#price

[soapcloth]

CW: 18+ MDNI, neighbour!price x reader - dividers -> @/cafekitsune

You find out John Price doesn’t play around when it comes to catching up on sleep while he’s on leave.

Struggling to bring in a heavy package one morning, you’re startled by your neighbour emerging from his unit huffing and puffing tiredly about noise in nothing but a simple pair of low hanging pyjama bottoms.

You’re concerned you’re going to get an earful when he wordlessly hoists the box up, uncaring about the way it tugs at his waistband to expose a dusting of hair and noticeable veins. Leaving your delivery just inside your door, he turns to look at you through squinted eyes, and your cheeks heat up when you realize you’ve been caught watching it bob under the loose fabric.

In your defence, he cuts quite the hypnotic figure from the side.

“Thank you, John-“ you try- only to be interrupted by a thick arm hooking around your neck; the other reaching behind him to close your door with just a tad too much force. His free hand lowers to scratch at his belly, prompting a loud yawn as a thick palm dips lower, giving himself a little squeeze. With a content hum rolling around in his chest, he pulls you into his apartment.

“Too early.” He grumbles as he flops onto his well-worn couch, half asleep and tugging you with him. Like a strangler fig, he rolls onto his side and cages you against the cushions, his legs tangling around yours and his cock unmistakably fattening against your belly.

[machveil]

hubby Price driving you around at night like a newborn baby when you can’t sleep. radio turned on low, the rumble of the car surrounding you, his big hand gently pawing at the meat of your thigh. he takes turns slow, drives under the neighborhood speed limit - you’re the only ones out right now anyways. once you’re drifting off he takes the long way home, carefully parking before unbuckling you. big bear of a man, cradles you in his arms as he scoops you up, makes sure the car door doesn’t slam as he closes it. carries you all the way to bed, tucking you in all delicate. he doesn’t want to risk waking you up by crawling into bed so soon, instead he goes to sit in the living room for an hour or so, just to be sure, doing some light reading before he joins you

[oceantornadoo]

ch4 something borrowed something blue (mafia!price x simon's sister!reader)

tw: some mild dubcon groping but reader is into it she just hates him. (or does she????)

masterlist | next

Your mother doesn’t come to your wedding, understandably so. Her lack of presence makes the day seem less real. However, one Johnny MacTavish decides to become the Scottish mother hen you’ve been missing.

“Everyone decent in ‘ere?” A chorus of yeses ring out. Johnny opens the door to the bridal dressing room with a smile, looking suave in his tuxedo. “Shite, was hopin’ to sneak a look.” He winks at your nearest cousin and she flutters her eyes. Even as a married man, Johnny likes to flirt and fluster women. It helps hide his marriage to Simon and provides you with much entertainment.

“How’s the blushin’ bride?”

He walks over to your vanity, taking in your bridal makeup and hairdo. Johnny whistles low, reaching out to ruffle your hair, which you stop by smacking him. “The bride is hungover and not in the mood.” He shrugs, then takes a sip of your champagne on the vanity desk. “Y’r fault fer doin’ a hen do the night before. Nice job slippin’ the hag, though.” It’s your codename for Aunt Riley. She’s always been suspicious of him and Simon, making little comments here and there that have put her on his shitlist over the years.

“Thanks. I can say, the London nightlife didn’t disappoint. I might throw up at the altar though.” He snorts and takes a seat in the empty chair next to you. “Price was pissed last night. Called Simon while we were mid-” You cover his mouth with your hand. “Don’t finish that sentence. As far as I’m concerned, you guys haven’t even kissed.” Johnny licks your hand, making you squeal. “Can’t believe he called Simon like I’m a little kid and not a grown woman.”

Johnny doesn’t answer, instead popping a chocolate-covered strawberry offered by a passing waitress into his mouth. She’s been the one supplying you with Gatorade until you switched the champagne half an hour ago. Can’t believe the bridal suite has a waitress. John Price is too rich for his own good.

“The Shepherd family’s gettin’ bolder. Can’t blame ���im fer not wantin’ ya to die before the weddin’. Would be bad publicity.” You scoff. It might be true, but John has never seemed too concerned about your health. Except that night in the park, when- never mind.

“Ya nervous?” Johnny asks. You shake your head. “Trying not to think about it. I’m more focused on not tripping in front of multiple mafia families. I’d never live it down.” He smiles, then squeezes your knee over your white dressing gown. The look he gives you is too knowing and you hate it. Instead of holding his gaze, you turn to the mirror and will any stray tears away. “You probably need to go soon. I think they’re putting me in my dress in a few minutes.” He nods, dark eyes full of understanding.

“Ya look real bonnie, doe. Gonna make a beautiful bride.” You nod, swallowing down the thickness in your throat. “Thanks, Johnny. You look handsome in your pink bowtie.” It’s the same color as the bridesmaid dresses, a horrid shade your aunt insisted on. He winks, then rises out of his chair. Johnny squeezes your shoulder, then kisses the crown of your hair like Tommy used to do. “Simon’ll walk ya down the aisle. I’ll see ya on the other side.” And just like that, he’s gone.

-

“You know you’ve turned my life upside down in only a week, right?”

“I know.”

“And you know a small part of me will always blame you for it?”

“I know.” Simon sighs.

It’s five minutes before the ceremony. You’re all dolled up in your poofy dress with perfect makeup and a bouquet in hand. A phantom weight is heavy on your left finger, waiting for the ring you tried on only a few days ago.

“Ya know I’ll always be sorry yer father is mine.” Simon murmurs. You nod stiffly, swallowing down any emotion as you look at the closed church doors in front of you. The ones that will open in a few minutes, leading your path down the aisle and to your new husband.

“I didn’t have to come back. I could have hung up on you all those years ago.”

“I know.”

“I think a small part of me wishes I had.” You whisper, like a confession. He takes your free hand and wraps it in his own. “But I think a bigger part would do it all over again.” Simon squeezes your interlaced fingers.

“Best thing tha’ ever happened t’ me, ya know that?” Your smile is weak, eyes watery as you catch his gaze. “What about Johnny?” He smiles under the mask. “Tha’s a different category, love.” You laugh, small and hollow. 

This feels like goodbye. You know it’s not, you’ll only be 200 miles away, but you’re both aware of the new boundaries around this marriage. London will be your home now, and any visit to Manchester will have to be approved, and probably accompanied, by John. That’s all it’ll be - a visit. A few days at most, doing the rounds and seeing friends and family. You’ll never live there again, never run your bookshop, never chat with regulars, never- you stop that line of thinking before you ruin your makeup.

“If he hurts ya, you call me.” You nod, but that’s not enough for Simon. A gloved hand tips your chin in his direction, forcing you to meet his gaze. “You’ll call me. An’ Johnny if I don’t answer.” You nod again, firmly, which finally satisfies Simon.

“C’mere.” You hug your big brother with all your might. He’s careful, turning your face to the side so you don’t ruin your makeup. His hands tighten around your shoulders while yours can barely wrap around his torso. He’s always wearing suits but this one feels different, more structured and finely woven.

“Simon, are you wearing designer?” He stiffens, pushing you off him as you start laughing. “‘M alway wearin’ designer, comes with the job.” You shake your head vehemently. “No, you’re always wearing Fred Perry. This fabric is fancy, it’s like Dolce and Gabbana.” Your brother decidedly does not answer.

