♠

The old pub hadn’t changed.

Same dim lights, same warped tables that wobbled if you leaned too hard, same smell of spilled beer soaked deep into the floorboards. Price hadn’t stepped foot in the place for years, not since before his hair had gone grey at the edges and his bank accounts had swelled from decades of bloody contracts.

He didn’t belong here anymore — not in the polished watch glinting on his wrist, the expensive coat draped over broad shoulders, or the quiet confidence of a man who had more money than time to spend it.

But he liked coming back now and then. To remind himself where he’d started.

He sat in the corner booth, cap tugged low, nursing the silence. The room was too loud for him, even when it was quiet. Laughter near the bar bled into the roar of gunfire in his memory. The scrape of a chair on wood was the screech of metal against concrete. Even now, years later, his body knew how to flinch before his mind caught up.

Price ran a hand over his beard, jaw tight. The weight of it pressed in — the things he’d seen, the things he’d done, the faces he couldn’t save. Nights like this, he felt every bit of it.

“Evening, sir. What’ll it be?”

Price looked up, his eyes found her. He meant to answer, but instead he found himself staring. The dim lights caught the shine in her eyes, the faint flush of her cheeks from rushing between tables. But it wasn’t just her face that held him — his gaze traced lower, to the way the little black apron tied snug around her waist, the soft curve of her hips shifting beneath the thin fabric of her uniform skirt.

The outfit wasn’t meant to be flattering, but on her it was. Too flattering. He wondered if she even realized.

“Sir?” she asked again, head tilting slightly, a hint of amusement in her tone. “Your order?”

Price blinked, throat tight, realizing she’d already asked him once. “Whisky,” he said finally, his voice rougher than he intended. “Neat.”

She gave him a quick smile before turning away, hips swaying without effort as she walked toward the bar. His eyes followed her, lingering longer than they should have, a heat curling low in his chest.

Dangerous, he thought.

Too young. Too soft. Too far from the kind of world he’d lived in. He’d spent years wading through mud and blood, carrying scars no one else could see. Men like him didn’t deserve to want things that looked like her — bright eyes, an easy smile, curves wrapped up in a cheap little uniform that made his hands twitch with the urge to touch.

She was a kind of comfort he hadn’t felt in decades, but also a temptation sharper than any blade. It was the worst mix — something he could lose himself in, something that could make him forget who he was, if only for a moment.

Price leaned back in the booth, cigar rolling between his fingers as he lit it, She laughed at something a customer said, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear, her apron pulling tight across her waist as she leaned over to set down drinks.

His jaw flexed.

It would be too easy.

He had the money. More than enough to take her out of this run-down bar, away from late nights and greasy tips. He could put her in silk instead of cotton, diamonds instead of cheap studs. He could take care of her, give her anything she asked for—so long as she let him have what he wanted in return.

he wanted more than her smile at his table. He wanted those bright eyes on him alone, wanted to hear that warm little voice softening just for him. He wanted the softness of her hips in his palms, wanted to undo that ridiculous apron with a slow, deliberate pull.

Price dragged on his cigar, forcing his gaze back to the table. His chest felt heavy, a coil of want tightening there. She had no idea what kind of man sat in that booth—no idea the things he’d done, the things he still wanted.

But if she kept looking at him with that gentle smile… if she kept talking to him in that calm, sweet voice… he wasn’t sure how long he could keep from claiming it.

The waitress came back a few minutes later, balancing a tray against her hip. She set the glass of whisky in front of him, the amber liquid catching the light.

“There you are,” she said with a soft smile. “Neat, right?”

Price’s eyes lingered on her fingers as she slid the glass closer. Small hands. Delicate. He imagined how they’d look tangled in his own, or wrapped around a cigar, or-

“That’s right,” he rumbled, voice low. “You remembered.”

She gave a little shrug, playful. “Not hard when you’re the only one drinking it straight tonight.”

Price smirked faintly, lifting the glass. He let the burn of the whisky settle in his chest before answering. “Not many left who drink it properly, then.”

