The Ocean

2 ibuprofen and dick from that old man would fix me

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

I see a lot of childhood best friend headcanons for gaz, soap, and ghost, but never price.

I need that old man running into “the girl next door” that he lost touch with ages ago. The one that got away after you both grew up and life got busy. I need him making contact after 10, 15 years. I need him pulling you into a tight, overly familiar hug when you meet up at an out of the way cafe. I need him reminiscing about long summers spent together as kids and teens: riding your bikes all over town, swimming at the community pool, buying ice cream with your pocket change, all while you smile and laugh. Because, honestly, you haven't been this happy in ages.

Stalking your socials didn’t quite scratch the itch for him like it used to. It used to be enough to swipe through your photos and imagine being there. On dates in cute little pubs and parks. Taking you on surprise sunny little holiday getaways. Putting a ring on your finger.

That one hurt. Really fucking hurt. He tried to be happy for you, grimacing as he swiped through picture after picture, one gushing congratulation after another. He really did. You’re almost too beautiful in your wedding pictures; airbrushed and photoshopped to perfection in your white gown as you gaze lovingly at your new husband on the chapel steps. Bastard doesn't know how lucky he is.

Well, was.

So what if a sick part of him twists when suddenly that album is deleted, hubby’s name disappears from your profile, and your relationship status updates to “single”? He lays careful traps, small bits of bait to lead you right where he wants. Then, he waits patiently for the noose to tighten, the cage to clatter down around you. You tell the whole sad tale as he nods, pretending not to know every detail already. How you tried to make it work. About your regrets. Maybe things moved too fast because you pushed for a commitment, you say as you laugh through tears.

Or, he suggests as he lays a heavy hand over yours, maybe he wasn’t right in the head because he’d marry you in a heartbeat. Your laugh then is musical. His heart soars. He let you slip out of his hands once, when he was too young and stupid to know better, but he won’t let that happen again. You let him wax poetic about life and loss. He knows what it really means to have your life on the line, he says, to fight like hell and somehow come out the other side. So, he continues, eyes casually following the swirling dregs at the bottom of his cup with your hand still clasped in his, you'd never have to fight for him. Never.

"Skeletá doesn't sound like Ghost" it's literally an album about the beauty of life and death and also demons and vampires fucking nasty, get real.

GUYS. IS THIS A SAFE PLACE TO THIRST OVER SAMUEL WITH BEARD!?

please write your reader insert however you want to. unabashedly!! write fat reader. black reader. asexual. masculine. tall. trans. disabled. you’re allowed to see yourself reflected in these spaces!!! sometimes your fic won’t be for everyone—it will be for all the people who look, think, love and experience life the way you do and that’s ok! it’s wonderful, actually.

it is not your job to make sure the shoe comfortably fits every single person out there. your only job is to tag it, and if anyone tells you otherwise I’ll personally come out swinging lol

John price is hot

Accommodation I should have: someone to follow me around and whisper in my ear, medieval court advisor style, how to correctly respond when presented with different social situations

"My liege, that was a rhetorical question you just heard. Do not answer it."

What about Simon on a mission injured, with his pretty little nurse, who everyone knows because of her temper, but is so so submissive with him?

MDNI 18+

cw: brief mentions of gunshot wound, oral (m) receiving

“fuck, i did a bad one didn’t i luvie?” simon grunted as he sat shirtless on the bed, his wound bandaged up. it wasn’t a secret that simon took an interest in you, after all he was mainly surrounded by men and not pretty women like you. “you should’ve been more careful, any deeper and you could’ve bled out badly,” your voice soft but slightly stern, as if you were trying to hide your concern.

a lazy smile formed on his face, “s’not like i could’ve avoided a gunshot wound easily, ‘m not that good.” captain price walked into the room, his shoulders relaxing under the heavy uniform when he saw simon. “bet yer getting a good lashin from the nurse eh? she’s got quite an attitude.”

oh, if only they knew.

you stayed the night at the medical facility, a lame excuse of spending more time with simon. “you’re injured, the last thing you would want is to do some strenuous activities,” you mumbled, trying to keep yourself occupied so he wouldn’t see the faint blush on your cheeks. “awh come on luvie, yer old man is injured and you can’t provide some sort of relief?” his voice soft as he gently tugged you towards him.

“just a few bounces won’t hurt.”

“or you can blow me.”

he winced when you gently smacked his chest, “come on luvie, ‘m a strong man i know my limits.” his large hands gently rubbed along your sides, your thin uniform barely doing anything to hide the shivers. “everyone talks about yer feisty mouth, about time i see it hm?”

it was funny hearing his task mates talk about your attitude, but yet you were all gooey eyed for him whenever he snuck into your room late at night, making you cock drunk. a few thrusts in your little cunt and you would do whatever he says - literally simon says, it was pathetically cute.

“gonna suck my cock pretty nurse? or do i have to fuck it in my hands in front of you?”

he knew exactly what you were going to chose.

“atta girl,” he hissed as you knelt by the flimsy medical bed, his large tatted hand holding up your hair in a pony tail. “gotta stuff that pretty lil mouth every once in a while after givin’ everyone some attitude.”

you gagged slightly when you took him too deeply, drooling all over his cock and making a mess on your hands. “take yer time luvie, no one is gonna see us,” simon cooed softly at the pathetic sight of you. god, everyone knew about how fiery you were but here you are on your knees sucking simon off.

“fuck luvie ‘m gonna cum,” he grunted as his hips thrusted slightly, the feeling of your warm mouth milking him dry. eventually he spilt all of it in your mouth, a string of saliva connecting from your mouth to the tip of his cock.

“such a pretty girl, someone’s gotta tame you hm?”

simon gently smearing the cum that dribbled down his cock along your plush swollen lips, making them glossy. gently he slipped his thumb in, you obediently sucking it. “got yer real good hm?”

tag list: @happysmappy @mydickishuge560 @prettyinpink-bimbo @dolli333 @madebyyicarus @l-otti @butlerslut @vampwifee @i-wanabe-yours @bluebarrybubblez @cinnamongrl2006 @akkahelenaa @yanfeiiiiii @actualpoppy @lilyalone

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