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socially-awkward-skeleton · 7 months ago

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Chapter 4

Summary: John Price comes home to Rory after the raid on the house in Camden Town

Warnings/tags: Minors DNI - swearing, drinking, character with trauma, fade to black chapter ending, implied suggestive content, established relationship

Pairing: Captain John Price x Fem!OC (3rd person POV)

Word count: 2.5 k

[AO3]

October 27, 2019 - Fulham, London, UK

The rain had finally dissipated, making way for the cold to settle in. The thick of autumn had brought with it chilly gales that swept through the trees on the street below, ripping the last remaining leaves from the flimsy branches and swirling them in cascading gusts down the street. Rory leaned against the railing of her balcony, pulling the opening of her robe tightly shut in her fist, a cigarette held in her other hand as she looked out over the neighborhood like a sentry. Three in the morning was always a bleak time of day, even more so after having awoken from another night terror. The haunting quiet around her was at once peaceful all while stirring up the ghosts that preyed upon the moments of silence where she couldn’t distract herself from them, a swarm of guilt that stung. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, and she was quick to blame the sharpness of the wind as she wiped them away.

John was six miles north of her, raiding the makeshift base for an AQ terrorist cell – the ones responsible – and here she was living vicariously through reports leaked through the grapevine by Laswell as to what was going on. The names Alex Keller, Commander Karim, and Sergeant Garrick spun around in her head as she took another drag from her cigarette, letting the burning tip then dangle from her fingers over the balcony’s edge, ash tipping off it and drifting away in the breeze as smoke drifted past the torn skin on her nervously chewed lip.

She was getting sick of standing around. Her fingertips tapped against the railing. The sniper training told her to hold steady, remain patient, she’d be called into action soon. The so-called ‘grunt’ in her yearned for the fight, to head straight into the action, stepping sure footed into danger. Instead, she breathed in yet more burning acrid smoke caking her lungs in tar. The world spun and she felt frozen. This wasn’t fucking helping.

Stubbing out her cigarette in the ashtray on her patio table with a forceful push, crushing it below the weight of her hand, she headed back inside and started getting ready to go for a run. Something to clear her head, to make use of the anxious energy sparking in her nerves. To move.

She wasn’t built to be a statue overlooking things, she could stand still no longer.

Coming downstairs, dressed in her running gear, she slipped on her running shoes at the front door, ready to head out just as the lock clicked and it was shoved open. The large, looming presence of John – looking like he’d been through the wars – entered the doorway, pausing as his boot crossed over the threshold. Stood there frozen, they stared at one another in the murky depths of that God forsaken hour of the morning. Rory was first to break the silence, surprised to see him, figuring he was already on the warpath to his next point of attack. “What are you doing here?” she whispered softly, not wanting her voice to carry while the front door hovered open. “Finished up, Garrick’s getting his things together to head out,” he said in a hoarse murmur. “Came back to get a few things myself.” He brushed his hand through his hair, the tendon in his jaw flexing as he allowed himself a moment of vulnerability, sighing before he spoke. “Wanted to see you,” he said, lowering his head to meet her eyeline and keep her from craning her neck.

“Check up on me, you mean.” A little grin spread across her lips as she folded her arms over her chest.

“Maybe a little.” He eyed her up and down, brows furrowing as he appraised her state.

“You’re going for a run this early?” John asked gruffly. “Couldn’t sleep, can’t sit still anymore.” She huffed out a little laugh as she shrugged her shoulder casually, her eyes falling away from him. “You know how it is.”

Nodding, he wrapped his hand around the back of her neck and squeezed it softly. Gentle, yet possessive. Holding her close to him, John lowered his head, his forehead touching hers as their eyes locked. “Can the run wait, love?” His thumb stroked along the curve at her nape, the calloused pad rough against her soft skin and strands of hair.

“Yeah.” Looking up at him, her hand lifted to rest on his forearm sitting on her shoulder, his body heat warming her through her activewear. “I would ask if you want tea, but you look like you need something stronger.”

A wry grin pulled at his lips, crinkling the crow’s feet around his eyes. “You’re not wrong. What’s on tap, darlin’?”

“Glenlivet 21-year, if you fancy it.” She tipped her head in the direction of the kitchen, where the bottle and glasses sat waiting on the countertop since the last time they had shared a drink together.

