#faralex

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*after ordering the same meal*

Farah: Oh, you got more tomatoes than me-

Alex: *immediately switches their plates*

Farah:

-

König: *picking olives and onion off his pizza and putting them on Gaz's plate*

Gaz: Babe, you do this every time. Why don't you order it WITHOUT olives and onion??

König: You like them

Gaz:

-

Nik: *staring at Price's plate*

Price: *positioning his fork like he was prepared to stab Nik as he ate with his free hand*

Graves: You know there's plenty to go around, right?

Nik: He has the best ones

Price: Damn right and I'll kill you for them

Nik: *grins madly*

Graves: ... is this foreplay?

-

Ghost: *grabbing chips off of Soap's plate and stuffs them into his mouth*

Soap, jokingly: tell me if any are poisoned

Ghost: *grabs Soap's plate and drags it over to him*

Soap: ... really? All of them?

Ghost: Just to be safe

-

Rudy: Stop staring

Alejandro: ... can I have a little?

Rudy: No

Alejandro: But-

Rudy, smacking his hand: LISTEN TO YOUR DOCTOR. I'M KEEPING YOU ALIVE UNTIL YOUR BONES TURN TO DUST

Alejandro: ... I love you

alejandro and rudy: 👨‍❤️‍💋‍👨

nik and price: 👨‍❤️‍💋‍👨

farah and alex: 👨‍❤️‍💋‍👨

I envision the first time Alerudy expressed burning/branding as a kink being a "haha, that's funny" to "Oh fuck you're serious and it's actually stupidly hot"

The branding is an Alejandro thing, but after finding out about Rudy's penchant for cigarette burns, they decide to try it on Rudy first because he asked so politely. Alejandro ends up harder than he's ever been in his life. Also, predator/prey.

I also stand by my "Rudy has a thing about ears" shit because that's a hard one to convince people on. Not to try, but just to consider it in the first place.

John's, as tame as it is, is choking. To admit that he wants to hand over control to someone in the bedroom and allow them to wield that power over him? That takes work, but eventually he's able to articulate it to Nikolai and as to be expected, the Russian adores it.

Nikolai's is chastity, one he has not explored with John. [Yet.] But he's explored it with many other people in his past.

Adler's is degradation in the form of homophobia. And by that I mean if someone were to wrap a hand around his throat, pressing their chest to his back while they spit something about how "Knew you'd take it like a good little fag, pretty boy like you." He'll clench down with a vice grip.

Woods is the opposite end of that; he wants to be the one calling Russell a fag. Also, one day, in the midst of an argument that's bordering on a quickie, he grinds a handgun against the soaked fabric of the other man's underwear and ends up having to catch him as Adler's knees weaken.

Simon likes sweat and musk. Soap's just back from the gym? How nice, he's gonna lick the sweat from the Scot's pits and huff his shirt later on when he has a hand on his cock. He never brings it up; it's Soap who notices, but when he does, Simon gets shameless about it.

Johnny's? Spanking. Too stubborn to want it or ask for it, gets aw rid in the face if Ghost so much as alludes to it. Until the day Ghost smacks his arse so hard he leaves a red handprint on his left cheek and coos at him, "Look at you, gagging for it."

Gaz has a thing for boss/secretary roleplay. Specifically, that is because he likes to play the boss who has some poor, overworked secretary crawling to him on their knees just for him to make them try to unbutton his slacks with their teeth.

Alex's is femdom and titfucking. I don't have to explain. He only admits this to Farah when drunk and almost falls ass over elbow when she drags him away from the table by the collar of his shirt.

Farah thinks she has a thing for temperature play. She thinks it's stranger than it is and brings it up to Alex with great reluctance, who then immediately fetches a bowl of ice cubes, pops one in his mouth and drops to his knees in front of her expectantly. That's how she learns that an ice-cold tongue lapping at her clit will have her hips arching off the bed.

Graves likes being smacked around; he's open about that. He's less open about his desire to be collared and tugged around on a leash.

And lastly, the Laswells. Latex. I shall say no more; my Catwoman roleplay posts say enough.

I lied, not lastly. Nolan is into high sex, really into it. Even if he's the only one who's high and he's getting smacked over the back of the head for acting like a misbehaving mutt as he humps Makarov's leg.

cw: none, religious references/imagery

He was not a praying man.

He had tried, in the way that men try things they were handed as children without ever being asked. He folded his hands, aimed his words at the ceiling, waited for something to move in him.

Sometimes it almost did.

In the quiet before a mission, in the specific dark of three in the morning with nothing between him and his own thoughts.

He would reach, and there would be a moment where reaching felt like enough, and then the moment would pass and he would be left with just his hands and the ceiling and the same quiet as before.

He had never been able to make himself mean it.

He means it now. Just not toward anything with a name he was handed.

There was a moment, he doesn't particularly dwell on it, but it is always there, he keystone at the center of it all, where the math was simple.

Her or him.

It is the kind of equation that clarifies things permanently. He didn't deliberate. He didn't't pray. He didn't bargain with anyone or anything or reach toward any ceiling.

He just chose.

And afterward, when the noise stopped and the dust settled and he understood that he was still alive in the surprised way you come to realize things like that, he lay there and thought about what it meant that there had been no deliberation. That the math had been that simple. That he had not needed to think.

He has not needed to think about it since.

She doesn't know all of it. She knows enough—she is not a woman you can keep things from entirely— but she doesn't know the specific force of that moment, the way it rearranged something fundamental in him.

Certain, in a way he had never managed to be certain about anything before.

The small devotions came after.

Learning her coffee, how she takes it, when she wants it, when she doesn't want it but needs it anyway. And learning the difference, which took time, which she did not make easy, which he considers some of his finest work.

The Arabic. He had started before, practically, because the work required it. But there was before and there was after and in the after he learned it differently. Slower and with more attention.

Like learning the language she dreamed in was the closest he would ever get to the inside of her, and he would need nothing beyond it, and he would die satisfied having only ever had that much.

The way he always hands her things, a weapon, a mug, a piece of information, handle first, always. Every time. A small thing. Not once has he thought about which end faces him when he does. The blade points at his own chest every time. He has never considered it otherwise.

Waking before her when they are in the same place and lying still so she can sleep, because she does not sleep enough, because the particular stillness of her in sleep is one of the few times she is not carrying anything and he will not be the one to end it a moment sooner than necessary.

None of it is a sacrifice, none of it compares. But it is what a sacrifice became, spread out across ordinary, the large thing broken into small ones, practiced quietly, without expectation of recognition.

Devotion, he has learned, is mostly just attention. Sustained and specific and freely given.

He has never been more willing to pay attention to anything in his life.

He had tried God and found the ceiling.

He had tried for anything more, something to reach for, and he found her instead, standing at the head of a table, giving orders in a voice that did not shake, and that thing in him that had been reaching his whole life finally, finally stopped.

Not because she is holy. She would hate that. She is practical and unsentimental and has no patience for men who make her something symbolic.

But he had aimed himself at grace his entire life without knowing what it looked like. Now he knows.

It takes its coffee a particular way. It speaks three languages and is working on a fourth. It presses its palm flat to his chest when he needs to stop talking and somehow always knows when that is.

It chose him back. Not in one large moment—she is not given to large moments—but in the small ones. In the particular way she says his name. In the fact that she lets him stay.

Quesadilla cocksleave + taking notes during sex and grading it + MyPillow humping

Summary: Three different short stories featuring each of these prompts~

AleRudy/PriceGaz/FarAlex