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socially-awkward-skeleton · 7 hours ago

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Chapter 1 - A Planted Seed

[Also Available on AO3]

Masterlist

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

Summary: After five years together, fighting wars and falling in love, Captain Price finally takes the leap and asks his longtime partner to be his wife

Follow John on the trials and tribulations of getting down on one knee and proposing, and realizing fighting wars is a whole hell of a lot easier than dealing with domesticity and in-laws

Chapter Tags/Warnings: Minors DNI - Engagement, Established Relationship, Drinking, Swearing, Mostly Fluff, John Price POV, Captain Price manipulation (alas)

A/N: this is the next fic in the timeline of Rory and Price's relationship, picking up right after the ending of "Shadow Dance". Rory Sinclair is a Lieutenant in the 141 who has been in a committed, long term relationship (albeit a secret one - at least from higher ups) with the Captain for 5 years

np tagging: @taciturntraveller @clicheantagonist @statichvm @voidika @strangefable @direwombat @gayafsatan @josephseedismyfather @g0dspeeed @roofgeese @la-grosse-patate @inafieldofdaisies @d-esmond @lasersinthejungle

For much of his life John Price could say he was entirely content, happy with exactly what he had. Didn't need more than hard graft, the rare footie match, some good whiskey, his Villa Claras, and Rory at his side. His life flashing before his eyes during a helicopter crash in Mexico, however, had a way of providing clarity. A focused laser directed towards the target. This time it wasn't the current mission, some unknown enemy threat and another life or death scenario with the fate of the free world hanging in the balance — it was simpler than that. His field of view narrowing to one infinitesimal dot and all of it orbiting around her, spiraling into an ever tighter sphere so encapsulating it was impossible to free himself from. No other achievement has ever come close to the pride he feels when it comes to her, to the woman he's lucky enough to call his girl. She drives him mad, absolutely round the bend more often than not. Whether she's talking back, being too snarky for her own good, not backing down even when he’s at his worst, or it’s because of the softness of her lips and that sweet twinkle in her eye when she looks at him like he’s the only man in the world, he's utterly spoiled for reasons to be head over heels for her.

His Rory.

A woman who has him stumbling over himself to be a good man for her if only because she proves each day just how much better she is than him. Stronger than anyone else he knows – including himself – smart as a whip, and beautiful inside and out. She is far more than he’s ever deserved in a partner for the multitude of sins he’s committed and yet it seems no matter how near or far they are from each other they are inextricably drawn together like she’s his magnetic North, constantly pulling him back from the brink of losing himself entirely. Whether it’s because he’s too proud or too stubborn to admit it out loud, deep down into the marrow of his bones, Price is all too aware Rory is the one thing he can’t live without and the fear of losing her is a nightmare he’s had on more than one occasion. It's a cold sweat that clings to him, a fever that never breaks, haunted by the very specter of the idea that he might wake up one day to find she's not there.

And now he has to worry about Makarov.

Things were never easy.

For a man who lived with nothing but secrets and the lies and manipulations he must tell to keep the world safe, to find someone like Rory — someone who could see the darkest parts of him and not go running in fear — he knew it was a benefit he would never be able to find anywhere else. Something like that was a one in a billion stroke of luck. A needle in a heap of needles, hidden within a godforsaken haystack. And if there was one thing he knew while throwing himself into life and death situations with his career, meticulously planning and preparing every action, you didn’t look down your nose at something like that, you counted your fucking blessings.

Sitting in the dimly lit corner booth of the back alley Chicago bar, he leans back, one arm stretched over the top of the seat, sharing a clandestine drink with one of his oldest and most trusted friends – Ironic, considering she was CIA. The music drips from the speakers, the low buzz emitting from the neon around them catching on the hairs of his arms like static. Lifting his glass to his lips, he sips as his enigmatic gaze is riveted to the scene across the length of the bar from him, watching his boys – and her – play darts like they were back home at the pub. All smiles, laughing as her head tosses back at one of Soap’s off color jokes. Something coiled in his belly, warm and alive, fending off the liquor’s bite and replacing it with a soft, fluttering creature that only seemed to nestle its way into him when she was around. The hard man with the rich, caramel center that drowned and tenaciously bound around her. Clinging, claggy. Proprietorial.

“Got something on your mind, John?” Kate asks, swallowing down her sip of bourbon with nary a hiss. Resting back in her seat, she crosses her arms over her chest, looking at him dryly.

