#dead by daylight au

[abbiebsart]

New survivor just dro- wait a second

(Not sure if I wanna commit to a whole askblog but welcoming ideas for stuff to draw for this ig)

[shadowtoons]

Been a while I drawn them, I probably will post more of the au!

To all, enjoy!

[gravysside]

My alcoholic friends

Made by friend @skeletonbabyboy !!!! Anyway I love her

[skeletonbabyboy]

@gravysside asked me to make Sally for his dbd au and I am. So insane about Sally.

(And as a bonus I drew the other killers turned survivors)

[korkusts]

🦉 🦋 moth man ace and his big owl boyfriend

[clarks-letterman]

angelift | goalie!renato lyra x reader

a/n — inspired by the deadly games collection! soccer!au where the survivors all play soccer in their own teams

summary — I'd write one but nothing can top those stellar item descriptions in DBD... right? Anyways, goalie rivals settle their feuds in the locker room.

warnings — horribly translated Brazilian Portuguese, face fucking, mischaracterizing a character who doesn't speak/has no personality besides the fact that his whimpering sounds nice <3, white woman jumpscare (meg)

words — 3.4k

~~~

“How does he do it?”

Your eyes scour across the large field to the Brazilian swinging his arms over his chest, raising the other arm in a perpendicular fashion and pressing it to the elbow of his polar arm while keeping it stiff. It’s a specific motion that he does as he sauntered to his other teammates. 

Meg turned to look at you as you stretched, taking the same stance as him. Warm-ups, a much-needed thing when exposed to the brisk air.

“Do what?” She asked.

“Look so… confident. You know, they barely qualified to go against us.” What you said may have been a lie, but you wished for it to be true. Knowing their team was statistically worse than yours would have made their popularity around the world feel less intimidating. 

Her brows furrowed like they were trying to dive into the turf she stood on. “You made that up. That’s something everyone knows.”

“It’s easy to see it.” You told her. “The team is more focused on their image rather than their skill. My money’s on the fact that most of them are here for the fame.”

Renato had to be showing off since you got to the stadium, whether it was to you or the eager fans arriving early, you couldn’t tell. Not every position was beneficial for stretching out his best assets, but maybe he cared too much about looking his best in the game.

While the other team likely talked shit about your worst mistakes behind your back, you found comfort in talking about their motivations. They could relish in every slip-up, fumble, and game-costing play that you made, but it made all of that sting a little less when you imagined them as not taking the game seriously. Hell, Renato made that pretty easy with his presence in the marketing world. He wasn’t just some player, he was a brand to sell stadium seats.

The countless interviews online were all about him. Renato, the “fire keeper” as everyone called him. It was only after one of his gloves caught a ball that had some sort of tactile material that, when gliding across the material of his glove at a rapid speed, could cause smoke and burn marks. By the end of that match, it looked like he had held fire in his hand and walked away from the game with a reputation. 

Then you saw his stupid face in a commercial for a cream that he used to help with muscle pain in his thighs, now being endorsed by the company that made it. Damn you, Deep Heat. Though, the one shot of his thigh that they used for demonstration stuck out in your head—it was practically burned into your TV screen! Crisp, white illuminated his toned leg as he propped it up on a futuristic cube that was equally as shining as the backdrop. All of the lathering, his hands slowly gliding over his thigh to show how fast the cream disappeared and worked to alleviate pain. Closing in on such an intimate part of himself—one that was usually hidden by his shorts, a cross between blue and purple over his tanned legs—was for all of the public to see.

Being a goalie yourself, the algorithm online had basically fed you every iteration of that advert to the point that you could recite them by heart in the same, stupid voice he used. His face was on all the boxes, and you had to reluctantly buy some after getting a cramp after a match. Your team had a manager, and one overheard conversation sent your dislike of the player across the arena into a full-out feeling of disdain. Supposedly, you would have gotten that endorsement if it weren’t for one game where you failed to catch one too many balls, and they went to Renato shortly after. 

…And, damn it, he had already won the rivalry. You were at a loss for anything else to say about him.

