#shock content

[liveleakslasher]

WOAH WHO'S THIS FREAK!!!

[eliandigrand]

Soooo

#culture messing of 2 dark sisters over a delicious glassss

*we sat and laughed with a barman who looked like SID from SEX PISTOLS

#OHMYGODNEWS

[tumbaumbatrulala]

УХ ТЫ БЛ(ин)...А ЧТО ТАК МОЖНО БЫЛО ЧТО ЛИ?

[chloesimaginationthings]

William Afton is a master manipulator in FNAF..

[arach-tinilith]

Minthara simps are eating GOOD this month

[juricel]

Headcanon request for Beast Cookies x reader who gets convinced by them to join them so he won't have to suffer the pain of their life and had became an entity so they will be together with them forever?

a/n: I didn't include silent salt, for this is heavily centered around their character, and they have yet come out, I hope you don't mind but then again, I have stated it before that I do not write for them.

— mystic flour cookie x reader, burning spice cookie x reader, shadow milk cookie x reader, eternal sugar cookie x reader.

໒꒰՞ ܸ. .ܸ՞꒱ა ۪ ׂ CONTENT WARNING: themes of nihilism as per usual mystic flour cookie, emotional despair, existential dread, self-harm imagery, manipulation, love bombing, coercion, and potential ooc.

pointless. MYSTIC FLOUR COOKIE could not comprehend the rationality of your persistence—your endless prattling, your stubborn resolve; it was all for naught, a futile exertion in the face of the inevitable. did you not understand? all of it would fade—irrelevant, unnoticed, as if it had never been. there would be no mark upon history, no legacy to preserve the fight. every effort, every defiance, would dissolve into nothingness. and yet, still, you fought. why? the path to salvation lay not in this endless struggle, but in surrender. take her hand, and step into the void, where all things had long since ceased, and in that stillness, grace would bestow eternal peace.

no matter how fiercely cookies flourish, how far they reach, how deeply they love, it all drifts to dust—soft and weightless, like flour borne on the wind. the cycle endures: rise, fall, forget. she cannot unmake it, cannot wipe the slate clean. but she can offer something else. not erasure, no—eternity. come with her, step beyond the world’s decay, and become untouchable. transcend, not vanish. remain, always.

oh, you poor little crumpled cherub! look at you—covered in your own crimson jam, eyes like broken glass, heart swollen with pain and heavy with sorrow. if you persist—if you drag those feet another inch along the jagged path—you shall diverge irreparably from that divine avenue, the gilded promenade of happiness! no, no, no. that would be a blasphemy—a sacrilege against delight itself! ETERNAL SUGAR COOKIE cannot—will not—permit such a tragic misfolding of fate. you were meant to glisten, not to grieve.

come, won’t you, to her garden? that clandestine eden where sorrow dares not tread, where even the ghosts hush their moans and the air shimmers with a perfume too ancient to name. you shall not be alone there—no, never alone. if a tear escapes your eye, the vines will lean in and weep with you, green tendrils coiling gently, whispering leaf-lullabies. if your soul is fractured, fret not—the garden, with its blooms and murmuring roots, will stitch it whole with the deftness of an old dream. ah, but if you hesitate, if some last flicker of will resists—fear not. she will find a way. she always finds a way. you see, she adores the broken ones, the little cookies crumbling at the edges. so tired, so terribly tired—tormented by those gnawing, spidery thoughts. let her help. let her hush them. let her do the thinking for you. why strain, sweet wafer of woe, when she can cradle you forever in petals and shadow, in silk and silence?

