#warties

[pseudolife]

@warties / DOMI ──

all your life you have been muzzled. lady macbeth starters

If Wyatt concentrates hard enough, he likes to think he can see the whorls of his fingerprints on Donomie's throat, his wrists. Outlines of a claim, his claim, amongst the bruises he'd left behind during his loss of temper, his loss of precious control. He should be ashamed of himself, consent has always been an important part of his life, and he prided himself of his self control... But....

But even a day later, he feels a sharp sense of satisfaction. Feels something bleeding from where that satisfaction nestles like a knife between his ribs, something warm and... Something. An emotion he doesn't know how to identify. Syrupy and tasting too strong to identify properly.

It doesn't help with the way Domi takes it as an invitation to be - to be closer and more familiar than he has any right being. Following him into the damned bathroom and propping himself onto the counter to watch Wyatt shower and ask about things he has no need to ask about, tell him things he shouldn't, things he doesn't understand and probably never will.

Wyatt has never been muzzled, he has only ever been careful.

To be muzzled was to be controlled. Wyatt's never had a hand on his own leash but his own.

"Don't." The warning comes two beats too late. Distracted by the bruises on the other man's throat, his wrists as he talks. The familiarity that which the man thinks he can talk to him, and the blaring reason why. "Nobody has ever been in control of me. Suggesting otherwise is an insult."

[pseudolife]

@warties / SOAP ──

❝ Don't yer fingers get tired, doin' all that typin' ? Do ye get, uh...what's it called...carpal tunnel ? ❞random.

Though the steady sounds of typing don't stop, Kick's attention is immediately diverted. Pale green eyes narrow as they consider the reflection of the man behind him, or at least what he can see of him in the dark screen. A tan face he already knew too well, pretty features scrunched up as he leans to the side to stare over the back of the couch at him. A strong arm casually flung over cushions so worn, you could almost count the threads.

Soap MacTavish has been the focus of his attention since he'd slunk into the room. But, when it came down to it, the man's been the damned center of his thoughts for far longer. Pretty, perky, perfect, with a big mouth and fun personality and a hard-on for explosives and violence. Just Kick's type.

Hesh had already given him the Do Not Fuck speech three times over with his gaze alone. What a damned shame Kick had been looking elsewhere.

"Haven't had any problems before," The smile he flashes over his shoulder at the younger man is downright lethal. A lady killer, especially when combined with the sudden smoothness of his voice, the devastatingly adorable scrunch of his eyes. "Hands, wrists, fingers. All in working condition, better than, if I say so myself. Never had a complaint. Why? Concerned?"

[pseudolife]

@warties / SOAP ──

there’s a post injury!soap gnawing on kick’s arm. he gets it. kick’s hardly been sleeping since…the incident — but soap misses him. wake up, please.

If asked, Kick would claim he's sleeping fine - and he is, for a member of Ghosts. Used to long nights and even longer days, this isn't the first time the man's forgone sleep in favor of something else, something that needed his attention. But it's the first time he's gone this long without a good rest, weeks and weeks, and months and months of small naps and caffeine trips and he's fucking exhausted. Bone dead tired.

But not so tired that Soap's squirming doesn't wake him, not so exhausted that the sensation of teeth in his arm doesn't have him smiling into shorn hair and breathing out a quiet little 'Hmm?' against his scalp.

"Something wrong, baby?" His voice is husky with sleep, but there's a coherency to his words that normal people with his levels of sleep deprivation wouldn't have. The whole of him awake, fully alert, just in case Soap needed some care. "Can't sleep?"

[pseudolife]

@warties / SOAP ──

from a starter call

His ears are still ringing. His bones are still shaking beneath his flesh. There's dirt and grit clogging nearly all of his pores, exhaustion weighing him down... But his expression, the single emotion that reads damningly bright across his features? Pure, unadulterated delight.

