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[geometricsteels]

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[gloomwitchwrites]

Hi!!!! I'm currently indulging in your adorable fluff fics about our beloved COD men!! They are FREAKING ADORABLE.

Could you write one imagine with just pure cute, domesticated fluff? Like married life/life w kids or smth with TF141. I'm up for anything haha. It's okay if u don't want to ! 😄<33

I did have someone request domestic fluff not too long ago, but I couldn't help myself. I had to jump on your ask, anon, and write some more domestic fluff!! You can read that other domestic fluff imagines fic here. I incorporated some dad!141 here with Ghost and Price. The whole thing is just softness and sweetness. Enjoy!!

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings: domestic fluff, dad!Price, dad!Simon

Word Count: 800

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if series

John Price

This isn’t John’s thing, but he’ll do it for his daughters.

John sits at one end of the table while you sit on the other, your two daughters seated on either side. His three favorite girls are all dressed up. You’re decked out in a witch’s outfit, something you found stowed away in a storage bin. His two daughters with you are dressed up like their Dungeons & Dragons characters. One, a wood elf ranger. The other, a half-elf cleric.

John isn’t dressed up, but from the character sheet you’ve put in front of him, his name is Gurlak, a half-orc barbarian. Rip and tear. Punch and smash. Easy. He can do that.

Family board game night has become Dungeons & Dragons night. The girls’ school started a club, and now they’ve brought it home, completely obsessed with it.

“From the dark,” you begin, lowering your voice. The girls lean in, eyes wide. “Yellow eyes peer back at you.”

The girls giggle, the youngest bouncing in her chair.

John smiles, and sighs with contentment. He wishes every night could be like this.

Your hands raise high above you, and then smack against the table. The girls jump, startled.

“Roll initiative!”

John "Soap" MacTavish

It’s early, and Johnny is determined. Upstairs, your alarm is off, silenced on purpose.

Before him on the kitchen counter is everything he needs to prepare breakfast. Eggs, bacon, batter for pancake and waffles, fresh fruit, shredded potatoes—an endless list of items that covers the granite countertop in a sea of colorful boxes and containers.

With the tip of his tongue peeking out between his lips, Johnny begins warming pans and popping slices of bread into the toaster. He melts into the work, slicing fruit, placing bacon in the pan to sizzle. Johnny’s minds drifts, and with his back turned to the stove, he doesn’t notice the bacon fat as it urges toward flame.

It’s the whiff of something burning that distracts him from turning a strawberry into a flower. Then the shriek of the smoke detector.

“Hells,” he mutters, snagging the smoking pan and dumping it into the sink. He opens the window.

“What’s happening?” You rub at your eyes, sleep lacing your tone.

Johnny shrugs sheepishly. “Making you breakfast? Burning the house down?”

You blink, and then laugh, rushing to turn the vent fan on, the two of you laughing as you clear the house of smoke.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

Kyle awakens in the dark. Immediately, without even having to turn over, he knows you’re not in bed. That familiar weight is missing.

With a slight twist, Kyle reaches out, finding only coldness. Stretching, Kyle sits up, glancing around the silent bedroom. All is still and dark. The bathroom door is cracked, but the light isn’t on. Slowly, with sleep still clinging to his muscles, Kyle guides himself from bed, heading for the door. Out in the hall, he walks toward the living room, knowing that you might be curled up on the sofa, completely absorbed in a book.

But you are not on the sofa with your book and blanket.

Kyle finds you in the kitchen, the double doors of the refrigerator standing open, the harsh light bathing you in its glow.

“Midnight snack?” asks Kyle.

You pop your head out from around the door, chewing on something. Kyle snorts and saunters over, coming up behind you. Wrapping his arms around your waist, he places his chin on your shoulder.

“Willing to share?” he murmurs.

“Not if it’s ice cream,” you reply.

Kyle smiles, and places a kiss your neck. You lean into him, and Kyle pulls you closer.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Dinner is always chaotic, but everyone sits at the table.

Simon forks up some of his lasagna, popping it into his mouth as he grabs the plate of his youngest. Using the child-size plastic knife and fork, he starts hacking away at her portion of lasagna, cutting it into smaller pieces. She watches, pointing and directing while chewing on her garlic bread when she thinks Simon isn’t cutting the pieces small enough for her liking.

The two middle children fuss and argue at each other from across the table. They both want the bottle of salad dressing, but only one manages to snag it before the other. She shakes the bottle, pops the tab, and a massive wad of ranch splatters across her plate. Her sister laughs in her face, and then complains loudly when half of the smeared ranch ends up on her plate.

Simon glances up, finds you in conversation with the oldest as she shows off her report card. His heart flips, surges, becomes so full that it’s prone to bursting. Most of his life, a family seemed a distant, unobtainable dream. But surrounding him is all he cares about in this world.

He couldn’t be happier.

[sleep-0-deprived]

Sirens touch~! (Kyle Garrick x male siren reader) 𓊝

WC:.2.1K

Tags: pwlp, anal sex, sex on a boat, monster x human, pheromones used as drugs, fish anatomy mentioned, bottom male reader, seduction themes, siren songs, handjobs, neck biting, blood mentioned 𓇼

A/N: this one is for @creepy141dollie hope Y’ like it, forgive if M’ descriptions of sirens are inaccurate, this was jus my thought process <33

Taglist: @kimisbunny @asher-is-hotxp @silvern1006 @unstab1eperson2 @yyuinaa @dewday1 @blond3ang3l @creepy141dollie @m4r13ll @ihavezeropancreas @sooobiinn @just-ignore-them @fuckingmxonlight @nightwinglover101 @chasingknives @littlelilithsposts

𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆟𓆝𓆟𓆝

The air was fogged over and cold- rigidly so, you could almost taste the salt in the air when you breathed in the mist. Kyle wasn’t happy about this in the slightest, the moment price caught wind of makarov supposedly hiding somewhere across the sea, he had the whole task force on a ship on the ocean waters, that included Gaz too. Gaz walked around on the deck, he’d peek his head over the rails and stare into the nearly black abyss of water— god he could only imagine how cold that water must’ve been.

His eyes slowly widen when he sees something beneath the sheets of liquid, it was probably just a dumb fish swimming around. Garrick wasn’t made for the waters nor did he like them, sea sick was the only thing he ever got from it— and was that a person laying on that rock?…oh god the sea must be getting to him.

“I don’t see how sailors manage”

Gaz diverts his gaze to the passing soap, walking by and across the ship watching the other end- like what he was supposed to be doing but something felt off he couldn’t explain it, it all felt weird like bugs churning around in his stomach. He’d just cut it down to the waves giving him motion sickness.

“Are you gonna make it there gaz?”

He nearly jumps when ghost sneaks up on him standing behind him with his mask on letting his gaze pierce through the other male.

“You shouldn’t be so damn quiet- you’re gonna give someone a heart attack these days”

“Relax, I was just gonna ask if ye wanted to swap tasks- ye go to the lower deck N’ keep an eye out”

The man’s British accent creeping through his words only making Gaz sigh and nod, making his way down to the empty deck, his body felt a reaction the closer he got to the waters almost like something compelling him forwards. When the rock he had seen earlier came into view he could’ve sworn he saw a man with H/C hair laying there with a deep blue webbed ear. Before he knew it he felt his chest ache at that sight- why did he feel so much need over a man that probably was a figment of his lonesome imagination.

He leans against the rails, blinking once and frowning when he sees nothing on the rock, he almost feels sadness as the disappearance but before he can mourns it a hand is placed up on the ship from the loading area a few feet from him.

“Who’s there?!”

His voice rings empty in the fog, you slip your way up onto the deck while laying sprawled with a little grin. Tilting your head over almost like a curious cat— you weren’t used to not having your tail but you’d make having legs work. Gaz was practically lovestruck standing in his military gear and yet he felt just as defenseless as a common man before a gun.

“Aren’t you just a mean one?”

Your voice was angelic and he knew that you knew that, the way you slithered up on the deck like some serpent ready for its mean had him in a state of pure lust looking at you— Gaz was a weak man and the years of solitude without touch only made him weaker. Your prime prey, you liked a sweet man who was good at heart but had desperation— you could feed off the lust in his eyes alone.

Gaz started approaching you almost in a trance but you haven’t even used your song on him yet, this was pure free will.

“What the hell are you— a damn talking fish?”

“I’m not a damn fish— I’ll have you know I’m a siren”

You hiss your words at him growing irritated with it all, reaching your hand out to grasp hold of the man and pull him down with you having him beneath you on the deck. your body nude and cold from the see, your cock pressed flat down on your thighs while you click your tongue slowly tracing your cold fingers over his skin, humming your own siren song.

“Fuck, what the hell are you doing”

“Don’t pretend you don’t want me, everyone wants me.”

Your hands grip his shoulders speaking statements not questions, your cock was stiffening up when his bulge pressed to your plush cheeks almost giving it a friendly greeting making you push back down against his clothed member, Gaz’s hands roam down grabbing your hips instinctively gripping at the flesh with vigor while he stares up at you in a glossy eyed trance watching how your hands slid off his shoulder down his vest and to his cargo pants, pulling them down with a thud when you undo his tack belt letting it fall on the deck.

Your nails were sharp and pointed leaving chills on his thighs when your nails graze over the tip of his cock having it all wet and coated in pre cum when you finally get it out of his boxers. Your eyes narrow slightly glowing under the dim fog of the late noon sky, the ship rocking back and forth against the waves having Gaz feeling completely under your spell when you hum against his ear and press your lips to the side of his neck.

“God you’re…”

He wanted to say so many things in that moment but his lips quivered and stopped, all men acted that way— you couldn’t count the number of sailors who uttered those exact words to you. Gaz felt different you didn’t want to lure him into a seductive demise, you actually wanted him all for yourself.

“I already knoww~”

you hush him silently with your lips pressed to his Adam’s apple rubbing your sharp teeth to the flesh feeling tempted to just take a bite out of him. Your hand plays with his cock stroking the base and rubbing your thumb flush against the under side of his tip, right where you knew it was most sensitive.

“O-h fuck you’re good at this”

Kyle’s moan comes out strangled like a half laugh when he takes a gulp for the first time in his military years feeling nervous by something that looks so frail, your skin practically glowed sticky from the salt in the sea having your damp body in his lap feeing your bare ass on his thighs making his half lidded eyes just stare at it, he only looks away when he feels the sharp pain in his neck— you just bit him?

“Mhm, you just taste good enough to eat”

“Oh fuuck”

His groan just make you smile having his blood over your teeth like a fresh candy coating making your slit pupils dilate, licking up the blood off his neck leaving him with the mark of a siren when you aim his cock between your wet cheeks, grinning at his expression when his eyes clamp shut from the cold feel of your skin pressing to his manhood. You rock your hips back and forth letting go of his cock and reaching up to his jaw and gripping it tight while you lay hunched over him pressing your bitter and blue lips to his mouth kissing him- making him taste his blood off your tongue while he lays on his back on the deck.

“You want this so bad don’t you?”

