#holy monster of a post

[hauntedppgpaints]

hope is heavy; you will drop it, but you must pick it up again.

( x. x. x. x. x. x. x. x. x. x. x. x. x. x. x. x. x. )

[potato-lord-but-not]

some incredibly stupid holy ghosts memes in honor of this comment from my last holy ghosts art. we got him boys

[mumbledramblings]

nicholas "i'm not afraid of monsters because i am one" wolfwood

vash "i am afraid of monsters because i am one" saverem

milly "i'm just here for a good time, really :)" thompson

meryl "holy fuck" stryfe

[lycanpunk667]

Putting this guy through more horrors than thought humanly possible actually

[freaky-flawless]

Finally finished with these two! Which is ironic since they were the first ones I drew lol. You can find Tori's old ref here!

Some more info on them under the cut:

As much as he doesn't want to acknowledge it, its pretty much an open secret to everyone that knows of him that Kris is the estranged son of Krampus. From a young age he was opposed to following in his fathers footsteps, and for years tried his best to fight against it. Once he hit high school, he struck up a deal with his dad that he would pick up the mantle once he graduated. Kris agreed and promptly dropped out just shy of his graduation date. And he's been living on his own ever since.

He works at a gas station near Monster High, and is well liked by the students for his surprisingly good advice and tendency to turn a blind eye towards obviously fake IDs. His apartment is near New Salem University where he spends a lot of his free time hanging out with his buddies from school, one of them being Luci Ferguson, the heir of hell. The two go way back, they're dad's being close friends. As it stands Kris is cruising through life without much of a care in the world, or so it seems. Deep down he regrets his decision to cut his education short, and feels his life is pretty directionless.

Tori is a Zodiac Monster, a rich and exclusive community of monsters who tend to only congregate amongst themselves. While being a Zodiac monster may have meant something long long ago, nowadays it's little more than a title, one that denotes a lot of social power. That pressure, as well as all the drama and critiques that come with living in such a tight-knit social circle, leads to Tori wanting an out, or at least a break from the Zodiac Monster lifestyle. She finds her chance once it's time for her to go to college.

While Tori is very sweet and tries her best to be considerate of others, she's also somewhat naive and socially awkward. She has a tendency to say very out of touch things, not immediately recognizing that not everyone grew up as wealthy and privileged as she did. Regardless she's very open-minded and enjoys hearing all sorts of different perspectives. She;s incredibly grateful when Fangel, Demonique, and Luci take her under their wings, especially since she's starting completely new in terms of making friends. It doesn't take long for her to meet Kris and become fascinated (and even somewhat enamored) by his sloppiness and carefree lifestyle.

[rainbowangel110]

I've never been scared of a comic panel before, it's always been "Oh!" before moving on.

Castle Swimmer came in with a metal baseball bat.

[auspectris]

gravity

[soup-is-here]

As many "toxic yaoi Jimmy x Curly" jokes I've made I could write a whole ass essay about their relationship and their codependency. They have such a shifting power dynamic throughout the entire game and none of it is romantic and I'm not entirely sure if any of it could be counted as love at all. It's more primal. It's obsessive. It's a failing survival instinct neither realized they had until it was too late and everyone else had to suffer the consequences

I just can't describe it without going into a full essay cause they both have this obsessive need to fix everything in their lives by fixing others and making things worse. They both want control so bad they're willing to steal it from everyone else in different ways. Curly is complicit in Jimmy's actions but he is not at the same level of maliciousness that Jimmy is

You can tell how desperately Curly had to cling onto the idea that Jimmy is a good guy. He could just talk to him and fix him and Anya would be okay again. He could fix this cause he knows Jimmy is good. Curly needs things to be okay or else he failed his one job of making sure everything is okay and having a terrible copilot is not okay so that means he needs his copilot to just not be terrible problem solved!

