Hello! The name's herdonutrebel. Or just call me rebel for short. On most days I'm all 3 things in my name.
40+, she/her. I'm a budding smut-with-some-semblance-of-plot writer (or is it vice versa?). Focused on writing for Jujutsu Kaisen and Call of Duty (MW). But, I do like my older I'm-tired-of-this-nonsense men across a few other anime, TV and video game fandoms.
Masterlists:
Call of Duty
Jujutsu Kaisen
Last 5 published writings (most recent first)
Do No Harm (Call of Duty, John Price x Reader)
Turn the Page (Jujutsu Kaisen, Nanami Kento, smut)
Restoration - Part 2 (Call of Duty, NikPrice, eventual smut)
Restoration - Part 1 (Call of Duty, NikPrice, eventual smut)
Menace (Call of Duty, John Price x Reader, smut)
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In appreciation and inspiration from all the John Price hot summer blurbs and stories happening, here's my little contribution blurb. Inspired by a jog this morning near a nearby park, marveling at the gorgeous summer blooms in everyone's front yard. Not edited. I might expand on this (looking pointedly at everywhere except at my current WIP pile).
A reversal on the John Price handyman/tradesman meets Reader trope.
---
On most days of the week you'd be in the office (air conditioned) doing boss things (working your ass off keeping your landscaping business in the black). But Art, one of your longest-serving, most stalwart employees, had to go on paternity leave...his second child decided to introduce herself to him and his wife a few weeks ahead of schedule.
Which is why you found yourself driving his work truck through this quiet, cozy neighborhood. For the very last job of what had been a very hectic week of playing catchup with his jobs. And during one of the hottest summer heat waves on record to boot.
Pulling up to the aubergine-colored Arts and Crafts style cottage house with the peeling white picket fence and overgrown lavender bushes in the front, you put the truck in park.
Grabbing the clipboard out from the center console, you locate your work order details.
J. Price. First time visit. Needs the lawn mowed, front and back. Says he might need some help with maintaining the flower beds and the arbutus trees on the property.
You look up. The curb appeal of the house definitely needed work. And the yard...and the side hedges...
But not the shirtless man sitting on the shaded front porch, drinking a Corona and reading a book. Oh, definitely not him.
You do a double take, then double check the address and house number. Just to be sure, of course.
Opening the door, you reluctantly slide out of the air conditioned cab, engulfed instantly in a suffocating blanket of heat and humidity.
You walk up the driveway, doing your best to keep a friendly expression on your face, while trying to be respectful and not note the fact that this dark-haired, bearded, azure-eyed man was clad only in a pair of slutty reading glasses and cargo shorts, legs spread in his chair. Trying not to notice how the width of his furred chest tapered down to a trim waist. Or how his throat worked as he took the last few gulps of his beer before putting that and his book down. Or how he stood up, the flex of muscles in his arms and legs showing off that this man did not earn his physique at the gym.
"Good--good afternoon. Are you Mr. Price?"
You were proud of the way your voice didn't squeak or warble as you introduced yourself and the name of your business.
He takes his slutty reading glasses off. He tilts his head, looking you up and down before a little smile tugs at his lips.
"I am. You here to take care of me?" he asks, his vivid blue eyes glinting. The rough burr of his Scouse accent causes a small, but not unwelcome cold shiver up and down your spine.
You used to laugh and scoff at all the handyman/tradesman porn tropes that your friends teased you about when you started up the landscaping business, claiming you didn't have time for that nonsense.
But now, mouth dry, heart pounding, and panties maybe a little...damp, perhaps from the heat and not because of all those lurid tropes and terrible sex gardening puns your friends roasted you with (right?), you follow him inside his house to discuss just what he had in mind...
"he's so good with kids," your friend says knowingly, an obvious smile on his face, as your eyes flit over his shoulder to see the man chucking the older kids around in the pool while they scream-laugh and swim back to him.
"mm," you murmur noncommitally to the friend. "I don't even think I want kids."
"sure, but still."
your sunglasses hide your heavy gaze, always finding him: in the pool, climbing out with shorts plastered to pillar-like thighs, the gold necklace nestling into his chest hair that the kids tease him about.
across the pool party, laughing with a friend, but eyes fixed on him grabbing a plate of barbecue food, piling it up high and clapping a big hand on the host's shoulder in thanks.
it's not a surprise when he eventually makes his way to your table, tucked in the shade, legs sprawled out on a chair in front of you under a spare slash of hot sun.
"here with your husband?"
you laugh softly, shaking your head. "one of the few singles here."
the only reaction you get is creasing of his eyes. it's hotter than it has any right being. "that right. aren't we a pair then." voice grittier and softer than it should be. gets you between the legs like a finger.
"like these big family dos," he says lightly then, stretching back in his chair, his legs knocked obnoxiously wide (gets you like a second finger added to the first). the water drips off his curled chest hair onto his potato salad and chips. "seein all the mums and dads with the lit'l ones. sweet."
"any of 'em yours?" gesturing to the pool with the splashing kids.
"nah," said lightly. "not yet for me. when I meet her, i'll know. then it'll be a family decision, y'know?" a sun-hot hand landing on your thigh, shocking. could be he's squinting from the sun moving. could be he's winking.
price who’s got you under him in the dim light of the bedroom, the heat of his body pressing you into the sheets, cock buried deep, moving in these slow, grinding thrusts that make your breath hitch every time he rocks forward.
thick head dragging against the walls of your cunt, making your toes curling against the backs of his thighs. can’t help but feel the way your fingers dig into his back, holding on tight. slick slide of sweat between your chests, pace that lets him savor every hot flutter and clench of your cunt around him.
soft little whimper that slips out when he angles just right and lingers there, grinding deep so you can feel the stretch and the heat of him pulsing against your walls before he pulls back slow.
mumbling against his mouth between one kiss and the next, lips brushing his as your voice comes out all hazy and wondering, asking what’s gotten into him because he’s never like this, never this gentle with it, never this sweet about the way he’s touching you and kissing you, tongue warm and familiar when he dips in to taste the question right off your lips.
and price just smiles into the kiss, that low warm rumble vibrating through his chest where it’s pressed tight to yours and right against your mouth as he answers without missing a single beat of those slow thrusts, can’t a man just appreciate his girl?
warmth of his palm cupping your cheek, thumb stroking slow along your jaw while his hips keep that steady rhythm, deep and unhurried, letting you feel every thick inch of him dragging along your walls on every push, the heat building low in your belly with every grind.
body soft and pliant under him, melting when he kisses you slow and deep instead of biting at your throat, breath catching and fans warm across his lips. cunt fluttering hot and wet around him, squeezes like it’s trying to pull him in deeper, like it wants more of the slow drag and the way his pubic bone presses firm against your clit on every thrust.
eyes going soft and glassy when he tells you how good you feel, how perfect you are for him, how much he loves having you like this, the little tremor that runs through your thighs when he shifts and sinks even deeper.
keeps you close, chest to chest, one of your legs hooked high around his waist so he can grind in on every thrust, slick heat making the slide easier, wetter, the sound of it mixing with the low creak of the bed and his heavier breathing.
hand stroking down your side, your hip, your thigh, anywhere he can reach because he can’t seem to stop touching you, can’t get enough of the way your skin feels under his palm, warm and damp with sweat, the way you shiver when his calloused fingers brush over a sensitive spot.
doesn’t rush. doesn’t push you toward the edge with rough hands and filthy words. just loves you through it, slow and sweet, swallowing every little gasp and whimper you let out like they’re his favorite sounds, tasting the salt on your skin when he dips his head to kiss the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your neck, your breast.
and when you start to tighten up around him again, body trembling as that slow building pleasure finally crests into something overwhelming, price just holds you through it. murmurs quiet little praises against your mouth about how good you are, how beautiful you look coming apart for him like this, how much he appreciates his girl.
the way your cunt pulses and ripples hot and tight around his cock in gentle waves that make his own breath catch. stays buried deep while you come around him, riding it out with those same slow rolls of his hips until you’re boneless and clinging to him, until the tight flutter of your cunt pulls his own release from him in warm, pulsing waves that fill you up and make you whimper at the fullness, the heat of it spreading inside you.
stays right there after, cock still nestled inside you, bodies pressed close and slick with sweat that cools in the air between you, kissing you lazy and sweet while you both float down from it, the taste of each other lingering on your tongues until you drift off to sleep.
later you stir when the mattress dips and the warmth at your back disappears, the soft sound of fabric rustling as price moves quiet through the room getting dressed.
can’t help the questioning noise that slips out of you when you blink awake and see him sitting on the edge of the bed lacing up his boots
he turns at the sound, that familiar low rumble in his chest as he leans over and presses a kiss to your temple, lips warm, beard scraping lightly against your skin, murmuring that he has an errand to run, go back to sleep love before you can even form the question properly.
the bed dips again when he stands, the door clicking shut soft behind him, and you drift back into sleep with the ghost of his kiss still tingling on your skin and the sheets still warm where his body had been.
only to wake the next morning to the violent crash of the front door being forced open, the wood splintering under the weight of booted feet as armed figures pour into the flat while you scream “what the hell” and scramble to yank the blanket up over your bare chest.
ghost following the men, moving silent through the space with the others, clearing rooms with heavy footsteps echoing off the walls and the sound of doors being shoved open while gaz takes one look at your state and heads straight for your closet, rifling through and pulling out clothes without asking.
kate stepping up to the side of the bed as you clutch the blanket tighter and demand answers, her voice calm but firm when she asks where price is.
telling her you don’t know, the words tumbling out in a rush, and demand to know what the hell this is about only for her to meet your eyes with a steady look and say “he’s wanted for questioning.”
“for what!?” you demand, voice sharp and panicking.
and she just looks down at you for several long seconds, the silence stretching thick in the air between you while the sounds of boots and doors continue in the other rooms, her expression unreadable as your heart pounds hard against your ribs and the blanket feels suddenly too thin against your bare skin, before she finally answers, voice even and steady, “the murder of general shepherd.”
The heat woke you up before John got the chance; the room gone thick with it, fan dead since two in the morning. You awoke in a body that wasn't entirely yours anymore — one leg slung over his thigh, your cheek glued to his shoulder with a film of dried sweat, the sheets kicked to the foot of the bed, twisted into a rope over your ankles.
You could smell the night still on the both of you. Him mostly. Salty, sticky skin, the back-of-the-throat musk of a man who'd just come home off a four month run somewhere he won’t name, fallen on top of you before he'd even got his boots all the way off, worked you over thrice, then slept like the dead in the heat he created without so much as wiping either of you up with a washcloth — his cum and your slick gone tacky between the press of your thighs, pulling at the flesh when you shifted.
Everything ached the way it only ached after him: low in your belly, raw where he'd been, a bruise coming up on the back of a knee from where he'd folded you in half, thick fingers pressed into the meat of it sometime past midnight.
You wanted to get up to finally rinse.
To feel like a person again.
But his calloused hand came down flat on your hip the moment you moved, before your knee had even cleared his leg.
"Where?" is all he managed, voice wrecked and low and gravelly with sleep, the word barely fully formed on his tongue.
"I'm disgusting," you complained, a whisper.
"Mm." His thumb moved across the jut of your hipbone, finding crust of himself there. His eyes hadn't opened yet. The corner of his mouth had, though, dragging up at one side. "Yeah… y'are."
"I'm glad you're happy with yourself," you huffed sleepily.
His hand kept going, palm dragging down over your hip and around the back of your bent thigh, and then up again into the real mess of you, fingers finding where you were still half-open and swollen from last night, slipping through the sticky wet, the pad of his middle finger circling your sensitive entrance. It was too much and not enough at once — the drag of him over flesh that hadn't settled, a wince folding straight into something hotter, your hips pushing into his hand.
He made a sound; pleased, throaty, his brows pulling in for a second.
"Look at that," he murmured against your temple. "Bet you don' even wan' it cleaned up, do you?"
"Shut up," you half-heartedly murmured.
"Mm-mm," he protested.
Then he rolled, the whole heavy heat of him coming over you in one move, knee shoving your thighs apart before you'd even agreed to anything, and the air between your bodies went humid and ripe, his chest sticking to yours, the dense hair on it dragging over your tender nipples. And your body answered him — thighs falling open the rest of the way, some primal part of you glad of his weight, glad to be pinned under it, glad he was solid and here and breathing on you. He braced up on a forearm and looked down at you, cyan eyes cracked open and bloodshot, lashes still gummed together. He looked like hell. But so did you, you were sure, and he was staring down like you were the best thing he'd ever seen.