“…yes…”

He mumbles mindlessly under you just staring you blankly in the eyes, his lips sloppily responding to yours with your cock standing barely stiff leaning a small pearl of pre cum with your blue webbed ears looking almost like a fin when they flick back and forth in satisfaction. His cock head rubbing between your cheeks and all up and down your crack rubbing against your twitchy ring of muscles.

“Tell me you want inside me- tell me now”

“…I want you, I wanna be inside you so bad”

Your mouth nibbles at his neck some more littering it in red marks having blood smears on his skin while his hips buck up under you making you let go of his jaw when he hisses from how your nails dug into his skin. Gaz presses into you slowly pushing his way inside of your vice, being a siren producing pheromones and natural lubricant around your rim, your holes weee designed to take— you were a being of lust- a Adonis of sex in every way but the name.

“Fuckin, please-“

If it wasn’t for how desperate Gaz was in this moment he may have passed out of humiliation, he hated the way his voice cracked when he begged for you sitting desperate with his cock half inside you prodding its way into the bunny tavern trying to spread and spear you open on his dick, you sit in his lap having your mouth latched on his feeling his moans muffled by your tongue when you bite on his bottom lip leaving little drops of blood mixing into the shared spit.

“Think you may be the biggest man I’ve taken in a very long time sailor”

You lift your hips up and slowly lower them back down on him while you let your hand find its way to his shoulders digging your nails through his gear and clawing a hole in the back of his shirt leaving marks on his rich skin. Your rim milks out the pre cum from his mushroomed head having his hands trembling on your hips while he pushes his spit down your throat.

“I’m not a damn sailor— I’m a captain”

His words come out strangled beneath you when he pulls his lips, tearing them away only to gasp for air. Your nails dig harder letting out soft moans when his cock rubs your prostate just right making you feel warm shrills up your spine having you feeling in a state of euphoria when you ride the man.

Your eyes creep back and you grow slicker around his cock taking it with ease, Gaz lets out heaved gasps beneath you. Not having fucked anything in a few solid years due to his job, his orgasm is on edge but he does his best to hold back not wanting to come too quick but boy if your insides weren’t practically begging it out of him right now.

“Stop or I’ll—“

Before he can even finish his sentence your hand creeps up off his back and over his mouth hushing his groans when you feel his cock start pulsing inside you reaching his high and flooding your insides with his semen leaving a warm feeling inside your ice cold body.

“Now you’re gonna be good and help me get off right?”

“Y-yes ofcourse”

He nods his head when you hum your song to him not even giving him time to come down from his orgasm when you remove your hand off his mouth and reach to the hand off your hips when you guid it down to your hardened cock, letting out a hiss when he touches the base. Gaz slowly starts stroking your cock and giving it a firm touches under your tip.

He starts stroking your cock a little faster gripping the base with your cock leaking a mess in his palm having you instinctively pushing your hips back down on his cock with the semen inside

“I’m getting close”

Gaz starts stroking your cock faster making you arch your back getting closer to edge with his hand snaking off your hips to your ass giving it a squeeze in time with his strokes. Pre cum starts oozing drink you all down your shaft making a mess when your voice cracks and your orgasm rushes over you, you grip his shoulders tight with your

“Oh fuck—“

“What is it fishy? You’re actin like this is your first orgasm”

You sneer down at him frowning when he says that, ropes of thin liquid shoots from your tip leaving stains on his gear. Your chest raises and falls rapidly practically glowing with your eyes rolling forwards to look down at him under you, sitting on top of him on the ship, you slowly raise up off of Gaz, semen starts oozing out of you and onto the ships deck, your rim twitches all puffy.

Before Garrick could even say anything to you, you were gone. The water flashed and it was like you were an imagination? Your figure lurked under the water then disappeared into the fog, sirens were never known to stick to one prey forever.

“Gaz? Mate what’re you doin?!”

There stood a flabbergasted soap, his mouth agape standing next to price with their eyes focused on a ruin captain kyle Garrick ‘Gaz’ laying covered in come with his pants around his ankles laying on his back, his cock limp and his eyes lidded clearly worn out.

[starsofang]

CALL OF THE SEA / PART NINETEEN

pirate poly!141 x f!reader tw: NSFW, MDNI, not many for this chapter :p masterlist a/n: wanted so badly for this chapter to be longer but just as i finished a 60-hour work week, i fell down with the flu. boooo.

When a group of unhinged pirates invade your small village, you're whisked away from your peaceful home and thrown on to a voyage out at sea. Forced to obtain a new role as their medic, you have no choice but to accept your fate as you join their forces and aid them in their treacherous travels.

Price kept his promise when the time came, the next morning shifting to evening, the sun resting along the horizon. You’d spent the better majority sleeping off the pain, unable to stay awake for long while the parasite ate away at you from the inside and out.

Waking to a booming ‘Land ho!’ was the relief you needed to relax properly, the potential of you receiving urgent attention easing your worries momentarily.

You hadn’t had a proper moment alone, always waking to another man in the room watching over you, appearing just as tired as you. Gaz was often the one who took over, or in his place it was Soap. The Captain was making haste in steering to landfall in order to guarantee your spot in healing. He was wasting no time, keeping all hands on deck to make it happen.

You weren’t expecting Ghost, however, when you opened your eyes. He was lounged in Price’s chair at his desk lazily, eyes blinking sleepily at the floor, his fist on his cheek. He looked oddly comfortable, sat at ease rather than a man who seemed to always have a target on his back.

“Ghost?” you croaked, habitually attempting to sit up. It knocked the air out of your lungs immediately and you settled back down once you noticed Ghost tense up.

He grunted in response, eyes darting up from the floor to you. You’d hardly seen him since Graves’ unsettling show, and you were sure he was only in the room because he thought you’d be asleep long enough for him to switch shifts with somebody else.

“Y’alright?” he asked, gaze flickering down to your side where the bruising was becoming a disgusting black, almost resembling rotting flesh.

“We are almost there?” you asked instead, shifting the blanket over you subconsciously.

He nodded, taking his fist off of his cheek and leaning back in the chair. “Not too long now,” he responded. “Just sit tight.”

You fiddled with the hem of the sheets, picking at a loose thread. The air felt heavy with awkwardness, and it nearly suffocated you. You hated how strange it always felt in Ghost’s presence, like a force between you condemned you away from one another, but you weren’t too sure if it was you or him creating it.

Judging from previous actions, it was definitely him. He wasn’t an easy person to talk to—even after his apology.

“You don’t like me, do you?” you asked without a second thought. Once it came from your mouth, you instantly regretted it. If you were able to move on your free will, you’d have slapped yourself by now.

“What?” he grumbled.

You swallowed, peering up at the ceiling to avoid looking at him. “You do not seem very fond of me. Even after everything.”

You felt his stare on the side of your face. It was burning into you. “Is that so?”

You nodded once, a curt movement that was stiff and uncomfortable. Now that you had bitten off more than you could chew, the only solution was to continue gnawing.

“S’not that,” he answered. He shifted in his seat, tapping his fingers absentmindedly on the table. “You’ve already forgotten our talk? I’m not the type to repeat myself.”

“I have not.”

“Then why are you always stressin’ ‘bout it?” he huffed, almost like a child. At times, he surely acted like one—a rather rude one, but you digress.

“You seem tense with me,” you replied quietly, wondering why the conversation was brought up in the first place. It was never easy speaking of feelings with Ghost, and you were learning that the hard way. You didn’t understand why you felt compelled to begin something with no finish.

“I’m tense because you’re hurt,” he corrected, albeit a bit coldly. “S’not you.”

You gnawed on your lip as you stared into nothingness. Ghost was always an enigma, a puzzle piece you couldn’t quite fit anywhere, and the more you spoke with him, the more difficult it became.

You wanted to understand him, but how could you understand somebody who didn’t want to be understood? Then again, perhaps he thought the same of you.

“Has Graves done this before?” you asked, tone growing soft.

You knew Ghost was at the hands of Graves more than once. The unspoken trauma he held was evident simply in the way he fueled his hatred for the evil captain. If there was anybody who knew Graves for who he truly was, it was Ghost.

“Worse,” he said shortly, as if the matter was so simple to understand. It made your stomach twist up, imagining the horrors that lie along Graves’ past.

“Worse?” you murmured to yourself in disbelief.

Truly, what had Graves done? Surely, he had killed plenty. He held the card of death, dealing it to those unknowing. He played the game until he grew bored, tossing his pawns aside when he wanted a new one.

Were you simply his plaything for the time being? What would happen when he sought out a new one?

You turned your head to look at Ghost. You studied the skull ring that glistened on his finger, as well as the matching mask that locked up his true identity.

Ghost was just as much a pawn as you were—he was simply the last one standing.

“Why do you wear it?” you asked, and when his eyes simmered with confusion, you continued. “The skulls. They are his, yes?”

Ghost glanced down at his ring, wiggling his finger for good measure. “It angers him,” he explained calmly, toying with the ring with his thumb. “He takes pride in his ship. The skull flag on his ship is his staple—he thinks only those deserving are allowed the opportunity to flaunt it.”

“So… you wear it because he does not think you’re deserving, and it angers him?” you finished.

“I consider it a game,” Ghost shrugged. “He took what was mine. I take what’s his.”

You blinked, trying to piece together the puzzle. It made sense in your head, but you felt you were missing something.

“What did he take from you?”

Ghost finally looked at you, pupils blown with that familiar hatred you’d seen all this time. Now, though, you know it’s not for you.

“Everythin’,” he muttered. “I’ll be sure to do the same for him."

Ghost left rather quickly after that. You hated to see him go, but you knew a nerve was struck and he wanted to be alone—it was something he preferred. You could respect that.

Soap was the one who took charge, talking your ear off while you drifted in and out of sleep. He was lifting your spirits as always, trying desperately to get you out of the funk you’d been stuck in.

The conversation with Ghost took enough energy from you that it left you lifeless, resuming to your exhausted state and only offering an occasional hum of acknowledgment to Soap. You felt horrible for seeming so uninterested, but Soap didn’t seem to mind. In fact, if anybody were to understand, it would be him.

“After all this is over, I say we take a li’l vacation, aye?” Soap piped in. You glanced at him blearily, silently nodding in agreement. “Ye ever drink before, dove?”

You shook your head, causing Soap to gawk at you as if you’d just offended his entire family. “Never? Well, we’ll have to change that the second yer all fixed up. Get ye to a nice pub and drink yer sweet heart out. Yeeeah, that sounds real nice ‘bout now.”

He let out a dramatic sigh, shoulders slumping. Soap, ever the sweetest, always kept a peppy attitude for you, even if you could see the exhaustion lines forming on his face. He was so compassionate with you, and you feared you didn’t deserve it. It was your fault for all this mess.

“Yer first drink’s on me, aye? Hell, once yer back on yer feet, I’ll pay for all yer drinks, how’s that sound?”

“Bargainin’ to a sick bird, am I hearin’ that right?”

Both you and Soap looked to the door where the Captain stood, hand on the knob. He was so silent as he came in, presumably not to wake you in the case you were asleep.

“Ach, the girl deserves a drink after all this. M’just tryin’ to make her feel better,” Soap defended with a huff, shooing his hand.

Price snorted in amusement, stepping into the room. He made his way to your bedside where Soap sat, peering down at you and observing.

