DOES ANYBODY HAVE A SCREENSHOT OF THE FIRST THUMBNAIL FOR AVA 11 BECAUSE IT GOT CHANGED BUT I ALSO LOVED

awww damn, thanks krayters 🫶

my spotify wrapped came early this year?!?!

POV: you missed your boyfriend stuck in the void.

I had the irresistible urge to animate the sillies🖤❤️💙😳

Enjoy!! Eat well ya'll. 💗💗🥰

something i think about a lot:

when dark and cho fight in the showdown, i (and others) headcanon this being their breakup

i think beforehand they had worked out their feelings after blue screening and escaping alans pc, theyve dated, but the dark lord doesnt mention something important.

subsequently, chosen doesnt know how hard it is for dark to exist like this around him, and it never even crosses his mind to consder it.

it is so intertwined in darks code to "kill the chosen one", but he fights it because of how he values the relationship he has with chosen. he may not have experience but something about it is so pure and special to him, plus why not defy alans stupid ass commands?

but he gets exhausted

he consistently wakes up in a bad mood and finds himself with a blade at the sleeping chosen ones throat-

his chosen one

-and oh how it hurts him so.

he loves the chosen one. he makes him feel free, feel like his own being, more than a weapon against the other hollowhead. he finds every moment of exhaustion and effort worth it to be with his chosen one.

which is why it hurts so much when chosen attacks him without second thought.

all it took was a plan too much for chosen and his morals. no matter that the dark lord suffered for him. no matter that the dark lord sacrificed himself for this feeling. why would it matter if he wanted to pursue something of his own?

it hurts when he realises how stupidly easy it is to fight back.

of course his code remains. this feeling is still there, but maybe its more of a curse than anything else. he wants to kill the chosen one, he wants to erase his code from the face of the inter and outernet in such a primally disgusting way that it hurts the dark lord.

it hurts him to do this, but its so so easy to just let himself fight. let the instinct take over.

was it all for nothing?

thanks @krayters for plaguing my mind at this hour, i love these headcanons so much

and dont mind the colours, i was having fun :)

IT DOESNT MATTER BABE. DAN SAID, “IT DOESNT MATTER BABE” LIVES HAVE BEEN CHANGED

GUYSSSS THIS IS AMAZINGG!!!!!

ITS SHADOW THE FUCKINF HEDGEHOGGGG

the guttural urge to write darkcho fanfics at 11pm instead of sleeping is coming for me and i am afraid (jk i hand my sleep schedule to those cursed stick figures on a silver platter)

GRAZRGEHDHHH i need them to be in LOVE and i need it NOWWWWW

cat appreciation post aka i love my boys

tldr: YOU DONT UNDERSTAND HOW THIS HURT ME IM ACTUALLY CRYING VICTIM IS JUST MOTIVATED AND BROKEN

also excuse my atrocious screenshotting i am literally hyper about this shit and i cant message my friend abt this rn

AVA 11

IMMEDIATE THOUGHTS

FIRST

victim *was* tortured over and over

it makes sense why he hates alan (cursors) so much

it wasnt a one and done, he suffered for 9 months and gave birth to trauma in the form of a rocket ship

the fact that it is so blatant that alan is just bored and bullying this bitch for fun like he is sat on a *laptop* fucking around with this stick he keeps calling victim and relinking he conciousness to that stick body

i loved that and also i felt smart (ik its obvious shut up)

SECOND (coming? /j this aint about him)

i immediately knew mitsi was his wife and when i tell you i got attached, i mean i sobbed at how joyous they were and in my list of scramblings (a page of notes during the premier) i called her wife several times

also mitsi is the name of my GREY stardew valley cat

speaking of grey

lets go with THIRD

i found it interesting how victim became grey, im still not sure why, maybe theres just a lack of solid black in newgrounds flash animations idk

debunking my own theory here uh yeah im lost asf like something about his intrusion to the internet world just dulled and mono-ed his colours, maybe its because of the way he entered?

SPEAKING OF

FOURTH

i initially saw newgrounds as the big world and realised it was the internet stickcity earth that the showdown happens in (makes sense)

thats all

FIFTH

rocket origin makes so much sense also like the way they (mitsi and vic) became a literal power couple is incredible and i wish they had a long happy life

...

*had*

SIXTH

i cried when mitsi died

like

god my heart is so torn alan why

AND THEN CHOSEN ROSE UP AND MY JAW DROPPED TO THE FLOORORRRRRRR

followed by tdl (my babies theyre evil and i love them)

when i say that last 5ish minutes had my jaw pinned to the floor-

anyway

i think thats all rn

i am still in shock

its 1:12am guys why do i do this

if i have any revelations ill reblog or post or something

anyway its time to pretend mitsi and victim are living happily ever after through fanart <3

oh and lastly:

⋆ ₊ ﾟmy scrambles * ₊ ⋆

reblogging cause luck posts are not to be passed, but also its still sweet to see the ways people getting lucky :3

so I got into grad school today with my shitty 2.8 gpa and the moral of the story is reblog those good luck posts for the love of god

The Shining Poppy - A Story I Wrote For School And Ended Up Liking

The streets are lined in colour, bright but politely asking for my attention. The sky provides a warm caress, paired with soft wind which comforts my every step. Towering shadows from those around pattern the sun’s rays but still bless me with a warmth not unlike a gentle embrace.