He spat into his own hand without breaking from your eyes, crude, and reached down between you to slick his cock with it. You spread more open for him, your hands coming up to his back where sweat was gathered at the base of his spine.
He sank all the way in on the first stroke, stretching your sore walls, an obscene wet crackle of air pushing out to make room for him, Your whole body remembered him in one shoved open rush. He dropped his forehead to the side of your neck and let out a long breath through his nose.
"Four months," he rasped, almost to himself, the syllables coming apart as they fell. "Four months this was the only thing in my fuckin' head." Then, against your mouth, the gravel coming back into it, his throbbing cock bumping your cervix, your nails scrabbling over his sweaty skin for purchase: "That's it, dove. You can take it. You can take it, look at you, you've had worse than this off me."
You could hear his grin.
"Since last night?" you managed to get out. "Or— generally?"
A huff against your lips, almost a laugh, his hips not stopping. "Both."
He fucked you like he hadn't slept it off at all, like four months of going without you had only stored it up, his cock dragging thick and deep through the wreckage he'd already made of you. Every push of it pressed the sweat-slick of his furry belly against your clit so you got it both ways at once, inside and out, until your spine wanted to leave your body.
He talked the whole time — clipped, half-swallowed, filth pouring out of him like silver.
"Feel that," he asked. "That's last night still in you, that is. Didn't go anywhere." His teeth caught your jaw, dragged, overgrown beard scratching at your skin. "Gonna add some more to it." A deep grind of his hips that pushed the breath out of you. "Was lying there, every night, in the dark thinking about this. You under me, made a mess of, soaked through and still begging for more. Had to think about something else quick or I'd've embarrassed myself." His mouth is in your ear, hot and foul. "Four months of that. And now here you are. Wetter than the inside of my own head."
"John— you're so—," you couldn't get anything else out before he'd angled up and a moan tore out of you instead.
"Gross? Annoying?" he offered, hips snapping now, the bed knocking the wall, his hand slipping between you and the mattress to cant your cunt to his liking. "Yeah. And yet you're clenched down on me like you've never been happier. Funny, that."
It built faster than it had any right to. You'd stopped being able to do anything but hold on — one hand fisted in the wet sheet, the other clamped to the flexing muscle of his ass, your heels skidding down his back for purchase that wasn't there, every thrust knocking another broken little sound loose from a throat you no longer had any say over. And when you came you spasmed around him with your nails dug into the meat of his shoulders and your mouth open on a noise you'd have been embarrassed by if your brain hadn't been simmered down and reduced to nothing. He cursed and pushed his face into your throat and licked the salt off it, tongue flat against the tendon, groaning into your flesh as you fluttered and squeezed and dragged him over the edge with you.
He spilled deep with a groan you're not sure you've ever heard from him before, and then stayed there. Heavy. Crushing. His heart going hard against your chest, his breath sawing at your collarbone. Neither of you moved — both of you a single disgusting glued-together animal. Roadkill, maybe.
Underneath the slowing wreck of your own pulse, the feeling you'd been fending off since he walked through the front door finally claimed you — he was home. Your throat went tight, and you turned your face into his damp hair so he wouldn't catch the sound that squeezed out of it.
He exhaled a warm gust against your throat, then he dragged his lips to the corner of yours and kissed you — sloppy, tasting of sleep and salt and the both of you mixed past telling each other apart.
Featuring: ER Doctor!Reader and a post-MWIII John Price
Summary: You helped him when he needed it the most. It might be the biggest mistake that you've ever made.
Word count: <4.4K
Rating: None.
Warnings: Blood. Bodily injuries. Workplace harrassment. Implied murder and violence.
Author's Note: I'm not a healthcare professional. Some medical details here have been loosely researched for plot. All mistakes are mine.
John Price masterlist | Main Masterlist
You were exhausted, and you wanted to eat your feelings.
A hard day shift in the ER had you shuffling back from the Chinese restaurant down the street, toting two full plastic bags of takeout. You were looking forward to stuffing your face, taking a scalding hot soak in the bath, and then sleeping like the dead—in precisely that order.
But your plans were instantly derailed when you found a dark-haired, bearded man sitting slumped against your apartment doorway. He was almost obscured by the shadow of the upstairs unit’s stairwell stoop, providing the barest of cover from the late evening rain.
Making sure you were in his line of sight, you call out to him.
“Hey, I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to move along. I live here. There’s a shelter that might take you in, two blocks down, one street over on Broadway. Night’s still early…you should get a bed for the night if you head there now.”
The man stirs, groaning a little in discomfort. He opens his pain-glazed eyes to gaze up at you.
For a few long moments, the both of you attempt to take the measure of the other. Unable to stand the burgeoning silence any longer, you take a step closer, realizing he had a hand pressed to his side, poorly concealing something dark trickling out between his fingers.
Juggling your umbrella, takeout bags and your purse, you free up one hand to get at your phone in your coat pocket.
“Hey mister. You look like you’re in bad shape. I’m going to call an ambulance for you, all right?”
The man’s gaze, now focused and alert, flicks up to you.
“No ambulance, no hospital,” he rasps out, voice rough and gravelly from disuse.
“Well, I live here,” you gesture to your apartment doorway, “and you need medical help.”
“I guess we’re at a stalemate, then.”
You instantly peg his accent as British. This man was far from home, and the list of questions you were compiling to ask him was getting longer by the second.
You sigh, trying to appeal to him with the obvious while keeping your rising temper in check.
“Listen. It looks like you’re bleeding out. You might not be long for this world if you stay this way.”
He lets out a tired grunt of resignation as he glanced down at his injury, then at his feet.
“Maybe it is my time to go...” he muses absently to himself.
Anger, bright and explosive, bursts through you at his words.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you half-roar at him. “I just finished a very trying day shift in the ER dealing with entitled, narcissistic whiny man-babies like you. And it wasn’t only with the patients. You’re not going to fucking die on my doorstep because you caught a case of the sads. Pull yourself together and Get. The. Fuck. Up.”
His shoulders shake slightly, as if he found something terribly amusing in the way you gave him the business.
“You know, you remind me of someone I used to work with. She would’ve read me the riot act like you did.”
“Well, if she’s the one who stabbed you, then good for her,” you jeer back.
This time he lets out a full-bodied laugh, but the sudden movement causes him to wince. He clutches his side, still making no attempt to move, let alone stand up. He closes his eyes briefly, lost in thought before he puts two and two together.
“You said you worked at the ER? You a doctor?”
He nods in confirmation when you take too long to respond.
“Yeahhh...you’re definitely an ER doctor. Can tell by your bedside demeanor,” he continues derisively. “How about this...maybe you could patch me up, and then I’ll be on my way?”
Opening his eyes, he peruses your Chinese takeout bags. The barest hint of a smile etches the corner of his mouth before he decides to push your buttons again.
“That smells awfully good, and I’m suddenly famished. Got any egg rolls in that order of yours? They’re my favorite, especially with those little plum sauce packets. Happy to split the bill with you. And then I’ll be out of your hair. After you patch me up, of course. I promise.”
“The audacity. The fucking audacity and assumed privilege on you,” you breathe, outrage spiking at his high-handedness.
He grins, teeth flashing bright in the dim darkness.
Eased down onto the dining room table, John cranes his neck to watch you draw the front window curtains shut, then disappear out of sight down a side hallway. Listening to the sounds of drawers and closet doors opening and closing, he sighs.
Finally, a few moments of respite.
Running a finger along the edge of your phone, he turns it off and tucks it into his inner jacket pocket. He’d lifted it off you when you helped him inside...it was the only way he could be sure that you wouldn’t...couldn’t call the authorities. But not before scanning your recent texts and work emails popping up on your lock screen.
And now he had an idea why you’d had a terrible, no good day today.
He scans the layout of your apartment. Delineating the kitchen from the dining/living room was a breakfast counter bar. Off to the side of the living/dining area was the hallway where you’d disappeared to, likely where the bathroom and bedroom were situated. Overall, your place was functional. Minimal. Transient. The type of place that offered little more than shelter and a space to store your meager belongings. A place in a big city where people could truthfully claim: “Yeah, I lived here for a few years. For school, then for work. But then I had to move away because who can actually afford to live somewhere nice here?”
At your incoming footfalls, he turns his head to see you appear in the hallway entryway, holding several bags of medical supplies and a flashlight.
Wordlessly, you pull a chair from the table, organizing the items on the seat. He tracks your movements to the kitchen, turning on the faucet to wash and scrub your hands. You moved with intention and precision, clearly ingrained from your years on the job. You exuded competence, maturity, and you suffered no fools with the way you spoke to him.
But around those sharp, defiant edges, he saw flashes of exhaustion and weariness. The world wasn’t a kind place, of that he’d seen firsthand, but he had to admire how you carried yourself despite it all.
Pulling another chair from the table, you sit down. You snap on a pair of nitrile gloves to begin your examination.
“Okay. Let’s get your jacket and sweater off and get a better look at you.”
Carefully rolling him sideways towards you and then the other way, you eased the garments off him. You suck in a breath, senses ramping up on high alert.
Healed scars, old and recent, littered his hairy, muscled torso, with a variety of small tattoos of dates, names, and cryptic symbols trailing up his sides. Mottled bruises dotted across his thick forearms, ending with fresh scrapes on his knuckles and fingers. And on his right side were the two stab wounds that had him ending up slumped against your doorstep.
This man was accustomed to violence. Both in the giving and receiving of it.
Unease and anxiety churns in your gut. Taking a few deliberate breaths, you focus on calming yourself, tamping your emotions down.
He’s not in a position to hurt you. He’ll only make his injuries worse if he does, and he knows it.
Momentarily troubled by the direction of your thoughts, your gaze darts upwards to his face.
He had dark brown, almost black hair, cropped short at the top and sides, with chunks of gray and white streaking his temples and thick beard. He wasn’t a young man — his forehead was lined with wrinkles and crows feet etched around his piercing cerulean eyes. Likely in his early to mid-forties, only a handful of years older than you. He was...handsome, in a rough-hewn sort of way.
“Like what you see?” he murmurs with smug condescension.
“Fuck off,” you mutter almost reflexively.
Snapping back into examination mode, you grab the flashlight and flick it on. You slap it into his left hand, yanking his forearm up and over like an adjustable stand to get a good view of his right side. You derive a small, sadistic thrill as he grunts, not expecting you to handle him like that.
“Hold this up for me so I can work hands-free. Yes. Okay, perfect. Right there. Now don’t move.”
He hisses, his grip on the flashlight wobbling for a moment while you palpate around his wounds.
“Maybe I should’ve offered to pay for all of your takeout if it meant you’d go easier on me.”
Despite yourself, you bark out a laugh.
You asked him questions about his medical history, which he appeared to answer truthfully, but as you probed him about how he got into his current state, he kept shaking his head, refusing to elaborate.
Wrapping up your examination, you take the flashlight from him, shining one last close-up inspection at his wounds before flicking the light off.
“So what’s the prognosis, doctor?”
You push your chair back, looking him square in the eye.
“It’s a miracle that whatever stabbed you didn’t go too deep and that it didn’t nick any organs or arteries. Fortunately, your jacket and sweater took the brunt of the damage. I can get these wounds cleaned up and stitched closed. I’ll give you some over-the-counter pain medications and some bandages and dressings for when you need to change them, but I strongly recommend you go to a hospital for a follow-up, just to be safe. Infection risks with wounds like these can—“
“I told you already. No. Hospitals,” he grits out.
You roll your eyes. “All right, Jason Bourne. Simmer down.”
“‘M not a spy,” he rasps, sounding irrationally annoyed that you’d pegged him as that, of all things.
You shrug, unbothered.
“Well, unless you want to give me your real name, I get to call you whatever I please. Now, let’s get you cleaned and stitched up. And then you can have some egg rolls.”
He ate more than just the egg rolls. He ate over half of the house special fried rice, sweet and sour pork, spicy wontons, and chicken chop suey. Despite your protests, he insisted on eating while sitting up on the couch, promising not to aggravate or undo your handiwork.
He leans gingerly against the couch’s padded back, patting his stomach, satiated at last. While his jacket and sweater were in the washer, the oversized sleep shirt you lent him kept him decent and covered. But just barely.
