#there's a wip anon

[lorelune]

JY SPANKING…

anon he plagues me and specifically he AND spanking plague me

[ky-landfill]

Let’s go to therapy, little-wing.

[cvnntagious]

fb!matt seeing the bulge while you guys are fuckin and goes crazzzyyyyy like pushing it yeah you feel that baby? all from me huh? (omg im going INSANE please write about this i need this SO much, i miss him SO bad)

matt's eyes drifted to where you two connected as he pumped in and out of you, infatuated with the way your needy cunt swallowed him, parting your puffy folds. you whined and writhed beneath him in the cutest way, moans like music to his ears—that’s when it caught his attention: a nice swell in your lower stomach that made his ego inflate instantly, disappearing each time he’d pull his cock back.

“holy shit,” he mutters in a cocky drawl, a small grin now tugging at his lips as one of the hands that was once holding you in place but the hips lets go to rest on the bulge he was creating.

broken moans escape you when you feel him instinctively beginning to speed up him movements, like a fire had been ignited within him. you were completely caught off guard, beginning to babble at him. “ahn-! oh, m- matt, what-“ you start, unable to finish your sentence as matt’s dick pistoned into you with no sign of letting up.

the pressure he put on the bulge added a surprising extra layer of stimulation, making your back bow off of his bed. “yeahh, y’feel that, sweetheart?” he asked, taking note of the way your eyes began to roll back, lashes batting as he fucked you so good, “got you goin’ crazy, huh? all from my dick.”

with that, his other hand moved off of your hip as well, swiftly snatching up your jaw to force your head down. “look at it,” he demanded through gritted teeth, slowing his movements to snap his hips into you in a controlled rhythm, making sure to go deep as his balls slapped against your ass, “look at that shit fillin’ you s’good.” his words emphasized with powerful thrusts, eliciting pleasured whines from your pouty lips.

he chuckled when your lashes fluttered, eyes opening to look at the way his cock made a small hill in the middle of your abdomen. allowing himself to drink in the sweaty sight of you, he hummed at your fucked out pants, knowing you were close by the way you fluttered around him.

[choccy-milky]

people-watching and gossiping 💅

(more older seblora brainrot bc of my oneshot)

[retquits]

if requests are still open, could you please draw henrietta or dozy? ive been wondering how they would look in your style!

little princess from another wip 🐔🎀✨

[boo-gutzz]

i think we should all be nicer to jimmy

No

Anvil him

[salamispots]

squid 👀

[devotion-disorder]

Killian why is your hair so hard to draw

felt this tbh

i am nawt cleaning that shit up... future me can figure it out

[yeyinde]

WIP WEDNESDAY.

a portrait of madness | oil on canvas (in the clumsy strokes of a child's fingerpainting)

JOHNNY MACTAVISH X READER

18+ | IMPLIED KIDNAPPING. NON-GRAPHIC SMUT. TRAUMA.

He burns incense on Sunday.

Catholic, he says with a slight roll of his shoulder, tone dipped in a thick coat of nonchalance that drips like hot wax over his words. Habit. 

It's piled together with other things, too—his life story eliding into a thickened paste, slurring over the edges until they're blurred and distorted. Nonsensical. Something he seems to realise by the pinch in your brow, and clicks his tongue in irritation, murmuring a jagged apology under his breath that makes you want to weep.

You won't, though. Crying just makes him frantic. Makes him gather you into his arms, holding you tight as he whispers it'll be okay and you fight the urge to tell him it's all your fault. 

Swallowing it down is easier than letting him pretend he's a hero, so you watch him instead. Voyeuristic. Riveted as he brings his hand to the mangled mess of his temple, fingers folding into a fist. Driving, digging, into the scarred tissue that frames his temple. Angry. Muttering under his breath as he grinds his knuckle into bone—

It's episodic. These little spells of torment last several minutes where he digs and you fight both the urge to be sick all over the sheets and to cry, beg him to stop. Don't hurt yourself. 

