‘you Attract What You Fear’ Oh My God I’m So Scared Of Men With Big Brown Eyes

This is so dinner in america core.

The prompt was ‘detention.’

you ask, i deliver! here's ghost.. maybe not quite moaning, but something close enough ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) whole thing lovingly crafted from his official voicelines.

[enjoyed? reblog! <3]

It's so nice being on tumblr because you don't even have to make your own post but people would still follow you anyways if you're good at rebloging posts they like

HAVE U SEEN THE AUDITION VIDEOS OF NEIL ELLICE GOING “i’m a feminist, i wanna put a woman on top… and on her back.. and on her knees”???? WHEN I TELL YOU I WAS F E R A L!!!!

YES I HAVE

IM STILL HEALING FROM IT

Still Home

Pairing: John Price x Reader (Established Marriage)

Synopsis: Years have passed, and the house has changed with time—but the love inside it never has. John Price, older now, slower perhaps, still loves you with the same fire he had when it all began. Through lazy mornings, holidays filled with chaos, and quiet evenings curled on the couch, this is the story of a lifetime of love that never stopped growing.

Warnings: Heavy fluff, established relationship, aging, emotional intimacy, domestic comfort, family life, nostalgia and warmth, implied canon divergence, lots of soft kissing and affection.

The house had aged, but it wore the years kindly. The white picket fence had faded to a mellow ivory. The front steps creaked just a bit louder in the winter. And the rose bush by the kitchen window—planted on a spring afternoon not long after you moved in—now curled up toward the eaves, a cascade of soft pink blooms that never failed to bloom first on your anniversary.

The front room was warm, even in the chill of late autumn. The old couch was threadbare on the corners, soft where it mattered, and still just the right size for two people who never seemed to mind being close.

You sat curled against John’s side, your legs draped over his lap, book in hand, glasses low on your nose. His arm was around your shoulder, warm and steady, his hand tracing lazy circles on your arm like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. The kind of touch that came after decades of knowing someone’s skin better than your own.

John sipped from his chipped navy mug, the one that said World’s Okayest Tea Brewer—a Father’s Day gift from your daughter, smudged slightly from years in the dishwasher. His beard was more salt than pepper now, his frame broader with age, slower in movement but still powerful in presence. That same commanding steadiness. That same protective warmth that once made you fall fast and foolishly, back when you were just two young souls tumbling headfirst into a forever neither of you fully understood yet.

“Cold in here, love?” he asked, voice low and warm, eyes flicking to the window, where the wind tapped at the glass.

“Not with you here,” you murmured, not looking up from your book.

He smiled, and it creased the corners of his eyes just like it used to, only now the lines were deeper—earned, not worn. “Still got that silver tongue.”

“Still fall for you every time,” you replied, soft and true.

He leaned in and kissed your temple, lingering for a second longer than necessary. You hummed. You always did.

Even after all these years, the house held the echoes of your lifetime.

The hallway was a gallery of portraits—framed school photos, vacation candids, weddings, the kids’ graduations. There was one from your thirtieth anniversary in the center of it all: you in a soft blue dress, John in a suit that never quite fit right anymore, your grandchildren laughing wildly in front of you while your children tried (and failed) to pose them properly.

Down in the laundry room, there was a wall that neither of you could bring yourselves to paint over. The pencil lines still climbed the plaster beside the doorway, names and ages scrawled in two different handwritings—Martin and Ellie, their heights recorded every birthday from age one to eighteen. You’d watched them pass each other up, centimetre by centimetre. You still ran your fingers over the lines sometimes when you were down there folding towels, and John always smiled when he caught you.

“They still come home,” you’d said just last week, your chin on his shoulder as you both stood there staring at the wall. “Even now. They come back.”

“They always will,” he said, his voice full of quiet certainty. “It’s home.”

Their rooms had changed over the years. No more posters or glow-in-the-dark stars. The beds had been replaced with guest mattresses, the desks with shelves for books and folded blankets. But there were still old toy boxes in the closets. A few forgotten jackets on the hooks. And whenever the family came over—loud and sprawling and full of chaos—they all still knew where their place was.