“How’s my dove doin’ today?” Price asked, his tone affectionate.

You caught a glimpse of Soap’s side eye towards the Captain’s behavior, evidence of confusion washing over his expression. He said nothing, only blinking slowly. You could practically see the gears in his head clogging up the workings in there.

Price looked a bit more hopeful that day, albeit sluggish. His smile was tilted as if his lips were too heavy to lift fully, his eyes were dimmed from the light you’d seen recently. You knew he was pushing past his limit, hardly sleeping and overriding his brain with too many steps in his plans.

“I’m fine,” you assured quietly, though you prayed he couldn’t see through it.

You weren’t fine at all. You felt like a vessel while your soul floated above your body and watched on as you slowly crumbled to ash. You no longer felt completely present, only forced into living from the consistent wakings for meals or check-ups.

The mess on your ribcage had blossomed into a murky pool of black, only spreading rather than weakening. The poisoned veins were like a wildfire, untamable as they slithered their way through your body and organs as if making them its collection.

You were a disastrous mess on the inside. On the outside, though you were gray and sickly with sunken bags beneath your eyes, you tried to present yourself as anything but, mustering up the strength to converse with each and every one of them when you weren’t sleeping.

It was easy for any of them to see it, though. The spark in your eyes had vanished and you resembled more of a corpse than a woman.

Price tilted his head, staring at you for a moment. His hand lifted and he brushed the back of his knuckles across your forehead, resting them there. What met him was warmth. While it would’ve been a comforting feeling, it made him more worried than anything.

“You’re still hot,” he murmured, more to himself. “Have she been like this all day?”

Soap shrugged, frowning. “She’s been asleep for half of it.”

Price glanced at Soap before sighing through his nose. “We’ve got just a couple of more hours. Think you can wait it out a bit more for me, dove?”

You nodded sluggishly. What more was another hour or two? You had already dealt with it for days. The pain wouldn’t subside regardless.

Price attempted another smile, one you couldn’t return. It pained him to see you in a state so depressing, but it wouldn’t be the last that you and his crew would go through hell. He’d seen Ghost in far too similar circumstances before.

He gave your cheek a soft squeeze, frowning to himself when even that didn’t wash away the hollow expression you wore. He felt like he was looking at the shadow of a person that once existed.

“We’ll come and collect you when it’s time,” he told you softly. You only hummed through a sigh, feeling the unfortunate taste of exhaustion once again.

Soap and the Captain shared a look before they exchanged a few quiet words you couldn’t hear. Price seemed reluctant to leave but did nonetheless, slipping the door closed with such gentleness that it didn’t dare disturb you.

Soap remained where he was, studying your every feature as you slipped back into that unforgiving dream state, unable to take his eyes off of you—not when they were so close to getting you to a healer.

He feared if he looked away for even a moment, you might just slip through his fingers.

You’d loved helping people ever since you were a child. You couldn’t remember much, but you knew for certain that you’d been that way all your life—the simple aid of carrying items for the elders in your village, helping the merchants set up for the day, caring for the younger children if they’d hurt themselves or scraped up a knee or two.

It was something you’d always known that soon developed into a bigger dream the older you got. An obsession, some would say, to the idea of being your village’s healer and curing them of their misfortunes. Medicine was a calling, and you listened to its guide, working day and night to learn and discover all new possibilities that you’d never seen before.

Yet, that love for helping others labeled you crazy. The village slowly lost their affection for you, turning their backs as if you’d never been apart of them, disgusted by the fact that a woman of your age was unmarried and childless.

You knew you were meant for more, yet the people who you’d spent your entire life becoming apart of had shunned you over your mere dreams. There was a great, big world out there to discover, but they wished to keep you confined to their little home and grant you misery for the sake of keeping tradition.

Women didn’t have dreams. They didn’t have hopes. How silly of a world was that?

You still wanted to pursue them. You had the whole world ahead of you, and you were angry that there was a possibility of it being snatched away from you, all because of one man. He was ruining the work you'd spent years prioritizing, and you'd be damned if you didn't get what you wanted.

Even as you lay, rotting away in Price’s cot, that desire never went away. It only blossomed, the need nipping at you like an aggravating tick.

It was a wonder how you hadn’t succumbed to the vile venom that Graves’ had slipped under your skin when he bashed his boot into the workings of your ribcage. How you were still alive was unfathomable, something even you didn’t understand after working for years to do so.

Was it simply will that people needed to survive? Was it determination? Or was it just you, the lucky one?

Your mind was muddled with these screaming thoughts as you remained in your unconsciousness. Yet, even asleep, you could feel your body being jolted, like somebody was slipping their arms around you and carrying you to a place unknown. You tried to wake up, but you were trapped in your own world as if needing to seek answers before escaping.

Your ears pricked at the sounds of voices. They sounded far away, muffled as if underwater, and inside your cafe of your mind, you fought to hear, to get a glimpse of your reality that you were missing out on.

“I don’t know, Cap. There are rumors swirlin’ that this woman works wonders, has the hands of the Gods workin’ with her,” a voice exclaimed. Gaz, as clever as ever. You’d know his voice anywhere.

“You speak nonsense,” another voice said. You recognized the gruffness as Price. He sounded closer than Gaz did, but you couldn’t pinpoint why. “We cannot get our hopes up over stories. She’s a medic, just as the others. We will not rely on foolishness to fuel our hope for dove’s recovery.”

You heard Gaz scoff, and you could nearly picture the tightening of his jaw and the slight downward curl of his lips—like a child pouting.

“You do not find it strange, Captain, that our dove hasn’t perished to the willingness of Graves’ curse?” Gaz asked. “Perhaps the rumors are true. Maybe this woman knew we were comin’, and that’s why dove’s held out for so long. Don’t you think a li’l extra hope is what we need?”

“We will know it when we see it,” Price retorted, clearly still unbelieving of Gaz’s claims. “I will not believe in such sorcery until it has been done to dove. What matters is healin’ her.”

“You have seen what Graves has done to others,” Gaz tried once more. “Sorcery is always possible.”

The captain didn’t reply, and you knew that meant he was stumped. You wished dearly to wake and speak with them yourself, to hear of Gaz’s story and to understand where Price is coming from. The desire to meet both their needs felt heavy, and it only grew the longer you went without it.

“Sorcery is what got us in this situation in the first place,” another voice joined in. You were surprised to hear Ghost chime in his own thoughts. It made you wonder if he spoke more when you weren’t around. “If you do not recall that, Gaz.”

You heard another scoff, one could only assume from Gaz. A tempered one, he was.

“Ever the so positive one, aye, Ghost?” Soap. There was no mistaking that heavy accent and chirpy tone.

You heard a snort, then Ghost speak, “Always.”

The world fell silent after that. If you listened close enough, you could hear the shifting of clothes and the crunch of dead leaves. You hadn’t a clue what was happening, though your best bet was that the ship had made landfall, and your path to getting healed was closer than ever.

So why did it feel like something else was beginning to unravel out of control?

[puppyguppy]

You've been down this damn aisle way too long. Despite not having actually checked the time, you just know it. You can feel it. You've seen others come and go; grab what they need, like a pillow or some new sheets, then leave. But not you. Since apparently, choosing a new mattress has solidified itself as a life or death sort of situation inside of your head. It shouldn't have been this hard -- wouldn't be this hard, if you hadn't seen the sale going on. They're offering the next size up for the price of the next size down. So, like -- you could get a king, for the price of the queen you'd come here for. You've almost always had a queen, at least since being a teenager. And a queen is fine, a queen is good, just enough space for you to roll around some, pick a cooler side if need be, with a corner or two left open for the pet you might actually own someday. All in all, a queen is perfect, so really, there's no need to upsize. You've never even considered it until now. It just seems kind of stupid to turn down such a deal. More comfort, for less? But then...you'll need new sheets. A new comforter. A new duvet. Hell, might as well just get a whole new set for the whole new mattress, right? And, it doesn't make much sense to put old pillows on a new bed, so -- "They never tell you that beds will be one of your biggest battles in adulthood." You jolt, startled out of your spiraling thoughts by a deep, rich mumble. You hadn't noticed the man you've been sharing the aisle with for...gods, you hope it wasn't long. Long enough for him to piece together the puzzle of your struggle, though. You shake off the little scare with a laugh, the feeling only lingering in the goosebumps down your arms. "It wasn't supposed to be this hard. I came here with a plan, believe it or not." The stranger hums, and while he seems to peruse the options, you take a quick few seconds to, well. Peruse him. Tall, dark, and handsome is the gist. Wavy hair thrown half up his head, like maybe he'd been in a hurry, or working out, or just woken up. A bit unkempt, but not unattractive. Stalky, scruffy, and decked out in all colors almost black despite the season. At least they seem loose, everywhere except for where his hands are shoved into his pockets, straining the fabric slightly, and you can't help but wonder -- "One should always have a Plan B. Even maybe C through Z." You laugh again, because really, this is ridiculous, and you should just grab the goddamn bed you'd come here for. Mattresses shouldn't require complex mathematics, an entire alphabet's worth of backup plans, or the entire length of the human emotional spectrum. "Yeah, yeah," you huff, now a bit embarrassed. You're a grown ass adult and yet you feel like you've just been scolded by a highschool teacher or something. "The sale just caught me off guard. I don't want to regret it if I just settle for a queen and miss the chance. Besides, if I get a king and don't like it, I can always just return it, right?" The man shrugs. "Or you could save yourself the trouble. It's not like your room is big enough for a king." You laugh for a third time, because oh, oh my god, he's right. Here you've been fretting and stressing (and honestly? sweating) over beds, when really, there was never a choice. There was just the illusion of choice. You got excited over a sale, about the possibility of an upgrade, and completely forgot about the very real dimensions of your bedroom. And why you've stuck with a queen. "Fuck, you're so right. I couldn't possibly fit a -" You stop. You stop and blink. Because he is right. The goosebumps from just minutes ago shoot straight down to your toes. You swallow, saliva thickening in your throat like cement. "...How do you know that?"

[hometoursandotherstuff]

I like when people make the most of a small house and these owners did their best to make this little 1946 Cape in Cleveland, OH, colorful and interesting. 3bds, 2ba, 1,131 sq ft, $285,089. (One of my favorite series of children's books to read in story time is the classic "The Stupids," by Harry Allard. The Stupid family lives in Cleveland and the funniest book is "The Stupids Die." Somehow, the Stupid family thinks they died and marvel at how Heaven looks just like Cleveland. Their dog is smart, he always comes to their rescue.)

Enter directly into the living room. The floor is perfect and look at how neatly they did the designs on the walls and ceiling. I would remove the curtains, though

Cute 3pc. bath in the hall.

Not sure which bedroom is the primary. This one is smallish and has mirrored walls to give the illusion of more space.

This bedroom looks larger. There they go again, people removing the closet doors. Don't care too much for the wallpaper.

Pink & green kitchen. Nice white Shaker cabinets, but who laid the floor? Is it supposed to be in square sheets like that? I don't know why they didn't cover the whole backsplash with tile, either. Sliders open to a nice deck, though.

The large finished attic is the 3rd bd. I don't know if someone painted the clouds or if it's wallpaper, but they're beautifully done.

