#f you john btw

[itsatorchwoodthing]

everyone making theories about who’s the “one who waits” and i cant say jack harkness bc the chances it’s him are so close to zero

[bonnieura]

[kayakoto-enterprises]

Every time i see my bttwns promo art post get reblogged i have to see this pinterest comment. I think every tmbg lesbian had some sort of attachment to John Flansburgh and here they are today

[steelycunt]

Haters gotta hate; R does not have any aesthetic or sense of style (looking at some AUs in particular). This little guy is made of felt; he has two pairs of trousers and maybe 4 T-shirts, and he doesn’t get anything new, including pants, until they get literal holes in them. The concept of complimentary colours would blow his little mind, and he doesn’t wear cute little glasses or, for the love of god, sweater vests!

soo true! he is not your dark academia sweater-vest pinterest board boyfriend. he is my little stuffed dog and he is wearing a paisley cardigan and burnt orange corduroy trousers. for the fifth day running. the trousers were hand-me-downs from his dad he picked the cardigan himself and both cuffs are frayed and split. he is wearing four different patterns and three colours and they all clash. he keeps his clothes in a pile on the floor whatever is at the top of this pile in the morning is the garm he will don. so true

[hildegardladyofbones]

I don't think about this show at all anymore (they fucked up the beginning of s4 and I dropped it immediately) but god damn the showrunners knew what they were doing by establishing that John has a low pain tolerance and then amputating his leg few seasons over. The girlies were screaming, they were going wild and opening on ao3 in the next tab

[fceriestcrdst]

today was really fun <3

i made day a blanket, i got to do my birthday 'being set free in b&n' & bought 2 things! i got some stuff elsewhere as well & got to see friends i don't see often <3

today was really really fun & not nearly as draining as i expected it to be!

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Songs That Sound Like Sea-Foam (I)

AU MASTERLIST || PART II

PAIRING: Fisherman!John Price x F!Mermaid!Reader

WORD COUNT: 6.2k

WARNINGS: Fluff, mentions of death, being hunted, vulgar language, price in a tunic (yes this is a warning by itself), awkwardness, nakedness, suggestive (?), implied age gap, etc.

A/N: I'm feral over this AU, ong. A million kisses to the Anon that brought this to my attention-btw this is definitely becoming a mini-series.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

Your family told you to never go beyond the deep waterways of the cove, never to brave the open sea. Times were changing. The Harpies, when they weren't as shrewd about their feathers getting wet, would fly down from their tall mountain spires and tell stories—ones about the hunting ships. 

They’d seen them, they said as your family listened on in horror from the rocks, dragging all manner of Merfolk up from the waters in large nets made of iron and hard steel. Spears that tore scales to take for profit. In other instances, the unlucky individuals were even sold to royalty to become showpieces in displays of high wealth and standing. 

But it wasn’t just Merfolk. It was all manner of mystical beast and being. Hunted. Sold. Humans, your parents had told you, were not friends. They were greedy and selfish; more than often cruel. 

And so they started to do the same unto them. Your family would lure them with their voices to the ends of the great ships that were brought close to your cove—watch as they hurled themselves from the sides into the grasp of the ruthless waves. They did it for you, they explained. To try and keep you safe. 

For years they did this until they were gone too. 

Suddenly the cove seemed more like a prison than a safe spot, and the Harpies no longer came to converse or tell news. Killed or taken you had no idea, but it was becoming fairly obvious that even interactions with your own people were impossible. Were you the only mermaid left? It was a good question to ask and one that you could never answer. All that you knew was that you had been alone for a very long time. 

That was, before you first laid eyes on the fisherman. 

You watch him now, yet again, from behind the sharp jutting body of the rocks; the water delicately bobs you up and down as your vibrant tail hangs limp in its otherworldly throes. Eyes softly wide and mouth parted in wonder. 

He’s walking along the deck of a small ship—not the large and intimidating ones of the other men that sail the seas—with a strong form. A hat on top of his head of brown hair and a well-trimmed beard of the same color made him look gruff in appearance. 

Your hands shift over the sharp black stone, and the nakedness of your top is covered by the long strands of your wet, uncut, hair. This man wore a plain white tunic and brown pants stuffed into large boots. Even as far as you were, you heard the soft whistled tune dancing in the shell of your ears. Delicate eyes watch, head slowly peeking out more and more. 

He was tending to the nets he had on the bow and as you studied him you were mystified. 

“Fascinating,” you whisper, unknown emotions swirling in you. 

His muscles strain, large and expansive shoulders lead down to a tapered waist; legs that you blink at before glancing at your tail under the rippling water. There’s a large grunt before the fisherman’s net is thrown in a beautiful arc, hitting the water with a slap and a spray of liquid as it begins to sink. Startled, you flinch back, gasping loudly.

With a racing heart, you quietly scold yourself for the childish reaction, flicking your tail in annoyance. Slowly but surely, your head peaks back out with water dripping down the flesh of your shoulders. 

But when you shift back into the open, you find a deep set of stormy blue eyes digging into your field of view. You freeze, seeing his lids go back in surprise and shock as your jaw slackens. A cold fear enters your veins at the new attention brought to you but you find yourself unable to look away. 

The Fisherman is the picture of utter stillness, just as you are, like twin mountains of ancient stone. Your nervousness only seems to grow as he doesn’t do anything—teachings and lessons about those who walk on two legs and sail in ships poking holes into your mind. 

Gawking and spying were one thing…but being seen meant death. You swallow stiffly and go tense, shifting to half-hide behind your rock. 

“Oh, no,” your mouth murmurs, self-hatred and fear lining the tone. “Oh, no, no, no.”

And yet the Fisherman had not moved, nor made any attempt to pull his sinking net back into his boat. Fish panic in the rope grave they’ve been ensnared in. His eyes….why are they so curiously locked on you?

You spare one last glance before shoving away from the rock and disappearing under the water with a violent splash; making off for the deep underwater caves that offer salvation. 

When you’re down there—in the darkness with only silent ripples of light to guide your eyes—you find it hard to stop thinking about the Fisherman and his strong jaw. His genuine awe at the sight of you. 

Had he not heard the stories of the Merfolk of this region? Or…or were you truly the last of your kind? 

The thought troubles you, and, riddled with anxiety, you go over to your store of shiny trinkets that you’d collected over the years; grabbing them in your hands and fiddling with them to try to put your mind at ease. The walls of the caves bare down on you and you hope you’d not just signed over your own death warrant. 

Maybe he’ll go away, you offer yourself, face tight and tail curled close, maybe he’ll be afraid and won’t come back. 

It was a pointless belief. They always come back—driven by greed or a righteous authority. Humans were cruel. 

But your brain goes back to stormy blue eyes like pebbles and softly parted lips. Orbs glinting with wonder and shock. No attempt to shout or grab for the large knife you’d seen strapped to his belt. 

A fisherman, you told yourself, who hesitated to go after the biggest fish of them all. 

You didn’t quite know if that made you more afraid or more intrigued. 

—

It was only after you’d spent three weeks in the underwater caves of the cove that you’d finally decided the coast was clear. You’d cautiously gone back through the winding seaweed and schools of marine life to hide in your little rock fort; afraid but brave. From under the waves in the calm of the water you’d scanned the surface for the shadows of a boat, anything to indicate that the man had returned. 

Nothing. 

Tension leaves your shoulders and you travel upwards, vibrant scales shimmering like jewels. You were quite close to the mainland, you would say, back to the shore to look out over the open entrance to your home. At the first sign of danger, the rocks would be your first point of shelter if you wished to remain hidden but continue to watch.

Ears popping as your head surfaces, you only look out with the water swaying below your eyes; nose and chin hidden. Sand from behind you shifts.

“Knew I’d seen something, then, eh?” Your heart lurches—brain flashing to hooks and nets; you shove yourself back under the water with a garbled gasp.

Fish around your form dash away as you frantically look back at the surface, your scales shining as the light hits them. Fingers tense in the water, you shift your body so that your form has its back to the floor of the cove and breathe quickly in your own mermadian way with shaking fins. 

On the very edge of the shore, you see the shadow of a sitting body in the sand. He hadn’t moved, this Fisherman. Was waiting as inanimate as an empty shell.

What had he said? You ask yourself, hair disturbed by the flow of the waves above your head. A gentle back and forth. After a moment of contemplation, the large muscle in your breast slows itself and a nervous curiosity grows.

Yet still, the shadow stays completely motionless beside the occasional itch and brush as facial hair. Waiting. 

Waiting to attack, your hand twitches in the water and you flutter your tail to take you closer to the open air, or waiting to see me?

Taking what you can describe as a deep breath, the top of your head once more breaks the top of the water; lashes dripping salty tear-drops as you blink away the sting. Every part of you is ready to disappear once more if things go south. 

And then you lock eyes once more. 

The Fisherman sits in the sand with his boots pushing up the granules—his right hand rests over his bent knee while the other keeps him up in a relaxed position from behind his back. You stare, the sun reflected in your eyes with a small glinting and hair in your vision. A foreign heat builds in your face when the man’s head tilts; tiny eyes narrowing as if he’d just proven a point to himself. 

Why doesn’t he seem surprised?

There’s a moment of a smirk that slashes his hidden lips but it’s gone in a fraction of a second. His mustache moves as he speaks and your face slightly bobs lower instinctually. The Fisherman doesn't seem hostile—he has a kind of stern comfort to him. 

Stubborn gruffness. And his accent only amplifies that fact.

 “Well, wasn’t expecting to find you here,” his chest rumbles with his words. You find you quite like the sound of it. Shells grinding against each other and pearls that clatter in palms. Your eyes widen with innocence. The Fisherman clears his throat, still watching carefully as the water sloshes over his boots. “Else I would have stayed clear when I still could.” 

Your hands tread water around you, tail flickering in small movements. 

The man's gaze darts down to stare as well as he could through the ripples. 

“Bloody Christ,” he murmurs to himself, returning your eyes once more, “thought you were all mostly extinct. Fuckin’ hell.”

“Extinct?” Your lips flinch, chin caressing the waves as brows pull up. The Fisherman blinks as if surprised to hear you speak. To be honest, you were half afraid you couldn’t either—how long had it been since you’d had a conversation above water? You spent most of your time passing comments to rare traveling Hippocampus and Sea Serpents.

Not that they could respond, of course.

By now your face had entirely left the water, that word startling you. Your chest tightens.

“What do you mean,” you ask the older man, this strange Fisherman who was shifting his weight in the sand, “extinct?” 

Dark brows furrow and his back slightly straightens itself. 

“You aren't exactly what I’d be calling common, Love. No one’s seen one of your kind in years.” Your face stills. 

“Years?” Head angling itself down, you stare at your reflection in growing fear. 

The Fisherman makes a move to stand, and you dart back swiftly. A pale hand is held in the air as if to sedate you.

“Easy, now.” It’s said softly, a grunt stuck at the beginning. A small moment passes before the man fully stands up, dressed similarly to when you’d seen him before. 

Top, pants, hat. There’s also a flash of metal around his neck, some piece of jewelry hidden on the chain under the layer of his thin, flowy, tunic. Hands go to cross over his chest in a display of muscle gained from a long time of hard work.

You nervously plead for an explanation, “B-but that…that doesn’t make any sense! I’m not the only one left!”

“No,” the Fisherman slowly states, taking off the hat from his head and delicately placing it on the ground. “No, you’re not the last.” 

His eyes dart along your visible body, trying to catch a glimpse of that tail that was in all stories about your kind. 

“Your name, Ma’am,” he asks, blue returning to your own sights, “what is it.”

“Well, what’s yours?” You counter, getting snappy in your anxiousness. “You come into my home and expect me to answer to you? And where’s your fishing boat anyways—unless a male Selkie has suddenly managed to brave the deep sea?” 

Perhaps it had been a trick of the light, but you had sworn the Fisherman had smiled at you; it was a swift slash of something that pulled his mustache back and wrinkled his face. An amused thing it was. A sort of tiny tease, in its own right.

Your heart beats steadily at the sight, eyes watching. 

“Well, I suppose you’re right, then.” He scratches at his beard with one hand, still studying you with a tilt of his head. As if weighing what he should tell you. There was an air of intrigue but that did nothing to hide the hesitance. “I docked my boat in the sea cave, thought it would do more harm than good to leave it in the open. If you’d seen it, you wouldn’t have shown, eh?” The Fisherman points and you look to the deep indent in the mountainside, the tiny ship visible as it stays stationary. You blink at it slowly. 

