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#I think about that show every day

crow-with-a-pencil · 2 years

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13, 14, and 18 for the soft asks

13: what's your favorite comfort food?

Waffles topped with strawberries! There's never been a time they didn't immediately make the day better

14: favorite feel-good show?

100% "How to Keep a Mummy"! A sort of obscure anime (i thinks it's on crunchyroll?) about taking care of some mythical creatures and it's just the cutest most wholesome show I've ever experienced. In relation to the next question, I have a plushie of one of the characters:

^^^^ Very huggable 10/10

18: Do you still love stuffed animals?

*looks at the djungelskog sitting next to me* perhaps.

#corvid answers #I think about that show every day #isao my beloved <3 #I have a small plush mummy too BUT ITS NOT HERE >:(#thanks for sending an ask *hands you a plushie*

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blazeturbo102 · 3 months

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Hey, remember when they made Hen confirm that the way Buck and Eddie work with 0 personal space all the time isn't actually normal and it's just a Them thing!?

Insanity

#guess they'll just work on top of each other when they get together #buddie #911 tv show #911 abc #911 show #eddie diaz #evan buck buckley #evan buckley #stuff I still think about every day

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hauntingbutch · 7 months

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my dealer: got some straight gas for you. this strain is called “the truman show” you’ll be zonked out of your gourd

me: yeah whatever man i don’t feel shit

me five minutes later: there is a massive conspiracy controlling every aspect of my life and everyone i know is in on it

my buddy marlon: think about it, truman. if everyone was in on it…. i would be in on it too

#eli.txt #the truman show #is this anything. i think about this every day

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ghouljams · 9 months

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Yes- hi- hello, tis I, the moth that will ram into your window :3

Anyway

My brainrot for Fae!Price is so hhhhhgggnnnn and I've backed myself into a corner by crafting the idea of Witch Darling trying to fluster Price in return for all the times he's done so to her. Like- they're just doing their daily thing and Price pulls out a cigar but Witch just snaps her fingers and lights it for him and he's like "Why'd you do that?" And Witch immediately follows up nonchalantly "Pretty boys shouldn't have to light their own cigars."

And Price is fucking floored

Like- he's had experience with people flirting with him, especially debtors trying to get a better deal when talking to him, but when it's coming from Witch?

GOD DAYUM

Okay back to lurking for me, take care of yourself and drink water if you haven't already. I will find a way I to your house and bring you water if you don't <3

Hi, hi, hello! I am taking care of myself! Had a good birthday and didn't write anything which was very weird but very nice to have a break. I return with Witch and Price because I desperately miss writing for them.

I've had this idea of Witch showing up at the 141's usual bar and causing trouble and this is the perfect ask for it. Here's Witch being well... far too pretty for her own good, and Price being a terribly weak man for her. Witch's dress is based on one from 1964's "What a Way To Go" which has some of the most spectacular textile artistry I've ever seen.

Price's knuckles drag up your back as you lean against the bar to order a drink. You're not used to this many eyes on you, but it's worth it for the single pair of cool blues that study you like they've never seen you before. His fingers hook in the double line of pearls that trail down your spine to your skirt, thumb counting over every one before his fingers reach the sleek silk of your dress.

"Can I buy you a drink?" You ask him, Price's eyes follow his hand where it hovers over your bare skin. More than you think he's ever seen of you. You like throwing him off, it's rather fun seeing him at a loss for words.

"Fuck sweetheart, buy the whole bar for all I care," he presses his hand against you, spreads his fingers wide against the small of your back. Each one a threatening display of his adoration. "What're you doing here?" He can't ignore the stares anymore than you can. A witch in a fae bar, your back exposed, vulnerabilities on display, you can feel the hunger that rolls through the room. You're not as easy a target as they'd all like to think.

"Good looking guys like you shouldn't buy their own drinks, so here I am."

"Here you are," Price breathes, you like the heat in his eyes. It's hard to match him, you aren't exactly flirty. Not by nature at least, and you don't have his easy self assurance. You're confident in yourself, but not quite in the same interpersonal sense. Still, if anything was going to set you up for success it would be Price. His eyes, his touch, there's something to having his attention so fully focused on you. A room full of people and yet you're the only two in it that can touch each other.

You signal the bartender for two of whatever Price drinks, watching him pull a cigar from his pocket in your periphery. You snap your fingers to conjure a flame and hold your hand out to him. The little red flame flickering on your pointer finger dances happily as he takes your hand and holds it to his cigar. You try not to be too flustered when he moves his cigar to extinguish your flame on his tongue. The slick muscle curling around your finger, making a heat coil in your stomach. He settles your hand on his shoulder, forces you to turn on your stool to watch him press his lips to the inside of your arm.

