#hector munday

[cenomatic]

jorking it

[redran6er]

Would you let him in?

[herabora]

❤

[dogyodel]

Eyes of the devil

[caramelparrotcz]

Hi everyone 🤍🕯️

The Dark Pictures Anthology: The Devil in Me 🤍

💛Hector Munday/Granthem Du’Met 💛

[milllkaa]

My love Dumet

[108garys]

Expressiveness

So I'm tired and rambly I'm sure but a thought has crossed my mind as to why the new Psycho mask doesn't hit right beyond the initial shock of it and to me it comes down to the old saying "eyes are the window to the soul" and how much eyes give away and quite frankly josh is way too expressive for that type of mask and it would give him away

The original mask gives you nothing to figure out his identity, in fact that's the whole point as josh constructs the persona to be so thoroughly different that he even moves differently and only in brief moments were he messes up and breaks character does it hint at his identity

For an alternative that does the exposed eyes look right let's look at smg's other masked antagonist, Granthem Du'met famously makes little to no expressions, doesn't speak and is so cold that even with more of his face exposed he still gives nothing and on the rare occasion where he does the impact is far greater than were he a more expressive character like josh. I get that the psycho persona is different but that's the point, if the psycho has soulless eyes like Du'met then it won't be believable as josh and if the eyes are every bit as expressive as josh usually is than it won't be believable that no one looked into his eyes recognized him immediately

On top of the old design better obscuring his identity, the black eyes made him appear alien and inhuman in a way that's just not captured here

And here I've hastily drawn the lenses back on to show how it could have been and hopefully further make my sleep deprived point, like here the tone is still altered but the original essence of the concept isn't lost, at least I hope that's how it comes across

@kassiekolchek22 @delurkr @tatjana-fantasy @unhingedlesbear @ctrvpani @tinynightmarewoman @qusok @eframschweigersskincells @kindheartedgummybears(what an awkward time to be considering having another go at redesigning the psycho mask for my Josh Du'met au 😅)

[taygetuspositive]

local serial killer has difficulties reintegrating into civil society

[mahleb]

I recently got acquainted with the Saw universe)). I especially liked one of the antagonists, Mark Hoffman. It's funny, but in his story, he is very similar to Hector Munday (Grantham Du'Met) from the game The Dark Pictures: The Devil in Me (although, given the chronology, Hector is more likely to look like him). Both worked for the FBI/police, being professionals in their field. Both committed their first murders for good reasons (Mark - killed an unjustly released murderer, Hector - euthanasia of an evil mother painfully dying of cancer). And both had someone who initiated them, so to speak. Mark has Kramer, Hector has Manny Sherman. But, unlike Mark, Hector did it much longer and more successfully… Although, again unlike Mark, Hector really liked it, even though he missed his days working in the FBI. For Mark, most of the murders were under pressure from Kramer or out of fear of exposure. I would love a crossover with their collaboration))

[satanetra]

little devil

[redran6er]

" You stole my heart, and I want it back "

God I miss these two so much so I drew em! Also this will be used for my new youtube video as thumbnail hehe

[hope-to-hell]

The Quiet Game. Hector Munday x Reader. Noncon, coercion, exhibition kink, naked top clothed bottom, all around poor life choices (but this is smut so we do what we want). Mr. Munday is the strong, silent type. He is inventively cruel and yet. And yet he has needs like any man, even if his methods of satisfying them are more than unorthodox. And now that he has you, well, you’d better keep quiet. Unless you want everyone to hear.

———

You’re in his web now, you unlucky little fly, and now you play his game. Shiver here in the chill of his director’s suite and know that every ripple of fear across your skin only fuels his hunger.

Hush, now. Don’t make a sound. Match him breath for breath and maybe you’ll get out of this alive. Be still. Let him bend you down and spread your legs apart; let him cut and tear until you’re bare to him, clothing in shreds and ass prickling gooseflesh in this cold room. All the truly important parts of the console are switched off; there’s just an unblinking red light in front of your nose.

Is that— yeah. Yeah, that’s a mic and it is hot and that’s the game: take it quietly or every moan and whimper’s gonna be broadcast throughout the house. Bite your tongue bloody��� or don’t. He doesn’t care. And which would be worse: your companions thinking all your little sounds are from some cruel torture, or them knowing just how gone with need you are? How could you explain the war that rages between mind and body, between the chill of fear and the thick wet heat of anticipation?

Oh, you pathetic little thing. So weak, so lost. He doesn’t even need that knife to keep you here, although it’s sharp and firmly in his grip, shining silvery right where you can see it. Point being, it’s a threat but it’s nothing against solid warm flesh and the soft whisper of cambric and wool as he digs the fingers of his free hand into the meat of your ass. It’s a dull bruising ache, leaving its echoes deep in your flesh when he flexes his fingers to get a better grip. Yeah, you like that, enough to push back as best you can into the feeling. You want it, yeah? Bad enough to beg for it?

Tch.