“And you can call me whatever it is you like, I don’t bloody care, but I’m not inclined to tell one of the Merfolk my name—I may have come ‘ere, but I’m not fuckin’ daft, now.”

It was true, what he spoke of. Names to your people have a stark and violent purpose. To know one's name is to own a piece of that person’s soul. Songs gain more power, words grow into orders followed without thought. Not that it was your intention.

You glower, brows pulling in. 

“A simple fisherman does well to know that it’s rude to speak ill like such in another’s home.” The man smirks, cheeks rising. 

“Simple, am I?” The already expansive build of his shoulders widens as he leans back on his heels, water sloshing at his boots. His eyes glimmer like lighting with humor. The look makes your cheeks burn with warmth, throat swallowing saliva.

“Why are you here?” You avoid the question, treading water and letting your tail drift. Willing the water to cool your senses. It was obvious that this man wasn’t a hunter—foolish, perhaps, but no hunter.

Or maybe just confidently brave. 

The Fisherman hums under his breath, grunting in the way you’d already come to associate with him. Rugged fellow, really. Weathered like a pile of old rope but still handsome, the sinews under the stain of dirt pure of color. You found yourself, however apprehensive, enjoying the squareness of his face; how the brunette’s hair would sweep in the warm breeze. 

He was attractive.

“Fishing, Ma’am.” A broad sweep of one of his hands, “You have a proper cove. Plenty of places to cast.” 

Your tight arms somewhat loosen. 

“Just fishing?” Your voice darkens. “Then why is it you’re here on shore and not doing just that.” Tail flickering, it lightly brings you back from him, eyes always darting away to stare into the background of his form—at the dark shadows of trees behind the dark rocks. At the open mouth of the cove in case of extra ships. 

If what he told you earlier was true, you were in danger just by living. 

Extinct? Not seen in years? No, that can’t be right. A deep knot forms in your stomach.

“I may be human, Ma’am, but I believe myself to be above intrusion.” The Fisherman splays his hands by his waist and shifts his thighs. He seems serious again, like a wave going forward and back he seemed to always revert to a crafted visage of firm resolve. “This is your home, and I’m asking to ferry my boat here when able. Nothing else.” 

You blink in surprise, brows pulling back. 

He was…asking you? 

“I…own the cove no more than the Manticore owns the desert,” your voice stutters, oddly touched by his sincerity. You pause and push yourself farther above a wave. This large man didn’t seem cruel to you. “I have no claim on the waters—they have been here longer than I. Do as you wish.” 

While that should have been the end of it, you found his blue eyes continuing to watch you, head tilted like a shaggy dog. Thinking deeply with a slight parting of his lips and rising to his lids. 

At the intensity of his silent wonder, your head goes light. Had you said something strange? No, it was just the truth. Then…why was this man’s face going to a modest pink shade? Why were his eyes darting away from yours and his feet shifting? 

You narrow at him before he speaks, clearing his throat and crossing his arms.

“Alright,” the Fisherman mutters, chest rumbling. 

A silence falls where your ears twitch to the lapping of the sea-foam and the feeling of blood in your veins which mirrors such movements. As you saw him do to you, your vision falls to the man’s body; looking across the tapering of his waist and the rolled sleeves of his tunic—showing off years of muscle 

“I don’t suppose…” Your tail flinches from the sudden noise from the brunette, expecting him to swim over to his boat and get to his business. You stare and listen, and for the first time, you believe a mermaid has been entranced by another's voice. “That I’ll have the pleasure of seeing you again?”

The Fisherman speaks slowly, hands shifting on his biceps; thighs tense and settle. You allow the waves to connect and slide around your body and a feeling reminiscent of warm rocks in the sun grows in your heart. 

Strange, this man. This serious-faced Fisherman who asks one of the Merfolk for permission over the waters we don’t control. You tilt your head to teasingly mirror the brunettes. He humphs in his throat at your action. I enjoy him. 

At the first sign of danger you’d leave—but for now…talking felt good.

“Perhaps,” you say, lips twitching into a smile. “Would this nameless Fisherman enjoy the company of a mermaid? Not many would say yes.”

“I think you’ll find I’m not like those many, then, yeah?” He smiles, a small twitch of his lips. You begin backing up, getting to deeper water while maintaining eye contact. “I don’t care what you are, just that we have an agreement.”

“Very well,” your neck dips under the waves, tail momentarily peaking above the surface. Blue flickers to it, shoulders lowering in hidden awe. The Fisherman’s lungs still. 

He hears your giggle before you dive under, disappearing swiftly down to your caves with a splash. 

It’s a long while before the brunette picks up his hat and begins walking the length of the shore—strong steps taking him back to his ship with a tiny smile brightening his ruggedly handsome face. 

He runs a hand over his chin and chuckles.

“Fuckin’ hell.”

—

You perch on the side of the Fisherman’s boat, golden comb in your grip as you run it over and over through your locks. Tangles and knots are rendered useless to the fine and beautiful make of the object, the handle covered in small barnacles and seaweed. A nice breeze wafts in the air, and behind you, the padding of feet goes across the deck. With the sliding of nets and a small whistling from the Fisherman, you feel your tail gently sway from side to side; the bottom under the water whose waves rise and lower the vessel. 

It had been a week since your first meeting and you had become more relaxed about this man’s presence. He had been truthful—every day he would come and fish. 

At first, you’d watch from the black rocks, sitting atop them and studying. More than once you’d see the brunette raise a hand in greeting when his boat had entered the cove; an acknowledgment that you were there and nothing more. No expectation for you to come over or speak to him. 

Day after day you’d see the net being thrown from the side only to be reeled back by large arms, legs apart and firm to the deck. 

On day four, you swam over and grappled onto the side of the ship, curious. Before you could even realize he instantly knew you were there—despite his back being to you—the Fisherman spoke in a cheeky tone.

“Come up, then, if you’re that interested. No use watching from the water.” So you had, with a bit more fire to your cheeks than you thought mermaids could handle.

Now it was routine. The human man would pull into the cove and you would sit on the side of his fishing boat, doing whatever you wished as he worked. 

You pull your comb through the ends of your hair, placing it down after and closing your eyes before your hands grab the shiny strands, twisting them. Under your breath, you hum in tune with the Fisherman’s whistled song; the notes like a growing symphony in your head. 

Song to Merfolk is sacred and revered—everything sings, in its own right, and deserves careful crafting to fully understand. 

“You seem to enjoy that,” you startle to a stop, eyes popping open. Sharply looking over your shoulder, you pause your hands. Staring, the man has completely stopped his work; nets at his feet with slapping fish of all colors stuck in the rope’s limp weavings. 

He squints at your confused face.

“Rhythm.” 

“Oh,” you offer a smile and watch him look away only to kneel down and begin separating his quarry. “If you’re worried I’ll sing around you, think nothing of it—I know what that could cause.” 

The Fisherman hums, amused at you, “I’m not. I was complimenting you,” the knife at his belt glints in the light. “You have a pretty voice, Love.” 

You shyly watch him, hair partly covering your visage, and catch a glimpse once more at the necklace he seems to always wear. Silver and shiny but still hidden. 

“If you knew about my species, you wouldn’t be saying that.” Explaining lowly, the man grunts, sending a look your way as he tosses a Cod farther up the deck—you watch it flop around for a moment. 

“Well,” the Fisherman explains, hands pausing and body leaning closer as one of his knees connects to the wood. It’s a teasing whisper that slides into your drum, and you find yourself nearly shivering from it. Blue eyes twinkle with mischief. “I did. No worries, I’ll never tell.”

A deep chuckle joins a lighter one, and your tail shimmers in the open light; scales vibrant and rich-looking. From what the brunette can see on the deck—the smaller plates that extend all the way up your navel to stop at your belly button—you know he stares at them. 

Not a greedy, evil, stare…just one of hidden admiration. It was of no surprise to you that he found it beautifully uncanny.

You have no idea how to read this Fisherman; have no idea what he wants. You think he doesn’t want anything. On your face, a strange calm settles. 

“Tell me, Fisherman,” his gaze snaps from your scales to your face, momentarily stopping at the dip of your neck as you turn as fully to him as you’re able from your perch. Your hand rests at your side; spine twisted halfway. “Who are you? No, I don’t mean your name. I want your person. You don’t act afraid of me—of what I am.” He stays kneeling and lets the net rest for now, his heart beating steadily in his breast. “There is more to you than a human at sea, surely.” 

Your words are not accusatory, they lacked any sort of confrontation. Curiosity, though, like enclosed treasure, was stuck behind your tongue. He surprises you by standing and beginning to walk over, boots thumping. 

As he nears, he sits down with a huff on the edge, right next to you. 

There’s a moment when you both stare into each other's eyes as you feel the world shift. Blinking up at him, at the closer range you take into account the ancientness of his eyes and how it seemed, for such an alone man, it was making him look far older than he was. Still older than you, yes, but the sentiment still stands.

With his hat having been retired not five minutes earlier onto one of the many ship’s barren tops, you saw the streaks of sun-bleached strands in his brown hair. You unconsciously reach for your comb but stay your fingers as they flinch over the gold.

Storm-blue carefully glances away before coming back to you. 

“Not much to know, Love,” the Fisherman’s brow raises, “you understand?” 

“No,” you say, honestly, head tilting at him. He looks surprised, breath hitching. 

“It’s just…there’s not much to tell, Sweetheart.”

Humans are strange creatures.

Not knowing this word game, you take your hand away from the comb and bring it to his chest, slipping under the neck of his tunic to grasp at the necklace he always wears. A hand snaps to your wrist almost immediately—a startling speed that makes you flinch. 

Above your heads, seagulls squawk at you, but all you can gaze into are those pure blue orbs. They trap you, drag you down far faster than a whirlpool into the briny depths of hypnotic appeasement. 

Perhaps you were naive to the magical whims of males that walk on two feet.

The Fisherman’s jaw clenches, eyes tightly narrowed at you in hesitance and veiled threat. You blink at him softly, not doing anything besides twitching your fingers and widening your sight. Before long, his hold loosens but doesn’t leave, allowing you on whatever it was you were doing yet still touching your damp flesh.

Lips parting, you don’t make a fuss. Instead, you hum under your breath and allow his calluses to scrape you. The toughness becomes a stark contrast to your own make-up. 

Feels nice.  

Your digits peel out the article of jewelry and you shift closer to look; bare chest brushing against his. You can feel his pulse through the brunette’s tunic, the way his throat shifts in a tense swallow of nothing. 

The necklace held two pieces of small, round, silver and said the following. 

“Jonathan Price, Captain, 141st company under the King.”

As you read, your tail gradually begins brushing his leg in its swaying. Through it all, the large Fisherman only slants his chin down and watches, breathing half through his mouth and half through his nose. You hear his throat clear; feel his grip squeeze your wrist. 

It is a small and taken-aback kind of noise. He doesn’t move his hand.

You are happy he doesn’t. 

“You’re a…Captain?” Asking, you look up shocked and aren’t taken aback by how close your face was to his. Even if your cheeks begin to burn at the beard bristles itching your nose. 

“...Yes,” breathe puffs over the lower half of your face. Your fingers detangle from the Fisherman’s necklace and let it thump to his chest. “I was. Left.” 

Blinking, you whisper, steadily, “What’s a…Captain…?” 

A small sound is made in the back of his throat and he releases your wrist and pulls back before a loud bark of a laugh jerks his chest. You stare in innocent confusion, hair falling over your shoulders.

“What?” Gripping his mouth, Jonathan Price grounds himself by gripping his thigh as he chuckles.

“No, no,” he takes a deep breath and releases his face, smoothing down his beard quickly with amusement stuck in his smile. “Bloody hell, it’s nothing. Nothing at all, Love.”

He sends you a warm side glance and you huff, moving back and picking up your comb, getting back to brushing your locks again. You are acutely aware that you now know the Fisherman’s name, but refrain from saying anything until he does. Now you know why he reacted in such a way.

Your tail twitches in the water as fish brush past it and the brunette begins with a soft look. 

“I was in charge of a small group of men—we had a ship. Far larger than this old girl,” he pats the deck, and you slow your motion to show that you are listening, intrigued. “We did what was needed of us, but there was a thin line that needed to be drawn to keep every bastard sane.” 

Blue meets your eyes and the man’s expression darkens. Your fingers twitch as the breeze ravages his hair, chest tightening. 