“Simon! Are you wearing Dolce to my wedding? Are you trying to upstage the bride?!” Only you, his all-knowing sister, would be able to tell he’s blushing under his mask. In an uncharacteristic move, he scratches the nape of his neck, looking off to the side like he’s suddenly interested in church architecture. “Johnny picked it out.” You slap his arm and he moves to ruffle your hair, before remembering it’s in a fancy wedding do. “You’re an absolute git, this is completely unfair. I demand you go to the nearest mall and pick something off the rack.” That comment finally dismisses the dark cloud that’s been hanging over you, sending you two into a laughing fit. 

“I wish Tommy was here. He’dve torched that suit.” His eyes crinkle in a sad smile. “I know, love. I know.” Simon kisses your forehead and you lean into his shoulder, wishing the moment would never end.

But all good things must.

A frazzled assistant, one of your Aunt Riley’s minions, practically sprints over to you. “Doors,” he wheezes, “doors opening in thirty seconds.” And just like that, he’s gone. Probably a cake emergency or something of the sort.

“Do I look okay?” You take one last glimpse in a nearby mirror. You’re wearing a traditional veil, something Simon turns up over your head to hide your face. Despite the hideous dress, the rest of your look turned out quite nice. The flowers are decent, your makeup looks great, and you were even allowed to pick out your own jewelry. A win is a win.

“Most beautiful bride th’ church’s ever seen.” Simon puts out his arm like a gentleman, letting you wrap your own around it. “I love you, Si.” He takes a second, and you swear he’s holding back tears. “Love ya too, kid.”

-

Most of the ceremony passes in a blur.

Lots of flowery words, preaching about commitments you’d rather not think about. Some scripture or Latin thrown in there, but you’re really not paying attention. You’re more concerned with the man in front of you.

Your veil is a little sheer, allowing you to see him in all his groom glory. His eyes are dark, fixated on yours, and you’d be an idiot not to notice how handsome he looks. His tuxedo is sharp, and he’s got a flower tucked into the pocket. A heliotrope, a purple that matches well with the pink bridesmaid dresses. A half memory comes to you, something about heliotropes and eternal devotion, but you tuck that away under your might be mad box.

Finally, it comes to the vows. You haven’t written any and neither has John, instead deciding to use the olden ones. It frightens you, to have this surly man swear you such promises.

“With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow.”

He takes off your veil and you swear his breath hitches. It’s just a split second, but the muscle of his throat freezes and you’re captivated by how manly he looks. All bitter thoughts of enemies can be paused for a moment, you reason.

“You may now kiss the bride.” And he does.

It is not a polite kiss. You don’t know why you thought it would be.

He’s hungry. He catches the small of your back in one hand and your waist in the other, dipping you back in a picture perfect moment. His lips devour yours, delivering small bites and licks before pulling back so suddenly you think you’ve imagined it. You blink and you’re standing, your hand wrapped in John’s, as you look out at the cheering crowd. Mr. and Mrs. John Price.

-

You try to avoid John during the reception, which takes place in the backyard of the local country club. It’s hard to do when you’re supposed to thank everyone as a couple. You greet mafia and community leaders and business owners and politicians, all with the same sweet smile and John’s hand on your back. Do they know this was arranged? It’s hard to tell from the venomous sincerity dripping from their foaming mouths, eyes scanning the four-carat rock on your hand like it’s a prize to be won.

At least you’ve been allowed to change into a lighter dress. The reception dress is shorter, falling respectably right above your knees with long sleeves and a low back. Not low enough to show off the temporary tramp stamp smudged on your back. You keep the veil in, a cute detail that the inner little girl in you adores. If only this was a wedding you wanted.

Thankfully, champagne is in constant supply. You must have drunk at least four flutes now. That, plus your lack of food due to your hangover, makes you sway. John, who has not spoken to you directly at all since maiming your lips at the altar, notices. He tugs you away from the crowd, finding a secluded bench tucked away behind a tree. It reminds you of the garden you met him in a few nights ago.

“Thank god. One more sweaty handshake and I would have keeled over.” You murmur, mostly to yourself. He grunts, taking a seat next to you on the bench and loosening his tie.

“Who said you could sit next to me?” Uh oh. Drunk you is talking.

“‘S gonna be like that? We’re barely five minutes in, sweetheart.” He drags a hand down his face in an exhausted and adorable manner. No. This is the enemy. You must remind the both of you of that fact.

“You’re the enemy.” You poke him sternly in the shoulder, which sort of ruins the effortless effect you were going for. “You finally gonna tell me wha’ I did t’ you? Or is this our next ten years?” You frown at his words, crossing your hands over your chest. He’s acting like you did something wrong, not him. Out of the corner of your eye, you see John avert his gaze as you inevitably (and accidentally) push up your tits. Interesting.

“You ruined my life.” He barks out a laugh. “‘Ve ruined a lot of people’s lives. Need ya t’ be more specific.” Instead of answering, you slide down awkwardly into the grass beneath you, leaning your head back on the bench. It’s nighttime now and the only thing in the sky is the North Star. John’s star.

“You told my father I was a weakness and,” you hiccup, “and you told him to send me away. And lookwherethatgotme…” You trail off, eyes fluttering. Your eyes feel a thousand times heavier than normal, and everything hits you at once. Your lack of sleep from your night out, the stress of the day, the emotional conversations - they all boil over like a pot on the stove. “Think I’m gonna sleep now…” John hums, still next to you, and you drift off to the sound.

-

When you wake up, your head is throbbing. Why are you sitting on grass? There’s a suit jacket covering your front, keeping you warm from the night’s chill. Your neck throbs from laying back on the stone bench. There’s a stink in the air, a nasty smell, and when you turn to your right, you see your new husband smoking. Jacketless.

“Nice nap?” You nod, embarrassment coursing through your veins like a drug. “How long was I out?” He flicks the ash of his cigar onto the grass. “Long ‘nough people thought we were consummatin’ the marriage.” Oh. That was…not something you needed to think about.

“You feelin’ sober? Remember anythin�� you said?” You shake your head. Unbeknownst to you, John is frowning. The last few hours are a blur, a black spot in your memory. There’s still alcohol in your body, but a headache is starting to form as well. 

“Let’s get some food in ya. Can’t have my new wife droppin’ dead at the weddin’.” You let him help you up, slipping on his jacket to cover the grass stains on your dress. That’s the only reason you don’t take it off.

-

The rest of the night gets easier. Dinner saves you, but then Johnny’s putting drinks in your hands and your cousins are pulling you to the dance floor. You have an emotional dance with Simon, a not-so emotional one with John, and then you’re passed to a slew of people to make nice with. 

It’s 2am when the party finally settles down. People have gone home, thankfully including your aunt, and you say your goodbyes. John takes you back to the Ritz, a silent, quick car ride. You’re thankful for the quiet but confused all the same. The air is charged, like you just had an argument and lost. Is he mad? Regretting this? You don’t know him enough to tell, and that irks you.

The elevator takes you to the penthouse this time. Only the best for the king of London. John stands beside you, no hand on your back. It’s entirely businesslike: the walk to the room, shutting yourself in the bathroom, donning pajamas and a dressing gown. You would shower, but you need to finish your routine at the vanity.

If this were a real wedding, maybe he would have carried you in his arms over the threshold. Maybe he wouldn’t have been able to keep his hands off you, ravishing you in the entryway. Maybe he’d whisper in your ear, “Mrs. Price”.

Instead of that fantasy, you’re tipsy and angry about the fact that you are now Mrs. Price. Maybe that’s why you say it.

