#oc: fix

[sprout-fics]

Snowblind teaser:

At last you come upon the felled stag, collapsed onto its side amidst a bed of heather. It’s oddly beautiful, in a way. A single trail of red leaks from its shoulder and onto the blossoms. Simon kneels beside it, observing the way the wind ruffles through its fur, sensing you behind him shifting.

“This your first kill?” He asks bluntly, reaching for his knife at his belt.

You chuff. “In the UK at least.”

“Hm.”

Simon presses his hand to the entry wound, holding his knife aloft so a fresh gush of red spills onto the blade. Dark and viscous, it drips down the sharp edge as he offers it to you.

“Drink.” He states bluntly, dark eyes boring into yours.

“Why...?”

“Hunter’s rite.” Simon replies simply, holding the knife a little higher. “For your first kill.”

He can see you wrinkle your nose, watching as steam curls off the metal and into the frigid air. Simon half expects you to squirm your way out of it- only to flush with a dark, thrilling pleasure as you grasp the knife and lift it to your lips. You hold it above you, and Simon watches with rapt attention as the blood drips from the tip and onto your waiting tongue. Your grimace slightly, throat bobbing as you swallow dutifully, and the half hard bulge tenting in Simon’s pants seems to only harden further. His thoughts are invaded by the vision of kissing the scarlet sigh from your mouth, of worming his hands down against your soft flesh and taking you here in the open wilderness- taking you for the first time beside your first kill where blood permeates the air along with your rapturous cries.

You hold the knife to him, cleaned, and Simon blinks from his reverie to the sight of your blood stained mouth, the faintest touch of red coloring against the corner. Without thinking he raises a hand, swipes a thumb through the stain so it bleeds further against your soft cheek.

and inside him, that fierce and wild thing howls to the wind:

Mine.

[nerrolane]

she misunderstood

[cronchy-baguette]

maru in all her rat glory

[hellspawnmotel]

intimacy between an evil spiteful building-sized supercomputer and the lone scientist left behind after everyone else ditched and forgot about her (in which computer wants to kill scientist really bad but her programming wont let her so she just attempts to make her as miserable as possible instead, which also doesn't work because scientist is a freak)

[blackkatdraws2]

[Toon x Mobster] Chapter 1: First encounter.

Next - (chapter list)

Jack Desmond was running under the heavy rain with a bag over his head, as he had given his umbrella to an old lady on his way home. It was an act of generosity that wasn't out of place in the whimsical place of cartoons.

He almost missed the dark shape sprawled out in an alleyway. Nothing too unusual, maybe some ne'er-do-wells or a goofy character caught in some mishap, but somehow, his gut told him that it felt different. Disturbingly out of place.

Faintly, his nose picked up on a worrying scent. Hesitant yet worried, he trudges closer, his shoes being tainted with red as he knelt down beside the dark figure. “Hey, buddy, you alright?” he called out, voice full of concern. His fingers tentatively touched the man’s shoulder.

Jack gasped, pulling his hand back quickly. His fingers were smeared with something deeply red and thick. His brain slowly processes what he's seeing, unbelieving. With the scent being washed down by the heavy rain, he pulls his palm closer to his nose to take a sniff.

His spine crawls and he jolts up, confused eyes shaking yet staying transfixed on the injured person as he stumbles backwards. He takes a closer look at the man's face- or, just his entire self for that matter. Staring back at him was a foreign face twisted into a harsh scowl, unconscious. Deep scars crisscrossed his face, making him look rather villainous.

This guy wasn’t a Toon. The thick dark coat, those scars- the blood. This man was from another Genre, one that didn’t belong in their streets of lighthearted fun.

His eyes caught sight of the gun tucked into the man’s coat, confirming Jack’s fears.

He's a Grim… perhaps a Guktav member?

The Guktav is one of the biggest and most influential criminal syndicates in the Grim genre where this gloomy-looking person probably came from. These men were dangerous, he'd better make a run for it just in case the assailant of this scene was still nearby.

Unsettled and too riddled with uncertainty and fear, he'd planned to just mind his own business and skedaddle… but his foot stayed planted where they stood, eyes transfixed on the wounded Grim man.

The more he stared, the more the puddle of blood spread.

The rain made the blood travel to the soles of his shoes quicker, and Jack’s stomach churned. He’d never seen anything like this before, not in this city. Life here has always been peaceful and non-life threatening despite the slapstick gags of silly violence people were hit with, but this? This wasn’t funny. This sight made his innards twist.

Jack glanced down at his palms, still stained with blood. The rain hadn’t washed it away, no matter how hard it came down. Starting to get a bit dizzy, he slowly starts to walk away.

Authorities… He should go call the authorities.