“And yours?” You ask softly, entranced and open, “What was your line, Captain Price?” 

He hums after a small silence, sighing deeply. Along the hull of the boat, the waves rock the vessel gently side to side, and your mythical attention seems to entrap him far better than your voice could. His face loses that dark edge, well-trimmed beard relaxes as his jaw does. 

The past it seems, looms over him like a tsunami.

Reaching up a slow hand, his fingers brush the tendrils of hair that had slipped out of your hold and were dangling in front of your face; the Fisherman blinks and pushes them back behind your ear. By now your brush had long stopped and your breath was held in your chest. For the first time in your life, you think you feel yourself shiver at the delicate scrape of his skin on yours.

“John,” he mutters, and you suck down a shallow breath as he watches you like you were an idol of the Gods, “Just John.” 

Your smile leaves his fingers pressing deeper into your scalp and, perhaps a bit naively, you welcome him to you like a bird to the sky. You liked his gruffness—his beard and his face. The lines on his forehead that you could imagine tracing as if they belonged on a map instead of the squareness of this Fisherman’s profile. Tiny sockets that hold sapphire stones.

“Maybe I left because I couldn’t stand seeing such beautiful creatures being put to the hook, eh?” Your eyes widen, tiny gasp leaving your lips. 

Merfolk swooned with flattery, truth be told. They enjoy being doted on and praised; given gifts of both words and objects. You were no different. 

Oh…did he call me beautiful?

John smirks at your reaction, taking his hand off of you and standing with a low chuckle. Your tail flutters at the sudden absence, head following after him as he walks back to his net with a sway in his step. You blink in astonishment. 

“You’re a strange human, John,” calling to him, you grimace at the blatant disappointment in your bones at the lack of his skin on yours. At his humored hum, you sense your growing attraction to the grind of his vocal cords. His voice. “I don’t know what to think of you.”

“Then think nothing of me,” he explains easily, casually, re-gathering his nets in his toned arms. You try not to let your jaw slacken at the bulge under his tunic when he carries them. “I’m not offended by it, Love.” A sly look, “Do as you wish.” 

Your tail twitches so violently you’re afraid you might break the side of the ship. 

And so this strange dance between the two of you continued well into the longer months—John would come in his ship nearly every day and you would join him on the side of the deck. Sometimes you would hum for him and he would whistle a tune back, others there were long bouts of conversation about the ways of humans and beasts. John told you that the King had ordered the total extinction of all manner of ‘strange and unordinary’ creatures to secure his line safely to the throne. 

When he had explained it, the mad had gone red with anger.

“Fuckin’ muppet,” he’d spit, fiddling with his knife as you watched a small distance away, playing with his silver necklace in your hands. You twiddled it around and liked how it shimmered like your scales did in the light. “Bloody thought I would just go along with the deaths of innocent beings. He had no facts—no proof to back up his claim. I’ve done things. Horrible things,” John explained to you, sending you a stiff look, “but I’ve not forsaken my damn mind to reality. Takin’ the piss.” 

Muttering the last sentence to himself, you had felt your lips curve into a smile. “You have a proper conscience, John, done bad or not.” 

“Yeah, well, Sweetheart, I’ll be done in soon enough.” You only stared with care-drowned eyes and caressed his necklace. When he had seen this, his body had deflated with an exasperated grunt. 

You shared a chuckle and he got back to work; feeling his melting gaze drawn back to you every so often. 

Later, yet again, you found your form on his boat, this time with his hands across the small of your back as you studied the blade of his knife.

“Careful, now. Don’t run your finger along the edge.” His free grip points to the sharp side—breath fanning your ear. You feel your throat tighten and nod, caressing a thumb on the leather handle. 

John’s hand is hard on your bare skin and you sense his heat drilling past your veins into the very marrow of your bones. You unconsciously sigh when his fingers slide slightly higher, traveling the length of your spine; his scars catching on every knob of bone. Your exploration stills and your pupils widen. 

His breath is on your neck, nose tilting as his jaw does just above the meat of your shoulder. 

“Why’d you stop?” You stare off into the metal, lashes fluttering when his fingers finally curve at the swell of your neck. Lips drag on your flesh before a deep grumble of affection stems from John’s chest as he kisses your rapid pulse. “Distracted? Hm.” 

“It’s,” you breathe out, scales reflecting light as your lower body shifts on the wood. His opposite hand circles your waist, drawing your back to his chest. Skin burns and thoughts go to liquid as you feel his roving muscle. “It’s g-good. Pretty—” 

Words fail you as his lips continue to slowly travel.

“Could say the same,” John grunts; beard scraping down your flesh. 

Your eyes flutter, head tilting to give more room at the same time you whisper out, violently shivering at the compliment, “John…” 

“What is it?” The grip moves to run over your scales, right where your upper hips would be; the sensation of him caressing you with gentle, deep, rubs of his thumb was all it took for you to give in completely to him. “Go on, Love, speak.” 

You take a breath and feel his heart beating steady along your back—the texture of his tunic. “What…are you doing?” 

John moves your hair and places open-mouthed kisses on the back of your neck. He breathes in your scent and you turn your light head to stare unabashedly at his flushed face. Your tail sways, limp, over the side of the boat. 

Blown pupils hide that sea-storm blue like a lock and key to dangerous thoughts and attraction. 

In answer, his eyes flicker down to your lips hungrily and your gaze widens; a small sound in the base of your throat. 

“You’re somethin’ beautiful, y’know that?” He says and you let him lean in closer to your face, eyes threatening to close when you take in the musk of human flesh and sweat. Rope and wood oil. John’s words make you shiver again, hairs standing on end—responding to that deep growl with a roaring in your ears. 

You shouldn’t be enjoying this. Shouldn’t be enjoying his lips or his tight grip; his…his rough, large, hands that encapsulate your body and drown you. It terrifies you, this heart-stopping magnetism. You can’t get enough of him.

John presses his firm lips to yours, groaning into the connection as you sigh and part your mouth. Fingers shaking, you twist and place your hands on his chest, gasping mutely as his teeth nip into your lower lip and pull back before pushing back forward. Sparks of subdued pain mix with pleasurable agony at the scrape of his beard hair.

 “Every inch of you…” John’s grip captures you closer, hands ensnaring you against his chest like deeply intertwined strands of fabric, squeezing as he licks his upper lip. He catches his breath shallowly. Blue eyes burn through you. “...is fucking perfection.”  

You grab at his necklace and drag him back in, feeling him not waste a single moment to grip the back of your head and keep you trapped to him, tongues slipping out of mouths to tangle together like seaweed. Perhaps it was foolish, but a part of you knew that this Captain, this strange Fisherman—this Johnathan Price—was the only man or being on this planet, land or sea, who could make you feel like you could walk and fly all at once. 

When he lifts you in his arms and drops you in his lap as if your body weighed as much as a pebble, you knew you’d brave the open ocean for this man in an instant. His arm drips with water as it slips under the joint of your tail; where your knees would be if you had them, and you whine into his mouth at the slip of his fingers. 

Intoxicated, drunk off of his scent and his pressure. 

A dangerous mix of two different lives. 

It couldn’t last.

TAGS:

@luuvbuzz, @emerald-valkyrie, @anna-banana27, @blueoorchid, @cryingnotcrying, @writeforfandoms, @homicidal-slvt, @jade-jax, @frazie99, @elmoees, @littlemisstrouble, @alpineswinter, @phoenixhalliwell, @idocarealot, @lavalleon, @facelessmemories, @h-leigh, @20forty9, @glitter-anon-asks, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @neelehksttr, @aeneanc, @escapefromrealitysm, @i-d-1-0-t, @pparcxysm, @hawkscanendme, @caramlizedtomatos, @konigsleftkidney, @sanfransolomitatm, @maelstrom007, @jemandderkeinenusernamenfindet, @pheobees, @glitterypirateduck, @uselsshuman, @fan-of-encouragement, @halfmoth-halfman, @ghostlythunderbird, @I-inkage, @pukbadger, @kopatych11, @0nceinabluem00n, @cocrorapop, @knightofsexyness, @abnormalgeil, @smallseastone, @jacegons, @330bpm-whiplash, @simon-rileys-housewife, @4-atsu, @tiredmetalenthusiast

[captainfern]

I am actually addicted to your drabbles btw you’ve literally turned me into a captain price SLUT.

Anyways, imagine you get back to base from a solo mission and you’re complaining about how sore you are so price offers to give you a massage 😞😞😞 then he starts getting handsy and can’t stop massaging and groping readers boobs and ass and thighs 🥲🥲

•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•

Nevermind

Captain John Price x fem!reader

["Nevermind" Album by Nirvana]

[18+]

•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•

• summary - what the request says but price eats you out too lol. • rating - 18+ • wordcount - 1.4k • warnings - fem!reader, massaging but make it sensual, oral [f!receiving], price has a sir kink obvs, strong language

i used a gif from six just cause bear is fine asf and i literally want him so bad

and tysm anon i'm glad i'm converting people into price sluts it's such an achievement 🙏

•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•

"I am so fucking sore," you groaned, shuffling into Price's office. "I feel like I just got hit by a fucking train."

Price looks up at you from a stack of paperwork, cigar between his pointer and middle finger as he thumbed through the pages.

"Is that right?" He hummed.

"Yeah," you all but whimpered, rounding his desk until you were standing directly behind him. You draped your body over his, your front pressed to his back, your head resting against his shoulder. "M'sore, Price."

Price placed his cigar in his crystal ashtray and pat your head gently. "Was it a successful mission?"

"Of course it was," you groaned, running your hands down his chest, hugging him. "But I feel like you're dismissing the fact I'm in pain."

Price chuckled. "I'm not dismissing you, love."

"But I need your help." You whined, fingers moving back up to grope along the covered outline of his pecs.

"What do you need from me?" He asked.

"Your hands."

•º•

"That feel better, love?" Price asked.

You grumbled blissfully, face smushed into his bedsheets as he ran his large hands up and down your body, kneading the knots from beneath your skin. You groaned as he worked the stiffness from your shoulders, smoothing the tension from your back and tailbone.

"M'yeah." You mumbled, eyes closed, obsessed with the way Price ran his hands down your bare skin.

Rough and calloused from years in the military, yet his touch was soft. Still, he held a strength and firmness that made you resist the urge to moan as he massaged a particularly taut spot near the base of your spine.

He'd being doing this for just under ten minutes, and you were feeling better already. Body loosening, muscles relaxing. Even Price seemed to be enjoying it; humming contentedly to himself as he watched the way his hands manipulated parts of your body.

Also, the soft sounds you were making. So fucking good. The small whimpers and whines, the breathless mutters of his name, the slightly louder groans you released when he hit a particularly tense knot with his knuckle.

He was struggling to keep focus.

"Jus' need you lower, Price," you breathed, turning your head to look at him over your shoulder. "Please."

Price was hesitant. Did you mean your thighs or your c—?

"My arse is sore... and my legs, of course." You added the last bit with a chuckle, and Price couldn't help but smile.

He obliged, of course, and shifted his hands downwards. The glide of his hands on your body was aided by some kind of sweet-smelling oil you unearthed from the depths of your wardrobe. It smelt good, smelt like you, and let Price's hands move effortlessly along your smooth skin.

His hands found your arse, and his eyes flicked up immediately to gage your reaction. He massaged— no he didn't, who was he kidding? He groped— the plush flesh, much to his delight, and yours too apparently, as you let out a soft whine.

"Good?" Price asked, voice a deep grumble.

"Mhm."

He worked the soft skin there for a while, eyes drawn to the way the fat moved beneath the push of his hands, and the sounds that dribbled from your pretty mouth. He was surprised that he didn't have a raging hard on by now.

"S'good, sir." You breathed.

Okay, never mind. He was hard as fuck now.

Sir. You little—

"Yeah? You feel good, love?" He breathed, dragging his hands over the curve of your arse and along your thighs.

He groped and kneaded the soft flesh, drawing as many sounds from you as he could. He pushed and pulled, working the knots from your muscles, making your skin shiny with the sweet-smelling oil. His eyes moved between your legs— pretty and bare, shiny and moving so freely beneath his strong grasp— and your face— pretty, blissed out, lips agape as you whined at him.

"You feel good, love?" Price echoed, working his fingers around the backs of your knees.

"Yeah—" You cut yourself off with a moan as Price pushed particular hard at the top of your thigh, just beneath the curve of your arse.

