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Got bored and decided to draw Danny as this stupid meme :D

The Wraith x Reader

heaven found us tw’s: none rly. maybe a little bit of dissociation on philip’s end ? he’s just baby idk 🥹

Philip was wandering again.

Outside of trials, he seldom kept still; like a phantom he would float amidst the fog, having no clear direction nor goal to accomplish as the steamy white clouds strung him passively along.

Philip didn’t mind, though—quite literally. Almost as if he was in a haze, he would allow the fog to carry him, like a fish down a stream. Each time, Philip ended up somewhere different; sometimes a familiar scene, sometimes a completely new setting. And, sometimes, if he was lucky—the fog would deliver him something, too.

The cat in front of him stares through Philip with piercing golden eyes, her charcoal fur glinting in the moonlight. She tilts her head ever so slightly, and Philip copies the motion. As if pleased, she mrrrows politely and rises to her paws, padding over to him inquisitively with her tail held high in the air. With his free hand, he stretches out to pet her, which she happily accepts. She erupts into purrs beneath his touch, and Philip is reminded of the goodness that even the entity cannot erase.

Upon running his fingers behind her ear and down her neck, Philip finds a makeshift string collar that he failed to notice before. He traces the material down to the bell that dangles over her throat, the ornament jingling faintly as it is fondled. The cat meets his ivory eyes sweetly as if to answer his wordless question, so you belong to someone? She meows again, rubbing against his legs before sauntering off in the direction she previously came from. Philip stands straight to watch her leave, curiously finding himself being compelled to follow—so he does.

Unwavering gaze fixated on her, Philip trails behind the unnamed cat as she tinkers forward, being careful not to frighten her by the ringing of his own bell. As the fog swallows her small form for only a moment, the atmosphere shifting and exploding into chilly air, Philip finds himself in front of a roughed-up cabin decorated with various plants (native only to the fog) and odd trinkets alike; the paint stretching up and down the wood fresh, yet somehow chipping.

Most interesting of all, the cat Philip had followed was heading towards the only other person sitting in front of the cabin—someone Philip did not recognize.

You sat on a log with a paintbrush clutched delicately between your fingers, a rickety easel holding up an unshapely piece of material that had strokes of oranges and blacks strewn about the canvas. Your clothes weren’t torn or in tatters like other survivors—though they were a bit dull, and covered in paint—and your expression was one of serenity and focus; a stark contrast to the usual haunted, drained look the others usually wore. And, as you are approached by the cat that seems very familiar with your person, you dazzle her with a smile that makes Philip long for something he can’t quite place.

The sound of Philip’s bell startles even himself as he moves to get a closer look, causing your head to lift sharply until you’re pinning him to the spot with beautiful, alarmed eyes that quickly soften into something akin to understanding.

No, you weren’t one of the survivors—you couldn’t have been with the way you were looking at him. So, then… who were you?

“Look, Heavenly,” You say to your furry companion, just loud enough for him to hear, “it seems we’ve attracted another stray.”

Another stray? Philip was not a wraith of many words, but that did not mean he didn’t understand them.

Somehow, though, the way you said it was less offensive and more alluring.

You giggle—charming and angelic—and set your paintbrush down, shifting to fully face Philip. You cock your head, still smiling, and gesture to your current work in progress.

“What do you think?” You ask him earnestly, welcomingly. Philip feels himself tingle and burn with what feels like embarrassment at being put on the spot by someone so unlike him, simultaneously feeling angry at himself for not being more wraith-like. The wailing bell he held was meant for damaging and destroying, not to look like something he clung to for comfort, as he was doing now.

Still, Philip obliges you; inching forward to get a better perspective of your artwork, quickly finding himself at a loss for what to think.

Before Philip’s eyes was a painting of himself, depicted as much more docile than most others probably found him. He was standing tall amongst the throng of needle-like trees, signature wailing bell hanging by his side. The sky was a deep orange, dipping between branches and coming to rest on his shoulders in a gentle glow. Oddly enough, he was missing a face entirely; the shape of his head was there, but no eyes were to be found.

Philip tilts his head as if searching for his face, not realizing he had drawn even closer until he was hovering by your side. You watch him patiently, stroking Heavenly as you wait for a response.