“I was hungrier than I thought. But I’m not complaining. Best meal I’ve had in a long while, I’ll have to admit.”
You squint at him, confused.
“You’re welcome, I guess? For helping yourself to my food?”
“Well, you ordered a lot. For just one person.”
“I was planning to eat it over the next few days, so I wouldn’t need to cook, but I didn’t plan on having unexpected company over,” you gesture at him.
You take a swig of your Coke. Exhaustion was creeping up on you, but you needed the added caffeine to keep you awake and your wits about you for a little while longer.
“How long has it been since you last had a proper meal?” you ask him gently.
He shoots you a brief side glance, deliberating before he answers.
“Couple days. My current line of work has me working unpredictable hours. But I suppose I’ll need to take some time off to heal up, get my strength up again,” he sighs. He huffs out a self-conscious laugh. “No wonder I felt like I had to sit down and rest. Wasn’t from my injuries. Been running on fumes all this time. Well, that’s fuckin’ embarrassing.”
“Hey, it happens. But is there someone who can come pick you—“
He shakes his head vehemently. “No. No more questions,” he answers tersely.
“Like why there’s way more blood on your clothes than what seems normal for just stab wounds?”
He grunts, the barest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Yeah. Questions exactly like that.” But then he sighs, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I know you are just doing your job, and my social skills have been rusty of late.”
“Okay. I won’t ask again.”
“Like I’d believe that,” he mutters under his breath. He opens his eyes, his gaze softer, more conciliatory now. “But, before I forget what’s remaining of my manners, thank you.”
You slow blink. Feigning deafness, you cup your hand to your ear.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite hear that. Might’ve been a figment of my imagination. Could you repeat that once more for me?”
“I said, Thank. You. For all that you’ve done for me,” he enunciates slowly and evenly, amused.
“I’m just doing my job,” you reply sardonically, throwing his words back at him. “It’s what I do. That’s all.”
Carefully leaning forward to the TV tray you’d set up for him, he takes a few moments to tuck the cutlery and napkins onto the plate. Figuratively and literally tidying things up before he spoke again.
“So it sounds like you had a hell of a day today, capped off with finding me bleeding on your doorstep. Dealing with what was it—entitled, narcissistic whiny man-babies like me. And it wasn’t just with the patients?”
“Oh. So you’re working on your social skills now?” you drawl.
“Yeah. You could say that. Humor me.”
You let out a small harrumph.
“What’s there to talk about? It’s a tale as old as time. My job has me overworked and underpaid. Dealing with a nonstop stream of patients, most of them who should’ve gotten preventative care well before they showed up at the ER but didn’t because they couldn’t afford to. The bureaucracy and red tape and administrators who are all about their KPIs and metrics that benefit them and not so much about patient outcomes. Dude bro colleagues who decide to make my life difficult because I’m better at what I do than they are. I can deal with one or some of those things at a time, but all of those things in one day? Ughhh...”
“Oh? Colleagues making your life difficult? How?” he asks, tone oddly curious.
“Look at you go on with your questions,” you jibe back. “Put yourself in my shoes. I’m in a still largely male-dominated field. You fill in the blanks with what someone like myself would run across every day, even in this day and age.”
“Surely you can file a complaint or a report to their supervisor?”
You laugh, both at his apparent naivety and the simple absurdity of his suggestion. “Oh, trust me, I’ve dutifully followed all the proper steps. I’ve been by the book. I’ve documented everything. It’s all on the hospital and what they choose to do at this point. Which has been nothing.“
“Sounds like they’re more concerned about siding with whoever will cost them less legal exposure and reputational damage,” he replies sarcastically. At least your explanation corroborated the texts and emails he saw on your phone.
He grunts, thinking about it some more.
“If you ask me, it sounds like the system’s broken. It failed you. Not the other way around. I saw that a lot in my former line of work. A lot of good people I knew...” he says, trailing off before stopping himself, unwilling to divulge more personal details. “But…sometimes you’ve got to shake up the system.”
You shrug.
“It’s always easier said than done. I’ve done all I can. But I’m going to keep showing up. Every day to help others. It’s the only thing I know how to do and nobody gets to decide how I’m going to feel about it except me. It will pass. It always does. But I’ll still be here.”
He stares at you for a few seconds, appearing to come to some kind of internal decision in his mind before finally nodding at you with approval.
“Good. Don’t let those fuckers win.”
“Thank you for everything. And things will get better, you’ll see soon enough.”
Those were the last words he spoke to you before he left.
True to his word, he left you cash, generously covering your entire takeout order plus the cost of the medical supplies and medication you gave him several times over, despite your protests of taking any money from him.
Checking the dining room table area one last time to make sure you’d cleaned up everything from when you treated him, you crouch down to pick up your phone lying underneath a chair.
“Huh. Could’ve sworn it was in my coat pocket this whole time.”
5 days later
So much for sleeping in on your day off.
Sighing, you roll over, grabbing your phone off the bedside table, wondering what was going on as your phone started to blow up with non stop dinging sounds.
You scan the message previews:
Paul >> Wake up! Hot tea incoming!
Jen >> Did you see the hospital wide email just now?
May >> Holy fuuuuck. Harris and Tomaso?
Robin >> Fired. Fucking finally!
The two doctors who'd been making your life difficult were...gone? Just like that? You continue reading the rest of the messages.
Steve >> Now others are stepping forward about them
Rob >> Heard heads are rolling in hr and admin rn
Unknown number >> Sometimes you have to shake up the system, you know?
You pause at the last text. Sent less than an hour ago.
Despite what your gut was telling you, you click on the unknown number entry to read the rest of the messages.
>> Thank you for your help
>> Grateful for what you did
>> But really, you’re too trusting
>> You should be more careful about who you let into your apartment and your life
>> Hope things have gotten better at the hospital now
>> Sometimes you have to shake up the system, you know?
No. Was that from him? He didn’t, did he? Just what did he do?
With unsteady hands, you immediately delete the texts and block the number.
You mute your notifications for the next few hours and toss the phone back onto your bedside table. You pull the covers over your head, hoping the initial, crazy set of conclusions your mind leapt to was just that.
And then... someone started pounding on your front door, followed by the doorbell buzzing. At first, you tried to ignore it, but whoever it was wasn’t giving up anytime soon.
Exasperated, you roll out of bed, unbothered and unconcerned with the state of your hair and sleeping attire. Storming through your apartment, you yank the front window curtains aside, unlocking the screen window and opening it to give your unwanted visitor a piece of your mind.
“Listen, it’s my day off. And the sign on the door clearly says No salespeople or soliciting allowed, so go fu—”
You jump back with a small yelp, heart pounding, as the large man looming in the front doorway turns to face you through the window. The man wore dark, nondescript tactical gear, topped off with a faded skull mask. Was he intimidating? Yes. Scary as fuck? Absolutely.
But you double down, deciding to commit to the bit because you couldn’t help yourself.
“It’s...um...it’s about 3 months too early for Halloween. Come back then,” you bleat out, with a lot less heat and bravado than you intended.
But the man doesn’t go away. Instead, he digs into a side pocket in his pants, producing his phone. He swipes a few times on the screen before he shows you a military ID photo of the dark-haired man you’d treated several nights ago. A younger, cleaner-shaven, mutton-chop bearded version in uniform.
“I’d like to speak with you about him.” He gestures at your front door. “May I come in?”
The skull-masked man introduced himself as Captain Simon Riley, from the SAS. He was also British, but spoke with a thicker, rougher accent.
Sitting across from you on the now sagging living room couch, he fills in the missing blanks about the man you’d treated the other night.
“His name is John Price. Former SAS captain. He’s wanted by international authorities—basically all of ‘em at this point. And I’ve been put in charge of bringin’ him in.”
Your curiosity wins out over your cautiousness.
“What’s he wanted for, exactly?”
Flat brown eyes lock onto yours as he lists the litany of crimes John had committed, beginning with the pre-meditated murder of an American four-star general.
“Let’s just say…life in prison for what he’s done and done since would be a kindness for him at this point.”
You swallow, a mix of fear and dread settling in the pit of your stomach, for once at a complete loss for words. You nervously lick your suddenly dry lips.
“Why—why did he kill that general?”
Simon hesitates before answering. “He thought he was doing the right thing,” he finally replies.
You search his eyes, catching the slight shift in his demeanor and body language.
This feels oddly personal. He must know John.
Simon launches into what brought him to your doorstep. CCTV cameras had tracked John to your neighborhood the night you found him. Then, there was the body of a man found few blocks away, a known contract killer, in possession of a stiletto that you realized was probably what caused John’s injuries. And likely the source of the extra blood on his jacket and sweater.
“We knew Price was somewhere around here, but there was a gap of a few hours where we couldn't confirm exactly where he was. But then, it was what happened after that night that narrowed things down for us.”
He rattles off the timeline of events.
“Two days ago, there were reported incidents at the hospital you work at of some staff members being threatened in the underground parking lot. Then yesterday, two male doctors were physically assaulted in their own homes. All by the same man.”
Your eyes widen with shock and dismay as he played footage from several security videos off his phone, each escalating in intimidation and then to violence.
You knew all the victims.
John didn’t need to lay a hand on the hospital administrator and HR rep you’d been dealing with, but it was clear with his size and presence that whatever he’d said had its effect. Cornered and cowering in fear against their cars, nodding rapidly in acquiescence to whatever he’d said.
Then the brutality and the violence that he inflicted so casually and dispassionately on each of the doctors, leaving them mangled, bleeding messes.
A part of you had revenge fantasies about exacting justice on the people who’d done you wrong, who dismissed and diminished your claims of how you were being treated, but they were just that. Fantasies. But this man actually made it happen, meting out his brand of justice in a universal language that anyone could understand.
“We ran background checks on each victim and found that one thing they had in common was you. And that you lived here, in the same neighborhood that Price had been seen in.”
You gesture listlessly at Simon’s phone. “But why would he...it was only for a few hours that he was here...I barely said anything to him...”
He leans forward, taking advantage of your bewildered state.
“Tell me everythin' he said and did when he was here. Any detail you can remember will be helpful in locating his whereabouts.”
Haltingly, you recount everything you could remember of the few hours John had spent here in the apartment. Including the text messages he’d sent this morning before you blocked his number.
Simon stares at you for an indeterminate time, thinking and mulling over all the information you shared with him. Flicking open a front pocket on his tactical vest, he pulls out a notepad and a pen. Tearing the top page from the notepad, he scribbles something on it before he hands it across to you.
You lean forward in your chair, reflexively taking the scrap of paper from him.
He dips his chin at you. “Call me at that number when he comes 'round or contacts you again, yeah?“
The couch groans, almost in relief as Simon stands, heading straight for the front door.
Snapped out of your daze, you also stand up, scurrying to follow him as he rests his hand on the doorknob.
“What makes you think he will?”
He opens the door and looks back at you, dark eyes glittering.
“You showed him kindness. And he likes to fix things. Broken things. But he fixes them his way. You’ve already seen what he’s done for you. How he’s done it, to those people. You don’t want him back here. You don’t want him takin' an interest in you, the way he is now. Trust me. I speak from firsthand experience.”
He nods at the paper in your hand once more.
“Call me,” he repeats, before closing the front door behind him.
Verb
Neutral Gender
Meaning: to force, to compel, to constrain
"You've found it, haven't you?" Garrick asks quietly, his grip on your hand gentle as he looks at you, ignoring the paper. He clearly hadn't seen what you had.
"I think so," you barely whisper as you look back at the note again. "I need to," you start, huffing a bit as you try to get out of the chair.
It's too soft for you to get purchase and one of your legs had fallen asleep in the position you were in. Garrick gives you a tug to help you out, and you stand, wobbling for a second as pins and needles shoot up your leg.
"I just need to double check," you mutter, gathering up the duvet to move it out of the way before leafing through the mussed piles of paper on the floor. "The defined terms," you continue as you shove away your notes and discarded post its.
You find what you are looking for and just fall back onto your ass from the crouched position you were in to sit and read. You can feel Garrick still standing there, and you glance up at him after a second. It's clear he has no idea what dots you've connected, and he's curious as hell, but he doesn't want to get in your way.
"Sorry," you say after a second, "I just want to be absolutely sure."
"No need to be sorry," Garrick answers as he kneels down behind you to look over your shoulder at what you're going over. "Care to walk me through it?"