“I’m not a virgin.” You’re at the vanity, taking out the mountains of jewelry that pour out of every crevice of your body. It’s the last thing to remove before the weight of your wedding is off your shoulders. The mirror is giant, big enough so you can see John stop unbuttoning his shirt when you say the words. “You’re not?” You shake your head. He frowns. “Might as well send ya back now, get my money, and-,” he stops. Maybe it’s because you’re staring hard at his reflection. You don’t even like him, but the champagne and sting of rejection cut deep.

“Was jokin’, sweetheart. Didn’t expect you t’ be a virgin. Too much pressure, honestly.” Oh. Oh. He’s always called you sweetheart, spit it out like poison designed to kill. This is the first time he’s said it kindly and your heart curls around the word like a sleepy cat. Which will absolutely not do.

“Will make it easier, I reckon. ‘S a tight fit.” He winks jokingly and you scoff at his insinuation. He’s being oddly jovial, a 180 from the car ride, and you need to ruin this truce before it becomes permanent. 

“Sure, that’s probably what your exes have said. It was probably a ‘tight fit’ because they weren’t wet, John. Ever heard of foreplay? F-o-r-e-p-l-a-y, look it up. I expect-”, except you don’t get to tell him your expectations because he’s shut you up with a calloused hand around your throat. It’s not violent and you know he wouldn’t hurt you, but the shock factor hits its target.

“Yer used t’ yer brother an’ his men, crude jokes an’ the like. I get it. But I demand respect an’ you’ll respect your husband now. Got it?” He isn’t blocking your airway, just holding your throat with his hand like a collar around it. He stands behind you with his unbuttoned shirt, giving you a glimpse of his hairy torso, hard with muscle. “The same way you respect me?” You mutter. He straightens in the mirror, his hand loose. A thumb caresses your jawbone, one stroke then two, before he pulls it away completely like it never happened. “I’m tryin’ to. Let’s agree on that, yeah?” You nod stiffly, sobered and treading with cautious feet. Is this how he’ll be? Acting like a military captain, an all-consuming force?

“And, sweetheart.” He grabs your free hand, the one lying on the desk. His large paw engulfs your own, bringing it to the outline of his cock in his boxers. You can feel the weight of him and, against your will, you squeeze. He’s thick, no, girthy. The fabric is thin, allowing you to feel the ridges of his cock, the veins, and its shape. Your hand acts of its own accord, sliding down until your thumb brushes the mushroomed tip. His cock twitches in your hand and you jump in your seat, snatching your hand away like it’s on fire. His chuckle is low and bruising, a damning caress. 

“Thought so.” And your new husband walks away. 

When you toss your silk dressing gown into the hamper for housekeeping, neither of you comment on the wet spot that’s soaked through. That’s the closest you get to consummating your marriage tonight.

-

i dont care if this is in london, im using miles. deal with it

-

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[loveydovey489]

THANK YOU BABYGIRL AHH <33

Ghost makes INCREDIBLY uncomfortable jokes, when he’s feeling petty. Like..

Say they’re hiding in a small space, getting away from enemies

“Me an’ my brother used to hide like this from my old man.”

They all just look at him. Price- who had repeatedly told him to knock it off. Just stares, unamused.

Gaz is like “oh.. uh. Sorry about that mate.”, always reacts like that. If he uses it to get his way, gaz will give in first.

And soap DGAF! Looks the man who just trauma dumped on him. Dead in the eyes and in a fed up tone, “steam’n Jesus stop doing tha’,”

if ghost actually wanted to talk. Of it was just them, if it was him being vulnerable, Ofcourse they’d listen. Soap, price and gaz, (price is one of only people who knows the full story. Not even soap knows it all)

But it’s clear when he’s taking the piss. He says it with a smile in his voice. And looks incredibly proud of himself. And they all HATE it.

He did this with Farah when they were on overwatch (MW3) and she matched his freak. Convo went something like this

Price: “one wrong move; and I’ll put a hole through you (talking to Shepard)”

Ghost: “my dad used to say that to me.”

Farah: “I watched someone do that to my dad,”

Ghost: “nice.”

Farah: “nice.”

LMAO I LOVE GHOST AND FARAHS FRIENDSHIP (sassy snipers.)

[teddypines]

Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue

-----------------------------------------------

Summary: Retired Price and his special hobby. Y/N being very helpfull. Fem!reader, no age gap.

MDNI! 18+ if you do read it i'm not responsible. Warnings: P in V, smut, unprotected sex, dirty talk, use of pet names, recording of said smut.

Note: Just enjoy the little smut that came to me on a boring work day. Words: 860

Picture/art from Pinterest, credits to the artist.

-----------------------------------------------------

Ever since Price retired from the military everything was a little different. The boys still came around often, every Saturday when not on duty, and Wifey cooked the best dinners, but he didn’t feel the same. Not even when they had more time together to do the things they wanted to do. Of course he loved it now that he was more home and got to spend time with Y/N, to get to do the normal domestic things, but something was missing, and it was not a pet or a child.

Soap once told him to try new things one Saturday night after a few beers and Price was like what the hell and did. He really did try new things, even some new things with Wifey. He went fishing, camping, they even tried one of those couple pottery classes, but nothing was scratching that itch like the military did. 

On a weird whim Price went on Reddit to get a few extra ideas from helpful people who had struggled with the same. He made an account with Wifey’s help and then just went on to make a post.The comments were mostly basic things or really silly, but a few people recommended trying new spicy things, like roleplay and some kinks. That interested Price, especially since he and Wifey never really got the time to explore, but the comment about making spicy content himself was the most interesting. 

So after a good talk with the wife, Price made himself an account on a certain spicy site. Within no time Price’s ‘channel’ The Captain got a Patreon. His content was mostly aimed at audio’s and little jerk off videos with lots and lots of dirty talk and stories. Of course with the voice that Price had this became a quick success. So he slowly expanded his content a little to more videos and occasionally Wifey joined in on the fun.

Just like now, Price is sitting back against the headboard, Wifey on top of him. There was a camera set up at the end of the bed, just so that their faces were out of frame, but enough to see every little thing Price did too Y/N. He was using Wifey as if she was one of those jerk off toy’s. Just bouncing her up and down on his cock. 

Wifey was wearing some navy blue panties that were pushed to the side near the bottom so Price’s cock could slip in and out with ease. His hands on her hips as he made sure to get every little whimper, moan and whine from his Wifey.  “That’s it sweetie. Moan for your Captain.” Price cooed to Y/N in a rough sexy voice. The one that he knew made her insides do a flutter thing. “Just like that you dirty girl.” 

Price started to fasten up the pace a little reaching a little deeper inside of Wifey. “C-Cap… Captain.” Y/N whined as Price reached deeper inside her, hitting all the right spots. “Yes, Sweetheart?” Price asked in return as he watched her breasts bounce in the reflection of the camera. “F-Feels so good.” Wifey answered as her cunt squeezed around Price’s cock, making him groan in the process. “Fuck Sweetheart, such a good girl.”

This went on for the rest of the video. Price just sweet talking as he used his wife to chase his own pleasure as she moaned and squealed around. After coming deep down Wifey and making her cum Price made sure to do aftercare, part of the video, and a way to connect and sooth Wifey after a scene. Y/N was mostly there for a self insert for the viewer, but that didn’t mean Wifey and the viewers didn’t deserve aftercare. Price kissed the side of Y/N’s head off camera. “You were so good for me, darling. such a good girl. Gonna get you some food, water and a bath ready.” Wifey hummed in answer as she cuddled up with Price.

