#its my favourite

[currentlystandingonmyeyelashes]

Ughhh I watched Nimona with my mom and I LOVED IT IT IS A GEM AND ONE OF MY FAVOURITE CARTOONS but I just found out that my mom thinks that "gay people are just forced in all of these movies and films that I watch lately" and I'm just really disapointed because up till now she never said anything so against LGBTQ+. There are a lot of discusion on parents against gay people in nimona but have no problem with all violence so I'm not going to start a new one I JUST REALLY WANTED TO SAY THAT BAL AND AMBROSIOUS ARE ADORABLE AND I ROOTED FOR THEM FROM THE SECOND I SAW THEM AND I LOVE NIMONA SHE IS THE BEST

#lgbtq+ #nimona #ballister x ambrosius #i love this film #its my favourite #gay

[glitzybunny]

Assorted Magma Doodle Part 3! Old-ish edition

I feel like the red works a lot better than the old orange I used here, though I really like orange hehehehehhe

#magma #fnaf sb #solar lunacy #self insert #fnaf self insert #fnaf dca #fnaf sun #fnaf moon #fnaf eclipse #its entirely possible that I've posted some of these already #but I cannot for the life of me remember #or can see #fdhjgnbdsfjkhbg #I think I'm continuing to get a bit better at drawing them everyday #sdgdfg #that Moon drawing where he's telling me to take care of myself #UGH #ITS MY FAVOURITE #IM CRYING #CRYING AFFECTIONATELY OVER IT #also this is still not all of it #but im not gonna put up anymore pfff #the post spam is already crazy #teehee #maybe i'll put more idk #we silly #my art #artist persona

[raytm]

me knowing i'll get to graphically describe how gepard killed his father soon:

#if u know 1 thing about me it's that i LOVE writing grotesque shit #its my favourite #if i can make u have a visceral reaction 2 my writing im doing a good job. #ooc.

[des-fangirl]

HK MEMES FOR LIIIFE

these are hillarious im proud of myself. original memes under cut!!

#PLEASE THE FIRST ONE I CAANT #its my favourite #OK NO THE SECOND ONE IS COOL TOO #hollow knight #hk fanart #hk ghost #hk hornet #hk pk #hk pv #hk thk #hk pure vessel #hk pale king #desfan-art

[expensivemountaintea]

Guys my sister gave me some of her very expensive green tea. Apparently it's from some mountain whose name I can't remember for the life of me.

Now you might be wondering why I posted this. The thing is:

it smells like Seaweed .

It tastes wonderful don't get me wrong but it caught of guard so badly. Now this isn't the first time this happened. Some time ago I got some bubble tea with my siblings and my poor brothers tea smelled and tasted like Seaweed (For anyone wondering it was a roasted Oolong tea (probably???)) Does anyone of you know why that could be? Could it be because it might be roasted?

#This is the expensive mountain tea my profile was named after btw #Tea #green tea #mugs #I painted the mug myself #Its my favourite #shout out for my sis for giving me some #i know that she would guard it with her life

[politemenacephd]

✨Surprise ✨ they were 𝓰𝓪𝔂 the whole time ✨

also lord the tits on arachno i really can't be stopped huh

#i love gay animosity #its my favourite #oc art #spidersona oc #atsv oc #spiderman oc #atsv #gay idiots #my ocs #my ocs my beloved #spidersona

[vigilskeep]

i rlly do recommend trying the zevran romance with a character who has a broadly similar lack of experience with or initial intent for a real relationship, partly because it makes for a super cute and interesting storyline where they’re both awkwardly figuring this out together, and partly because i’m obsessed with the image of them realising they’re in love with each other and in unison going 😬

#i really appreciate how many options you get in the second earring conversation to be like #i dont know what the fuck im doing either zevran #its my favourite #zevran arainai

[thetragicallynerdy]

Time to go to the christkindle markt :3

#its my favourite #best solo holiday tradition #gonna get some steudel and maybe some poutine

[imyoursgiogio]

me when im watching s5 and Mike says “It’s always been you”

#byler #never gonna stop using this video #its my favourite

[venusforfran]

I'm so ill desperately need figs and honey (not a Greek god just tired)

#its my favourite #ever #but i cant go to the market :( #maybe orange will suffice #oh im sick posting i dont care #cough cough #sneeze #idk what to do #😔🫂

