#boss!price

[dmitriene]

being boss's john price sweet secretary, almost the only employee that doesn't drip on his nerves, not counting his trusting one's, as he keeps you constantly close, bordering on the thin line of professional relationship, but you think he's just nice to you, even when he purrs smokily for you to warm up his lap.

he doesn't gropes you, just traces his calloused hands over the curves of your body, they're heavy, hot, despite that you're fully dressed in your white button up shirt, tucked under your pencil skirt, too short, still for the liking of his eclipsed, cerulean gaze, albeit in need to be constantly covered up, when someone let their gazes wander, making john all growling and strict, tugging you behind him.

you feel embarrassed about it all, adorably shy at the fact that you have some special place of yours in john's mind, he doesn't let's you call him sir or boss, making you chirp his name shyly, and even through you squirm under his gaze and gentle croons, you still always end up at his thick, muscular lap, holding his cigar between your delicate fingers, letting the acrid, spicy smoky smell cloak around your form, perched close to his chest.

john's hands busy with paperwork you only recently brought him, so it's only normal for his secretary to help him, even if it's nothing but just letting him smoke from your hand, the scruff of his mutton chops tingling against your soft skin, as he enjoys the warmth and suppleness of your form, sitting pliable for him, and even if you squirm at his hand suddenly leaving the pen to brush against your lower back, he only purrs a hoarse chuckle.

it's only the matter of time when you get more responsibilities as his secretary, learning how to soothe him down when he's fuming after a bad work he received or a meeting gone south, and it's with you seating on his cold, wooden desk, with your pretty legs spread wide and your skirt rolled up, cotton panties dangling at your ankles, pussy already wet and on display for the blue eyes, edged with black.

your boss loves you all shy, with your face hiding in the crook of his neck, breathing in his prominent, woody musk, blending with the notes of his tart cigars and sign of whiskey, warm, tender with you, he doesn't let's his steam cloud his senses, taking you with long, heavy drags of his cock inside your spasming, gooey pussy, thrusts sloppy and slow, as he inhales at your hair, nuzzling his face in your temple.

listens to your breathy, squeaky keens, keeping his hips canting right to see the way your legs tremble, wrapping around his lower back, looping there tightly, as john moves to kiss wetly at your neck, needy, smudging presses of his plump lips against your smooth skin, holding his palm splayed over your coccyx, so you won't hurt while jolting on his desk, his precious girl.

main masterlist. quidelines.

[starboye]

imagine secretary!reader who take boss!price home after a night of drinking, he's stumbling over his own feet at this point as you carry him to his door and he's shamelessly flirting with you as of you don't work for him

asking you to give him a good night kiss before going or saying how cruel you are to leave him all alone at his boring house, he actually threw the keys just so he could watch you bend over and pick them up, seeing those nice globes of ass getting him hornier than he already was

"cmon just one kiss" he begs one more time and this time you humor the man just to shut him up, giving him a little peck on the lips but he pulls you back in for one big deep kiss that leaves you shocked before he's stumbling into his house, maybe you should stay the night with him just to make sure he doesn't hurt himself ykwim

[sunni-stuff]

speaking of boss! price, would any other assistants be jealous? maybe they try getting on price’s good side too?

Oh, they've tried, trust me. It's not fair that the reader gets to have all the fun. Why is it she gets to sit pretty and relax while they bust their ass every day just to get by.

Assistant A has been there the longest out of every shiny thing to step foot on the office. Intimidates the hell out of them and calls herself a veteran. So when you get the position as Price's assistant, she nearly loses her mind. She does everything in her power to try and woo John over.

Bending over here, a nip slipped there, touching his forearm, literally anything.

But he's not interested.

In her rage, she gets Assistants B and C to help her. They're fairly new but have been pining for Price since they arrived because who wouldn't want that man?

They try to make your life on the base hell. Whenever you do get important papers, they're spilling coffee on it, accidentally shredding it, or being bold enough to take it to Price himself in hopes of hearing him praise them like how he praises you but all they receive is a look of disgust.

The women take it way too far when trying to one up you one day. They barge into Price's office, all holding up a piece of paper they claimed to have gotten signed for him. John is confused by this, the signed paper having his seal on it but where were you?

He questions how they managed to get it signed, Assistant A claims you handed her the paper yourself, and it sparks all three of them fighting. Price's office is filled with them squabble about its not fair A gets to take all the credit.

John's had enough of them from the moment they walked in, slamming his fist on the desk, their fighting ceasing immediately. "Pack your things."

Their faces light up with excitement.

"You're all going back to the first floor."

And then it drops.

In their attempt to gain his affection, they made a mistake. Yes, you didn't often have papers to handle, but when you did, they were important. It is so important that John gave you a seal of your own, an official stamp.

A stamp you kept hidden away.

So this meant two things.

They ransacked your office and filed a high-profile client without anyone knowledge.