Price turned off the camera after cuddles. He quickly cleaned himself up and took Wifey to the bathroom for her bath as he would clean the sheets and camera before getting her something to eat and drink. He took off Y/N’s panties before laying her in the bath with some of her favorite bath salts and a kiss on the head before leaving her alone. Price changed the sheets, putting them in the laundry with their clothes and took the camera to his office. He would edit and upload the video later. For now he had to take care of his Wifey, making her feel good after their adventure. 

A week later Price uploaded the video, a shorter one for free on all platforms and the full version on Patreon for the higher paying members. The video was called ‘Playing with the wife ;)’ with a little description saying, ‘Wifey wanted to be adventurers again she can’t get enough of her Captain’s cock.’ Wifey however didn’t like the title or the description, but she did love doing these things with Price. Seeing him enjoy his hobby made her happy too, even if it was an unusual hobby.

[thealphapxnguin]

TF141 and their Partners

I’ve always wondered what the Task Force’s partners would realistically act and live like, so here are my ideas/headcanons for the question:

Captain Price would either have someone at home who he adores and treats like royalty, or have a fellow captain in the military who he’d bounce ideas off of and have deep, late-night chats about morality and everything that goes on. I think the first type of person would be his escape, and maybe a first parter, but the second would be his life-partner once he realised that he couldn’t give a civilian partner a normal life, and felt more comfortable with the fellow captain as they’d know what he’s going through and could comfort him well.

Ghost would definitely be on the more possessive side, and when that trait is implemented in real life, realistically his partner would have to be okay with that — or at least deal with it in a way that kept them both content. He’s also quite the tsundre type, so their relationship would be more deep conversations, late-night cuddles, and a silent hand on their waist at all times than open and public affection.

Soap really wouldn’t care what profession his partner has, but a must in his checklist would be patient and good-humoured. For a more lighthearted and optimistic man like himself, he’d need someone to validate and support him at all times (even when he isn’t joking around and is actually going through something), but at the same time someone he could enjoy himself with. (Also, they’d need to be willing to learn every single Scottish Ceilidh dance in existence should they ever need to attend one of his relative’s weddings)

Gaz feels to me like the most inexperienced of them all with relationships, and so his first (and current) partner would absolutely be a civilian who he met in a coffee shop, either as the sweet barista or as just a cute customer. He’d constantly tell the others how amazing his partner is, and complain about how he missed them daily.

[johnprice-asks]

Bit more muscle, but cha’ gettin’ there.

how I picture price’s body😩

[soapcloth]

Price who tries to impress you on the second date by taking you out into the woods to see his fully-stocked underground bunker. (First date was too early- he didn’t want to be too forward.) (You thought you were going on a cute little hiking date.)

[reader-without-a-story]

ok. darlin.

love this

YES

im firmly in the camp that soap is a HIMBO

too dumb for his own good but GREAT at eating

Out of all the 141 boys, Gaz is definitely the fuck boy. EVERYONE SAYS ITS SOAP. Look at that man, look at that man and tell me he has any fucking sense. That’s how he caught Ghost, cause only another person without any house training will put up with him.

Gaz is able to pull just about anyone he wants. He knows he’s pretty, but beyond that he’s charismatic and charming. And more than that, he’s not trying. It comes easy to him and it’s so genuine, too. And when he’s surrounded by try hard, macho military men who would rather get shot then have an emotional conversation, that gets him pretty far in the dating scene- and that’s not even necessarily including his squad.

He’s not overbearing, his voice has a smooth cadence that feels intimate without feeling creepy. He’s good at getting people talking without it feeling like he’s pulling teeth. And he seems really interested, asks good questions and has this rumbling laugh that sounds like it comes straight from his chest. Before you know it, you’re both in your own little world together and his hand is on your hip and when he asks if you can continue this somewhere else, you would be dumb to say no???

And he delivers, okay? He’s great at kissing, like, damn. He’s able to go with the flow depending on what his partner is feeling like. He takes care of your needs, repeatedly. He helps clean you up, holds you to his chest and you both come down together. Feels like true love shit.

And then he’s rolling out the bed and tugging his pants back over his ass. He’ll give you one more kiss and give you that sweet smile and swear that he’ll call, and he’s dipping out of your room without another word.

You never gave him your phone number.

[sai-int]

HOW TO DISAPPEAR | Rocks - 1

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The apartment was heavy with stillness, the kind that pressed down on your chest and made it hard to breathe. A faint, acrid smell lingered in the air—burnt coffee forgotten on the counter. The sink was stacked with plates smeared with the remnants of meals you barely remembered eating, and the hum of the refrigerator filled the silence, too loud for a home that rarely felt lived in.

The walls, painted a dull beige, seemed to close in, their blank surfaces interrupted only by crooked frames holding photos you wish were never taken. In the corner, the ashtray overflowed with crushed cigarette butts, a reminder of his habit and his temper.

You brushed your fingers over the frayed edge of the sofa, the rough fabric catching at your skin. Somewhere in the bedroom, the muffled buzz of your phone vibrated against the nightstand, a sound you used to notice but now couldn’t help ignoring.

Even here, in the supposed safety of your home, the air hung heavy, suffocating. His voice lingered in your mind, a distant echo of the words he’d throw at you once he arrived—sharp, cutting phrases that hadn’t yet been spoken, but you knew were coming. You should’ve cleaned up the kitchen. You should’ve called him sooner. You should’ve done better.

The windows whistled as a gust of wind rolled past outside, the only sign of life beyond these walls. You glanced at your coat draped over the back of the chair, and for a moment, the thought of fresh air became irresistible. Anything to escape the weight of this place, even if it's just temporary.

You grabbed the coat, your fingers stiff as they slipped it on, the door clicking shut behind you with a finality that sent an unexpected shiver through your spine. It was the kind of sound that felt like a decision made for you, one you didn’t have to think about but still felt the weight of. As soon as you stepped outside, the late afternoon air hit you like a slap—cold enough to make your skin prickle, but not enough to feel like anything other than the emptiness that had been gnawing at you inside.

Your feet moved, not guided by any real direction, but a need to be anywhere but there, to leave behind the quiet that was somehow louder than anything else. The city was still, the noise distant and faint, as though it belonged to someone else entirely. Your own steps echoed in the silence, each one a reminder that you were alone. You didn’t know where you were going, and, in the moment, you didn’t care. You just couldn’t go back. Not yet. Not now.

The jacket, thin as it was, barely kept the chill at bay. It clung to your shoulders, offering no comfort, but you tugged it tighter anyway. The sky above was streaked with hues of orange and gold, a warmth that felt at odds with the freezing weight inside you. It seemed so far away from how you felt—like you were living in someone else’s life, watching it from the outside. Your mind was clouded, distant. It was as though you were moving, but your body wasn’t quite attached to you. Everything felt like it was happening to someone else, someone far away who wasn’t quite real.

You walked, your feet taking you wherever, each step carrying you farther from the apartment, farther from his voice still reverberating in your head. The buzz of the city faded in the background, drowned out by the deafening hum of your own thoughts. Him. The apartment. The silence that clung to you, suffocating in the spaces between unspoken words. How'd you get here? What more could you give?

You didn’t know how long you’d been walking. The world around you didn’t seem to change, and yet it did. The pavement under your feet shifted, from smooth to cracked concrete, the rhythm of your steps altering with each change in the ground. Your thoughts were still fogged, but there was something about this place—this change—that centered you in the now. You didn’t realize how badly you needed this escape until your legs had carried you far enough for you to feel it.

The smells hit you first.

Salt. Sea foam clinging to the air mingles with something sharper—the sour bite of cheap beer and whiskey, the faint traces of lingering cigarettes. The blend wraps around you like a thin shawl, familiar yet unsettling. It makes you pause, a tightness creeping into your chest.