…

His feet stops not too far away, and the rain comes down harder than before.

"…Oooh-! Applesticks!" Jack curses, turning back with a huff and stomping back towards the man. “This is a bad idea.” He muttered to himself, shaking his head as he bent down again-

Jack's heart nearly leapt out of his chest when the man's gruff hands grabbed unto his arms and pulled him down, bloodshot eyes glaring straight at him. Jack's legs felt weak, his knees buckling and harshly hitting the bloody floor, terrified as the man's stare told him all he needed to know.

Do anything bad and he'd kill him.

The man's eyelids twitched, pupils rolling back. His large body collapsed on top of the smaller man, making Jack stutter as he fell on his bum, unable to balance himself. Jack lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding, staring at the unconscious man lying limp on his stomach, staining Jack's suit with his blood.

Jack Desmond swallows hard, his heart wavering. Should he really do this?

[This chapter has been edited.] _

Next - (chapter list)

[saltmalkin]

furniture

[lo-batteryy]

A wolf in sheep’s clothing.

[anbaisai]

"(Sigh) We'll continue this another ti- mmf?!"

With a guy like Jamil, you really gotta pick up the slack sometimes. No tie to pull on though, so I guess we'll just have to use that hoodie!

(Inspired by this artwork by オレコ on Pixiv!)

Bonus Jamil for the rest of the day:

[retquits]

some march head pats based on some silly dialogue i got

[podoro-vines]

[oc] Humanly Desires 🪐✨

[oc] Godly Temptations 🌻

[svampira]

snack time🤤

[christinamadsen]

I like this one!

October has a Friday the 13…

Scary movie night with Fix and Ghost?

Scream (Simon Ghost Riley x Reader)

(This is so late my deepest apologies. Coming in at the very last moment with a Halloween special)

Rating: M Wordcount: 2.2k Tags: Domesticity, Established relationship, Bickering, Cuddling, Sleeping together, Pranks, Practical Jokes, Sexual tension Warnings: Death by garage door, Blood mention A/N: Written for my OC Fix, but can be read as a standalone

“No, no, no don’t go in the house with the serial killer you stupid girl-”

The TV flickers brightly in the dark room you and Ghost are relaxing in. Luminance dances off the walls and your wide eyes as you sit transfixed at the grisly scene about to occur on the screen. Your legs are propped up on Simon’s lap, where he sprawls comfortably with his legs wide and an arm thrown over the back of the couch. His other hand rests on your thigh with warm familiarity, a simple touch that somehow conveys so much.

It’s a quiet evening, one spent in mutual company in the flat you’ve both recently come to call home. While originally his, he’d gradually acquired to your presence here, allowing you to move in your few belongings from the barracks into the previously sparse space. When you’d arrived he’d had a bed, a nightstand, a couch and TV in the living room, and little else. 

“Typical male space.” You told him at the time, and Ghost had the gall to look offended.

Since then, the flat has become fuller with the addition of new furniture and decorations. A vanity for the bedroom, a table with chairs for the kitchen, an easy chair and coffee table for the living room, all trimmings you had convinced him of. Now, the flat is cozy, homey, warm with the lingering sensation of somewhere lived and loved. 

Tonight, glowing lanterns hang from the front porch, brightly smiling pumpkins enticing trick or treaters up to the front step to ask for candy. You’d been delighted at the prospect of handing out sweets, though Simon had been ambiguous about the affair. Understandably so, for his hulking size and skull balaclava were sure to make a poor impression on the children that huddled on your front step.

He’s silent as he watches the movie, ignoring your quiet commentary as you bunch a blanket in your grip. You can tell that your lieutenant has either seen this movie before, or is so immune to scary movies in general that this doesn’t phase him. It makes sense for him. You’ve hardly ever seen him scared. Even in the face of certain death Ghost has always stared back, as if daring the cold, skeletal reach of the grim reaper to try and take him.

You, however, remain tightly coiled in anticipation at the scene before you. The colors of the TV dance off your wide eyes as you watch the young trim blonde on the screen enter the garage without a care in the world. She bounces down the steps easily, cleavage clearly on display and not noticing the dark figure that lurks behind her.

You suck in a sharp breath, and Simon casts you a sidelong glance. You think he may be smiling under his mask, but you’re not entirely sure. You wouldn’t put it past him if he was entirely amused at your fright. Even so, he squeezes your thigh for just a moment before releasing it, a tiny, wordless gesture of reassurance. 

“Bet he’ll go for her throat.” He intones dryly. “More blood that way.”

You tear your gaze from the TV long enough to frown at him, and he tilts his head to meet your gaze, eyes glinting with mischief.