There’s no hiding his ulterior motives from Laswell, the only other person who can read him like a children’s picture book that’s more visual than text (sub or otherwise) is Rory, and he’s not entirely sure whether that’s something he should consider himself lucky for in this case.

“What makes y’ say tha’?” He shifts his shoulders against the worn vinyl of the backrest, an irritating squeak coming from it that fractures his resolve momentarily, his brows beginning to furrow.

“You’re staring.”

He forgets himself sometimes when it comes to Rory. For all his love of control, maintaining a steel trap of a mind, concocting plans and machinations, he always seems to be blindsided by the woman who’s been at his side for the last five years. It still surprises him how she can turn him into a fool with a look, a word, a smile. Melting him like butter in the heat of her sun-bright love and her radiant desire.

“Observin’.”

“Potato, patahto.”

An imperceptible little curl at the corner of his mouth, one tucked beneath the bristled whiskers of his mustache, barely sneaks by unnoticed as his eyes flicker over to Rory once more, her lilting giggle dancing over to him along the waves of bluesy guitar that carries it like a life raft. She is warmth personified, glowing in the haloed amber light of dimmed sconces and neon liquor signs, the blues and pinks shining in her hair like she’s some sort of goddamn fairy. An ethereal being that his calloused hands have no right to touch and yet still she opens like a flower to him as if he were the spring that chased away the nip of frost keeping her bud sealed shut. He realizes then that he’s never seen her in a light that doesn't suit her. From rise to set, the shadow of night, the pallid luminescence of moonlight, the beaming desert sun, firelight, and everything in between, the woman herself seems to glow from her core like the molten center of the earth and he’s desperate to feel that benevolence on his skin.

“You’re off the clock, John. You’re allowed to have your eyes on her. I’m certainly not going to hold it against you.” Laswell glances back behind her at the rest of the 141 taking a moment of reprieve from a war that was ready to build to yet another crescendo. “You’re a lucky man.” She turns back to face him and smirks, tilting her head to look up at him from under her brow. “Let’s just hope you don’t screw it up.”

His brow knits together, creasing all the lines in his face, deep set and weathered, but the smirk remains. “Certainly not my intent.”

“Judging by the way you’re looking at her, I assume you’ve got a whole other intent in mind.”

Scratching at the side of his nose, shifting in his seat, he crawls his arms forward across the table and lowers his voice conspiratorially. A secret shared between friends. “Been thinkin’ ‘bout askin’ her t' marry me.”

“Really?” Laswell sat forward in her seat as well, ready to insert herself in the juicy gossip.

“‘S a long time comin’.” He’s willing to concede that fact. Most men would have dropped to their knees and crawled on hand and foot to catch themselves a woman like Rory. However, most men weren’t also restricted by arbitrary military laws, ones that he had already skirted around this long, keeping what they had as a secret. But, as with all things, eventually the truth will out. “You know I’m not the romantic type, not gonna say she’s the one, but…” His head tilts sharply, underlining the unspoken implication.

“It feels right.”

Nodding, John collects the condensation lined tumbler in his paw and rubs the pad of his thumb through one of the rivulets that slide down the glass and his mind drifts to the image of the curve of Rory's lower back and the way it meandered into the rounded line of her hips as sweat drops traveled the course down to the swell of that perfect, pert little arse. ��Don’t wanna lose that one, Kate,” he says, using the glass in his hand to direct attention towards the subject of the conversation. “Not ever.”

“So you’re finally putting a ring on it.”

“Yeah, s’pose I am.” Sighing, he pulls the beanie off his head and brushes his hand through his hair roughly. “You and Sam, how’d you go about it?”

“Are you asking me for relationship advice?” Brow cocked, Laswell’s eyes narrow as she stares at him, ready to make him sweat.

“Maybe.”

“This goes a little beyond a work friendship, John. Thought we had rules about mixing business and personal.”

He meets her look with an entirely flat reaction, except for the dry ice burn of his eyes from beneath the shadow created by his heavy brow, but she remains unfazed by him and sighs. “Well, to be honest, it was Sam who asked me to marry her.”

“Huh…” He takes another sip of his drink and swallows heavily, feeling it stick in his throat. “Wasn’t expectin’ tha’.”

“She was insistent about it too. Sat me down at one of the tables at her restaurant, made me my favorite meal that wasn’t on the menu, and then got down on one knee. Couldn’t say no to that. She knows the way to my heart. Just… keep it simple.”