Price smirked faintly and lifted the glass, letting the whisky burn slow on his tongue before setting it down again. Instead of letting her step away, his gaze caught hers, steady and unyielding. “Sit down a second,” he said, more command than request, though his tone carried an edge of warmth.

She blinked, but this time, it wasn’t just surprise that made her linger. She glanced at his tailored coat, the watch glinting on his wrist, the air of quiet confidence that screamed money, power, influence. Staying just a moment longer could mean tips. Big tips. Maybe even more. She perched lightly on the edge of the booth, curiosity and calculation on her face.

“That’s better,” Price muttered, his eyes never leaving hers. “Funny thing, this place. Spent more nights here than I can count back in the day. Looks the same as it did then… though I can’t say the company was quite as pleasant.”

Her cheeks warmed under his stare. “You’re making it sound like I should take that as a compliment.”

“You should,” he said simply, leaning forward on his elbows. The low light carved the lines of his face into sharper relief, but there was a glint of something softer in his eyes—something that made it hard to look away. “Trust me, love. I don’t hand those out easy.”

She shifted slightly, pretending to be casual, but she couldn’t deny the pull of him. He wasn’t just commanding attention — he was anchoring it, holding her in place with that quiet intensity. She told herself she was here for the tips, for the chance to make this moment pay, but every glance, every subtle movement from him made it harder to focus on anything else. Even as her mind raced with practical thoughts, her chest tightened in a way she couldn’t explain.

Price leaned back slightly, letting the silence stretch, watching her fidget just a little on the edge of the booth. He could tell she was trying to stay composed, but the faint shadows under her eyes, the slight slump of her shoulders, the way she kept glancing at the floor before looking at him again — it all told him what she didn’t say.

“You work hard,” he said finally, low and steady, letting his words land like a weight. “Long nights, not much to show for it.”

She blinked, caught off guard, trying to hide the tug of nerves that flared in her chest. “I… manage,” she said cautiously, brushing imaginary lint off her apron.

Price’s eyes softened fractionally, though his tone remained calm, measured, commanding. “You do more than manage. I can see it. You’re scraping, running yourself ragged just to keep afloat. That’s… exhausting, isn’t it?”

Her throat went dry. She wanted to protest, to say she was fine, but he wasn’t asking — he was stating. Observing. Reading her like an open file.

“I… it can be,” she admitted finally, voice quieter.

Price leaned forward, resting his arms on the table, letting the low light catch the sharp edges of his face. “You don’t have to do it all alone,” he murmured. “Not if you don’t want to. I could… help. Take care of things you can’t fix yourself. Clothes, rent, bills — anything you need.”

Her eyes widened slightly, but she didn’t speak. The words weren’t a demand; they were an offer, and the quiet authority behind them made it impossible to dismiss.

He watched her, studying how she processed it, the subtle shift of her posture, the way her hands tightened briefly in her lap. “You’d just have to… trust me,” he added, voice dropping a fraction lower. “Give me your company. Let me handle the rest..”

The booth felt smaller. The pub noisier. And yet, instead of feeling relief, a spark of anger flared in her chest. How dare he see her like that? Judge her struggles, weigh her exhaustion, offer to “take care” of her as if she couldn’t handle it herself? She clenched her fists in her lap, jaw tight, trying to hide the flush rising in her cheeks. She didn’t need someone like him stepping in, no matter how smooth or commanding he was — and yet, she couldn’t deny the heat that threaded through her, the part of her that was unnervingly aware of how much his attention unsettled her.

Price noticed the shift instantly. The way her shoulders tensed, the quick flash of heat in her eyes, the subtle bite of her lip. It was subtle, but he was trained to read every detail — a lifetime of watching, surviving, commanding.

“You’re thinking,” he murmured, almost to himself, though his eyes never left hers. “You don’t like it, do you?”

She bristled, defensive, but couldn’t look away. “I… I don’t,” she said, voice tight, though her pulse betrayed her.

He leaned back slightly, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. “No. I can see that,” he said. “But you like it too. That’s why you’re still here, isn’t it?”

