#Thoughts on Horror

[kryptoniteheadcanons]

Thoughts on ATM (2012)

Spoilers I guess? It’s ATM who the fuck cares 

- Never thought I’d say this but that movie was a waste of Josh Peck. 

-  Wow what a bunch of assholes. Also I love how they have that entire discussion about what they did that made this happen to them and they never question if it’s something that Corey (Josh Peck) did.  

- There was like. A solid ten minutes where he was out of view and you guys were just standing around. You could have ran. 

- You could also be huddling for warmth. There are three of you. 

- Ya’ll have pretty good paying jobs and it’s 2011 why does only one of you have a cell phone? 

- Also I’ve just never seen an ATM thing like that in real life? Do they exist? DID they exist? 

- If all of you would have ran you probably would have been fine. 

- Okay wait, so maybe I’m interpreting this wrong but I think the killers whole thing is just getting around security cameras? 

- Ya know I actually kind of like the practicality of the killers outfit in this movie, very inconspicuous. 

- But overall really boring, they spend like a full eight to ten minutes near the end replaying scenes from earlier on to show that the killer was avoiding the cameras. 

- Although....if I’m ever really bored I might write a fanfic where the killer from this movie has to face off against Gerald from 13 Cameras. 

[anthropologist-on-the-loose]

I'm as grateful for cellphones as the next person, but sometimes I think about how everyone having a phone on them at all times really did cause us to loose some things as a society. I mean - for example, kids these days will never experience their car breaking down and needing to find the nearest place with a phone they can use. They're never going to have the opportunity to tentatively approach a house only to discover that it's full of queer people having a party hosted by a transvestite to celebrate his creation of a sex homunculus, stay the night, and loose their virginity while unintentionally partaking in cannibalism. It's tragic, that kind of gay sexual awakening just doesn't happen these days because of cellphones.

[tawnysoup]

Finally now that the comic is fully public on comicfury, I get to share it with all of you here, too <3

If you enjoyed, please consider supporting by buying a PDF of the comic on itch.io: https://tawnysoup.itch.io/home-in-the-woods

[hagnanimous]

[bacchuschucklefuck]

couldnt draw my thang for mid-autumn so treated myself to a calne redesign instead

[adaki]

Wanted to do some biblically accurate mh art

[hinamie]

subject, specimen, spectacle;

should i say that you're dead?

[redacted-metallum]

Top 10 things a good horror movie can be:

1: Someones highly specific fetish but put in a different genre

2: An accurate depiction of fears someone has regarding an institution (medical, police, etc)

3-8: Wet

9: Predominantly practical effects

10: gay

[chloesimaginationthings]

He has no mouth but he must scream in FNAF..

[wednesdaysfullofwoe]

[lolapath]

Ahhh my favourite drink 🍷 the og post (Ig?)

[kryptoniteheadcanons]

Thoughts On Lisa Frankenstein (2024)

Spoilers Ahead!!

This is another one of those movies that I just LOVE the tone of

Who else thought they were going to reveal that her dad or her step mom murdered her mom?

And that's why you dont take drinks from people that clearly hate you

Yep, knew that dude was going to be a creep.

So he got brought back to life because of the lightning strike?

All just the entire drug trip sequence is GREAT

I love that they just...never take the earring out.

I think this might be the best acting Cole Sprouse has ever done, and my guess is its because they don't let him talk until the very end.

This movies just ~ Silly ~ and I like it.

Also man, poor Taffy. She didn't deserve none of this.

The SECOND that they said that dude Lisa liked skipped class I knew he was boinking her sister.

[dangeroustaintedflawed]

[bebx]

[meownotgood]

arcane season 2 spoilers

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"Can you feel anything?" 

Viktor's foreign body shudders against his will; your fingertips trace down his chest, tingling, sparking, akin to little specks of light burning into his second-skin. The sound of your muddled voice barely registers. His head tosses back with a slight thud, hair fanned out as a halo. He allows your knees to bracket his waist, and keeps his arms sprawled above him — despite the aching in his dead heart to just touch you. The pulsing of the arcane beneath his system is hardly under control yet. 

It would be a risk he's willing to take, a necessary step to learn, if it were anyone else besides you. 

And Viktor does feel — so much, in fact, but it isn't anything explainable. The festering in his core, threatening to come up through his throat. The whirring, the throbbing of every muscle, rich with glowing rivers of purple. Shining with a mixture of magic and energy and his own blood. 

He's only distantly aware of your hand when it reaches his stomach, examining the juncture between cool metal and unholy flesh. Gears and bolts mimic the outline of ribs. Your touches are curious, distinctly gentle. Picking up on old habits, and trying not to break him, still. Then, your palm reaches up; it boldly cradles his cheek, brushes his pallid skin. And this, he can sense. 