He let out a sharp breath, grunting as his eyes narrowed. “Can’t say whether it's too late or too early to be havin’ a drink, darlin’, but frankly, I don’t give a damn right now.”

Rory’s laugh echoed through the hall, bouncing off the ceiling and walls, shaking her head as she led him to the kitchen by the hand. This was how their home was supposed to sound, the silence receding, fading into nothingness as the heartbeat returned to it.

Taking a seat at one of the stools parked at the island, adjusting his back with a quick bend and twist, John rubbed at his tired eyes. Hunching forward, his broad shoulders carried the weight of the world as they so often did, looking as exhausted as she did. Bleary eyed in the middle of the night, but at least he had the adrenaline in his system to keep him going even if it had begun to wear off.

Pouring two drams of the whiskey for them to enjoy, her warm eyes remained on him, sliding one towards him as she leaned against the counter, resting on her elbows. Taking a sniff of the amber liquid before she sipped. Worth the price of the bottle every time . The warm burn down the throat was appreciated as well. With a long, drawn in breath, Rory tiptoed around current events. “So, tell me, how's the new Sergeant?”

“Garrick? He's finding his footin’.” John rubbed his thumb against the side of the glass, looking down into his drink before meeting her gaze once more with a twinkle in his eye. “Doesn't talk back nearly as much as you did.”

“Well who does?” Rory asked with a snicker. “I'm one in a bloody million, John.” Her lips twisted into a smirk as they pressed to the rim of her glass to take another sip.

“That you are, darlin’.”

Unzipping her track sweater, she shrugged off the layer and folded it neatly in half before draping it over the counter. The toned shape of her shoulders and arms now on full display wearing her sleeveless running top and John perked up at the sight, alert as his eyes blinked into focus, shifting in his seat once more. She didn’t miss the unmistakable reaction, a testament to the attraction they shared, the palpable chemistry between them, but she carried on with an easy grin. “And I assume the hunt was successful?”

Clearing his throat, John’s brows knit together as he slipped back into the facade of the hardened Captain once more, his voice remaining thick and husky. “Got a hit on the Wolf’s location. Kate’s already on it.”

“Alex and Farah, I assume?”

“Yeah.” He sipped his drink, and smacked his lips quietly before speaking, “Already asked for the intel to be sent your way too.” His glass hit the counter with a clink. That piercing blue stare held her in place, never wavering. This was no longer just John she was conversing with, this was the Captain, bound by duty. “I know you want in on this, wanna make sure you know everything the rest of us do, keep you in the loop.” “Homework,” she added with a hum.

“For now. Once I’m on the ground in Urzikstan, I’ll call you in, love. I just need to know what we’re gettin’ ourselves into first before I lead you into trouble.” “Ah, so it’s you being overprotective again.” Leaning forward, she cut some of the space between them, a knowing smirk on her face. She was no stranger to John’s urge to keep her well out of harm’s way, despite that being part of her job description. It was endearing in its own way, if not a little maddening. “Don’t hold that against me, darlin’.”

“I don’t. I just can’t help feeling like a bloody glorified desk jockey in the meantime, John. Antsy to get back out in the field. Maybe if I had been…” Her words trailed off, but the meaning was clear as she took another drink, letting the alcohol dull the ache.

“It wouldn’t have made any difference, my girl, and you know it. Things were set in motion before you had any idea about it. Ya did what you could.”

“Could’ve saved more lives.”

His jaw flexed, gritting down on his molars. It was like she could read his thoughts, knowing that he wanted to tell her she was wrong, that nothing more could have been done. It made it easier to move on that way, but Rory had always taken failure to heart, let it fester in her head, her guilt growing like a weed – her perfectionism was equally one of her best and her worst traits as a soldier.

Large, rough hands rose to cup her cheeks, thumbs stroking the peaks of them softly. His gaze burned into hers as he stretched over the counter, drawing her towards him. “Listen t’me, what happened wasn’t your fault. You cannot get hung up on this, Ror. D’you understand?” Pushing back her hair with his fingers, he tilted her face up to keep her looking at him. “I’m not lettin’ you put this on your shoulders. Y’hear me?”

“Yes,” she said flatly.