He smiled to himself. "Yeah?"

"Y-yeah, fucking hell."

"That's usually my line, love." He moved his hands back to your hips and helped you flip onto your back.

You called for him as his hands descended onto your shoulders, massaging your arms and the base of your neck.

"Lower." You muttered.

"Lower?" Price grinned. "How much lower—?"

You grumbled, a wave of arousal settling deep in your core. "My fucking tits, Price, just... Jesus."

His grin widened. "You sure? I don't—"

"Now is not the time to be a gentleman," you hissed, grabbing his wrists and placing his hands on your breasts. "Just... fuck, do what you were doing before."

"Okay, okay," Price mused. "So impatient."

You didn't reply, a whine caught in your throat as Price grabbed at your tits, massaging gently. His hands were warm and very much welcomed, and you couldn't stop yourself from arching slightly into his grasp. He hummed a laugh, tweaking your nipples, making you bite your lip.

"Sir, please—"

"Such a pretty girl," he mumbled, interrupting you. "So pretty. Beautiful, love. Absolutely stunning. Jus' look at you."

He continued to touch you, groping and massaging your tits and the soft skin around, including down the sides of your ribs and waist, making you squirm, ticklish.

After a good few minutes of his hands on you, you were going fucking feral.

"Need more." You said to him.

"More?" Price quirked a brow. "Tell me."

You just whined, and bucked your hips. He got the point. With a chuckle and a short shake of his head, he moved down his bed until he was kneeling between your spread thighs. He massaged your thighs, too, as he spread them further, eyes catching sight of your bare cunt, slick and drooling for him. For him.

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath, which you didn't hear. Louder, he said, "Felt that good, my pretty girl?"

You nodded, embarrassment squeezing your gut. You cursed, hiding your face in your hands.

"Don't hide from me," Price said sternly, but his words were still soft. "S'all right. I'll take care of you. I'll take care of my pretty girl."

As you moved your hands away, he placed his mouth on your core. You moaned, loud, as his tongue moved in a swiping motion from your dripping hole to your clit. He laved over the sensitive bud, sucking it into his mouth as your thighs enclosed around his head.

"Oh my— fucking— Price—"

He hummed, the vibrations making you choke on a sob. His tongue was hot against you as he placed a few more licks to your clit, before dragging it down your slit, running between your folds before delving deep into your hole. You mewled as he filled you, warm and firm, sucking up your arousal with lewd sounds that made your ears ring. You reached down, fisting his hair, dragging his face closer to your cunt. His nose pressed to your swollen clit, and you keened, back arching off his bedsheets.

Your stomach pulsed, low and heavy with release, and it made your mouth drop open. He had barely had his tongue on you for thirty seconds, and you were already about to—

You were mortified. Price stuffed your sopping cunt with his tongue, mumbling something into you that had the vibrations coaxing your orgasm closer and closer until, with a final firm press of his nose to your clit, you came.

Was it way less than a minute? Quite fucking possibly.

You don't think you've cum that quickly in your life.

Your cunt spasmed and gushed around his tongue, and Price lapped it up happily as you moaned his name and sobbed "sir!" into the warm air of his bedroom. He groaned happily as your thighs tightened, clamping him closer to you. He closed his eyes, enjoying the way he was pushed further into your slick core.

Once your orgasm resided, ebbing like the waves on the shore, he pulled back, face wet.

You cracked your eyes open. He was back to groping your thighs, your arousal literally dripping in pearls down his chin. Your heart fluttered. He had a mischievous glint in his eye.

You groaned. "Don't—"

"That's gotta be some kinda record, eh, love?"

"Fucking hell, Price."

He placed a wet kiss to your inner thigh.

"You're welcome." He joked, a fucked out smile on his face.

•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•

not proof read cause i'm lazy x

[bloodypeachblog]

The Tumblr Yandere Quintet (Peter, Sunny Day Jack, John Doe, Damon, and Alan Orion) - my personal headcanons SFW + NSFW

(TW: blood, knives, death, cannibalism, anything associated with yanderes will most likely be here, so you've been warned)

A/N: btw they coexist in the same universe here. Like, let's say they all live together in a house with Y/N. Why? Because I can. Also this is all F!Reader, so yeah.

~♡~Peter~♡~

• He is shy boi when it comes to you. He acts confident, but underneath he is lowkey panicking.

• But towards others, he is brat. Just, burns and roasts up the wazoo. It's like the person flips the switch and activates his bitch mode.

• he loves playing video games, anything that seem interesting to him. He loves Dead by Daylight and his favorite role is the killer.

• True Crime Aficionado. He listens to podcasts, watches documentaries and movies and YouTube videos, he knows serial killers' stories like the back of his hand.

• he can cook and bake pretty well. He's not Gordon Ramsay levels of good, but he very rarely makes a bad dish. He likes to make food for you and watch your reactions to it.

• as a boyfriend, he is such a hopeless romantic. Roses, poems, serenades (he's not confident in his singing voice, so he plays songs that say whatever he's feeling and sends you the youtube link to listen to them, or just blaring them on the radio outside your window), the whole shebang. Of course, he's not obnoxious about it. Just enough to make you swoon.

• You guys know that old famous photo of a soldier kissing his girlfriend after WW2? Yeah, Peter loves doing that to you.

• pet names for you: Darling, Honey, Baby, Princess, Angel. Basic stuff.

♡NSFW♡

• he likes to nibble on your ear. He loves your reactions to it.

• guy is a straight-up pervert. He'd grope you when you're alone and make dirty jokes. You'd blush tomato red each time.

• angel on the streets, devil in the sheets. More like incubus in the sheets. He will find ways to make you moan his name.

• WHAT DAT TONGUE DO THO? OH LAWD Seriously, when he eats you out, you swear you can feel the very tip of his tongue brush against your cervix.

• favorite positions are missionary, mating press, and doggy style. But he likes oral too, both sides. He loves feeling your warm mouth taking in his cock, he struggles not to cum right then and there. He loves your taste, he can't get enough of it.

•some nights he can be gentle, other nights he'll fuck you into the dirt.

• his cock is about 5.6 inches, good thickness. Not the dick of the gods, but still something to brag about. Very pretty, too.

• Knifeplay? On you, depends on if you're into it or not. On him, FUCK YEAH. He fantasizes about you using a knife to write your name on his chest. Getting cut gives him the biggest hard-on, he'd be already dripping pre-cum. And if you lick the cuts? Oh, this man will cum immediately.

• Anal? Hell yeah. If you're okay with it, of course.

~~~~~

~♡~Damon~♡~

• He's more chill and laid back. Also he's emo. Because I said so.

• He likes listening to music. He likes any genre, but he tends to leans towards emo bands, stuff from Lapfox Trax, and metal. But you play a country song, he will destroy the radio or debate on murdering the artist.

• He wears his puffy coat almost 24/7. I say almost because he can't wear it in the shower. He loves to share it with you, the whole two person in one coat thing couples do.

• he's a cuddle bug, but won't admit it. If you tease him about it, he'll deny it and blush.

• he acts like a kuudere to others, if not annoyed. But when with you, he's so sweet. He'd give you his umbrella if it's raining and you didn't have one.

• Dude can cook, if you can call preparing instant ramen in the microwave 'cooking'.

• This guy loves meat and chewing on bones, so I bet he is also a secret cannibal, but only eats his victims. Gotta get rid of the bodies somehow! He has Peter help with preparing and cooking the meat, but Damon never says where he got it. Peter knows, though, but he don't really care.

• pet names for you: Babe, Sweetie, Lovely

♡NSFW♡

• Favorite positions are you on top, and the position where you're on your stomach and he has your arm behind your back.

• He is SO loving and gentle most of the time. He just wants to make sure you're getting enough. You will cum many times before he even finishes.

• but once in a while, expect to be sore in the morning, some bruises here and there from how much he grips you.

• master of seduction right here. He will whisper in your ear the sweetest yet dirtiest stuff, maybe some erotica limerick/sonnet he found online. His voice is so smooth it makes your core tingle just by hearing it.

• his dick is pretty average, but it's not a bad thing. It gets the job done just fine and you're not complaining.

• he does have a bondage fetish. He loves to tie you to the bed and on special occasions, like your birthday, he'll tie himself up and let you do whatever you want.

• Anal? Nah. Unless you beg for it.

• dude loves meat, so... he has a dolcett fetish. (Don't know what it is? ...eh google it, I'm not your mom. But don't say I didn't warn you.) He never acts on it really [he may eat people, but he doesn't get off to it because he feels like he'd be cheating on you], but his phone and laptop has a folder with hundreds of pics/videos of dolcett porn. Sort of a guily pleasure fetish, emphasis on the pleasure.

~~~~~

~♡~Alan~♡~

• He is such a good boi. Sweetest boi in the world. Pure sugar cookie.

• he is the outdoorsy guy, hunting, fishing, camping, all that stuff. Dude lives in the woods.

• he's the one who brings home fish or game for dinner. Preps it himself in the garage. Expect to find some deer or birds hanging from the ceiling.

• he's a pro at bonfires. Knows all the different ways to burn wood.

• Cooking? He prefers to grill or cook over a fire. He sometimes indulges in Damon's choice of meats, but no one ever tells him what it is. So don't tell him. It'd break the guy...

• he is such a sweetheart. Asking if you're feeling ok, if you need any help with anything, just so considerate. Heavy follower of PDA.

• unashamed cuddler. When you two go camping, he has you in the same sleeping bag as him.

• HUGE astrology and astronomy nerd. He will talk your ear off about the star constellations and tell you your horoscope of the day and if you are compatible with him or anyone else in the group.

• pet names: Doe-Eyes, darling, honey, dear, love

♡NSFW♡

• he's more on the gentler side of things. Perfect candidate for your first time. He will comfort you if it hurts and praise you so much.

• favorite positions are where he can look at you splayed out and writhing in pleasure. Mostly missionary.

• man is a pussy eater. On bad days, he gives you puppy dog eyes and asks to eat you out. With those eyes, you can't help but say yes.

• he likes to nibble and bite. Favorite place to bite is your thighs. He can leave marks, but never breaks skin. If he does, he'll stop and patch you up.

• his cock is the smallest in the group, but not in general. It's pretty average, nothing to complain about. He's a grower, not a shower. You secretly find his cock (both erect and flaccid) adorable, but you never say that to his face.

• does he do anal? Only if you ask him to, but even then, he's hesitant. He will make sure you're prepped well.

~~~~~

~♡~Jack~♡~

• the ray of sunshine in the group. Always trying to cheer people up.

• he loves to give hugs any time, any day, any where

• he is such an 80s retro nerd. He has a collection of games and movies from that era. Favorite movies are The Breakfast Club and Ferris Bueller's Day Off. Favorite arcade game is Dragon's Lair or Pac-Man.

• definitely the fashionista of the group. He loves to create outfits for you to wear, making sure the colors compliment each other. He does this for the other guys too, but some are not sure how to feel about it.

• dude is the kind of guy who would wear a nun's halloween outfit as his costume for reals and awaken some people while wearing it. He makes any outfit sexy.

• Cooking? He prefers to bake. Champion at breakfasts. Favorite thing to make is blueberry pancakes.

• Himbo. Just. Pure grade-A himbo.

♡NSFW♡

• bruh, this man will be cheery and bubbly during the day, total daddy at night. Holy shit.

• he will show you that you are his and only his. He's only sharing you with the other guys just to make you happy.

• man's got a body like Adonis. He's got a chest where he got man tiddies.

• his cock? HOLY FUCK. He's the biggest out of the group and he has to force his way inside you sometimes (this is canon, I swear, I've seen that clip). It is downright BEAUTIFUL. You swear, he is some sort of god.

• his favorite positions are 1) where you're both on your sides, him behind you, lifting your leg so he can plow you while kissing your neck and whispering sweet nothings and dirty shit in your ear. And 2) that position where you're on your belly and he is behind you, raising your ass to him and he has your arm pinned behind your back.

• he is definitely heavy on the praise. He sees you as a goddess. Expect him to make you cum multiple times before he even gets inside you, just to make sure you're putty in his hands and ready for him.

• does he do anal? Fuck yeah he does. But he's very careful about it and only does it when you say it's ok.

~~~~~

~♡John♡~

• and then there's John.

• he's just a crack baby.

• sorry, John Doe stans. I just couldn't get that much on this guy.

• he's essentially the pet dog of the group. But it's fine, he's into that.