A farce. 

It shouldn't matter that he's chiselling into tissue, raking claws through grey matter; playing Dies Irae over coiling gyri. Orchestral condemnation that makes you feel like you should be relishing in his torment. Conducting madness with barbed words and caustic accusations. But—

You derive no pleasure from his suffering, and spend the day choking on the heady plume of incense as it fills the small room he keeps you locked inside, begging him to stop.

(Please, god, stop—)

He won't, though. Not until he's satiated some indivisible need to hurt himself—righting a phantom wrong with the push of his fingers into torn tissue; trephination costumed as self-flagellation. And it's only when this urge is quelled will he climb into the lumpy mattress with you, eyes glazed over and blood dripping from the scratchmarks on his temple, and gather you into his arms. Shackling you to his heaving, sweat-slicked chest as he mutters insanity into your ear, and runs his sticky, blood-damp hands over your body. 

"Mine," he'll bite out, and it'll be the only thing he says that'll make sense for the rest of the night. Everything else is the scrape of iron over lodestone; grunts and whimpers and ragged breath. 

He'll take you apart with teeth and tongue, nipping at your skin as he laughs into the hollow of your throat, dazed and dizzy with the split of your thighs bracketed around his waist. A perfect feckin' fit, pretty doe. 

In these moments, you'll forget yourself. Clean slate. Blank canvas. You'll pull him closer and whine when he pushes himself inside of you—a perfect fit, just like he said. A missing piece, just like he is. 

You've never realised how empty you felt until he rolls his hips, sinking deep inside of you. Filling the space that aches like a bruise when he pulls out. Yearning. 

And it's such an ugly thing, isn't it? To find that missing part of yourself in the thick split of his cock as he gasps about stolen ribs and figs and how he remembers you from a past life. 

It'll make you sick in the morning when you feel him—sticky and thick between your thighs; cum dribbling out of your bruised, tender cunt (already aching)—but you'll beg for it as he buries his teeth into slope of your breast, grunting into the wound like you've gutted him. 

And maybe you have. In a past life. A different time. Took a blade to his firm, trim belly and sliced through the tangle of thick, black hair until a line of red grinned up at you; a vicious twist of its lips, mocking and cruel. Flensed maw gaping wide enough to swallow you whole—

The worn bible on his desk, kept next to the dogtags and locket they sent him home with, speak of murder as a mortal sin. He laments this in mutable sermons sometimes, spinning reviled lies of death and destruction. Penance in pounds of flesh. 

He talks about that a lot. 

Penance. 

Whispered out between feverish mutterings of nonsensical things too ground up in his thick patois for you to discern. To make sense of. Everything is blurred under heavy brogue, except—

"Are ye finally gonna confess today, doe? 

He asks this with his legs spread wide, knees far apart. Bible resting on the top of his thick, muscular thigh. Rosary clenched tight in his fist. The cross on his chest swings like pendulum when he leads forward, eyes wide. Wild. Peering into the heart of you as he asks the question again. Softer this time. Slower. A caress. Sweet in your ear. 

Enticing. 

You like him better when he's drenching his fingers in grey matter and screaming at the ghosts to stop hiding things inside his closet. 

So, you evade. You look away. Pretend he isn't real. Doesn't exist. That he's a ghost. A phantom. A bad dream—

"look'it me, doe—"

A shadow in a hallway. A noise in the dark. 

"Look'it me—!"

Whispers at midnight. The ocean in a seashell. Creaking floorboards in an empty house. Something in the corner of your eye. 

"don't do this tae me, doe! Ye cannae—"

Immaterial. Something you made up inside your head—

"why'd ye dae this tae me, doe? Why'd ye do this tae us?" 

Not real. Not real. Not real—

Until his hands are around your throat. Teeth bared, lips cocked in a snarl. 