She realized the weight of attention like his — and it maddened her. She didn’t want his help, didn’t want to be dependent on anyone, and yet a stubborn, irresistible part of her was drawn to it, to him, to the ease he promised, and it made her chest ache with conflicting desire and anger.

Price’s gaze softened fractionally, just enough that it felt personal, deliberate. “You won’t find anyone else like me,” he said quietly, almost conversational, almost casual. “Not in a place like this, not in the world outside these walls. People can be… harsh. Selfish. Hard. But me? I take care of what’s mine. That’s all.”

Her hands tightened in her lap. She didn’t want his help, didn’t want to owe anyone anything. And yet, the pull was undeniable. No one noticed the small details, the struggles she hid, the exhaustion she carried behind her bright smile, and offer a hand like this — protective and commanding. The frustration coiled tighter in her chest, bitter and sweet all at once.

She looked away, jaw tight, trying to convince herself she could walk out. But deep down, she knew she was tempted, dangerously, maddeningly tempted, and that leaving now might be impossible.

She stiffened, instinctively bracing herself. “I… I don’t need that,” she said, trying to sound firm.

“You’re tempted though.” he said softly, almost more to himself than to her. “Even when you’re angry. Even when you tell yourself you don’t need it.”

She flushed, twisting her fingers in her lap. “I’m fine,” she said quickly, though the heat creeping through her face betrayed her words.

Price’s smirk deepened. “You’re not,” he said, dragging his cigar, letting the smoke curl from his mouth. “And you know it. That’s why you’re still sitting here… listening. Watching. Waiting. Even when you shouldn’t.”

Her jaw tightened. She hated that he was right — hated the way her body betrayed her resistance. And yet, somewhere deep down, a part of her wanted to stay, wanted to see how far this could go.

He leaned back just slightly, letting the tension hang between them, letting her feel the pull of his attention. And as she realized how caught she was in it, frustration flared alongside a reluctant, undeniable desire.

She took a deep breath, trying to reclaim some of her dignity, some of the control she felt slipping with every glance and touch. “I… I don’t know,” she murmured, fingers fidgeting with the edge of her apron. “If you’re going to help, maybe… maybe just part-time? Just a few things. I can manage the rest myself.”

Price’s gaze didn’t waver. He let her words hang in the air for a heartbeat, then slowly, deliberately, he smirked. “Part-time?” he repeated, almost amused. “You think I’d settle for part-time when I can give you everything?”

Her eyes widened. “I—well… I mean, maybe we could—just some of it? I can’t…”

He shook his head lightly, a low chuckle escaping him. “Love, that’s the thing. You don’t have to manage any of it. None. I insist. Clothes, rent, bills, nights you want off… all of it. And yes, I’ll still expect your company.” His smirk deepened, sharp and knowing. “But that’s all. I’m offering, not negotiating.”

She flushed, frustrated and exasperated, twisting the edge of her apron in her hands. “You… you’re impossible,” she muttered, half in anger, half in disbelief.

“And yet,” he said smoothly, leaning back in his booth, “here you are. Still listening. Still staying. Still trying to bargain with me like it matters.”

She wanted to argue more, to push back, to claim some small victory — but even as she opened her mouth, she realized she couldn’t. Part of her wanted it all. Wanted the comfort, the ease, the attention. Wanted him to take care of her in a way no one else ever could.

Price’s eyes softened just slightly, catching every flicker of her struggle. “Good,” he murmured. “Then it’s settled. You’ll learn to enjoy it.”

And despite herself, she felt a surge of something she couldn’t name — frustration, yes, but also a thrill at knowing she couldn’t refuse him, no matter how hard she tried.

The rain outside beat steadily against the barracks windows, a constant rhythm that seemed to echo the weight of the day’s training. You’d just wrapped up another grueling session, drills, live-fire practice, and a sharp reprimand from one of the senior sergeants who never seemed satisfied.

Just as you slumped down on the bottom bunk, a clear and projecting voice silenced the whines and complains of the other cadets.

“Cadet y/n,” his voice carried easily across the hall, gravelly yet calm, “my office. Now.”