"You almost make me wanna wear a suit," he sounds, hm, it's an admission, but not one that lines up with his actual words. Not a lie, never a lie, a rephrasing of a truth. He almost makes you want to ask.

"You'd look good in a suit," is all you can think to say.

"You look good in white," he responds, the hand on your back tugs you off your seat. You do your best to avoid stepping on his toes as he pulls you to stand, turns your back against the bar, and boxes you in. A physical barrier between you and the open room, Price's strong arms rest on either side of you, his fingers tapping the bar as you stare up at him. You're supposed to be making him flustered. You really have to up your game.

You slide your hand from his shoulder to his chest, feeling the firm muscle there, the slight give of his skin and the tension your touch brings to him. There's a tightness in his jaw when you look up at him, a flinty edge to his eyes as he watches the bartender.

"What're you thinking about pretty boy?" You ask. He blinks, surprised, and looks at you. His eyes trace over you, gaze sliding like magma over your form. You try to keep your breaths even, try not to be affected by him. When he looks at you like that you can't help wanting more of him.

Your fingers slide down his chest to hook in his belt loops, and Price draws a shuddering breath. He cannot talk to you like this. Whatever has gotten into you is bad for his health. Whatever has gotten onto you as well. He takes a long drag of his cigar, tries to keep his eyes off the cling of silk against your chest. Made much more difficult when his smoke takes it upon itself to fall over you, slide down the soft curves of your body so he can feel the shape of you.

What's he thinking about? You, always you. In every position, you.

The bartender sets two whiskey glasses between his hands, behind you. Their eyes rest too long on your exposed shoulders. Price gives them a warning growl, enjoys the way it rips from his throat, the way your fingers tug ever so slightly in response. You tip your head back to see what he's growling at and- God you are just- a tease, that's what you are. The way your neck stretches for him, the way your lips part, your back arches. He tips your head forward again, keeps your pretty little self contained and off the bar.

"Are both of these for me?" He rasps, God he hopes so, could use all the liquor he can get.

"One's mine." Are you keeping your voice low like that because you want to drive him mad? It's working.

"You even like whiskey?" He's never seen you drink, but he would bet you're preferential to something sweeter.

"I can drink it, if that's what you're asking," you twist to grab your glass, and quickly tip its contents into his. Price takes another long drag of his cigar watching you raise the glass to your lips and take a sip. You lower it with a sigh, your lipstick staining the edge. You hold the glass out to him, or up for him, as he exhales.

Oh you are sweet the way you breathe in his smoke.

Price takes the glass from your fingers and keeps his eyes on yours as he takes a drink. He savors the way you watch him, how focused you are even with your eyes lidded. He hands the glass back, and watches you swallow a pull of the amber liquor as he smokes. When you lower the cup from your lips he tips your head back with a gentle finger under your chin, leaning down to hover his mouth over yours and breathe. He feels you pull his smoke into your lungs, feels where it escapes your lips to curl over your cheeks, your jaw, soft magic to make your head spin. His favorite kind.

"You're awfully forward tonight little Witch," he hums, feeling you tilt your head, just barely brush his lips with your own.

"Trying to give you a taste of your own medicine," your honesty always hits him between the ribs, Price smiles, "is it working?"

"Perfectly," he feels your tongue flick against his lip, catching a last hint of whiskey, and his hand wraps around your neck. God what you do to him. "The things I would do for you," he breathes, you're testing his resolve. Lucky he hasn't spun you around and pressed you against this bar. It wouldn't be the first time someone had gotten what they deserved in here.

"Don't you mean to me?" You smile, he can feel the curve of your smile, so tantalizingly close.

"No," he takes a half step closer, feels you press yourself top to toe against him, "I mean on my knees, with my tongue, with my fingers, with my cock, with whatever you asked for. For. You."

You shudder against him so nicely. A valiant effort, he thinks, but how could you ever think you could beat him at his own game?

#cod x reader #x reader #1fae1 #john price x reader #captain john price #captain price x reader #captain price x oc #captain price cod #captain price #john price x oc #oc: witch #x oc #cod x oc #Witch has a fairly conservative style except when she wants to show off #and then all bets are off #i think about this dress every goddamn day #and i know Price will be thinking about it forever too #Witch you are so lucky this man has the self control of a saint

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add1ctedt0you · 5 months

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The Untamed - Episode 19

Throughout the night, he [Jiang Cheng] had somehow managed to sleep a couple of times. The first reason was that, having been too tired from crying himself weak, he couldn't help from passing out. The second reason was that he still had the hope that this might be a nightmare. He couldn't wait to wake up after some rest and open his eyes to find himself lying inside of his room back in Lotus Pier. His father would be wiping his sword in the main hall. His mother would be angry again and complaining, scolding Wei Wuxian who winked in a funny way. His sister would be in the kitchen, thinking as hard as she could about what to make today. His shidi would be refusing to do their morning lessons properly and jumping around.

The Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation, Chapter 59, Poisons- Part Four

#This crappy gifset is born to show that the 'look how different cql!jc is from mean novel!jc' advertisement is exaggerated lol #look there! jc always yearns for his family! Like. While cql!jc dreams of his family in a 'better light'#Novel!jc dreams of his real crappy family lol. which is understandable when you think that #Novel!jc is a bit sadder lmao. he probably got hugged 5 times by his father while cql!jc at least seven times #The fact is that novel!jc doesn't have a lot of scenes in particular in the present but he is mentioned a lot in an unflattering way #because novel!wwx has jc brainrot #but he's bitter and resentful so his thoughts are quite mean lol #I've read so many 'I don't want to read the novel because I fear I won't like jc'#My point is that approaching the novel you shouldn't worry about jc lol #jiang cheng #*mgifs #Uh. Tbc. Both dreams are set after lotus pier's fall #Also. Another thing to understand novel!jc is to remember that he grows up with novel!wwx who doesn't like when people - in particular men-#cry in front of him #This is not to say there aren't differences obv. But tbh the propaganda is exaggerated #Anyway. In every canon jc is not having a good day

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asliceofzosan · 4 months

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thinking of zoro who doesn't buy flowers for sanji on valentines day but he comes back home with crates full of unique ingredients sanji's been hoping to taste for ages.

or zoro who takes mental note of every little thing sanji touches in the market but regretfully doesn't buy, every piece of fruit or expensive grain his fingers graze over, and doesn't care that his debt with nami will drive him into an early grave – because when sanji isn't looking, he buys them for him.

or the zoro who Does buy flowers. but not for sanji. the zoro who bestows a bouquet of lilies, chrysanthemums, and carnations every year into sanji's hands as delicately as he would lay his swords to rest for the night. they're never really arranged in the most aesthetic way. he only finds the flowers and ties them together with twine and the occasional ribbon.

zoro who buys a valentines bouquet for sanji's mother – who has never gotten a single flower from her husband her whole life and not even on the day she died. the zoro who sanji knows sora would adore. he buys the flowers sanji wishes he gave her and he keeps them in a vase in the galley until the petals aren't as vibrant as the day he got them.

#happy valentines day this came about because my mom called me her forever valentine #after my dad passed away i was always very sad that she will never have a special valentine #so every year i buy her flowers so that even if she doesnt have a romantic valentine #she has me #i think zoro would do the same for sora despite never meeting her #because his form of devotion is not just Knowing what sanji loves #but showing respect for the person sanji loves the most #zosan #roronoa zoro #sanji #vinsmoke sora #niki's fics: flowers

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lovesickeros · 2 days

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☆ de fontaine

{☆} characters furina {☆} notes cult au, imposter au, drabble, gender neutral reader {☆} warnings angst, suicidal thoughts, hurt / no comfort {☆} word count 1.4k

This wasn't fair. This wasn't fair. This wasn't fair!

She thought, for one moment, she could put the mask down and breathe – for one moment of daydreaming, she thought she could just be Furina. She thought she would finally get to live the live she should've had in the first place, the life she threw away to play God to an audience who saw her as nothing but a circus animal, dancing to their whims. Furina just wanted to be selfish for one brief and fleeting moment..and it was gone before she could even grasp it in her hand. A comet soaring past far out of her reach.

She can barely keep her hands from violently shaking as she looks down at them – broken and bloody and more a corpse then a person – and she feels so numb she can't even feel the rain pelting against her back. None of this is fair, she wants to scream, why is it always me? But her voice is silent beneath the torrent of rain. She wonders if the ocean would take her if she sank into it's depths – just for a moment, she wonders how it would feel to finally be able to sleep at ease.

Furina is tired.

But Furina is nothing if not useful, isn't she?

So she forces her feet to move, dragging against the stone beneath her heels, and drags their bloodied body into the nearest empty building, letting the rain do the work of washing away the smeared blood following her path. The smell makes her feel sick, the feeling of it sticking to her hands and gloves makes her lightheaded, but she persists. Because Furina is useful, because Furina won't let them die out in the rain, because Furina won't stand by and just let them rot on the streets like some..pest.

Furina wants to go home. She wants to sleep and she isn't she if she wants to wake up, this time. But she keeps going anyway.

Because it's all she's ever done, and the habit sticks.