"oh, ahm real, doe. Ahm very real—" madness drips in the back of his eyes like condensation down a glass. He tugs you closer until his blood-stained teeth pinch at the soft skin of your cheek. "An' don't ye forget that, doe. Ahm just as real as ye are. Ahm just as—"

Sometimes you think it's a little strange how you can still breathe even when his hands are tight like a noose around your neck. Even stranger, maybe, that you like it. The way it feels. The sight of him breaking apart, unravelling. Coming undone. Unmoored as you turn your head away from him, drawing those fevered eyes to the slope of your throat—

He bites down until skin breaks, tears. Buries his canines into you first, gasping at the puddle of blood that wells beneath his teeth. Slurping. Sucking. Groaning into your neck as your warm blood soaks his tongue, almost choking himself on the flood of it. His front teeth follow, slicing through tissue. Punishing. 

Feeding. 

Vampiric. You knot your fists into his shorn, messy hair, pulling him closer, nearer to your vein. The ridge of your jugular. Just get on with it. 

End me, you demand. Make it worth it. 

He closes his palm around your fingers when you go to push him away when he refuses your plea, wrenching your hand down to his side, his ribs, and moaning low in his throat—the sound wet, gurgling; sticky—when your nails catch his skin. Tearing. More blood between you than air in your lungs. 

He presses them hard into his muscle until it yields against bone. 

"feel th'?" He slurs, iron drenching his words. Sodden chin jutting into the hollow of your throat as he heaves with an airy, pluming laugh. "S'missin', ain't it, doe?" 

The hand gripping your fingers tightens until they go numb. Your dizzy gasp swallowed up into the ragged spill of his breath as he slides the tips of your fingers down to bottom of his ribcage with a grunt. 

He asks again—feel th', doe?—and you offer a feeble nod in response. 

"what'd ye do wi' it, doe?" 

You don't have an answer. You don't know. 

His growls, this low, dangerous thing, and pushes your knuckles harder into his skin until it sinks against tissue—

"S’not there, is it?" He laughs with his tongue against your neck, lapping at the blood. The scorching puff of humid air against the wounds hurts like a sunburn. You bear your neck a little more. "Where'd ye put it?" 

Your head hurts. Swaying like a loose pendulum on your neck—a teetotum—and you wonder if he bit too deep this time. All the way through until it clings to your body by a thin piece of tissue—

You drop forward, slumping against him. Forehead pressing into his cheekbone, lips dragging against stubble. 

"You're crazy," you slur into skin, and he laughs, a muffled rumble buried in the makeshift cage of your throat. 

"ahm no' crazy," he grunts, pushing you down until your back is flat against the mattress, his body boxing you in. Heavy on yours. Smothering. His head is still buried in your neck. Tongue lapping at the last drops of blood that weep from the wounds you can't feel anymore. 

Not crazy. You think about this room. These four walls. Concrete. Stone slabs. Gothic revival. A bed that smells of sweat, sex, and incense. Old paper. Dusty books. 

Blood.

The hollowness of his ribcage. The missing door—

He mutters things as you lull between lucidity. Talking about a man named John. Someone named Simon. How they warned him this would happen. 

"aye," he concludes as you sink deeper into sleep, clinging by a loose, fraying thread as he buries himself inside of you once again. "Sift me as wheat—"

On the dredges of sleep, he'll murmur, soft and sorrowful: why'd ye dae it, doe? Why'd ye—

You don't know. 

But in the back of your head, a memory dredges up from the bowels of your subconscious, spat up like vomit. Regurgitated madness. It festers, writhing like a parasite. A worm in your brain you can't control. 

Ribs between your fingers. bury the bone in the backyard. But no—

Hung on a spit, blackening in the flames. Charred marrow crushed between your teeth like stale, hard bread. Chew, swallow—

You think you might have killed him. Devoured him whole. 

Metaphorically speaking, that is—

(in dreams. in the empty vacuum of your mind. a different time, a different place;)

—because the thing in your memory isn't you. 