[lovemebutleavemewild]

Price, who runs most of the businesses in the city you live in, but everyone local knows it's all to hide his ... shadier dealings.

(part 2)

You, who only know him by his reputation and not to see, have no idea who the nice man you meet in a club one night really is.

And he's so charming at first, with just the right edge of rough that you like.

By the end of the night, you've had enough to drink that you don't question why he has a back-office in the club. You just let him lay you out on his couch and settle between your legs.

Only come to your senses when you wake up a few hours later, snuggled close to a bare chest. Slip back into your dress and grab your dress before sneaking out. And as you turn to quietly click the door shut, you see the tiny placard on the door.

J. Price.

"John," he'd rasped into your ear, buried inside you. "Call me John, darlin'. Say my fuckin' name, there's a good girl."

You vow never to see him again, are sure he won't mind - it's just a one-night-stand, after all.

Until, a few months later, when, after a job, him and his boys stop at a diner for some food and you happen to be his waitress.

You beg your colleagues to take the table for you but they all take one look at the men and pointblank refuse.

When you finally dredge up the courage to approach the table, John looks up and immediately smiles at you.

It's only when his eyes drop to the small, but prominent, bump under your shirt that his smile fades and you know you're in trouble.

[charliemwrites]

(Re)organized Crime, Part 8!

I was going to wait a little longer to post this (I say, looking guiltily at the queue) but I felt bad leaving it on a cliff hanger!

Content: Attempted Breaking and Entering, Fear for Safety, Hurt/Comfort

Four months ago, Simon drove you home for the first time.

It was a bad week all around. On Monday, Soap broke his arm. Gaz left with Farah and Alex on Tuesday for a business trip on the other side of the country. Wednesday brought about two dozen emails from Philip Graves’ wretched assistant, ugly pastel green borders framing each one. By Thursday, you almost weren’t surprised by the call about a lost shipment.

You were surprised when Price raised his voice at you, though.

“The fuck do you mean it’s missing?” he snarled.

You stood across from him with your tablet in hand, grossly unorganized logs open onscreen.

“I don’t think there are other ways I could mean it,” you answered lightly. “The crates left port and didn’t show up at the next one.”

You were scribbling on the screen, compiling the log into something more comprehensive. Purposefully not making eye contact because you could feel the angry heat radiating off him. It was making your hands tremble, but you’d be damned if you let it show.

“Well then where the fuck are they?” he demanded.

“If I knew that, sir, they wouldn’t be missing.”

“Are you taking the fucking piss?”

At that, you let out a heavy breath and looked up, expression flat. Price’s expression was dark, mouth tight. One hand gripped the arm of his office chair while the index finger of the other tap, tap, tapped his desk. You stared him down for a moment, reminding yourself to breathe with each uneven beat of your heart. Waited through a count of 20 before he huffed.

“Just find the damn thing,” he growled.

“Shall I use my crystal ball?”

You nearly jumped a mile when he barked your name in reprimand. And that was about the time you had enough.

“John.”

He froze. Across the room, so did Simon and Soap. You were so shocked by your own outburst that you came up a bit short as well. Didn’t even have a chance to gather more words when Price’s shoulders dropped. The anger melted away, replaced with apology and self-deprecation.

“Christ, luv, I’m sorry. Where have my manners gone?”

He ran a hand down his face, pinched the bridge of his nose where you were sure a headache was brewing.

“Thank you for the apology. I know this is important,” you soothed, softening your voice. “Give me 30 minutes and I’ll have a list of people you should yell at.”

He grimaced, “Take 45 for the trouble, darling.”

You used the extra fifteen minutes to brew him a fresh cup of tea and served it with a couple pain meds. When you’d delivered the analysis, he told you to head home early, that it would be a late night regardless and there was no need for you to do more than you already had. (It hadn’t helped the way that he’d ducked his head, still sheepish. You’d squeezed his wrist as you’d dropped off a list of damned names.)

With your usual drivers gone, Soap’s arm broken, and Price out to rip several people a new one, Simon drove you home.

He scowled in the vestibule while you fumbled for your keys. Then glared at the entryway as you trudged to the elevator. He grumbled as he accepted the invitation into your apartment, only to sneer (yes, you knew he was sneering even with the mask) at the doorknob and deadbolt.

“This place is a bloody deathtrap,” he finally declared, crossing his arms.

“It’s not that bad,” you replied, shaking your head.

“One solid kick and this door is coming down.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Then don’t kick it.”

“I’m sure a robber will be polite enough to knock,” he scoffed.

“The crime rate is good in this area,” you argued. Not great, but decent enough…

“Bloody hell. Did you even – are your fucking windows unlocked?”

You blinked. “We’re on the third floor, Simon.”

“I don’t give a rats arse—”

“And stop swearing at me.”

“—that you’re on the third floor. Lock your windows.”

