#this is SO old

[foottoe101001]

THANK YOU BRO 😭🫶

Tim shepherd anyone?

@cyaniashine @gr3ase-g0t-h0ld @pookiepiss69 @lizzy019 @nexternalknowsthingz

[ellifromspace]

chat noir deserves fun pajamas too obv

[lstarart]

I like the pinkey-blue bit!

[elmodontdraw]

He sent this to Husk

(This art is SO OLD and I made it so quick as a joke- then, it got a ton of attention on Twitter and I was pissed it looks so unfinished. PFFFFT- definitely one I wanna redraw!!)

[karpimalis]

love gaze

[shieyuq]

several misc old emas i never posted here!

[lucky-slice]

[ezgurple]

I LOVE YOUR DONNIES VOICE OMG?????

hehhee thank you thank you yes that was a pretty good choice i made. big brain moment !! silly guy

[vladimirka]

Gotta post this here before the year ends, the favs in Mirko's costume because they deserve it 😤

[shyhandart]

[mushyfart]

silly little ancient reanimator art comic for today because it is taking 58 years for me to get the motivation to finish another drawing

[kreuzwalt]

[caskethrill]

chat should i continue this …

very old n long draft of carmen berzatto. nsfw under the cut :-)

you were unburdened by talent and high-strung— a baker by association and absolutely clueless in the kitchen.

“aren’t you supposed to be good at this?” richie would remark, evincing an expression that united both quizzical and concerned.

“i never said that.” you glared down at your massacre of fat, jagged chunks of carrot. gory evidence weighed tightly around your fingertips in the form of sticky, fabric bandages. you come from a family of professionally trained pastry chefs— you had been force-fed sweet spoonfuls of in doubt compotes and tested freshly-filled cream puffs your entire life. you didn’t know the first thing about julienne and chiffonade. what you did know it was too much to live up to.

“fuck off.” the bass of his voice is wired and terse— loud and directed at his cousin. but to you, carmy’s voice is tender.

“s’okay, chef. let me see.” an amused and benevolent grin splits his lips as he perches a set of scarred fingertips upon your elbow. your method of ‘attack’ on the ill-fated vegetable is adjusted and your slices are thin again. “just like that, chef.”

you needed this job. you were strapped for cash and employment rates were at an all-time-low but you were a hard-worker and a quick learner, or at least that’s what you had told carmen berzatto in an attempt to plead your case. you had stared hopefully up at him from the chair in his office, all wide-eyed and bushy-tailed. your pencil skirt was short and the kitchen was unbearable. he couldn’t say no.

“‘attagirl, chef.” “easier like that, huh, chef?” “you like that, chef?” “doing so good, chef.”

you needed this job— it was a mantra that needed repeating at least ten times a day. you needed this job… bad. he was your boss, and unfortunately, the star-crossed crushing of it all made it all the more enchanting. it took bloody palms and searing hot pans on sensitive, bare flesh in one day for him to provoke the insufferable desire. “such a clumsy girl,” he’d jeer, and you’d positively melt.

you’d laugh suspiciously hard at his jokes and he would ignore the alien crater in his gut each time you stood close enough for him to get a whiff of your fragrance— herbs and pepper and vanilla extract, but you, nonetheless. he’d comp you a meal on particularly demanding days and wave off the disembodied crowd of complaints about nepotism and threats of hr visits coming from the rest of the staff. you were his favourite, and it was no secret.

“you’re in today?”, “you’re still here?” or even "get a life, for fuckssake," were too phrases you heard too often. the latter was richie's favourite. you handed out your days off and picked up overtime in the name of ‘i miss him and wonder what he is doing and can't breathe right every time we are apart’. a great cause, in your opinion.

“you know i’m not paying you for this, chef.” carmy satirized one particular night, a lazy smirk hanging onto the corners of his lips. this particular night, graced by whatever gods or receiving all of your good karma in one single sum, you were the only two left at the restaurant, paint buckets resting by your feet. “i’m past due for a bit of charity.”

trepidatious silence led to a bottle of wine which led to too many questions. you were a chatty drunk and he was an especially assertive one. painting walls meant scooping globs of white onto his slacks and then him, dragging it across your shirt. the wine, and even maybe even the fumes, led to wrestling each other into a kiss, tossing your wet and gritty clothing to the floor. it all led to this unruly credence that is the control that carmen had on you. he spent many nights observing how malleable and pliant you were to his needs, to him.

it was dangerous for his ego.

it didn’t take barking an essay of a lecture or a spout of unsavoury words or even a snap of his fingers. it took a look— a simple glare that seethed ‘drop the attitude’. that was the thing about carmy; he didn’t have to rough you around to get his point across, he just liked to. that didn’t mean he wasn’t just as captivating when wallowing in fury— his big, taut arms would cross over his chest. he liked to rub his forehead with his large hands and comb threw his hair with his exceptionally thick fingers and you couldn’t help but soak threw your panties. in fact, it wasn’t a good day until carmy got worked up one way or another. he didn’t think the same of you.

you were too ardent for this kind of work— carmy knew it, richie knew it, the entire kitchen knew it.

“hi boss,” you sniffle at the end of a rather rowdy night. you find support in the doorframe of his office, shoulder smushed against the hardwood as you shot your senior a sad smile. your eyes were red and puffy. it was a wealth of chaos you had to get used to, and everyone had faith that you would.

“let me make it better.” carmy would call it a suggestion, but he was authoritative. your gaze was stupefied and watery with sweet, desperate tears. your head bobbed up and down sprightly.

“c’mon, big girl. use your words. we talked about this.”

“please, carm. make it better.”

he had you hoisted up onto his desk in no time, grip brawny on the undersides of your thighs, his weight heavy between your legs.

the ripple of his bicep each time he bullied his thick fingers into your slick walls went unmistaken by the tightness of his stark white t-shirt. you let out a long whine. carmen tuts, “you’re such a crybaby.”

his tongue was like molten, tracing the pulse of your neck, leaving behind a trail of his wet saliva. “s’okay, baby. you did such a good job today. i’m so proud of you.” the scent of mint chewing gum, cooking oil and cigarette smoke makes your brain short circuit, sputtering out helpless moans and whines. the sound was accompanied by of the tune of the desk being shoved into the weak drywall, cunt taking the brunt of abuse from his fist.

“repeat after me, m’kay?” his skilled and scarred fingers were stretching you wide. he didn’t have to fight to keep you still or use his weight to manoeuvre your legs open like he usually did— you welcomed the crippling pleasure you’d usually fight off and it made carmen practically shiver in realization. you finally learned how to take it like a good whore, he thought.

your boss dragged his nimble fingers in and out— gently tracing and prodding at the leaking hole. “i’m a good girl.”

[sobs-spe-stuff]

when your adoptive son finally holds your hand:::

[butterfliesornauseous]

“Was that your stomach/I heard that” in fics: amazing, spectacular, what beautiful lines

“Was that your stomach/I heard that” being said to me in real life: awkward, uncomfortable, for my sanity please never acknowledge that I have a stomach and that it makes noises ever again please

[rugwurm]

ah no way.. sinclair......