And the entire game is watching Jimmy fall apart as he realizes he can't just fix the fucked up shit he did. Curly announced the message and Jimmy suddenly decided he can't survive anymore and crashed the ship. He can't untraumatize Anya and now he can't uncrash the ship and Curly laying on his medical cot is a constant reminder of that. If he can just save Curly then he's okay he's fine again. He's undone his harm

They hate each other so much to the point where they need the other to give them purpose. I don't know if they're necessarily good friends, but we know they had a long relationship before the game's time and the announcement set Jimmy off since he felt like Curly was leaving them. Leaving him. Jimmy needed Curly to help give him a purpose and Curly needed Jimmy to give him a purpose and this one message fucked that up and they both got swept up in this codependent fight for survival. That one announcement triggered Jimmy's fear that Curly had been enabling and encouraging and now Curly's stuck in a cryopod listening to his "friend" tell him how much of a hero they both are. They did it! They fixed everything! They fixed each other!

[g1rlb4it]

baby wolves!!!!

[faithful-freak]

spooky corn maze Fuck..,,;

you feel the panic begin to settle in as the laughs of your friends in the haunted corn maze grow distant. hurrying down what you assume is the correct path, the maze has only grown darker and darker. the quiet wind rustling the crops leaves throughout the field is an eerie change compared to the prior screams and music.

the crunching of soil under your feet stops as you suddenly feel it. eyes, and they’re on you, watching. a chill shakes down your spine as the cold air bites. breathing quietly in fear quickly turns to not breathing at all as your body goes rigid. a huff of hot air, muffled by what sounds like a mask, smothers the side of your face and down your neck.

next thing you know you’re basically being dragged, forced to keep up with their pace. what is presumed to be an actor from the event has a strong grip on your arm as they take you further into the maze…

“..away from where they can hear..” is all you can make out from their mumble under your own sounds of struggle. without warning you’re thrown down in the middle of a small clearing. now finally, a good look at who has kidnapped you. a particularly terrifying masked scare actor is lingering over you looking down with a pitchfork in hand that you had failed to notice. you don’t need to see their face to see their intention, the curious lean in their stance says it all.

in a flash the tines of the pitchfork are staked into the soft ground next to your head. after a miniature heart attack and gasp of shock, they speak up above you..

“it’s okay to scream, but movement isn’t allowed. make this easy for yourself.” … with swift hands, a makeshift spreader bar attached to your ankles by rope is created out of their “prop” pitchfork. but not before you’ve been delicately stripped nude… not before your wrists are bound with that same tight knot..

but it is right before they dip their head down, pull their mask off just enough and lick the full length of exposure between your legs, tasting what you have to offer them… you cough out an exhale as they push your knees to your chest while eagerly unbuckling their belt. at the sight of overwhelming length and width, you begin to choke out pleas and cries, but it falls on deaf ears as they growl and forcefully slide their entire stretch into the deepest part of you. the perverted shaking moan that escapes you makes them laugh.

“i knew i made the right choice,” is all they say before the feral grunting and unstoppable groaning begins. skin hitting skin, they drill and fuck you senseless at an abnormal pace. the sting of the rope, the bodily ache of being stretched so far, and even the worry of personal safety long gone once your mind slips into bliss. their heavy weight and build over top of you shielding you from the cold. as your tear filled eyes roll back.. their previous words ring in your head, your kidnapper had been planning this, and you were their number one choice.

[cannibalcreepers]

I am open for commissions 🎉🎉

All payments to go to @holykhepri skunk Dandy's surgery ⬅️ link right here for donations

I will only be doing a range of $50 and $70 art commissions!

Half bodies: $50

Full Bodies: $70

Tho Please consider donating more if you're able ✨️

Examples of full + half bodies

I do horror, fallout, ocs + fanart, I do furries, monsters + dragons.

Can request simple backgrounds or patterned backgrounds

If you'd like nsfw works, let me know in dms. More than 1 character will make art piece double the original price!

Please DM me proof of donation with personal info covered up, before showing me art you'd like done

Let's help Dandy out!!

[piningpercussionist]

I removed the bg of this one panel so we can start putting Scott in random places. Enjoy!

(OG panel under cut)

The monster high and hr ones were suggested to me, but the FNAF office, Backrooms, and Goodsprings (Fallout: New Vegas) were from my own brain.

[kekkuda]

this is definitely fruity

[horrorlesbians]

finally got (almost) all my dolls displayed! i found the shelf while cleaning and it isn’t ideal but it will work for now. all of the dolls besides generation 3 are my dolls from childhood

[sillyprettyfairy]

"clawdeen's wearing fetish gear" "frankie's wearing a nazi hat" WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT GO OUTSIDE!!!!!!!!!