You rolled your eyes but faltered when he narrowed his eyes, looming in the doorway like a fussy boogeyman. A clear indication that he did not plan to leave until you complied.

“You can’t be serious!” You were not whining.

“As the fu— as the damn plague.”

You snorted. “I think ‘damn’ is still swearing.”

He didn’t deign to respond to that, just arched his eyebrows. You mirror him right back, preparing to make a snippy comment about wasting company time.

“I’m sure Price would agree,” he said as you opened your mouth. You shut it with a snap.

Smug bastard.

You groaned but made a show of padding to all the windows and clicking the latches shut. Even when into the bedroom to secure those too. When you were done, he grunted in satisfaction and turned for the door.

“Lock this too.”

“I will, I will, I’m not dumb.”

You scrunched your nose at the skeptical grunt you received that time.

Before leaving, he pointed at you again, eyes narrowed. “Lock. Them. All.”

“They are!”

“From now on.”

“Yes, Simon.”

If you survive this episode of Dateline you’ve found yourself in, you owe him a scone and those nice cigarettes he pretends he doesn’t smoke.

“Open th’ fuckin’ door, Bunny!”

Your fingers twitch around the hilt of the knife. It’s not a big one, but it is serrated. That’s not going in or out without some serious damage. If not the fatal kind, at least the messy kind. Brandon’s not doing anything to you without leaving a crime scene investigator’s wet dream behind.

“Bunnyyyyyyyy!”

The banging starts again, nearly as fast as your heart. You could swear it gets louder every time. Maybe it’s just getting closer, layers of wood chipping away, closing the already too-small distance between you.

You glance desperately at your phone, but the screen remains damningly dark. Price promised he’d be here soon, but it feels like hours since you hung up to preserve what little battery life you had left. Your stomach churns as the pounding turns to thicker, harder thumps. Throwing his body into the door again, trying to force entry. Simon’s mutterings about kicking the door echo in your head.

You should have listened.

“Bun—fuck!”

You jolt as something slams into the door, nearly taking it (and the entry table you braced against it) down. There’s scuffling and scraping, muffled shouting, rapid footsteps— then silence. You hold your breath, every muscle in your body wound tight enough to snap.

“It’s alright now.”

You lurch from your protective crouch in the hallway, shove clumsily at the table. The mangled front door swings in crooked on one hinge, cracked and splintered from top to bottom.

And John is there on the other side.

You’re not sure if he reaches for you or if you throw yourself into his arms. All that matters is that he’s clutching you tight to his broad chest, tucking your head beneath his chin. Safe, protected. Your head spins as you lean into him, knowing that he’ll support you. His heart is beating hard against your cheek.

“John,” you breathe, now that fear isn’t squeezing your lungs in a vice.

“I’m here, luv,” he murmurs into your hair.

You’re shaking. Adrenaline seeps from your bones, takes all their heat and steel with it. You’re left cold and feeble in the aftermath, fingertips numb as they curl tight into his shirt. You don’t know where the knife is; you don’t care. You don’t need it now.

“H-He… He…” you start.

John shushes you, squeezes a bit tighter in reassurance. He knows; you don’t need to tell him, don’t have to remind yourself of what could have happened.

“Where…?” you try instead, but words are so hard. All the trembling must have knocked your voice loose, lost somewhere in the pit of your stomach.

“Soap and Gaz are taking care of it,” John says.

The last of the tension drains away. Your boys will scare Brandon off, maybe enough that he won’t ever bother you again. (The thought alone makes your eyes burn.) John is here now, and – when you peek out from around his bicep – so is Simon.

“You were right,” you mumble, “a-about the door.”

Simon winces. “I’m sorry that I was.”

Somehow, that’s what finally bursts the bubble of your restraint. You sob. It’s loud and sniffly and ugly. In the back of your mind, the part that can never just let you rest, you’re mortified to be doing this in front of your coworker. And on your boss’s nice shirt too. You have an image to maintain—

Except John’s broad hand is rubbing soothing circles into your lower back. He’s gathering you even closer, letting you shelter in his warmth and strength. Easing you through hiccups with quiet murmurs, telling you he’s proud and that you did so well to call him.

Through tears, you see Simon reach out. Scarred knuckles run gently down your wet cheek.

“We take care of our own, little miss.”

You warble out a broken little “Simoooon” that seems to break the solemn atmosphere, John sighing against your temple and Simon’s shoulders slumping in what might be fondness.

It’s not long before Soap and Gaz return, looking no worse for wear, thankfully. (Not that you think they can’t handle themselves – but Brandon was drunk and who knows if he had a weapon or not. Accidents happen.)

“Aw, lass,” Soap coos when he sees you. Calmer now, but still sniffling and wiping at stray tears. “He’s gone now. Won’ be botherin’ you again.”

You blink at the fresh blood on his knuckles and don’t ask. You believe him.

“Thank you.”