Finished basement. There's a bedroom area down here in the corner.

And, this is where the 2nd bath is located.

The laundry room has a nice new aluminum sink.

Very large covered deck on the back of the house.

Plus a patio with a little garden.

Interesting yard with a trampoline that looks like it conveys.

This yard could be lovely.

Path to a very large driveway and 3 car garage, plus a nice shed. I bet a pool would fit in the back yard. I think that this house is a good value for the price. 9,374 sq ft lot

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/15722-Lydian-Ave-Cleveland-OH-44111/33374920_zpid/

[urinarythreatinfection]

Since Halloween is just around the corner how would the straw hat crew react if reader dressed up as one of them for Halloween? (It could be Luffy or whatever straw hat crew member you think would be best?😅)

This was fun to make even if I kept getting stuck on it due to a bad mood. Also I couldn't decide on who so I asked an elder (my older brother) and he chose the swirly browed cook himself! Enjoy!

Fun(ny) Halloween

Sanji x Gender Neutral Reader. 1496 words. Platonic and co-starring the rest of the Strawhat crew.

October, a month of fall and most importantly, Halloween. There’s a problem though… you don’t know what to go as. You could pick a classic, vampire, mummy, some sort of animal or devil, but that’s boring. You want something cool but scary, easy to do would be a plus too. While thinking of this you’re suddenly jumpscared by Sanji bursting out of the kitchen onto the deck with food.

“Robin-chann!! I made the tea you asked for~~~~” He spins around and sets it down in front of her, swooning when she smiles at him with an elegant “Thank you.” Your hand goes to your heart, he’s always so passionate it’s startling.

‘Startling…’ An idea pops into your mind and you look at Sanji, he’s really just wearing a suit, right? It's mostly likely uncomfortable, but a regular suit is an easy thing to get! This is perfect, plans starting to form in your head as the day goes on. As soon as the Sunny docks at an island you run off, saying you have something to do that’s a surprise. Eyebrows you can just draw on, a blonde wig is easy to get too even if you have to style it a bit, now to get a suit. You walk into the store and look around, grabbing one and checking the price tag. Expensive! Sanji has good taste too so an accurate one to him would be even more than this… well it isn’t like you’re going to become him, you don’t need anything fancy. You get whatever suit is close enough to his and a regular dress shirt. For a tie, you could bribe Nami to borrow one from him. Perfect plan, you’re a genius. When you get back to the ship you borrow sewing tools from Usopp and a straightener from Robin since Nami would have charged you. Things are easy enough from there, adjusting the suit slightly to fit your body and cutting the wig. It isn’t… the best. Sanji is very well maintained, and you’re making this really late, but it’s enough to be recognizable as him.

_________________

October, the month of- hell yeah it’s Halloween! You excitedly grab your costume, putting it on and making some final touches to look nice. You do look nice in a suit, almost everyone does, but this is a bit of a hassle. “How does he just wear this all the time?” You mumble to yourself while putting it on. Now that you think about it, having a full suit on is the most peculiar for a pirate to wear. No matter, this’ll only be for a day anyway. Only thing left is to go show everyone.

__________________

“That’s your costume? Seriously? A mummy?” Nami, in a sexy farmer costume, says to Zoro. He’s just wearing bear ears and bandages on his face. “That’s the same as last year!”

“I’m a bear mummy this time, don’t you have eyes?” He points to the bear ears and Nami gives him a look of disgust. “You relaxing your face or something? Look a lot better like this.” Nami’s expression turns back to normal and Zoro flinches on purpose, causing her to kick him in the shin angrily. Chopper, who's dressed as a little ghost complete with a tenkan headband over the white sheet and black painted horns, runs around trying to catch a mechanical bee Usopp’s piloting. The sniper’s dressed as a beekeeper, but with actual mechanical bees in the hive on his back. He’s matching with Franky dressed as the queen, or king, bee. When Chopper catches it he strikes a pose and gives a “SUPER!!”

“Robin-Chwannn~ You look beautiful even in your costume.” Sanji swoons over Robin in her spider woman costume. No, not the superhero, an actual spider woman, she even grew arms on her back to keep the image. Brook goes to her as well, dressed as a magician.

“Yohoho~ Here’s my magic trick for two beautiful women.” He pulls two roses from his afro and gives one to her, then to Nami.

“You just pulled roses from your hair…” Usopp mumbles.

“Awee that was actually kinda sweet.” Nami admires the rose.

“Free of charge, though I do take panties as dona-” He gets hit on the head. Jinbe isn’t quite used to this sort of thing, but has learned his lesson about Nami already and chooses to silently sip his tea in his zombie costume courtesy of you and Luffy. Suddenly you walk out from inside the ship and Luffy, dressed as.. a pirate captain with a hook, notices you from his spot on the railing above.

“Huh? Sanji?” That brings attention to you, especially Sanji who turns around expecting for Luffy to ask him for food; instead seeing you dressed at him. He freezes with his mouth open, stopped in his tracks before he could yell at his captain that he was fed not too long ago.

“Oh. my. gods.” Nami stares at you and then bursts out laughing with Usopp. “Is this why you asked me to get a tie from h-him!?” She holds her stomach, bending down slightly as she laughs. You walk over to her.

“Well? Was it worth the investment, mademoiselle?” You say to her and she covers her mouth to muffle more laughing.

“Another shitty cook, this is a nightmare.” Zoro says in the background, which seems to snap Sanji out of it.

“Shut up, Mosshead!" They start to fight, the cook kicking down at Zoro as he blocks with his swords. Luffy keeps staring between you and Sanji.

“Wait, how are there two Sanjis?” He’s confused.

“One is clearly not me! How is this not obvious to you!?” The blonde points to himself, then motions to his whole body. Luffy stares at his face, then at yours. The both of you have swirly eyebrows.

“You have a twin? When did they get on the ship?” Sanji falls to his knees at Luffy’s obliviousness. “Which one of you is Sanji?”

“I’m Sanji.” You say with a charismatic smile, putting your hand on your face and flicking your hair.

“Ohhh okay.” Luffy nods.

“Don’t just believe them!” The real Sanji yells.

“I’m gonna pass out…!” Usopp clutches his chest, getting lightheaded from laughing too hard. Sanji looks at everyone laughing and gets a little bummed, you walk over to him.

“Well? How do I look? I actually worked pretty hard on this, though I don’t look as cool as you.” Sanji’s ears perk up from your compliment.

“Cool?” He pries for more of them.

“Yeah, you always look really put together. This helped me realize how tiring it must be to almost always have a suit on. It kinda makes me admire you.” His eyes twinkle and he smiles, trying to keep it calm and charismatic rather than overly happy.

“Hmm, I guess that’s true.” Nami mumbles to herself while trying to imagine having to wear a suit all the time. Sanji catches it immediately; but so do you. Right as he runs to her you follow suit and copy his swooning.

“Nami-Swann~! You really think so~~!!?” He finishes his statement and turns to you, shock on his face. Nami shivers a little.

“Yikes. Maybe the costume is more scary than funny.” She says and Zoro nods.

“Sorry, your behavior is kind of predictable.” You admit to Sanji, who’s feeling conflicted between liking that his love for women is known and being ashamed that he’s this predictable. Chopper puts a hoof on his leg for comfort, but he’s shaking slightly from also trying not to laugh. The cook turns to Robin right as you do.

“Robin-channnn do you think i’m pre-” He stops and so do you, then falls to his knees again. Robin can’t help it and tries to turn her head and muffle a small laugh with her hand, though it’s still heard. Luffy, who started laughing too, stretches down from where he was hanging and onto Franky.

“Sanji and Sanji, do it again!” He cheers for an encore, raising his arms up. It doesn’t make Swirly Brow feel much better.

“You’re still a better cook than me. I can’t copy your talents.” You crouch down to Sanji’s level but he looks away, pouting and upset that he’s the butt of the joke. “Y’know I wouldn’t have put this much effort into the costume if I was ashamed of you.” You stand back up and strike a pose. “So why don’t you teach me some tricks so I can make this more accurate?” This seems to cheer him up and he stands, looking around. Well, these are his friends, and it’s not like it’s unfunny.

“Well,” He clears his throat. “your hair isn’t parted correctly.” His hands go to your wig and smooth it out as you smile back. If the people he cares for are happy, so is he.

“I think they look better.” Zoro states and Sanji attacks him. Zoro is the exception.

[shadow4-1]

Imagine being part of the 141, and the shitty safe house you're laying low in has only a twin sized bed and a pull out couch.

You're there for three weeks.

It's you, Ghost, Gaz, Soap, and Price.

It's such a small space that you have no choice but to throw all of your kits onto the rickety kitchen table. There's a medium-sized box TV in the living room that has three channels and static. The windows don't open, and it is so cold and wet you wouldn't even if you could.

The bathroom consists of a shower head, a singular spigot, and another hole in the tiled floor for everything else. And the kitchen barely has a working stove. The sink plinks with an annoying as hell leak, and there's a brown stain in the linoleum where there should be a refrigerator. No cups, just bowls. And no central heating either.

It's nothing but cold, miserable, and cramped quarters while waiting on permission to get the hell out of dodge.

A week in you joke that you want to kill yourself. But is it really a joke?

You're usually the one in charge of keeping up morale during times like these. And usually it's so easy.

You always keep a deck of cards handy (with a sheet of paper detailing several different types of games). You give Gaz the idea to jury-rig the TV to a burner phone you keep on hand. Unfortunately, your music playlist and phone games only keep interest for so long. The boredom eventually gets so grating you find yourself playing delirious pattycake with Soap.

The only escape is sleep.

Due to the shitty circumstances and lack of room, everyone (but you) takes shifts to sleep. Price says you should sleep whenever you need it since if shit hits the fan, you're the only medic they have. You suppose he's right. But you also suppose he knows that the thin shred of morale left is only being upkept because of your presence.

You find yourself sleeping a lot, and it's easy to. Nonstop rain and the quiet chatter of deep, rumbling voices soothe you. And it's nice that every few hours, you always have a different body willing to cuddle up to you. Lack of heating makes it downright necessary. Even if you aren't interested in being held tight, you don't have much of a choice.

You're all so far away from home and in such shitty circumstances. Familiarity is what you all need. And they find it in you, in your body, in your arms. Their appetites for you never dip into unprofessional territory, but sometimes you catch something swimming around underneath the surface of their eyes. It's at times like these you realize that as much as they belong to you...

You belong to them.

[rodolfoparras]

Hear me out Price with a faded tramp stamp

- 🔪

Price doesn’t talk much about his past and when he does decide to do so he doesn’t delve into much detail mostly because Price isn’t very proud of it.

Rising so fast in rank meant that he had to get his hands dirty more than the average soldier would but it also came with an ego boost that shot through the roof which eventually led to making stupid decisions such as acquiring risqué piercings and shitty tattoos.

But things have mellowed down, he has mellowed down, grown into a proper man. He’d taken most of his piercings out, and the shitty tattoos he got have long faded away but the memories from those days remain, especially one that seemed burned into his memory, one he always seems to remember when he’s sprawled out on his sheet, unable to sleep, with his hand wrapped around his length, lazily stroking himself as he gets lost in the memory he cherishes so much….

