For Study... Of Course

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.

one very annoying thing about being a writer:

I just googled how do you drown in your own blood so that my writing would be accurate. What comes up is of no help to me what so ever:

NHS- Help for suicidal thoughts

YouTube - Stories for Hope and Recovery

Simon Riley who doesn't talk you through it. He talks her through it. CW : dirty talk, rough sex, sloppy/dirty sex.

The first time you slept with Simon, you loved how he talked dirty to you.

The second time you slept with Simon, you realised he wasn't talking to you. No, he was speaking to her.

"There she is" Simon groaned as he bottomed out inside you. You felt his thumbs pulling your sticky folds apart; a shiver running down your spine at the cold air hitting your clit.

"Y'taking me so good, huh?" Simon growled at your cunt, starting to thrust his hips forward over and over at a toe curling pace. "Oh poor baby. All hard and swollen from how good 'm making y'feel?" he grinned wolfishly, his thumb starting to lazily circle your clit.

"S-Si plea-se!" you whined. Your begging making Simon chuckle.

"Shhh, lovie. 'M trynna talk to her" Simon groaned; his thrusts only getting harder.

You whined and squirmed as Simon practically ignored you in favour of your cunt. But he occasionally leant down to lick some sweat from between your tits. Only making your brain all the more mushy.

"So wet, hm? What a pretty little cunny for me" Simon grunted. Grinning when he feels you clench around him. "she loves it when I compliment her, love" Simon growled, pinching your clit to get your eyes to focus back on him.

"Think she wants to come for me baby, but she's so wet and full she can't beg f'it. Why don't you beg for her? Beg to let your wet little cunny come" Simon demanded. The tip of his cock grazing that perfect spot inside you. Making you scream.

"Please! Please please please, Si! Let her come! P-Please let my cunny come! She's been good!" you sob in pleasure, your legs trembling on Simon's shoulders.

"alright, baby" Simon chuckled. "Go on. Come for me. Let her gush all over my cock" he growled. And you did. You came harder than you ever have.

Simon growled and buried himself as deep as he could while he came. And you whined when he pulled out.

"was such a good girl for me" Simon told your cunt. Pressing a kiss to your sensitive, wet clit. chuckling at how your thighs twitched from the overstimulation.

⛧°. ⋆𓌹♰𓌺⋆. °⛧

- Cherry Wine live at the O2 Academy Sheffield

This is too beautiful to just sit in my camera roll

Reblog if you honestly have NEVER sent anon hate.

It pains me that only 14,000 people can honestly reblog this

Why is it that young David Tennant has taken over my life after only 6 episodes of a tv show from the 90s

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

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

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

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