“Nothin’ to thank us for, doll. Should have taken care of ‘im earlier,” Gaz replies.

“Earlier?” John asks. He’s trying for your sake, you can tell, but you know him too well to miss the sharp note in his voice.

“Hadn’t had a chance to debrief, sir,” Gaz explains regretfully.

You untuck your face from John’s chest to be better heard, clearing your throat. “Still, for all four of you to come here…”

“What else would we do, sit with our thumbs up our bums?” Soap teases.

“That’ll do,” Simon snips, but you giggle anyway.

It doesn’t take much to convince you to leave your apartment – it takes a bit more to convince you to go to John’s. Unfortunately, you’re outnumbered, and while that normally wouldn’t be a problem, you’re not in a headspace to be stubborn, argumentative, or superficially brave.

All the boys have bachelor pads ill-suited to guests, especially on short notice. Maybe on some other night, under different circumstances, you would have insisted on a hotel.

But the idea of being alone in an unfamiliar place makes your skin crawl. You don’t want to be alone. You want to be near John.

“We take care of our own,” Simon said – so you let them.

Gaz, Soap, and Simon help to pack you an overnight bag, scattering to different corners of your apartment to collect items. In the meantime, you keep clinging to John because he keeps letting you. Exhaustion creeps at the edges of your mind, doubling gravity on your slumping shoulders.

“Did I interrupt something important?” you ask finally, voice hoarse.

“No, luv. Just a card game with some old friends. Soap was losing anyway.”

You sigh, relieved. At least you don’t have the loss of some important business deal weighing on your conscience.

“Poker again?”

“Kid can’t keep a straight face for the life of him.”

You hide your smile against his shoulder and appreciate the chuckle you feel more than hear in his chest.

Simon takes the lead out of the building while Gaz and Soap bring up the rear. You’re a bit self-conscious of any neighbors seeing you in this state, but thankfully none make an appearance. It’s too late in the evening for anyone to be coming in or leaving, and if there were any witnesses to Brandon’s bullshit, you never saw (or heard) them.

(“The hell is their problem, actin’ like they didnae hear that bawbag?” Soap grumbles. “Bystander effect,” you answer, shrugging. He grimaces in understanding, but still looks pissed.)

The car is warm when John bundles you into the back seat. Soap takes the wheel, Simon the passenger side. Gaz sits on your other side and leans his knee gently into yours.

“It’s over now, doll, you can rest. We won’t let anythin’ happen t’you,” he promises.

You smile wearily, lean in to drop a grateful kiss on his cheek.

“Don’t know what I’d do without you four,” you sigh as you snuggle into John’s side again.

“Don’t need to,” Simon answers gruffly, “we’re not goin’ anywhere.”

John hums in agreement, low and pleasant by your ear.

“You always take such good care of us,” he murmurs. Quiet, just for the two of you. “Let us return the favor for once, won’t you, darling?”

You want to resist. You should. You drop your head to his shoulder and sigh, “Okay.”

Between the gentle motion of the car and the pattering of a fresh rainstorm, you don’t stay awake for long. You nod off within four blocks of your apartment, peacefully unaware of the dazed and bloody body in the trunk.

First | Previous | TBC...

Masterlist

[sky-is-the-limit]

[poisonedprose]

hip holding > waist holding two gentle hands placed on your hips, fingertips digging ever so slightly into the fat that they could squish for hours if you'd let them. your hips are their favorite part of your body, littering them with bruises and love bites at any given moment. on their knees, looking up at you, two hands firmly griping each hip, placing a soft kiss to the bone with a smile.

leon kennedy, john price, ellie williams, arisu ryohei, jill valentine, carlos oliveira, kyle garrick, könig

waist holding > hip holding their hands fit perfectly in the curve of your waist, almost like your waist was made for them to grab and use to their advantage. they pull you close by your waist, fingers showing no signs of letting go any time soon. using their strength to manhandle you in any way they possibly could, squeezing your waist to show you who's boss with a look that's sure to kill.

joel miller, simon riley, ada wong, niragi suguru, chishiya shuntaro, john mctavish, albert wesker, last boss

[mandareeboo]

Listen being off your meds do be like that.

[yeyinde]

i would give you my life for marriage counselor!reader x price part 3, pleaseeee im begging you 😮‍💨🙏😮‍💨🙏

He fucks you in your office, for sure.

18+. extremely dubious consent. unk. condescending Dom!Price.

Petty, combative. Authority figures make him itch. But there's a sick thrill that goes through him when he sinks down into your chair, fully dressed with just his trousers undone, cock freed, and pulls you, completely naked, onto his lap. Makes you ride him as he sprawls out over it, too; his hand tight around your neck to keep you up, the other dangling over the edge, drinking from the sneaky stash of booze he finds after rummaging around your desk (all the while, he had you sitting on top of it, one hand rifling through your belongings and the other buried between your thighs, making you answer his inane questions as he tuts about how you're getting his cuffs all wet, not such a smart little girl now are you? soakin' his hand like that. needy little thing, more like.)