He doesn’t remember if it had been a stupid dare or if it had been his drunken mind, that had gotten him into your tattoo shop that night.

He remembers you asking what it was that he was looking for and he even remembers you asking if he’d been sure when he had told you what tattoo he had wanted, but if he was to be honest most of his focus was on you and how you must’ve been the most handsome man he had seen, all covered in tattoos and decked out in piercings.

Price wasn’t usually into men, but for you he’d make an exception, maybe it really was the alcohol or presumably adrenaline speaking but he couldn't care less, could even feel his cock stir in his pants as you helped him into his chair before you started tattooing his lower back.

Despite having been warned that the lower back was the most painful spot; he didn’t mind it that much, matter of fact he had gotten used to being beaten and bruised. If anything his pain tolerance made things worse, because he could feel his cock stir while you worked with the needle.

Before he knew of it he was sporting a hard on, subtly grinding down onto the leather chair to provide some relief for his aching length.

At first you seem oblivious to what he’s doing, ever so focused on your tattooing but he can feel you press a gloved hand down onto his spin, to keep him from moving around.

However all that does is add pressure onto his dick and he hears a grunt slip past his lips.

“You okay?” You say, momentarily pausing your movements to take a look at him.

A hum is all he manages in response and you resume your work.

However it doesn’t take much before he’s unable to look past the throbbing between his legs, as he continues to shuffles around in your chair, granting his cock much needed friction.

Another grunt escapes his lips which you must’ve taken as a sign of him being in pain because you reassure him with the words “we’re almost there” and he has to bite down on his tongue till he tastes blood in his mouth so that he doesn’t say anything stupid that will get him kicked out.

However the next string of words will for sure get him kicked out because there’s no way he can stop himself from tipping over the edge when he hears you say.

“Good boy”

The sound of his own cry snaps him out of the memory as ropes of cum spills over his fist.

Oh how he misses the day you tattooed him.

[hihhasotherfixations]

Mutiny - Captain! John Price | Chapter 1

Captain John Price is an officer in the king’s navy, weathered and ready for everything. Pirates, storms, the unending banter of his crew. But when a strange order comes through that splits him from said crew, things take a turn for the worse.

CW: Angst, minor character death, attempts of murder, drowning, coups/mutiny, all the ye olden days pirate violence, eventual Price x reader (but first 3 chapters of the boys being piratey >:3 ), for now this chapter can be standalone

Current | Next

Word Count: 2425

Water softly rippled against the hull of the boat, a light sheet of rain wetting the deck and causing decreased visibility – even in the already dark night.

All across the ship, small lanterns were lit for those in the crew who were still awake – though most would usually take shelter under the overhangs or sails to avoid getting soaked to the bone.

Amidst the rain, to the back of the ship, Captain John Price slept.

An officer in the king’s navy, he’d sailed the seas for many years; aware of storms, treacherous waters, pirates and much more. With experience, he led his crew aboard the SAS Bravo; his pride and joy.

He knew everything going on on the sea. From sailing, to navigating, to dangers.

Yet when it came to dangers, the one problem there was, always persisted. A lot of them came out of nowhere.

-

Eyes shooting open, Price scared awake as from the darkness, hands grabbed him. Curling around his wrists, pushing down onto his shoulders, knees and stomach, he barely had a moment to breathe in.

Going to shout, he couldn’t as a rag smelling and tasting of sea salt was forced into his mouth, catching his tongue and forcing it back as around three men dragged him out of bed.

Struggling, he bucked and lashed, his eyes frantic and confused, muffled grunts the only sound he could make as he was shoved to his stomach, held down while his arms were pulled back before painfully being tied with a rope.

Breathing heavily through his nose, his face shoved to the wooden floor of his cabin, he looked back, seeing a single man step up while holding a lantern.

Phillip Graves, his first mate.

The man held a smug smile as he leaned down, Price’s chest heaving as he struggled, biting down on the rag as it was now tied behind his head in a tight knot, causing the fabric to painfully dig into the corners of his mouth.

“Evening, captain.” Graves said, bringing the lantern close and briefly blinding the brunet on the floor.

Squinting his eyes, a lock of hair fell across Price’s brow as he moved away from the light in his face. When the lantern was pulled back a bit, his angry gaze fell on the man leaned over him. The captain wanted to yell and curse, demand what was going on; but he knew it was foolish. Huffing out a breath, he shifted on the wooden floor, trying to sit up but before he could, a hand was placed on his back to keep him down as one of his arms was painfully twisted up.

Moaning in pain, his eyes squeezed shut as one of the men holding him down nearly broke his arm.

“Enough.” Graves ordered and his arm was let go, returning to a normal position where it was tied behind his back. “Get him up.”

Panting, Price felt two men grab him under his armpits, hoisting him to his feet where he now stood, disoriented, confused as the hands kept hold, keeping him standing.

“You must be wondering what is going on, captain.” Graves hummed, hanging the lantern up on a hook connected to the ceiling, casting a general light around the room.

The blond took Price in, the usually well composed captain now standing in mere loose pants and a white cotton shirt, feet bare and hair unkempt.

As Price glared back, he knew Graves’ question was bullshit. The first mate knew what was going on and so did Price, even if he deep down hoped he was so, so wrong, that this was merely a dumb joke his crew was playing.

But that wasn’t the case. “You see, we’ve all collectively come to the conclusion that you’re not leading well, captain. Or- John, I should say.”

Outraged, Price tried to lunge at the blond, kept back by those holding him by the arms as he instead got kicked in the lower back from a third man standing behind him, making him grunt in pain and nearly topple forward, had it not been for the men holding him up.

“Now, now. Calm yourself.” Graves tutted before motioning his head.

Before Price knew it, he was being dragged out of his cabin and onto the deck of the ship.

The steady drizzle that had started in the late afternoon was still ongoing and Price squinted his eyes upon being hit with the sheet of rain, a shiver passing through him.

But as he properly opened his eyes after getting used to the rain a few seconds later, they widened as a violent horror spiralled in his gut, clenching in anxiety.

All across the deck, lay bodies.

Griggs, Vasquez, even Yuri. Just laying there, bleeding into the deck as it got washed away by the rain.

And to the right, lay Gary Sanderson, his helmsman. A sword remained stuck in the man’s chest as he lay splayed over the stairs leading up to the ship’s wheel, his eyes unblinking up at the sky.

“Oh, we meant to clean up.” Graves hummed, evidently disingenuous and Price broke.

Enraged, he kicked the kneecap of the man to his left, making him cry in pain and collapse as it dislocated. Yet before the man had even crumpled, Price headbutted the one to his right, causing him to let go and fall back. Without a second to spare, the dishonoured captain charged shoulder first into Graves.

Slamming into the deck together, Price just yelled from behind his gag, intent on ripping the man to shreds with his teeth. Yet a second later, several hands grabbed him from behind and lifted him up, kicking and cursing as he was dragged off of the first mate.

Without a say, he got punched across the face before he was forced to his knees, rendering his legs useless as the back of his head was grabbed and pulled back, rain flooding onto his face, making breathing harder thanks to the gag.

Grunting in frustration, Graves got up, angry, annoyed and in pain as he clutched his midriff, a satisfaction pouring through Price as he realised he had cracked some ribs in the man.

“You can’t let anything go easy, huh?” The blond gritted out, standing up straight before making a ‘go’ motion with his hand.

Instantly, Price got dragged across the deck.

Panting, he was trying to get a grip with his feet but it was futile, his bare feet just slipping on the wet wood as he was brought over to the side railing before being flung to the right;

Onto the plank.

Shoved on from behind, the edges were close and Price grunted as he shifted to avoid the sides of the plank. The hands retreated and with trouble, the captain got to his knees, having to use his head to sit up.

Glancing back, he saw his own crew gathered around in a circle, Graves in the middle, holding a sword pointed at him.

“In case you didn’t realise it yet, this is a mutiny, Captain Price. We’re revoking your status on this ship and within the king’s navy. You will be stripped of all honour and are hereby sentenced to walk the plank.” He spoke calmly, stepping up to the edge, the sword gleaming as far off, lightning lit up the sky, reflecting on the metal.

Incredulous by everything going on, Price sat there, glancing down the plank at the raging sea.

What had been a gentle rippling of water against the boat’s hull was now a dangerous swishing of waves, white foam swirling with every violent movement of water, the rain going from a drizzle to a storm.

“Up, Price.” Graves ordered and Price looked back at him, his chest heaving. Carefully, he shifted on the plank until he was facing the sea and shifted from his knees up, getting to his feet while his hands remained tied behind his back.

Disgraced, the captain looked back. The crew gathered around Graves had always been those less loyal. The ones more money inclined than a part of the ship. And for that, those that actually were now lay lifeless on the deck.

A mutiny not only to Price himself, but to the integrity of all that he stood for within a crew.

“Walk.”

Glancing down at his first mate, Price then turned to the sea. There was nothing he could do.

Either he died here, on the sword like a spit roasted pig, or he jumped, unable to swim properly with his hands tied. Big chance he would be thrown back into the hull of the ship, cracking bones or his skull before he even had a chance to kick his legs.

Yet even with that prospect, Price knew there was only one way to go. He refused to die at the hands of a traitorous snake like Graves. A man who didn’t even give him the right of last words, simply keeping him gagged and bound as he sent him to a watery death.

No, he’d choose the mercy of the sea he spent two thirds of his life traversing.

With careful steps, he walked to the edge of the plank, looking out at the stormy sea he’d called home for two decades.

Far in the distance, the thunderstorm brewed, getting closer with every gust of wind that ruffled through his clothes and hair. The rain was cold as it fell onto his face in thick droplets, a sensation he welcomed, his eyes dulling as the unease in his stomach swirled.

This was it.

The men loyal to him died quietly and without him even noticing. He was asleep while they were slaughtered like animals.

So maybe it was fitting for him to get a slow, painful death like drowning. He couldn’t call himself their captain anymore, not when he failed in such a way.

Sighing softly through his nose, Price closed his eyes briefly, vaguely hearing Graves and his crew mocking him, telling him to hurry up, to jump already. But the brunet instead focused on the sound of the waves, of the rain hitting the deck, memories of his first time hearing them flashing through him.

Yes. If he were ever to go, the sea was his only choice.

Opening his eyes again, Price stepped back a few paces, biting down on the gag tying his tongue still before abruptly, he ran down the plank and launched himself off.

Graves and the crew jeered and whooped as they watched their captain disappear into the dark blue of the night’s stormy sea.

-

Hitting the water, a cold shock overcame Price that he was ready for, keeping his breath in his lungs as with all his might, he kicked his feet.

He’d managed to avoid getting dragged and slammed into the ship, but as he tried to swim, his eyes stinging from the salt, the sea dragged him under.

Without his arms, he couldn’t move enough water to get his body moving. Had they been tied in front of him, he could have tried, but behind his back they only worked to catch the current and drag him along.

Still, Price fought.

The muscles in his legs burned as he struggled against the current, seeing the stormy waves crash above on the water’s surface. He was so close, but so far.

Swishing his legs, he felt himself go up, yet right then, he suppressed a gasp, his air running thin as the violent need to breathe crept into his very being.