You would have never called him your “rival,” because that would imply that Renato possessed a skill set high enough to match yours, and the feeling that he could outplay you today was the last thing you needed to be thinking about. That was the internet’s idea. On some screen far, far away, someone had noticed the small glare you gave him a while back at a fundraiser for charity. This one glance let thousands of people on the internet concoct this fantasy of, at the least, being friends, and at its worst, being lovers. Every detail of your social presence—from an intentionally “equivocating” Instagram caption to the outright mention of his name—was enough for fans of both teams to come together in a new type of supporter.

Maybe what they did, and what he did, worked to some extent. Just the sight of him warming up for this match brought on a spur of emotion that could only be described as a resonating bridle. Something that pushed the edge of an immovable barrier. Where the wall began as the public eye and ended in insecurity didn’t seem discernible. Sometimes, you fantasized about meeting Renato while taking a tour of Brazil. Someplace quiet in the moors, where he’s all alone, kicking a ball around, waiting for anyone else to join him. The dream of which sat on his shoulders as he fed fuel to the fire, he had to be the one making any accusation about the two of you being any sort of ‘thing.’

But all he managed to do was run laps around your mind. In front of you, he was doing the complete opposite. His weight pressed down on the faux grass. But he was not facing you, no. He isn’t looking in your direction with a smirk as he reaches the tips of his digits to the toe of his cleat. He’s facing away, a sign of weakness. He’s leaning forward, stretching his back and, from what you can make out from your shared distance, running his hands over his legs until he reaches his ankles. The elastic band of his shorts dipped as they could only cover so much, and the purple ends of his jersey rode up. Too far away to see the details, you turned away and expected it to be that way for the rest of the night.

That was, until, the final handshake. The game came to a close at fourteen to twelve. Scattered players blocked your view of him as you paced back and forth in your little salt circle—or a sharply shaped rectangle with repelling edges—on the field for the entire match. There was a slow building of dread as you shook hand after hand, being on the very end of the lineup as your team shuffled to the left and the other team did the same, but in the opposite direction. Renato was the last as well, meaning that you two ended the ritualistic commemoration. A way to celebrate your loss, and a way for Brazil to continue to be home to another asshole in the world.

Each bare hand meeting your own built-up friction, but it elicits nothing as a base is needed to react with other bases. You had your reasons for disliking Renato, but there was never a specific moment where you could say it to him. There was no ignition beyond your want to do it. But, as you looked into his eyes once he stepped into view, the choice to do it grew stronger. You slotted your hand into his without looking, grasping it firmly. The sudden realization that he still had his gloves on and you were shaking the hand with the yellow dorsal side of his glove. The white part enveloped your hand and he shook it with a smirk on his face.

“Good job out there. Anyone can miss two catches.”

“Not you, though, right?” Being the last in line meant that there was no rush to break away from the man touching your hand. The only thing running through your mind was the Deep Heat on it, numbing his hand and yours.

“Not at all,” he said. 

“I guess you’d know how to catch balls, though.” Thanks, internet.

He pulled you closer, “You know, a rumor might arise tonight about how you’re missing two balls.”

The teams were dismissed before you could reply. Just a second longer and this would’ve been more flammable evidence to turn to ashes in the dirt. But Renato pulled his hand away and strode across the field. You did the same since the seats encircling the stadium were still full of people slowly finding their way out. 

In an attempt to find a resolution to your conflict, you circled the stadium and to the opposing team’s locker room. Inside, the walls were lined with green lockers and sea-blue tiles mixed with the occasional white accents. The showers and bathroom stalls were colored in the same way. Because they were the ‘away’ team, they got the color scheme opposite to your team’s pink jerseys.