An Archon she may not be, not anymore, but the expectations of five hundred years still linger like eyes on the inside of her skull. They watch her, pry and prod at her thoughts, mocking laughter and judging eyes following her as she forces herself to dance to the song they weave with glee. Furina never stepped off that stage – she's still there, she thinks, watching the crowd stare at her in disdain as the curtain call looms above her like a guillotine. She still hears Neuvillette deliver her damnation and salvation with a trembling voice, still feels her hair stand on end when electro crackled like the crack of the whip, Clorinde's blade aimed at her like a loaded gun.

She's trapped on that stage and she never left, not really.

She hates it. She thinks she hates them, but it's not their fault. They didn't ask for this, didn't ask for everyone to turn against them, didn't ask for her to save them. Neither did she..yet here they are, she thinks.

She tries to tell herself she's in control this time, though. She can stop performing her part in this horrible, bloody play any time she wants. It makes her feel better, just for a little while, if she convinces herself she's still Furina, painfully human.

And Furina has always been good at lying.

It's the believing that's the hard part.

There isn't time for her to wallow in her own self pity, though. They're still bleeding out onto the dusty, creaky floorboards of some random, broken down house and she's just standing there as the blood stains the wood. She can fix it – she's good at fixing things. She's done nothing but fix things – try to, anyway – for five hundred years. She can fix a little wound, how hard could it be? Her hands are clenched so tight they ache as she kneels down, wincing at the creak of the floorboards beneath her heels– she hesitates just long enough to wonder if she's making a mistake before she peels away just enough of the outer layer of their clothes to see the deep, bloody gash across their chest. She tries not to think about it – it's deep, too deep, and she feels dizzy just looking at it, but she's handled worse, right?

Furina can fix it. That's what she's good at.

She doesn't feel so confident when she tries to wrack her brain for..something. Five hundred years, and a little wound stumps her? No, she had to have learned something, right? She's decidedly not trying to buy time because she's panicking, parsing through hundreds of years of memories like flipping through a book. Furina isn't made for this, not really – she's running on nothing but adrenaline and she's really not sure what she's doing, but she's trying. And just like before, it won't be enough, will it?

She'll fall short again – she'll be too late to fix it before she's alone again.

Furina was an Archon..used to be. What use would she have for that sort of knowledge? Which makes her predicament all the more harrowing and bleak. What was she supposed to do?

Furina had heard it first hand, that vitriol in Neuvillette's voice. She isn't sure she's ever heard him that..angry before. She's not sure he would listen to her if she tried, either. And that scares her more then anything. All of Fontaine was up in arms about this..imposter, yet here she was, staring down at them bleeding out in front of her, and she was trying to save them.

Why? Why is she throwing away her only chance at normalcy for a fraud? Why didn't she just turn them in?

They were dying – that should've been a good thing, shouldn't it? So why didn't it feel like it?

"Why you?" Her voice breaks as she speaks in harsh tones, grabbing the front of their shirt in trembling, bloodied hands. "Why now?" She wants to scream, to demand answers they can't give, to claw back the reprieve she was promised after five hundred years of agony..and all she can do is sob into their chest, pleading for an answer that will not come. "Why me?"

Silence is their answer, and it hangs heavy on her trembling shoulders as she cries.

Of course they don't, she thinks bitterly, no one has ever answered her pleas spoken in hushed sobs. Not her other self and certainly not them.

Furina has always been alone. Furina will always be alone.

Because Furina never left that stage, never left that moment when she looked at herself in the mirror and took up a mantle too heavy for her to bear. She always finds her way back eventually. There's no one on the other side anymore – she stands alone on a stage, waiting for an inevitable end she isn't sure will come.

"Please," She pleads through tears and choked sobs, clinging to them like they are all that keeps her from sinking. "Please don't leave me, too." The words burn on her tongue – how pathetic is she that she craves companionship from the bloodied body of the imposter? Perhaps she's truly lost her mind after all these years..perhaps she's finally gone mad. She must have.

But their presence is like the first feeling of gentle warmth upon her skin as the sun crests the horizon, like the gentle lap of tides along her heels, the sway of branches and leaves as the wind blows through them like an instrument all it's own. They are the soothing sound of rain against the window as she watches the dreary skies in fond longing, the first bloom of spring as color blooms upon the landscape like paint had been spilled across the hills and valleys.

They are like the faint spark she carefully nurtures and stokes, so fragile even the smallest wind could blow it out like a candle. She cradles it within her palms, pleads with whoever will listen – prays that someone finally listens, because if not for her, then for them.

She's failed to protect too much already, let too many people with so much trust in her fall between the cracks of her fingers like grains of sand. She won't let them go – she can't.

If nothing else, if she couldn't be saved when she begged for salvation from that five hundred year long agony, even if she never got that chance..

Furina will make sure they do.