There are no dark shadows here, only the evidence of my company. The light emanating from my skin is proof enough of the sunshine already inside me, yearning to feel the soft touch of scarlet petals against it.

Every smile or gesture is a wave of warm red, a wave of kind electricity through my body, energizing the next step I take.

Over worn footpaths. Over softened gravel.

My steps do not falter, only taking me where I’m supposed to go. Following the ever-changing paths weaving before me, created by determination.

I continue on. Over cerulean puddles. Over unheeded grass.

Through this field of poppies.

= = = = = = = = = =

Nothing has really changed, yet it’s all different. There are still poppies in every direction. Uniform and swaying with the world. The very same world that looks at me with distain.

The poppies curl away from the sunshine barely dribbling from my lips, the light still seeping from my gift. I bring it to my chest, forcing the light through my wounds but it doesn’t hold, it falls with the red deep inside me and litters the floor with fading beams of light. The wall in front of me is gone, replaced by another poppy, petals loose but facing away from me as if in disgust.

The sun no longer holds me in its warmth but burns me like firewood.

I stand in the field, lit aflame like a wildfire, but the poppies around my feet do not catch, do not spread the flames and burning. They whisper, blowing my fire around like rope, pushing it to wrap around my limbs and seep into my skin.

Every breath or glance is a wave of hot, sharp red, a wave of harsh fire through my body.

Over cracked glass. Over shattered asphalt.

My steps falter, taking me further into the field. The path is gone, only poppies in my way.

Over pools of red, crimson not scarlet. Over burning paper and flesh and light.

Through this field of poppies.

= = = = = = = = = =

The present, a gift of language and letter, is accompanied by the tentative morning light. No less than thrown to me but still gifted with an air of importance and significance. I open it, and the room is lit by the comforting sunshine contained within. With every word I read, the room gets brighter. The sun begins its trek across the once starry sky, and I feel warmer every second.

The world is brighter today.

The sky and the grass smile at me, each step leaving my sunshine in its wake. The poppies along my journey seem to turn to greet me, even if I miss the subtle curl of their petals in aversion and the swish of their stalks in whisper. The sun watches, extending a shining hand out to reach the light I can only call my own. Like calls to like, just as the sun calls to my sunshine. And like the sun itself, I shine my light onto the world beneath me.

I run through the crowds of people, the stalks of flowers, excusing every jostle or shove when I push through. The patches of shadows sway with my movements, ruffled but unbothered, their owners standing solid.

Among the red, a wave of familiarity hits me like a firm embrace. Warm, strong, and familiar. The sunshine under my skin claws at me, dragging its warmth through my body. It presses against my tongue and teeth, pushing for release. It grows brighter with each step towards the normality in an ocean of innocuity.

The passive waves crash on a shore of neutrality, and I walk to my sandcastle of connectivity. Another scarlet red, uniform but unique.

My steps come to a halt, my sandcastle before me, and the gentle waves do not stop. The sunshine pushes harder now, threatening to tear me open, but at the slightest shimmer from the castle, I relent.

My mouth opens and sunshine pours out, shining and twinkling with each movement of my lips. It’s warm and soft and welcoming.

But rather than the soft but strong sandcastle or a blooming poppy like the crowds around me, the sunshine meets a wall. It’s harsh and grey and rough like concrete, and the light disappears when it meets.

I falter at the stillness, the sunshine going with it.

Then the wall opens, just a crack, and razor blades fly. The little remaining sunshine reflects off each pristine blade, glaring in my eyes as the blades shoot and soar past me. They slice my skin when they pass and leave crimson slashes all over my body. It’s burning, my skin and my eyes are burning, and I wish I never let the sunshine out to begin with.

= = = = = = = = = =

Before me are the fields of red, where poppies grow. I watch them climb and bloom, impossibly fast but yet slow enough to watch each unique flower spread its flushed red palms. The tops brush against my mid-calf. No higher, and no lower. A sea of uniformity, moving together in the wind.

My eye is caught by a certain poppy in the distance, daring to reach past the rest of the red sea. The shine of light emanating from the bloom draws me to it and I begin to step closer; the flowers rooted at my feet shifting to avoid me. I stop when I reach the shocking scarlet bloom, bigger and brighter than the rest. Warm light, not unlike sunshine, pours from between the petals. It feels familiar, but makes me squint my eyes in disgust, the light now uncomfortable and unwelcome.

My hands go cold as the wind turns, and I harshly yank the flower from the ground.

The stem snaps, an unclean pull, and I watch the flower in my palm.

I watch as the light drains from the petals.

I watch it, and it wilts away.