It’s not the smells themselves that stop you. It’s how they ebb and flow, carried by the breeze from the ocean—coming and going, just like the memories you buried deep. One moment, the scents are close enough to make you feel, to pull you back in time. Then, just as quickly, they’re gone, fading down the street as if they never existed.

You see the street sign second.

Pierpoint Avenue.

You stop, blink, and then look again.

It's just a sign, at first. It's worn with age, disconnected from your memory—brushed away by the waves of time, the ebb and flow that you loathe. The brief moment of familiarity flickers, and for a second, you could taste the nights you spent here four years ago.

Almost.

The weight in your chest pulls like an anchor, dragging you back to something you thought you’d left behind. Seafoam, cigars, and booze merge, turning into more than just the street’s odor—it becomes the familiar, intoxicating presence of the hard chest you’d spent countless nights resting against.

Memories of John Price drift through your mind, shrouded with unspoken words and a hungry void you’ve been trying to satiate ever since he left.

The streetlights flicker on as the sun finally settles below the horizon, leaving behind a muted palette of pink, purple, and dark blue. The soft glow from the lamps cuts through the thickening shadows, casting long streaks on the cracked pavement. You walk deeper into the street, It’s quiet now, the hustle of the city fading with the daylight. But this street, one you never thought you’d find yourself back on, has a rhythm. It only really wakes up after 9 pm, when the night takes its hold, but even now, there are a few people wandering in and out of shadowed doorways, the occasional distant hum of conversation.

The sea breeze nips your skin through you coat as you take in the street in a way you never had before. The old shops you used to frequent stand as they always have, though the grime of time and neglect has found its way to their windows. Graffiti sprawls across benches where you used to sit, the walls marked by tags and symbols that weren’t there before, signs of a place that’s moved on without you. The nostalgia comes in waves, familiar and painful, like water pulling you under.

Your gaze drifts over storefronts as you walk, eyes catching the dark, angular shapes of new scaffolding, the smell of fresh paint and concrete rising from somewhere beneath it. You note the shift—the way things have changed, but also the way they haven’t. The world still spins, and you’re still here, walking.

It’s when you’re nearing the end of the block that you see a figure under an awning. It leans against a closed storefront, arms crossed, silhouette near blending into the shadows. Something about him draws your eyes, but you don’t think much of it at first. Just another stranger, part of the city’s nighttime crowd.

You continue walking, the click of your shoes on the pavement rhythmic against the silence of the street, but as you draw closer, a glow emits from the figure—the tip of a cigar, the orange-red light cutting through the blackness. The sight of it makes your chest tighten. For a brief moment, your heart stutters.

It can’t be.

But as you take another step forward, the distinct scent of a fresh Montecristo. It flutters in the air, mingling with the oceans smell, dancing in the wind. The memories flood back like a punch to the gut, too sharp to ignore. You stop. A few feet away, the ember glows again as the figure takes another drag. You don’t want to look, but you can’t help yourself.

You stand there, locked in place, staring at the figure in the dark. The glow of the cigar dances, finally lighting his features just enough for you to recognize a face you thought you’d never see again.

John Price.

Your breath catches in your throat, and you feel like you’re frozen in time. The street, the smells, the air—it all blurs together in that one instant. All those years you thought you’d moved past, all the things you buried deep inside, rush forward, overwhelming you. The man standing in front of you isn’t the same one you used to know, but in this moment, under the dim light of the streetlamp, it feels like a curse has just completed itself

He doesn't see you, but you don’t move. You don’t speak. Can't. You just stand there, staring at him.

The streetlights buzz faintly above, their warm glow painting the cracked pavement with streaks of gold. Your breath catches, shallow and uneven, your chest tightening with each second you stand there. The world feels off-kilter, like you’re teetering on the edge of something you don’t want to face. You shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be here.

It’s been years—years of trying to move forward, of convincing yourself that what he left you with wasn’t a wound but a scar. And yet, standing here now, staring at the faint glow of the cigar in his hand, it’s like the past is curling its fingers around your throat, pulling you back into the ache you’ve worked so hard to bury.

Your stomach churns. You don’t know if it’s anger or grief—or maybe it’s both, twisted together into something ugly and raw. You can’t even meet his eyes yet, but you can feel them on you, heavy and unrelenting. It makes your skin crawl, but there’s something else, too—something you hate yourself for.

The way the sound of his voice still echoes in your memories. The way his scent—cigars, salt, and something else, something you can’t name—has been seared into your mind like a brand.

You don’t know if you’re ready for this.

No, you know you’re not ready for this.

But here he is, leaning against the storefront like it’s nothing, like his presence isn’t unraveling every carefully constructed wall you’ve built around yourself.

And then he speaks.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here.”

The sound of his voice crashes into you, low and gravelly, with that faint lilt you used to think was comforting. Now, it’s a match against dry kindling. You hate how much it still affects you, hate how just hearing it makes you want to scream and cry and—God, no—stay.

You force a bitter laugh out of your throat, hoping it’ll cover the way your heart is threatening to claw its way out of your chest. “Neither did I.” The words are sharp, brittle, but they feel hollow even to you.

You don’t know what to do with your hands. They fidget at your sides, ball into fists, then relax again. You force yourself to stand straighter, to pretend you’re not breaking apart under the weight of this moment. But your mind won’t stop racing.

Why now? Why here? Of all the streets in this city, all the places he could’ve gone, he had to be here. He had to bring it all rushing back when you were just starting to feel like you could breathe again.

You swallow hard, trying to push down the lump in your throat. “Why are you here?” Your voice is sharp, cutting, but you hate how it wavers at the end. You hate how small it makes you feel.

He takes his time answering, and every second of silence feels like it’s pressing against your skull, threatening to crack it open. His eyes haven’t left yours, and it’s unbearable—like he can see everything, all the cracks and fractures you’ve worked so hard to hide.

“Didn’t plan to be,” he says finally, his voice quiet, and there’s something in it you don’t want to name. Regret, maybe. Or something heavier.

You bite the inside of your cheek, the taste of copper grounding you for just a moment. “Well, it’s a big city. Plenty of other streets to smoke your cigars on.” Your words are meant to cut, but they feel like they’re slicing into you instead.

You take a step forward, brushing past him, and your pulse spikes as the scent of him—smoke and salt and him—wraps around you, dragging you under. It’s infuriating, how he can still do this to you without even trying.

“Wait.”

The word hits you like a physical weight. His voice is soft but firm, threaded with something that stops you in your tracks.

You freeze, fists clenched, your back still to him. Your breathing is shallow, too quick, and your mind won’t stop screaming at you to keep walking. But your body betrays you, locking you in place as his words hang in the air.

“What do you want, Price?” The question slips out before you can stop it, and you hate how it trembles, how it betrays everything you’re trying so hard to hide.

The silence that follows stretches on, each second wrapping tighter around you. Your hands shake, but you clench them harder, trying to ground yourself in the present, in the cold night air, in anything but the ache that’s clawing at your chest.

When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter than before, softer, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

“Just a moment of your time.”

Your breath catches, and you feel it—the pull, the ache, the way his words sink into the hollow spaces inside you. And you hate him for it. You hate him for the way he makes you pause, for the way he makes you want to turn around, for the way he makes you want to stay.

The ache in your chest deepens as your eyes catch on a familiar sign ahead, swinging gently in the salty breeze. Tether and Tide. The letters are faded now, the once-bright paint chipped and weathered, but it’s unmistakable.

