Even Though I’m Certain This Absolute LEGEND Of A Man Isn’t On Here, I Need To Make His Public Service

The owners of Featherstone’s old home is Miss Montague and Mr Capulet. Because I say so

Just saw the best thing in the world: a single Lewis Hamilton Monster on an empty row right next to a full row of Red Bull.

Because everyone needs this on their dash (and in their bed)

I’m sorry but there is no reason for the Grinches mail box to be this unsanitary.

Surely they’d at least clean it. Imagine if whatever is in that got into the adjoining mailboxes. And one of them is the Mayors girlfriend. Or even just re assign it.

If you all haven't heard about it yet: https://ratethelandlord.org/

kneeling is a broad term for what ghost does with price

surrendering is slightly more accurate but even that doesn’t hope to touch the sheer desperation in the way he clutches at him; his body bowed low at his feet, his legs latched around one of his, hugging it so tightly to his chest his arms shake as he digs his face into his thigh

it’s only here that he can finally give in to the screaming; to the distant voice he strangles into silence every day of his life. the one who begs him to make himself as small as possible; do everything he can to hide from the ever encroaching demons growling and salivating at his heels

it’s only here, in the dark of price’s barracks, hidden by a bed at his back and a wall to his front, that he finally lets himself stop running; only between solid combat boots and worn fatigues does he let himself tremble and admit to the choking fear

he’d break open price’s chest if he could; crawl past his gushing viscera and curl up under his ribs, hidden in the warm dark

ghost clawed his way out of the grave with broken nails and gritted teeth but he wouldn’t mind being buried again if it meant being cradled in the safety of price’s insides. his warm blood and soft lungs would blanket him, mask the stench of his rotten flesh until he could even convince himself that, maybe, he too was still alive

he shifts, unnerved by his own longing, and price runs his hand over the crown of his mask the same way he’d card it through his hair until he settles once more

he grounds him over the long hours it takes for his white-knuckled grip to relax into a loose hold; for his face to stop grinding into the meat of his thigh and simply rest in his lap, his bracketing legs the only thing holding his lax body up as he floats, untethered by fear

being rearranged against the wall by john price, your ass bouncing up from where his hips drive up against your backside, fat cock nestled in the gooey heat of your pussy, gummy walls tight and pulsing around his thick girth.

you didn't know that a skimpy lingerie with a cow print would be enough to drive him up so bad, jaw painfully tight with stiffened growls as he huffs at the sight of you, supple tits all round and soft under the small top that hides nothing, almost spilling out.

john can see everything, the wet patch on your panties where your folds all sticky from your own slick, aroused, desperate for his warm and calloused touch on your doughy flesh, and he can't say no to his darling.

you made him feral, utterly insane in the way he tugs and paws at your tits, thin cloth long ago torn away so he could play with your pebble nipples, rough fingers pinch and squeeze at your swelling skin, breasts aching and tingling where he grasped too harshly.

his hips smacking roughly against your round ass, fat bouncing and jiggling with each movement, pussy drooling around his fat girth as he pummels against your tightening walls, thrusting into your spongy spot.

it get's you all teary eyed and jaw slack, slurred mewls slipping out into the thick air as john only plunges deeper, forcing his throbbing cock to bump against your womb, itching to breed you till it would leak out of you, and you wouldn't even notice.

too fucked out for your own good, able only to sob out and claw at his wrists when your nipples start to hurt, swollen buds burning from his touch, tummy clenching with approaching release, scorching you from inside out.

main masterlist. quidelines.

I wasn’t crazy about this piece so I wasn’t intending on publicly posting it again, but it keeps getting stolen every five minutes so I figured I’d put it here so people at least know who to attribute the original thing to lmao

[Digital illustration, Procreate App, 2020]

When Gnomeo says “I think this ending is much better” yeah it’s cute and shit to us the audience but Juliet has not got a clue what he’s on about!

simon who gets off on your pretty face… literally

your eyes sparkle up at him, diamonds cutting through the pretty iris, your plush, swollen lips grinning up at him. it dimples your cheeks, swells the apples that flush in a sweet pink.

and his cock slaps, tapping at that pink and drags, dragging against your skin nice n hot. it was crude, letting him bathe you down with the flushed length of him, letting him drag and slide his cock over your pretty face.

“stop grinnin’, bun,” he chuckles, taking the pretty pearls of precum n dragging em cross your lips in a pasty lipgloss. “not fillin’ your mouth tonight.”

you pout, letting your tongue catch at the sensitive tip of his cock, sucking the sweetness off your lips with a soft moan. and it has simon sucking his teeth, eyes taking you in with some kind of supernova, your sweet impurity breaking him down.

and he pats at your face with his freehand, digging the ball of his hand up into your cheek with a sick satisfaction, watching your skin pull and face drag up with his touch.

“keep it closed, you hear me?” he snarks, grabbing you suddenly at the back of the neck and pressing himself further into your cheek lewdly. “always so fuckin’ greedy.”