You twist to look at him, he's directly behind you. So close you can feel his body heat and smell the lingering cigarette smoke on his shirt. You swallow, eyes meeting his as he looks at you sideways before his eyes cut to the contract you're holding. It's the first page, the first article. You know he has no idea why you are looking at that. You try not to think about what would happen if you just leaned back against his chest, to feel the stability and grounding presence as you go back to reading. You needed to be right, needed to be sure, before you got distracted.
You flip the page, finger running down to Article three. Then four. It's all there. It all fits.
"He excluded me," you barely whisper, twisting back to the addendum and the little scribble of a note you left yourself. Just a small one you made offhandedly, however many days ago. Nonviable. You remembered writing it, it had been a moment of anger and spite. But this was going to be your out. Their out.
You point at it, before going back to the very beginning and pointing at all the lines it ties to. Or doesn't in this case. You don't want to say anything so as not to taint his thoughts. You want to see if he comes to the same conclusion. Afraid that if you lay out your idea, he'll jump on board with it out of desperation.
Garrick is quiet for a few moments, putting together what you are trying to tell him. You watch him work, watch his eyes glide over the pages, and let him take the contract out of your hand. He still leaves it in your view as he reads over your shoulder, arms around you, as he flips a few pages back and forth. It doesn't take him long. You can see when the puzzle piece clicks into place.
"Oh shit," he says and nearly laughs, from relief or the simplicity of it, you aren't sure.
"You see it, right?" You ask, trying to not sound too excited.
"We need to tell the others," Garrick replies quickly, standing up smoothly and going to his desk to get his phone to send a message.
"What, right now?" You ask as you look over at the clock, three thirty in the morning was an indecent time to wake anyone.
"Riley and MacTavish are up," Garrick says dismissively. How he knows that, you don't know. "Price will be pissed if I don't wake him."
You nod, you know he's right, but it feels suddenly weird to be in Garrick's room like this. It looked like you had moved in, and you know the rest of the pack is going to pick up on it instantly and get the wrong impression. Or was it really the wrong one? You had enjoyed these days with Garrick, genuinely, even if they were frustrating as you tried to find the answers.
That was too much to unpack at the moment.
Garrick's phone buzzes with a response, and you hear him let out a small laugh.
"Price said if I am waking him up this late, someone better be dead. If they aren't, someone is about to be." He flicks his eyes up to you and can see the look of shock.
"He's not nearly that scary," he reasons as you look at him doubtfully, "not once you get to actually know him. He's just a grouchy old man."
"Comforting," you mumble as you stand up yourself before jumping as a loud bang hits the bedroom door.
You instantly move toward Garrick for safety, and he notices it, putting a hand out in a comforting gesture for you to get even closer if you want.
"Open the fucking door, Garrick," comes MacTavish's voice.
Fuck. That makes you even more nervous, and you dare to take a step closer to Garrick now, reaching for his hand. For as intimidating as the rest of the world saw Price, you were much more skittish around MacTavish. Perhaps it was because he was the only one who was outright icing you out, even if you had that small moment together when he was in his wolf form.
"Did you lock the door?" Comes Simon's voice as the handle rattles. "Fuck you doing in there?"
"To keep you nosey pricks out," Garrick calls over his shoulder before turning his attention back to you. "You're safe," he says calmly, taking note of your wide eyes. "The worst they'll do is complain."
"Right, I, yes," you mumble, squeezing Garrick's hand before pulling your fingers away, feeling silly. You know they wouldn't hurt you. It had to be the exhaustion wearing you down.
"You told us to come to you," MacTavish grouses as Garrick looks you over for one more moment to make sure you're okay before going to the door. He flicks the latch and pulls the door open to reveal the two men standing there.
They are so broad that you can only see half of them in the frame. Riley's eyes instantly flick to you, as if he could sense your presence. He glances at Garrick for a moment, as if checking something, before pushing into the room. MacTavish follows a second later, barely looking at you as he takes in the mess of papers everywhere.
"What have you been up to?" MacTavish asks Garrick, turning so his back is to you, consciously or not. He doesn't want to hear from you.
"We've been working on the contract," Garrick answers, and you can see the small frown on his lips as he talks. He's picked up on MacTavish's intentional disregard of you.
"You've been working on it for weeks," Riley says as he pulls out Garrick's desk chair and sits down in it heavily, picking up a random piece of paper to look at it. "What did you need us so early for then?"
"We think we, well she, has found a way out of it," Garrick says with a small smile as he looks at you.
"Think, or know?" Comes Price's voice as he walks into the room.
You have to swallow hard as you look at him to keep yourself in check. He is not his usual put together self, the one everyone in the world sees. Instead, he's still half asleep, eyes still a bit heavy, and his hair is a mussed mess. Luckily for your own sanity, he did sleep in a shirt and shorts, or he had pulled them on, unlike the time you woke Garrick. You aren't sure what you would have done if he had walked in shirtless.
"Know," you finally speak up, hating your voice sounds a bit of a squeak, so you clear your throat. "I know I found it."
At that you can see the smug look on Garrick's face, he's proud of you for what you've been able to figure out that no one else could. You give him a small smile back before looking at the rest of them. Riley has let the paper he was examining flutter to the ground, and even MacTavish has turned around to look at you. Price doesn't hesitate to walk into the room and take a seat on Garrick's bed like he owns the place.
"Alright, little wulf," Price says, gesturing for you to continue, "tell us what you found."
You nod and immediately crouch down to gather up the pages you need, doing your best not to think about the fact that they are all staring at you.
"Okay, so," you start as you flip back to page one and look at it for a moment longer to give you strength before looking back up at them. "The contract only works because everything revolves around definitions and literal translations of words."
"That's every contract," Riley answers. His words aren't harsh, but you narrow your eyes for a second before continuing.
"Right, but my father was obsessive about it," you say as you glance down page one and begin reading off words. "Contracted Omega, heirs, affiliation, succession rights," you scoff, "even what makes a failed mating."
Those last words you see MacTavish shift a bit on his feet and cross his arms over his chest. He hasn't dismissed you like all the other times, but you can tell this is making him uncomfortable.
"And?" MacTavish asks pointedly, and you swear you can hear a growl of warning from Garrick. Everyone's eyes shift to him for a second before going back to you. If you had blinked, you would have missed it.
"And he never defines me as an Omega," you reply, your own note on the page glaring at you.
No one responds, you know you haven't explained it well enough just yet, so you keep going.
"Here. I'm a dependent, nonviable," you forge on, doing your best to just stare at the paper and not the weird power dynamic happening between MacTavish and Garrick. You can feel your confidence wavering beneath the weight of four agitated Alphas staring at you.
"He doesn't just call me nonviable once. He does it repeatedly. Over and over. He specifically excludes me from every Omega classification, in an effort to make it very clear I am useless."
Riley shifts in his chair and reaches out for the contract, and you hand it over.
"He says I'm not a contracted Omega, an affiliated Omega, an heir bearing Omega," you say, bringing back the terms you listed at the beginning of the conversation to make a point.
Riley continues flipping pages, and you can see him working through it, his eyebrows drawn, making the scar that runs through one of them more pronounced. Price shifts, and you can see the expression has changed, not excitement or a eureka moment, he's calculating, putting it together in his mind, trying to stay two steps ahead.
"Meaning what?" MacTavish asks. He's the only one who hasn't shown any other signs of understanding. Not that you think he's unable to grasp it, but because he doesn't want to.
"The contract only forbids additional Omegas," you reply, bending down to grab another piece of paper, a contract that had been scribbled through so many times between you and Garrick it looks like scrap. It's the article about exclusivity. You hold it out for MacTavish to take and read if he wants, but he doesn't budge, he only looks at you.
Garrick instead steps up and takes the paper from you to cover up the sticky moment. "Edith is our contracted Omega," Garrick states as he shoves the paper into MacTavish's chest, forcing him to take it.
Riley suddenly lets out a sharp breath as he lifts his eyes up to look at you. It's the closest thing to surprise you've ever heard from him.
"Oh," is all he says as he flips his packet back to page one and vaguely holds it out for someone else to take.
"You see it then," you say, a bit excited because this was yet another person following your train of thought.
"What am I missing?" Price asks as he snatches the packet from Riley, clearly annoyed with himself for not catching on as quick.
"It's in the wording," Riley answers for you as Price reads. "The contract doesn't forbid another Omega."
Price looks up, mid page turn, clearly ready to argue. The whole contract was about only allowing a singular Omega.
"It forbids another contracted Omega," Garrick clarifies.
The room is quiet for a moment as Price flips pages, and you feel yourself on tenterhooks. MacTavish has read over the page he has, more of a distraction, you think, than actually going through it. It's almost as if he hopes this wouldn't work, like he still has some reservations about the whole thing.
"He excluded you from every one of his Omega definitions," Price finally concludes as he looks at you.
"Because he never thought I'd present," you answer a bit resentfully. "He wanted it to be made well aware that I was just leftovers and a gift they were giving you. I'm a contracted dependent by these writings."
"And when he was trying to erase you," Garrick steps in, catching your tone, "he accidentally removed you from the contract provisions."
The room falls silent as the information fills the space. It was a heavy silence. One that could make or break your victory if someone were to find a way to rip the small loophole apart.
"That can't be enough," MacTavish says finally. "He'll argue that you were a liar. We were liars," he continues, "that they were tricked. We'll lose if your whole solution is just playing with his words."
"It isn't enough. But it's the start of the solution," you answer after a second, feeling the excitement from minutes before drain fully from the room. You wish Garrick had waited until morning to tell everyone to meet. Give you a chance to sleep on your solution and review it again with fresh eyes. You weren't ready for a battle of wits now.
"You found another problem," Riley fills in as he watches you move to sit back on the edge of the papasan chair.
"More like the main problem," you reply weakly.
"Explain then," Price says as he eyes you.
You glance over at Garrick and you know he already knows. His brain works faster than anyone you've ever met, and you wonder if he got there before you and didn't want to tell you, ruining your excitement.
"The loophole only works if I remain outside the contract," you start and no one speaks. "If I'm still considered a dependent, my father...Alaric can argue that I am irrelevant."
"So what changes that? If we tell them you're an Omega, that breaks the contract about you and they can take you back," Price states as if he's working through it as he talks.
"A bond," Garrick fills in, and you're grateful everyone looks away from you to him for a moment so you can breathe.
"It can't be a contract or an arrangement," he pushes as he goes to his desk and nudges Riley a bit as he digs around for a book. "It has to be a bond. Following the old laws, bonds outweigh everything because they are the natural order of things. It still keeps her out of the contract. We are still contracted to Edith, but we would be bonded to an Omega."
"No one follows the old laws anymore," MacTavish argues. "Hell marking with a bite these days is considered old tradition, most people don't bother with it anymore."
"Because bonds haven't been around in generations and were written out of existence because of this very thing," Garrick shoots back. "But a true recognized bond cannot be fought against, there is no way to. Edith remains the contracted Omega, but once a true bond is recognized, the contract becomes impossible to fulfill."
"The contract will fail because we can't produce heirs with Edith," Price fills in. "We wouldn't be obligated to even try and fail. It's an instant end."
"If we bond," Riley tacks on simply, though his tone is more ironic than pleased.
The pronounced silence that follows Garrick's words leaves everyone to ponder the implication. You suddenly wish you could be anywhere else. In your room, in the woods. Hell, the sea. Anywhere but here, where you were all thinking the same thing, no one was sure they were ready for. Or even wanted.
"No," MacTavish says, his voice firm and curt.
You look up at him, uncertain if you want to see his face and the instant rejection. He's watching you, really looking at you, and you feel yourself sink a bit into yourself to avoid his scrutiny. There isn't hatred there, something you were so used to seeing from others, but there is another thing that you can't quite figure out.
"Johnny," Garrick interjects, and you look at him, surprised at the name change. The intimacy of a first name between Alphas was something that was always behind closed doors. Even Alpha fathers didn't address their sons by their first name in public when they came of age.
"No," MacTavish says again, and the anger he had been holding back is visible as he rakes a hand through his hair. "We're not doing that."
"Doing what exactly?" Price asks.
"You know what," MacTavish says, a small, humorless laugh leaving his lips.
"Spell it out," Price challenges. You all know what MacTavish is talking about, but it seems that Price has grown tired of his general avoidance of anything to do with you.