You swallowed hard, nerves tangling in your stomach. Getting up an following him down the narrow corridor, feeling the eyes of your fellow cadets on you. you couldn’t decide if you were walking toward another lecture or some kind of reprimanded. 

His office was warmer than the halls, the faint scent of cigars and old leather lingering in the air. Maps littered the desk, along with reports written in his precise hand. He shut the door behind you, and for a moment, the silence was heavy.

“You’ve got spirit,” he finally said, walking around the desk leaning against it. “I’ve noticed you out there.”

Your eyes soften as your shoulders slightly relaxed. Hands clasps behind your back in an attempt to look composed.

“I appreciate it sir.”

“I’m not here to break you down, cadet.” Price continued, his voice low, almost a whisper. “I take cadets under my wing because I see something worth the trouble. And I see it in you.”

Heat flushed up your neck. “I won’t let you down, sir.”

A corner of his mouth lifted not quite a smile, but close. He stepped closer, the leather of his boots creaking faintly against the floorboards. The space between you shrank until the scent of his cologne mixed with cigar smoke reached you, infecting your senses and making you dizzy all at once.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. His gaze lingered,assessing your facial features and how small you were compared to him. The air was tight with something unspoken, something that pulled you towards him.

His voice dropped, just above a whisper. “Careful, Cadet. You keep looking at me like that, and I’ll start thinking you want more than training.”

Your face went hot as you were the first one to break eye contact to avoid his piercing gaze.

His hand reaches up and places his large index finger under your chin and tilts your head back up to his gaze.“Don’t get all shy now,” his face closer than before, corner of his lips turned up into a slight grin.

“I see the way your eyes linger, you think you hide it so well huh?” This time he breaks the eye contact, his eyes trailing to your lips.

Your heart begins to thump in your chest, so loud you think he can hear it with the way he chuckled softly as your shocked expression. Your feet frozen in place, the weight of his stare held you captive, his thumb brushing lightly against your jaw as if daring you to deny it.

“I-“ You opened your mouth, trying to form words to deny it, to protest, to say something. Anything.

Before you had the chance, he moved, sudden, and decisive. His lips pressed to yours, firm. Everything went quiet as you didn’t have time to react.

It lasted only a few heartbeats, but it left you reeling, the taste of smoke and something darker lingering.

When he pulled away, his eyes were unreadable, the steel back in his expression as quickly as it had slipped. Without another word, he stepped back, turned away his back facing you as he clasped his hands behind his back, looking at the rain hit the tinted windows.

“Dismissed,” he said, voice steady, as if nothing had happened.

You stood there shocked. Your lips still tingled from the brief, searing press of his, and the ghost of his touch lingered along your jaw. A rush of confusion tangled with the thrill surging in your chest, one hand on your beating heart and other ghosting over your lips.

You stumbled back for a second, before regaining composure and straightening up before clearing my throat, “yes..sir..” before turning and walking back to the barracks, your mind reeling with question that leave you up all night, the memory playing on repeat.

Mafia!ghost

You hadn’t planned on crossing him. No one ever did. But debt had a way of pulling you under, drowning you faster than you realized. A bad gamble here, a desperate loan there—and before long, your name was written on a list that belonged to him.

Price tasted like smoke and whiskey, his beard scraping against your skin as he kissed you deep, pulling you onto the edge of his desk. His hands gripped your hips hard, dragging you closer, feeling his warm body against yours.

It wasn’t until your back arched against the wooden desk that you noticed the door wasn’t shut. A thin line of light spilled into the room from the hall.

You broke the kiss with a shaky breath. “Price—the door—”

But his lips curled into a smirk, blue eyes glinting with mischief.

“Good,” he murmured, voice low and rumbling. “Let ‘em see.”

Your stomach flipped, heat rushing through you at the thought of anyone walking by, catching sight of your Captain kissing you like you were his last breath. Before you could protest, his mouth claimed yours again, slower this time, deliberate—like he was putting on a show.

And then the footsteps came. Slow, purposeful. Soap appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame with that shit-eating grin.

“Well, would ya look at that. Captain’s got himself a sweetheart. And here I thought you were married to the job.”

