This was gonna be an angsty character analysis post but I have more pressing matters
Really quick really fast - PETE!! I'm going to draw him doing soo many nerd things (mainly writing and doing music) but I wanted to draw him as a cowboy!... So now he kinda looks like Ted as a cowboy with long hair..
Uh oh
Anyway, cow Stacy sketches! Take em 🤲
Aww, their first couples fight! Only like 47 more.
More holyweeb! People should be expecting this atp, these two hold my heart like Jon Matteson holds those damn wiggly dolls
This is where it deviates from my initial "Richie's character analysation in the fandom" to "haha those fools"
Ive been hearing some huzz about the upcoming nightmare time episodes, with one called "Frankenruth" where Ruth basically turns into Frankenstein's monster - the thing is, people are freaking out(?) since Richie'll be in it too and his canon personality will 'destroy' the delusions people have of Richie's character (basically making him an uwu autism creature boy)
And, to that, I say... When has a fandom let canon stop them from blorbo-fying a character? This is Hatchetfield! People ignore canon everyday! Let's get this outta the way - Richie's a jerk, he's not a horrible guy, but he's high on the jackass scale, but that doesn't stop anyone from headcanoning him into an uwu femboy! So its so funny to me when people discuss him because of one nightmare time episode... There's a reason the Hatchetverse exists, and it's for the sick and twisted minds of those who want to blorbofy him <3
I'm not trying to attack anyone or anyone's opinions, I just find this situation and the posts about it to be quite silly - this fandom is Tinky's box, and I love it
Easterman’s desk had become an altar desecrated beyond redemption—its once-pristine surface now transformed into a sacrificial slab, drenched in secretion and decay. Where there had once been polished mahogany, there was now a grotesque ecosystem: layers of mucosal sheen smeared in rippling waves across the grain, a lacquer of sweat and pre-ejaculate, of vaginal mucus and saline lubrication, of discharge churned into froth by ceaseless friction.
The wood was no longer solid—it had buckled, fibers swollen and splintering under the liquid onslaught, the varnish blistered and peeled back in scorched swaths like sunburnt skin. Coyle’s passage across the desk had scrawled a biography of carnality into the surface: his spine had etched furrows deep and erratic, hips grinding divots as he bucked and howled, each shuddering motion carving more filth into the foundation of the lab.
No longer a workstation, it was a crime scene of need.
Surgical implements lay flung wide, glinting like shrapnel from an exploded doctrine of ethics—forceps caked in viscous cream, a catheter bent and warped near the base, a retractor crusted with glistening pink slime as though it had been dipped in marrow.
The scattered tools formed a loose halo around the splayed ruin of Coyle’s lower body, each glinting handle a metallic thorn pointing toward his gaping, saturated slit. Fluid had pooled in irregular lakes, sloshing with each seismic thrust Coyle had made, soaking charts until bar graphs blurred into watercolor veins. His cunt had turned into a weather system, raining steady rivulets with mechanical cadence, like a breached hydraulic valve that refused to shut down, the emissions tinted a pale amber, streaked with creamy threads that gleamed like larval silk.
And Coyle himself—he wasn’t draped, wasn’t lying—he was crucified. Splayed and locked into a posture of open desecration, his spine arched unnaturally across the soaked length of the desk, shoulder blades driven back so far they lifted the ribs, exposing each one like a harp string thrumming from every inhale.
His legs were jacked high, knees bent, boots planted wide against the lip of the desk, heels digging furrows into wood, bracing him as though some primitive instinct feared being pulled in further. His hips hovered, pelvis tilted sharply to bare everything—flesh drawn open to grotesque invitation, ass clenched and flexed in quivers of overstimulation.
And at the epicenter: the cunt.
Unholy. Engineered.
It was no longer anatomy—it was an event. An eruption of hyperengorged flesh, the outer labia thick and distended, colored a lurid wine hue, slack and drooping from the sheer weight of their saturation. The inner lips spilled out in asymmetrical folds, one hanging longer, swollen and crumpled like chewed fruit, the other retracted and gleaming, both smeared with iridescent mucus and twitching faintly with every throb.
His clit sat fully unveiled, the hood stripped back by strain, exposing a violently flushed nub that beat like a second heart—veined, distended, jerking in arrhythmic pulses. No hair dared obscure the region: the mound had been waxed to clinical nudity, skin stretched over taut muscle, the pubis a stage spotlighted by every overhead beam.