"We are not forcing bond with her because of a fucking deadline," MacTavish answers, looking at you when he says her, but his attention is on Price the rest of the time.
"You think that's what it is?" Garrick asks with an eyebrow raise.
"That's exactly what this is," MacTavish shoots back, pushing up off the wall.
"Then you're an idiot," Garrick answers.
"Watch yourself," MacTavish nearly snarls, and you see Riley sit up straighter, but he doesn't get up to intervene just yet. He is going to let this play out.
"No, you watch yourself," Garrick snaps back as he steps closer to MacTavish, enough that if either of them reached out, they would strike one another.
You hadn't seen Garrick angry, not really. You had seen weeks of frustration, but never actually true anger. MacTavish seemed to always be angry, the emotion just below the surface. But it seems Garrick has finally been riled up enough that he's not going to let MacTavish's words slide off his back again.
"You think I'm talking about forcing anything? That I would do that?" Garrick asks, cocking his head to the side in a sarcastic gesture. "Because Riley of all people would allow that to even be a possibility?"
"I think you're desperate. Desperate to be right, to keep proving yourself," MacTavish shoots back, and it may as well have been a slap. Knowing Garrick's history and where he came from, it was a low blow.
"You're one to talk about desperation. How long has it been? Yet you still cling to hope that just maybe she'll change her mind." Garrick says and laughs derisively, waving a hand in dismissal as he turns away from him.
Even though there was no name, you know the she Garrick referred to isn't you. And something in you tells you that it's not Edith either. The realization that there was someone else catches you off guard. Someone important enough that both men immediately knew who was being discussed without having to say their name. Of course, you knew there were Omegas before you, but this woman was still a sore spot. Someone MacTavish still cared about.
You can feel the wave of fear pulse through you that Garrick has turned his back on an angered Alpha, and you almost launch yourself out of your chair. You know that you'd make no difference if the Alphas got physical, but you couldn't just sit there. But a look and a hand gesture from Price telling you to sit keeps you in your place. He knows them enough, knows there isn't real danger, but if you were to interfere, there might be.
"We're not desperate, but we are up against a wall," Price says, smoothing over the moment.
Garrick heads to the window, pushing through piles of papers and the discarded comforter. His hand gently brushes your shoulder as he slips past, a soft reassurance, but all he's willing to give with everyone there watching.
MacTavish is still glaring daggers at Garrick, and Price follows his eyeline before looking back at him.
"Enough," Price warns. He doesn't raise his voice, but the single word settles the argument. At least for now. "We found a way out, which is more than we had yesterday."
"Yes, just found a few more things to deal with," Riley chimes in as he lounges further back into his chair. The tension in the room didn't even make him flinch, this seemed like a typical night to him.
"We don't need to make a decision tonight," Price says as he looks at you, wringing your hands in your lap.
"But we need to decide eventually," Riley replies, as if it were all that simple.
"Eventually is going to get here faster than we think," Garrick says from the window as he flicks ash out into the rain.
"The twins have been hounding us daily," Riley explains as you look around the room for an explanation. "Sometimes more than once a day. Your family wants some sort of formal announcement to the world by fall."
"Fall?" You ask, feeling your eyes widen. That was only a few weeks away.
"Sooner if they have it their way," Price says.
You had to decide if you wanted to bond this pack in mere weeks to end this whole mess. But could you? They were your fated mates, it was ordained by some sort of celestial bullshit. But was it the best thing for you? Your whole life has been decided for you since you were born. Being an Unable had almost been a blessing in disguise because you would finally be free of all of this. Yet the Gást-Cyning had other plans that flipped your life upside down. Again.
And what if you decided you accepted it, but the rest of them didn't? You are certain Garrick would, but was it for true feelings or because you're his fated mate. And the rest of them? MacTavish looks like he would prefer to just ignore you for the rest of his life. Maybe Price would do it to keep his pack together, but it would be for safety, not for feelings. And Riley? You had no idea. Perhaps he'd do it for the status, power, that came with it. And perhaps all of them would just for the offspring.
But was that all you were? A power source and breeding factory? Was that what you wanted? Did you want to bond for safety and security, forsake any hope of love and go for convivence? You had heard people contracted to one another eventually fell in love, but that was far and between. A huge risk to take for a maybe.
This is too much. The exhaustion you've been trying to fight off all night has finally caught up. Your eyes burn, and a headache has formed in your temples. Each doubt is amplified, and every emotion is turned up too loud.
"I need to sleep," you say quietly, almost to yourself. But they all hear you. You feel all their eyes on you, assessing. They don't argue or try to convince you to stay, as you tumble out of the chair.
You scoop up just your notebook of questions. The rest can stay in Garrick's room until the morning or afternoon. Maybe a few days until you are ready to look at it all again and face it.
Price stands as you straighten. Not to stop you, it was just something he did anytime you entered or left the room, something you picked up on a while ago and just assumed it was some long lost manners drilled into him as a child.
"Get some rest," he says as you walk past him, giving him a halfhearted smile.
MacTavish doesn't move as you get closer and you will yourself to meet his gaze, to show you aren't timid. But you can't. Your eyes make it to his lips before you instantly drop them to stare at the floor as you shuffle past. You don't know if he's watching you out the door, but before you can get to the handle, Price says something.
"Hilde will be by in the morning to give you the medicine the doctor dropped off," Price says, and you turn to stare at him, bewildered. Medicine?
"Medicine for what?" You ask, and you can hear Garrick groan. He had clearly not passed along some sort of message.
"The Chelsea gala," Price says, and when there is no look of recognition on your face, he continues. "We have to keep up appearances with Edith," he starts, and this time it's you who groans. "And we want you there. The medicine is heavy duty suppressants for your scent."
"Why?" You ask, instantly feeling anxious.
"Because where we go, you go," Riley answers as if it were that simple. "Your family may be pushing their agenda, but they will learn they don't get everything their way."
"So I'm a pawn to piss them off," you snap back.
"No," Riley replies, not rising to your anger. "You are part of this pack now. Not theirs. And we are a unit."
"Wonderful," you muttered, not nearly coherent enough to process this.
Before they can add on another disaster to your list, you head out the door and toward your room. You see Callum sitting in a chair across the way from your room, positioned perfectly to see your space but also Garrick's room, where he knew you were. He's reading a book but looks up instantly when he hears your footsteps.
"Are you coming this weekend?" You ask him as he places a bookmark in his book.
"If you want me to," Callum replies, already knowing what you are talking about, as he stands up to get your door for you.
"Please," you mumble, rubbing your temples as you slip inside. "I can't face them all alone."
He smiles and says goodnight as he shuts the door behind you. You don't even bother with changing. You toss your notebook on the desk and collapse face first into the bed, barely shifting up into your nest of pillows before you start drifting. Your room feels oddly stale and empty compared to what it had been in Garrick's room.
As you doze, you contemplate what would have happened if Garrick hadn't woken you. Would you have slept in there all night? Comfortable and safe enough to be that vulnerable with him watching over you? Not worried about the saving grace and the new shackles you had found. Not worried about what was coming next. Just warm and content with your mate.
The final thought makes you wince. You thought of him as your mate. Not Alpha, not Garrick, not even Kyle. Mate. You know you should correct yourself, push the thought away before it takes root, and it becomes something you think every time you look at him. But you let your body relax again, too worn out to argue with yourself tonight. Somewhere deep down, you already know why Garrick's room feels more like home than your own. And for once, you just let the thought exist.
-----------------
So we found one solution to only uncover yet another problem. No one knows if they are ready for a bond. They barely know one another but the longer they wait the worse things could get. The 141 would be forced to keep up the charade with Edith even if they don't want too, to keep reader safe...even if they know it will further strain relationship with reader. They also know if they bond they'll be powerful and near untouchable, but they also aren't going to force it on reader or themselves.
What a mess.
And now we have to see Edith face to face. I may or may not have already started writing the next chapter and forced myself to stop to do edits on this so I could post 😅 Teaser...we get angry protective Price.
-----------------
Old English Words:
Gást-Cyning - spirit king, God
-----------------
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Featuring: ER Doctor!Reader and a post-MWIII John Price
Summary: You helped him when he needed it the most. It might be the biggest mistake that you've ever made.
Word count: <4.4K
Rating: None.
Warnings: Blood. Bodily injuries. Workplace harrassment. Implied murder and violence.
Author's Note: I'm not a healthcare professional. Some medical details here have been loosely researched for plot. All mistakes are mine.
John Price masterlist | Main Masterlist
You were exhausted, and you wanted to eat your feelings.
A hard day shift in the ER had you shuffling back from the Chinese restaurant down the street, toting two full plastic bags of takeout. You were looking forward to stuffing your face, taking a scalding hot soak in the bath, and then sleeping like the dead—in precisely that order.
But your plans were instantly derailed when you found a dark-haired, bearded man sitting slumped against your apartment doorway. He was almost obscured by the shadow of the upstairs unit’s stairwell stoop, providing the barest of cover from the late evening rain.
Making sure you were in his line of sight, you call out to him.
“Hey, I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to move along. I live here. There’s a shelter that might take you in, two blocks down, one street over on Broadway. Night’s still early…you should get a bed for the night if you head there now.”
The man stirs, groaning a little in discomfort. He opens his pain-glazed eyes to gaze up at you.
For a few long moments, the both of you attempt to take the measure of the other. Unable to stand the burgeoning silence any longer, you take a step closer, realizing he had a hand pressed to his side, poorly concealing something dark trickling out between his fingers.
Juggling your umbrella, takeout bags and your purse, you free up one hand to get at your phone in your coat pocket.
“Hey mister. You look like you’re in bad shape. I’m going to call an ambulance for you, all right?”
The man’s gaze, now focused and alert, flicks up to you.
“No ambulance, no hospital,” he rasps out, voice rough and gravelly from disuse.
“Well, I live here,” you gesture to your apartment doorway, “and you need medical help.”
“I guess we’re at a stalemate, then.”
You instantly peg his accent as British. This man was far from home, and the list of questions you were compiling to ask him was getting longer by the second.
You sigh, trying to appeal to him with the obvious while keeping your rising temper in check.
“Listen. It looks like you’re bleeding out. You might not be long for this world if you stay this way.”
He lets out a tired grunt of resignation as he glanced down at his injury, then at his feet.
“Maybe it is my time to go...” he muses absently to himself.
Anger, bright and explosive, bursts through you at his words.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you half-roar at him. “I just finished a very trying day shift in the ER dealing with entitled, narcissistic whiny man-babies like you. And it wasn’t only with the patients. You’re not going to fucking die on my doorstep because you caught a case of the sads. Pull yourself together and Get. The. Fuck. Up.”
His shoulders shake slightly, as if he found something terribly amusing in the way you gave him the business.
“You know, you remind me of someone I used to work with. She would’ve read me the riot act like you did.”
“Well, if she’s the one who stabbed you, then good for her,” you jeer back.
This time he lets out a full-bodied laugh, but the sudden movement causes him to wince. He clutches his side, still making no attempt to move, let alone stand up. He closes his eyes briefly, lost in thought before he puts two and two together.
“You said you worked at the ER? You a doctor?”
He nods in confirmation when you take too long to respond.
“Yeahhh...you’re definitely an ER doctor. Can tell by your bedside demeanor,” he continues derisively. “How about this...maybe you could patch me up, and then I’ll be on my way?”
Opening his eyes, he peruses your Chinese takeout bags. The barest hint of a smile etches the corner of his mouth before he decides to push your buttons again.
“That smells awfully good, and I’m suddenly famished. Got any egg rolls in that order of yours? They’re my favorite, especially with those little plum sauce packets. Happy to split the bill with you. And then I’ll be out of your hair. After you patch me up, of course. I promise.”
“The audacity. The fucking audacity and assumed privilege on you,” you breathe, outrage spiking at his high-handedness.
He grins, teeth flashing bright in the dim darkness.
Eased down onto the dining room table, John cranes his neck to watch you draw the front window curtains shut, then disappear out of sight down a side hallway. Listening to the sounds of drawers and closet doors opening and closing, he sighs.
Finally, a few moments of respite.
Running a finger along the edge of your phone, he turns it off and tucks it into his inner jacket pocket. He’d lifted it off you when you helped him inside...it was the only way he could be sure that you wouldn’t...couldn’t call the authorities. But not before scanning your recent texts and work emails popping up on your lock screen.
And now he had an idea why you’d had a terrible, no good day today.