[housesalad]

Your art is so gorgeous and edible, and X files and Hannibal oooooooooooo!!!!!

thank you so much, I really appreciate it! here’s a little mulder for you <3

[arcanegifs]

Arcane Gif Requests: anon + Caitvi Scenes: 27/? ↳ "We need you back on your feet. What was the name Sevika gave you? Jinx?"

[xiewho]

could i get a fabian pretty pls… possessed would be cool but anything with him is fine

based on that one fake bad kids twt thread that i Cannot find for the life of me

[ky-landfill]

Hi! I was wondering if I could request you to do a drawing with the Batbros playing a game while Jason is resting in bed?

If it’s not possible, I completely understand and I thank you for reading this 😊

[cvnntagious]

Baby daddy Matt and you sleeping in you bed after fucking all night and your daughter comes to your room and says “why is daddy here?” So confused to why Matt is sleeping next to you 🤨

you were spent, groaning when you heard your daughter calling for you in the room over. your legs and throat were sore, and the exhaustion from the lack of sleep was hitting you hard as you lifted an arm off of you and dragged your ass into mazzy's room.

"mommy," she whined, looking up at you with pleading eyes as you leaned over her crib and reached for her. a content smile grew on her small face as soon as you picked her up, short arms reaching to wrap as far around you as they could.

you gave her a warm, tired smile in return, bouncing her on your hip a little bit before you practically stumbled out of her bedroom. "still tired?" you asked, hoping to say yes as you waited to decide whether you should make your way into the kitchen a few feet away, or back to your bed.

mazzy nodded, rubbing her eyes with a small yawn. unintentionally, you let out a breath of relief, reaching to rub her little arm in response—the few hours of sleep you did get last night only allowed you to do so much right now. you continued on into your bedroom, coming to a quick halt when you heard your daughter let out a small gasp. "what? you okay?" you asked her, a bit of worry in your tone as you stood at the edge of your bed, trying to read her expression.

she jumped out of your arms without warning, making you panic for only a quick moment before seeing her land on the bed with a laugh, hurrying over to the lump under the covers on one side of it. "daddy!" she exclaimed, stopping before her dad to smack the back of his head.

matt groaned, turning over under your covers. "what?" he grumbled in an annoyed tone, eyes still closed as he now faced both you and his little girl.

"matthew," you warned, a brow raising at the agitation in his voice, "it's mazzy..."

with that, one of his eyes popped open, catching a glimpse of his daughter's excited expression. "oh..." he mumbled in response, a smile now beginning to grow on his face as his other eye opened. "g'morning princess," he started, an arm slithering out from your comforter to cup your daughter's small head, fingers entangling themselves in her soft curls, "lookin' so pretty, hm? just like your mama."

mazzy's smile widened, her little teeth poking out from between her lips as she giggled at her father's endearing words, batting her cute little eyelashes. "daddy, how'd you get here?" she then asked, eyes wide with wonder.

"daddy drove, silly."

she giggled again. "why are you here then?" she asked, a bit of confusion now apparent in her voice.

matt's eyes flicked up to meet yours, giving mazzy a small 'um' as he tried to think up an excuse. she gave him no time to answer, the confusion in her tone spreading across her face now. "you're in mommy's bed too... you have your own house, silly!" the skepticism in her voice quickly turned light as she joked with her dad.

both you and matt chuckled along with the small girl, honestly just glad she was too happy that she'd woken up to her dad there to continue on with the awkward questions.

[childrenofcain-if]

The way you write makes the Mc feel so masculine. This should've been genderlocked from the beginning

oh i’m sorry, did you want me to write “she breasted boobily down the stairs” for female MCs???

[retquits]

Ur art is delicious I could eat it with a spoon

🤲 might we have some eiland crumbs?

He gives me Milo from Atlantis vibes and I can't get it out of my head

thank you so much! 🥰 and your brain is HUGE YOU'RE SO RIGHT...