#roach mw2

More pleaaaaseeeee!!!!!!

Bar night Cw: blood drinking, blood, biting, possessive behaviour, mention of drinking, tell me if I missed any.

You latched onto Roach for the night out, pulling him into your room to eat before you went to the pub, a closed area filled with beating hearts and warm blood. You sunk your teeth in his shoulder, skin and muscle bending under the sharp poke of your teeth. He winced, groaning lowly and squirmed, you knew it hurt, remembering the time you were fed from and left to die, still living thanks to the benevolent act of your creator.

You pulled your teeth back and blood rolled down his shoulder, crimson ichor that felt warm on your tongue. You lapped it up, lips closed around the wound, tongue running over the stinging pain to smooth out his pain, your saliva acting as an anesthesia and numbing it before you’d heal him. You suckled his shoulder, a moan slipping through your sealed lips, gulping down his blood —ambrosia, it tasted like ambrosia, the Gods’ alcohol. You could get drunk on blood like humans got drunk on alcohol, stomach filled with litres of warm blood and mind woozy.

But you knew your limit and Roach’s, pulling away with a soft apology to him, whispering it into his ear, your breath tickling his lobe as you sealed the wound with a single lick. Your saliva healed people’s wounds when you wanted it, the magic of it finding root in your blood, the ability that rose when you were reborn. You used it when you fed on your boys, or when they were injured.

“Thank you, Gary,” you sighed, mind feeling clearer and stomach less hungry, having fed to keep your hunger in check.

It’s all right, you were hungry, he signed, his hands moving in the dark, knowing you could see the words. Are you feeling better?

“Yeah.”

Ready to go then?

Without another word, you led him out by the hand, fingers interlocked with his, lips spread in a cheeky grin and cheeks warm from your recent feed. You walked, hand-in-hand, out the base, the others unbothered by the familiar scene of your amiable character. Outside, basking in the cool, autumn air of London, stood the rest of the Task Force, four men waiting for you two to drive out of base to the pub you went after every mission for celebrations.

“Took yer long ‘nough,” Soap smirked, a teasing smile rising onto his lips.

“Thought we’d ‘ave to send someone to find you,” Price grumbled hiding his equally giddy smile behind his cigar.

“Sorry, I got hungry,” you flashed your fangs, sharp teeth glinting under the moon and eyes turning red, the bright colour of their blood.