“Good.” Pressing a kiss to her forehead, he stayed there, letting his lips linger against the soft furrow of her brow. “You got enough to carry on those shoulders, love. Don’t need to add more.”

“It’s my job to carry it.”

“Yeah.” His hand moved to grip her chin, his thumb drifting over her lower lips, pulling on the plump of it. “And it’s mine t’ look after ya.”

She huffed out a laugh through her nose, the corner of her mouth curling into a smirk. “You’re such a bloody sap sometimes, you know that?”

“Don’t tell anyone though, eh?” he whispered before kissing her softly and pulling away.

Chuckling quietly, Rory shook her head, raking her fingers through her hair, swapping the side of her part. “Fucking hell, John.” A heavy sigh evacuated her lungs and she hung her head. “You are going to go capture him, aren’t you?” Price responded with a curt nod. “That’s the plan, yeah.” “And I will be coming with you on that little adventure, yes?” “Transfer paperwork should be coming through soon enough.” “Always a step ahead, aren’t you?” “Always.” A sly grin pulled at the corner of his lips as he took another sip of his drink. There was a beat of silence between them, comfortably enveloping them, a silence they had easily learned to share with one another.

Scoffing bitterly, Rory swirled the contents of her glass around. “Dad said I was going to end up in the desert with you. Tried to tell him otherwise.” Her eyes glanced sideways as she muttered, “Don’t I feel like a right prick for that now.”

John’s smile faltered slightly, blue eyes reflecting the faintest hint of guilt. “Why,” he muttered, running a calloused thumb along her jawline. “Who are we kiddin’?” A wry chuckle escaped him, the sound almost bitter. “This is our reality… our duty.” Pausing, he fixed her with a stern look. “We work well together, my girl. I’d be an idiot not to take ya with me wherever I go.”

“You just like the idea of showing me off to everyone,” she teased, giving him a little wink.

“Goddamn right I do. Pretty thing like you. My good girl.” His grin was radiant as she laughed, enjoying the fact that he could get that sort of reaction out of her. “Come here,” he commanded, drawling out the words. Turning in his seat to rest his back against the counter as she circled it, his eyes followed her every step like a predator stalking its prey until she came to stand in front of him, burning holes into her with that steely gaze.

Standing between his muscular thighs spread wide, she felt small in his presence. His strong arms wrapping around her waist as he pulled her into him felt more like home than the house did, guarded from all the darkness in the world and inside her head. Her arms circled around the back of his neck, the curve of her fitting perfectly against his wall of muscle. The smell of smoke and sweat that clung to him and his clothes wafted between them as they embraced in the quiet solitude of their kitchen. “Being stuck here, this is temporary. Just let me get the lay of the land first,” he said, brushing her tousled hair away from her face, tucking the tresses behind her ear. “You’ll be knee deep in it soon enough, love. You and me. Together . Dealing with the enemy.” Taking a moment to nuzzle the side of her neck, the coarse whiskers of his beard rasped softly against her sensitive skin as he inhaled deeply, drawing the scent of her into his nostrils. “Just want to keep you safe,” he mumbled hoarsely against her flesh. Holding her gaze as he pulled away, he tilted his head to the side. The movement deliberate, as if trying to convey some unspoken message, though the darkened need in his eyes told her everything.

Accepting that as her cue, Rory lowered her mouth to meet his, curling her fingers under his chin and claiming his lips with a slow, lingering kiss. The shared taste of whiskey on their breath mingled in her mouth, a heady concoction that brought a flush to her cheeks as the heat in her core began to rise.

Hands shifting to cling to her lower back, John’s fingers massaged into the meat of her hips, a low groan slipping free as their mouths parted. “Come on then, darlin’,” he purred against her lips, voice husky and low. “Got thirty minutes before I have to meet the sergeant, and I promised ya we wouldn’t be chattin’ next time we were together.”

Lifting her up into his arms, pressing her into his chest as she wrapped her legs around his waist, he easily carried her upstairs to the bedroom.