He scans the layout of your apartment. Delineating the kitchen from the dining/living room was a breakfast counter bar. Off to the side of the living/dining area was the hallway where you’d disappeared to, likely where the bathroom and bedroom were situated. Overall, your place was functional. Minimal. Transient. The type of place that offered little more than shelter and a space to store your meager belongings. A place in a big city where people could truthfully claim: “Yeah, I lived here for a few years. For school, then for work. But then I had to move away because who can actually afford to live somewhere nice here?”
At your incoming footfalls, he turns his head to see you appear in the hallway entryway, holding several bags of medical supplies and a flashlight.
Wordlessly, you pull a chair from the table, organizing the items on the seat. He tracks your movements to the kitchen, turning on the faucet to wash and scrub your hands. You moved with intention and precision, clearly ingrained from your years on the job. You exuded competence, maturity, and you suffered no fools with the way you spoke to him.
But around those sharp, defiant edges, he saw flashes of exhaustion and weariness. The world wasn’t a kind place, of that he’d seen firsthand, but he had to admire how you carried yourself despite it all.
Pulling another chair from the table, you sit down. You snap on a pair of nitrile gloves to begin your examination.
“Okay. Let’s get your jacket and sweater off and get a better look at you.”
Carefully rolling him sideways towards you and then the other way, you eased the garments off him. You suck in a breath, senses ramping up on high alert.
Healed scars, old and recent, littered his hairy, muscled torso, with a variety of small tattoos of dates, names, and cryptic symbols trailing up his sides. Mottled bruises dotted across his thick forearms, ending with fresh scrapes on his knuckles and fingers. And on his right side were the two stab wounds that had him ending up slumped against your doorstep.
This man was accustomed to violence. Both in the giving and receiving of it.
Unease and anxiety churns in your gut. Taking a few deliberate breaths, you focus on calming yourself, tamping your emotions down.
He’s not in a position to hurt you. He’ll only make his injuries worse if he does, and he knows it.
Momentarily troubled by the direction of your thoughts, your gaze darts upwards to his face.
He had dark brown, almost black hair, cropped short at the top and sides, with chunks of gray and white streaking his temples and thick beard. He wasn’t a young man — his forehead was lined with wrinkles and crows feet etched around his piercing cerulean eyes. Likely in his early to mid-forties, only a handful of years older than you. He was...handsome, in a rough-hewn sort of way.
“Like what you see?” he murmurs with smug condescension.
“Fuck off,” you mutter almost reflexively.
Snapping back into examination mode, you grab the flashlight and flick it on. You slap it into his left hand, yanking his forearm up and over like an adjustable stand to get a good view of his right side. You derive a small, sadistic thrill as he grunts, not expecting you to handle him like that.
“Hold this up for me so I can work hands-free. Yes. Okay, perfect. Right there. Now don’t move.”
He hisses, his grip on the flashlight wobbling for a moment while you palpate around his wounds.
“Maybe I should’ve offered to pay for all of your takeout if it meant you’d go easier on me.”
Despite yourself, you bark out a laugh.
You asked him questions about his medical history, which he appeared to answer truthfully, but as you probed him about how he got into his current state, he kept shaking his head, refusing to elaborate.
Wrapping up your examination, you take the flashlight from him, shining one last close-up inspection at his wounds before flicking the light off.
“So what’s the prognosis, doctor?”
You push your chair back, looking him square in the eye.
“It’s a miracle that whatever stabbed you didn’t go too deep and that it didn’t nick any organs or arteries. Fortunately, your jacket and sweater took the brunt of the damage. I can get these wounds cleaned up and stitched closed. I’ll give you some over-the-counter pain medications and some bandages and dressings for when you need to change them, but I strongly recommend you go to a hospital for a follow-up, just to be safe. Infection risks with wounds like these can—“
“I told you already. No. Hospitals,” he grits out.
You roll your eyes. “All right, Jason Bourne. Simmer down.”
“‘M not a spy,” he rasps, sounding irrationally annoyed that you’d pegged him as that, of all things.
You shrug, unbothered.
“Well, unless you want to give me your real name, I get to call you whatever I please. Now, let’s get you cleaned and stitched up. And then you can have some egg rolls.”
He ate more than just the egg rolls. He ate over half of the house special fried rice, sweet and sour pork, spicy wontons, and chicken chop suey. Despite your protests, he insisted on eating while sitting up on the couch, promising not to aggravate or undo your handiwork.
He leans gingerly against the couch’s padded back, patting his stomach, satiated at last. While his jacket and sweater were in the washer, the oversized sleep shirt you lent him kept him decent and covered. But just barely.
“I was hungrier than I thought. But I’m not complaining. Best meal I’ve had in a long while, I’ll have to admit.”
You squint at him, confused.
“You’re welcome, I guess? For helping yourself to my food?”
“Well, you ordered a lot. For just one person.”
“I was planning to eat it over the next few days, so I wouldn’t need to cook, but I didn’t plan on having unexpected company over,” you gesture at him.
You take a swig of your Coke. Exhaustion was creeping up on you, but you needed the added caffeine to keep you awake and your wits about you for a little while longer.
“How long has it been since you last had a proper meal?” you ask him gently.
He shoots you a brief side glance, deliberating before he answers.
“Couple days. My current line of work has me working unpredictable hours. But I suppose I’ll need to take some time off to heal up, get my strength up again,” he sighs. He huffs out a self-conscious laugh. “No wonder I felt like I had to sit down and rest. Wasn’t from my injuries. Been running on fumes all this time. Well, that’s fuckin’ embarrassing.”
“Hey, it happens. But is there someone who can come pick you—“
He shakes his head vehemently. “No. No more questions,” he answers tersely.
“Like why there’s way more blood on your clothes than what seems normal for just stab wounds?”
He grunts, the barest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Yeah. Questions exactly like that.” But then he sighs, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I know you are just doing your job, and my social skills have been rusty of late.”
“Okay. I won’t ask again.”
“Like I’d believe that,” he mutters under his breath. He opens his eyes, his gaze softer, more conciliatory now. “But, before I forget what’s remaining of my manners, thank you.”
You slow blink. Feigning deafness, you cup your hand to your ear.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite hear that. Might’ve been a figment of my imagination. Could you repeat that once more for me?”
“I said, Thank. You. For all that you’ve done for me,” he enunciates slowly and evenly, amused.
“I’m just doing my job,” you reply sardonically, throwing his words back at him. “It’s what I do. That’s all.”
Carefully leaning forward to the TV tray you’d set up for him, he takes a few moments to tuck the cutlery and napkins onto the plate. Figuratively and literally tidying things up before he spoke again.
“So it sounds like you had a hell of a day today, capped off with finding me bleeding on your doorstep. Dealing with what was it—entitled, narcissistic whiny man-babies like me. And it wasn’t just with the patients?”
“Oh. So you’re working on your social skills now?” you drawl.
“Yeah. You could say that. Humor me.”
You let out a small harrumph.
“What’s there to talk about? It’s a tale as old as time. My job has me overworked and underpaid. Dealing with a nonstop stream of patients, most of them who should’ve gotten preventative care well before they showed up at the ER but didn’t because they couldn’t afford to. The bureaucracy and red tape and administrators who are all about their KPIs and metrics that benefit them and not so much about patient outcomes. Dude bro colleagues who decide to make my life difficult because I’m better at what I do than they are. I can deal with one or some of those things at a time, but all of those things in one day? Ughhh...”
“Oh? Colleagues making your life difficult? How?” he asks, tone oddly curious.
“Look at you go on with your questions,” you jibe back. “Put yourself in my shoes. I’m in a still largely male-dominated field. You fill in the blanks with what someone like myself would run across every day, even in this day and age.”
“Surely you can file a complaint or a report to their supervisor?”
You laugh, both at his apparent naivety and the simple absurdity of his suggestion. “Oh, trust me, I’ve dutifully followed all the proper steps. I’ve been by the book. I’ve documented everything. It’s all on the hospital and what they choose to do at this point. Which has been nothing.“
“Sounds like they’re more concerned about siding with whoever will cost them less legal exposure and reputational damage,” he replies sarcastically. At least your explanation corroborated the texts and emails he saw on your phone.
He grunts, thinking about it some more.
“If you ask me, it sounds like the system’s broken. It failed you. Not the other way around. I saw that a lot in my former line of work. A lot of good people I knew...” he says, trailing off before stopping himself, unwilling to divulge more personal details. “But…sometimes you’ve got to shake up the system.”
You shrug.
“It’s always easier said than done. I’ve done all I can. But I’m going to keep showing up. Every day to help others. It’s the only thing I know how to do and nobody gets to decide how I’m going to feel about it except me. It will pass. It always does. But I’ll still be here.”
He stares at you for a few seconds, appearing to come to some kind of internal decision in his mind before finally nodding at you with approval.
“Good. Don’t let those fuckers win.”
“Thank you for everything. And things will get better, you’ll see soon enough.”
Those were the last words he spoke to you before he left.
True to his word, he left you cash, generously covering your entire takeout order plus the cost of the medical supplies and medication you gave him several times over, despite your protests of taking any money from him.
Checking the dining room table area one last time to make sure you’d cleaned up everything from when you treated him, you crouch down to pick up your phone lying underneath a chair.
“Huh. Could’ve sworn it was in my coat pocket this whole time.”
5 days later
So much for sleeping in on your day off.
Sighing, you roll over, grabbing your phone off the bedside table, wondering what was going on as your phone started to blow up with non stop dinging sounds.
You scan the message previews:
Paul >> Wake up! Hot tea incoming!
Jen >> Did you see the hospital wide email just now?
May >> Holy fuuuuck. Harris and Tomaso?
Robin >> Fired. Fucking finally!
The two doctors who'd been making your life difficult were...gone? Just like that? You continue reading the rest of the messages.
Steve >> Now others are stepping forward about them
Rob >> Heard heads are rolling in hr and admin rn
Unknown number >> Sometimes you have to shake up the system, you know?
You pause at the last text. Sent less than an hour ago.
Despite what your gut was telling you, you click on the unknown number entry to read the rest of the messages.
>> Thank you for your help
>> Grateful for what you did
>> But really, you’re too trusting
>> You should be more careful about who you let into your apartment and your life
>> Hope things have gotten better at the hospital now
>> Sometimes you have to shake up the system, you know?
No. Was that from him? He didn’t, did he? Just what did he do?
With unsteady hands, you immediately delete the texts and block the number.
You mute your notifications for the next few hours and toss the phone back onto your bedside table. You pull the covers over your head, hoping the initial, crazy set of conclusions your mind leapt to was just that.
And then... someone started pounding on your front door, followed by the doorbell buzzing. At first, you tried to ignore it, but whoever it was wasn’t giving up anytime soon.
Exasperated, you roll out of bed, unbothered and unconcerned with the state of your hair and sleeping attire. Storming through your apartment, you yank the front window curtains aside, unlocking the screen window and opening it to give your unwanted visitor a piece of your mind.
“Listen, it’s my day off. And the sign on the door clearly says No salespeople or soliciting allowed, so go fu—”
You jump back with a small yelp, heart pounding, as the large man looming in the front doorway turns to face you through the window. The man wore dark, nondescript tactical gear, topped off with a faded skull mask. Was he intimidating? Yes. Scary as fuck? Absolutely.
But you double down, deciding to commit to the bit because you couldn’t help yourself.
“It’s...um...it’s about 3 months too early for Halloween. Come back then,” you bleat out, with a lot less heat and bravado than you intended.
But the man doesn’t go away. Instead, he digs into a side pocket in his pants, producing his phone. He swipes a few times on the screen before he shows you a military ID photo of the dark-haired man you’d treated several nights ago. A younger, cleaner-shaven, mutton-chop bearded version in uniform.
“I’d like to speak with you about him.” He gestures at your front door. “May I come in?”
The skull-masked man introduced himself as Captain Simon Riley, from the SAS. He was also British, but spoke with a thicker, rougher accent.
Sitting across from you on the now sagging living room couch, he fills in the missing blanks about the man you’d treated the other night.
“His name is John Price. Former SAS captain. He’s wanted by international authorities—basically all of ‘em at this point. And I’ve been put in charge of bringin’ him in.”
Your curiosity wins out over your cautiousness.
“What’s he wanted for, exactly?”
Flat brown eyes lock onto yours as he lists the litany of crimes John had committed, beginning with the pre-meditated murder of an American four-star general.