His earthy tones of brown hair and tanned upper chest stuck out like a sore thumb as you searched for him in each locker dwelling. They were all squarely U-shaped and very much empty, except for one. Renato was facing away from you, digging around in the locker where he temporarily stored all of his little things. As he shifted around in the same spot, your eyes wandered down to the bench. Neatly folded clothes rested on the polished plank of wood. A possibly lucky, beaded necklace dangled from his balled fist as he shoved it into his duffle bag. When he bent over to stuff it in, you noticed that he was only in his underwear, not just shirtless.

“Hey, listen.” He was still turned away, “You weren’t the one starting all those rumors, right? Of us?”

He turned around, shutting the locker. His hands clasped the clothes and he stood erect while facing you head-on. “I have to hit the showers, care to join?”

The perfect thing to clear the air was to steam it up. With grace and without the slightest falter, his thumbs hooked into his underwear and he pushed them down over his cheeks, then they shifted to the front and he did the same. It was done all in one swift motion, lifting a leg from each cuff and stepping out of his underwear without breaking his pace toward the box-room showers. He stayed in front of you, keeping silent. The only sound he made was the soft puttering of his footsteps against the ceramic tile, a reminder of how he could do something so effortlessly and unintentionally human. Your eyes had their instinct to wander to places they had never seen and glance over his ass and thick thighs while they weren’t wrapped in colorful polyester. They were almost so thick, it made seeing his swinging dick impossible to see as if you were peering through the slit of a doorframe where light shone through. You can tell there’s something there, but it’s indiscernible without being on the other side.

His hips sway like it’s an intentional beckoning. It’s one that you’re already wordlessly following, but he reinstates it every time his legs strut. Still uncontrollable, still real. Still a dick.

He stopped and turned before passing through the hole in the wall carved out to enter the showers. You saw his thighs halt and twirl, and you stopped just short of bumping into him, “Are you coming in? You should, you look like a muddied dog in an all-white house.”

“What?”

“You reek of losing.” He tried to sound clearer, unsure if he had accidentally used a mix of his native language and English in his invitation.

You looked down, everything down to your cleats were still on and clinging to you from working up a sweat. Footprints of your odd pathing, of following Renato around like a puppy dog, were tracked around on the tile. “Oh, yeah.”

Stripped of your outward identity, your team, and the morals associated with it, you joined him right as the water had gotten nice and warm. Renato’s skin was bolstered by sweat along his neck and face, since he was careful—and inane in reiteration—to keep his hair dry, but glistened all the same when his chest was under the shower head’s stream. The water trickled down his body, over every curve and ridge. It was a regular sight for his teammates, who were used to the full sight of a meal with steaming freshness, but this made you crave him and his taste. You joined him under his shower head, not even bothering to start up a second one.

Some of it flowed down his abs like a stream with rocks breaking the current and only then did it fall toward the drain once they ventured down his long peninsula. He molded the earth in his hands, the precipitating water, the salt of the sweat, and the warmth of his core. All of it, all under his control, while you could barely keep him out of your thoughts and a hand out of your pants for him.

He seemed to know everything—have everything. “I think you play the wrong sport. You’d be better at pitching over anything else.”

“Yeah? How are you so good at everything you do?”

“I wouldn’t call it ‘good.’ And not at everything.”

“And what would you call it?”

“I don’t know, but… I want to know,” he paused. “What word makes you bark… without biting?”

“Are you asking me to shut up?”

He took a step closer, cocking his head. The curls in his hair moved with him, slightly falling in his face. “Do I need to tell you?”

“No,” you gave in to him almost immediately.

His eyes flicked down to the wet tile then back up to you. You tried to read his expression, study his perfect face and all the things he refrained from saying. But there was nothing, it was no use. He still looked stunning under the flow of steaming water and all of your jealousy surfaced from the clear pores he had. Renato’s perfect skin wasn’t secluded to his face, it spanned his whole body. You got to see it up close when you did as his eyes directed, kneeling before him and feeling the water fall off his body and hit you, none of it coming directly from the head of the shower. He controlled the flow.

