This is a dating application to any Jonathan Sims kinnies from a Martin Blackwood kinnie.

I will:

- tell you random interesting information

-listen to anything you want to rant about

-talk you through anything that you are worried about

-make tea for you, I have lots of teas

-bake for you

-attempt to cook for you

-cuddle you(I am really warm all the time)

-carry you around

-let you steal my clothes

- give you unlimited hugs and kisses

-dote on you

-take care of you when you're sick

-make art inspired by you or for you

-sit by you in silence while we read

-look at you with so much love and affection

-give you as much space as you need

What I want in return:

-you literally just existing around me

bitches see fog and immediately think about The Lonely

SO I’VE BEEN LISTENING TO THE MAGNUS ARCHIVES AND OH MY GOD

I got to 170

I GOT TO FUCKING 170

YOU DIDN’T HAVE TO HIT THE MARTIN KINNIES OVER THE HEAD WITH A METAL FUCKING BAT

Or should I say a metal pipe

LIKE GOD

Just a little post to say that if you hate the fandoms "special little boy," then... feel free to use this.

I'm showing mag 186 to my therapist. because it describes me to a fucking T. everything down to the sound of the rain is so accurate, I lay in bed with my windows open and cry to myself when it rains I really wish I was joking.

anyways slight pause on my unhinged magnus bullshit I need to process the feelings this God forsaken podcast has gifted to me tonight /lh

170 Magnus archives.

I have found my new kin. Martin Blackwood is my new kin.

Aw crap, back into the fog i go😒 saw this while walking in the freezing cold lmao

saw this highland cow pillow pet and knew IMMEDIATELY that martin would have one of these.

i have. a few. thoughts

back to listening to my martin blackwood playlist... mental illness wins again today i guess 😒😒

Martin Blackwood Aesthetic

Why do I kin Martin Blackwood? Why, because I have mommy issues, am lonely aligned, sometimes write poetry, and I was cursed with big ti-

the theory of a sinkhole eats at me

the idea of the earth itself swallowing me, teeth like rotted picket fences and a tongue like over-grilled meat. forced into triangles and squares and the very idea of a hexagon being so unspeakable many have never even seen its shape. the corners being sliced off to fit into the narrow door of acceptability. ocean waves turn the hard ground into soft mud fit for growth. and pull me out with their strength. gently files away the edges until the names of those horrendous shapes mean nothing and the sharp angles cut nobodies hearts. we cannot enter the simple doors of suburbia and we do not want to. for to enter that door would surely mean death. i am not mad at those who chose to cut away their beautiful edges. i am sad for them, for sure. but i am not angry. i am mourning. we are mourning every day for the hexagons and circles and countless other unnamed shapes that destroy themselves for the crime of being made wrong. we are mourning for those who have died because someone decided that the shapes they were made in were cause enough to end them. we are mourning for those who were told that being their own being was sin unforgivable, who instead of cutting their edges to appease the soil decided to cut through the thin thread of life. i am angry at the ones who ground themselves to dust and told the rest of us to follow suit. the wooden teeth smell like death and promise no relief, only pain. holding me in place while the cats-tongue rough flesh inside steals my edges. spit out and straight into the hole that will perfectly suit me. i do not enter the house easily because i am meant to be there. i am thrown through the space and slide quickly through because it is lubricated with blood and the tears of those before me. as those before me have said, i will not go gentle into that good night. i will fight the darkness outside, and look to our lady of the moon as a light since there is no other light to be found and her court of the stars will cradle us as we weep, we weep for our friends and our family and they will say “you are not alone here. we can be your family, we can be your friends. you need not fit into that dreadful crevice.” we feel forsaken but that is not true. no matter what, there is someone or something out there for each of us and we will find it, trust me. trust me more than i trust myself. we are family and i will not abandon you. you, shapes that will not be found in children's colouring books or in the logos that are as sickly sweet as rot, you do not need to abandon yourself. the sinkhole does not need to pull you in. it will try, believe you me. the branches of apple trees reach up like demon claws to catch you, but they cannot get you. 

the theory of a sinkhole is eating me alive, but still i persist. my loves, you can persist as well.

is nobody going to talk about how well written martin blackwood is as a character like

hes manipulative but hates it when people are manipulating him and calls out manipulation too

like thats so realistic of manipulative people and so personal