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@twistingdeception-a
twistingdeception-a:
heads up: i’ll move the door wife probably tomorrow from a sideblog to a proper one, given that i also have no drafts on here, i’ll update when I’m done ♥
this is now an archive! we’re over on @twistingdeception and finally able to follow back lmao
twistingdeception-a:
heads up: i’ll move the door wife probably tomorrow from a sideblog to a proper one, given that i also have no drafts on here, i’ll update when I’m done ♥
this is now an archive! we’re over on @twistingdeception and finally able to follow back lmao
heads up: i’ll move the door wife probably tomorrow from a sideblog to a proper one, given that i also have no drafts on here, i’ll update when I’m done ♥
next time she walks out one of her doors (maybe in one of the places where she appears more often, even) she's going to find a handful of worms wiggling not too far, forming almost-shapes, almost-messages comprehensible only for very few. a token of sorts. it could be read as an unthreatening i was here; and i will be back.
@hivebody
A ᴘʀᴇᴅᴇsᴛɪɴᴇᴅ place for her doors to find is hard; especially as someone not serving the Distortion, and thanks to their unique situation there is only ever one Avatar of the Distortion. The Spiral, surely, has multiple of them; Helen wouldn't know. It is no surprise to anyone at all that whoever serves the Spiral instead would take a disliking to the Distortion; despite the fact many would consider them one and the same. Of course that's counter to their entire basis; they might not be a new fear, but still a split away from the original. Not quite a fraction, more like — well, a distorted mirror. The key of the Spiral is to not be known, to not be merged with anything that can be known, and yet here she is: clearly being known well enough by the Corruption to leave a gift.
Another, they might look at the worms crawling in a circle and think of it as a threat. She knows the Archive would; but they have limited understanding of things and she knows the Corruption hates Beholding, for what are they if not mortal enemies? Knowledge on how to cure is of course counter to them; unlike her, who stands right next to either of them. For what is a mind knowing too much if not falling into madness? And for what are those rotten thoughts if not losing sanity? Madness has always been a sister to almost all the fears, and as such, so is she.
No. These worms left; they are a greeting. No more than a simple 'I'm thinking of you', and isn't that just sweet? Isn't that just the nicest thing? Sweet: surely, she'd be one of few to say such a thing of the Corruption, but people always forget that it's also about unconditional, all consuming love. Of giving yourself up for what you care about. So: how could this be anything but?
Readjusting them just gently; they will stay in the shape of a spiral rather than a circle, undoubtedly.
yes wives yes lesbians yes eldritch wlw but consider. Jane and Helen out to feed together.
imagine. you're being chased by someone - something - that might have been human once but now all that's left is a shell full of wiggling worms. and you have either seen how ravenous they are before or you know that if she gets you, it's over. no second chances. just you and a pile of insects to be buried under as they dig through your flesh and eat at your organs before you even have time to scream. she's getting closer. you're desperate. you might outrun her, but the worms are so many and so fast, much faster than they should be, you are sure they will get to you in no time if you keep running.
maybe you end up in a warehouse. maybe it's a dead end. maybe a courtyard surrounded by tall fences. the fact that you don't have a way out. out of breath, filled to the brim with terror, squirming wet noises behind you (even if you don't look back, god help me please don't let me look back-) and the convinction that you're at the end of the rope. it's over. nothing but a pile of crunched-on bones will be left of you.
but, as you look around one last time in desperation, you see it. a door. of course you didn't see it before - it's dark, your vision is all blurry, it makes perfectly sense that you didn't notice it standing clean a few meters away from you. comforting. safe. like an outstretched hand waiting for you to grab it so you can be pulled out of this nightmare.
so what can you possibly do if not take a few, desperately hopeful steps towards it, grab the handle and fling the door open without thinking twice, slamming it close behind you before the worms get you and -
oh, dear. what a terrible decision.
I'm also thinking about
She exclusively calls Jon Archivist. Except one time. One time she calls him Jonathan. But ... The Archivist, that's his Avatar side. That's the side that has power, and that is useful. Jonathan, he's just... He's just a boy. Lost and in over his head and he can't do anything for her. Which is the context in which she uses it, which is when she refuses to help him because he has nothing he can offer her right now.
Chinhands. I'm a wee bit annoyed. Tag rant bc my thoughts are messy and unorganized.
Do i... Move Helen to a proper blog too... Mhm...
JANE.
SHE DOESN’T have to turn to know the entrance/exit/passway disappeared behind her back. A few worms got stuck in its hinges or got crushed as it closed, but she doesn’t even turn to look back at it and save what’s left. The worms are the Hive and at the same time they aren’t. It’s not one more or less that will make a difference, and she won’t weep for such a little loss. What matters the most is elsewhere, deep beneath her skin, lulled inside her organs, at her very core.
Walking inside Helen’s territory feels just as weird it does to the Distortion. As if she were sinking deeper under another’s skin, not any differently from how the itch came to be inside her. (She can’t remember much of it, of course, but if she could that’d be the first thought to come to her mind.) One step forward, and she could be navigating her way through Helen’s shape, tearing through not-skin and not-flesh with her mere presence. Weird; not unbearable. A feeling she will get used to, eventually. It definitely won’t be her main focus when her surroundings offer much more interesting sights.