Salt water stained his tongue thanks to the rag tied around his face, his nose feeling congested as his lungs burned. Everything was too much. The muffled roaring of the waves, his heartbeat pounding in his ears, the pain in his body, the cold seeping into his bones, the air escaping his nose in small bubbles that he just couldn’t manage to keep in.

Yet still, he kicked his legs out, face aimed up to the surface, trying desperately to get up. Squeezing all his energy and strength into his legs, he ducked under a wave before rapidly swishing his feet.

Bursting through the surface, he gasped for breath, eyes wide and taking in flecks of water through the gag, causing him to switch to breathing through his nose to avoid coughing. Yet before he properly could, another wave lifted him before crashing back down.

The world spun as Price felt himself get flung around in the water; at the sea’s mercy, like he wanted.

Yet he had vainly hoped it wouldn’t be like this.

Up and down no longer had meaning, his ears unable to distinguish the crashing of waves on the surface with the bubbling of the current.

Exhausted, he once more kicked his legs, not having been able to get enough air in with his brief surfacing, leaving him once again struggling for oxygen. His chest heaved in stutters, desperate to take a breath that he wouldn’t allow himself as he slowly began to drown.

If only he could, he’d-!

He’d…

What would he? Price didn’t know anymore. He got what he wanted, didn’t he? He reached the surface. He got that breath. Looking down, Price couldn’t see anything. The dark ocean loomed below, but it also loomed above and to the sides. He was just floating, no- sinking. An endless nothing where it would just be so much easier to just give in.

His legs didn’t work anymore, exhausted as slowly, the air escaped his lungs, bubbles ripping out from his mouth and up to the surface.

He could just rest and join his crew.

Yes…

Price felt his body give in as he watched his own oxygen rise to the surface, no longer able to fight it.

After a moment, his chest moved up as he sucked in a breath, water rushing past his throat and into his lungs.

It hurt, a lot.

More than it did as a kid when he accidentally stayed under too long. He recalled the sensation of his father yanking him out of the water, remembering the burn of coughing it up. Yet all of that hurt less than it did now as he felt every inch of his lungs fill with the burning salt.

But even that was only temporary as slowly, everything began to turn hazy and black, leaving him with nothing.

Nothing but the feeling of a hand grabbing the back of his shirt’s collar and pulling right as he slipped away.

-

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[geometricsteels]

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[on-a-lucky-tide]

For the brilliant @devil-in-hiding. Thanks for trusting me with your idea.

Ghost and Price share a bath after a difficult mission. They fuck the last of their energy out of their systems.

cw: sexual content, hand/oral job (brief), anal sex.

Ghost watched the whirls of smoke curl above his head with unfocused eyes. Tendrils of greyish-white circled the murky lampshade before being whisked through the cracked window into the late Spanish summer. His mind felt like it was being cushioned in cotton wool, and his senses spread out to touch the world around him because they weren't needed to guard his body. The man at his back had him covered; Ghost laid comfortably, safely, between Price's legs, reclining back against his chest.

He could hear kids playing in the street, the clatter and chatter of busy restaurants with their tables splashed out onto the plaza, the honk of fizzies as they weaved in and out of traffic, their helmetless riders taking their life in their hands as they threw gestures at bolshy taxi drivers. He could feel the occasional whisper of the breeze over the beads of sweat on his brow alongside the deep, throbbing heat of the bath water soaking through every aching muscle.

There was a petrichor on the air, the promise of distant rain clouds rolling in from the west and the greasy goodness of the tapas from the kitchens below, but, more than anything, he could smell the rich cigar smoke and the musky sweat pushing through the deodorant of the man behind him.

A puff of grey smoke burst into his eyeline and then, “What you smirkin’ at?”

Ghost felt the question vibrate through his back. A low, lazy grumble that reminded Ghost of rolling thunder. He had forgot about his lack of a mask. Price had peeled it off his face earlier with a deep frown - “fuckin stinks worse than the rest of ya” - and chucked it in the heap with the rest of their bloodied, mud-soaked clothes. So every one of his expressions was visible, every grimace, every frown, as his body unwound. Price had to have been watching him to see it though, and the thought of those intense blue eyes focused on the scars and lines of his face made his chest feel tight.

“You smell good,” Simon replied. His voice felt thick and sticky in his throat, like the steam had soaked through his skin and melted his voice box. Even speaking was an effort, his chest lifting in a deep sigh as he twitched minutely between Price's legs.

“Gonna eat my liver with some fava beans?”

Ghost felt Price shift, reaching to tap his cigar against the nearby paper cup that was serving as his ashtray. Crouching in the shadow of the nearby cathedral, the hotel was cheap as chips, but it was clean. There was a fully stocked bar downstairs, and two rooms hadn't set them back much; the two sergeants crowding into one and Ghost gladly taking the other side of Price's bed.

The promise of an exhausted, lazy fumble in a clean sheets after the shitstorm of their most recent mission had been enticing enough, but whoever had retrofitted a hotel into this gothic-esque monstrosity had seen fit to deck out the bathrooms with tubs big enough for three normal-sized people, or two battered soldiers, so now he got to lounge in a bubble bath with the captain's thighs bracketing his hips and his thick chest cushioning his head. A small slice of heaven on an otherwise hellish operation.

“Naw, give me gut ache,” Simon replied, smoothing his fingers through the ginger-blonde hair on said gut. “‘Mount of scotch you drink, reckon it's pickled ‘n’all.”

“Rich comin’ from you,” Price said, and Ghost could picture the wry smirk on his face without even looking, whiskers twitching. “Surprised your drug screenings don't flag your blood as fifty percent bourbon.”

“They do. I jus’ go at it with the ol’ tipex before they get to you.”

“Bloody muppet.” Price chuckled, jostling one of Ghost’s legs by nudging his inwards before settling it back against the edge of the tub. The conversation lulled and Ghost tilted his head to look down the slope of his own body, the fur on Price’s chest soft against the shell of his ear, the deep musky scent of him easier to find under the cigar smoke.

Sprawled between Price's legs like this, Ghost reckoned he should be more aroused than he was. As it stood, his cock had managed a half chubby before quietening down to float beneath the suds, as limp and useless as the rest of him in the sultry heat of the water.

Everything ached.

There wasn't a muscle in his body that didn't feel leaden with exhaustion and soreness, but in the cradle of hot water and Price’s body, that ache had morphed into a bone-deep contentment that only came in the aftermath of extreme physical exertion. He knew his captain would feel the same physically, but his mind would still be racing through the events of the day, analysing, cataloguing, planning. The only way to switch his brain off that Ghost knew of was to melt it through his ears with a good, hard fuck. In the meantime, he could offer some paltry comfort to distract Price from whatever self-chastisement he was currently mulling over.

Ghost’s hand lifted from the water, his fingertips a little pruned, and he stroked his thumb over the soft skin on the inside of Price’s knee. His reward was an almost imperceptible shiver against his back, and a flurry of goosebumps up Price’s forearm. Ghost continued further down, as far as he could reach before he met the outside of his own hip, and caressed until Price let out a soft sigh, releasing a well of tension that saw his legs slackening around Ghost's body.

There was a certain pleasure in touching parts of Price that were usually covered. Not just the impressive cock and balls pressing to the middle of Ghost’s back, but the curve of his pecs, beneath his arms, behind his knees, down the inside of his thighs. Ghost would rip someone's arm off for a chance to spend a few hours touching and licking the places he could only get to when the captain was spread out naked in front of him, relaxed, trusting. It was intimate in a specific way that went beyond sex. Ghost wasn't sure what he'd call it, but he knew he didn't have it with anyone else.

Ghost wriggled up Price’s body, lifting enough so that his balls didn't get ground down against his spine, until the back of his head rested against his collar bone. At this height, he could tilt his face up into Price's jaw and throat, the shaggy, coarse hair of Price's beard tickling the tip of his nose, his pulse so close to his mouth that Ghost could almost taste the thrum of it. His lashes must have tickled Price’s neck, because the captain shivered again.

Powerful thighs twitched, and Ghost raked his fingers back down the top of his thigh, smoothing lines of dark hair towards Price’s knee cap. Price’s hand left the edge of the tub, and moments later he heard the muted rattle of the cigar wobble around the inside of the cup and Price's free hand tapped Ghost’s shoulder. “‘Ere, sit up, I'll do yer back."

It took a monumental amount of effort for Ghost to lever himself up. He grabbed the edges of the tub, his arse squeaking against the bottom as his legs flailed to find the momentum; his core nought but jelly and exhaustion. Once he was upright, he slouched forward, eyes lidded, as Price soaped up his hands.

The first glide of Price’s thumbs up either side of his spine made him groan. “Urf, fuck me that's good,” Ghost mumbled, head hanging between his shoulders as the soft pleasure unfurled through his torso.

Price pressed into the meat around his hips, above his arse, with an appreciative hum. “Like it when you’re a bit bigger.”

Ghost huffed a tired laugh. “You collin’ me fat, sir?”

“We really goin’ with sir when I'm starin’ down yer hairy arse crack?” Price's forehead settled between Ghost’s shoulder blades as he worked his soapy thumbs into the knots just above the waterline. It felt so good that Ghost’s toes curled against the far end of the tub, his hand kneading at Price’s thigh.

“Could get it waxed.”

“Don't you fuckin’ dare.”

Ghost grinned at the dark warning in Price's voice. He felt the scar through his lips tug, such was the scarcity of the expression on his face, and he brushed a damp hand over the stubble on his jaw. Well, it used to be. He found himself smirking more and more under his mask these days, with Johnny chattering down the Comms in his cheeky Scottish drawl. Damn boy was mental, pushed his luck, got away with far more than Ghost should let him. Ghost tried not to look too closely at why.

In the pause as Price washed himself, Ghost listened to the hurried squelch of soaped hands beneath armpits, and then the slosh of water as Price splashed it over himself. The restaraunts outside the window would be emptying soon, patrons with bellies full of Spanish cuisine would stumble to the clubs or back to their hotel rooms for early nights to fuck, then they'd watch shitty telenovelas in the afterglow.

The aftermath of a mission sometimes felt like an afterglow. In many ways, fighting was like fucking, weren't it? Physicality, and adrenalin, and arousal, just not the sexy kind unless you were a sick fuck. Ghost had thought he was for a long time when he'd get a chubby in the shower after the firefights had finished and the wounds were dressed, but it was just the adrenalin leaving his system, his body firing off all the synapses as it shook itself off and reset to standard protocols.

That was what they were both feeling now. The synapses firing, the hormones settling. They could do it here, safe with a man that understood, that had felt and thought the same; the thrill of violence, the brutality of fear, the relief of success and the sound of the exfil droning overhead. It was fraternisation. It was wrong. They'd get kicked out on a dishonourable discharge if anyone ever found out. Ghost was just glad that Price disregarded those rules the same way he did any others that inconvenienced him in pursuit of his goals.

Warm water flooded over his shoulders as Price cupped handfuls to rinse him off, his hands returning to ease down Ghost’s obliques to the meat of his belly. Ghost looked down and watched the captain's weathered fingers knead and undulate through the layer of padding covering his core, and his dick gave an interested twitch at the soft growl of appreciation he felt against his back. “Lean back, doin’ the front.”