“Yeah, don't want to do somethin’ over the top. Romcom shite aint my thing, and Rory wouldn't want to be Love Actually'd. Not her style either.”

“You know her better than anyone else. Just ask her.”

“Just ask her?" He questions, brows lifting comically as he scoffs at the mockery of a command. "Easier said than done. Need to make sure it's right for her.”

“You're making it harder than it needs to be.”

“Maybe I am. Only fittin’ though, considerin’ that's how she was before we got caught up in all this together.”

A low hum purrs in Laswell's throat. “Smart woman.”

John's eyes flash dangerously at the jab. “Still got ‘er though, didn’ I?”

“Smart woman with a soft spot that you take full advantage of.”

Across the bar, Rory turns, looking at him from over the rim of her glass as she takes a drink, smiling as she swallows. Her eyes glimmer like large reflecting pools, the light sparkling in their dazzling depths the color of the finest whiskey and oak leaves in summer. Unlike his that seem bottomless, a yawning chasm like the Marianas Trench that grows deeper and darker the farther one goes, her gaze is bewitching, a doorway into a heart that needs to be gently cradled and a mind that needs to be tenderly stroked and reminded that there are those worth relying on (even if he doesn’t always merit that honor, but fuck if he doesn’t try).

“And who could bloody blame me?” He murmurs, not taking his eyes off his pretty Lieutenant, having a wordless conversation just through the way they exchange glances.

Huffing out a quiet laugh, Laswell pushes her glass of melted ice to the side. “She knows you're up to something.”

“She always does.” He says it with a flicker of respect, a wicked half grin covering the sheer joy he gets from her ability to constantly impress him. Competent didn't even cover the half of what his girl was capable of, and it was bloody intoxicating.

With the idea in his head firmly taken root, no longer spiraling within the contours of his skull but spoken out and given life, John sets out to do as he has been trained to, as MacMillan enforced while serving under him, planning and preparation. Down to the smallest detail. Every base covered, every eventuality given an alternate plan of action. Nothing was ever done by accident, not with him. And certainly not when it came to the future he promised himself with her.

The flight back home across the Atlantic is lengthy. Eight hours of crossing time zones while trapped in the upright position and John's eyes droop, but not a wink of sleep comes to him. Too pensive to let his lids close completely, a labyrinth of crisscrossing thoughts filter together behind his fading eyes like the dial on a radio not perfectly tuned and trapped between stations. Jumbled messages blend and twist into a concentrated amalgamation of confusion, and he's left to try and piece them together into a coherent stream of consciousness.

His exhausted process is momentarily broken by Rory's muffled murmuring. Her head resting on his chest, a comforting weight. The words slurred with slumber.

Glancing down, stroking his fingers through her wavy tresses, he vividly recalls the first time he held her like this. Five years ago. Moscow. The safehouse bed. A double they shared with his arms wrapped around her securely, a fortress against the very real monsters that existed in the world. Her body heat seeping into him stirs up images of her shivering, trembling hands gripping with desperation, fearful that he might leave. Terrified of being alone. The angle of her head, the way her lips purse while in a dream, the trust she has in him, reminds him of the way her beauty shone through the darkness that blanketed them that rainy night, how every cut and bruise was a sign of her fight for survival. Her strength. A bloody fierce li'l thing.

He remembers the promise he made to her, to himself, that night — he would never allow her to be harmed like that again.

Keeping her safe had become his ultimate goal, the very thing that drove him to learn to soften. A part of him bowing and bending, giving way to his desire to see her needs tended to and not just a sense of duty towards another objective. Aware of the fact he needed to change to keep her happy, even when haunted by the horrors that plagued her mind. His calloused, jaded view of the world forcibly chipped away at with an ice pick to prove there was still a part that saw beyond the mission, that cared.

Watching her now, cozy and curled up against him, her hand placed on top of his beating heart, fingers poised to delve into his chest and hold what she already owned tightly in her fist — as sinewy and calcified as it was — made it startlingly clear this was the only choice he would ever look back on in his life without regret. The push and pull of their relationship, the arguments, the way they made up afterwards, the loyalty to one another despite the things he's asked of her, it was all worth it to have her like this: right where she belongs.