It’s like a ghost from another life, standing there as if nothing’s changed, as if it hasn’t been years since the last time you walked through its doors. Your steps falter, the past rushing back in vivid flashes: the scrape of barstools against wood floors, the sound of his laugh mingling with the clinking of glasses, the way his hand would brush against yours under the table, deliberate but pretending not to be.

And that night—the first night. The one where everything shifted, where the teasing turned to something deeper, where you let your guard down just enough to let him in. The memory presses against you, unrelenting, and you can’t tell if it’s pulling you under or keeping you afloat.

Your gaze flickers toward him, and for a moment, you wonder if he remembers too. If the sight of that sign twists something in him the way it does in you.

He’s watching you, his expression unreadable, but there’s a tension in his jaw, a flicker in his eyes that makes you think he knows exactly where your thoughts have gone.

You draw in a shaky breath, then nod toward the bar. “If we’re doing this…” Your voice is steadier than you expect, but it still feels like it’s coming from somewhere far away. “I’m not doing it without a drink.”

His brow arches slightly, the faintest ghost of amusement tugging at the corner of his lips. “Fair enough.”

You don’t wait for him to catch up, your steps pulling you toward the entrance. The soft, golden glow spilling from the windows beckons, the hum of low conversation and the smooth flow of blues, mingled with the faint crackle of a record player, wrapping around you. It’s like stepping into a memory, a place frozen in time, and it takes every ounce of your resolve to keep moving forward.

The door creaks as you push it, the familiar scent of old wood and spilled bourbon wrapping around you. It’s quieter than you remember, but the details are the same—the scuffed floors, the mismatched chairs, the way the bar itself seems to tilt ever so slightly.

You slide into the booth, the cool leather creaking slightly under your weight. The dim lighting in the corner gives the room a quiet intimacy, the flickering of the old neon sign outside casting brief, uneven shadows against the wall. You sink back, trying to steady your breath, your thoughts still spinning.

John doesn’t sit down right away. Instead, he hovers by the bar, speaking with the bartender, his words low enough that you can’t hear them over the ambient murmur of the other patrons. His body language is stiff, his back to you as he leans against the counter, his hand resting on the edge, but you don’t need to hear what he’s saying. You already know.

A quiet exchange. Maybe an apology—something he can’t say to your face. Maybe a promise he isn’t ready to make. It doesn’t matter. Not yet.

You focus on the worn edges of the table instead, the surface pitted with years of use. The smell of the bar—the sweet, bitter tang of spilled whiskey, the musk of aged wood—fills your senses, and for a moment, you let it wash over you, grounding you to the present. You let your mind wander back, just for a second, to when this place was home. When it was the two of you and everything felt simple. Before everything got tangled, before everything slipped away.

Those days are gone.

The scrape of a chair leg pulls you from your thoughts, and you glance up to see John finally sitting across from you, his presence heavy even in the silence. He doesn’t speak. He just watches you, those eyes of his unreadable as ever.

A moment later, the bartender approaches with two glasses—one a whiskey, neat, the other your usual. He sets them down on the table with a quiet nod, but your focus is on the drink in front of you. The amber liquid catches the dim light, reminding you of something you almost forgot. Something that still lingers.

John remembered.

The weight of that small act presses down on you. He didn’t have to. But he did. And now, for just a second, you’re back there again. Back when things weren’t so complicated. When his memory wasn’t tainted by time and distance.

You reach for the glass, your fingers brushing the cool rim. You don’t drink yet, but you trace the glass with your thumb, your thoughts swirling.

John leans back, his gaze steady and unrelenting. The space between you feels heavier than the silence, as if an ocean stretches between the two of you—a vast, unspoken distance that no amount of liquor could bridge.

For now.

[oceantornadoo]

ch5 something borrowed something blue (mafia!price x simon's sister!reader)

tw: more mild dubcon groping and fingering

masterlist | next

It’s been a while since John Price woke up with a woman in his arms. He can’t say he hasn’t missed it.

Your skin is soft, the addicting smell of lilac radiating off you in waves. You’re tucked into the nape of his neck like a cat, curling the rest of your body around him like you’ve been doing this for years, not days.

Gaz was right. He’s fucked.

The penthouse bed is a King, taking up half of the room. The two of you went to sleep on opposite sides, a chasm between you, but in the late hours, you’d somehow met in the middle. He wasn’t going to force you to consummate the marriage. John Price is many things, but not a rapist. He figured you’d get to know each other a little, at least respect one another, before doing the deed in a clinical matter. If he needed sex, which he didn’t really, he could go somewhere else. 

Except since the night at his club, he hadn’t been able to think about any other thighs but yours. Any other pair of tits, glistening with sweat and alcohol. That terrible tramp stamp, his mark on you like he was your owner. He didn’t know what to make of it, but your continued proximity worsened the issue with each passing day. It was worrying to think it would get worse every time you woke in his arms. He’d have to manage; it’s not like he’d let you sleep in separate beds.

John probably should get out of bed and do his morning workout before you wake up. Except the moment he tenses his muscles, preparing to slip out quietly, you whine. A pitiful sound. Such a needy kitty, he thinks absently. You hitch your thigh higher around his hip, nuzzling into his neck forcefully. He doesn’t think you’re awake unless he’s in some alternate reality where you stopped hating him overnight. The physical touch is…nice. Something he hasn’t had in a while. Can’t remember the last time he fucked something that wasn’t his hand, let alone cuddled in bed.

His arm rests possessively over your hip, the other one free at his side. Taking a chance, he reaches up to brush the soft skin under your eyes. No rhyme or reason to it, pure instinct to touch the sleeping face of his wife. His wife.

Maybe he should sleep in a little more. It’s something Gaz is always nagging him on. A man’s due some rest on his wedding morning. With that decided, he shuts his eyes, his thumb still on your face. A part of him memorizes the feel in case you never let him that near again.

-

You wake to a harder pillow than normal. Your body tenses on instinct. There’s no way. You slept on opposite sides of the bed. Right?

“Before ya scream, I hav’ a proposition.” It’s him. Under you, over you, his hand on your waist like a chain. The feral part of you whines at his raspy morning voice, the overwhelming warmth of his body, his bare chest, and the morning wood that’s poking your thigh. Maybe that’s why you only say, “Ok.”

He doesn’t comment on your newfound timidness. His other hand is on your face, stroking the skin of your cheek absentmindedly. It practically lulls you back to sleep, and you must still be drunk to let him continue without a reprimand. “Clean slate. For today, a honeymoon period, and after tha’, friends. Or friendly, if friends is too hard to manage. ‘Ve got too much on my plate t’ worry ‘bout my wife poisonin’ me at breakfast.” Friends. When was the last time you heard that word? Everyone you know is family or enemy, no in between. Price was firmly in the enemy category, but you’re not naive enough to think that hasn’t changed.

Conceding to your contract amendments. Rescuing you in the garden. An annoying argument at the club, but also guaranteeing you were safe. Taking you for a break at your wedding, making sure you were fed and not on the verge of collapse. Not forcing you to consummate your marriage. Not caring if you weren’t a virgin.

It’s all the bare minimum shit you’d expect from a regular man, a regular boyfriend. But nothing about this situation is regular. You know tens of mafia men worse than John Price. Your father, to name one. One’s that would take advantage of you without a second glance, wouldn’t give a damn about your bookstore or thoughts on children. Your childhood indiscretions aside, John Price seems to be a good man. It’s not like he’s asking you to love him or anything else out of the realm of possibility. Friends is good. Friends can be married, have sex, raise kids, and still be friends. There’s an example out there, it’s just not coming to mind.