[vaya-writes]

The Wyvern's Bride - Epilogue

When Adalyn gets sacrificed to the local wyvern, she’s a little annoyed and a lot terrified. Upon meeting the wyvern, she discovers that he’s not particularly interested in eating people, and mostly wants to be left alone. In a plot to save himself from the responsibilities his family keep pushing on him, Slate names Adalyn as his human Envoy, and tasks her with finding him a wife.

2300 words. Cis female human x Cis male wyvern (slow burn, arranged marriage, eventual smut). firefly-graphics did the divider.

Masterlist - Previous

Thank you for your patience. It's only been (checks notes) almost nine months. If it's not fresh in mind, I wouldn't force yourself to reread. The style of this chapter is slightly different, doesn't require much coherency with the rest. Anyway, thank you so much for sticking with me this long, and I hope you enjoy the final installment of The Wyvern's Bride. No content warnings for this chapter. Unless PDA makes you uncomfortable xo

There are memories tucked away in each corner of The Wyvern’s Flock. The façade may have changed, but Adalyn can still see herself in the foundations of the building. She still knows the number of steps from the entrance hall to the doorways. The bakery where she’d received customers has been rearranged, a taproom in its place, but the kitchen remains, equipped with the oven her father had modified. She can see it, past the counter where Grace greets them and takes their orders. 

Slate holds Adalyn’s hand when they enter what had once been her dining room. It’s still a dining room, part of her is glad to see. The fireplace still burns, and there’s a new clock over the mantle. But smaller tables and benches fill the area. Where once walls had hung bare, they’re now decorated with paintings and tapestries. Adalyn is taken aback by how much colour they bring to the establishment. 

There’s a pause in conversation when they enter the room. It doesn’t quite fall silent, but people still stare as they sit by the window. Adalyn goes as far as to put her back to the room, to better blot out the distracting eyes. She’s not here to mind the gossip. Only to have lunch and spend time with her husband.  

Word that a wyvern had settled in the valley had spread like wildfire, and people had come from far and wide, just for a chance to see him. It had started with the locals. People trying to sell their livestock. Craftsmen offering skills. The young and unmarried asking after serving positions. 

Then word had spread further. Merchants had visited, scrabbling at the chance to trade from Slate’s hoard. Niche craftsfolk had come next. There had been sculptors (mostly turned away), glass makers (temporarily contracted), painters (generously commissioned). Then the jewel smiths, the weavers, alchemists, scribes and tinkerers, until Slate was referring them elsewhere, interested in single purchases and commissions, but not yet ready to hire every person with a trade who came to his door.  

With all the skill and money coming to and from the valley, it’s no surprise when the area goes through an economic boom. The area flourishes. The trade festival becomes renowned. Northpoint and Tuscany both double in size as new folk migrate to the region. 

The Wyvern’s Flock reflects this easily. The seats are full and the atmosphere is lively. Grace and Gwen have nearly finished paying off Adalyn, years ahead of schedule. As far as Adalyn is aware, the ladies have no regrets. Moving away from their families had been a boon to them both. Grace gets to run her own business, and Gwen gets to run her own kitchen. There’d been obstacles (refurnishing, family drama, local pushback), but things have settled enough that the women now run their business together without raising too many brows. 

People stare at Adalyn though. Or perhaps Slate. He’s in his demi form, boldly grasping Adalyn’s hand over the table, sharpened teeth glinting as he talks. She used to shy from the attention. Feel judged by the stares; grow defensive at the scrutiny.  

Adalyn squeezes his hand. 

Slate pulls back to retrieve some papers from his bag. He moves his chair around the table, so they can pour over the blueprints side by side. She doesn’t flinch when his hand comes to rest on her thigh, though her cheeks do colour with blush. The gesture is under the table, hidden from public eye, and they are married. There’s nothing inherently wrong with the touch.  

It still thrills her. A smile plays at her lips. 

They chatter about their latest project. Adalyn’s first draft of the stable, drawn almost a year ago, had been cleaned up and heavily referenced in the newer blueprint. It always fills her with warmth, when Slate takes her ideas on board.  

The project can’t be put off any longer. With the workers streaming in, they’ll need a permanent stable. A safe way to deal with the offers for work and commerce. Currently mail is left at Fleecehold for Adalyn.  