The entire vulval expanse glistened with the products of its abuse. Viscous strings of fluid bridged the opening, drooling in globs around the circumference where Easterman’s arm was socketed inside. The perineum shone from friction burn, reddened and sleek, and just beneath, the anus blinked reflexively, gaped and convulsed from secondary pressure. The scent had risen to saturation point—fermented musk, saline musk, the warm sour of overstimulated glands, the metallic tang of oxidized blood from minor tearing, all of it clinging to the recycled air like an atmospheric condition.
Coyle’s clit was throbbing now. Huge. Protruding. The hood so retracted it had become a vulnerable, angry thing, a twitching, flushed beacon of overload perched atop the sloppy gape of his hole. Every pulse from within triggered a twitch—of hip, of jaw, of clit—and each tremor dumped more slick across Easterman’s arm in streaming ropes. The doctor’s fingers flexed, shifted. A squelch. The cunt responded instantly—tightening, collapsing, trying to wring the muscle from his bones.
“You feel that?” Easterman growled, palm pressed firm against the bulge of Coyle’s lower belly. “That’s my fucking elbow, you ravenous little void. You took all of it.”
Coyle made no human sound. His throat worked in stutters. Saliva stringed from his mouth in ropes, pooling in his beard, soaking into the leather collar of his jacket. One eye had drifted closed; the other fluttered open only halfway, the iris nearly obscured by blown pupil. His lips twitched. Tongue lolled against his teeth. What emerged was a strangled hiccup of ecstasy—krrhhhk—and then silence broken only by the thick slosh of another vaginal pulse around Easterman’s arm.
“You don’t crave cock,” Easterman snarled, voice thick with incredulous heat, lips grazing the sweat-matted stubble of Coyle’s jaw. “Not rubber, not silicone, not fingers or probes—you want your goddamn guts sculpted around meat. You want your cunt dragged open from the inside until your womb’s nothing but a tight, soaking sheath molded to the shape of someone else’s pulse—stretched so full you forget what it’s like to breathe.”
Coyle nodded. Convulsively. Mouth still open.
Easterman twisted his wrist.
SHLCKK-CHRRPPPPP.
The scream that tore from Coyle’s body shook the fucking floor. A high-pitched, animal howl warped by spit and ecstasy. His thighs shot out. His hips hammered forward with such force the desk slid an inch across the tile. The pressure from his cunt locked Easterman’s arm in place so violently that the bones creaked.
“You disgusting fucking beast,” Easterman spat, half panting now. “You want this to kill you. You want to die gaping.”
“FUCKING—YES—!” Coyle's voice cracked in half, turned into static. A high note that collapsed into choked, glutted laughter. He was twitching now. Seizing with it. His belly shuddered again.
Then came a sound. Not from Coyle.
A click.
The door.
Easterman’s head snapped up, fangs bared behind a human face.
The lock.
Had he locked it?
The silhouette in the doorway froze. Young. Lanyard around his neck. Clipboard still in hand. The look on his face wasn’t horror.
It was obliteration.
The stench assaulted him first, crashing into his senses like a wave of corrupted honey—rotten-sweet pussy reek, thick with the tang of sweat-matted pubes and overstimulated glands, the air heavy with the feral broadcast of Coyle’s heat. His nostrils flared, face contorting not in revulsion but in stunned absorption, eyes darting to the tableau: the cop’s burly form crucified open, thighs splayed to expose the dripping vulva, desk awash in fluids, and
Easterman’s thick forearm engulfed to the elbow in that yawning, mucus-smeared orifice. The tech’s mouth parted, a soft inhale betraying the way his gaze lingered on the slick join, tracing the puffy labia stretched thin around invading muscle, the clit’s frantic twitches, the rivulets of creamy discharge snaking down inner thighs.
Coyle didn’t stop. He couldn’t. His body had divorced itself from conscious control, hips rolling in a hypnotic, peristaltic rhythm—grind, slosh, grind—every motion pulling Easterman in deeper with the hungry, gaping contractions of a cunt that refused to be emptied. Wet heat flooded down in molten tendrils, thick yellow-white slime expelled with each clench, wrapping his arm in viscous strands that draped and clung like filth-drenched lace, obscene and luminous, catching the halogen glare in glistening loops across muscle and hair.
Easterman braced, gave a pull—not hesitant, not testing. Real effort. Real resistance.
Nothing budged.
The canal sucked tighter around his limb, resisting extraction with feral tenacity, inner walls locking down like a throat in the final stage of swallowing. “Coyle,” he barked, tension cracking through the command. “Release.”