[angelcatsiel]

god, rewatching season 9 of supernatural brings back memories. I think the show must have been at the height of its popularity back then. it was the first season I watched live after getting into the show. I remember it airing on tuesday nights, and me spending the day with my best friend at college on wednesdays, and always hanging out with her catching up on last night's episode. I remember watching meta fiction with her, and the two of us screaming in excitement over gabriel's appearance. I remember the excitement of preparing for the season finale on tumblr, how much fun I had, it was my first experience like that in any fandom. that time was actually one of the worst, most difficult periods of my life, but supernatural provided me with so many of my few good memories from that time. I think season 9 in particular will always hold a special place in my heart for that reason

#personal #i just finished the season #also i do genuinely think its one of the best seasons in the show #its my favourite #metatron is SUCH a good villain #and its a very cas centric season which i love of course #i love the character development he gets #and his human arc

[notstarcey]

She Prentiss on my worms til I I itch all the time. Deep beneath my skin, where the bone sits, enshrined in flesh, I feel it. Something, not moving but that wants to move. Wants to be free. It itches, and I don’t think I want it. I don’t know what to do.

You can’t help me. I don’t think so, at least. But whatever it is that calls to me, that wants me for its own, it hates you. It hates what you are and what you do. And if it hates you, then maybe you can help me. If I wanted to be helped. I don’t know if I do. You must understand, it sings so sweetly, and I need it, but I am afraid. It isn’t right and I need help. I need it to be seen. To be seen in the cold light of knowledge is anathema to the things that crawl and slither and swarm in the corners and the cracks. In the pitted holes of the hive.

You can’t see it, of course. It isn’t real. Not like you or I are real. It’s more of an everywhere. A feeling. Are you familiar with trypophobia? That disgusted fear at holes, irregular, honeycombed holes. Makes you feel that itch in the back of your mind, like the holes are there too, in your own brain, rotten and hollow and swarming. Is that real?

I’m sorry, I know I’m meant to be telling you what happened. What brought me to this place. This place of books and learning, of sight and beholding. I’m sorry. I should. I will.

I… I haven’t slept in some time. I can’t sleep. My dreams are crawling and many-legged. Not just slithering and burrowing,. though it is the burrowing that draws me. They always sing that song of flesh. I hope you will forgive me for such a rambling story. I hope you will forgive me for a great many things, as it may be I do worse. I have that feeling, that instinct that squirms through your belly. There will be great violence done here. And I bleed into that violence.

Do you know, I wonder? As I watch you sitting there through the glass. Eating a sandwich. Do you know where you are? You called me “dear”. “Have a seat, dear.” “You can write it down, dear.” “Take as much time as you need, dear.” Can you truly know the danger you are in?

There is a wasps’ nest in my attic. A fat, sprawling thing that crouches in the shadowed corner. It thrums with life and malice. I could sit there for hours, watching the swirls of pulp and paper on its surface. I have done. It is not the patterns that enthral me, I’m not one of those fools chasing fractals; no, it’s what sings behind them. Sings that I am beautiful. Sings that I am a home. That I can be fully consumed by what loves me.

I don’t know how long the nest has been there. It’s not even my house, I just live there. Some sweaty old man thinks he owns it, taking money for my presence as though it will save him. I used to worry about it, you know. I remember, before the dreams, I would spend so long worrying about that money. About how I could afford to live there. Now I know that whatever the old man thinks, as he passes about the house with brow crinkled and mouth puckered in disapproval, it is not his. It has a thousand truer owners who shift and live and sing within the very walls of the building. He does not even know about the wasps’ nest. I wonder how long he has not known. How many years it has been there.

Have you ever heard of the filarial worm? Mosquitoes gift it with their kiss and it grows and grows. It stops water moving round the human body right, makes limbs and bellies swell and sag with fluid. Now, when I look at that fat, sweaty sack, I think about it, and the voice sings of showing him what a real parasite can do.

How many months has it been like this? Was there a time before? There must have been. I remember a life that was not itching, not fear, not nectar-sweet song. I had a job. I sold crystals. They were clean, and sharp and bright and they did not sing to me, though I sometimes said they did. We would sell the stones to smiling young couples with colour in their hair. I remember, before I found the nest, someone new came. His name was Oliver, and he would look at me so strangely. Not with lust or affection or contempt, but with sadness. Such a deep sadness. And once with fear. It didn’t matter, because no-one in the shop wanted to hear about the ants below it. I tried to tell them, to explain, but they did not care. The pretty young things complained and I left.

That was when I still called myself a witch. Wicca and paganism, I would spend my weekends at rituals by the Thames. I wanted something beyond myself, but could not stomach the priest or the imam or pujari of the churches. I knew better. I knew that it was not so simple as to call out to well-trodden gods. I never felt from my rituals anything except exhaustion and pride. I thought that those were my spiritual raptures.