“…Is… that supposed to be me?” Philip finally asks, voice gentle and hollow-sounding, pointing a finger to the painting. He sees you nod and lowers his hand, confusion settling in.

“You’ve been here before,” You explain slowly, earning Philip’s surprised gaze that you don’t meet. “I’ve seen you many times, but this is the first time you’ve come this close. It’s okay if you don’t remember.”

That’s the thing—he doesn’t remember. Why would he come here? He didn’t even know where here was. And, yet…

“…I followed your cat,” Philip says after a moment, and finally the two of you make eye contact. You look in astonishment up at him before looking down at Heavenly, then back up at him again. Then, you let out a bark of laughter.

“Heavenly got you to come here?” You chortle. “She barely listens to me when I ask her to come inside.”

Philip looks down at Heavenly, who simply blinks back up at him. He blinks back.

“…Why did you paint me?” He questions, sounding and feeling suspicious. You merely shrug.

“Ever since you first visited me, I haven’t been able to get you out of my head. And when you kept coming back, I just…” You motion randomly with your hands. “Needed an outlet. You were a mystery to me.”

Philip cocks his head. “You’re really not from the trials, are you?” You give him a quizzical look.

“Trial? What trial?”

“…Nothing,” He murmurs, reaching out to pet Heavenly, who bumps her head against his hand. His lips twitch in a half-formed smile.

“Will you stay this time?” You ask, stilling Philip.

“…Probably not,” He answers, drawing away. You frown, then sigh, casting your gaze downwards. Philip feels himself being pulled back by an invisible force; the fog calling him to ‘come, come back home.’ He puts space between he and you, standing at the edge of the ivory mist that laps at his clothes in wispy tendrils. You look up at him one last time, giving Philip a sad smile.

“I guess I’ll see you again,” You say, solemn.

“…You will,” He promises, not knowing why, but knowing that he most certainly would be back. You seem to brighten at that.

“Bye, Philip,” You call as he’s sucked into the fog, into confusion, and into darkness.

“your characters need to be likeable” allow me to introduce you to the very worst guy who ever lived

I'm having fun doing these.

男鬼

your wip just called. hey man your wip just called. its asking where you've been man.

something something ghost showing up to some fall-down-drunk rancher's farm to collect the money he owes the 141 gang but the man doesn't have it, so ghost settles for just burning the place to the ground to send a message. nothing personal, just business.

but the rancher is on his knees begging, pleading, bargaining. just a little more time, he'll get them their money. they can have whatever they want, just don't burn the place down. ya don't got anythin' worth takin', ghost says.

my daughter, then, the rancher replies, stumbling back into the house. ghost's rejection is already on the tip of his tongue. this isn't the first time somebody has tried to make a deal like this, and it has never seemed worth the trouble. but then your father is shoving you out and into the grass in front of ghost's horse, some poor trembling thing in a flimsy nightgown with tears already gathering along your lashline, and ghost rethinks his rejection.

he can make this work.

It's his Day today

OUGH!

✨Spoopy Sneson✨

Fandom and character banners ♡

Trapper x Reader

an unexpected bond formed with a killer… is it worth it? (continuation of this fic. i made a little playlist for your enjoyment ;0) tw’s: canon typical violence, death, some obsession, evan being kinda delulu

Evan didn’t understand you.

You continued to seek him out during trials and attempt to bridge whatever this odd relationship was by asking him questions—that is, if you were paired together. Evan didn’t really want to think about what happened to you when you expected to face his unexplainable mercy, only to meet the end of someone—or something—else’s blade… or worse.

But, when the Entity did decide to allow he and you the chance to encounter each other—which was a rare occurrence, probably on account for Evan choosing to spare you and your team whenever he was your chosen killer. There were quotas to meet—you stuck to his side like Victor to Charlotte until you were whisked away by a fellow survivor, or until Evan reached his you-limit.

You were pleasant—lovely, even—but you were doing things to him that Evan found himself needing the space to decompress far, far away from you in solitude. It felt as if his identity as the Trapper crumbled anytime you were near, and it made his head ache. You could just be breathing next to him and Evan would begin to shut down, hands uselessly fidgeting with his bear traps as though they were the only things keeping him grounded to reality—and they might as well have been. When you came around, Evan couldn’t control himself.