It's not his preferred position, but he likes the sight of you glaring down at him as he fills you with his cock. Unable to to do anything at all even when you're on top, in the dominant role. Reduced to a mess of a once smart, haughty girl. Biting your lip as he bucks into you. Trying to smother the scream, the plea—slow down, slow down, please, it's too deep—that trembles on your lip. Pride and this fickle, paperthin ideal of agency is the only thing keeping it all in.

You think you can take him. Handle him.

So, John gives you the reigns and leans back on your smart little chair in your smart little office. Accolades hung on the wall. Polished and mature. It's all so—

Adorable.

The contrast of it all feeds the monster in his chest that's been prowling around ever since you tried to boss him around. The mouth that once said you're not trying hard enough, Mr Price you need to do better now all slack-jawed and drool slick as he spears inside to the deepest part of you he can reach; the doleful glare swallowed by the shiver of your lids as your eyes roll back into your pretty little head.

Struggling to take him. Hesitating to slide down the thickest part of his cock, whimpering when he shifts his hips and makes you take him down to the root. Tears flood your lashline, gleaming iridescent like sunshine hitting an oil spill. Lips trembling as you jolt at the realness of it all—of trying to handle him like you said you could but quickly realising you can't when the heart of yourself starts to feel like a raw, open wound.

Yeah, he thinks, and brings the bottle to his lips. You look so much better just like this.

And that's what it's about, really. Control. Something you stripped him of when he marched into your office and you—younger, less experienced, less established—just looked at him, and said, sit down right there, Mr Price.

Well. You didn't say it, did you? No, you commanded. And Price doesn't take orders from idiots in office who think they're his superior, so why the hell should he listen to you, mm?

But he did. And now he's savouring it because this is quid pro quo. Something for something. His compliance (ephemeral as it was) for you.

Because the problem is that you riled him up. With your neat, clean office. Your smart suits. The unbidden air of authority—this condescending, sophisticated cloud that clung to the haughty tip of your chin when you talked to him. It all itched under his skin. Made his heart thunder with the urge to break—

(Claim, maim—sometimes he gets the two mixed up, the word eliding together under the malformed snarl in his throat. But you're tough, aren't you? He's sure you can handle whichever one ends up spilling out.)

He bites down on the little sliver of skin beneath your jaw—that small patch where his hand, still spread over the thick of your throat, doesn't cover—and groans, feeling you clench tight around him. Tight little hole barely stretched enough to take him without it aching each time he moves, tugging on thin, sensitive skin until he has to snuff the whimpers he can feel crawling up your throat with a squeeze of his hand.

It has the after making his head swim already. When he finally finished getting his due, breaking you in, he'll take you home. Let you rest. Court you good and proper until you're melting his hands, softened wax for him to play with and mould however he likes. And he will.

He saw the potential in you the moment he leaned in close—too close, his ex-wife will accuse him of later; you never get that close to me anymore, John—and saw the shift of your throat when you swallowed. The flex of your thighs as you squeezed them tight together. The little flutter of your lashes, eyes listing treacherously downward, so achingly close to submission that it punched the air from his lungs. Kept him winded even as you pulled yourself back together. Meeting his stare with a glare of your own. All fire, all teeth. But he'll enjoy filing your canines down until they're pretty and soft and round—

"mm, not so arrogant now, are you?" He pulls you closer, nips at the thrill of your pulse until he feels it thudding against his enamel. Rabbit-quick. Ferocious lioness purring at his feet. "S'all you needed was my cock, mm, to make you this sweet?"

He doesn't expect an answer, and can really only groan when you eke out a liquid, breathless, fuck you, John, content to let you lash out as much as you want, holding you tighter in the cup of his palm. Pussy clenching tight, tears dripping down your cheeks—he basks in it even as you claw at him, pawing at his chest with your teeth bared as you pretend this is your choice. That you're taking from him with each unsteady, furious roll of your hips. Pulling him in deeper. Letting the part inside of you that rages against this hew fantasy into reality; cobwebs of delusion thickening in the whites of your eyes as you shatter over him, on his lap, stuffed full with the thick of his cock, and play pretend in your head that he's just your throne—

Even as he kicks his heels against the legs of your own, planting his feet on your carpet, in this space you build yourself, driving inside of you until the webs shake, starting to come loose.

You—this free, willful bird—have been left in the wild for too long. And he'll spend the next two months building your cage, and when he's finally finished, you'll beg him to throw away the key.

"Told you, didn't I?" he growls, hand tightening around your throat. "You were in over your head, little girl. You should have listened."

(Freshly divorced—ink still wet on the paper—and he's already engaged. How about that.)

[ilovemesomevincentprice]

No one can throw shade like Vincent fucking Price.

