#scrap posting

[ehriscvan]

re: paying for software to make graphics

oooops I dropped my cr@ck3d photosh0p link, it sure would be a shame if someone saw it, downloaded it, downloaded tinywall, made sure they set the firewall to only outgoing connections and deleted all ad*be creative cl0ud items from their program files........

https://iniziareresources.tumblr.com/post/671763980707151872/adobe-photoshop-2022-v230036-windows

.

[kichiquax-draws]

Happy Pride from the Scrap Pack!

Sometimes a family is two (former) best friends reluctantly joining forces to mentor a powerful yet unstable teenager, and their respective partners.  

The setting the scrap pack is from wouldn’t celebrate pride as we know it, but I still want them to celebrate it. Flags were chosen to match the characters specifically. 

[theglassdragoncollective]

Mustard trying to find an appropriately unassuming and reserved proxy for pluralkit

[corrodedparadox]

Handposting

[linkcharacter]

another one passes.

[chloesimaginationthings]

FNAF Scrap baby is just Michael’s little sister

[fixing-bad-posts]

hey, literally don't fuck if you're not intO that I support you

[hinamie]

ṇ̵̛̱͌̅̃͛̔o̴̮̓̀͂́̃_̴̛̲́s̷͈̋̈́̄̋͠ị̶͔̗̐͐̐̒̕g̵̛̱̘̣̑͂ņ̴̰͔̘͇̏̒̓̇͠͝a̸̜̥̩̭͋̌ḷ̶͔̖͗͋͛͛̃͆

[unrelatedsideblog]

I found old doodle, might try and redo it later

[willthespy]

resisting the urge (and failing) to quit art so heres some OLD solangelo doodles (mortal au)

[threeeyedharemp3]

version of this picture for the target audience of me and me only

[ehriscvan]

what do you think about people roleplaying as real people, like american presidents?

[bemorch]

Some discarded ideas for the DE poster project

[superfruitland]

i'm surprised she hadn't done this at the post office yet

[morganbritton132]

A video goes around TikToks of a girl saying, “My mom is friends with Eddie Munson’s husband on Facebook and just so you know, they match each other’s freak.”

The background of the video is the girl scrolling through Steve’s Facebook where it’s like:

Scroll: *pictures from Eddie’s last concert, a lot of which focus on his hands. Its got a long rambling Gen X-vibe caption that does mention Eddie’s ‘talented hand work’ three separate times*

Scroll: *picture of Steve’s bulletin board in his classroom*

Scroll: *picture of Eddie open mouth drooling on the couch. The caption is: ‘Celebrity Crush.’*

Scroll: *shared gossip article that says Eddie is about to be a new dad. The caption is ‘The rumors are true. I’m pregnant.’*

Scroll: *Long post about Eddie being in New York for a few days and how much he misses him*

Scroll: *Post responding to an article by the Hawkins Post calling it stupid*

Scroll: *video of Eddie showing Steve his yo-yo skills. The video is simply captioned ‘I want him.’*



[dvchvnde]

He doesn't bother cleaning up before he goes home.

Caked in grime, sweat, dust from the fields, crudeoil glued under his nails—a walking biohazard of filth, but he lumbers into his truck the moment he's finished, cock already thickening, straining against the harsh fabric of his jeans. Sticky on his thigh where it lays, twitching at the thought of his little birdie sucking his dirty fingers clean.

And you'll do it. He knows you will.

You've been so good for him, haven't you? Sweet little thing.

He scrapes the top of his tongue against his teeth, pulling up the taste of stale, bitter coffee. It's acrid, sour in his mouth. Swallowing around it, he grips the wheel tight and sifts through the multitude of things he wants to do to you as he navigates the familiar path home. Muscle memory, but there's an emptiness in his belly. An itch under his skin. If fizzles, cracks; want and desire thick in his throat.

He's been thinking about this all day. You—laid out on his bed, fingers gripping the sheets tight as he folds you in half, kneecaps to your ears. Feet kicking out behind the heft of his shoulder. Bearing all his weight down on you. Crushing you.

Pumping you so full of his cock, his cum, that you whine afterwards—too empty, Mr Riley—and he has to stuff you full again just to shut you up.

Whiny little thing, he'll coo, nasty and mean as he fucks you again and again and again—

Another scrape. Tongue against teeth pulling over tastebuds. Sourness in the back of his throat. So bitter, so nauseating, he can't wait to make you swallow it down and beg for more as you try not to dry heave all over his dirty boots and onto the clean floor.

More, please, more even as you gag.

He's too hyperaware for the drive to pass in a blur—it's all startling present, each second ticking down in technicolour—but when he finally slows to crawl in front of his house, he has everything he wants to do to you laid out in a neat, concise list. Left you a defiled mess in his head, leaking cum and begging for more.

Anticipation is a maw in his gut that growls and snaps its jaws, too eager to sink inside the pretty thing that's been playing House in his mind. In his home.

He left it unfed for too long.

And now, it's time to eat.