Maybe you were putting some sort of curse on him.

Maybe he was okay with that.

“Do you remember who you were.. before all of this?” You ask one night while perched on the windowsill—the very same misshapen one that he broke out of not too long ago—of his hideout in the mines. It had become a strange sort of “safe” place for the two of you to meet outside of matches, all because one night you decided to enter into the wolf’s den on a whim.

“Curiosity killed the cat,” went the timeless saying… but Evan rather liked this feline, despite your apparent craving for danger.

Your question pulled Evan away from himself momentarily; brain stretching and reaching for far-away memories that felt dull and lukewarm, yet itched to be remembered. The thought of his father—the only thing that fed both his rage and the entity—was ever-present, but Evan chose to spare you his pain.

“No,” He settles on answering gruffly, frowning past all the bloodshed that seemed to be the only vivid recollection he had. At your disappointed “oh,” he hesitates. “…I drew, sometimes.”

“Really?” You smile. Evan casts his gaze to the floor. “What would you draw?”

“Don’t remember,” Evan answers truthfully, because he didn’t. He was only able to recall the feeling of peace whenever a pencil was held in his hand.

“That’s okay. Maybe you can draw something new sometime,” You suggest with a casual shrug. “I think I can scrounge up some papers and pencils around camp.”

The idea was… actually nice. Evan felt something stir up inside of him—something like hope. He risked a glance at you, the sentiment intensifying.

And then, there was the sudden urge to act on those feelings: to touch you, to hurt you, to kill you. To hunt you down and make you scream and writhe and beg in your own blood. To make you cry, but then to dry your tears. Console you, hold you, protect you. Snap your neck. Caress your face. Gouge your eyes out. Trace your lips. Tear your tongue out. Kiss it better.

Evan turns his back to you, hands balling into tight fists. This is what you did to him—and why he desperately needed to get away so often.

“Evan?” You ask apprehensively at his abrupt change in demeanor, voice grating his ears in the cruelest of ways. He groans, hands covering his mask. Voices whispered all around him, coaxing Evan to gut you alive right then and there. He was familiar with the entity’s influence over him—but never before did he have to wrestle so endlessly with it, until you came along.

“M’fine,” He rasps once he finds his voice, keeping his back to you. “You should—ngh—go.”

Evan is met with silence as a response, and he foolishly assumes you have left until you’re in his peripheral vision, cautiously circling him. Your eyebrows are pulled taut in concern—just like they were the night you rescued Evan from his own bear trap—and your gaze rakes his form for any signs of injuries. The whispers grow yet louder as you come nearer, sending Evan to his knees with a pathetic moan. Kill, they say. Kill, kill, kill.

He wants to resist. He wants to, but…

“You’re too close,” Evan growls. Thankfully, you take the warning, stilling before him.

“Where does it hurt?” You ask, voice low and calm. Evan shudders. Everywhere, he wants to answer, but grits his teeth instead and tries to shut you out. When your fingers brush his cracked skin, Evan snatches your wrist in one quick motion, chin jerking upwards to meet your frightened eyes with his own wild ones.

Your bones feel so fragile beneath his hold—he could snap them within seconds. He adds pressure. You wince, arm twitching in pain, yet not drawing back. He squeezes, and you yelp. This time, you tug your arm away, which he lets slip through his fingers. The entity has progressively decreased in volume, leaving he and you in an uncomfortable silence. When Evan stands, you take a small step back. Something inside of him wilts.

“…You’re afraid,” He states, matter-of-fact. You inhale sharply.

“A little,” You admit, voice quiet—soft. Evan bunches his hands into fists, curling and uncurling them as he debates how to fix this.

The recognizable tug of a trial begins to pull Evan away, severing the tension if only for a moment. Something was off—Evan sensed it the moment the fog cleared. The air tingled with the impression of apprehension and unfamiliarity, as if the land itself was preparing for new terrors. Turning his head ever so slightly, he could see why.