Columbo; Lovely But Lethal 03x01 (1973)

[gomzdrawfr]

Getting creative with recognition

uh not so cute/funny random drabble of the AU:

warning: not proofread and just me rambling, bad writing LMAO

[bluemadnessstuff]

Best compliment you can ever give someone:

(Insert their favorite character) would absolutely smash you <3

[cr1msonshr13k]

🍒*sigh* this screams John and you CANNOT convince me otherwise🍷

[cod-dump]

Piercings

———

Soap: *staring at Price*

Price, while writing something: Something on your mind, Johnny?

Soap: The mark on your brow… did you have a piercing?

Price: Hm? I did, actually

Soap: You had a brow piercing? No way-

Price: Had my nose pierced, too. And my ears… and a few other places

Soap: … you’re lying

Ghost, walking into the room: Is who lying?

Soap: Price says he used to have a lot of piercings!

Ghost: Oh- Nah, not old man John

Price, glaring: I’m five years older than you, Simon

Ghost: Keyword ‘older’

Soap: Do you have pictures?

Price: Eh… somewhere… maybe back home…

Soap & Ghost: *intense staring*

Price: … I’ll have a look

(one month later)

Soap, busting into Gaz’s office: KYLE HOLY SHIT

Gaz: *yelps and spills his tea*

Ghost: *shoves past Soap and slams several pictures onto the desk*

Ghost: LOOK

Gaz: Wha- OH MY GOD

*Several of the pictures are of a younger Price. One showing him with a pierced brow, ears, septum, and with his tongue sticking out showing it was also pierced. The most recent photo had Price with his ears still pierced, one sporting a industrial*

Gaz: WOW

Soap: SINCE WHEN DID THIS HAPPEN???

Ghost: I feel so conflicted WHY DOES THIS LOOK GOOD??

Gaz: WHY WOULD YOU CURSE THIS UPON ME? THIS IS ALL I’M EVER GONNA THINK ABOUT FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE

Soap: WHAT ELSE DID HE HAVE PIERCED?

Gaz & Ghost: AHHHHHHHH-

(with Price)

Price: I have a feeling I’m going to regret giving them those photos…

Nik: What photos?

Price: Gave the boys photos of when I still had all those piercings

Nik: … John, those were FOR ME ONLY-

[lovemebutleavemewild]

Wasn't actually going to do a part 2 to this mafia!Price x pregnant reader drabble but a few people requested it so ...

I don't think this will be a long fic or a series or anything but if anyone has by particular requests for scenes, let me know!

You take the table's orders quickly and almost trip getting away from them.

John follows you immediately, of course, but if you can just get to the kitchen, he won't be able to follow you.

Or so you think.

The doors don't have time to swing shut behind you before they burst open again and you feel a hand on your waist, spinning you around to face him.

"You're taking your break," he tells you.

"I can't yet, I have tables. And-"

You see your manager approaching and brace yourself for the tirade.

"Sir, you can't be in h-"

He stops when he gets a proper look at John.

"Oh. Um, is there a problem, sir? Or some way I can-"

"She's taking her break," John tells him, jerking his thumb at you. Your manager just nods mutely and John takes your hand, leading you out the back entrance.

"Beat it," he tells the line cook, smoking by the bins. The man slinks back inside without a word.

As soon as you're alone, John shepherds you against the wall, arm on either side of you so you're walled in.

"It's mine?" he asks and you try not to be offended. It's a fair question, you suppose. You just nod, looking at your shoes. He tilts your chin up so you're looking at him. You can't read the look on his face.

"Finish your shift. I'll wait."

+++++++

He takes you home, makes the others take a cab wherever they're going, and just gives you a look when you suggest you can take the bus.

He also insists on walking you inside. Your face warms at the way he's analysing your apartment building. When you hold the door to your place open for him, he rubs his hand along the doorframe, studying the lock, heads straight for the windows to do the same once he's inside.

"We'll need to get you moved out of here," he says when he finally turns around. You raise  your eyebrows.

"Is that right?" you ask. If he notices the sarcasm, he doesn't comment.

"Mmmhmm. Could get the lads to pack up your stuff for you, handle the movin'. We could have it done tonight"

"And where do you suggest I go?"

John smiles and sidles towards you.

"I could think of a few places," he says, raising his eyebrows. You huff a laugh.

"Hmm. But there's nothing wrong with my apartment."

John just hums.

"Not a good area," he tells you.

You start to feel your temper rise a little.

"Think whatever you want of the area; You don't get to walk in here and tell me-"

"Well I am telling you darlin'. I know these parts and 'round here isn't a good place for a girl like you."

"A girl like me?" you ask flatly, crossing your arms. You force yourself not to move away from him as he gets in your space. You can smell him from here, the scent of his cologne, and doesn't that bring back memories.

He leans down so he's looking into your eyes properly.

"A good girl," he says.

