#oc killer

[mrfelixfischoeder]

I have absolutely no chill with my interests, so I have made a Killer for DBD since I’ve been playing it so much!!! I love her. she’s vain and horrible and thinks she’s the SHIT.

The Diva haunts the realm of Pearl City - within the Macnamara Film Studios (Where she had been nearly electrocuted to death, and subsequently murdered those she thought were involved and innocents) - and The Diamante Club, a bar she used to sing regularly. 

Her survivor is probably like a journalist or some poor sucker who was her assistant lmfao

[jekyllhydeout]

My OCS Killer & Chainsaw!

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[stitchau]

A little follow-up to that

Also live Dream reaction:

[skellophrenia]

GIRLS NIGHT✮⋆˙

i guess ej can be there too.. ALSO YES BECKY PRIM DIALOGUE AUGHH!!

anyways finally got around to drawing dolly hooray !! she's evil..

uhh ghostry art.. later... :3

[jeunix]

Doodled my lil' slenderverse OC Maisy being all happy in a semi-chibi style, and drew the scrunklies too (+wip scarecrow creepypasta oc???) // Feel free to request other pastas! I'll prob do more in the future ミ☆ (dunno how many tho--)

off to ruin maisy's life now--

[artpepkin]

They watched Trolls 3 one time and the house has been filled with 80s/90s music ever since

Dust secretly likes it but he prefers to listen to it on his own <3

Killer belongs to RahafWabas

Dust belongs to Ask-DustTale

Horror belongs to Sour-Apple-Studios

Nym belongs to me

Non blurred variations below cause I like them too hehe ->

[centfornothing]

ERROR WON THE SEXYMAN POLLS

LETS GOOOO MY BOY GETS A WIN FUCKING FINALLY

(Damn that's a lotta tags)

[thaltro]

The project is going along smoothly- realized I haven’t actually posted in awhile so here’s the nightwatch bad sans ref sheet. If your wondering why dust is becoming a homestuck character it’s burn damage. Bones become grey and black from severe burns blah blah. Anyways they are all ok and it’s a really wholesome au 🫶😁 hahaha yes…yes…

[ozzgin]

Omg i love your Yandere serial killer with a split persona so much 😭😭, can you do more headcanon about him?? Like does he aware of his other persona seeing reader kinda scared to talk to him normally thank u

Yandere! Serial Killer Scenarios

Featuring the kind, quiet man who has no idea why you look at him with terror in your eyes. This time with an official character design!

Content: female reader, mentions of murder, obsessive behavior, horror, dubious/non-consent

[Main Story] | [More original works]

You only attempted to escape once.

His frequent warnings had begun to wear off, and your mind dared to wander towards hope. One day, during his evening walk, you ran to your bedroom and pulled out a train ticket you'd hidden earlier inside a drawer. The small piece of paper weighed heavy in your hand. Come, now, you scolded yourself. It was weeks of careful planning: anticipating his schedule, erasing your tracks, preparing the essentials. You could already smell the worn leather seats, and hear the jarring whistle of departure. Then you'd be far away from this maniac, all but a terrible memory to be locked away.

There was no time for hesitation. You grabbed a small bag and sped towards the station, frequently looking over your shoulder, muttering silent prayers. Once you made it to your compartment, you exhaled in relief. A relief you hadn't felt in months, washing over your body and relaxing your tense muscles. You climbed the stairs, and searched for your seat. Has someone misread their ticket? You found your spot occupied by a stranger.

"What did I tell you about running away?" his deep voice echoed across the empty hall.

The walk back home was silent. You were convinced this was your end. You'd arrive at the house, and he'd cut you into pieces. Your lips curled in a horrified grimace, mind flooded with foreign feelings: your nails plucked apart with pliers, a burning sting after each detachment. The roots of your teeth grinding and screeching within the bone of your jaw, until all that's left is a fleshy, gaping wound. Plop, plop, as each little souvenir falls into the jar.

He slammed the door shut and stared you down. You looked at the floor, but all you could see were the grimy ID cards of all the women who never made it out of this damned house. You were next.