You open your mouth to retort, but not before the killer on the screen stabs forward into the girls back. The party music within the house pulses loud enough to cover her cries, and as she stumbles away from the man in the ghost mask she sobs and begs for mercy. You watch as she fumbles with the controls to the garage door uselessly, before ultimately trying to wiggle out through the dog door. 

“No- oh my god, no the garage door!” You gasp, watching in horror as the murderer presses on the button to wrench the garage door up bit by bit. “Oh no!”

You cover your eyes with your hands, but even so manage to peek through your fingers and squeak as the girl’s screams cut out- her body is crushed between the door and the ceiling. A terrible, grisly end.

“Unexpected.” Simon offers flatly, and then huffs a laugh as he turns to you. “Pet, you hunt terrorists for a living. This shouldn’t scare you.”

“It’s different!” You declare, face warming. “I’ve never seen a terrorist crushed by a garage door.”

Simon pauses, nods at that with a little shrug. “Point taken.”

A knock on the front door, followed by a chorus of children’s voices. You spring eagerly from the couch, nudging your boyfriend’s foot pointedly as you sidle towards the front door to coo over the trick or treaters gathered outside. 

“Oh look at you all! I love your costumes! Here, take as much as you want, there’s plenty.”

Simon considers for a moment, and decides to follow you, standing still in the hallway, just at the corner of darkness. The kids digging their hands into the candy bowl pause at the looming, skull faced figure lurking in the shadowy corridor. You follow their gazes towards Ghost, who hovers ominously staring at the kids in costumes. 

“Can you not?” You hiss as they begin to pull away, but it’s too late. The kids flee from your front step back to their parents, squealing at Simon’s terrifying presence.

“Sorry for my boyfriend!” You call after them. “He’s just an idiot.”

You hear Simon chuckle behind you, as if gladly accepting the fact purely for his own amusement. 

“Of all the nights-” You sigh in mild annoyance as you close the door with a click. “This is the night when you decide to commit to the serial killer aesthetic.”

Simon hums a low, rumbling sound that catches deep in his chest. He steps forward to encircle his muscular, veiny forearms around your hips, dragging you flush to him. You squirm, but a hand dips to grasp at the swell of your asscheek, forcing a surprised squeak up your throat.

“Gonna kill ya.” He tells you as you struggle not to smile.

“Jokes on you.” You reply breathily, hands snaking up to his chest to splay flat against the muscles there. “I’m the final girl.”

When Ghost abruptly hoists you up into his arms, you feign a shriek of terror. 

“Help, please, he’s going to kill me!” You laugh as you’re carried off to the bedroom, the movie forgotten as it flickers brightly in the den.

—-

You’re not sure what wakes you up.

You’re used to sleeping in foxholes, safehouses, aboard helicopters and inside rocking trucks. Your history of long, grueling days with no rest and midnight stakeouts have made it so you can fall asleep just about anywhere. Yet the training of a soldier doesn’t fade even off duty, and you know as soon as your eyes open that there is something that is amiss.

“Simon…?” You slur drowsily, reaching a hand out to the other side of the bed to feel for his massive form that should be curled beside you, breathing low and deep as he slumbers.

Empty. Cold.

That startles you into something closer to wakefulness, eyes blinking in the darkness as you raise your head to look for your boyfriend. Yet the room is empty, silent, and even the noise of the house down the street with its Halloween party has now quieted into nothing.

A clatter of something down the hall, and you jolt, instincts coming fully online. Alarm has your heart race higher in your chest, breath quickening as the flat goes eerily silent once more. You shiver as you pull aside the blankets, skin chilled by the frigid air. As quiet as you can, you rise to face the bedroom door, left mysteriously ajar.

“Simon?” You echo again, a little louder, feeling uncertainty squirm in your stomach.

The vision of the killer from the movie floats into your thoughts unbidden, of the darkly clad, knife wielding maniac hunting down innocent victims and bleeding them dry as they cry out in vain for aid. You will it away with a small shake, forcing yourself to dispel your fearful delusions. Simon probably just went to the bathroom and accidentally knocked something off the counter, is trying to stay quiet so you go back to sleep.

Even so, something cold and tense seizes your limbs, and you chew on your lip at the undeniable sensation of something wrong.

You’ll just check to see if he’s alright.

You pad over towards the door on quiet feet, unable to stifle the tense sensation of awareness that prickles at the back of your senses. When your hand closes around the doorknob, you feel goosebumps erupt across your skin- chilled by the strange shadows that seem to lurk in the corners of your room. Gently prying it open, you carefully peek just beyond the threshold down the darkened hallway.

You almost don’t see it at first, the massive shadow that moves in the darkness. There’s no light from the bathroom, and it isn’t until the figure moves only slightly that your stomach drops down through the floor.