hope; a pitiful paper crown worn by the naïve, the desperate, the deluded. a banquet of baloney, stuffed with saccharine dreams and stale promises, paraded about as if it were virtue incarnate. rubbish—glittered, gift-wrapped, and passed down like heirloom poison from one wide-eyed generation to the next. a trick of the psyche. a sparkling hallucination meant to distract from the gnashing teeth just beyond the velvet proscenium. and the world? oh, don’t make him laugh. the world is no stage—it is a pitiless cabaret, a carnival of grotesques. the curtains are stitched from flayed dreams, the spotlights are slow-burning gas fires. every act ends in collapse, every round of applause is but a dirge. the audience has long since abandoned their seats, but the performers—poor, wretched things—still stagger through their routines. mouthing the words. hitting their marks. bleeding on cue. and you—you dear, fluttering marionette—you still believe! you still prattle! still tie ribbons around your grief and call it poetry. still sing lullabies to your pain, mistaking it for a wounded bird rather than the vulture it truly is. you cling to hope like a drunk to his last coin, spinning it in the gutter and whispering, “maybe this time.” ah, such dainty noise—like spoons chiming in a dollhouse—will perish, in time. it must. the fools, ever enamored with their toybox paradise, will cradle it like something sacred, mistaking the humdrum balm of ignorance for grace. but fret not, fret not! his sweet little dear, do not despair—applaud, even! for SHADOW MILK COOKIE has not just one, but many dazzling entrances prepared for you. each one a doorway, each one a revelation. not with force—how vulgar—but with flair, with wonder! so come, his darling—step through the curtain, shed your skin of sorrow, and be reborn in the only truth that matters: to be his.

cookies. they rose, they cracked, they rose again, and cracked. same old story. he’d seen it too many times—dough stretching like blind roots toward some fake sun, puffing up with hot little dreams, then sinking, splitting, crumbling into nothing. always the same end. always that brittle, pathetic hope. there was something sickly sweet about it all, like a smile left out too long. the cycle droned on, dull as dust and just as stubborn. life, with its sugar-coated promises, never gave him anything new—just the same tired tune, the same broken record, spinning in the dark. he’d tried to fix it, patch the cracks, hold the thing together with floury hands and good intentions. useless. it always fell apart. everything. even the trying. in the end, he searched and strained and still found nothing that fit, nothing that stayed—until you. you were the only thing that didn’t flicker out, the only one he could hold onto without bracing for the break. the one thing he could care for without fear of it crumbling. the one thing that didn’t wilt. and BURNING SPICE COOKIE intends to keep it till the end.

those pathetic cookies—faint, crumbly grotesques of valor—cracked and disintegrated at the mere suggestion of his axe. not a whisper of resistance, not a flicker of defiance. they vanished like brittle dreams at daybreak, a thwart species... you mustn’t consort with such ornamental failures; their loyalty is as shallow as the sugar crust they flake beneath. you ought, instead, to come to him—yes, you, as though drawn by some perfumed gravity stitched into the hem of dusk—for he alone knows what is deserved for you.

a/n: it's me and my dearest em dash (including my extremely complicated imagery) against the world, also isn't it obvious I struggled with shadow milk cookie's part?

[cipher26]

I have so many thoughts on Arcane which I'll get to eventually, but before that I just have to say...

ANYONE who is complaining about how short and rushed this season was, or how little time we got with certain characters/plots... don't blame the creators or the writers.

Blame the streamers. Those studios, Netflix in particular, are the ones who are responsible for destroying TV and cutting seasons in half, and then limiting most shows to 2 seasons. Television has suffered so much because of their greed. Those studios aren't run by artists, they're run by moneymen. They don't care about your shows, they don't care about the stories or the characters or the fans, they just want money. And they mismanage their money so much it's fucking sickening.

And yes, it is a choice. It doesn't have to be this way, and there can be exceptions. The finale of the last season of Stranger Things was 2 and a half hours long. It was it's own movie.

So blame the streamers. Blame them every single day until we get greedy asshole's hands off of our art so that we have the space to present our stories in the way they deserve.

EDIT: To be clear when I say streamers, I'm talking about the studios, particularly the ones like Netflix/Disney/Hulu that can only be watched on the internet via streaming apps. Broadcast television used to be, and still is in some cases (Blue Bloods, Grey's Anatomy season 87...), 20-23 episode seasons. With story and nuance and side quests and growth.

[contract-crawdad]

Lyle/Shutterbug Encounter Secret

I was attacking Lyle (only to get the Dark Room achievement, I swear) and stumbled upon an interaction that I haven't heard ANYONE talk about! Which is weird because it's really notable and has some important information!

You know how Lyle is always emphasizing how photo paper is so flammable using red text? Well, I was in a bit of a bind during the fight and figured 'oh, duh, a molotov will do extra damage' but when I threw it...

Note that you have to use a Molotov (or presumably some other form of fire damage) DURING the Shutterbug phase of the battle!