You snort and turn away.

"Does that line usually work for you?"

In a second, you feel his hands on your waist, pulling you back against a hard chest.

"Worked before, didn't it?" His voice is raspy in your ear.

"You didn't mind being my good girl the last time we spoke, did ya, sweetheart? Or can you only be good when you're stuffed full?"

He presses harder against your back and you can feel the length of him now.

"'Cause I can help you with that, love, just you say the word."

You pull away, turn to look at him, with your chest heaving.

"Place like this could be dangerous for a girl like you," John says and it sounds like a warning.

"Aren't men like you what makes places like this dangerous?" you whisper.

He steps towards you again, slower this time, puts a hand on your hip. You don't pull away.

"Sometimes," he admits. "Not always. Need to make sure you're taken care of, from all the bad things out there. Goes for both of you."

"I don't need taken care of," you tell him. It would sound more convincing to your own ears if you could find it in yourself to pull your hand off his chest.

"No?" His hand suddenly dips between your legs and you jolt forwards into him.

"You been taking care of yourself here, hmm?" He starts to rub, over your work leggings, leans down so his head is nearly on your shoulder.

"Been taking care of this pretty pussy like it needs?" he asks, voice rough. "It was so needy that night we met, I was sure we'd go a few rounds. Why'd you run instead, sweetheart? I didn't even get a chance to taste it."

You can't answer, can't think, especially not when he shoves his same hand under your pants, sliding your underwear to one side for better access. Your head falls back when he touches your clit.

"Need me to take of you here, darlin'?"

You can't help your moan.

"Not good enough," he grunts. "Need you to say it, love. Say you need me to take care of this pussy."

And you've been so stressed for so long and, really, at this point, what harm could it possibly do?

"Please, please, John, I need you. I need-need-"

He quietens you with a kiss, leaning down to lift you by your thighs. The bump makes it a bit awkward but he doesn't falter as he makes his way to your room.

"All you needed to say, mama."

[charliemwrites]

Oooooh I finally did it!! Mafia au part 6! A little bit of that sweet angst/comfort.

Content: Violence, Previous Injury (mentioned), Panic Attack (non-descriptive)

Let it be said: Johnny’s no snitch.

Outgoing (“loud” Simon would grumble) as he is, he doesn’t run his mouth about anything important. Doesn’t talk business over a pint or boast his connections in bar disagreements. Doesn’t drop names, flash heat, throw around the weight of his employer. Has never spilled a single fucking secret, not for knives, acid, a fucking gun to his head.

Oh, and please don’t tell the boss.

Let it also be said: Johnny is loyal.

He would happily lay down his life for any of his comrades, lives and dies for SpecGru – for Price. And even though you’re new, you’re one of them now. You’ve quickly found and secured your place in Price’s inner circle, different as you may be. Johnny would go to war for you, and your silly pink sticky notes.

Still, keeping something – anything from the boss. Even a private matter like this…

It happened on SpecGru property, that makes it SpecGru business. And it happened to you, which makes it Price’s business.

That you don’t already know that is… well, that’s between you and the boss. Johnny’s already too involved as it is. (Not that he regrets helping you. Not a bit. If he had his way, that little prick would have left with his teeth in his pocket and a new appreciation for his remaining thumb).

So now Johnny is stuck. He likes you; he really does. That you trust him with something so personal isn’t lost on him, especially in this line of work. He also has a healthy fear of your wrath. (You may not carry any weapons he’s seen, but you’ve got Price grimacing when you narrow your eyes just so. Johnny knows where his cupcakes are made, and he likes them without arsenic, thank you). So, personally, he wants to be able to honor your request to keep the matter private.

But then there’s Price, and whatever he’ll do to Johnny if – when – he finds out about all this.

Johnny’s solution?

“Christ, Gaz, ya shoulda seen it. Never seen the little miss tell someone off like that. Graves woulda been shakin’ in his boots. Will have to ask security for a recording of it.”

Gaz, unimpressed with Johnny’s volume, rolls his eyes and walks away, muttering about tea for his sudden headache. And Price, sitting at his desk, twitches and reaches for his phone.

Mission: accomplished.

Not the most elegant, but he’s a mafia lieutenant, not a fuckin’ spy. Now, to get those pastries you like before Price sees the footage.

“Luv?”

You glance up from the expense reports you’ve been working through for the better part of an hour. Mr. Price is leaning in the doorway to his office, shoulder to the jamb. There’s… an odd look on his face. You’ve never seen it before, don’t have it categorized in your mental files.

“Yes, boss?” you ask, straightening up.

“A word?”

You blink. That’s… different. You don’t like it.

Price is a steady sort of man. Not predictable, but consistent. That this is new, unusual, unfamiliar, makes you uneasy. Reminds you of your last boss, who could call you into his office with an affable grin, only to spend thirty minutes berating you for anything and everything he could think of.