Price didn’t even pause. His hand slid boldly up your thigh, his other keeping your face tilted toward his as his lips dragged against yours, hot and possessive.

“Better watch close, Johnny,” he said against your mouth, his voice deep and smug. “This is what it looks like when a man takes what’s his.”

Your face burned, the thrill of being watched colliding with your embarrassment, but Price held you firm—made you feel like his most precious treasure on display. Soap chuckled, shaking his head.

“Bloody hell, mate. No shame at all.”

“Not when it comes to what’s mine,” Price shot back, eyes locked on yours as if daring you to deny it.

141 x reader

Burning cash

The restaurant was too upscale for your comfort…crystal glasses, candlelight, a menu without prices. You fiddled with the silverware, feeling out of place, until his hand slid over yours beneath the table.

“Relax, love,” Price murmured, voice low and rough like aged whiskey. His thumb traced lazy circles over your knuckles. “You look perfect here.”

Your cheeks burned, and you tried to pull back, but he only tightened his grip, slow and deliberate.

When the waiter left, Price leaned in, the scent of smoke and cologne wrapping around you. “I like spoiling you,” he said, eyes locking on yours. “But you know what I like even more?”

Your pulse jumped. “…What?”

The corner of his mouth curved, his beard brushing the rim of his glass as he sipped. He didn’t answer right away, just let the silence stretch until you squirmed in your seat. Finally, his gaze flicked down, then back up—hungry, deliberate.

“Payment,” he drawled, voice curling like smoke. “Not money, love. You.”

Your throat went dry. The way he said it left no room for misunderstanding—every gift, every indulgence, wasn’t charity. It was a chain made of silk and diamonds, and he wore the key around his neck.

The low hum of chatter filled the restaurant, but all you could hear was him. Price’s thumb stroked your thigh, slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving yours.

When the waiter returned to pour the wine, Price didn’t let go of your hand. He only tightened his grip, daring you to pull away. You didn’t. You couldn’t.

“Price—this is too much.”

You stared down at the little velvet box sitting in your lap, still wrapped in the neatest bow you’d ever seen. Inside was a necklace that shimmered under the soft light of his study, delicate but expensive in the way that made your chest tighten.

Across from you, John Price leaned back in his chair, one arm thrown casually over the armrest, cigar glowing faintly between his fingers. “It’s not too much,” he said smoothly, a smirk tugging his lips. “It’s just right.”

You shook your head, heat prickling your cheeks. “You can’t keep spoiling me like this—”

“Love,” he interrupted, eyes cutting sharp and warm all at once. “I can, and I will.” He leaned forward then, setting his cigar aside, gaze locking with yours. “You give me your time. Your smile. The way you look at me when you think I’m not watching. This—” he gestured at the box, “—is nothing compared to that.”

Your heart thudded painfully, caught between protest and the giddy thrill of being wanted so wholly. And when he reached out, tilting your chin up with a gentle but commanding touch, your breath stilled.

“Wear it for me,” he murmured. Not a question—an order softened into velvet.

Ghost and hybrid!reader

Hybrid!reader causing trouble

=====================================

You weren’t supposed to be there. Ghost had given very clear orders—stay put, keep your claws tucked away, and wait for his signal.

So naturally—you stalked after him anyway, paws silent on the wet concrete.

It wasn’t until your tail brushed against a loose bottle that it clattered to the floor. His head snapped around, eyes glinting from behind the mask.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, snatching your wrist before you could dart off. He dragged you into the shadows, towering over you, voice low and sharp. “Do you ever listen?”

You tilted your head, ears twitching, fangs flashing in a mischievous grin. “Sometimes,” you purred, just to rile him up.

Ghost’s chest rose and fell beneath the weight of his vest, his grip firm and unyielding. “One day, that trouble’s gonna get you killed.”

You an ghost get caught up in the rain.

=====================================

The rain was relentless, hammering down in thick sheets that turned the alley into a slick, reflective maze of shadows and puddles. You and Ghost had been separated from the rest of the squad during the extraction—one wrong turn, a misstep on slippery concrete—and suddenly it was just the two of you.

Mask slip// Simon Riley