Shapes and corners change right under her gaze, colors twist and stretch at impossible angles as if they were solid and not tricks of the light. She walks closer to things that resemble flowers only because they’re sprouting from the ground; any other detail about them is wrong. Not unsettling, just inaccurate. It’s even clearer when she touches a so-called petal and it stays where it is, swirling under her touch but not falling off. What it does instead is catching a worm peeking out of Jane’s finger, sucking it out of its hole and making it disappear in a flurry of lights. A tilt of her head, then she withdraws her hand and walks past it, her gaze eventually shifting to Helen as she catches up with her. Studying how she seems to blend in with this place and be one with it.
(She wants to sink her decaying fingers in her and never let go. Push her own body into that mass and become the infection.)
“Does it have a name?”
Iᴛ ɪs so much more comfortable to be here; walk through her own hallways and corridors and the ever changing structure of this place that is as much her body as the shifting mass one calls such, that holds her consciousness and thoughts and all that she is, all that makes her what she is and more. There's no difference between that what is vaguely human shaped at most times and the twisting floors and walls. Naturally, one would feel more at ease within their own skin, and she knows Jane: knows that this is an urge deep within her, to crawl underneath and sit inside another's body, so what is this but an offering of such? The closest she can get without swallowing her whole (and this, surely: akin to it, but there's no danger for the other. Her mind is changed far too much for the Distortion to have any use for it, what do worms know of madness? Even if the thought is delicious, to drive something that is not one but many into a feverish haze, to pick them apart and make them into something with another mind and consciousness yet again, but alas: this is not for her).
"The part most people see? Omega Mart. They think it's a trick of the light, some funny architecture. Of course, most of them don't open the right doors; and those that do rarely get to tell of it."
Rarely, as if not to say: never. She doesn't let go of what comes willingly unless there's a bigger meal coming from such. Sometimes that means the things inside turn up and attempt to eat her herself in a desperate attempt to live (isn't that what she did?), but she's not too worried, not even with the intent clear in Jane's eyes and the scuttling worms around, on, inside her. This is a different drive of hunger, one that leads her own steps.
"Do you want to find one?"
Are you hungry?
MICHAEL.
❛❛ 𝑷𝑬𝑹𝑯𝑨𝑷𝑺 . ❜❜ he acquiesces , even as he is still thinking it over ; in this space that is theirs & them & itself his voice leaves little ripples like colors , curling outward like cartoon effects . in his & her & its head his thoughts do the same ; they split like cells , they scatter everywhere . her questions are too direct , too inward , too personal for its liking . 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐄 𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 ? the michael who did a terrible thing is not still here . what is left is almost as much her as it is him . but what , in the end , is there to be offended by ; is it not , ultimately , talking to itself ? ❛❛ if trusting another is such a terrible thing , little sister . ❜❜ 𝐈𝐓 𝐃𝐎𝐄𝐒𝐍'𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐓 , but what else is there to call her ? they’re like twins in the womb except they were eaten to get into the belly , so perhaps not . they’re alike , except they’re not ; just more of the same , while different . the right hand is not the left hand’s little sister , is it ? two voices inside of something is not two people . yet she is across from him , not within . he doesn’t want to think on any of it for much longer . ❛❛ if it was , at least i chose it . all 𝒀𝑶𝑼 did was to not pay attention ! ❜❜
Tʜᴇ ᴅᴇғᴇɴsɪᴠᴇɴᴇss of it; it would be a rather pleasant reaction if it didn't echo in what one could account as her own core. There is nothing to be separated between them while at the same time the differences are so very important. To be known is both the most terrible and the most intimate thing for either of them and yet, and yet.
She asks and she already knows the answer. Knows, but that's the point of it all. It's a different knowing from what would one outside — it's both the nature of what they it he she is, to question things clear and to turn the knobs on trusting the very own sense of being; and it's the tether that exists between them both, somewhat being, somewhat not being. One thing with two bodies and neither of them works as one should.
Funny, this, too! Maybe she laughs. Maybe she doesn't. Maybe she thinks she's laughing but she isn't, and maybe she thinks it's all inside her their head but it produces a sound. Senses are to be mistrusted, senses are to be tricked and fooled too easily. It's funny: him, accusing her of not paying attention, but him not paying attention is what made her like him as well. (One and the same, ever changing, ever taken apart and formed anew, a pattern impossible to understand.) Amusement at his misery while it pangs inside her own chest. (Is it a chest? Would a human being define it as such?)
" — and yet, we are both here." She smiles and it's color and fangs and sounds. "And yet, you have to endure me."
nothing new here, just @hivebody & me being gay again
Gentle reminder that this is a sideblog and I cannot follow back from here nor send asks, thanks.
anyway, song for the wives...
‘ thank god for the stubbornness of organs ’ - Leitner
i still won't look for the meme sorry | @bcrgmal
"Yᴏᴜ ᴄᴀʟʟ this preferable?"