#call of duty #cod modern warfare #john price #cod fanfic #john price x oc #oc: rory sinclair #fic: evening of score #chapter 4

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lidatan · 2 years ago

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"Hair swept back by gale-force winds" (強風オールバック") bandwagon but make it aruani 🍃

PV : https://youtu.be/D6DVTLvOupE

#aruani #armin arlert #annie leonhart #annie leonhardt #doodle #my art #attack on titan #shingeki no kyoujin #the cats look weird af 😂

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from-nobody-to-nightmare · 9 months ago

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From Nobody to Nightmare Chapter 1

“Never in her life – she could swear it from the bottom of her soul – had she ever intended to do wrong; yet these hard judgments had come. Whatever her sins, they were not sins of intention, but of inadvertence, and why should she have been punished so persistently?”

― Thomas Hardy, Tess of the D’Urbervilles

The noises from the hospital room grew fainter and foggier with each passing moment, as the anesthesiologist counted backward out of their habit since I was in no condition to move my lips anymore. Utter darkness overcame me as I drifted off into what felt like a dreamless sleep under the bright lights of what I guess was an operating room.

I woke up to an unusually blue sky above my head. Sitting up gave me vertigo as the rest of me tried to shake off the anesthesia. I wobbled to my feet with bleary eyes bracing myself against an unexpected structure. As the world came back into focus, I focused on my hands. Or at least I think they were my hands. I don’t remember having my skin be so gray or having nails quite so pointy. I stepped back a bit after I noticed that the thing I was leaning on was a rather tall podium. I was engrossed in mild awe at the pristine sight of it. It felt way taller than it needed to be and was capped in gold so polished it shone like a lighthouse beacon on a clear night. “Geeze that is bright…” I mumbled to myself.

My deep sigh was interrupted by a melodic and cheery voice, “Why hello there!” I could feel some of my hair stand on end as I craned my neck up at the source. It was a blond, clean-cut man with the clearest blue eyes I had ever seen, grinning from ear to ear looking down at me, his hands cradling open a massive white book embossed with gold. Squinting, I asked in a cautious tone a question, as if I didn’t already know the answer to, “Where am I?”

His gentle smile shrank a bit as he looked at me quizzically, but rebounded quickly back into place, “Welcome to Heaven; Can I get your name please?” Befuddled and with my finger to my chin I answered, “Nadia Del Abaroa?”, followed by, “Wait a minute; how did I die?”

As he went through the book whispering off names that started with Na; he interjected, “Judging by what you’re wearing Miss, my best guess is on the operating table.” I stood silently stunned my eyes burning a hole into the guiled pavement with a thousand-yard stare that could make a snake flinch. He quietly continued to rattle off names to himself flipping through the pages in earnest until the Nad turned to Nae. “I’m sorry. I’m not seeing your name on my list.”, he glanced back at me with a practiced look of apology.

I shook my head like an etch-a-sketch to those words. Hoping against hope and utterly perplexed I asked, “ Does that mean I get to be a ghost? Or, do I get to go back to the living world?”

The nervous chuckle that came from him dashed my already fragile hopes and what came next brought me to tears, “Oooh, I’m so sorry that’s not how it works….”

My eyes tearing up, “Then where will I go?”

He shook his head in apologetic disappointment, “ I’m afraid you’ll have to go downstairs with the others that didn’t quite make it. Yeah…. so sorry about the mix-up.” A gust of wind began to brew as my hospital gown began to flutter.

I pleaded for answers, “May I at least know the charges?” The wind picked up more and more force as the gatekeeper replied, “ I’m sorry it’s not my department…. I wish I could help you more.”

Those words brought me no comfort as the breeze became a gale pushing me backward. I turned my head glancing behind me as a massive hole in reality shimmered an ombre of reddish hues sucking me into its vortex, like water down a drain. A final gasp in terror rushed out of me as I was swept off my feet tumbling into the waiting abyss.

“Tisk, tisk, tisk; what a pity. With a look like that, she would have fitted right in.” sighed the gatekeeper as he readied his post to welcome the next visitor.