“Simon…?”

The thing freezes, turns, and it's only then that you see the thing in its grip.

A knife.

Terror rushed up through your lungs in a gasping breath of air. You’re frozen to the spot, unable to move, petrified by this intruder who has forced his way into your home. You need to move, to lock the door, to try and call for Ghost, but just like those teenagers in the movie you can’t seem to force yourself from where you stand.

The stranger turns slowly, inch by inch, even slower than your heartbeat, until at last he faces you.

A white mask, dark, voidless eyes, a misshapen mouth stuck in an eternal scream.

Terror slinks into your veins like dark tar, gripping at your lungs as they fill with a scream that can’t quite escape you. It clogs your throat in a wheeze even as you try to cry out, the masked menace fully facing you-

And charging.

You do scream then, ears ringing with the sound of your own voice, reeling backwards away from the door. Logic kicks in, and you scramble back to try and close it, chest heaving with uneven, gasping breaths. You slam it shut just in time, closing it so hard that the masked figure collides with the wooden sharply, stumbles backwards with a familiar curse.

“Fuckin’ Hell.”

You pause.

Then you wrench the door open.

Your boyfriend sits on the ground, cradling his face, now absent from his cheap, plastic mask. A low, rumbling groan escapes his throat as he rubs sorely at his nose, the toy knife in his hand tossed to the ground beside him.

It takes an almost embarrassing amount of time before your mind catches up. When it does, the full indignation and embarrassment at having been caught off guard flushes through you in a hot wash of anger.

“You’re an asshole.” You hiss at him, feeling your face warm. “That wasn’t funny.”

Simon doesn’t look at you, still cradling his nose. He does, however, give a small huff, unable to hide his amusement at your reaction.

“Think you broke my nose.” He tells you flatly, and instantly your anger tempers as you flick on the hallway light, kneeling down to inspect him. Sure enough, when you pull up his mask to reveal his nose there’s a small drip of red that bleeds from one of his nostrils.

“Serves you right.” You declare with an unempathetic look. “For running straight into the door.”

“Good reaction time.” He returns, and without his mask you can plainly see the corner of his lips uptick with a smile.

“Not a good way to test it.”

“Point taken.”

You sigh at him, sitting back on your haunches and making to wipe your bloodied fingers somewhere on your pajama pants. Before you can, Simon reaches out to grab them, dragging them forward to his lips. You stifle a shudder as his tongue flicks out, encircling the digits to suck the blood off.

“That’s fucked up.” You tell him, wrinkling your nose. Ghost merely hums around your fingers, and if you didn’t know better you’d almost think it was a moan. “What are you now, a vampire?”

Simon stills, tilts his head to look at you in the darkness with keen, glinting eyes. 

You know that look. 

“Ah- no.” You tell him, unimpressed. “Not until I fix your nose.”

He seems to agree to that with a small nod, but presses closer all the same, licking his lips free of his own blood. 

“After.” He declares, voice low and suggestive, and you can’t help the small shudder that runs through you, trying and failing to frown at him. He can see the humor in your expression though, because a dark chuckle rumbles in his chest as he leans over you, forcing you to fall back onto your elbows. He looms over you dangerously, slides a knee up between your legs and hums in approval at the small, breathless sound you give him in return. You hear the rasping excitement of his voice as he dips his mouth down to the shell of your ear and whispers there:

“Killer gets the final girl.”

Full Series: Snowblind

[officialspec]

raphael claiming the first pic of the year (oc)

[lil-vibes]

attempting to bonding with the disciples + narilamb cuddles for the heart

+close up on scritches !

[blackkatdraws2]

[Toon x Mobster] Wallace Kingsman, father of the Huffman siblings.

[AUDIO USED:] Caravan Palace - Midnight

Sir. Wallace Kingsman. A retired hitman/boss in his late 80s who's a father figure to the Huffman siblings

He's rather old fashioned and stoic, only ever showing his much softer side towards the two kids, a few other close companions, and nobody else. He's both well-respected and feared by the people who knows him.

His stance on the relationship between the Toons and the Huffman siblings are vague. He does not reveal his true thoughts and feelings, only quietly observing them. However, by the end, he sees that being with the toons makes Gavriel and Grace happy so he chooses to just leave it be.

[filurig]

shapeshifting is something that a basilisk will nearly always seek to do in solitude.

an act which temporarily blinds and numbs the creature from the surrounding world - they will be left completely vulnerable to it. defenseless. frozen inside the shell of their old form as organs and cells rearrange.

to shapeshift in front of someone is, therefore, the ultimate show of trust that a basilisk can perform.