“Let’s just say…life in prison for what he’s done and done since would be a kindness for him at this point.”
You swallow, a mix of fear and dread settling in the pit of your stomach, for once at a complete loss for words. You nervously lick your suddenly dry lips.
“Why—why did he kill that general?”
Simon hesitates before answering. “He thought he was doing the right thing,” he finally replies.
You search his eyes, catching the slight shift in his demeanor and body language.
This feels oddly personal. He must know John.
Simon launches into what brought him to your doorstep. CCTV cameras had tracked John to your neighborhood the night you found him. Then, there was the body of a man found few blocks away, a known contract killer, in possession of a stiletto that you realized was probably what caused John’s injuries. And likely the source of the extra blood on his jacket and sweater.
“We knew Price was somewhere around here, but there was a gap of a few hours where we couldn't confirm exactly where he was. But then, it was what happened after that night that narrowed things down for us.”
He rattles off the timeline of events.
“Two days ago, there were reported incidents at the hospital you work at of some staff members being threatened in the underground parking lot. Then yesterday, two male doctors were physically assaulted in their own homes. All by the same man.”
Your eyes widen with shock and dismay as he played footage from several security videos off his phone, each escalating in intimidation and then to violence.
You knew all the victims.
John didn’t need to lay a hand on the hospital administrator and HR rep you’d been dealing with, but it was clear with his size and presence that whatever he’d said had its effect. Cornered and cowering in fear against their cars, nodding rapidly in acquiescence to whatever he’d said.
Then the brutality and the violence that he inflicted so casually and dispassionately on each of the doctors, leaving them mangled, bleeding messes.
A part of you had revenge fantasies about exacting justice on the people who’d done you wrong, who dismissed and diminished your claims of how you were being treated, but they were just that. Fantasies. But this man actually made it happen, meting out his brand of justice in a universal language that anyone could understand.
“We ran background checks on each victim and found that one thing they had in common was you. And that you lived here, in the same neighborhood that Price had been seen in.”
You gesture listlessly at Simon’s phone. “But why would he...it was only for a few hours that he was here...I barely said anything to him...”
He leans forward, taking advantage of your bewildered state.
“Tell me everythin' he said and did when he was here. Any detail you can remember will be helpful in locating his whereabouts.”
Haltingly, you recount everything you could remember of the few hours John had spent here in the apartment. Including the text messages he’d sent this morning before you blocked his number.
Simon stares at you for an indeterminate time, thinking and mulling over all the information you shared with him. Flicking open a front pocket on his tactical vest, he pulls out a notepad and a pen. Tearing the top page from the notepad, he scribbles something on it before he hands it across to you.
You lean forward in your chair, reflexively taking the scrap of paper from him.
He dips his chin at you. “Call me at that number when he comes 'round or contacts you again, yeah?“
The couch groans, almost in relief as Simon stands, heading straight for the front door.
Snapped out of your daze, you also stand up, scurrying to follow him as he rests his hand on the doorknob.
“What makes you think he will?”
He opens the door and looks back at you, dark eyes glittering.
“You showed him kindness. And he likes to fix things. Broken things. But he fixes them his way. You’ve already seen what he’s done for you. How he’s done it, to those people. You don’t want him back here. You don’t want him takin' an interest in you, the way he is now. Trust me. I can speak from firsthand experience.”
He nods at the paper in your hand once more.
“Call me,” he repeats, before closing the front door behind him.
Almost halfway through 2026 and it's time to share a few updates on my Jujutsu Kaisen & Call of Duty WIPs, talk about a new fandom I've started to enjoy, and also a follower milestone to celebrate. Let's get into it.
Call of Duty:
The MW4 trailer and the teasing of Dark!John Price (literally and figuratively) have fueled a few WIPs that I'm working on:
Do No Harm, which I'm actively writing, which is an ER Doctor!Reader and post-MWIII John Price short one-shot.
(Untitled) 100-word blurb and follow-up blurb re: Reader x a John Price that hasn't accepted things are over between you two (without spoiling it).
Then, there's the other stories that are languishing a wee bit:
Daikoku - Part 2 - A smutty MFM with John x Reader x Nikolai - still around 80%, stalled a bit.
Restoration - Part 3 - 80% done (NikPrice), I hope to get it done in the next few weeks and also set up a masterlist post. This is the part where they meet for the first time.
Jujutsu Kaisen:
Birthday Girl, a follow-up to Turn the Page, is a smutty MFM featuring Nanami x Reader x Higuruma. I started a snippet here. It's bout 80% done. This is told mostly from Higuruma's POV and just trying to refine his internal perspective of how he views Reader and Nanami in this story.
Baker!Nanami x Salarywoman!Reader AU (fluff, slice of life) - paused for now while I flit between my CoD WIPs and Birthday Girl.
Other: I'm still working on going through my old list of likes from as early as 2024 of roundups of stories/art I enjoy from both fandoms. I just need to decide how to organize all the links in a way that's easy for people to check out.
Follower milestone:
Sometime in the last few weeks I hit 200 followers! Thank you to each of you who've decided to follow me, it means a lot. I don't write as much as I wish my brain would let me of late, and I don't go out of my way to promote my blog/reach out as much but I appreciate every follow and interaction. Still got a ways to go to improve as a writer, but that's something I enjoy continuing to improve upon and glad everyone here is along for the ride.
Current obsessions:
Witch Hat Atelier...which given my love of JJK and CoD seems like a weird add to the mix, but it's probably because this blog's been 99% exclusive to JJK and CoD posts/writings. But I like my cozy fantasy anime/mangas like WHA, Frieren and Delicious in Dungeon. I think for this fandom I'm going to just enjoy the art and stories, very unlikely I'm going to be doing any writing for it.
Previous WIP updates:
May WIP updates
March WIP update
February WIP update
January WIP update
Thanks for making it down this far. Here's a brush buddy for you!
You could tell that much as he silently carried you to the bathroom. As if he wasn’t sure what else to say. As if he didn’t trust himself to speak. You could feel it in the way he held you a bit tighter than usual.
“I’m okay, really. I didn't call you off. I didn’t use my safe word,” you offered lightly, pressing your forehead into the heat of his chest.
“You shouldn’t have had to,” he answered, gruffly. Like the words themselves were rocks he needed to dislodge from his throat.
“To be honest, it was so much better than I thought it could be.” Earthshattering, you could have just said.
“We don’t cross hard boundaries here. This isn’t a place for you to work out your problems. That’s for therapy. Not for me.” He reached out to turn on the stream of water, opting to fill the bathtub instead of running the showerhead.
“You think I need therapy?” you asked. You meant it as a lighthearted quip, but his face held no humor. There was no light in his signal fire eyes. Just cold calculation. Or stark fear, maybe. You still weren’t thinking clearly enough to tell.
You didn't necessarily not need therapy, but coming from him, it felt wrong. Like an insult. You’d let yourself believe that there wasn’t any judgement between you. That he didn’t look too closely at you outside of the lens of your arrangement. You didn’t ask him about his marriage or his work, and he didn’t ask you why you were the way you were.
You were you and he was him. You needed each other for something and that was the end of it.
“I think you’re a very lovely person. With some really hard kinks.” His rough thumb grazed your chin as he tilted your head up and side to side. Looking for any marks he may have left behind on your neck.
Fucked up issues, he might as well have said.
“In subspace, you’d let me do anything. You were too far gone to understand,” he continued. Seemingly trying to absolve you from something but only succeeding in making you feel worse.
You only liked to feel helpless. You were there, too. A willing participant. You could have said no at any point. You knew the rules. Were prepared for the consequences if something went wrong. You were only human.
And so was he.
“I wasn’t even in subspace until after,” you started to argue, but he cut you off.
“It shouldn’t have happened. Period.” When you flinched at the hard edge to his tone, he pinched the bridge of his nose before adding softly, “I’m not blaming you. It was my fault.”
If he was assigning blame, that meant that it was wrong. But how could it have been when you’d gone higher than you ever had before? You didn’t just feel alive, you felt free. A weight that you’d been carrying your whole life had been lifted.
Maybe he was right. Maybe once you came down, and came to your senses, you’d regret it. Feel the betrayal he was projecting onto you.
Even still, you wondered if there was more to it. If perhaps it wasn’t the broken boundary that he was beating himself up over, or simply an aversion to the intimacy of it. The vulnerability you’d trusted him with. It wouldn’t be the first time he pulled away when you’d gotten too close.
He went through the motions of aftercare despite the uneasy energy between you. He sank you down into the hot bath and washed your hair while you tried to stay hazy for just a little longer. Despite your best efforts, as he carefully rinsed out the soap and massaged in the conditioner, you almost shook him off and offered to do it yourself.
Only something about it felt like it would be the last time, and you weren’t ready to let him go just yet.
*****
“I let her tie me up,” John confessed to Simon, in between chats about the match and the goings on with the business.
“Yeah?” he inquired skeptically. “You alright, mate?”
Simon Riley was the only person in the world who knew the things that scared John Price. Who’d been privy to the file that mapped out what made him tick. The traumas and the losses. The caves he’d been left to die in, the scars that didn’t heal when he’d come back to the light. To the living.
“It was bloody...grand,” John conceded. “She was so sweet about it. I couldn’t say no.” He let himself smile briefly at the memory before draining the last of his beer.
“Then what’s the problem?”
“I got so caught up that I,” he paused while he found the nerve. “I forgot one of her hard lines,” he mumbled like a damn private before his superior.
Someone in his position, with his experience, should've known better. A lapse in judgement that could cause irreparable harm. Not just to a client, but someone he—what exactly?
“Fucking hell. You choked her?” Simon asked quietly, but still managed to spit the accusation like venom. As close to anger as John had seen the man in a long time.
Not since another life.
He stood from his barstool and slipped a cigarette between his lips to signal he was going outside for a smoke. John, taking the cue, followed closely behind with one of his own.
“She said she was fine, but I don’t believe her.”
“She gets a fucking panic attack if her bloody necklace is too tight.” The accusatory tone made his accent even rougher, blurring words and curses together as Simon lit the end and sucked in a deep lung full of smoke.
“I know.” John agreed with a nod and took a long pull off his. The familiar burn was not nearly enough to melt away the fist that had tightened around his chest.
He'd found himself smoking less since he'd started seeing you. He drank less as well. He'd started to wonder if the pretty tears and dazed whimpers during your sessions were the only vices he needed. Along with your cheery smile and sharp sense of humor in the precious time you shared after.
Only for him to fuck it all up. As he did everything eventually.
He pressed his eyes shut tightly, as if it would staunch the haunting visage of you pleading with him breathlessly as you tucked your face weakly into his shoulder. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”
Instead, another voice took the place of yours, “You make it impossible to love you, John.”
“I’m here for you, mate,” Simon cut through the spiral of John's thoughts. “But I was the one who referred her to you—”
“That’s why I need your help. You know her better than I do.”
“Do I? Seems you've gotten awful close these last few months.” If there was a slight stiffness there, John didn’t press it any further. It was no secret that he was fond of you, and any jealousy he may have felt would only help Price’s cause.
“She trusts you.”
“What are you suggesting, Cap? You want me to come in as a fluffer? A bloody palate cleanser?” He let out an amused puff of smoke through his nose.
With any luck, it would put some distance between you again and return things to an even keel. The one that had served you so well. He was getting too close, too emotional.
Seeing you with someone else, hearing you cry and beg for anyone but him would hopefully cool the intensity of his feelings. His need to please you, even beyond what you’d asked for. To know you. Be with you.
Painted with his lieutenant’s marks, his best mate’s cum if need be, it would remind him that you weren’t his. And then, just maybe he could start the slow process of earning back your trust.
Assuming you even wanted to see him again after you came to your senses and realized the magnitude of his transgression. It wasn’t just crossing a line. It was selfishness. John had forgotten his duty while he’d been consumed by his own gratification.
And that would not do. Ever.
“You sure about this? You'd give her up?”
It was for the best. A risk he'd have to take.
“I can't lose her,” John stated as a fact, a mission objective, as he stomped out his cigarette on the pavement below his boot.
*****
You busied yourself with work for the next month and a half. It was longest you'd gone without seeing him. It wasn't that you didn't want to. You really did.