I wish, deep inside, below the itch, that they were still my raptures. I have touched something now, though, that all my talk of ley lines and mother goddesses could never have prepared me for. It is not a god. Or if it is then it is a dead god, decayed and clammy corpse-flesh brimming with writhing graveworms.

When did I first hear it? It wasn’t the nest, I’m sure of that. I never went in the attic. It was locked and I didn’t have a key. I spent a day sawing through the padlock with an old hacksaw. My hands were blistered by the end. Why would I have done that if I didn’t know what I would find? The face of the one who sang to me dwelling within the hidden darkness above me. I had seen no wasps. I know I hadn’t. There are no wasps in the nest. So how else would I have known that I needed to be there, to be in the dark with it, if it had not already been singing to me?

No, that’s not right. The nest does not sing to me. It is simply the face. Not the whole face, for the whole of the hive is infinite. An unending plane of wriggling forms swarming in and out of the distended pores and honeycombed flesh. The nest is nothing but paper.

Was it the spiders? There were webs in the corners, around the entryway into the attic. I would watch them scurry and disappear in between the wooden boards. ‘Where are you going, little spiders?’ I would think. ‘What are you seeing in the dark? Is it food? Prey? Predators?’ I wondered if it was the spiders that made the gentle buzzing song. It was not. Webs have a song as well, of course, but it is not the song of the hive.

I used to pick at my skin. It was a compulsion. I would spend hours in the bathroom, staring as close as I could get to my face to the mirrors, searching for darkened pores to squeeze and watch the congealed oil worm its way out of my skin. Often I would end with swollen red marks where it had become inflamed with irritation or infection. Did I hear the song then?

Was it when I was a child, such a clear memory of a classmate telling me a blackhead was a hole in my face, and if I didn’t keep it clean it would grow and rot. Did I hear it then, as that image lodged in my mind forever? Or was it last year, passing by a strip of green they call a park near my house, after the rain, and watching a hundred worms crawl and squirm to the surface.

Perhaps I’ve always heard it. Perhaps the itch has always been the real me, and it was the happy, smiling Jane who called herself a witch and drank wine in the park when it was sunny. Maybe it was her who was the maddened illusion that hides the sick squirming reality of what I am. Of what we all are, when you strip away the pretence that there is more to a person than a warm, wet habitat for the billion crawling things that need a home. That love us in their way.

I need to think. To clear my head. To try and remember, but remember what? I was lonely before. I know that. I had friends, at least I used to, but I lost them. Or they lost me. Why was it? I remember shouting, recriminations, and I was abandoned. No idea why. The memories are a blur. I do remember that they called me “toxic”. I don’t think I really knew what that meant, except that it was the reason I was so very painfully lonely. Was that it? Was I swayed and drawn simply by the prospect of being genuinely loved? Not loved as you would understand it. A deeper, more primal love. A need as much as a feeling. Love that consumes you in all ways.

You can’t help me. I’m sure of that now. I have tried to write it down, to put it into terms and words you could understand. And now I stare at it and not a word of it is even enough to fully describe the fact that I itch. Because ‘itch’ is not the right word. There is no right word because for all your Institute and ignorance may laud the power of the word, it cannot even stretch to fully capture what I feel in my bones. What possible recourse could there be for me in your books and files and libraries except more useless ink and dying letters? I see now why the hive hates you. You can see it and log it and note it’s every detail but you can never understand it. You rob it of its fear even though your weak words have no right to do so.

I do not know why the hive chose me, but it did. And I think that it always had. The song is loud and beautiful and I am so very afraid. There is a wasps’ nest in my attic. Perhaps it can soothe my itching soul.

#the magnus archives #tma shitpost #im so sorry #i love her #i love this statement #its my favourite

[jeanmoreausautismstickers]

Regulus “I’m in love with the way you always come around when I’m out of sound” Black x Barty “I’m in love with the things you say when I’m burnt out” Crouch Jr.

#the song is vienna sunday night by kinneret #its my favourite #barty crouch jr #regulus black #bartylus #starkiller #they need to kiss

[marchsfreakshow]

Guys who d'think would be more likely to actually happily watch Beauty And The Beast with me out of all the characters I write for???

#personal #texty #question #i really wanna know #i love beauty and the beast #its my favourite #gta #ahs

[crabboytahomaru]

I was meant to be studying but I got ✨ distracted ✨ and this happened

#periodically i just get seized with the morro brainrot #morro #ninjago #lego ninjago #i love drawing with pencil #its my favourite #morro wu #bep

[sunglassesmish]

all the gifsets you’re seeing me post i made within the last 24 hours im not kidding i need help

#i still have my main one to post #its my favourite #do i post it now or…