Giving up so easily? He isn’t even in you yet but anticipation is a bitch. And wouldn’t you know it, but he feels it too: he shifts closer and oh, he is hard— all his bulk is just a solid wall to cage you here, as his cock burns hot like a brand even through his trousers. If he ever smiles at all, if there is anything within him beyond implacable grim fate, surely something of it must be present here, teased out by the interplay of wanting and taking. If you’re lucky— if you make it through this to emerge aching and sticky in the predawn gloom— you’ll see what he looks like when he slips enough to let his human side show, and won’t that be a treat. So are you gonna play the game, sweet thing?

Shame might be one side of the coin, but the other side is animal need. It’s instinct: the kind of bone-deep wanting that’s got you biting your lips bloody to stop yourself from gritting out just fucking give it to me already. And yeah, he’s gonna fuck you raw; how better to conquer you completely than to bury his seed as deep as he can get. There’s the scratch of wool over your ass when he opens his flies just far enough to take himself in hand. Can you picture it? The way he stands silent, dressed like a man out of time, palming his cock for just a moment before he lines himself up and pushes in deep? Is he thick? Long? Does he know the angle that’ll tear your last bit of resolve to shreds? Oh, honey. This isn’t his first time around.

Quiet that mind of yours. Don’t try to hold those thoughts; let them blow away like smoke until all that’s left is pure sensation. Were you an animal, your entire life would be like this: fleeing, fucking, living with no thought to a future so uncertain it might as well not exist, each successive moment belonging only to itself.

There, can you feel that? The brush of his cock against you, slipping through your slick: one thrust, two, and he’s home. There’s no mercy in the way he shoves himself in you to the root, crushing you down against buttons and dials, hard enough that if tomorrow comes it’ll find you brushing fingertips over a pattern of aches in the shape of the console. Sweetheart, can you feel it? He may be cold behind the mask but he still breathes, still shudders with the pleasure of conquest, still exhales a hot wet ah into your ear. And then he moves. He is greedy, selfish; he takes and takes and takes but he’s crushing you down against the console just so and listen. Listen. If you think he doesn’t know what that does to you— if you think he doesn’t mean to hold you here in such a way that the very motion of your body sends lightning through your veins— then you’re a fool.

I can’t. I can’t. Please. It’s too much; you can’t possibly keep quiet any longer, not with the way he curves over your back, smearing sweat and slick and wouldn’t that be a sight: his vest and trousers rumpled, shirttails half-freed, with your shining wet need stained all across his front. The image bites its way into your core and wouldn’t you know it but he’s just a little more urgent, a little more ferocious when he feels the ripple of your walls around him. I— I need—

What do you need? Release, certainly, but your mind is unwinding and all your thoughts spiral out into nothingness. The only thing left is pure sensation: heat, desperate breaths, the chorus of your nerves that screams too much, too much, let me— let me— make me come.

Please. It’s soft, nearly inaudible, breathed out with the wispy unh of a body with no more room for air. It’s not a plea to let you go, but to give you more, and for a moment he is caught off-guard. This wasn’t in the plan.

His hand over your mouth, covering at first and then adjusting. Fingers dragging down, past your lips to rest heavy on your tongue, his hand bridle and bit and gag at once. He tastes of leather and salt and a whisper of blood. The razor’s disappeared somewhere but it doesn’t matter; all your senses now belong to him. The game he’s playing is distant, unimportant; you are filled with him from end to end and with each stroke he digs thick fingers into your mouth, holding your jaw open wide. Like this he pulls you back hard onto his cock, leaving spit and bruises at the corners of your lips. This is mercy.

This is torture, and it is sweet.

You can’t fight what’s coming, so let it happen. Let that lightning work its way up from your toes to curl brightly in your center. Relinquish yourself unto him; he has your mind already and now he will possess the undoing of your flesh as well. Feel the delicate balance between pleasure and pain, and know that neither exists alone but is only a mirror of the other.

Collect yourself. Nevermind the discomfort of your jaw relaxing back into place, or the gooseflesh that prickles your skin when he no longer rests heavy at your back. Breathe for a moment. You did so very well. And now the door is open, leading out to the warrens between the walls. He stands straight-spined and still at the console, armored with mask and apron to conceal any evidence of sin, but now he cannot hide how his blood pulses hot beneath the surface.

And now you have a choice: you can run shaky-legged and stumbling back to your companions and retake your place as quarry in the hunt. You can dive for the razor that’s on the floor just out of reach, and hope that you’re faster than he is. Each is expected. Understandable. Or you can turn against all reason and look him in the eye. You can tell him the least you could do next time is get me a blanket, and mark the way he tilts his head with interest. The choice is yours.

[tinynightmarewoman]

CREDIT TO @vendetta935 FOR THIS MASTERPIECE!!!

[caramelparrotcz]

Hi everyone 🤍🕯️

The Dark Pictures Anthology: The Devil in Me 🤍

💛Hector Munday/Granthem Du’Met 💛

[meitsuki24]

Here’s a Du’Met for spooky season 🍁

[milllkaa]

Would you be willing to share some more sketches maybe👉🏻👈🏻

YES!!!! Anything for you my dear UwU///