The only answer: a hoarse groan from deep in Coyle’s chest, hips jerking forward again, another instinctual pump that forced a fresh cascade of fluid to erupt and splatter across the desk’s surface, pooling along the grains in expanding halos. The smell climbed higher—animal-rich, ripe and hot and stinging, a glandular fugue of slick pussy and overstimulation that turned the air inside-out.
Movement at the door sliced through the haze.
Easterman’s eyes locked on the silhouette still frozen in the entrance, clipboard shuddering in the tech’s grip. His voice came sharper this time, final. “Out. Immediately.”
The aide startled as if struck, feet stalling despite the command. That hesitation earned him another snarl, this one guttural: “I said—get the fuck out.”
The door slammed hard behind the retreating figure, sound echoing into silence like a lid sealed on a pressure chamber.
Easterman turned back to the table—Coyle still writhing in slow, rolling thrusts, cunt swallowing and squeezing in rhythmic spasms that slurped obscenely along the entire length of his embedded forearm. The sound was wet and vocal—flesh pulling, gripping, churning. Slime spilled in steady pulses from the stretched, distended lips, thick and milky, cascading over skin and onto the floor in fat droplets that landed with audible plops. The stink was now a blanket—choking, sticky, alive.
“You’ve got me trapped,” Easterman muttered low, almost to himself, staring at the tremble of the hole sucking him inward with each breath. “You’re keeping me inside.”
The fluttering walls answered him—tighten, loosen, pull. Every motion deeper. Every contraction coaxing him in like the body had decided it wanted his fucking bones.
The desk creaked louder now, a slow, tortured groan beneath the unrelenting friction of hips on wood. Each thrust made it shift, frame bowing, the varnish soaked and softening under the flood. Coyle’s pelvis kept moving, grinding down with mechanical consistency, slamming slick against Easterman’s chest and belly with every movement. The noise of it—ssshhlrp, thwack, sluuurp—filled the room like the only language left.
Easterman leaned in, close now, lips to sweat-glazed skin. He opened his mouth and dragged his tongue up the curve of Coyle’s neck, from the slack jaw glistening with spit to the jugular hammering beneath flushed skin, past the pulsing hollow under his ear where the nerve trembled with every beat. The taste was salt and copper and heat. Coyle convulsed under it—a full-body quake that made his cunt clamp down like a vice, muscle shearing in waves around the arm, juices surging outward in a fresh, noisy gush.
“Trying to drown me in this messy, sloppy fuckhole?” Easterman rasped into the flushed shell of his ear. “Soaked my entire arm, made a swamp out of my fucking desk—what’s the endgame, huh?”
Another grind. Another ripple. The pressure ratcheted up—dense, dangerous, endless.
“Fine,” Easterman whispered, lips brushing the edge of Coyle’s throat. “You want deep? I’ll find your fucking soul.”
And then he drove forward.
Not a thrust—a plunge. A surge of weight and precision, momentum behind muscle, shoulder rolling into the motion. The resistance folded beneath him. Coyle’s cunt gave way like a curtain parting under floodwaters—the sleeve of tightness swallowed past the elbow in a slick, molten sheath, clenching so hard Easterman saw stars.
Bone met heat. Pressure eclipsed.
He was in.
Not inside.
In.
Coyle shattered.
He drove forward. Not a thrust—a surge, a complete surrender to motion. His shoulder dipped and carried weight, momentum behind muscle, and Coyle’s cunt took him, swallowed him past reason, past anatomy, past all imaginable depth.
The reaction was instant.
Coyle screamed again, his body writhing like something electrocuted, and the desk beneath them cracked like a bone.
The crack beneath them was more than wood—it was prophecy. The desk split down its centerline with a groan of abused varnish and waterlogged oak, the strain of Coyle’s writhing body and the sheer volume of viscous effluence proving too much for office-grade furniture. A bolt sheared from one of the lower support beams, pinging off the tile with a shrill ting and disappearing under a puddle of documentation turned mulch.
Coyle didn’t notice. Couldn’t.
He was gone.
His whole body had locked, torso arched like a drawn bow, the upper curve of his back no longer touching the desk at all. His ass bore down on the splitting wood with ferocious pressure, hips lifted high and twitching, cunt spasming in thick, rhythmic jerks around the arm still sheathed deep inside him. Every pulse squelched out another round of hot, milky slick that spiraled down Easterman’s elbow, roping across his tricep in clinging threads that smelled like rut and ruin.
