#i. i like moths a lot guys

[lilybug-02]

In short- the bugs of Hallownest did not take it well. Lots of screaming about "The end of the world" and "past sins coming back to haunt them". Elderbug almost had his second heart attack and basically every bug, other than the Pale King children and Quirrel, hid for several hours. (Zote likes to claim he was the first to make contact)

As for why Dewi's Dad is in Dirtmouth? Well, he wasn't very happy when his 11 year old son told him about going into a 'mysterious cave' to see his bug friends. Adult supervision and all that.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

It's the 6 month anniversary of this blog! Check out these cool bugs I found.

(EDIT: Check out this amazing fanart by thecornermushroom!)

Part 2 - Part 3

[joelletwo]

[ID: takagin fanart of them as bright-eyed sweet-smiling joui teens laying together and gazing into each others eyes, sugi fondly calling him gayass, shown to be a frantically crossed out thought bubble from a much more haggard adult takasugi, grimacing as a much heavier gintoki lays on his chest and deadpannedly calls him gayass]

the guy that u could be if u were a totally different guy and so was the guy ur obsessed with (despite him being the guy he actually is)

[bastiodon8]

You recently posted that you are looking for prompts and requests for drawing anything Magma-related?

What about Courtney wearing a Pokemon-themed gown or Halloween Costume? Like the design based on Mega-Camerupt or Talonflame?

well, look who's almost 2 months late to this!

anywayz, i've been playing around with the idea of courtney having an iron moth so here's a little sygna suit idea that kind of came to me based on iron moth (of course) and maria clara gowns.

hope you like the design as much as i do! it's very self indulgent.

i was worried it didn't look THAT much like iron moth but a lot of sygna suits kind of look hard to really tell what pokémon they're based on too so i'm not too worried about it or anything.

concept design hell under the cut because i did not expect this to turn out well:

[shokupanko]

Today is my birthday! ｖ（＾＿＾ｖ）♪

In honor of that, let’s meet the artist! 🎀

[chiropteracupola]

God, will my family know, will I wash ashore / Discovered by a fisherman returning with the tide / Or will I disappear for good below like all those before / Another lost sailor in a cautionary tale... Swallowed by a whale!

[mint-termsandconditions]

【A】【c】【h】【e】【r】【o】【n】【t】【i】【a】

【A】【t】【r】【o】【p】【o】【s】

[butterflieswhisper]

hiiii ^^ beastlife fishie analysis. spoilers ahead. etc etc

okay so. the main point of this is simple. I don't think the salmon head cursed c!fishie. Explaining that is the harder part I think. also i'm going to refer to the salmon head thing in e5 as "the incident" from here on out because frankly i think it's funny

Let's start with the incident. The big day. etc. What happened? Why did it happen? Obligatory third questioning statement? Well. She was gifted the salmon head for her birthday by kiwi(or like. someone in the kiwibird system. -bird system. the birds). Immediately upon receiving it she relives parts of season one and fishie herself doesn't really acknowledge it. The other players definitely notice but im not caught up enough in any other pov yet to like have thoughts on that I'll come back to that point someday. Fishie seems shaken, sure, but she moves on so quickly, especially considering what happened just there. 37 seconds of standing frozen, unresponsive. she recovers in 5 seconds. And seeing how she reacts later on to realizing the memory situation--if she was aware that happened, she would probably be concerned by it. She puts it on for a brief second at the end of the party and takes it off immediately. She's otherwise normal -- well. as normal as she is otherwise up to that point. Because that is also how she acts with pretty much any salmon head, even just kiwi herself.

I raise: Episode one, about 8:20 in. The slow zoom on kiwi as the static overtakes every other noise. This is the *exact* same behavior displayed when fishie receives the salmon head, albeit without actual concrete old video footage style flashbacks. In episode two (28:55ish) the same thing happens when she looks at the salmon head in moch's house, but this time there is technically a flashback -- kiwis grave. Fishie moves on immediately and doesn't acknowledge her behavior at all, and, seeing as it is fishie, im inclined to believe that means she does not know she is doing it. Fishie (when alone) will discuss all of her problems in immense, and usually misguided detail (bestie i promise kiwi doesn't hate you???) to the audience and/or herself. I mean she's not alone in episode one, and it is technically presession, and i guess getting struck by lightning is a decent distraction from your problems, but in episode two? She is completely alone. There is nobody with her. She went looking for moch and moch is not there. She still doesn't acknowledge the fiveish seconds she is completely frozen. This happens again and again with kiwi and salmon heads.