• he's pretty much a feral animal.

• is fueled by energy drinks and Doritos.

• he LOVES when Damon feeds him the special meat he's collected. He gobbles that shit up.

• dude snuggles you like a puppy. He can be cute and sweet when he wants to, don't get me wrong here. Puppies are always sweet and cute.

• hates baths. Y/N has to chain him to the tub in order to bathe him.

• usually stays in his room. He plays Call of Duty with Peter and loves to watch zombie movies. Favorite movie is Cannibal Holocaust and City of the Living Dead. Ruggero Deodato, Lucio Fulci, and George A Romero are his idols.

• Cooking? No idea how. Anything already prepared is perfect for him.

♡NSFW♡

• you into werewolf quality sex? John's your guy.

• expect tons of nail marks and bites all over you once you're done.

• man will make you bleed.

• some nights, the guys will hear you yell "CHILL THE FUCK OUT!!" from your bedroom.

• he will almost eat you alive, he's that feral.

• Does he do anal? Duh.

• favorite position is you up against the wall.

~~~~~

Yandere Quintet Dynamics

Peter & John Doe: Gaming buddies

Jack & Alan: Big bro (Jack), little bro (Alan)

Peter and Damon: Constant dick-measuring (metaphorically, of course) at first, but now partners in crime (oh they'll double-team ya). They like discussing true crime stuff, enough to where they have a podcast.

Damon & John Doe: Man (Damon) using dog (John Doe) to hide evidence.

Jack & Peter: total nerd buddies. Trivia night is horrible with them.

Jack & John Doe: kid being terrified of dogs (Jack), rabid dog (John Doe)

Alan & Peter: another big bro (Peter), little bro (Alan) dynamic.

Alan & John Doe: hunter (Alan) and his hunting dog (John Doe)

Jack & Damon: guy (Damon) is annoyed by the other guy (Jack), but secretly enjoys his company.

Damon & Alan: same deal as Damon and Jack, but Damon will kill anyone trying to hurt or be mean to Alan.

~~~~~

Aaaaand that's all she wrote! Hope you enjoyed this feast!

[kneelingshadowsalome]

Hi! If you're still taking requests I'd love request a drabble about the moment when Konig and Reader first noticed each other and what they thought/felt during that moment based on your "Just Friends" fic.

Btw I love your work and oh my god, it's perfection, absolutely amazing. Super excited to read chapter 3&4 (no rush take your time!!)

Thabj you!!!

Even Demons are Lonely

Wordcount: 3.8 k

Summary: König sees reader for the first time. Soon, the promise to never touch someone as lovely as her turns into a vow to never leave her side.

Tags/warnings: F!Reader, König POV, Just Friends universe. Angst, twisted & fluffy feelings, pining, obsessive behavior, stalking, panty stealing, mentions of past trauma, abuse and patricide, yandere!König falling in love (=being delusional). Mild sexual and violent themes. 

A/N: I did take my time with this one... 🩷 And it's only König POV, but I hope you enjoy! 💋

"Abashed the Devil stood, and felt how awful goodness is, and saw Virtue in her shape how lovely – saw, and pined His loss..."

– John Milton, Paradise Lost

Purgatory.

That's the word that stuck to him when he was learning English at school, simply because it was an accurate definition of how he felt.

Adults used to say there is heaven and hell, and then this world, the world of humans, somewhere in between. They said he would go to heaven after he died and that bad people would go to hell.

They were all liars because hell already existed here on Earth. He had lived there ever since he was born.

The first memories of the cutting are shallow and pale, like they happened to some other boy. With every hit and cut and every cry, the sounds turned muddy until he was mute too, until all he could hear was mother's crying and Papa's roaring. The old man always got more mad when people cried and cowered. 

That's when he knew he would someday do something about bad people, that crying and cowering and begging wasn't going to help. It was the birth hour of hope and heaven. He dreamed of killing his father, killing his "friends", killing everyone who looked at him like he was a freak. 

He soon learned that this was not what people associated with heaven at all. He learned that there was a word for people like him, for phantoms who were morbidly interested in death and decay.

Ghoul.

A grave robber and a corpse feaster he was not, but neither was he going to pretend that some people didn't deserve to be gutted. If being normal meant he should just play along and pretend that there was justice in this world, then he was happy to be morbid. A little ghoul boy who grew up in hell, who dreamed of heaven, who slipped behind the thin veil between the worlds when he was four, who learned how to make the knives dance while everyone around him suffered.

He learned to cry and beg before he learned to speak, but when the words finally started to make sense to him, he had no use for them. No one wanted to talk to him, so he settled to observe. Life was a film reel running by, and words were useless when all he wanted to do was roar. There was a growing, gaping maw inside him, shrieking and spitting blood while he was without a voice.

It took a while to make Papa cry and beg. But he begged, eventually. In his last words, he tried to hide behind a woman’s skirt. 

"Don't do this to your mother," was a plea that didn't ignite mercy: it drove him off the ledge. Looking at the horrible excuse for a man squirming at his feet made him realize he should've released his mother from this demon years ago. He was too weak, and he vowed to himself, to the whole world, that he would never be weak again.

………………

Sometimes, a glimpse of true heaven can be seen on a clear summer's day when the sun shines, when bees are buzzing and a beautiful voice sings a love song on the radio. Beautiful, peaceful things only add to his suffering. They are simply evidence gathered – examples of everything he will never have. 

The air clots inside his mask with a brew of old sweat and acrid gunpowder. It's usually enriched by a hot desert wind or the stench of dust and emissions, a city's rotten core. It would feel odd to be met with a fresh breeze or the smell of rust and smoke than have them dampened by the baggy mask. He's certain that it would only be painful to feel the full brunt of the world on his naked face again. His enemies can't see him when he kills them, so they can't haunt him either.

He is the only ghoul here. He is the one who haunts.

He's learned to let love and peace go. He came here to reap; that's his job. Ghouls cannot love or be loved. They are supposed to get rid of the plague, do what normal people can't do, what good people deem hideous and wrong.

People have always been alien to him: they both know something he cannot seem to decode and are unaware of the constant presence of the Maw. He has to feed it in order to not be swallowed by it himself. It helps with the constant yelling for a while. 

His father was the first demon to be punished, but he has learned that all demons are liars when they beg. They don't know what real hell is like. That's why he didn't give mercy to his father, and that's why he doesn't give mercy to them, either. It's not hell, it's not heaven, so he must be in a limbo state in between. 

That's why he calls this place purgatory. 

………………

He sees a woman under the sun one day.

The sheer sight of her sitting there on her little blanket spread over the grass, dressed in a pure white dress is like a torturing dream from above. It stops him in his tracks like there is suddenly an invisible wall in front of him, forcing him to halt.

His heart is pounding, but that's not new. His heart is always tight and racing, and that's why it's better to have a heavy gun in his hands than hold onto nothing at all; it's better to do something than do nothing at all. The only thing that calms the endless roil inside him is work; when there's no work, it helps to go outdoors, somewhere between the shadows between thick trees.

Trees are better than people...

But they're not better than a woman like her.

He knows his mind plays tricks sometimes with females. That is why at first he thinks that the creature before him is not from this world either. How could someone like her even end up here? There are few ladies in the base, and none of them have picnics; none of them look like angels.

She looks up at the sky, at the single cloud drifting across the cerulean blue that hurts his eyes. Sun shines on her exposed throat, her stare is dreamy as she basks in the warmth and raises an apple to her lips. 

He stops breathing as she takes a bite, fearing it might stain the beautiful white dress from how juicy it is. The runaway apple juice drips down her chin, but she catches it with her finger, then sweeps the sweet taste of it back into her mouth. 

Her lips hug the finger gently as she savors the treat, and his breath returns to him, heavy and with a pang, like someone just punched him between the lungs.

She can't be human... 

He wonders if she's even real. 

He's hungry, but the need to devour this woman turns into a need to worship her before he can even decipher what is happening to him. He would grovel at her feet if that's what it took to get her to feed him some of that fruit. His mind goes numb from the need to march there and hug her. Just hold her, so close that he forgets what it is to breathe.

He knows she would only scream, and it's good he's been walking in the shade. It's good that she can't see him unless she turns her head. Because she must be an angel, and angels have no business with ghouls. 

He should go and leave her be... Mortals he can want, humans he can torture, but a celestial being he could never touch. The wind carries a whiff of apple juice to his nose; it overrides the stench of sweat and gun oil and smoke. 

And then the angel turns her head. 

It's Judgment Day, but she doesn't condemn him. She blinks a few times, lashes fluttering like he's another sun, the dreaded black sun, and she can't bear to look directly at him. But there's no disgust, no uneasiness, there's no fear. There's only shyness and the smallest smile. 

The pain inside his gut turns into a brutal stab, pure suffering. He hasn't hoped for anything for a long, long time. Now hope bleeds into his stomach with golden tingles, like those rays of sun that caress her skin.

He thought good things would feel… well, good, but to his horror, they feel painful too. She's painfully sweet. Even the demon inside him falls silent, the only demon he cannot destroy. It's finally quiet, as it should be. Everything in him bows to this greater power of Her. 

But she can't be real... His mind is sick and has finally conjured up the most beautiful thing he can never, ever have. He's been called a freak, he's been called a dumb ugly giant, he's been called so many things, but he's not stupid enough to think that the creature hugged by the golden aura of light is meant for him. 

So he squares his shoulders and pushes through the invisible wall, back behind the veil, back to where he belongs, and leaves the heavenly apparition in the sun.

………………

The next time he sees her is after a mission and inside the base. 

He brings mud and blood inside after a few rainy days spent in the mountains. He's so soaked that not even the 3-hour flight managed to dry all the dirt. She's waiting for him, or that's how it feels like when she gives him a small, relieved smile and starts to clean the mess he and every other operator leave behind.

His angel is not only a celestial visage but a cleaner.

She keeps the building that houses people who destroy life, clean. She scrubs the filth killers like him bring inside the cold, dead compound built on what used to be a forest full of birds, life, and wind through the trees. 

No one thanks this girl as she humbly dusts a table or mops the floor. No one understands that she's a saint for coming to the purgatory and making it a more decent place for the demons and ghouls to live. And she's relieved every time he comes back unharmed. She's happy to see he's alive. There's someone waiting for him. And not just someone, not just anyone, but an angel.

It's unbelievable how no one has claimed her yet. She has no one to keep her safe, and it makes his hands twitch. If he was her protector, she would never have to work again.

She's not like the rest of them: she doesn't turn her gaze away when he flicks a knife out. She likes to watch him make them dance. It's a ritual that makes him invincible on the battlefield. He used to do it every morning before school to stay safe – there were no angels back then to keep him alive.

He almost stops the first time he sees her watching how he goes through the rite. 

No, look away, little angel... You're not supposed to see this; this is a death dance, it's filthy, demonic magic.

But she's not afraid of his blades or the way he weaves his spell of protection. The girl follows his moves entranced. Her eyes shine, and he nearly drops the blade – he hasn't dropped a knife since he was ten – because there's hunger in her stare. Not as fathomless as his, but deep enough for him to recognize it. 

His angel is lonely and trapped too. 

He completes the dance, returns the knife to his pocket, and looks back, straight back.

She doesn't look away. She doesn't wince or lean back, no: she leans forward, and he can see it, the way her pulse flutters on her neck, the way her mouth opens even more, how a tiny pink tongue sweeps across her lips as she looks back into the jaws of damnation. It takes him a while to realize his angel must be wet, just from seeing how good he is with a knife. The notion doesn't only make his cock jolt; it throws him headfirst into the abyss. 

You'll never get rid of me now, the demon growls before he can choke him silent.

Her wet eyes, her wet, promising lips belong in a realm of madness. She's not filthy; his angel could never be filthy. But she's seducing him, which means she might seduce other men too. 

Has someone claimed her already…? 

What if she has a lover? Do they make her legs shake, do they make her mew?

Who does he have to kill?

………………

He breaks into her room that night. 

He only meant to stand watch and see if someone creeps to her in the cover of darkness. He thinks about different ways to kill her lover as he waits near her door. Should he just strangle them when they enter her room? Make her an offering, let her know she could have a far more powerful male if she wants?

No, he must use a knife... She will get wet if he uses a knife.

But no one appears: he is the only shadow in the dark hall, and after midnight, he decides to take a look at his innocent, sleeping angel. Just one look.