'Holy shit,' His hands are still shaking, not nearly steady enough, but he makes do, makes sure that Soap can read if not his hands, then his lips. Faithfully mouthing words as he signs them, steady as he can be considering what they'd just done. 'Who taught you how to make explosions like that out of nothing?'

[pseudolife]

@warties ──

trick for gaz starter call

"Think you're underestimatin' the things I would d' for you," One, two, three drinks in and Trick's got just enough alcohol in him for his accent to bleed through, that Texan drawl lazy as ever, making him drop the final letters of words. It's no less understandable before, but notably different than his normal accent. Country boy coming out to shine as he hooks his chin over Gaz's shoulder and mumbles quietly in his ear. "Absolutely will fuckin' kill that guy if he keeps tryna talk to you like that."

[pseudolife]

@warties ── SOAP

soft gestures + seven. tracing patterns on their skin. soft gestures.

They'd left the blinds open last night. Not enough for the early morning sun to blind them, but just enough for it to peek through the plastic, vertical slats, just enough for it to create an illusion of soft gold bars across the room, across the bed they share and the space they've made their own. The light just enough to pleasantly rouse Kick from his sleep, enough to create gold highlights in Soap's hair that he sleepily admires as he lays there, as he absorbs the moment and enjoys the quiet before they have to get up for another day of doing... Doing something touristy and fun, something to keep both their minds off Soap's coming flight, and the weeks they would undoubtedly stay apart for.

A thought that was undoubtedly already on Soap's mind, if his uncharacteristic quiet was anything to judge by. The soft touch of rough fingers on Kick's skin enough to let him know that Soap's been awake for a while, longer than him, and thinking things that made him melancholic, things that doused his normally fiery spirit, and made him sulk instead.

It breaks Kick's heart to see Soap in moods, hurts worse when he knows that ultimately, he's the reason for it.

"You move that hand any lower, Suds, and you might find yourself with a handful of something." Kick's voice, rough with sleep, lacks the laughter it ordinarily would with such a joke, and the moment he notices, he's rolling the both of them. Rolling Soap into the sheets and pressing soft kisses to his lips until the other man is a little more pliant in his arms. "You okay?"

[pseudolife]

@warties / DOMI ──

starter call for the boy

Wyatt Thorne was a big man, one made only bigger by the way he tended to dress outside of work. Six feet tall, somewhere around two-fifty in pounds, and with a healthy amount of muscle and fat, he was a mountain of a man - but only when he wanted to, only when it was needed. Like then, like there. Looming over Donomie as the younger man tries to escape his bathroom like he's got someplace else to be, like he's got someplace else to bleed all over like a fucking stuck pig.

"Sit the fuck down and shut up, Christ." Like a herding dog, Wyatt practically drives him into the far corner, onto a toilet seat that practically shines under the bright, sterile lighting - all the while with a brightly colored bag in his massive hands. His emergency kit, his just in fucking case bag of stolen medical supplies that he kept on hand for his own... highly morally questionable nighttime activities. "Bleedin' all over the fucking place, stop making a mess."

[pseudolife]

@warties ── KYLE

you’ve got a way with words, anyone ever tell you that? the ashes & the star-cursed king starters.

He hadn't. Not really. In high school, Trick had been a mess of a boy - the kind that dumbed himself down for the benefit of others. Football captain already engaged to the lead cheerleader, an American dream as he graduated and went straight into the military. The American Dream, according to his adoptive parents, according to everyone he'd ever known.

Patrick hadn't learned the power of words until after his brother had died, until after his marriage had fallen apart and he'd realized how precious and fragile and fleeting life was.

At thirty, Trick likes to think of himself as a better, changed man - and he's fucking glad for it. He doesn't think he'd have Kyle if he weren't.

"Just you, beautiful." Words breathed so soft they might as well be a whisper, a secret, as he touches Kyle with reverence. Calloused fingers stroking his cheek before cupping it. "Just you."