All he had to do was mutter the words, ‘Help me unwind,’ and you were—he was—letting your hands scale his upper thighs like it was the climb up a peaking mountain. Near the peak, the air was thinning. The only thing filling each breath was steam and him.

His cock dangled down, falling somewhere between the middle of his thighs and his knees. It moved when your fingers encircled the base and that’s when you knew that even his big size could get much bigger. How did you never see this thing packed away in his shorts? The better question was: how did he jump to catch balls in the air with all of this extra weight?

There was a small moment where you cupped all of him in your hands, enjoying it as what it was and not what it needed to be. Still, he managed to fair better to the touch than you ever could. Receptive and cool to the touch in a room full of steam he remains. He was at his hardest, but not at his neediest.

But your mouth felt empty at the sight of this, knowing that it could stretch and fill you any way it’s taken. You let one hand drop and the other wrap around his shaft to point his cock at you directly. Inching closer to it, his bare palm lightly smacked the side of your face, shunning you away. He chides with it, “Ah-ah.”

It’s wordless, but his actions suggest that he wants his goods handled carefully. Not by some second-place goalie who can’t catch a big soccer ball, let alone handle him. 

"Você não tem que me chupar, eu tenho que comer sua linda boquinha,” he explained, but you struggled to understand a lick of it. Good thing your tongue wouldn’t be used much to speak. “You look stupid, pretty boy. I’ll show you, ninfeta.”

A hand of his runs through your soaking hair and the other held onto his cock. Quickly, and without warning, he jabbed it against your lips. The soft head speared its way in for entrance. His hips rocked back and forth until you got the obvious sign to let him through and into his own pocket of pleasure. 

With his feet firmly planted on the tiled floor, he loomed with stability. He was able to bring you off your knees and down to the base of his cock in one slow pull. He reeled you off of him smoothly only to ram it all back in with the force of his weight. His core flexed and tightened, thighs stuttering from the soreness of the match and the fact that he was on his feet at the moment.

The feeling of your tongue on the underside of his sensitive cock and how your throat fought his presence with each deep thrust into you, the hand in your hair tightening each time, sent his eyes rolling back. So far so, he could have rolled back and slipped on the feeling of euphoria. 

You were sure your nose was red from how many times his pubic bone and clean-shaven pubes brushed against it, lightly scratching it every time he smushed the two together. The two collisions—your nose to his pubes and his dick stretching your throat—felt like he was trying to fit a square block in a circular hole. One would be made to fit, and he had already shown which.

Carnally, he thrust with the force of an animal getting its fix. His legs grew less tense by the minute, all moving to the pit of his stomach. Water ran over his dick, spilling into your mouth as his thumbs curled into your lips to stretch them wide. Plap, plap, plap… the noises echoed off the wall. A mix of water and spit spilled over your chin, the amount of it being saliva was unknown to you, but it was obviously a lot since you could feel him pulling more out each time he backed himself up only to slam it all back in.

“Puta vadia,” he whined, leaning his head back, and in short, jagged swings of his hips, he stutters you along his cock. Quickly, glug, glug, glugs flew out.

You hardly even noticed that he had come in those final thrusts until he slowed and stopped. His thumbs unhooked themselves, but as your lips formed a ring around him again, you could feel him twitching and pulsing over your tongue. The water going into your mouth slowed and was back to flowing over your face and body, but his release still dribbled out. It felt like a spoonful of honey pouring down the back of your throat, slowly.

After a moment of heavy breathing and recuperating himself, Renato found himself placing his hands in your hair again, reeling you back until your mouth was empty. He let go of his hold and offered out the same hand to you, “You… make me bad at controlling myself, gostoso.”

You took it and stood up, rebalancing yourself on the wet tile with the help of his shoulders. Once you were steady, you didn’t bother to move them, keeping them slung over him. You wanted to ask him a question, debating whether or not to use your abused throat. “Does that Deep Heat stuff work on your jaw?”