Ghost shuffled back with another squeak of skin against ceramic so that when he leaned back this time, his head settled on Price's shoulder, Price’s hard on nestled in the divet of his spine. He watched as the bar of soap rolled through those strong hands, Price's biceps bracketing his shoulders. He was one of the few men that made Ghost feel handled, like the extra two inches of height and the bulk meant nothing. Ghost’s hands returned to Price’s thighs, his thumbs rubbing up the inside, following the dips of his muscles to the angular curve of his knee.

Price hooked his arms beneath his pits and stroked his hands over Ghost’s pectorals, his thumbs stroking around his areola until Ghost’s nipples pebbled, his cock twitching above the water line. It was pathetic really, how little tenderness it took to make it sit up and beg like a dog, and it only got keener when Price's hands moved lower, meeting on his sternum to push down to his belly button.

“Fuckin ‘ell,” Ghost groaned, turning his face into Price’s neck. He pushed close enough until he could feel the thrum of Price’s pulse against his lips, nip at it with his teeth, and was glad to find it matched his own. Two randy fuckin’ war dogs, the pair of ‘em. Price circled the base of Ghost’s cock in one hand and returned to his chest with the other, fingers and thumb pinching a pert nipple.

“Bloody love the way you get like this, Simon.”

“Like wot?” Ghost knew what he meant even as he thrust up slowly into Price’s fist, watching his foreskin glide over his glans, leaking precum mixing with soap suds. But he wanted to hear Price say it in that gruff fuckin’ voice that made heat pool in Ghost’s gut.

“Like a ruttin’ dog. Thick fuckin’ body, thick fuckin’ prick,” Price growled, squeezing with just the right pressure, his forefinger teasing Ghost’s frenulum in a delicious little circle. Wily bastard had to be good at everything, didn't he? Best in the field, best in leadership, best at giving a handy in some cheap hotel’s bath tub.

“Collin’ me a bleedin’ dog,” Ghost growled and turned in the bath, awkward, slippery, arms flailing, and snogged the amused chuckle right out of Price’s damn mouth once he'd got some purchase on the edge of the tub. His knees slid back as he ground against Price’s cock, his own slipping over it in a messy rhythm that splashed water up the sides of the bath and onto the black and white tiles of the bathroom floor. His back burned, his damn arms shook, but he needed to climb under Price’s fuckin’ skin.

Price's fingers bit into the meat of his hips, his arse, pulling him closer with a bitten out snarl of enjoyment, his head thrown back, as Ghost sucked a bruise into his neck. When he returned to Price's mouth, he sucked on his lips, his tongue, demanding and insistent, but Price shoved him away. “Out,” he grunted. “Need that weapon in me, not wastin’ it humpin' like crows at Credenhill.”

[Continued on AO3 (see notes) because Tumblr was being a bloody princess about it.]

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

1970 Chrysler 300 Hurst

One of the great unknowns about the 1970 Chrysler 300 Hurst is exactly how many cars were built. Estimates put the total as low as 485, and as high as 502 cars. Regardless of what the figure actually is, the car itself is a pretty special piece of machinery.

The 300 Hurst is a giant of a car at 19′ in length. All of the Hursts rolled off the production line finished in Spinnaker White. The cars were then shipped to the Hurst factory in Warminster, Pennsylvania, where a substantial transformation was performed. The first change to be made was the removal of the standard Chrysler steel hood skin, which was replaced with a fiberglass unit. This featured a decorative hood scoop and the obligatory set of recessed hood locks. The deck lid was also removed, and once again, a fiberglass replacement, complete with a spoiler integrated with the rear quarter panels, was also installed. The White paintwork was complimented by the addition of Satin Tan highlights and contrasting pinstripes, and the wheels were adorned with the same Satin Tan color in the centers. This Hurst is a clean car, with a small area of rust visible in the lower section of the driver’s side front fender, and surface corrosion present on the car’s underside. The Spinnaker White paint appears to be in good condition, but there has been some deterioration of the Satin Tan paint on both the hood and the deck lid. The exterior trim and chrome all look good, while the tinted glass is close to perfect.

The 300 Hurst was a premium car at a premium price, so naturally, it required a premium interior. In this case, seat upholstery was available in a single type and color. Continuing the exterior theme, the color is Saddle Tan, and the material is leather. The plush front seats are not standard 300 items but have been pilfered from the Imperial parts bin. While the original intention was for a Hurst shifter to be part of the interior features, this is something that never eventuated. The interior of this Hurst is close to perfect, with a single discolored spot on the dash pad being the most obvious fault. The rest of it presents in virtually as-new condition, and as befits a luxury car, it is loaded with luxury touches. These include air conditioning, power windows, six-way power seats, cruise control, a remote trunk release, and I think that there also might be an 8-track player hanging under the dash.

The 300 Hurst was the biggest of the muscle cars, and as such, it needed a big motor to get it moving. In this case, it is the TNT 440 engine, pumping out 375hp. The Hurst also features a 727 TorqueFlite transmission, a 3.23 rear end, power steering, power brakes, heavy-duty rear springs and front torsion bars, and sway bars. The exhaust was a full dual system, ending in quad tips. This Hurst hasn’t seen a lot of recent use, and documentation confirms that between 1986 and 2019, it managed to accumulate a grand total of 20 miles! Since being removed from its climate-controlled storage, it has undergone a meticulous mechanical check and recommissioning, and it is now said to run and drive perfectly. The owner does suggest that while the tires look good, they are pretty olds, and replacing them might be a good idea. He also says that the Hurst may need mufflers fairly soon. The car does come with a fair collection of documentation, including the original Build Sheet and Window Sticker, a pristine Certi-Card, Owner’s Manual, as well as dealer paperwork and other assorted items.

While there has always been some question surrounding the build totals for the 1970 300 Hurst, one thing is certain, and that is that there are less than 300 cars in existence today. Pristine examples can fetch sums in excess of $30,000, and even a rough example in need of restoration can still sell for anywhere around $13,000. This one doesn’t need a major restoration, but it does require some cosmetic work. I’m not sure where bidding is eventually going to go with this one, but I would suspect that it will be somewhere around the low to mid $20,000 mark. Even at that price, it probably wouldn’t be a bad buy.

[safely-in-vhagars-belly]

''Fight and Die'' Slightly darkAemond x AFAB Reader 18+ MDNI PART 6!

Aemond x fem oc/reader

Tags: Show setting, abusive brother (but its not aemond) mentioned of forced marriages and duels, mentions of parental loss.

🔷Summary: Your ancestors once betrayed the Targaryens and paid a high price. Now you are back at court with your brother, who hopes to sell you in exchange for his freedom.

🔷Author's note: It might still be a little darkish but not as dark as usual. I think this is the closest to show aemond I ever got. So he still is not a unicorn yall but he is at least imo he is decent and nice.

🔷Wordcount :3347 

Warnings below the cut

WARNINGS: Gore, mentions of assault (but it doesnt happen, and its not aemond who wants to do it) mentions of blood, gore, and violence as well as miscarriages (oc's mother)

Blood does not scare you. It once did, but not anymore.

It is liquid, water in a way. And there is nothing more natural to you than water.

Just funny coloured water that comes pouring out of your body if you are injured.

You came into this world, covered in blood as your mother bled out on the sheets, according to Fyrand. You were screaming and crying, kicking and alive. Despite Maesters feared the worst, despite your enemies hoping the worst, you came out alive. 

And you did just that.

Time and time and time again.

Whenever you see blood, it brings you back to a distant but fresh memory. Not your birth. You don’t recall what your own mother looked like. You never saw a portrait, or anything. You never dared to ask Fyrand either. Your mother is a wound that never healed.

So, another memory surfaces from the dark instead. A dark memory of you, standing on a ship, during a storm. Your brother close to you, his fingers holding a crown. Your family’s crown.

You recall how badly the ship and the men smelled. Like piss, like beer, like all unpleasant unladylike things. Like hell, if you are being honest. You never had any man eye you with desire, but in that very moment you had. The captain of the pirateship couldn’t keep his eyes off from you.

Fyrand had made a deal, selling the crown for passage to Westeros. But the Captain had decided he wanted more. He wanted you. ‘’Westeros is a boring place. It would be best to have her stay here.’’ You remember the way his crew laughed, that sickening, twisted laughter.

Fyrand has never been kind to you. But he was not stupid either. He would not give up his pawn to a mere pirate. Not when he already offered the crown of his mother.

It is funny how the gods have a sense of humor, as that man that wanted to marry you, too missed an eye. And his teeth were almost falling from his mouth, caused by rotting.

Fyrand huffed, took the crown and left the ship, dragging you with him. But you were denied access and grabbed. The captain placed his dagger against your throat. He hissed that you needed to be quiet and that Fyrand had to make a choice. ‘’Either your sister gives me her hand, or you do.’’ You weren’t sure what you ever did to that man. But you noticed a golden sealion that day. A few weeks after the attack, you found out your house tried to destroy that house. He was taking revenge for a crime none of you were even alive to remember.

You remember how you screamed when Fyrand took a sword of a crewmember and placed it at his left wrist, and just chopped. The flesh teared, blood poured and the captain finally released you as you sobbed on the deck, hearing Fyrand’s roar of pure pain and agony. The hand wasn’t off fully. It remained, tangling by pieces of flesh, as a leaf dancing in the wind. You felt your stomach turn and whatever meal you had would soon come back up. The captain approached Fyrand, grabbed his hand, and just pulled, tearing the flesh fully as Fyrand threw his head in his neck and screamed. 

After that, somehow, you were both allowed to stay. It was a uncomfortable journey for you, but no incidents had happened aside from people calling ‘’doll’’ and smirking whenever you passed. 

You and Fyrand shared one room aboard, and in that room, you stitched close his wound with a needle and ripped threads from one of your dresses. You never had stitched a wound before and Fyrand didn’t have anything to soften the pain. You were afraid at first. But you knew he would die if you didn’t get over it. So you pierced his skin and started stitching, bringing the wound flesh close, and tied it close.

It is strange.

Many years and moons have passed since that night but you can still hear your brother scream and picture his hand, the way the blood sprayed out of his hand, coloring the deck red as the pirates cheered.

Aemond does not seem to notice that you are not there anymore, but your feet become quicker as if you are a dancer that takes the lead and your breath increases. Aemond, Aemond doesn't notice. In truth, Aemond seems happy. Almost dazed, enchanted or drugged. He can't seem to stop smiling as you drag him with you, faster and faster as memories plague your mind.

You think back of the conversation the two of you had earlier. How Ser Criston was allegedly a good sword fighter. How good can he be, if he injured the Prince? “I thought you told me that Ser Criston was an excellent swordsman?” Your voice sounds snappy, angry and furious.

Aemond barely hides his chuckle. You turn around to look at him, so he can see the pain and worry in your face. The moment he sees how much this hurts and worries you, the smile dies. He steps forward. You back away at first but he bumps into you anyway. Clumsily he grabs you gently and kisses your forehead. “He is, Revaera. It was a small cut and my own fault. I got too impatient. I am many things, patient is not one of my qualities.”