A question. No malice, at least none that is heard immediately; hidden underneath, maybe. It's always hard to tell, and she watches with what can best be described the curiousness of a child (that is: projected on what loosely counts as an adult woman, making it stand out even more) the way he holds himself. Even if those organs are stubborn, then they sure aren't right. Not in the way a human's should be and having taken some obvious damage. Still, it sure is something to be impressed by, to still be standing with that. Not necessarily something one should want, of course: the idea, the concept of the agony he's going through is positively delightful, and she wonders if it hurts enough to twist thoughts, to create a fog in the brain that it's difficult to think through, if reality swims away a little.
(The door, either way, is open: maybe an invitation, maybe an offer for help — and why not? — maybe something else. Either way, a potential end to pain.)
"How long until it gets worse then?" Until it's no longer bearable, until it rips and tears and death; death would be preferable by far. Or something worse replacing it. There are many things sitting in the shadows and the corners of one's eyes, after all. "Let me help you out." Threat? Offer? Who knows, truly.
the distortion just out here taking everyone’s gender
‘ you are an ocean that will perhaps never stop crashing ’ - oliver banks
i don't remember the meme and i'm too lazy to look | @bcrgmal
Lᴀᴜɢʜᴛᴇʀ, ᴛʜᴇɴ, or what could potentially be defined as such. It has a weird ring to it; not quite static, not quite a high frequency, but something sits underneath it, crawls up along the noise albeit (or especially since!) it's genuine, coupled with a smile that one might account as soft. Because why not? What qualm does she have with this one? Some things; they are inevitable. Even if the Distortion as such will not cease to be any time soon, it doesn't mean there won't ever be such a time, and this form right here, it most certainly will. And has not the prospect of the End driven people mad before? Has not the idea of ceasing, of being forgotten, erased, nothing claimed so many minds, had them decaying and driven straight into the Spiral's arms?
No: she doesn't think there's much to be scared of, here. She doesn't think much in the way that it would make sense to another; there's ideas, concepts — but putting most of it into any words another being might understand, well, that is where the troubles start.
"Mayhaps. For sure there will be a couple others. One thing ending, another born from it. Funny to hear something like that from someone as you, though. Isn't it all about all things ending, eventually?"
Still: not worried. As long as minds complex enough exist, for as long will she exist. Maybe not as Helen, but she is still as much themselves as it was when he was Michael; and it will continue on as such. Something new added, something old lost, and the further down it goes, the more it will become fractured again, the more it will become impossible to separate what comes from where and who was who, and maybe — maybe ! — that is when they will be one with the thing that lies again, not a weird in between state. Not quite Avatar, not quite Entity, just — them, in their own way.
And wouldn't such an End be desirable indeed? Maybe that's what this is: a warning. Of having such an impossible dream, of returning to what they were. What it once had been. Maybe that.
The thought, well, it's delightfully maddening in it's own right.
there are flowerbeds all around inside her glasshouse, and there are rotting flowers blooming and withering in crooked shapes, and there are chunks of flesh of all sorts and species half-buried between the dirt and the veil of worms crawling and feeding on them. and then there's Jane, crouched in front of one of these colonies, talking in a thousand voices about what kinds the worms prefer. (it's the longest she has ever talked. one might fear - ah! - that her lungs will collapse before she's done speaking.)
@hivebody
Tʜɪs ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ of course: it wasn't meant to be of permanence when offered to the other one. A real enough one, certainly, with it's architecture following the laws of physics and being accessible by the real world in such a way only counts as technically. Enough that Jane can leave and come as she wants without needing a Door, but most mortals wouldn't be able to find their way through the overgrown doors, the vines and thorns ready to tear into clothing and skin (and if they hadn't been poisoning the blood before, then certainly now where it is a place claimed by Rot and Decay), certainly now where the Corruption sits between rotten flowerbeds and the worms almost make a carpet on the floor, growing fat on feeding whatever lost soul does attempt to come here (and maybe some she has led here, what of it? Not all trapped into her corridors are suitable for her own needs, but the worms, they surely do not care about any states of mind).
Watching then. Jane has long known her to be here, most certainly; there's nothing in here that would escape her notice. Too many minds that keep watch, however tiny they are and however utterly uninteresting they are to Distortion; what does a worm know of fractals? Of spiraling down, of mistrust, of not trusting it's sense? No; those are of as little importance to her as she is to them. They simply crawl over themselves, often out of her way (even if not all of them), not ending up beneath changing limbs and a body causing a headache trying to understand it's physique the longer one looks at her. (Surely: she could keep her shape somewhat coherent. Not necessarily human, but not changing as much. It's uncomfortable to do, however, and there's little need to hide here, with colors changing and flashing and patterns swirling and limbs changing as they see fit themselves.)
When she sits next to Jane, it's not to interrupt, even if oh! Poor child's lungs are long filled with dirt and crawling life that doesn't quite support the air required to talk as much, and that might be worrisome, but they each know their own limits better than anyone else. Or lack thereof.
"I don't think I've ever heard you talk as much." Softly. Fondly.