You were in a constant state of restlessness and unease. And you missed him terribly. But more accurately, you had the sneaking suspicion that you’d started to drop. It wasn't as dramatic as you'd read about in the pamphlet Life Connect 141 made you sign before you began your first session way back when.
It was more like a slow slide. One day you were fine. A week, and then two went by without a full night's sleep. By the third you'd realized you hadn't been to the gym in several days. By the fourth, you had trouble making it to work on time in the mornings, but you'd stay later and later at the office until you were caught up.
You told yourself it was just burnout, and you'd take a mini break once you closed the next deal. You didn't need John and you didn't need help. You just needed to get through another day, another week and you'd shake yourself out of it.
Plus, you'd only ever called him. It was supposed to be mutual arrangement, but he'd never once called you first. How long would he let you go without reaching out? He'd been so worked up during the last session, nothing you said could convince him you were fine.
You’d tried to talk to him about it, but he’d shut down. Just like he’d done when you’d asked about his marriage.
“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. That includes talking,” you’d said. How much you wouldn’t give to know what he was thinking now.
Maybe it was the end. No matter how much you insisted, he wasn’t going to believe you, anyway. He wasn’t going to let you change his mind.
It was probably for the best, no matter how much his silence hurt. Better it happened sooner than when you’d really fallen in love with him or something…
It was right about the time that you’d finally given up and figured you’d scared him off for good when he texted you. The drop had started to level itself out and you were gradually feeling like yourself again. Or at least, moving on to rekindle whatever life you’d been living before you met him.
Hey, sweetheart. How are you?
You were in the middle of a meeting, so it wasn’t hard to resist typing back right away. You waited until you were alone at your desk and having a quick tea before you responded nonchalantly. After a bit of chit chat back and forth, he finally asked the question you’d been hoping for.
Up for a session this weekend?
There it was, the invitation you’d been secretly waiting for. You hadn’t pushed him away after all. You began typing back your answer when another bubble popped up first.
Ghost will be there too.
Your fingers paused over the screen, and you reread the sentence several more times as you steadied your pulse.
He was giving you a choice. A warning. It was certainly a surprise. Was this his way of apologizing? Or was he trying to put you back in your place? You briefly thought about declining, but your curiosity got the better of you before you could overthink it.
Not long after you set up a day and time, you received a two-word text from Ghost.
Can’t wait.
*****
John had given you the same directions as he always did. Outfit on the chair. Pillow on the floor. Shoes in the basket. Lights turned low.
You hadn’t expected to find a white button-down blouse and gray herringbone pencil skirt on the back of the chair. Or a pair of black lace panties and matching stiletto heels. It brought you back to another time and place, and you smiled at the memory. How cliché you’d been. An overworked girl boss in need of a big, strong man to give her release.
It made you cringe as fervently as it still turned you on. Your nature at odds with your evolution.
As you stripped down and put it on, your bare breasts grazed against the cool poplin fabric of the shirt. The skirt fit snug and pulled tight as you lowered down onto the pillow, and the heels dug into your backside as you kneeled back against them.
Within a few minutes, the door opened and the heavy footsteps that you came to know by heart had a different cadence. Two lefts and two rights, of varying beats.
“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes, dove.” Ghost appeared first, shaking his head approvingly. He wore his mask, crisp and clean, along with a dark suit and tie. His arms and thighs bulged against the slim fitting, well-tailored fabric.
A stark contrast to the soft greens and browns of John’s flannel shirt as he shrugged off his distressed leather jacket and hooked it on the coat rack.
“Ghost is going to take good care of you, sweetheart,” he said, as he crossed over and leaned down to place a kiss on the top of your head. “I’ll be in my office. You two play nice.”
And then he disappeared behind the glass French doors that separated the main area from his private rooms. To a place you’d never been. Off limits. It was fitting, really. It wasn’t to be apology then. It was indeed to remind you of your place.
To put you back where you belonged.
But it was John’s house, and John’s rules. You’d always been clear with him that your choices ended when you walked through the door. The session would be between you and Ghost, and that was it.
Tie in or tap out.
“Daddy’s home, little dove,” Ghost cooed, as he slipped his thick trigger finger inside your mouth, turning your head obediently towards him. “Don’t look at him. Look at me.” A clipped command, bringing you back to your center.
And John didn’t look at you, not when Ghost tied you up and hung you from the hook on the rafters, or when you sucked his cock hands-free while he lazily dripped hot paraffin wax between your straining shoulder blades.
The dewy heat ran like molten rivers, reshaping in its wake. Your muscles relaxed and your brain emptied as you surrendered to it.
“Bloody hell, Cap,” he called out over his shoulder to the other room. “Is she always like this? This is what I’ve been missing? Taught her to give a good head, you did.”
John still didn’t look up from his paperwork when his friend took turns slapping your ass and the backs of your thighs with his familiar crop. As strings of drool and slick dripped to the hardwood floor like a leaking faucet from both ends of you.
John had never used a vibrator, didn’t have one in his box of tricks, so Ghost manually worked you over with his gloved fingers and his hungry tongue before slipping himself inside. Thicker and with more of a curve than John’s, it carved out its own space inside you.
Far from the cold and sanitized nature of your previous encounters at Life Connect 141. He barked out oaths and moaned praises like he’d been given a gift so treasured, he would hide it under his pillow. Carry it with him everywhere. Wear it to the point of ripping apart like a too tight, worn-out set of trousers.
“I knew you’d be a gem, dove. Such a sweet little pet. So good for me, aren’t you? No wonder the boss is so smitten.”
His enthusiasm was so contagious that you came just like that, on his cock before he pulled out and painted your blistering ass with his spend. You could tell the skin was broken in places by the way the salt in his seed stung and burned as he spread it around like a cruel salve.
If he touched your clit again, you wondered if you could come a second time at the fresh sensation of it. But you were too tired to ask. Too drained to speak. Wrung out and soiled like a mop that had scrubbed the bathroom floor.
It was everything you’d wanted from Ghost...once.
While you were struggling to get your wits back, it was John who reached out to hold you up, while Ghost carefully untied you. Finally showing some notice, some attention.
Too late, you thought. Once freed, you turned into Ghost instead, on wobbling ankles and numb knees.
“I’ve got you, dove.”
He carried you to the sofa, wrapped you in your robe, and traced circles on the back of your head as you slowly came down. It wasn’t a true subspace, but it was nice anyway. You laughed into his shoulder as he joked about being ruined for the 141 for good after that.
But before long, he looked at his watch and gave you a quick peck to your cheek. Lips mostly covered by his mask.
“That’s my time,” he muttered reluctantly as he lifted you up and helped you sit on your own. The ache along your backside was not nearly as strong as the one in your heart.
It never was.
“It was good to see you again, Simon.” You smiled and squeezed his hand once before letting him go.
For good. The transaction was finished. The job completed.
You sat there, quietly, in the living room you’d come to know so well while John followed him out to the hallway. Their voices were too low to hear what they were exchanging. A sudden, frigid dread crept along the back of your neck, despite the coziness of your thick robe.
The chill turned to a quaking, as your teeth chattered and you fought to still your hands. An adrenaline crash, you recognized then. A sub drop, just as the pamphlet described. You’d been wrong before. It wasn’t slow or manageable. It was quick and harsh. Overwhelming in its grief.
But it was just a game, wasn’t it? It couldn’t really hurt you. It shouldn’t hurt you. But there you were. Alone with it. A sad, dark hole threatening to swallow you up.
Before John could come back and see your sorry state, if he even came back at all, you fled to the shower and turned on the stream. Willed it to heat up faster while you tested it with trembling hands.
“You need any help in there, sweetheart?” His voice was too soft, too concerned. You couldn’t take it. Not from him. Not at that moment.
His silence, his indifference had felt like a punishment. You’d displeased him. He gave you to Ghost because you’d done something wrong.
You didn’t want to think about what had just happened. The consequences. Why he’d done it. Why you’d agreed to it. You just wanted to go home.
How’d things get so wrong?
It was you, you realized. It had always been you. With Ghost. With John. With every fucking relationship you’d ever had. You wanted too much. You were so needy and stupid.
Couldn’t even take care of yourself.
So, you faked it. Like you did everything when you didn’t have the answers. You wiped away your tears, ignored the burn of the water against your skin, and dried yourself off. Willed your hands to stop shaking and your back to straighten. When something was only in your head, it was easy to manipulate. Overcome.
Like a dream you could wake yourself from and slip back into at will. Your feelings for John were no different.
You dressed in your clothes and left the silly costume Ghost had torn off you in a pile on the floor. Ignored John the way he’d ignored you.
You hoped it stung. Hoped it hurt.
“Sorry I can’t stay,” you gritted out behind a shrug and a quick apologetic smile before turning for the door. “I made other plans.”
A shitty way to say, ‘I hope I never see you again’, but you really never did learn.
I think I might be tumbling headlong into my Dark !John Price phase after the COD MW4 teaser trailer came out. Here's a largely unedited blurb to add to the WIP story pile, tentatively titled Do No Harm.
---
You took him in when he needed it the most. It might be the biggest mistake you've ever made. (ER Doctor!Reader x Post MWIII John Price.)
---
You were exhausted. A particularly difficult 14 hour shift in the ER had you coming back from the Chinese place down the street toting two full plastic bags of takeout. You were looking forward to stuffing your face, soaking in a nice hot bath, and then sleep the sleep of the dead, in precisely that order.
But your plans were instantly derailed the moment you found a dark-haired, bearded man slumped against your apartment doorway. He was hidden in the shadow of the upstairs unit's stairwell stoop, providing the barest of shelters from the late evening rain.
Making sure you were in his line of sight, you call out to him in a clear and loud voice.
"Hey, I'm sorry but you're going to have to move along. I live here."
The man stirs a little, groaning a little in discomfort. He opens his pain-glazed eyes to gaze up at you.
You both stare at each other for a few seconds, trying to size each other up.
No, he's not a junkie, or has been living on the streets. He's...something else...
You take a step closer and then realize that he had his hand pressed to his side, poorly concealing small, faint trickles of red spilling out between his fingers.
Stabbed most likely, and he probably needs medical attention.
You juggle your umbrella, takeout bags and your purse to free up one hand to get at your phone in your coat pocket.
"Hey mister. I'm going to call an ambulance for you, all right?"
The man's gaze quickly flicks up to you.
"No ambulance, no hospital," he rasps out, voice rough and gravelly from disuse.
"Well, I live here," you gesture to the doorway, trying to sound reasonable, "and you need medical help."
"Then we're at an impasse."
You instantly peg his accent as British...this man was a long way from home. And the list of questions you had about this man was getting longer by the second.
You blow out a long breath.
"Listen. You're bleeding out. You won't be long for this world if you stay this way."
He lets out a tired grunt of resignation.
"Maybe it is my time to go..." he muses quietly to himself.
Anger, bright and explosive, surges through you.
"Oh for fuck's sake," you half-roar at him. "I just put in a very trying 14 hour shift in the ER dealing with entitled, whiny man babies like you. You're not going to fucking die on my doorway because you're feeling sorry for yourself."
He lets out a mirthless chuckle. "You know, you remind me of someone I used to work with. She would read me the riot act like you just did."
"Well if she's the one who stabbed you, then good for her," you heatedly retort.
This time he laughs out loud, then coughs. He clutches his side protectively before the gears in his brain whirl into place.
"You said you worked at the ER? Maybe you can patch me up and I can be on my way?"
He eyes the takeout containers. And the barest hint of a smirk etches the corner of his mouth before he needles you again.
"Got any egg rolls in there? They're my favorite, especially with plum sauce. Happy to split the cost with you."
"The audacity. The fucking audacity and privilege on you," you breathe.
Soo...I started training for a 5K run two weeks ago. 3 times a week for 30-35 minutes doing running interspersed with walks (intervals) for the next 7 weeks. It's been 15+ years since I ran for any kind of distance.
Not gonna lie...I wanted to throw in the towel the first week because everything hurt the next morning, lol.
But then I realized running isn't about personal bests anymore. I think that was what really bugged me the first week. I'm not the same spring chicken I once was.
Younger me would've been upset at this realization, but y'know what...the me of today is just happy that I can just make it through each run not blowing out my knee or pull a hamstring at this point.
Following up to say, I'm back at it...got another 5K run coming up soon and it turns out...if you keep running and exercising even occasionally through the year, the ramp-up to get back to pace isn't as bad. Still following my credo of "if I haven't blown out a joint or ligament, it's a win".