You smile, mischievously and play with the pins on his shirt, touching his chest. “Someone should teach you patience. I don't want you injured.” You tell him, kissing his cheeks. 

He breaks into a grin, a stunning bright grin that lights up your entire world. You feel your cheeks warm and are pressed against his body. “Maybe you can teach me.” He whispers, seductively. You like the way he has you where he wants you to. You feel safe and relax, until you see that the wound still drips with blood. You stare at it, as the world seems to fade.

“We need a maester.” You hear Aemond say, but you don’t react. This time, he needs to drag you with him.

You and Aemond soon find the maester in his room. It is nicely decorated and as you assumed, it has dozens of books. You wonder if the Maester himself wrote anything. The maester in question is a bald man, wearing classical robes and a chain, as you suspected. He is reading a big book that lies in front of him on the desk, not paying the two of you any attention. 

That is until you speak, pushing Aemond in his direction, surprising the young prince, who stumbles on his feet, his good eye widened in surprise. ‘’He is hurt. The prince is injured.’’ You speak, your voice clear and calm.

You expect perhaps some urgency. Perhaps a worried glance. You don't expect what happens.

The maester slams his book closed, his eyes full of fear and terror as he looks at Aemond. ‘’What? Where? Show me!’ He cries out. The chair he was sitting on falls on its back and you watch, a bit flustered.

Even Aemond seems shocked.

That was perhaps not a good idea.

You feel terrible when the concerned and dutiful Maester looks at the tiny cut in Aemond’s hands. You really scared the poor man and avoid his eyes for now on. 

Aemond chuckles, smiling at you as if you are his whole world. You don’t understand why, you scared a poor man, and you also made a scene. Yet he seems to appreciate it. 

You think back of his words. Earlier, he mentioned that his father wouldn't even notice if he did not attend the supper you two skipped. What was that supposed to mean? 

The maester allows himself to calm down, sighing with relief as he takes in Aemond's injury. He looks at the cut. ‘’O. A small cut.’’ The maester says, after studying it. “Luckily it looks like a clean one. Did you injure yourself when fighting?” He asks prince Aemond.

Aemond turns his head away, so that is a yes. “It was just a scratch, but Revaera insisted.” Aemond should be annoyed or fed up with your behavior but instead he smiles adoringly at you, holding your hand in his free one as the maester looks closer at the wound.

‘’You have a protective wife, my prince.’’ The maester comments kindly. “It is Princess Revaera, is it not?” He asks you, and you can tell by his piercing glare that he knows all too well who your family is.

You nod. The maester does not say anything but his look says it all. Disapproval.“To have a Marthyralys back in the castle. Your ancestors left a colorful mark on Westeros's history books.” You know he is right. You know your ancestors killed a lot of people. But is it really the time to have that conversation? And is it really up to him to judge you for the crimes of your ancestors? 

Any other day you might have reconsidered: This man has a story, same as you. Maybe he is a family member of someone killed. Or maybe he simply wants to keep the castle and the royal family safe.

But you can't stop the words rolling off your tongue. You can’t stop the fire that burns in your veins. “So did any family worth their salt.”

The maester makes a disapproving grimace. Next to you, Aemond nods approvingly as his wound is cleaned, smirking proudly.

The Maester turns to Aemond, tying the bandage over his cutted hand. “A fierce wife. You do best to muzzle her. I'm not so sure Westeros is ready for such a free spoken woman.” You wonder instantly if the Targaryens knew you were hiding in Pentos. You told Aemond, you assume the court knew but why does a Maester know this? A maester, who knows everything about curing a illness….

And causing one.

You look at Aemond and he seems to know you caught on too, quickly scratching behind his ear and turning his head away once more. You will talk with him about that. But you have another problem. The Maester is right. 

You embarrassed Aemond. You spoke out of line. You threw a tantrum like some little girl. You disappointed him beyond words.

Aemond speaks, and you can't even look at him. You really aren't cut out to be a Princess. “She has become quite fierce. I don't mind it one bit, however. She can speak however she wishes.” He says, fierce and protective. He kisses your knuckles as a token of appreciation and love. Then his gaze hardens when he looks at the Maester. “Westeros might not be ready for her, but she is ready for Westeros. Whether it likes it or not; Here she is and here she'll stay. Am I understood?” You beam, pleased as the Maester visibly cowers, afraid of the temper of the Prince.

You see the Maester gulp and know that Aemond has made his point very clear.  “Yes, my prince.” The maester mutters.

Aemond smiles, barely hiding his pride, that you are his wife. ‘’I am truly blessed. My princess has enough worries on her mind. She does not need this as well.” there is a barely hidden warning there. The maester must not disturb you.

The maester does as he is told, and you and Aemond soon leave his rooms. You walk back with him, your left hand into his injured right one. You try not to think of how your brother lost his own hand. But that is difficult.

You two walk in a peaceful silence and when Aemond speaks, you nearly jump out of your skin. “How has your day been?” You think back of your talk with Fyrand. A baby must soon be made. A child. A heir. And you hate how your memories keep haunting you, whenever you see blood.

And there’s something else.

On your wedding day, Princess Rhaenyra said something that haunts you still. She said she had her ‘’own’’ maesters. Is that a good thing? Or a bad thing? And can you even trust them? And why did she tell you, of all people?

Aemond is unaware your thoughts are gathering and forming a storm in your head. “What hobby did you pick?” He asks Excited to know your answer  as you remain silent.  You freeze. You had forgotten all about that. You would try to find something to entertain yourself. To bring him joy, rest, and so that he doesn’t have to worry when doing his duties.

Some wife you are.

“Uhm, well…I…” You laugh first then you become nervous, as the walls seem to close around you and your breath quickens. 

You laugh, begin to breathe harder and eventually you become dizzy. You sway on your feet and begin crying as the air is taken from your lungs, as you collapse to the ground.

Aemond is shocked at first. He kneels down by you right away however. “Calm, my love. I am not mad. Calm.” He whispers, holding you by your wrists, gently so you may be free any moment you want. He also allows you room to breathe and takes deep breaths with you. You follow his example and soon you feel better and calm and stand back up, with his help.

He kisses you after you have stopped crying too. “I had a change of heart. If it truly makes you that anxious to be outside of my rooms, if it truly upsets you so much…” He swallows and looks at the tiles, clearly ashamed he encouraged you.

That's all he did. Encourage you. To be free. To be happy. To let your trauma go. To live your life. Maybe he is right. “No, maybe you were right. Maybe I need this push.” You speak.

He shakes his head. “I don't want to become someone you fear or worse, hate.” He whispers. 

You could never hate him. “You were only worried for my own wellbeing and safety. You were right, Aemond. I can't stay cooped up in your rooms as some chicken.” No matter how safe you feel there. “No matter how comfortable your bed is.” You add, to jest. He takes it well and laughs, grinning.

Aemond helps you stand, testing if you can remain on your own two feet before letting you go. “How about we try to find something fun to do tomorrow? I never showed you the city. We can do that, should you wish for it.” King's Landing.

You have never seen it. Only heard stories. Stories of fierce men and dangerous dragons and treason and loyalty. “Your ancestors built this city side by side with mine. I know my family wants to erase you from our accomplishments. I know your ancestor was a great traitor. But he is not the only Marthyralys that lived. There are dozens before him that advised and counseled my family…” He is right. You know he is.

But…

Seeing your own history…

You aren’t sure you are ready for that.

Your ancestors might have build this city…

But they build it over the grave of millions.

Is it truly something to be proud of?

But Aemond doesn’t seem to know shame when it comes to history. “So, you could learn your history and ancestry, should you wish it.” He finishes a bit shy, and that makes you understand how important this is to him. He wants to show you the city he grew up in. He wants to spend time with you and to hold your hand as you walk through stinking streets as two ordinary people in love.

“Is that even allowed?” You ask. You doubt his father will approve. The king hates you, you are certain of it. And to have a Marthyralys wonder the streets, learn about Targaryen secrets and plots…

He chuckles. “I'm the Prince. You are the Princess. Asides, how can we learn from our mistakes if we do not acknowledge them?” He asks, and there he makes a good point.

Still, you aren’t sure. “That is true.” You mutter.

He breaks into a grin, victorious at last. “It stands then.” He kisses your cheeks and you are reminded of what you and Fyrand discussed. His baby. Aemond kisses increase as he leaves a trail of kisses on your collarbone, his smile something between a smirk and a smile as he softly pins you against the walls of the hallway, quickly looking around for servants or any other witnesses.

You tremble. And just like that, the spell is broken.

Aemond's good eye closes suspiciously, and the sweet kisses end. “What is it?” It is terrifying how well he can read you already.

You know he wants a baby.

You know so.

And you can’t say that you don’t want that. That you can’t want that. That you are terrified of dying like your mother. “Nothing.” 

He scoffs, concern written all over his face as his body language changes from excited to worry. “There clearly is. Tell me what is the matter? I do wish us to discuss this.” You nod, and Aemond allows you to leave the wall. 

You go to his bedchamber, tears burning in your eyes and you hear his footsteps, never that far behind you.

Aemond closes the door and waits for you to explain yourself. You sit down on his bed, sniffling.  “Fyrand has been pressuring me about a baby.” You admit.

At first he is confused. “A baby?”

You wipe away at your tears, furiously that this makes you so upset. Giving Aemond a child, an heir, making princes and princesses, it should be the highest honor. So why does this terrify and hurt you so deeply? “Yes. A heir for you. For your father too.” You blurt out.

Aemond raises a brow.

“You want to carry my father's heir?”

You would rather die. Disgusted, you shake your head. “No! I meant, I'd give you a son, and him a grandchild. According to Fyrand that will disincrease the hate he has for me.’’

Aemond scoffs, and you can tell he does not agree with that idea. He scoffs at Fyrand, not you. “My brother thought the same thing for a while. But nothing will please that old buffalo.” You keep crying. No matter how eager you are to stop.

Aemond sighs, and he soon joins you on the bed, sitting next to you. He grabs your hands, where you are pulling your skin, to stop just that. “I know it is expected of both of us to soon present our child at court.” You nod at his words.

But he grabs your hands tightly and kisses your knuckles. “But I want us to have that child, when you want to have a child.” You are shocked. 

He continues, storking your belly through your gown. “I want you to glow, beam of pride and joy and to stroke and caress your belly and to love our child. I want you to be ready for it.” He says. 

You can’t believe this.

And so you won’t. “But what of your legacy? The Targargen line? Don't you want my baby?” You ask. You can’t imagine Aemond being fine with his line dying out. You just can’t.

He grins, and you can tell he is hiding something from you. He cares. He cares so badly, about having his legacy, about having this child with you. He is hiding his own darkest desires, his own insidious thoughts. ‘’I want you. I married you. I didn't marry your title. I didn't marry your bloodline. But you, Revaera.’’ You tear up, lips trembling as you wrap your arms around his neck, burying yourself in the safety of his arms. “It's alright, my love. Just let it out.” He whispers, holding you. ‘’We will find a way. I just know we will.’’ You nod, and you wonder just how much he believes his own lies. 

/TRAILER CAME OUT

so uh

IM SCARED xD