The path through the Spires is steep and crumbling; twisting and incredibly narrow in places. Adalyn can’t help but admire those persistent and skilled enough to make it to the castle entrance. 

Most don’t. The path is dangerous. People are attempting to navigate it with alarming regularity. It’s gotten to the point where The Wyvern’s Flock receives a stream of complaints about lost packages, twisted ankles, and near falls. She knows it’s beginning to frustrate Grace and Gwen, despite their assurances otherwise. 

It only reinforces the need for a stable. One at the bottom for travellers to stow their horses and swap them out with mules. And one at the top for the animals that complete the journey. They’re considering hiring a guide too. 

Because the couriers don’t stop coming. The work applications and correspondences don’t slow. Slate had built himself a castle. It needs staff to maintain it. And there is no shortage of offers. 

Adalyn strokes the back of Slate’s hand with her thumb. 

He squeezes her leg back, automatic, before stopping suddenly. He gives a rueful wince. “Was I getting off topic?” 

She smiles. “No.” 

“But I was rambling.” 

Adalyn rolls her eyes. “I don’t mind. You know this.” 

His cheeks tinge grey with blush, before he presses a kiss to the back of her free hand. “I’m sorry, I’ve spoken about nothing but work.” 

She glances pointedly at the blueprints. “That was the plan.” 

Slate shares a soft look with Adalyn, his eyes sparkling. “I love you.” 

“Yes. I know.” 

Slate straightens. Places his hand over his chest in mock indignance.  

Adalyn relents, grinning again. “And I love you too.” 

Slate puts away the blueprints. “We can revisit this again when the materials are ready. Will you tell me about your morning?” 

Adalyn had worried that she’d be left with little to do when she sold her bakery. That the kitchen in the Spires would only keep her occupied for so long. That she’d finish reading Slate’s collection of books, and grow bored. She’d been wrong. 

In the days passed she’s practically become Slate’s manager. And that’s just regarding how he handles construction. Half of her job is keeping Slate on task. Reminding him to finish buildings before starting new ones. Helping him prioritise. Making a hard copy of his mental to do list.  

It takes patience and understanding. Slate tends to hop between projects on whim. At first she can’t fathom why he’ll be lengthening the servant’s quarters one morning, and then building a hunter’s lodge in the East Forest by the afternoon. 

Sometimes he needs it. Needs that project rotation, to prevent him from falling to tedium. Other times he jumps tasks so he won’t forget his new ideas. It’s her job to learn the difference. To gently coach Slate back on track, to take note of his ideas so he can come back to them later. He seems grateful for the assistance. And she appreciates being deferred to. Doesn’t mind the extra work. 

Adalyn’s tower had been left unfinished. A side project Slate returns to from time to time, in between other buildings. A servant’s wing had been higher priority. Their staff require a dormitory, a kitchen, a dining area, easy access to running water and a path to the mainway. Slate adds to the quarter every month or so, as more staff are recruited. 

When she’s not helping Slate, Adalyn deals with administrative errands. Sorts the mail. Handles the budget. Manages staff. Somebody has to draft contracts and organise pay and give the hapless craftfolk wandering their halls some semblance of an orientation. Scatterbrained as he is, Slate tends to hire people first and ask questions later.  

They’d first hired a goatherder, one who was willing to double as a poulterer. Adalyn didn’t want to head to Fleecehold every time she needed supplies, and having her own source of eggs, milk, and cheese (and somebody to mind the animals) is one of the first luxuries she put Slate onto. 

While construction was still underway, Slate had started hiring crafters directly. Many he would source from the valley – several professionals, and the occasional apprentice. Others he sent away for. Until there’re a modest collection of people living part time in the Spires, commissioned to create and build at Slate’s whim before the next year passes. A smith busy with hinges, nails, and other iron fittings. Woodworkers and carvers to furnish the place. Niche workers from afar for the more lavish fixtures. 

Then Slate hires artists.  

Decorations are a must. If not for his rich tastes, then to help tell the many corridors and caverns apart. People to spin tapestries, depicting Slate’s family history. Tanners, to produce leather and fine furs from Slate’s hunting, working in tandem with an upholsterer to ensure that seats and lounges are adequately cushioned. Weavers, to create an ample source of bedding for the servant’s quarter, and spinners, to make and provide thread and yarn for aforementioned weavers and fibre artists. Until Adalyn is dizzy with the sheer number of craftsfolks wandering their halls. 