He tried to breathe. Couldn’t. Tried to speak. Managed only a stammering croak:
“Ahh—hhHHH—ahhhhNNGH—ah-gkk—!”
The vowels tangled together, drowning in spit, in effort, in sheer overstimulation. His stomach fluttered under the doctor’s palm, muscle spasms rolling up his torso like static. His toes curled. Boot soles scraped against the ruined files underfoot, scattering pages soaked through with a paste of sweat and cunt juice and blood-rich lube.
Easterman wasn’t even moving anymore.
Not with thrust. Not with rhythm. Just pressure. Just an endless, terrible advance deeper into terrain that was no longer body, no longer tractable flesh, but organ. He felt the resistance of the upper cavity. The stretch of canal meeting the limit of his biceps. It was absurd. Impossible. And yet—
Shlrk-chhhhrrrrrrrrpppp.
A noise like a drain trying to back-suck its own pipe. The lip of Coyle’s entrance refused to release. Instead, it dragged up around the curve of his elbow, folding slick and wrinkled and puffy in a wet collar around the deepest point of insertion. The suction was pulling now—not just clutching, but drawing inward, clamping wetly to the meat of his forearm like the inner walls were starving for contact.
“You bottomless fucking… whore,” Easterman hissed. Not insult. Benediction. His own mouth was dry. His sleeve had soaked straight through; the fabric dripped at the cuff.
Coyle was crying now. Soundlessly. Huge globs of spit and mucus rolled from both nostrils, from the corner of his mouth. His lips trembled open, tongue twitching with tiny, involuntary jerks. The muscles of his lower abdomen convulsed—clenching, releasing, clenching again—as though the organs inside him were trying to form words on his behalf.
His cunt gurgled.
Visibly.
It clenched with such violence that his pelvis lifted off the desk again, and a long, warbling stream of yellow-clear slime belched out around the seam where Easterman’s arm met flesh. It soaked the wood. It hit the floor in a series of heavy splap, splap, splap drops.
“You’ve got no brakes left,” Easterman murmured, staring down at the rippling canal. “You’re so fucking open I could lose a limb in there.”
Then he felt it.
That pop.
Not a release.
An acceptance.
Something inside gave way—an interior shift, soft but decisive. The muscle around his arm loosened, just for a second, like a sphincter dilating in reverence. A wave of fluid sloshed down and over his forearm. And then the cunt sucked back in again.
Harder than before.
“Coyle,” he muttered, eyes narrowing, “do you feel that?”
He pressed forward.
The resistance was… different. Not tighter. Deeper. The texture changed. No longer the yielding walls of a canal, but the trembling, flexing cradle of inner organ—something warm and soft and almost spongy, like plunging through a sealed sac of silk muscle.
He realized where he was.
“That’s your fucking womb,” the doctor whispered.
Coyle wailed.
The sound had height. Too sharp for human, like a scream from the spine. His whole frame contracted violently around the arm in his cunt, his chest heaving, legs kicking so hard one of his boots skidded off and hit the floor with a wet whunk. His thighs clamped in and out, involuntary, his entire pelvis seizing up like the muscles were short-circuiting. A shudder started in his toes and crawled up his frame like electric frost.
Easterman couldn’t move. Could barely breathe. The grip was so intense now it compressed the bones in his wrist. He leaned over, bracing with his free hand on the desk, staring down at the obscene join between their bodies. The place where the man’s massive forearm vanished into a sopping, swollen cunt. The angle was wrong. Anatomically offensive. And it fit.
“Goddamn bottomless biohazard,” he breathed. “You’re pulling me into your fucking guts.”
Coyle jerked. His head slapped the desk. His mouth opened wide. And from his hole came a thick, retching noise, followed by a gush of fluid so hot and sudden it splashed up onto Easterman’s shirt.
The contractions didn’t stop.
Coyle’s cunt was now fluttering in full, wet pulses—milking waves that flexed down Easterman’s arm like it was a feeding tube. Juices squelched from every movement. He was grinding the air now, nothing beneath him but soaked wood and the doctor’s arm impaling him to the wrist.
His voice, when it finally came, was shattered.
“G-g—gguhhhhnnh—gkhh—God—”
He drooled it. Sobbed it. Gasped it like it had been wrung from his lungs.
Easterman watched him, heart hammering. His own breath ragged now.
“Greediest cunt I’ve ever seen,” he muttered. “You’re trying to eat me.”
He flexed. Hard.