The holidays were dangerous in the best way. The grandkids groaned every year about how “gross” you two were.

“Mum, Dad’s staring at her like he’s twenty again,” Martin had complained, mock-suffering, one Christmas Eve while John was cutting vegetables with one hand and gently stroking your back with the other.

“She winked at him. WINKED. I’m emotionally scarred,” Ellie once declared, covering her children’s eyes like it was a scandalous soap opera.

But they always smiled when they said it. Because there was something achingly comforting about the way you and John looked at each other. Like there was no one else in the room. Like the love hadn’t aged a day.

And truthfully—it hadn’t. It had just… deepened. Stretched out into the quiet corners of your life. Into late-night grocery runs. Into slow Sunday mornings. Into the way he tucked your reading glasses into your book when you dozed off, or the way you brewed his tea exactly how he liked it, even after forty years of arguments over the “right” amount of sugar.

Even now, as the wind picked up outside and the lights dimmed in the living room, the only thing that mattered was the warmth of his body under yours, the rhythm of his breathing, and the quiet murmur of his voice.

“Still happy?” he asked you once, voice so soft you almost missed it.

You looked up from your book, tilted your head, and smiled at the man who had loved you through everything—war, children, quiet nights, wild ones, wrinkles and graying hair and all.

“More than I ever thought I could be,” you said.

And he kissed you.

Not because it was habit.

Not because the kids were gone and you finally had the house to yourselves again.

But because after all this time, he still couldn’t help it.

Because loving you was the only thing that ever came easy to John Price.

taglist: @honestlymassivetrash @pythonmoth @kittygonap @rainyjellybear @anonymouse1807 @twoandahalfdimes

at least I've had a big glow up since then

Simon doesn't do girlfriends. He's not hanging out or going on dates or buying you flowers or food or hairpins.

It's just...well he might accidentally stop by to get chinese takeouts and might see to buy shiny pin and other things you have saved in, and well, he just might think of you in everything he sees.

And god forbid a woman staying in his house ?! Taking over his clothes and frowning at the lack of furniture and pictures on wall and dull curtains.

No, that's absurd. But...well he might take you to ikea and might indulge in your ifs and buts and might get you something which makes your eyes glimmer and might take you home —to spend all evening assembling it, taking his time telling you how to turn allen key, the click of dowel, the wood quality, the torque of screws.

He might let you stay after and give him shoulder massage, might let you hold his face from behind and turn his neck to kiss him square on mouth.

He might buy frames for all the polaroids of you in his sweats, or stirring the pot, or looking at your laptop, and the one where you're draped on his shoulder might be the one he caresses with his thumb every so often.

He might go to that pottery place you gushed about and might sit behind you with his hands pressed onto yours and might make a ( heart shaped ?! ) cup with his and yours initials carved and baked and painted into the beautiful clumsy thing.

He might drink his morning coffee to whiskey in that cup only.

He might get a second key.

He might put those shampoos you smell so much of, in his cabinets.

He might change the dull curtains to your favourite colour.

He might just upside down his whole world for you to take a look around and smile.

And well Simon doesn't really do girlfriends, but he might just die if it's not your yapping he falls asleep to, with your hair poking his chin and gibberish of all day long ending to a soft sweet sigh — goodnight baby.

Masterlist

i need new simon riley fic accounts so pls use this post as a little chain and tag your favs hehe 🤭

Barry studies

ghost who always have a grey, heavy, uninterested air about him but one day he comes to work, and he's got something behind his ribs clawing to be let loose. his teeth are clenched, his eyes sharp. his orders bite harder, his patience runs thinner, and the recruits feel it but don't understand it.

and it's all because you couldn't lie back and get eaten out like every other morning. it was routine. ingrained. automatic. ghost slips under the covers, dips his head between your thighs, and laps at your sex until you leave the mess he loves best— the slick, saturated spot he'd sniff while still wet. (can't blame me, luvie. it's sweet.)

you'd gotten up, thrown your clothes on in a hurry, and had been out the door, keys in hand, before he could get a word in.

unacceptable.

(kyle later catches him and asks him if he skipped breakfast or something. not by choice is what ghost tells him.)