Unable to deny himself, he leans down, breathing in the scent of her hair, nuzzling into the crown with a low rumble in his chest that vibrates through him and into her. Woven and weaved together. Beneath the smell of smoke, remains the faintest perfume of vanilla — warm and inviting. Home. That's exactly what she is to him.

He smiles, hidden from anyone else who might witness the small scrap of the gentle man he could have been should he have made different life choices. Though, in a way, he's thankful he didn't. He's never been the type for would've or could've beens. Hindsight was 20/20, and while that was helpful to not repeat mistakes, changing one thing might have meant he wouldn't be here holding her now, and that would have been the greatest travesty of all.

His thumb drags over her cheek as light bleeds in through the window from under the half-pulled shade, and he watches the rise and fall of her steady breathing, the slender form he knows every inch of tucked against him. Her cheeks flush with sleep and the golden streaming glow of the sun on her skin makes it all the warmer to his touch.

How could he not want to protect her at all costs when she looks like this?

He knows what she's capable of, knows she's made of sterner stuff, has all the mettle that a soldier of her caliber should, and yet in moments like this she appears soft, vulnerable, just like her callsign's namesake. The little lamb he's been charged with, and he refuses to let the wolves anywhere near her, even if she's right at home with them.

All too often she teases him for being overprotective, a mother hen clucking after her and everyone else he's decided fits snugly beneath his wing, and he can't exactly blame her. Even as he holds her now, he still pictures that night in Moscow when everything changed and what it requires of him to prevent something like that from ever happening again. For all the joy and hope he might be embracing having her in his life, a bitter edge threatens to freeze over what's left of his heart she's thawed.

Shepherd remains out in the world, living free. Despite the looming presence of Price breathing down his neck, backed by a threat Rory had told him not to make.

He had gotten them into this mess, working with the general to bend the rules he hated following. It was up to him to get them out — by whatever means necessary.

Which led him straight back to the constantly firing synapses in his head, only slightly dulled by the hum of travel and sleep deprivation. Concocting a plan, one of several, one that worked perfectly in tandem with his expectation for the rest of his life with Rory. A secret side to a choice that would lead to the happiest day of their lives.

He's taking a risk with a play like this. It's a move that could destroy everything he's built, and that's why he has to be so damn careful. Arranging everything so no cracks can form in the foundation. Step-by-step, orders followed to the letter. Confidence upheld.

He's doing what is right for all involved — or so he tells himself.

Ever since he found out about the general’s choice to make his men expendable to cover for his own mistakes, John has been quietly crafting his revenge. Cold-blooded and in the first degree. And while it serves to protect his loyal men, it also quells the voice in the back of his head that niggles and nags — Safeguard Rory. Something he takes seriously, a steadfast vow that existed long before the thought of wedding bells had started to ring in his head.

It's the monstrous decision he's forced to make, the kind only he is capable of.

Rory knows the type of man he is, she's looked him in the eye and stared it down, yet still he dreads the thought she might figure out what he's trying to do. It's something he can't allow. Entering into the next phase of his life with perfect foresight and always with her at the center of it.

Two birds, one stone.

He kills Shepherd, he keeps Rory safe. He marries her and she can't get dragged into the muck and mire when he takes the shot and god forbid it comes back to bite him in the arse. Protected by marriage, by legal clause. She would at least have to respect that, even if she hated him for the rest of her life.

#call of duty #cod fanfic #john price #captain john price #kate laswell #john price x oc #oc: rory sinclair #ship: you are the sword to my shield #skelly writes #fic: the proposal

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skyloftian-nutcase · 1 year ago

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No pressure ifbyou arent taking writing requests, but i would love to see what you could do based off the song Battle Cries by The Amazing Devil

It gives me Skyward Sword vibes

Link stared at the loftwing feather held gingerly between his fingers.

The last few months had been... difficult. In some ways, they'd been more difficult than his actual journey to rescue Zelda and stop Demise. The pain of pushing his body past its breaking point, the anguish of never seeming to be enough, the heartache of always missing Zelda... they had amounted to such invisible wounds that he was still fighting the repercussions.

Somehow, that was worse. How was one supposed to move on when such a life altering event happened? How did one jolt out of the keep moving keep going don't ever stop or falter for a second and not just... collapse? How did one get back up after doing so?

The world continued to move ahead. His academy still had classes, though chatter of the Surface and its exploration was still a hot topic, even six months after the cloud barrier's disappearance.

