dark, dark eyes. 

We would be a home, all of us, together. 

There’s a knock at the door. 

It’s not his bedroom door, it’s no door in his house, but somewhere else, and it jolts him out of the song. Something is watching him. Watching him so hard he thinks maybe he missed a picture, but no. They’re all turned away, but he still feels it. 

The moth wobbles on his hand as he sucks in a breath and places it gently, slowly back on the windowsill. Its song still twines between the raindrops. Still whispers and crawls beneath the leaves, slithers in the warm wet. 

It’s the sound of love. 

Jon lets out a shaky, wibbly breath and tries not to wipe off his hand on his pants as he smiles at the big, fat moth. 

“I can’t be a home for you,” he says. More words crowd up on his tongue, struggling to burst out, but he swallows them down. 

The weight of being watched lays heavy across his shoulders. He doesn’t know how good it can listen, but he knows it can see what he does so he tucks his hands in his pockets. 

And he speaks in a voice almost as small as its smallest song. 

“Not yet.” 

(He doesn’t want to be alone. 

Not again. 

He is too small to hold them. But he can still hear their love. Each iridescent note, spun in buzzing, wonderful voices, dripping so sweetly upon his tongue.

He would gladly drown in their promises. 

After all, he laughs, cold and aching, wouldn’t it be better this way? To be devoured by something that loves him?) 

[halechief]

.

[notasapleasure]

Sometimes I am reminded that doing (well, mainly finishing) a PhD left me realllllllly fucked up! Today is one of those days! Everything I write must be Wrong and I am an Idiot for not understanding media! How fucking weird to feel too inadequate to watch a TV show I don't even want to watch because the smart people understand the lore it's fucking up while I'm just grubbing around in the dirt with my blorbos and my plastic shovel.

[herethereverywhere]

i am once again thinking about faunan elf culture

[spiralghoul]

Like I’ve loved Gwen since I was like 12 well before the movie came out and god the beginning of the movie just brought me straight back to getting and reading the 0 vol of her trades the colors and emotion and style and her feeling so lost and alone not fully fitting in just slightly standing out the constantly at odds with her parent never feeling like should could talk with anyone even people who were supposed to be ‘friends’ like Gwen in the beginning of her book was so lonely just like I was at that time and her world reflected that and to see spiderverse take that and show it so perfectly and THEN beautifully mimic Robbi Rodriguez and Rico Renzi’s art style ITS JUST SO GOOD

[cabinet-of-ecologies]

[wormtiddies]

every single night I have to fight off the depression brain worms before they make me do something (consuming media that hurts me) that I will immediately regret bc they are telling me it will bring me momentary peace (it will not)

[jacob-lockley]

@marvel hire me to write for moon knight I swear i have good ideas that arent just about making the system into a dreamboat i promise

[youssefguedira]

do i write this fic in second person like a madman or do i actually come up with a name for this character