[gloomyambivert]

THE LEGION BAND HEADCANON/AU

(Well idk if anyone else already came up with this AU but this is my version of it)

If the Legion were a band, their genre and style would fall under the rock and metal category. Basically metalcore, post-hardcore, alternative metal. They would definitely get experimental, try new things and fuse genres and sounds

Frank - Lead Vocals

Julie - Guitar, Vocals

Susie - Bass, Backing Vocals

Joey - Drums, Percussion, Backing Vocals

(NOTE: Frank and Julie would do both cleans and unclean vocals, which is singing and screamo lol. They'll be singing and screaming together [that's why I added King For A Day in the playlist LMAO]. Susie also knows how to play guitar but will only play it during acoustic sessions)

Also I just had to make a playlist of this AU lmao! There will be times where I'll add more songs now and then if I find something fitting.

[aurisdale]

Guys I don't think this is talked about enough

In my dbd rot era I've seen quite a few theories, writings, fics, you name it. The whole debate on whether you can leave the realm and how, those are good but old questions. So let me serve you a new one -

"Where would the characters come back?"

Maybe I'm misinterpreting, but please do stick around because:

If I'm right, this is an underused aspect of the game that should be explored more in writing pieces especially

If I'm wrong, it's still fun to think about and I encourage you to give it a go yourself as well

I feel like the idea is pretty much self-explanatory:

Entity finds a world (which I'll be referring to as Terra) sits on it, sneaks its influence in, finds a Killer (usually the priority, at least that's the pattern I've observed with character lores), snatches a survivor like a souvenir, and then goes on leaving the world to destroy itself.

That sounds brutal.

But also poses quite some conflict which I am ready to explore.

How does it take multiple characters from the same Terra but from varying points in time? Shouldn't it be destroyed by 'now'?

Well my dear reader, may I remind you the Entity is stated to be a multidimensional, omnipotent being. It needs to enter the Terra only once, and then it gets access to all of its existence. Snatching 2 beings (especially from the similar spot, as plenty of lores show us the characters being taken from the same/similar area across different points of time - such as Caleb and Zarina.) isn't something not aligning with its stated abilities.

What about the characters from different DLCs that have some connections with one another?

This is a slightly tougher one but I see two options - either the Entity goes for multiple cosmic kidnappings at once

Or

Those characters are from different, but very similar Terras which are close enough for them to recognize each other without finding any 'canon variety' aspects.

Is there proof of the Entity destroying the worlds?

Yes and no. The Observer talks about it in his Tome entry Arcus 07, even though the entry itself hasn't been released officially, it does give a good glimpse into the workings of the Realm.

Why do I care about it?

Because imagine you're in an endless loop of torture or servitute, hoping to escape or go back to your old residence to see through unfinished business.. only to learn everything you knew, loved or hated, is gone.

All people, places, history, it's all gone and you - and a handful of others if you're lucky, are the last thing that remains from the WHOLE WORLD you used to be a part of.

Thank you for listening to my TED talk.

[iridescent-bottom]

it’s not may, but have some mer AU boys!!

featuring @insidious-journalist and @franks-mixtape ‘s Danny’s and Frank’s!!

[catfox1310]

Game Over (A horrorbrew-inspired killer!Feng Min AU)

Hello guys, I have an DBD AU for you all. This AU is a sort of reimagining of @dbd-the-swap-au's character called "The Glitch". Featuring an identical concept as well.

So, let me introduce you to our main antagonist of this AU. "The Competitor"

In this AU, The Competitor is both The Entity and the only actual killer here.

Much like The Glitch, she is heavily based on haunted game creepypastas. Although, The Competitor also takes inspiration from all sorts of Sonic and Mario horrorbrews such as Sonic.EXE, All-Father/Executable M, MX, and Mr Virtual. Even having her own "faker form" as well.

The Competitor's lore takes place in an alternate timeline that diverges from Memory 3409, where Feng Min perished in the van accident along with the rest of the Lazer Bears team. Feng's spirit would later possess an old game cartridge, causing her to become a glitchy, corrupted (and rather horrifying) version of herself.