Some of the art comes from further abroad. A handful of paintings and tapestries are commissioned. Slate hardly has the need for stonemasons and sculptors, but he still hires a few. He decorates the halls in limestone reliefs. The scales and wings of his family are repeated motifs. There are also hints at domesticity here and there. Designs featuring the valley; carved sheep in odd places, and crops and foods in others. Patterns peaking from a wall in the kitchen, or near the garden doors.  

Mostly they’d hired serving staff. As Slate’s castle grows, so does the housework. There is too much floor space, too many oil lamps and braziers that require maintenance. Adalyn has enough on her plate without handling the laundry or the sweeping and polishing.  

She’s still the only person allowed to wander the Tower. Slate had deemed his horde too valuable; hadn’t wanted anyone else handling their possessions. Adalyn figures he just doesn't want anyone fussing.  

Next they’ll have to hire a stable hand. And look for a guide, to take people up and down the Spires. But those tasks can wait. 

Grace arrives with their food. Cheese toast sprinkled with salt and rosemary for Adalyn – who makes a note to try cooking it at home. And a haunch of meat, dripping and rare, just the way Slate likes it. There’s wine too; the ladies had a trade deal with Ivar’s brewery, and Adalyn’s visits to The Wyvern’s Flock are a rare chance for her to indulge in his reputed winterberry wine.  

Adalyn digs into her meal while her friend lingers, catching her up on the latest happenings. Adalyn doesn’t get to be social very often, and she’s grown to appreciate the comradery and tentative friendship that the Grace and Gwen have offered her. 

They chat about Lindel. The woman had kept in touch with Adalyn, writing regularly. She still lives with her family, farming and spinning with the rest of the women in her village. Her life hadn’t changed much in the last year, but being the semi-final contender to marry Slate had bought her some respect amongst the others in her village. Even if she keeps the details of the trials to herself. 

Errah comes up too. She’s still a bit of a recluse, shepherding in one of the smaller settlements. Neither does she write, though Adalyn suspects that has more to do with her ability, rather than her desire.  

One of Slate’s cousins had been checking in on her, and the occasional sight of the silvery wyvern has been a fierce topic of gossip. Adalyn listens avidly. Lune hadn’t bothered visiting the Spires. It’s apparently poor etiquette for one wyvern to visit another’s territory and not declare themselves, but Slate doesn’t mind.  

Adalyn decides to visit Errah. If Lune is attempting to court her, then she’d probably appreciate the hard earned information Adalyn could share about that particular experience. 

Gwen wanders over, and conversation turns towards business. Repayments on the building. Mail collection. Food orders.  

The sun sets and the stars wheel gently overhead by the time Slate and Adalyn leave. They walk the settlement for a while, and Adalyn is struck with the fond memory of when she’d given Slate his first tour of the area.  

The night grows cold and Adalyn shivers. 

Slate wraps his arm around her shoulders and steers her towards the courtyard. He transforms, without a care for who sees him. Adalyn can’t help but smile again, reminded vividly of the first time Slate had landed here in this form. The power he’d given her at his entrance.  

What’s with that look? 

Adalyn shakes her head. “I’m just feeling nostalgic.”  

She brushes her fingers against his scaled snout. Smiles up at him, before leaning in and kissing him on the cheek.  

He rumbles; a sound of contentment.  

“I had a nice time tonight. Thank you.” 

He doesn’t reply, nuzzling his face against her shoulder instead. His tongue flicks out across her neck, playful and affectionate. Adalyn yelps, before dissolving into laughter at the ticklish sensation. 

Slate lowers his head further. Nudges her side, more forcefully.  

Climb on already. I want to take you home. 

She nearly flushes at his directness. Feigns shock with a hand over her mouth. “So forward, Slate?” 

His huff sends a breath of hot air at her face, but he doesn’t otherwise reply. He’s familiar with the joke. It’s not the first time she’s made it.  

Adalyn kisses him again before climbing up. Jests aside, she looks forward to getting back to the Tower. To whatever Slate might have in mind for the evening. 

Once more, the shadow of a wyvern passes over Clearwater Valley.