Her domain is full of softness, and he has to take a few deep breaths before he continues. Her world is so different from his that he nearly turns back and closes the door to paradise. But then her breathing calls to him, causing him to take a few steps. She sleeps with her window open, likes to listen to the sound of night birds before she falls asleep – just like he does…

The demon is awake in an instant and grabs him by the throat. 

No. 

Don’t look. If you look, she will steal your soul.

He freezes before he reaches her bed. His gaze sweeps her room instead, and the demon pants at the sight. Her dresses are laid out on a clothing rack: they salute him like a row of colorful flowers. Flowing and singing like a river, they hit him with a breeze made of life and all things good. 

She has a little armchair filled with cushions, and there's more softness and beauty everywhere he looks; he can see it even in the darkness of the night. Her delicate perfume that follows him as he follows her around the base lingers in the air and mixes with the distant birdsong and moonlight that shift the curtains in her room.

There's art on her walls, lively houseplants on the window sill, she has collected a cavalcade of cute little things on top of her drawer: nail polish and sea shells and beeswax candles and a piece of driftwood, a bottle of that perfume she uses, decorative lights above it all, placed around a small mirror. 

He wants all of that. 

He wants light and living things and greenery – he never had plants at home – he wants softness and cute little items, he wants to listen if the seashell still roars with the crashing waves were he to bring it to his ear. His mama always told him seashells remember the ocean because it used to be their home…

He wants her to light a honeyed candle and give him a bite of that apple, catch the juice as it runs down his scarred chin, or better yet, kiss it away before it falls. He wants to taste what's between her thighs. She must taste like honey and heaven.

One of the drawers is open, and from it, a torrent of cute little underthings is spilling out; they almost cascade on the floor. In different colors, too, and his hand reaches out and takes one before he can even think. He steals it like it's candy, then turns around with a stiff back and shoulders heavy from the sin he just committed.

He's about to go to the door, but her soft breathing calls him back. He tries to calm the demon - the girl can't steal anything: there's nothing left to steal. He has no soul, so he doesn't have to fear her either. 

Taking a few steps, he takes the peek he shouldn't take because it will only prolong his sentence in purgatory. Little does the demon know that he would suffer eternally for one little glimpse… 

She's not cocooned inside her blanket as he thought she would be. He thought he would find her coiled into a fetal position, curled into safety, but instead, she's sleeping on her back, arms spread next to her face, looking like she just fell from heaven and is feeling a little dizzy from the fall. She's calm and innocent as the moonlight brushes her cheek, her face free from all worry.

Why is she so cute, why is she so sweet? 

She has no right. She should be up in heaven.

He almost crawls on top of her right then and there, because blinding want is nothing compared to this. He wants to breathe her, breathe with her, hold her gently, and have her smile at him when she wakes up. He doesn't want to ruin her… He just wants a taste, see if an angel would like to have a demon worship her. If his worship would mean anything, if it had any power to persuade her to like him... 

He would never kneel before anyone, but he would kneel before her. In spirit, he is on his knees, and the only thing that makes him suffer is the fear that she might not want him, a ruined temple haunted by old, hateful spirits.

The madness was right. Apparently, there was a soul to steal, a tiny broken mosaic piece left, for the angel has it now. She owns what's left of him, the haunted temple is hers if she would ever want to come visit. He would restrain all those monsters so that she can walk freely and explore all the things buried under the rubble.

Her underwear burns his palm like a flower on fire. He only then realizes that there are no actual flowers in her room. He wonders if she would give him a kiss if he were to bring her one. Or two. Or an entire bouquet…

The demon inside cuts him with a searing blade – stupid idiot – she doesn't want to kiss your mauled face or love your ghouls. There's no treasure hidden inside that filthy rubble, there's only shit and blood and festering vomit. Better to just take her right now, see how tight she is, how wide her eyes go when a proper man comes to assert his will and authority. The demon tells him to at least ruin that cute thing in his hand and throw it on the table. Imagine her shocked little face when she wakes up…

Tears brim, and the maw of hell laughs with a roar of raging fire. He forces both down with a swallow and a wrench that shuts his heart.

There's no way she would ever let a man like him inside her. He's a sickness; no, he's an entire plague. He could try to make love to her, and she would only cry and bleed to death.

The smooth place between her brows gains a wrinkle as if she can hear his thoughts but doesn't agree with them. A little whimper escapes her nose, her head nods on the pillow; it looks like an attempt to hide while you're tied and cannot move. 

Pretty angel is having a nightmare, and it's no wonder. Of course she can sense she's being visited by a monster. 

He turns to leave, and notices another colorful thing on the floor: her underwear, and not clean. She's slipped out of it before bed: his angel is naked under that blanket. His angel sleeps naked…

He wonders if she has touched herself before sleep. Not with feverish, stern hands, like he does, but softly, under that blanket, with her features melting into pleasure as she comes with sighs and a series of desperate little whimpers. 

His blood turns to hellfire as he drops the underwear he's holding. It falls right next to the intoxicating thing he picks up instead. Taking a deep inhale, he can finally smell her. Not just her perfume, but her. She smells of an angel and a woman, raw, perfect woman, and he knows he's lost. This is worse than any dream or demon; this is worse than anything ever before. There's no going back now. 

Her scent calls to him, those hands frame her face in a gesture of surrender. She smiled at him on that day under the sun, and she smiled at him today.

What if he's spent enough time in hell? What if it's possible to have a taste of heaven?

He can't help but wonder if his angel wants this too... 

“Engel,” he whispers into the night.

It takes only a second before she whimpers again. It's an answer, it's a yes, and his heart is full of tiny needles; they pinch him with terrible love and hope. The wrinkle has smoothed out, and his angel is smiling very, very softly. 

She's calling for him. How could he refuse?

His angel is full of light as he makes his decision. He whispers his apology, only in his mind and only in German, trusting that angels must know every language in the world. He asks for her forgiveness for all the things he's about to do to her. Then he promises he will come for her, that she doesn't need to worry: she has a guardian now and always will. She will be forever safe with him by her side. He will drive even her nightmares away.

Then he returns to his room so different from hers, returns to the realm of death and worships the thing he just stole, spraying it with hot, white love - the only thing inside him that can be called pure, the color of angels. It's only a matter of time before he gets to worship her in the flesh, unite with her, the soul who forgave his sins and slipped him the key to heaven.

[ghost-bison]

SPOILERS AHEAD FOR THE TEEN WOLF MOVIE:

Ok so first of all, the Nogitsune's "divine move" didn't make any sense, wtf was that? They broke all the rules. You can't be a fox and a wolf

Then, there's the lousy excuse for Stiles and Lydia breaking up. The hell. I don't even ship them, but like NO. What, it was too hard to say that he was on an important FBI mission? Losers

Liam, Mason, Hikari, Jackson? What were yall doing here? What purpose did you serve my dudes? I freaking love Liam, and I was so excited for Hikari, and then they give us this. They barely even talked.

I was so confused during the entire movie, I didn't know whether or not Chris and Melissa were still a thing??

It wasn't explained properly enough that Malia was actually kind of Eli's aunt/cousin/sibling, like it took me a while to figure out he had grown up in her presence

Btw who tf is Eli's mom??? When they started mentioning Harris I was like oh we're probably gonna see Jennifer again right it's all linked, she came right before the Nogitsune it would make sense that she has something to do with his return and maybe she's also Eli's mom, like it was the most logical explanation if we think of the timeline but no, nope, Eli just doesn't have a mom!

Also what was Harris doing here? And the acting of the guy who plays him was weird (sorry to hate but not sorry it was really bad)

Allison coming back to stay just ruined her previous departure

They should have implied Thiam was a thing not give Liam a f*cking girlfriend

The way Allison came back was laughable

Why did they have to make Malia and Parrish a thing they interacted like twice

The random swearing every five minutes just because they could put it there smh

The way they explained Eli's reluctance to transforming being trauma and then Derek doing just the thing that traumatized Eli in order for him to transform and it working???

I'm so sad and disappointed we didn't see more Malia/Derek interactions it would have been f*king hilarious

Last but not least, Derek. Derek dying, after everything that he'd been through. After all the abuse and years of fighting. They pulled an Enzo St. John fr. Derek dying in the same way his entire family died. Burned alive. And the writers being like "Yeah but look it's okay he became a true alpha" IDGAF. HE PROBABLY DIDN'T GAF EITHER. MY DUDE WANTED TO LIVE. HE WANTED TO RAISE HIS KID. AND THEN HE DIES AND ALLISON AND SCOTT JUST KISS LOVINGLY LIKE NOTHING HAPPENED, LIKE ELI ISN'T CRYING ON THE GROUNG TRAUMATIZED AFTER WATCHING HIS FATHER BURN TO DEATH?!?! Also Malia was the one who had the most appropriate reaction like thank you for being the only one to be shocked and crying, queen. Your cousin deserved better

[sleepingbeautysammy]

a list in no particular order of wincest/spn fics that i want to crawl inside and never leave, that really pinpoint what i like abt samdean or spn etc etc just like. hits the nail on the head for me:

(btw if you have any fics that are kind of like these or u think i would like please let me see please)

dead unfinished selves by hathfrozen 

 i love cannibalism and horror and codependency and this hits all the marks for me!! so well written too. 

credence by road_rhythm 

sleeping beauty references 😍 somnophilia 😍 i loveeee this one sm. 

easy access by edwardina 

i love sam in skirts and i love breeding what can i say? 

good girl by blindswandive

this literally makes me short circuit so hard i love girlsam

the very first stone by road_rhythm 

every single chapter with the different povs stunned me. everything about this is perfect and sucks you right into their world. i cannot stress it enough i LOVE this fic. 

splinters by morgan

COWBOY SOUTHERN GOTHIC AU PREACHER JOHN FIRE STARTER SAM!!! god this fic is beautiful and stunning amazing i love it

distance swimmer by lichenthrope

god. f/f samdean does smth to me dean in this is sooo hot 

the palm oasis by fictionallemons

the world building in this is immaculate, the setting and mood sucks you in so deep i feel like i’m there with them. one of my fave eras too. 

wolfpack by tabaqui

okay this whole series really does it for me cause i love scary winchesters. there is a part with a mary prayer card in the second part that i cannot get out of my mind ever. 

they then ate the sailors by coyotesuspect

case fic that rattles my brain it’s so well rounded and thought out. i adore the apartment, the water, everything. 

tape by franceshouseman 

the voyeuristic quality and dirty talk in this fic is incredibly hot, i think about it a lot.

odysseus, american by coyotesuspect 

i love love loveeee classical references in fics, and the idea of dean listening to the odyssey delights me to no end. this fic brought a tear to my eye. love you dean 

show me again, shame takes hold by objectlesson

BUTCH DEAN. BUTCH DEAN. BUTCH DEAN. she makes me melt. 

squint into the sun | glare into the gloaming by dyed_red

god this one is good. i love the slow burn i love sam’s inability to be ashamed. loved the john pov. love a good john finds out fic please read this one

brother only wants by hathfrozen

god this slow burn is so so delicious it really pays off and all their little moments it’s like it really has all the aspects of their obsession w each other and their dynamic like the sex isn’t even the main point (tho when it finally happens 😍 fucking fireworks) so good

the blood in your mouth by hathfrozen

dean has cannibalistic thoughts about sam and they fuck nasty about it. i s2g idgaf i WILL rec individual fics by the same author if i see so fit.

an act of faith against the night by hathfrozen

this one is hot and heartbreaking at the same time. love it when sammy cries. s3, sam is upset about deans deal and they fuck nasty about it.

[inglourious-imagines]

practically begging for some george luz w/ enemies to lovers. everyone always writes amazing friends to lovers but there’s sm potential w e2l !!! love ur writing btw xx

Jokes on You (George Luz x Fem!Reader)

Requested by: anon

Summary: George Luz is a funny guy, there is absolutely no denying that. He likes making jokes, and he likes it even more when people laugh at them. So what happens when there comes a person who makes just as good jokes as George? Or maybe even better? Some enemies to lovers for y’all.

Taglist: @alienoresimagines @teenmagazines @meteora-fc @eugenesmorphine @band-of-brothers-cz @real-fans @not-john-watsons-blog @tealaquinn @ok-roemanov @mrseasycompany @punkgeekchic @wexhappyxfew @hellitwasyoufirstsergeant @rayofshanshine @mavysnavy @easynix @georgeluzwarmhugs @easy-company-tradition @immrsronaldspeirs @snafus-peckuh @curraheewestandalone @warrior-healer @justamadgirlinabox @happyveday @order-of-river-phoenix @whoahersheybars @nixoninc

Warnings: like two swear words, angst in the form of Bastogne

A/N: I so suck at endings.