And then that leads you to e5. The incident. She's. well. she's doing worse. 0:50. "This will distract me if i leave it up." This is the first mention from fishie herself about how fucking weird she's being, and even then she doesn't seem concerned. I think she does not realize she's being so so incredibly weird about it. If the static and freezing is what's referred to as "distraction" then keeping it in her inventory makes it worse actually so it wouldn't really make sense unless the way it is distracting her is NOT the. well. whatever the fuck is wrong with her (affectionate). After she puts the head on there's the static all the time but for a short brief amount of time she's like significantly more normal and i don't really know if that means anything i just think it's really funny.

And then we all know what goes on during the incident i'm not analyzing this video frame by frame. um. i could. but i am not going to right now. And then she has the conversation on the table with kiwi where she like is normal for 5 minutes. Like genuinely the most. i guess stable? fishie's thought process is is like in the moments directly after the incident. She is immediately understanding with the antikiwi situation, they come to an agreement that they're like. okay now. "thank you for everything and im so sorry i couldnt do more" / "it was short, but it was nice" "i knew what i was getting into when i married you" etc etc and then they kind of rush it at the end because people won't stop dying. But then fishie is fishie and takes it in the complete opposite extreme (from. um. whatever was wrong up until now. to "oh kiwibird must secretly hate me because" and then there's no real good reason she's just like that) and it's also an issue. And i think the season two memory thing is also a part of that but this is so long already and so i'm not going to get into it rn. So bringing all of this back to my original point: the salmon head was not the cause of the curse(?) because she's been so weird all the time forever and the salmon head thing was just like. an effect. of whatever went Wrong(tm) in the season transition. like the head was a vessel to Be Worse about it but i feel like it would have worked with any salmon head she got her hands on and that it happened to be kiwico was a coincidence and also that the head wasn't cursed at all there's just something deeply wrong with fishie s3 in general and uh yeah 👍

I'm so sorry this is so disjointed i had a thesis statement and everything. alas

[fabdante]

i was going to add some fun grunge fashion to that ask a few minutes ago like, in a reblog, but when i went to google grunge fashion i just got flooded with like ai generated images that all look like this:

so that's something

[selfdiagnosedeyemotif]

hey you guys know how every lesbian has one guy who they're freakishly obsessed with. and you know how i, a lesbian, haven't really had a character like that. so anyways quirrel hollow knight

[raspberrysmoon]

adjusted my blocktag lmao i like becky barnes too much

[moe-broey]

LIKE something I think is all of the Askr family are like mirrors. Alfonse is a reflection of how much he loves Sharena and the summoner. Sharena is a reflection of how much she loves Alfonse and how, I think in the autistic sense, I think she mirrors A LOT. Henriette is a reflection of how much she loves Gustav (and seemingly, so severely that that love struggles to reach everyone else). Gustav was likely a reflection of how much he loved Henriette and his father. All of them are performing, adhering to SOMETHING. Their roles, and what seems to be The Correct Course of Action.

[bonetrousledbones]

NEVERMIND i googled Moth With Long Curved Ass and found it lmao (pictures under cut)

THIS MAN is a SPOTTED APATELODES!!!!

can any of yall identify weird maybe-moth bugs from multiple kinda blurry photos from different angles taken through a window screen. asking for a friend

[joelletwo]

way too late to be articulating this thought but every time i loop hayloft and see the goofy utsuro!takasugi->oboro!takasugi noooo lil sibling dont kill sensei by killing sensei. kill sensei by killing ourselves. convolution. i am more and more fueled into getting as stupid as i can in my gntm postcanon lol. takasugi's eye has always been fine and he crawled out of that tower miraculously alive. so did oboro. separately. bc they. separately. uno reverse took over shouyou and utsuro's bodies respectively. all the other altana bodies in the terminal died for real tho so shouyoutsuro did as well. so whos that baby? why its my good friend shouyou(tsuro. theyre integrating.) the fourth :)

and the shouyou body takasugi took over just had a normal ass stab wound thats easy street hes fine now. but the utsuro body oboro took over was 1. largely metaphorical 2. also stabbed 3. more importantly underwent ego death something bad. so oboro's still on borrowed time he just gets enough to hang out with everyone until they get bored of him after a month and then he goes crawls in the woods and dies. one more time

[fellpyrean]

Claps hands alright we’re doing this! So I started listening to magnus archives a few months ago and it really did things to my writing ideas, so now I’m gonna round some up and post ‘em. 

I forget where/when I first saw a moth!jon but u know. He’s cute. So here is some moth!jon AU! Corruption Jon :Dc and archivist Sasha! ~1800 words. 

Since he is a corruption avatar in this, there is (as expected) some possibly gross bug imagery, but not a lot of holes. And no worms! :D

______________

The flat is quiet. 