His large hand ruffled your hair, and you glanced up in disbelief.

"This stays between us. Mother better not hear that her soon-to-be daughter in law tried to run away. Especially now that she's warmed up to you. Are we clear?"

You nodded desperately. God, how pathetic of you. But being trapped was better than rotting underground like the rest of them. You just wanted to live.

You can always tell whether it's him, or him. It's the silence. Or lack of, for that matter. He likes the quietness, the muffled ticking of the clock, the busy rattling in the kitchen, your laughs, your chatter. You'll sit together and listen to the rain, or read your books across from each other. There's no need for words, you know you can be at peace.

He likes music. When you hear the record player, you know it's your cue to perform. You exit your room - it's better if he doesn't call you down himself - and descend to the main area. The stairs creak louder, the wallpaper begins to yellow. It's almost as if the house ages with the music, and you tumble back in time.

He's been waiting for you, naturally. How's a man meant to spend his evenings, if not with his adored wife? He'll reach out for your hand, and invite you to a slow dance. Those are the worst moments. The tight, suffocating hold, his deranged stare drilling into your very soul, the whispered promises: that you're forever his, and you'll never find happiness anywhere else. He knows it. It's the same for him, really. Everything he's ever needed lies within your embrace.

Some days, the charade doesn't last long. You simply won't be in the mood to be kissed, to be stripped naked and fondled by his murderous hands. So you'll just pout and gaze ahead. It angers him terribly.

"Wretched whore. Do I look like a beggar?"

He'll shove you aside and make his way out, taking his tools with him. He hates asking for your affection and would rather take his anger out somewhere else. You know he won't hurt you, or force himself on you, which means someone else will have to pay for your disrespect. And yet, it's the only freedom you have around him - the privilege of refusing him and living to see the next day. The rest aren't as lucky. You'd rather not think too deeply about it.

My honey, I know With the dawn that you will be gone But tonight, you belong to me Just to little old me.

What a bizarre thing, to harbor such hatred towards the one you love. You've never met anyone kinder. He's thoughtful, patient, caring. He knows everything about you and lives to serve you. He's your best friend and your lover. He's the one you want to marry one day. But he's also...well...him. And you can't have one without the other.

"No, Mother, it isn't tacky," he barks at the shattered mirror, adjusting your necklace. "And you know what? It's up to (Y/N) to decide if she wants to wear your wedding jewelry."

"It's nice", you respond curtly. You look into the empty reflection and nod. He likes it when you take his side in front of Mother.

"I knew you'd agree. We're a match made in Heaven, aren't we?" he smiles and zips up the old dress. You shiver: wearing a dead woman's gown was not part of your wedding plans. The corset is tightened, and you gasp. His hands are tense.

"I know he proposed to you. And what a stupid grin you had on your face when it happened! You never act like that around me."

He doesn't call me a bitch, for starters, you think to yourself. You shuffle on the bed, trying to loosen up the garment, but he swiftly pins you down onto the mattress.

"Not that it matters. Would you like to know why?" he inquires with a familiar glimmer of jealousy in his dilated pupils. "Because I'll always be your first. You know it, I know it. He never will.

At the end of the day, you belong to me."

To compete with oneself. Nonsense. Utter madness, all of it. The house; the drawer filled with gory trophies; the nightly talks with Mother dearest, whose bones have most likely turned to dust by now; the bloodied scalpels; the embrace of a man who fills you with warmth and terror.

You're part of it now.

[koifly]

Some side profiles from my AU + James! It's set in Germany btw

[justpinkazure]

remember that rock au?

[lunar-orca]

fat butch orca save me

[stitchau]

Disruptive patients

Why don't they mind their business

[skellophrenia]

drew theze assholes as ponies a few weeks ago hello

[mrfelixfischoeder]

dont think ill get the muse to finish this one properly but - Veronica!! i love her, your honour

[artpepkin]

Silly inaccurate quotes doodle time <3

Nym belongs to me 🧡