[ovw] old world blues
Rating: R. angst smut + terrible exes Ship: R76 Note: it’d be good to see him again, except he’s all dead and evil and stuff. fuck it if that’s going to stop Jack from getting railed hard by Reaper though.
Prompt: temperature play (in the mildly necro sense), sensory deprivation, the standard warning for consensual but not safe or sane these guys have issues in their later years
Also on [AO3]
Folk think dying’s the hard part. When the one you love most in the world dies, what else could the end of the world be but personal? Mourning’s just-- not accepting that time’s over, yet. That you can’t get it back.
For better or worse, military training never rid Jack's hope of having that lifetime. That’s what it meant being in love with Gabriel Reyes.
With Reaper’s bulk at his back, repulsive and achingly familiar, Jack thinks: maybe the dying was the easy part.
It’s been so long, the voice is changed but he could place it anywhere. Right here, Jack . Cold as the rest of him, Despite the uncertainty and fear, he wants this. It’s you, his mind supplies as, in the face of all sense, he gets hard . Maybe he can’t help it. Part of him is swimming in it. Part of him is seeing crimson over it. Scarlet, oxblood.
But it’s close enough.
Close enough that the cold, dead grip drifts near to his erection and he moans.
“That’s all you get, Jack,” Reaper says, and Jack jerks his head in the affirmative.
“Fine. Come on.” The alternative is nothing. An empty grave. It isn’t Gabriel back there fucking him, but well, Jack’s probably one to talk. “Do it.”
He’s dead. He’s dead. And that’s got to be Jack’s own blood running down his thigh, easing the way from where Reaper’s broken the skin. Has to be, because it’s warm . Corpses aren’t warm.
Cold grip on him. Hurts. This or nothing. They’re gonna kill each other, that’s the best he can expect. He breaks his line of sight to look beneath him, his hard dick. The place where they connect. The smoke is swirling around him like ink, cool as midnight. It circles under him, around his face, until he can’t see anything at all. He has the feeling Reaper sees all of him just fine, all the particles of him in every secret nook of Jack’s body. It has Jack reaching for himself, the dripping mess of himself that’s somehow completely unmoored and on display at the same time.
The hand on his thigh goes tighter and he hisses from the pain. The rush of blood under the skin at least distracts from the chill, warming into something harsh and pleasant.
“That all you got?” Jack groans.
Shooting each other in the back's almost expected. Dead thing’s hands holding his hips up for this sham of lovemaking isn’t as bad as it gets. He’s feeling his age as much, would be lying if he said the twinge of fear, the humiliation, the disgust wasn’t enough to turn him off.
“Shit, you always--had that subtle touch, didn’t you,” Jack grits out on an especially sharp thrust, shaking with pleasure. Smoke invades his mouth, his nostrils. He chokes on it.
Dark, dry laughter makes Jack’s skin crawl. It’s like wind through a rattling ribcage. Doesn’t stop his cock dripping over his hand, so flushed it feels unreal. When Reaper stops briefly, fully seated inside him, Jack can’t breathe. It pushes all the air out of him, there’s no room left for anything else.
”You stole my line,” says Reaper, drawing back. The head of his cock catches on Jack’s rim before he slams in even harder.
Jack howls. Overwhelmed by the satisfaction and fullness. He’s nothing but smoke, caught spasming around it. He closes his eyes to block out everything for a moment, trying to ground himself, focusing only on feeling. Useless. Being stretched around dead skin, the heavy weight over him--that’s all there is, being filled again, and again. Claws tear down his shoulders, raking open wounds.
Dead. He’s dead .
A dead thing is fucking him, god, Jack should care more than he does. He wants this. He wanted this. Equal parts yes, please, more , and cold, wrong, this is a dead thing.Desperate and ugly and he doesn’t care. He’s decades past caring and heaving back at a dead man, knees pushing against smoke, panting, sweat stinging his eyes. “You son of a bitch,” he growls, “gimme all you got, come on ,” and Reaper digs his talons into the bones of Jack’s hips and fucks him in violent, shallow thrusts. Out of nowhere in the smoky darkness--the other big hand goes for Jack’s throat, and Jack gasps but he won’t swallow, won’t--not with the dangerous edge of that hand hard against his throat.
It’s so fucking good. Reaper tightens his hold around his neck the smallest amount, and Jack has just enough forewarning to dread his orgasm before it hits like the tail end of a bad hangover. He’s heaving for breath, gasping, can’t feel his limbs, and Reaper fucks him through the aftershocks like he can’t feel or doesn’t care about the hole tightening from overstimulated contractions. Shameful and all-consuming, Jack wants to forget it as soon as it happens but the way it leaves him shaking and weak aren’t easy to walk off.
“Can’t remember last time you followed an order without bitching,” Jack says dryly, cradling his dick against his stomach with a protective hand.
Reaper remains in him, rough. Not descending into niceties just because Jack came. “Still a slut for punishment,” Reaper slings back. “But I know what you need.”
Claws tear down his shoulders, raking open wounds.
They may as well be yelling profanities into a dark room, choked through with Reaper’s smoke like a cold damp humidity. Jack thinks he might actually die like this, not fighting back tooth and nail but pried open, yielding, eager. No warmth around him, no heartbeat thundering in the body inside him. Yet very abruptly the haze starts to clear. He feels nauseous when he realizes Reaper’s finished and marked him and it’s as cold as the rest, coating Jack’s insides.
Then it’s gone. Everything. Like a bad dream except for how Jack’s so wrecked he falls forward and can’t stop. He hadn’t noticed how hard he’s panting, his rasped out throat, how his face is wet. Bit by bit, he gets to his feet. Reaper is gone.
Dying’s the easy part, Jack thinks.
And he thinks, you fucked a dead thing.
And, wonder what his face looks like these days.
It should--he should be horrified. Full of sorrow and revulsion. Yet for the first time in what feels like hours, Jack’s body relaxes. Ambient air drapes over him like a blanket, warm and ripe with the smell of soil, leaves. Gonna feel all this tomorrow, and the day after that.
But somehow he can’t shake the loosening of the knot in his gut.
![[DDADDS] Only suckers fall in love with perfect strangers](https://64.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_p3jxc9o4xC1v0jqeeo1_1517622922_cover.png)