The Huntress stood tall and resilient next to him, gripping her axes with a calm smile that did not match the hunger for blood in her inky black eyes. The cleaver in his own hand weighed heavily and all five of his senses were heightened, confirming the actuality of the two-killer trial.

Evan breathed a sigh of resentment, irritation prickling his skin. He would have to wait to talk to you—if you wanted to see him, that is. Something about you not being around felt deeply, deeply wrong, which only further soured his mood.

He acknowledged Anna with merely a grunt to which she dipped her head in greeting, stalking off moments after while humming a tune that followed her into the dark. Evan set out to place his traps; hiding them in obscure places, counting each unsuspecting human that he passed along the way. He made a mental note that none of them happened to be you.

As he finished locking the final pair of metallic jaws into place, Evan couldn’t help but wonder what would have happened if he held you in his grasp just a while longer.

Would he have broken your bones? Probably. Would he have liked to break more? Probably. Would he have killed you?

Yes, a taunting voice answers in the back of his mind. You were designed to kill, Trapper. You can’t hide from it forever.

Trapper. That’s right—he was Trapper, wasn’t he? Not “Evan,” like you called him. Trapper.

Maybe this was never destined to work. Maybe you were only allowed to show him a little bit of mercy only to remind Evan why he shouldn’t be granted such a gift—he was in hell, after all. He was being punished for his crimes.

Evan ponders this as he downs one survivor after another; hanging some on hooks, slashing others to death. He’s after one cunning prey that had stunned him with a pallet when, like a ghost, you cut across his line of sight without looking his way, Anna hot on your heels. Evan is stopped in his tracks, head inclined to watch where you and she disappear to, completely disregarding his chase.

A new feeling—one emerging from a dark, twisted place inside of him—rises to Evan’s chest that causes his heart to twinge unpleasantly, and before he knows what’s taken over him, he’s following swiftly behind.

The sight Evan comes across is enough to make him boil.

You’re flat on your belly, groveling in the dirt; an axe is plunged deeply in your right shoulder that fails to drag you away from Anna, who is closing in on her kill without breaking her lullaby. Her heel comes heavily upon your back as she rips the tool from your flesh, eliciting a scream that tears from your throat and goes straight to Evan’s head.

He’s never heard you scream.

He doesn’t like it.

Evan’s footfalls don’t cease; he lumbers forward, weapon beginning to raise. If Anna notices him, she doesn’t care that he’s fast approaching—your fate is sealed.

A swing, a squelching wet sound, and the Huntress comes crashing down next to you.

Her death is quick. The mask she wears is cracked in half along with her skull, split wide open and bleeding profusely. Evan looms above, breathing heavily, covered in the spray. Despite her being dead, Evan leans down close to her fresh corpse, sneering beneath his mask.

“Mine,” He hisses, finally identifying the emotion from earlier. Jealousy.

You’ve spun over on your back at this point, hand clutching at your wounded shoulder that oozes crimson. You look a mix of both bewildered and mortified. As Evan approaches, you, strangely, do not cower in fear. He squats down, leaning in close enough to blow your bangs back from his exhales.

“Won’t hurt you,” He mumbles hoarsely, searching your eyes. “Didn’t mean to.” He brings a hand to your face, gingerly swiping your hair off of your sticky forehead. You lick your lips, trying to find your voice.

“C-Can you pick me up?” Comes your question, soft as a whisper. Evan nods. He’s careful of your injury as he effortlessly lifts you up, the feeling of someone so close foreign to him. You wrap your good arm behind his neck, avoiding the various hooks that protrude like unwelcome parasites from his back.

Without another word, Evan begins his march out of the trial and into the fog, the two of you never to be seen again.

ghostface always doing something

OCTOBER! 💀

HALLOWEEEEEEEEN!!!!!!!!!!

uh oh besties… i fear i’ve found the ghost & konig side of insta & tumblr

all i want for halloween is you ❤

A selection of Dead by Daylight killers on their wall of shame honor.

P.S. My 52-page Dead by Daylight digital zine is still up and available on Gumroad!

danny would DEFINITELY call reader pookie

ultimate final girl

Well i downloaden a 3d model and yeah :D

So if you need a drawing reference....

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