-

“You sayin’ you only want to be friends because you’re too busy? What a glowing vote of confidence.” He sighs against you. He should have worded it better, but your proximity is throwing him off. It’s making him think of lazy Sundays and discovering what’s under your silk pajamas.

John went into this thinking you were a brat, another entitled mafia princess. It’s clear you’re much more. Having the gall to negotiate your marriage contract and sticking firm with your business. He’s seen the love you have for Ghost and Soap; a deep-seated dedication he knows must not be easy with your family history. And of course, he can’t forget your drunk confession at the wedding. How you blame him for some stupid thing he said as a teenager. Under all your bravado, there’s clearly a hurt little girl. Some part of him, the part he thought died when he shot his first kill, wants a real marriage. A real partner. 

John’s got no clue if you’re willing to give him a try romantically, but it’s worth a shot to at least be friends. He needs someone to rely on that’s not Gaz or Laswell. Someone he can let his guard down around and not get shot by.

-

“I worded it wrong. Friends ‘cause tha’s the only way this will work. Friends ‘cause we’re both now livin’ with a stranger, an’ we migh’ parent a kid together. Friends and partners.”

“Frenemies.” You respond automatically, thrown by his admission. He squeezes your waist, and it’s a sullen reminder that you’re wrapped around him like an octopus. You move to unwrap yourself, but he holds you tight with a scary show of strength. “Friends.” He repeats firmly. You’ve already agreed in your head, but he has to work for it.

“Do friends give honeymoon gifts? I’ve been expecting a gift for putting up with you and have yet to see one.” His hand stops swiping over your cheek, and you can’t control the frown that emerges. He dips lower to press his thumb against your lips, pushing hard until it meets your teeth. It’s strange and sends a shock down your spine. “Friends an’ you’ll stop whinin’.” His voice is harsh, but it’s countered with how his hand now travels the length of your jaw, back and forth hypnotically. “Friends and we order breakfast.” Finally, he nods. That’s it. Friends.

John lets you escape to the bathroom while he calls room service. Even after using the toilet, brushing your teeth and splashing water on your face, you still feel off-kilter. Your skin is hot, hands trembling. A honeymoon period? What the hell does that mean? You hate how your core clenches at the thought of having a real honeymoon with him. It’s a terrible fact, but you’re attracted to your husband. And by how touchy he is, he’s clearly attracted to you. Clean slate. It’s barely taxing to forget your prejudices against him, tucked away in a far corner of your mind. You square your shoulders, giving yourself a nod in the mirror. Friends that are attracted to each other. Nothing to it.

When you walk back into the bedroom, John sits up in bed, the room service tray on the side of the bed. The sheets have fallen to his waist, giving you a view of his delicious upper half. He clearly works out, but not to the point where he’s a bodybuilder. His pecs and torso are hairy but maintained, the perfect combination. As you approach the bed, he gets up with alarming speed and snatches you off your feet, propping you in his lap. It’s terrible and you try to squirm out of it but his grip is too strong, pulling you in further. “Honeymoon period.” He growls in your ear, to which you finally settle down. Guess this is what he meant. At least you’re sitting sideways and not straddling him. You’d never recover.

“This is not friendly, John. I can’t reach the food this way.” All he does is hum, bending over the side of the bed to look at the spread before you. Waffles, pancakes, fresh fruit, yogurt, eggs, and scones call your name. “Open.” When you blink, there’s a piece of egg on a fork in front of your face. “That’s not-,” he doesn’t let you finish, shoving the food into your mouth the moment it opens. You moan at the taste, ignoring how he stiffens beneath you. “Oh my god, that’s the best scrambled egg I’ve ever had.” John picks at another piece, securing it on the fork, before turning back to you. This time, you open your mouth obediently, rolling your eyes when he takes longer than a second to reach you. “Hurry up, I’m hungry.” He shakes his head, eyes glinting with mirth. “Magic word?” You huff, turning hangry. You grab the fork, but he’s got unmatched reflexes, holding it high over your head with a raised eyebrow. The motion pulls at the rest of his face, highlighting his beard and wrinkles. It’s terribly attractive. In a friendly way.

“Please, John, will you feed me like the incapable adult I am?” Your words are dripping with sarcasm but it’s enough for him. You moan around the fork again, and you both politely ignore his half-chubbed cock under your thighs. The cycle repeats, John switching from eggs to waffles to fruit. It’s taken you nearly a half hour to eat but he’s so insistent it’s hard to say no. Every time you swallow, he acts like you’ve solved world hunger. It’s doing terrible things to your ego.

“You’ve hardly eaten.” You murmur. He shrugs, finally settling the fork down. That fork deserves to be thrown into a fire and never seen again. It’s a torture machine.

“I’ll eat now. Go shower an’ get ready.” You pull yourself off his lap and he let you, hand dragging across your skin until you’re completely out of his reach. “Nah, think I’ll sleep a bit more. This awful man was snoring all night.” He snorts and it’s so unbecoming you snort as well. He doesn’t dignify it with a response.

“Goodnight- hey!” Instead, he’s stolen the covers from under you. You did marry a manchild.

“Shower an’ get ready. Ya wanted yer honeymoon gift, ain’t tha’ righ’?” A gift? You might be determined that he’s an asshole, but you are not strong enough to turn down a gift. With all the money he spent on the wedding, it better be something good. “Fine.” An hourlong shower ought to set him straight.

-

Two hours later, you’re finally ready.

Your mission to annoy your husband is successful. He’s been huffing under his breath the last half hour, checking his watch and texting on his phone. He threw on a spare suit from the closet, looking immaculate despite the gun you watch him tuck into his waistband. 

Meanwhile, you take the absolute most time to do your makeup. In fact, you switch out your jewelry three separate times. He told you to dress casually but you also cannot trust the words of a man, so you slip on a sundress and grab a cardigan in case it gets cold. At least Aunt Riley packed you plenty of options in the bags that were sent up. Against your better judgment, you slip on a pair of lace underwear. For confidence purposes only. You forgo any shorts under.

“I’m ready!” He grunts, picking up your purse before you even have the chance to. “Finally. Driver’s been waitin’ fer twenty minutes now.” Well, now you feel bad. “I would’ve hurried if I knew he was waiting. Your fault for not telling me.” He shrugs, hustling you out of the room with a hand on your back. He guides you into the elevator, and although it’s demeaning and infantilizing, a small part of you warms. 

“Can’t take off work fer the week so this’ll be y’r one-day honeymoon. Sorry about tha’, sweetheart.” You shrug, tilting your body slightly so he can’t see you smile at the endearment. At some point this week, it’s turned from venomous to heartwarming, chipping away at your campaign against him. “It’s ok.” He rests his hand on your waist and for a heartstopping moment, he leans in. He’s about to kiss your forehead. You both realize at the same time, pulling away to opposite sides of the elevator so his hand drops. Luckily, the elevator dings. You don’t know what would have happened without it.

He warns you it’s a long car ride. You both sit in the back seat, opposite sides, and you slip off your sandals to curl up against the car door. Using your cardigan as a pillow, you watch him through heavy-lidded eyes. He makes phone call after phone call, his accent getting thicker with irritation depending on the caller. John speaks English, but he says so many code names and unfamiliar locations that it sounds like a different language. The comforting sound of it lulls you to sleep, dreamless and peaceful. When you wake up, there’s a mansion outside your window.

