graeae
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salt on your lips (and the hands that god gave you) by dachande
Fandoms: Call of Duty (Video Games)
05 Jan 2025
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"Your sermon," you mutter, ignoring the urge to lick your lips. Tempting the bear, the beast, as much as you have tonight can only go so far before he shirks this veneer of passivity and finally sinks his teeth into you. The rosary still dangles, threateningly, from his wrist. He hums, and you tear your gaze away from the wine-coloured spill of it. "You said—" you stop, sucking in a breath. Daddy doesn't like it when his words are thrown back in his face—verbatim or exaggerated, you'll just invoke his ire and you can feel his patience thinning rapidly already.
"God wants you to marry, doesn't he?"
OR: deep in the swamps of the Atchafalaya, John makes you answer God's call.
Bookmarked by graeae
02 Jun 2026
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What you have with Price is entirely transactional—until it isn't.
OR: John has always had this fantasy of knocking you up. So, he decides to make it a reality.
Bookmarked by graeae
02 Jun 2026
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The first thing he says to you is:
if you were mine, you'd be tucked in bed already instead of drinking alone in a goddamn bar—
Despite it being the most ostentatious thing anyone has ever said to you, it's full of mockery, too—an infantilising barb drenched in ownership, possession. As if you're a trinket to be kept; a child in need of supervision. A firmer hand, perhaps.
(and those gruff words cause two problems for you: the first is that you're not sure if he means it in a parental way—an innocuous sentiment from an overbearing, but well-intentioned, father angry on your behalf—or a bald, albeit gruff, pickup line from a man with stress lines older than you.
the second is that you're not entirely sure which one you want it to be more.)
Bookmarked by graeae
01 Jun 2026
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instinct drives him, makes him hum low in his throat when you wince again, and try to pull away. stay still, is a rumble. lemme see. but it's his training that has him checking for other injuries, following the path back to the sticky, warm source. making sure it isn't catastrophic, isn't a bullet to a temple, striking across skin like a meteor—
it's minor. cat-scratches. your skin is fever-warm, the wounds a little swollen. but you're fine. you'll be fine; it's just irritated skin. you must have annoyed the milkweeds again, or touched a plant that wasn't meant to be touched, and he opens his mouth to tell you this, mocking words nestled in the crooked curve of his teeth, but he stops short. thumb pausing, digging into something that isn't supposed to be there—)
—and then he feels that faint bump on your wrist.
Bookmarked by graeae
01 Jun 2026
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Heady. Masculine. The scent of him is unlike anything you've ever smelled before. Equal parts comfort and safety (palo santo, sun-scorched sand; tobacco and dark, aged whiskey; rotting paper—lignin, furfural—and a damp, old basement in a house you don't remember but could never forget) and fear (stagnant water, kelp: like rotting wood pulled from from the deep sea; fire, smoke; sulphur; something rotten—cadaverine, putrescine—and sweat). The sharp dichotomy is dizzying. Paralyzing.
He pulls you in closer. his breath carries the smell of the ocean: the seafloor. His mouth splits into a grin. "Don't worry, sweetheart; nothin' is gonna hurt you—"
is what he says, but what you hear is: except me.
Bookmarked by graeae
01 Jun 2026