There was only one thing on her mind... "another challenge"... even though she died, she still wanted to prove she was the best. As the months went by, she lost her sanity. And so, The Competitor would find opponents in a different way...

She would modify the game cartridge to manifest as a disk or a download link, and make it resemble the game she decides to pick. (It would most likely be an in-universe parody of Mario or Sonic) The game plays like your typical creepypasta game, where in the end, she'll trap the unsuspecting victim inside the game, forcing them to become her opponents forever.

The various victims that The Competitor has trapped are the original Dead by Daylight survivors (no licensed surviors here, sorry).

Benedict Baker and The Observer are in this AU too, both working together to try and stop The Competitor before she takes any more souls. But it might be too late for them as well...

That's all I'll post here, but if you have any questions about the AU or The Competitor, feel free to ask me. You can also do artwork for The Competitor as well, since it's fun to do that.

[murderousxcoffee]

Amoricide [Dead by Daylight Dark Soulmate AU - Trickster/Survivor!OC]

Amoricide     The act of killing your soulmate Chapter 3: Crush Chapter 1 Chapter 2

Warnings: Blood, but that's about it

Shoutout to @vincent-sinclair-deserved-better for giving me the dopamine hit to go 'fuck it' and post this after having it finished for longer than I want to say.

Her mark was bleeding again. Sunshine grimaced, lifting her arm off the desk. Blood smeared on her skin and the old metal surface. She snatched a rag from the floor and wiped the desk off. The mark would take more effort. But with the music going, two more songs before her entrance, she had plenty of time.

Sunshine tossed the headset on the desk and rolled her chair towards the shelves on the opposite wall. She stopped herself with her foot, reached up for the bandages on the middle shelf, then rolled back to her desk with all her laptops and all her creations.

Running a radio station in the Realm wasn't all that easy. The first challenge was getting the place up and running. The second challenge was keeping it, and herself, safe from Killers and hostile Survivors.

The third challenge was finding music to play on the damn thing. Used to be she'd scavenge on her own, finding the technology that may still have musical gems hidden on it. Now she got other Survivors to do it, trading with them through the door, changing her voice so no one would recognize her.

It would be a shame for them to realize the truth, that DJ Sunshine was just boring, useless little Cortez.

As the music ended, she smiled into the microphone.

"Hello world! You're listening to WNTTY, the Fog. I'm your Sunshine! Let's talk."

And she talked, and she talked, and she talked. She talked like someone was listening, even though there was no proof of that.

"Thanks to your help, I've added several thousand new songs to my collection! Great work, all of you! Unfortunately a lot of them are not in English, so I have no idea what they're saying or who is singing them. I'll be playing batches of these now and then. If you recognize the language, song, or singer, leave a note at the station door, or text me at--"

She talked and talked and talked.

"Shout-out to the weirdo who sent me a dick pic, by the way. You're a real piece of shit, and I'm not gonna save you from the hook if we're in a Trial together. Asshole."

She talked. Talked. Talked.

"So here's your question of the day: is love real? Romantic love. Obviously you can love your family or your cat, but is that feeling you get with that one person an actual, separate kind of love? I think a lot of our emphasis on it is just marketing taking advantage of loneliness and a desire for sex. But hey, I've never been in love, what would I know?"

Talking, talking, talking. And as she talked, everything felt alright.

"Anyway! That's my thirty minutes up! We're back to two hours of sweet, sweet tunes. Let's start with early millennium America, jump on over to the British Invasion of the 60s, take a detour to Germany and South Africa, and finish up with the Korean Wave. I have no idea what half of these songs are talking about, but they're fun to listen to, so into the mix they go. Enjoy!"

Button presses, a flip of the switch, and there it was, Toxic by Britney Spears traveling through the airwaves. Sunshine exhaled and took off her headset, leaning back in her chair. There was something so satisfying about this job… And exhausting, too. She'd never been a people person, always insecure, but it was easier to work with them from the safety of her radio station. It was almost like she could be her true self.