The first month it had been acceptable, even understandable. Link had nearly died from his final fight, it had been one thing too many in a collection of wounds and exhaustion. Despite the healing affects of the life fruit he'd been given, he'd still slept for nearly a week upon his return to Skyloft. And after that, the headmaster had ensured he didn't have any kind of workload. Zelda had been at his side constantly, and the two had silently enjoyed each other's company, seemingly cut off from the rest of their people.

But that had been understandable. It had been a long journey. They would never be the same.

However, that didn't excuse this exhaustion lingering for so long. By the fourth month, Link was nearing a point of despair. It wasn't until Commander Eagus spoke to him candidly, told him of the affects on his mind after such an event (no one on Skyloft truly comprehended what had happened on the Surface, but some had put more pieces together than they probably should have). After all, Eagus had become commander when his own commanding officer had fallen in battle. Eagus hadn't fought as Link had, but he still understood to a small degree.

It had helped. To a point. Knowing that his mind needed time was good, that he wasn't just defective, but... it still didn't make it any easier to bear sometimes.

And that was only covering half of the issue. Eagus only spoke from a soldier's perspective. Link had seen more than battle. He'd watched his best and dearest friend become someone else entirely, he'd been told that their friendship was a carefully constructed plan, that he was a weapon as much as Fi had been.

He still hung around Zelda. She still hovered close to him. She'd said it herself, she was still his Zelda. But it... wasn't the same.

He tried not to think about it. After all, he did still love her. After all, she hadn't known any of the plan their entire lives.

But it stung. It stung. Because now... if he had been chosen for this purpose, and if Zelda had been born in the right circumstances so as to befriend him... now what?

What was his purpose now that his journey was over? Now that Demise had been defeated?

Link had never really had much of a plan for his life, honestly. He'd daydreamed his time away, relaxing and just enjoying being with Zelda and his loftwing, enjoying sights and smells and warmth and comfort. He was in the knight's academy, so becoming a knight was obviously a goal, but he had never felt particularly motivated for major life goals. He wasn't much of a planner, certainly not that far ahead.

But now... all he could think about was the future. All he could think was now what?

He knew, though. He knew what to do next. Because six months was enough time to let himself float in this haze of existing and not existing. He also knew it probably wouldn't get entirely better. But life wasn't going to stop just because he had, and for once, that meant something to him.

Link carefully wove the feather shaft into the leather cords, tying it in its place. He'd added beads to the headdress already - his loftwing's contribution was the final touch.

Because yes, he was tired. And yes, he wasn't entirely sure if his mind would ever clear of the fog that had crushed it since his journey's end. But no matter how he felt, his perception of hte world didn't change how it was.

Zelda was still there for him. The Surface was vast, endless even, and so, so new and different. The Triforce needed protecting. Zelda had already made plans for a settlement, and, with Groose's help, was in the process of setting foundations, while Link cleared the area of threats. There was hope, there was new life and a future and things beyond Link's comprehension.

His loftwing purred, bumping his beak against Link's forehead.

Link chuckled, nuzzling into his companion's feathery cheek, melting into the softness of it. "Yeah, I know. Let's go for a flight and then I'll go to her."

Crimson chittered excitedly, moving quickly towards the edge and diving off the island. Link stood there a moment, alone, and then smiled, tucking the headdress into his pouch. He felt anxiety hold him hostage a moment, and then he broke free of it, running full speed to the island's end and leaping with every ounce of energy he had.

The air whipped and whooshed around him, slamming into him layer after layer as he crashed through the sky. His wounds and worries were left behind, and he yelled in excitement and joy, he screamed in defiance at everything that weighed him down.

At the end of the day, nothing could clip his wings. Not even himself. He refused to let it.

Putting his fingers to his mouth, Link whistled shrilly, and his loftwing immediately came. He could always rely on Crimson. He knew, in the end, he could also always rely on Zelda.

And that headdress, alongside a traditional dance, would be the start of a physical representation of that.

In the meantime, his mind and heart soared with his loftwing, and he laughed as he flew through the sky.

#you ask skye answers #lovely rjhpandapaws #that song is fun!#a bit hard at the beginning when there are two different lyrics at the same time lol #I had to listen to it several times to really parse it out #but I love the message #stories inspired by music AH what a great way to send a writing request #skyward sword #skyward sword link #ss link #crimson loftwing #he's gonna go propose to zelda and he has a lot of big feelings about it :)#zelink #writing

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