Quieter than Sasha expected, and much neater too than she expected when they connected this one to "Filth." The lights are off and there's a faint dusty, sweet scent in the air as she cracks open the door, torch slicing through the dark. 

It catches on motes of dust. She thinks she hears movement, a susurrus of rustling like fabric faint in the depths of the place but little else. She pushes the door further, feels it catch on the ragged old rug on the floor and watches moths flutter up, batter against her torch in little puffs of dust before they flutter away. 

Part of her worries as she steps inside, as she closes the door behind herself - leaving just a crack in case she needs to get out fast. 

This is too quiet for something of the powers. The flat should be more of a wreck, more… more miserably bloodstained, more disgusting and unnerving, but it looks, honestly, just a bit messy, a bit moth-eaten. The couch sags a bit wrong, but hell, she can't pretend she's never had one like it. There are shelves of books, their edges chewed and pages no doubt holey, there's even a mug left forgotten on the kitchen counter. It's all dim; lit only by what spills around heavy curtain edges and her own torch as she steps further in and - and hears that rustling again from the end of the hallway and heads straight for it. 

More moths flutter up at her steps, and she is wary, she is. But the things just… flutter uselessly at her hands, their wings shedding dust and their fat abdomens plump and full, but hardly a threat before they fly - further inside. 

Towards that faint rustling noise, towards the door at the end of the dim-lit hall that is just open enough to allow the frantic moths to flit inside. Writhing and wriggling at the crack between door and jamb just a moment before they vanish inside, but the movement… it makes Sasha swallow. 

Something about the way the bulbous little things squirm before they pop through sets her stomach on edge. Too many of them; more than she thought, all struggling to squeeze into that door. 

The crack writhes by the time she reaches it. 

She can swear she hears them whine and click and screech in tiny voices above the din of their frantically fluttering wings.

She uses her torch to push the door open. Fast, loosing a cloud of moths from the stuffed crack that fall and flutter and scatter into the dim room before her. 

The rustling has not gone quiet. Neither has the soft, whining song of flapping wings and voices she cannot place as she raises her torch high, fumbling for her pepper spray in her other hand. More of a comfort to herself than any real belief it would accomplish anything against something abnormal, but the room doesn’t… change. Nothing leaps out of the dim shadows, nothing comes ravening towards her with a horrid, dripping maw. 

It’s a bedroom. The bed is really as far as the light peeking around the curtains lights, in thin, dusty stripes across worn rugs and a small pile of abandoned clothes. 

“A-Ah.” 

Sasha whips her torch towards the voice, and stills. 

There is… there is something like a man there. Tucked in the corner, with all the moths frantically fluttering, scuttling towards it. She watches, stomach queasy, as the moths drill between the heavy folds of the blanket? The wrap? It has folded around itself. It reaches a hand out to a particularly fat straggler and cradles it in its palms like a treasure, bringing it up slowly, carefully, and opens thin, paled lips and lets the thing crawl straight into its mouth as Sasha gags. 

It is almost worse then when it looks up. 

Long, straggling hair that was probably rather nice once. Now it is loose and lank, black shot with grey and dust that hangs over… over his shoulders, over the thing he has cocooned himself within. His eyes are dark. Too dark. 

There are no whites, she realizes, and cannot help but feel her fingers twinge around the pepper spray. 

But he isn’t attacking. He is just looking at her, head cocked like a curious animal as the moths burrow back into the shelter he offers. 

She can work with this. She sucks in a breath, wills her stomach to settle as she tells it it could really be so, so much worse, and points the torch further towards the floor. Good manners. Going out on a limb that he’s probably not too fond of bright light. 

“Hello,” she says. The strange man stares at her. Hard enough she swears she can feel the tracks his eyes leave on her skin, but she only makes herself stand taller. He seems to like that. He laughs. Not maliciously. 

It’s soft. Like cotton, like it’s been a long while since he’s used his voice, and the rasp sticks to it as he speaks and Sasha tries not to linger on where exactly that moth went. 

“Hello, Archivist. Doing house calls?” 

He’s smiling. And that’s what gets her. 

His voice is soft and smooth like old silk and his smile stiff like he’s unused to using it, but something about him feels familiar. It’s there, just at the corner of her mind, and she knows she’s frowning deeply as she casts a line and tries to hook just why she feels like she knows this strange man, but then he laughs again and stands. 

He rustles as he does. That… that thing wrapped around him doesn’t move the way it should, not like cloth, but she can’t immediately place that, either. Not until he walks a little closer and her torch light catches on it and it… shimmers. 

Like moth wings. And Sasha sucks in a breath. 