Price has never done that, nothing even close… but you can’t suppress the slight shake in your hands as you smooth your skirt down. Hide it with a little flick of your wrists before grabbing for your ever-trusty tablet. Hell, you probably don’t even need it, but at this point it’s practically a comfort item. Maybe you should name it, put some googly eyes on it.

“Sweetheart?”

You startle a bit. Realize your feet have already carried you into his office and followed him right to his desk. Except instead of standing at his elbow as usual, you’re facing him across his desk. Like you did during your interview with him, when you were still strangers. Like you used to do for your previous boss.

“Oh, sorry, sir,” you chirp, forcing your usual brightness, “those expense reports, ya know? What did you need me for?”

Without a word, he spins his computer monitor around. Your brow furrows as you process the video playing on the screen. You. Soap. Brandon. Your stomach sinks.

There’s no sound, but there doesn’t really need to be. Even in profile, the expressions are crisp – high end cameras. You feel numb as the scene plays out all over again. You and Brandon snipping at each other back and forth. Your rigid spine, stiff shoulders. Brandon’s sleezy confidence. Soap, getting visibly aggravated as the seconds pass.

And there it is, the moment you spun on your heel, done with the conversation, and Brandon reached for you.

When you see Soap’s hand snap out – just a blur on the screen – you have to sit. Muscle memory collects your tablet in your lap, sweaty hands stacking neatly on top of it. Your heart is beating either too fast or too slow.

Your eyes stay locked on the screen until you and Soap disappear into the elevator, and the video stops.

“Should I play the elevator footage as well?” Price asks, voice low and quiet. “That comes with sound.”

It takes all your years of learned discipline and cultivated poise to resist shrinking in on yourself. It does not, however, stop your eyes from burning.

“Sir,” you say, struggling to keep your voice even, “I am so sorry.”

There’s a beat of tense silence as you gather yourself, throat getting tighter and tighter. Your head is spinning with fear and anxiety. What he’ll say, what he’ll do. How you could possibly damage control this.

“I-I don’t even know how he found out where I work,” you say, “and Soap w-was just trying to help. If I’d known that would happen, I would have taken it outside.”

You can barely look at Price as your voice break midway through, the panic leaking into your tone even as you stay frozen in place.

“Did we – is he suing? Is – is that why—?”

The tears escape despite your efforts, dripping fast and down your cheeks as you shudder in a breath. You can’t pay for a lawsuit, especially not if you’re fired over this. And you don’t want to lose this job. You love this job, you love—

“Oh, darling, what a mess you’ve made of yourself.”

You sniffle as Price rounds his desk and kneels in front of you, plucking his handkerchief from his breast pocket. He tuts at you when you open your mouth to protest, already blotting at your cheeks with a surprisingly gentle touch.

“There now, no need to cry,” he soothes, thumbing away another tear before it can fall. “I know it takes you ages to get your eyeliner right. This is nothing to ruin it over.”

“But…”

“I’m not angry, luv,” he continues, voice still low and quiet. This time, it doesn’t make your shoulders tense. “Wasn’t before and definitely not now. Chin up, there’s a dear.”

“Y-you’re not?” you warble.

“Not a bit,” he answers. “Not at you, at least.”

“Then why…?” You gesture weakly at the computer screen.

He sighs, something almost fond passing over his face. “Darling, you could have been hurt. Imagine if Soap hadn’t been there. All of us on the top floor, waiting for you to get back, not knowing something was wrong.”

He shakes his head, cradling your cheek with the same hand that brushed away your tears.

“You’re one of mine, you understand? Anything that happens to you is my responsibility,” he explains. “And I didn’t… enjoy that you want to keep something like this from me.”

You drop your eyes in shame. Of course. An employee assaulted on company ground, his personal assistant no less. Price would never stand for that sort of thing. He looks out for his own, looks out for you.

“Hey, look at me, luv. None of that now,” he coaxes. “I just want to get to the bottom of why you didn’t want to tell me.”

It occurs to you that that tone you heard earlier might have just been genuine worry and maybe… a bit of hurt. You twist your hands in your lap as you gather your words.

“I didn’t… it wasn’t because of you,” you murmur. “I just… was so embarrassed. And I didn’t want to make it your problem. I’m supposed to make your life easier, not harder.”

He huffs, but you’re relieved to see wry amusement on his face now.

“No more of that,” he orders, as softly as he when he wiped your face. “Am I understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“There’s a love.” He gently pinches your cheek, then stands. “Stay here, I’ll get you a cup of water. Take a moment, yeah?”

You nod, sniffling again. He squeezes your shoulder as he passes, and you finally let yourself breathe. Not getting fired, not getting sued. And Price isn’t mad at you. Christ, he needs to work on his approach.

“Kyle.”

“Yeah, boss?”

“Look into that knob from the lobby. And the little miss’s last boss.”

“You’ve got it.”

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