.

.

.

Cracking jokes and making people laugh is George’s thing and his only, that’s how it’s always been. He is the funny guy in the group, that’s how he likes to define himself, the funny one. But to define is to limit and George has made the mistake of limiting himself to clinging to one particular personality trait, humour.

And then Y/N came along; about four months into the boot camp Y/N got reassigned from Dog Company to Easy Company for reasons no one knew, except for Lewis Nixon perhaps. George did not start hating her per say right from the moment he met her, but ever since she beat him to the joke when watching his favourite movie he’s strongly despised her. From then on, the feelings only got stronger; she’s always making the whole Company laugh, some of the jokes even on his account which George does not like one bit, hell she even managed to make Blithe chuckle that one day after D-Day.

Y/N had no idea what she triggered by her naturally jokester nature until she had to face a very pissed off George after she blabbed some joke about some actress and then a very pissed off George is the only kind of George she has had the privilege of meeting. The woman has pondered greatly about what she could have possibly done to anger the man so, but nothing came to mind and she soon gave up. George continued and stubbornly continues to be rude to her so she should only repay his “kindness”.

After Carentan, the word of Operation Market Garden is in the air and the Allies are particularly optimistic. Easy is in the pub, celebrating its successes in the war, while some reinforcements are trying to mingle. Y/N is watching it all from behind, the old breed not wanting to socialize with the newbies at all and sometimes the situations can get truly hilarious.

Somehow, in a few minutes, she finds herself behind a table with Luz, Malarkey, Muck and other three reinforcements who are just drinking up George’s story about his valour in Normandy. Her lips itch upwards from now and then, George’s drunkenness making it all the more amusing. Y/N can tell the new guys are impressed and somewhat terrified as well and one of them puts a pin on it when he asks Luz, “And what rank are you?”

The table sits in silence for a moment, for absolutely no one expected such question, not even the other reinforcements, then Malarkey and Muck burst out laughing, almost tipping over their beers.

Y/N chuckles, reaches over, and pats the guy’s arm. “Oh c’mon, it is Private!”

That absolutely finishes off Don and Skip, Skip eventually falls off his chair, the reinforcements are now laughing too; the mood slightly more friendly and at ease than before. Not for everyone though.

George is red to his ears, as he frowns. “The joke wasn’t that good. And it’s not even true.”

Donald is hiccupping now but manages to answer, “A- a bit c- corny, yes, but f-fucking b-brilliant.”

***

At this point the Company is divided into two parts only, one part bets on the two of them killing each other and the other parts bets on them fucking; which it will be is truly in the stars for George and Y/N are face to face again, both of them red in the cheeks from all the anger, both of them shouting some incoherent insults, and as Penkala has put it, “See? Honestly I can really see both happening. They will either kill each other or fuck, there is absolutely nothing in between.”

But then Market Garden happens, an underestimated operation, that leaves behind too many dead than it should and when all of Easy is boarded on trucks, retreating, the company is two people short.

Bull Randleman and Y/N Y/L/N.

The officers discuss what can be done, and despite all of the men wanting to go and save the two of the best soldiers in the company, they know they can’t. And exactly that is making George Luz lose his mind. He can’t really understand why he is so restless, anxious, and downright terrified throughout the whole night; he tosses and turns, he is not able to bring himself to close his eyes.

But then in the morning he sees Y/N on the jeep next to Bull and suddenly he feels like he could fly and go to Berlin and kill Hitler, just so he could see the carefree smile on her face.

It clicks in him just then, and Malarkey pats his shoulder. “So, you’ve finally figured it out, huh?”

George turns to him, confused. “What?”

Malarkey laughs, shaking his head, and says, “Don’t play dumb with me, you idiot, I saw it just now.”

As much as George would like to answer his friend, he truly has no idea what he is talking about, and when that dawns on Donald, he offers George a sympathetic smile.

“Okay, let me put your thoughts to words, ‘cause you’re such an oblivious idiot that you probably wouldn’t figure it out by the time this motherfucking war is over,” Malarkey continues, “you don’t hate her, do you, not really.”

It is not even a question, more of a statement, and George really wants to protest, more than anything, because it is ridiculous, right?

***

The plan to be home by Christmas isn’t really working out for the Allies but the soldiers of Easy Company have already forgotten about those false hopes, they aren’t the ones to be bothered with when you freeze your ass off in a foxhole in the middle of a forest where the trees blow up every now and then and the place becomes a tornado.

Y/N shares a foxhole with Muck and Penkala, the trio trying to lighten up their gloomy moods with laughter. But even Y/N is running out of jokes now, so when doc Roe runs up to them, asking for scissors, she’s more than happy to go look for them with him too, the need to stretch her stiff and frozen body overpowering her whole self.

She’s just a couple of meters away from her foxhole when another German artillery attack comes and the whole forest becomes a hurricane of explosions, splinters, and blood. The soldier throws herself to the ground, crawling her way, slowly, back to her foxhole, Muck and Penkala shouting something at her she can’t hear, encouraging her to hurry up.

Dirt is everywhere, she barely can see, she covers her ears and head with her hands as another hit comes; she continues right after the explosion, crawling, crawling, crawling.

Muck and Penkala are still shouting at her, she is getting closer; Y/N can hear another artillery attack coming but this time she doesn’t stop proceeding, she knows she has to get into the foxhole soon, so she keeps on pushing.

The explosion comes. Everything goes white for a moment. The pressure wave makes her stop moving, and she is forced to close her eyes and cover her head with her hands.

She opens her eyes. There is nothing.

Seconds ago, there were two people, now there is nothing, nothing left, not a single trace that there have ever human beings stood.

Y/N can’t bring herself to move, she stares blankly into the space before her, her limbs are stiff. But then some arms grab her body, she can hear someone shouting at her.

3 seconds. That’s all it takes her to get back. She holds on to George’s arms as they run together to another foxhole, jumping right in. He immediately brings her into his body, she wraps her arms around his torso instinctively, holding onto him so tight, her head resting on his chest. George shields her body from everything outside and when the bombing finally stops, they don’t let go of each other for another few moments.

It isn’t until a few years after the war and they are married to each other, when they finally talk about what happened that day in the forest of Bois Jacques, not a day sooner. Ever since then, their relationship has been changed, both very much aware of it, neither of them brave enough to bring it up just yet.

It is in Haguenau, where they finally share a conversation. George finds her on her own, behind some building, hiding behind some sacks, looking at the river. He throws a Hershey bar into her lap and when she looks up in confusion, he offers her a warm tired smile.

“What did I do to deserve the affection of the one and only George Luz?” she tries to crack up a joke and chuckles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. George knows Y/N is exhausted beyond words.

He sits down next to her, as he opens his mouth to say something, but he rethinks it in the last second and nothing comes out. They sit out there for a few minutes, sharing the silence and strangely enough, it feels nice. George finally does not feel the need to talk all the time, the need to prove himself funny or worthy of other people’s attention.

“Have you ever been to Rhode Island?” he suddenly blurts out, surprising himself and her at the choice of the question.

Y/N smiles, doesn’t ask why or what. “No, never.”

“Then come with me.”

This time she asks what.

“After the war I mean, come home after the war with me.”

“But- but, you-“ she stutters, her cheeks slightly red, “but you hate me.”

George chuckles at that and looks at her. She has bags under her eyes that are a bit bloodshot (she hasn’t slept much in the last few days), her hair is dirty from dirt and sweat, her face has several scratches and marks, his eyes finds the most visible one just below her left cheekbone (he recalls that day in Carentan when a piece of shrapnel hit her and the wound looked way worse then it actually was for she had blood all over her left side of face, freaking out silently has never been so hard – he hadn’t known at that time what will come). He has never seen anything to maddeningly and purely beautiful as her.

“I thought I did, a very long time ago,” he says, “but actually I never did. I don’t hate you. How could I?”

Y/N looks at him and through all the pain, horror, and grief, she feels peace. It surprises her.

And so she responds, “Okay.”

“Okay what?”

“Okay, I will come home with you. How could I not?”

[reelovesfictionalmen]

John Price SFW headcanons.

I wasn't happy with my nsfw ones tbh. (they're hidden behind the mature flag btw) So here are some sfw ones that I'm VERY happy with.

I always write with female reader in mind but these can be taken GN.

A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?) He's pretty affectionate when he's off duty. If you both work together he will give lingering touches to your shoulder in public. Sneaking a kiss in his office at the end of the day.

Forehead kisses and nuzzling the top of your head! John is a tall bugger so chances are he has easy access to your head and he makes use of it. Pair those with him pressing you into his chest with a warm tight hug.

B = Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?) You probably met on the job when you were both younger. You both share the opinion that sometimes you have to do bad things to do the RIGHT thing. You both understand that your jobs make you both the villain in someone elses story and offer each other comfort when the reality of that weighs a little heavy on you.

He's a loyal friend. He'll have your back even if the rest of the world turns it's back on you. Is a Dad/Mom friend. Are you keeping up a proper diet? Have you been excersising enough? Will threaten to strap you to a bed when you're unwell if you push yourself too hard.

C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?) He loves to cuddle off duty. The weight of you pressed against him brings him great comfort and relaxation. He likes to lay with his head on your chest with his arm around your waist while you play with his hair. He damn near purrrrsss like a kitty. He likes having you sit sideways in his lap with your head tucked into his neck while he strokes your back. It's even better if you fall asleep there, he'll wrap both his arms around you, squeeze you and sigh contentedly.

D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?) Hates disorder and filth. Is fine with a house that looks lived in. But none of that dirty laundry in a big pile, a sink full of dishes or a dirty floor. Makes the bed religiously every morning. He used to want to settle down and have a family but he knows people in his line of work rarely get that chance and if they do they're hardly ever home and he doesn't want a life like that. Would probably get into a relationship with someone in the military too.

E = Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?) He's a loyal man, so cheaters get dumped as soon as caught. He wouldn't mince words. A simple "this isn't working anymore"

F = Fiance(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?) It'd take a long time for him to get to that stage. There can be weeks when all you can do is send a few text messages to each other. Getting to the stage where he wants to marry anyone would take a few years imo.

G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?) He can and will manhandle you if you want him to. He's pretty gentle with his lovers. The juxtaposition of his huge, rough and scarred body and him being gentle with you isn't lost on him nor you. Will 10000% pick you up and throw you over his shoulder for silly and serious reasons. You two had an argument and you're being childish and refusing to get in the car, he will pick you up and put you in the fucking car. You're not walking home in the dark.

H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?) Loves when you hug him from behind and nuzzle into his back. Secretly enjoys when you reach round and grab his pecs when you're hugging him that way. If you work together he struggles to keep himself from embracing you whenever he sees you around base. Always finds you at the end of the day to hide away for some hugs and kisses.

I = I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?) It took a year and a half at least for him to say it to you. He had felt it for a while but wasn't sure how your relationship would work out.

J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?) Doesn't really get too jealous. He gets annoyed if someone hits on you. Usually grumbles and glares at the person.

K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?) The king of forehead kisses. It's his drug. When you guys are making out he uses a lot of tongue, it's usually slow and sensual. Drunk whiskey flavored kisses are sloppy and hard. It's like he is trying to eat your face lol.

L = Little ones (How are they around children?) He's good with kids. He's the kind of man who will have several kids hanging off his arms and lifting them off the ground while they giggle at how strong he is. Finds the loud squealing of especially young ones to be a bit hard on his head, will get a headache if exposed to it for long periods.

M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?) Will push his morning run back a few hours just to lounge in bed with you and snuggle. Likes to have his morning run with you if you're into that. If you're also in the military he wont let you escape the morning run either. Breakfasts are quiet usually watching the morning news while eating oatmeal and having a hot cup of whatever it is you both like.

N = Night (How are nights spent with them?) Likes to watch tv on the same couch as you. You don't have to cuddle but if you are on another couch he doesn't like it. Will likely pull you into his lap before the end of the night. Likes pillow talk.

O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?) If you're dating him, you've known him for years and were likely friends for a few years before dating, so you know a fair bit about him.

P = Patience (How easily angered are they?) Lies and betrayal are things that bring him a lot of anger. Would rather you be honest than hide something from him. Might raise his voice in an argument but never yell.

Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?) Remembers a lot, most things. Even silly things. He's got a good brain, works an intense job. He has to remember a lot. Sometimes he might forget simple things after a grueling mission

R = Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?) When he surprises you with little gifts. Flowers he picked from the side of the road while on a run/walk. Tasty things he saw in a bakery he walked past. your giddy excitement when he tells you to close your eyes and not to peek before he gives the things to you.

S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?) He's protective to a point. I'm kinda writing this from the POV that you're in the military too. He knows you can and will kick ass and defend yourself. He mostly shows his protective side when you're out and about doing civilian things. Likes to keep you close, his hand in yours or holding you close to his side. He knows it's silly but he feels comfort walking on the side of the footpath closest to the road.

T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?) Has special dates marked on a calendar. Chances are you guys wont be together on the special dates because of work but will always find time to at the VERY LEAST send you a text message telling you how much he loves you and why. Will plan dinner dates to make up for it when he's off duty :)

U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?) Leaving cigar butts and dirty ashtrays around.

V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?) Not overly. He likes to keep his beard groomed well. Sometimes complains about how fast it's going grey. Just tell him you love aging with him.

W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?) If you had been together a few years it would take him a long time to stop feeling like theres a hole in his chest. If you've not been together very long he wont really mind. Might miss the company a little but it wont break him.

X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them.) He's a mums boy. I read his nickname is JJ and that his dad is also named John. So he's John Michael Price Junior. Might have been someones headcanon but I'm running with it. Basically he loves his mum a lot. Her love fuels him. When looking for a partner he unconsciously looks for someone who loves like she does.

Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?) People who are cruel to others and those who lie. He values honesty and kindness where it's due.

Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habits of theirs?) Lays on his back starfished taking up half the bed. Snores but you have earplugs to make sure it doesn't keep you awake :)

[aifsaath]

I am continuously perplexed at how a show as objectively bad and problematic as hotd keeps inspiring outstanding fanfics like yours and @gwenllian-in-the-abbey’s. Truly it’s a mystery to me, especially considering that the books covering the dance are supposed to be quite mediocre as well from what I’ve perceived. Just so you know,with that trailer out now I’m gonna completely blend out the events of the show and consider our fathers clad in red canon

@gwenllian-in-the-abbey AAAAAAAAAAAAAA, I think George's gonna order a hit on us:D

I'm glad you like our slightly destructive approach to teh canon. I'm mostly fueled by spite and my dislike for George's and HBO's complete disregard for the historical context of the stuff they draw their inspiration from (you can't do the Matilda vs Stephen showdown and expect the same sense of injustice, when your main conflict is about Viserys' imbecilic approach to rules, Rhaenyra's weak-ass claim and papa/dragons being her go-to solution to all her problems, Daemon being a chaos gremlin, Corlys' malignant ambition and the Hightowers being the only ones who actually care about the rule of law.)

A lesbian romance doesn't automatically turn a story into a feminist manifesto, nor does a girlboss who's treated by the narrative as the second coming of Christ. Context matters and it's a mistake to view the Dance through the lens of modern ideals about egalitarianism.

GRRM's hubris when it comes to "Aragorn's tax policies" is just another thing that enrages me and Gwenllian, because the man completely misunderstands the medieval legal codes. Just because they were complex that doesn't mean they were fucking contradictory on their own; no one wanted civil wars breaking out each time a monarch died.

Problems happened when two countries with generational beefs worked on two different principles of succession, ie. England (male-preference primogeniture) vs France (male-only primogeniture), or if there was some dynastic fuckery that completely messed up the clear-cut succession lines with usurpations and cousin marriages (Yorks vs Lancasters).

Had Richard II (the son of the Black Prince) died peacefully without issue, the succession would have followed through the line of the Duke of Clarence, with Edmund the Earl of March eventually becoming the king (and he was Richard's heir, btw).

But that's not what happened. The son of John of Gaunt usurped the throne and it was then passed down through his line, because he was the crowned king. Now, you can argue whether or not he had any right to do the usurpation in the first place and whether or not he was the legitimate king and you bet people back then argued about that too. This ambiguity is how you create a proper narrative about actually conflicting claims. The only thing propping up Rhaenyra against her brother is the fact that Viserys is a moron.

How the fuck can I take F&B seriously and without the Dead Sea's worth of salt, when it pretty much blows Jaehaerys' posthumous dick about his wisdom when he "let" the council of 101 decide the succession (while politely ignoring the fact that Jaehaerys' own claim is legit only in the cases of either full salic or semi-salic succession, ie male-only), while never once it calls out Viserys out on his extremely dangerous decision. He gets to die venerated as the peaceful grandpa and all the blame for his incompetence is piled on Aegon II and Alicent.

Let's go through the possible succession systems, shall we?

If we follow male-preference primogeniture, the legitimate line of kings ends with Aerea because she was the eldest child of Aegon the Uncrowned, Maegor's eldest nephew. Only after she and her sister die without issue, Jaehaerys can become the king. Jaehaerys' canon ascension works only because Rhaena gave up her daughters' claims. The next in line would be Aemon and after him Rhaenys. But that's not what happened.

If we follow the salic law (male only), the legitimate line of the kings goes Aegon I -> Aenys I -> Aegon Uncrowned -> Jaehaerys I -> Viserys I -> Aegon II. This is probably what Jaehaerys wanted to ensure, since he challenged Maegor's kingship in the first place.

If a crowned king can choose his heir, then Jaehaerys was never a legitimate king and Aerea was the true queen, because Maegor, who had won his crown in the trial by combat, chose her as his heir.

What about the principle of seniority? Cognatic seniority where men and women have equal claims is out of the question since Aegon I was the crowned king, not Visenya. Male-only seniority would go Aegon I -> Aenys I -> Maegor I (uncontested!) -> Aegon Crowned This Time -> Viserys the Not Tortured to Death -> Jaehaerys I -> Aemon (only if his uncle Viserys has no issue) -> Baelon -> Vaegon -> Viserys I -> Daemon (EW).

Notice the distinct lack of Rhaenyra.

Team Black keeps mentioning the widow's law, but that's a bulk of nonsense. I suppose the misunderstanding originates from a (willful) misinterpretation of this passage. The book says:

Now, I highly doubt Jaehaerys intended for the law to mean that a daughter from the first marriage should come before the sons from the second. The wording is a bit unlucky, but I suppose the intention was to establish the legal position of the second wife and her children as united with the position of her step-children - she has the same duties towards them as if they were own, and the same goes the other way. Which would make sense. Because otherwise, no one would be desperate enough to marry a widower with daughters. Since we know that title and land ownerships have remained in the same families without changing hands once or twice since the implementation of the law, I really doubt the team black's literal interpretation of the passage was the one intended. Ffs, Viserys was pushed to marry again because he had only one daughter, meaning, this law wasn't viewed the way the Team Black wishes for. And I'm not even delving into the fact that this would be a female inheritance hack penned by Jaehaerys, if that was the case. Talk about ooc.

So, yeah, we're taking Gyldayne's interpretation of the past with so much salt our hearts are gonna fail.

[l0velylecter]

PLEASEEEE, I need more of Lana Del Rey vinyl coded men a.k.a Philips Graves and Captain Price (maybe a 'million dollar man' inspired(?) fic) if you're still taking request or not busy 🫦🫦 everytime I listen to her, all I can think about are these fine men 😩 your writing is EVERYTHING btw, chef's kiss 👌 also, don't forget to take care of yourself!!! 🫶

(I'll be 🧸 anon if you don't mind 👼)

Look like a million dollar man — captain john price / f!reader 

— “you're screwed up and brilliant, look like a million dollar man”

summary : price takes you to an opera and fucks you in the backseat of his bentley after pairings : captain john price / reader fandom : call of duty modern warfare ii pairing :  f!reader /  captain john price rating : e for explicit, minors don’t interact (mdni!), not safe for work (nsfw!) warnings : graphic descriptions of sex, cursing tags : female parts, kissing, making out, praise kink, size kink, sugar daddy vibes, papa smurf takes you to an opera  alternative title : the cod : mw ii men as lana del rey songs, vol.ii song used for inspiration : million dollar man by lana del rey

01| You stared at your face in the bright, fogged bathroom mirror. This must be a dream. You thought, staring back at the dress, the earrings, the bracelet— everything was bought and gifted to you by Price, right down to the skin. Subsumed, like Venice, into his world. This wasn’t all of it. One last parcel laid unopened by the foot of your bed. The pristine, white bow holding it together gracefully. You glanced worriedly by the window, swallowing your nerves to unwrap it, knowing John would be here soon. When the Bentley pulled up by your driveway, you were already by the door, still adjusting the heels. He was in a black wool overcoat: double-breasted, with gold outlines around the buttons, scarf draped over his shoulders. He lit a cigar and smiled at you: eyes crinkling by the corners with mirth. They paused to admire the necklace : the centerpiece to the carefully crafted costume Price had catered for your date tonight. You released the trembling breath you didn’t know you were holding.

02| He doesn’t start the car right away, lingering to watch you. John didn’t need to say anything. You can tell from the look in his eyes, the hitch in his breath as he cups your cheek to stroke the skin with his thumb. Yet he compliments you anyway. The warmth of his hand as they helped you down the stone steps earlier, still stubbornly clinging onto your fingers. You look exquisite. You hide your smile, and he tips your chin his way, angling your face as if to kiss you — only to retract, starting the car and letting the hum reverberate down the interior. Knowing that if he were to kiss you now, you'd never make it on time.

03| You looked down at the crashing ocean of people beneath. Bright dresses and black tuxedos. The flash of gold and expensive watches and sharp eyes. Above the house, lights started to fade. The sound of shifting fabric dwindled down to a monotonous murmur. You smiled, sinking into the glamor, entertained by the show of music and plot. And in the periphery of your mind, you stole a few glances at John. With your arm around his, resting atop the soft fabric of his suit, he chose you over the performance. You joked that he should pay attention, or else that would be at least a hundred worth of pounds down the drain. He let out a small smile. Thousands, actually. John didn't look the slightest bit remorseful.  04| By the end of the night, draped in his coat, you descend into his cologne — it’s aromatic. He tells you it has patchouli oil from leaves grown in Sumatra. Clove bud oil from Zanzibar, bay oil from the East Indies. Cinnamon and Carnation. Your head feels heady as you parade past the crowd. People were looking, eying you — eying John in an almost envious and approving way. How could they not stare, love? It’s true. The jewelry should be under a sport of lights and protected behind a ten millimetre thick glass instead of around your chest, cold and heavy, sporting two emeralds, hundreds of diamonds, and a litter of fine pearls. You shivered in delight, spine straightening when Price’s fingers skimmed it. Backless dresses. He seemed to have an obsession with that lately. 05| The stretch was almost too much. His cock was thick, leaving you struggling to relax around it.

Breathe. John reminded. You tried, but the further he pushed, the less room there seemed to be for air. Static was overtaking your mind, the heat making you melt into the leather seat. You've only been apart for half a year, and still, your body needed to be accommodated. He's ruined you for other men. There was no one like him. You were sure of it, nails digging into his shoulders.  Just don’t stop. You begged, tears pricking your eyes. Don’t stop.

He tells you how good you are. With each thrust, he emphasized just how sweet and good, and exquisite you are. And suddenly, you were being lifted, gripped by strong arms, and manhandled around to face him, knees on either side of the captain’s hips — cock pulsing inside of you. When you came, you let out a string of ‘thank yous.' They quivered past your lips, your chest heaving up and down: the jewels reflecting the white, translucent light brought by the moon across his face. His beard scratches your chin as he shudders, hot liquid running down your legs and ruining the million-dollar coat around your naked body.

a/n : HI  🧸 ANON THANK YOU FOR REQUESTING THIS, THIS WAS SO FUN FOR ME TO WRITE BECAUSE I AM A FELLOW LANA FAN <3 and i am lowkey obsessed with men who are lana del rey vinyl coded ( this is the consequence of being exposed to her music at such a young age, anyways ) thank you again for requesting, i know you said graves as well but i feel like it’s better to include him in a separate work ! don’t worry though, i have more graves content coming up soon because this silly evil man has me on a chokehold 😔 in the meantime, merry christmas and enjoy this fic ! i hope you’re having a wonderful time with your loved ones, thank you for the sweet reminder to take care of myself ❤️ → also for those curious the bentley i chose as a hc for price is a 2003 Bentley Arnage T !