She can see it now. The patterns in the dusty brown, the oranges that circle white to make massive, partly hidden eyespots. The thick, dark veins supporting the overall structure, and she can’t help herself from blurting out, “Can you fly with those?” 

The man shudders, that smile hung unmoving on his face as he brings a hand to his mouth and coughs against the static. 

“Not well,” he answers into his hand, his too-dark eyes sparkling. He lets his hand drop back into the too-layered folds of his wings and shuffles a little closer; his wingtips drag across the floor, like a blanket wrapped around a child too small for it, and she can see now where his long, untied hair turns into something shorter. A ruff of fur at the back of his neck, across the back of his shoulders.

(Can see the moths wriggling down into the fur, settling there, an army of tiny, coal-black eyes staring out at her, glinting green when her torch light catches them.) 

And then he stands still, that faint smile on his face, his dark eyes half-lidded in an expression she cannot place, and waits as that soft, soft distant song hums in the room. 

Sasha exhales. This is more than she dared hope for. He’s talking. He’s non-aggressive.

“I,” she begins, wetting her tongue before plunging back into her words. “I was wondering if I could ask you some questions. About the ‘Filth.’ About you.”

He watches, and she feels emboldened. 

(Her phone begins to ring as she steps closer to him, and she ignores it. It’s Elias. She knows.)

“We don’t have answers. And if you could tell me, tell us what you know? About… about what’s happening.” 

Her phone stops ringing. It starts again. The man smiles wider and reaches out. Sasha can see that his hands are… strange. Plated like chitin, and the desire to grab his hand and investigate each delicately plated joint wars deeply with the uneasy reminder that there are probably moths crawling beneath, of statements that were far, far more explicit about what ‘Filth’ did to a person than this man showed. 

His hand waves in front of her face for a moment and she starts, coming back to herself, as her phone angrily rings again. 

“Your phone?” the man asks, and Sasha doesn’t hesitate for a moment to shut the thing off. 

(Elias. All three calls. If he doesn’t want her here, then she’s not leaving.) 

“Well Archivist,” and she knows she is not missing the strange bitterness that clings to that word this time, knows there is something she is missing about him, “If you have that many questions, we should probably get a little more comfortable. I have a feeling that once I let you start, you’ll keep me well after dusk.” 

And isn’t it bizarre? As he brushes past Sasha - both carefully and clearly telegraphing his movements so she only feels the barest touch of his wings as he heads back out into the hallway - she realizes she doesn’t feel afraid of this one. A little disgusted if she thinks about him too hard, yes, but there’s been no threat. No… no menace, no winding, evasive non-answers, just. Incredibly human remarks. It almost circles right back around from comforting to even worse than something as alien as the thing with the door. Michael. 

But as the rustling moves away from her down the hallway, she can’t help but flash her torch around the bedroom. One last bit of nosiness. 

An old, worn bed, rather like the couch. Shelves with books so moth-eaten they’ve gone to pieces. An open closet, filled with over-large sweaters and… She blinks. And oddly proper button ups, slacks. 

And then… and then she turns her torch in one last semi-circle and catches upon a strange shine beneath the lumpy pillows. 

Like polaroids. 

The itch that there’s something she should know only grows when she spots them; growing from a thing at the edge of her thoughts to an all consuming need that drives her in fast steps across the dusty rug before she even catches herself. She fishes the pictures out with deft fingers and - and she thinks her heart stops in her chest. 

She knows the people in the picture. 

That long, dark hair shot with grey is distinctive - even set on a much more vibrant, lively face, and above a painfully crisp button up. He’s wearing glasses in the picture, and. A name tag. 

She can’t read the name, but she’d recognize that emblem anywhere. Not that she needs to. 

Because beside the stuffy librarian like man, his eyes green instead of black, stands… Tim. Tim, his shirt as loud as ever, his smile boisterous, and an arm slung affectionately around the man who couldn’t possibly be any more his opposite. And the same horrible name tag pinned to a pineapple-strewn lapel. 

The man worked at the Magnus Institute. 

He worked with Tim. 

She knows his name now. 

Jonathan Sims. 

[starrymothwings]

taking part in art fight this year for the first time ever so i’m rushing to finish refs for characters. debating whether or not i should post them here too

also if anyone is doing it this year, i’m using the same username there as here! wishing everyone a very you got this and i believe you can finish your references on time :]

p.s. also if anyone knows, i know filters are needed for certain visual subjects, but do i need a filter if i mention in the description those same subjects? i don’t mean like, vividly describing gore, violence, or going into detail of anything else, i more mean mentioning it. the character i’m uploading now is a violent criminal and a cannibal with a backstory involving a brief mention of child abuse