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel x OC #my ocs #platonic #rough start #female OC #ace #hazbin hotel x reader #constructive criticism welcome #It's gonna be a long afterlife #From Nobody to Nightmare #helluva boss #Existence is a Nightmare

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side-shuffling-hyperfixations · 2 years ago

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fic idea for the touch prompts: Peter One coming through the window from patrol and he's visibly sick, or injured, or cold/wet from the rain or just generally unwell idk, and Peter Two and Three checking him out with lots of little touches (especially like #2, #5, #17 and/or #45)

2. Running fingers through hair + 5. Feeling their pulse + 17. Holding the other’s chin up

“He probably should’ve been back by now,” Peter Two commented, gaze darting away from the book in his lap yet again. He had probably been rereading the last three sentences on this page for at least five minutes now; his attention kept shifting from one window to the other, back and forth, back and forth, in hopes of spotting Peter One through the blotchy, dappled panes. Beyond it was nothing but a black void, cut only by sheets of the downpour that blurred all the lights.

“He shouldn’t have gone out at all. Did you see how pale he was this morning? He obviously wasn’t feeling up for it—but since when do Peter Parker’s feelings ever matter?” Peter Three huffed in frustration. “I told him if there was ever a day to take off, it would be today, but he was pulling that stiff upper lip thing you always do.”

“Don’t say he got it from me. I guarantee he was just as stubborn before we ever met him.”

“I know. I know, I just don’t like it.” Three was pacing the length of the apartment like it was a cage. He wasn’t a fan of thunderstorms in the first place, much less imagining either of his brothers out in such miserable conditions alone. After fretting on it for a few more seconds and then stifling a flinch at a sharp crack of thunder, he decided tensely, “I-I’m gonna try and get him on the comm., just to check in and see if he’s close.”

“Wait, wait—” Snapping his book shut, Two held up a hand, head cocked as if he were listening. Moments later a red blur rattled the right window on impact and Peter Three lunged to meet him.

“Thank God, we were just getting ready to call you—Whoa, whoa, whoa, hurry up and get in here, the wind’s blowing everything in!”

A messy, flailing scramble had Peter One land on the floor with a wet thud, curling in on himself with a full-body shiver as Three fought to close the window after him against the howling gale forces.

Once he finally secured it, they took a collective breath in the silence—which was promptly broken by a hitch and a shuddery “Hh-chw!” from their brother on the floor. “Mmnh…m’sorry…”

That congested, watery whimper validated Peter Three’s earlier reservations about patrol but he wasn’t about to rub it in. All he said was “Bless you” as he crouched next to him. Cupping the side of Peter’s neck, he noted the rapid flutter of his heart rate before finding the seam to peel his sodden mask off. “Hey, you. Feeling a little under the weather?”

“What g-gave it away?”

He had lost most of the color in his cheeks by now and his eyes were dull, dilated and puffy from squinting through the curls plastered to his brow. Peter Two was already on his way over with a dish towel, murmuring, “Here, bud, hold still,” and cupping his chin in one hand so he could start patting his face and neck dry. “Good grief, you’re clammy…”

Surprisingly—or perhaps not, given his exhaustion—Peter didn’t squirm or protest, leaning into his palm. He trusted that Two would pull the weight to keep his heavy head up, stroking a supportive thumb along his jawline to lull his teeth down from chattering.

Scooting in on the side, Peter Three deftly but gently swept the dripping, messy tendrils of hair out of Two’s way as he pressed the edge of the towel to his forehead. Once he’d started, however, it was merely habit to continue, scratching soothing nails over his younger brother’s scalp until he elicited another deep shiver and sigh.

“It’s good to be home, huh? We’ll get you all sorted out, bugsy—starting with this suit, I think. The landlord probably wouldn’t appreciate the active water damage we’re generating by trying to mop you up right where you landed.”

Peter One snorted thickly, barely cracking an eye open as he grumbled, “S-Serves him right for not fixing the pathetic water pressure we get in the bath—hah—” The fibers of the towel were tickling his nose but it was all he had in which to smother the oncoming bacterial spray. “Hh-chw!”

Peter Three’s fingers were still nested in his hair, cupping the crown of his head so it wouldn’t whiplash with the force of his sneeze. “Bless you.”

“Let’s hope that water pressure will be enough to actually clean our hands after this,” Peter Two sighed, accepting the soiled towel back by a thumb and forefinger.

“Ungh…s-sorry, no, you’re definitely catching this.”

#marvel #spider man #fanfiction #sickfic #whump #caretaking #peter parker #peter two #peter three #tom holland #tobey maguire #andrew garfield #brotherly love #answered ask #anonymous

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