SHLKK-RCHHRRPPP.
The desk cracked but didn’t collapse. It shuddered, caught on the last thread of its own structure, the heavy oak groaning beneath the friction of two bodies beyond reason. Every slam of Coyle’s hips drew out a percussive shhllk, glrrrpp, ssklllchh, as if the desk itself was trying to voice its suffering, each sound punctuated by the wet, obscene pulse of suction around Easterman’s buried arm.
He was beyond science now. Beyond method. This was anatomical anarchy, biological greed laid bare. His hand inside Coyle wasn’t a tool anymore—it was a catalyst, a limb swallowed into the furnace of something that wanted to devour it whole. The inner walls of that cop’s cunt convulsed around him in thick, milking ripples that moved up his forearm in waves, slick muscles stroking and squeezing like it could drink the marrow from his bones.
Coyle’s body was a seizure of movement and sound. His breath came out as choked, delirious sobs—half cough, half laughter, each exhale a bubbling gurgle from a throat drowning in its own spit. His face was blotched red to the ears, hair glued to his temple, tongue loose against his teeth as his entire abdomen jerked and heaved. He was gone to it. He was worshipping it. The pleasure had devoured thought, language, self.
Easterman’s voice came through it all, ragged, low, edged with awe.
“Look at you,” he said. “Fucking perfect. Every cell wants it. Every nerve begging for collapse.”
He pushed deeper. One final drive forward. The resistance was monumental, an interior fist of muscle fighting back, but the pressure gave way in one slow, devastating slide until his elbow was flush with the slick gape of Coyle’s cunt.
The reaction was instantaneous—Coyle’s body locked in full arch, spine a wire, heels drumming the desk with a staccato of frantic thud-thud-thud. His cunt clenched and pulled, and a rush of fluid burst from him in a violent gush that splattered the desk, the floor, the front of Easterman’s shirt.
“Ah—hhhhhHHH—hhhhhghhhh—!”
It wasn’t a scream anymore—it was a detonation.
The whole office smelled like climax now. That acrid, fertile, ruinous scent thickening the air until breathing it felt like tasting him. Every pump of his body spat another arc of translucent slick across the desk, the stuff pooling under the small of his back, streaming off the edge in ropes. The suction around Easterman’s arm was total, convulsive, a living vacuum clamping down as if Coyle’s entire pelvis was trying to keep him imprisoned.
“Finish it,” Easterman rasped. His voice was hoarse, almost reverent. “Come on. Show me the limit.”
He drove his fingers into a hard curl, knuckles grinding against the deepest point of flesh.
Coyle broke.
His whole body jerked once, hard enough to throw his head back with a dull crack against the desk, and then the sound that left him was more animal than human. A rolling, sustained howl, thick with saliva and pleasure so raw it shredded his throat. His cunt went tight—then tighter—and then began to pulse in hard, rhythmic convulsions that climbed up
Easterman’s arm like a living heartbeat. He came and came and kept coming, the gush of fluid continuous, frothing at the seam where skin met skin. His hips twitched weakly, every movement less coordinated, until his thighs quivered against the edge of the desk and his arms fell limp beside him.
The doctor watched him finish. Studied him. Every stuttered breath, every tremor beneath the skin. The man was wreckage now. A twitching, gleaming ruin sprawled amid laboratory detritus and the stink of his own heat.
Slowly, methodically, he began to withdraw his arm.
The suction fought him to the last. Each inch released with a long, wet plop, a reluctant, mucosal kiss that refused to let go. He twisted his wrist slightly, easing through the grip, until at last his arm slipped free with one final obscene SHLRRP that sprayed a last dribble of slick down onto the wood.
The air between them filled with the sound of it: Coyle’s ragged breathing, the faint drip-drip of fluid onto tile, the ticking hum of the overhead fluorescent.
Easterman flexed his hand once. His entire forearm glistened—smeared with mucus, gleaming under the lights like it had been lacquered in wet honey.
He raised it, examining the sheen, watching the fluid thread and break between his fingers. Then, with the same clinical calm he used for everything else, he brought his wrist up and dragged his tongue along the side of his hand.
Slow. Deliberate.
The taste made his eyes half-lid—salt, copper, musk, ruin.
He smiled faintly.
Then wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist and looked down at Coyle, still trembling, still leaking down the side of the desk.
“Good boy,” he said softly.
And the room went still, heavy with aftermath, the air humming with the thick, feral satisfaction of a beast fed to its edge.