It's familiar, human. Excruciatingly soft when your thumb brushes the space on his cheek, just above his beauty mark. It puts an easy feeling back in his chest, something he almost began to believe he'd forgotten. As warm as a shimmering sun, as molten as liquid gold. 

Nothing else matters but this moment, but you, and him. There is no outcome, across each expansive universe and every edge of the arcane, where the two of you would not meet again like this. You were meant to. Born and reborn to. 

Your gaze finds his, soft eyes glancing down at him, your expression crossed between pain and relief. You eclipse all of his vision: light fuzzy at your edges, your face a hazy memory that he'd still see with his eyes closed. You're a reminder of what it means to be alive. 

Viktor doesn't envy you. You've told him of nightmares, before. Dreams you had before this, of your mind putting yourself through the tragedy of watching him die ages before you truly had to. It must be difficult to see him like this, despite your best attempts to hide any uncertainty. 

Your hand shakes. He can feel it trembling, unsteady on his cheek. And every molecule in Viktor's system explodes, laced with the yearning to remember — to let hazy lovesickness swell within his palms and his new figments. To pull you closer, in an effort to convince himself you won't be taken away. 

Every echo of you is innate. Your voice, your name, your fingerprints. Your presence has the Hexcore — or what's become of him, what has embodied the Hexcore — blissfully, endlessly silent. The way you look at him, soft and brutally innocent, puts a chasmic, vivid hole in his center. Gods, you still look at him the same, just as you did when the two of you were young and innocent. The rot in him tells him he isn't worthy of it. 

Viktor's eyes swirl like kaleidoscopes. Drops of crimson swirling in pure water. Your brows pinch, a sight he finds frustrating and pretty, as you silently examine him. Emotions curl in your lungs, tearing and hungry and knife-like; stricken with attachment, or perhaps blaming yourself, Viktor figures. 

Exhaustion runs heavy in your expression, reminding him of looking into a mirror. He knows this look. You haven't slept. Haven't given yourself any form of a break, it seems.

So, he takes a chance. 

Your hand brushes some stray, messy strands of hair from his forehead, just as Viktor guides his weak arm to reach for you. You don't tense, don't move. He can hear your breathing, thinks he can still feel his. There isn't an ounce of fear in the way you look at him. You have always looked at him like he holds the world in his hands. And now, perhaps he does. 

His hand finds your cheek, same as yours. Copying, following. Thin, delicate, purple-hued fingers trace the edge of your face clumsily, still learning how to touch. Still afraid the line between hurt and healing might be blurred, and you are the one person left that he can't let get caught in the crossfire. You lean into his palm, trusting, and let go of a breath that makes your shoulders shake with the weight of it. 

Viktor thinks of crying, despite the press and pull in his chest that convinces him he shouldn't be able to. He can feel you. It isn't like the few touches he's experienced so far, or the aching, anomalous strength he's been forced to get used to. It contradicts the very constructs of everything he thought made sense. 

Your skin is so soft, sickly familiar. Viktor holds your face shakily, afraid to move. He can feel your individual atoms. Innumerable sparks just beneath his touch, galaxies upon universes of stars in your name, that beg to be grasped, possessed, cured. He cradles you with all of the devotion of a prophet, with all of the tenderness of a past friend: an almost-destiny, a saved seat at the edge of something more. 

Would clumsily pulling you in, and pressing his lips to yours feel wrong, or tangible — like nothing, or like everything? 

"Vik?" 

Your tone, sweeter than honeysuckle, sweeter than anything he might deserve, brings his vision back into focus. He blinks. Gaze never tearing away from his, your fingertips drop to thread the hard edge of his collarbone. A silent plea, can you feel this? You find each curve of his bones and his body easily, the details already memorized. Viktor senses the ghost of you, your touch gentle, something like home. 

"I'm not sure," Viktor finally answers; and the scientist, Hexgate creator, still-ambitious part of himself is hardly satisfied with that answer. His voice is quiet, distant. As though he isn't there, despite the lingering, familiar tenderness to his tone. 

The fried synapses in his brain can't yet separate a caress from a threat, he just perceives the lingering energy. He believes you could be the one to teach him the difference. 

This time, you let your palm press flat to his chest. There's a hum that attempts to mimic a heartbeat, a lack of coolness or heat. The action presses your form closer to his, guides you to lean part of your weight on him to bring your faces far too close. Sharing in the same reflection. Allowing each breath to be measured, along with every hesitation. 

What should he start with? Should he embrace you, holding you tight and close like you're sacrificial? Should he grab your hand in his, press his palm to your skin to measure your heartbeat? Lace his smallest finger with yours, to make you a promise like he used to? 

He can't promise you peace, nor the life you deserve, but if you came for him now, was it not a swear to follow him anywhere? 

There are still so many things left to feel, and every red thread has always begun and ended with you. 

Can you feel anything? 

Viktor guides a hand over yours, keeps it to his chest selfishly; he meets your gaze, he hums, "Are you eager to find out?"