The mark had soaked through the bandages. Sunshine raised her arm to look at it again. How was it that it could bleed for hours and she didn't feel sick at all? It never bled before she came to this place. Maybe the Entity had something to do about it.

Right. She stood from her chair and stretched. Bandage her arm again, check the perimeter, then… she glanced at one laptop in particular. She'd work on her secret project. The idea of it made her smile.

There were reasons to keep going, even in a place like this.

---

It'd just been lying in the middle of the street. He'd stopped, looking down at it, tilted his head to the side. An old radio, outdated by over thirty years, without a single dent or smear of dirt on it. 

A cute antique. Trickster took it with him, and if anyone cared, no one complained.

He wasn't much for old technology, but he could tell this was meant for Americans by how ugly it was. For such an influential country, they had hideous toys. But it worked. Somehow, the thing worked. Didn't make a sound, but at least it turned on. Trickster screwed around with it, fiddling with the knobs, and he smiled.

Music burst through. Trickster jerked back. He backed away from the table, part of him glad no one could see his surprise. Music - bullshit. How was that possible? He hadn't heard music on anything but his phone since…

The song stopped, and a voice came over the line.

"I'm your Sunshine!"

Trickster blinked, and listened.

He sat down, and listened. And listened. And listened.

"So I can't do any research on these guys, since there's no Internet here, but I'm really enjoying their sound. Like, I'll play it again when I take a break, so check it out - you hear the violin or something in the background? You wouldn't think about it but I think it adds a lot to the song, and the whole, y'know, theme of it."

Finally, he thought. Someone else gets it.

"I've really been thinking about making my own stuff, cause of this job. I mean, I don't really have anything better to do, aside from… die a lot."

How did a Survivor do this? He laced his hands under his chin, listening. Listening.

"I'll be honest, I can't play any instruments. I don't know anything about major or minor keys, that kind of stuff, but I've always really liked music. Music can keep you alive, you know? Well, not in this place but, I think you get me, right?"

"I do," he mumbled.

He listened. 

He enjoyed.

The station host left as quickly as she came on, leaving music in her wake. Trickster reached to turn it off… but didn't. She mentioned the Korean Wave… would she play one of his songs?

Damn it, he thought. Now I have to keep it on.

So he did. And when he hunted down his so called soulmate days later, it was one of the songs Sunshine played he was humming.

[notxon]

Self indulgent modern AU idea for Talbot idc idc

[shadowtoons]

And miss drawing Legion Blitz

[gravysside]

Francis Forever

 I don't need the world to see

That I've been the best I can be, but

I don't think I could stand to be

Where you don't see me

Since the last time they placed Philip in a parallel 'island' his first instinct was to break out of it. Its safe to expect he'd do the same thing here.

[reyofluke-ocs]

DBD x OCs -> Matilda Kennedy-Redfield (Survivor)

It isn’t unusual for Matilda Kennedy-Redfield to find herself in nightmare situations. Having family members prominent in anti-bioterror tends to lead to one being a massive target for anyone with a grudge. So the strange fog she encounters while walking home for school is unnerving but she thinks it’s just the latest B.O.W. When it cleared, the last thing she expected was the be at a campfire, surrounded by people all older than her, including a younger version of her family members. As the youngest member of the Survivor group, no one is sure why the Entity chose her - unless her being practically a kid is the point...

Matilda comes with three new unique perks:

BOON: LEGACY Nightmare situations are practically written into your DNA. One totem per trial is blessed with the ability for slow automatic recovery of the Broken status effect. Can be nulled by some Hex totems.

CARRY ON Despite your young age, this isn’t your first rodeo. When injured, you make very little noise, causing the Killer to rely on your blood trail and scratch marks.

UNDERESTIMATED People look at your age and small size and tend to underestimate you. You have a 2/4/6 percent increased chance of being able to escape the Killer’s grasp.

[korkusts]

Late night doodles before bed

More vamp Felix

Ace (after being kicked out at dawn) comes back to make a preposition