“Is this…” You freeze, taking in the sight before you. Is this your new prison? You were hoping to postpone your new reality a little longer. He shakes his head as he opens your car door, shooing the driver away. “‘S a friend’s, not mine. He’s lendin’ us a building f’r tonight.” A building? His friend must be some kind of royal. The grounds are sprawling and well-kept, sparkling in the warmth of the sunset. John leads you down a path through the gardens, and you walk slowly to take it all in. They’re all native plants, at the end of their blooming season. Their scents make the air thick, a natural perfume, and you sniff each one individually. John doesn’t rush you, stopping every time you do. You swear he’s hiding a small smile under the beard, but he looks away whenever you squint at him. Half an hour later, you make it to the building he’s been guiding you to. It’s an observatory, a rounded glass ceiling visible from the outside. The sun is fully set, and as the clouds clear, stars start winking at you. A perfect night.

“Don’t get impressed yet.” He murmurs to your awed face. Instead of explaining why, he presses a silver key into your hand. Even though you were cuddling this morning, the shock of his touch sends a shiver down your spine. Mistaking it for cold, he nudges you towards the door. It unlocks smoothly, revealing a small entryway. It’s bracketed by dark wood on all sides, with old and uncomfortable furniture. He keeps pressing you forward until you stop at a large door, curved at the top like in a castle. “Open it.” He says when you don’t move. Hand shaking, you turn the knob, and almost faint at what’s revealed.

“‘S a remake of-” 

“The Admont Abbey Library in Austria.” The world’s most beautiful library. Instead of being made for public use, this one is for comfort. 

There are two, no, three stories of books on every wall. Instead of a fresco on the ceiling, its glass, giving you a direct view of the stars. Books line every nook and cranny, surrounded by a lighter and more appealing wood than the one in the entryway. There are chairs and sofas every few feet, worn but well-loved. A few steps further reveal a fireplace with a mountain of chairs surrounding it, a place to invite friends to discuss books over tea. A large clock hangs over it, chiming at every hour. There are staircases and ladders to reach the books on high shelves, and a closer look reveals they’re ordered by subject. Books from centuries ago and recently purchased ones mesh together in a wonderful rainbow of colors. 

“You like it?” He’s still standing by the first couch, almost awkwardly. A mafia man in a full suit with his gun tucked into his waistband, and yet it seems a library is what makes him look small.

“John, it’s- I don’t even know what to say. It’s perfect. And all mine for a night?” He shakes his head at that in a confusing manner. “Not jus’ a night…” No.

“John Price, did you buy me a library?” He has the nerve to look ashamed, cheeks pinking as he tucks his hands into his pockets. “My friend’s quite old, can’t go up an’ down the ladders anymore. He’s givin’ it to ya fer free, ‘s long as ya don’t sell anything. Can come ‘ere whenever you like.” A library, just for you.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you.” You attack him with a hug. A friendly one, with your arms around his neck and your legs around his waist. “Got it after th’ night in the garden. Figured I’d give ya a new home since I’m takin’ yer old.” A stray tear falls at his consideration. “Thank you.” You whisper this time, throat thick with more tears. “Don’t cry, sweetheart. Go explore.” You nod, climbing out of his arms. His thumb reaches out to wipe away a tear and you let him, granting yourself a reprieve from the exhausting practice of hatred for one night. “Go’on.”

-

You explore for hours.

John makes calls from couches, occasionally walking around until he spots you. You’re like a kid in a candy store, running from shelf to shelf with a grin on your face. He was worried it was too much, but it seems to have finally cleared the air between you two. The phantom weight of your hug clings to his skin, a memory he can’t shake off.

He didn’t admit to you that this is his manor, the one he goes to when he needs to get away. The way you hesitated when getting out of the car with fear in your eyes was unbearable. He didn’t want this to feel like another gilded cage. There’s only staff around anyway, and they’re under strict instructions not to say anything. As far as he’s concerned, this whole building is solely yours.

When he’s finally done remotely managing a crisis at one of his clubs, he ventures off to find you. It’s near midnight now and the stars are shining bright under the glass ceiling. When he finds you on the second floor, you’re bent over a desk, reading while standing like you’re so enthralled you couldn’t be bothered to properly sit. It’s the most attractive thing he’s ever seen.

Bent over, your dress barely covers your ass. John takes a silent step back on the staircase and sure enough, he can see a black scrap of lace cupping your cunt. He thanks your aunt for not packing shorts.

“Givin’ a man ideas standin’ like tha’.” It escapes his mouth before getting permission from his brain. John blames the whiskey he found in between calls. You snap your book closed at the sound of his voice, turning around and standing ramrod straight. “I stand or sit in weird positions when I’m reading. You’ll have to get used to it.” Instead of answering, he approaches you until there’s only an inch of space between your chests. You don’t flinch, a show of trust. Ever the challenger, you tip your chin up until your eyes meet, defiance sending a rush of blood to his cock.

“Turn around.” You do. Slowly. The book you were reading is still clutched to your chest like a shield. “Show me how ya were standin’.” He steps back to give you room. To his disbelief, you comply, bending over until a bit of lace peaks out. “Read t’ me.” A rough finger reaches out, touching the edge of the lace separating him from your cunt. He traces the seam of it, the outline of your folds straining against fabric. John decides to push the limit as far as he can during this honeymoon day, to make you want him as much as he wants you.

“‘But strange and marvelous as she was, a wisp of silk in a forest of black wool, she was’- John!” His finger had slipped under your lace underwear. You were so wet, dripping over his hand, and he wondered if you got off on this more than he did. If this was one of your secret fantasies, fucking in a library. “Tell me t’ stop.” You’re silent, too proud to ask him to continue, but too desperate to ask him to stop. Unperturbed, he starts swiping up and down like he’s familiarizing himself with the feel of your cunt. “Go’on.” You take a deep breath and continue.

“‘Not the fragile creature one would have her seem. In many ways she was as cool and competent as Henry’- oh fuck.” He’d pressed his thumb against your clit, hard. “Feel good?” You nod, barely keeping your head above your shoulders. “If this was our real honeymoon,” he moved his thumb down to your fluttering hole, dipping it in lightly for emphasis. You dropped your head down to the desk, exhaling harshly. “I’d-” Ding!

The clock struck twelve. The end of your honeymoon period.

John removed his thumb slowly, putting your underwear back in place with care. He kissed your back, over where your Sharpie marks were, before pulling back completely. “Driver’s ready whenever you are, sweetheart. No rush.” And he was gone, walking down the staircase.

He’d only continue if you asked him to.

-

i hope this isn't moving too fast but i really wanted some fluff and smut. if yall couldnt tell, this was inspired by that scene from beauty and the beast.

also the semester is starting back this week so my posts will become less frequent, pls bear with me :)

fifty points to who can tell me what book she was reading!!!

-

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Flex

Selfies are fun to draw

[thechaoticcheese]

The last part made me think of this so much. Price is obv Hoodie Guy, Dennis is be Soap and Daniel is Gaz(though both can def be switched), and I imagine Ghost is just somewhere in the background watching it all go down like: Y'all didn't know this is what happens to each other's voices? Unobservant.

I feel like price. Is actually super soft spoken when off duty.

TW: none :3

Like. I think he gets a sore throat from yelling and barking orders. So he likes to speak super soft. We can see this in MW1 when he’s talking to gaz the first time. His little “go on.” To gaz. So soft.

Ans this was the nicest thing when he was a Sargent. Before his voice got all raspy from smoking..

But now, when the man talks. Sometimes it just sounds like grumbling. Because the softness and the rasp in his voice makes it so hard to understand him.

This is double worse in the morning. Because he has a KILLER morning voice. It’s even deeper and raspier and so nobody understands him😭