HEARTBREAKING SPRITES but also pretty explicit confirmation that Lyle has done the 'soul stealing photo' thing a lot of times!

I suppose the generous read of the situation is that these are NORMAL photos that he considers to be 'friends'? But the implication seems preeeeetty cleat that those polaroids are each individual people!

Hoo boy. One has to wonder if they're actually Lyle's friends, or just people who became Lyle's friends by virtue of being added to his collection.

Not to sell our main man Lyle Lookoutside short! Not do quickly, anyway.

It's possible that he only did this to people who had died or gone insane, right? He did mention that those were the only instances in which he'd develop Sam's photo, and he's obsessed obsessed with him.

Much to think about.

[lil-vibes]

i caved and drew the cursed shitten and now i love them more than anything

+ bonus one parent on the verge of sobbing hysterically

[see-arcane]

One thing that I really liked is how the Juke's spiritual dance scene was so vibrant and diverse, not a single person was dancing the same, different ancestors from different cultures and different music styles yet so clear that the meaning of the music evolved despite being severed by colonialism, even the chinese spirits were opera actors! The fire burning through the physical dimension of the wood, representing unity and freedom powered by Sammie... then the irish vampire dance comes, and it's just so so flat.

No one is irish, not a single person (except Remmick) there knows what the rocky road to Dublin means culturally yet they sing it in a shrill tone, he is the only one dancing in the middle of the circle, and suddenly everyone forcibly moves in a hivemind around him to worship HIS culture. There are no dancers, no different music rhythms, and certainly no ancestors nor future people.

While Sammie brought both alive and dead with his voice and music in harmony to celebrate past present and future in a space of true community, Remmick could only imitate it in a desperate attempt for community while gleefully colonizing black and brown people just like how the english colonized his.

1000% this.

Sammie's gift manifests what community actually is, weaving together a collection of multiple identities with a shared culture, history, and heart at its roots. It's celebratory and a revel of everything past, present, and future. Identity, but not identical.

Remmick's imitation is only a showcase of himself and the warped vestiges of his own culture and past, leaving room for nothing else, all of it forced onto unwilling participants to play along in what amounts to a puppet show performance to make Remmick alone feel better. We see proof in the end credits with Stack and Mary that, while still monstrous, vampirism here is not a thing that innately causes you to colonize on impulse. They were only themselves, independent as a simple duo.

The full colonizing/conscripting route comes strictly from Remmick. He is the one choosing to actively violate and force his will onto trapped souls the way you'd playact with dolls, all the while willfully blind to how he's repeating the same evil that the English forced on him and his long-dead community.

I honestly wonder what would have happened if Remmick had got hold of Sammie in the end. Either forced him to turn or wrung some pity-performance out of him, calling up Remmick's ancestors and descendants...only for those spirits not to dance and commune with him the way the spirits reveled in the juke joint.

The spirits Sammie conjured with talent, love, and joy were there to celebrate among their people. And Remmick's community, if they deigned to appear, what could they possibly have to celebrate in that bloodstained night, seeing what this member of their kin has done? This distorted funhouse mirror version of the same bastards who stole their land and their culture and their lives, making those sins worse twice over with an existential undead hell of souls enslaved to his hive mind will? No. They wouldn't dance. They wouldn't revel.

Remmick's lucky he died before he could drag Sammie into his hell and coerce a summoning song out of him. The stake and sun took him before he had to see exactly what kind of reception his dead and future community would think of his work on earth. (Though I imagine all that is waiting for him still, wherever he's gone.)

[supertaliart]

Post-it Beauty Ghost!

[twenty-of-your-minutes]

Arrives to the fandom 20 years late with Starbucks

Most of the stuff on this blog is placeholders for the time being but my Animorphs autism has grown to require its own place to post. Should have some art and fanfic up in the near future

[eghtony]

I'm gonna dump everything i got on yo heads, watch out

my own human!au got slightly bigger than i expected, sooooooooo ummmmmm sorry! i love drawing humans more than anything, so if u don't like my hum! stuff then oops

[cosmicmouseart]

Superhero Static Shock 🎵

[moeblob]

I love Chris so much you guys.

[casualavocados]

Even though you are this short. You have a problem with that? [...] So what? You are taller than me. Big deal. You are so cute. ...I'm not finished yet.

KISEKI: DEAR TO ME Ep. 13