Chapter(s): 1/?
Rating: E
Wordcount: 3024
Warnings: suicide (for this chapter)
Summary:
Author’s Notes: i’ve been thinking about this story for a long time.
The snow begins.
The motor growls in the cold, headlights flashing gold-yellow in the dim light. The storm's just starting, the once tiny flakes beginning to fatten. The clouds are a dark grey, almost black – it's going to be a bad one.
It's been a quiet drive – the music's turned low on the stereo, the heat's turned down. He's used to the cold, has a soft spot for it. Indiana gets chilly in the mornings and he remembers the dawn, getting up to feed the livestock, his fingers burning and red at the tips. He remembers Chicago, remembers the year in the appropriately named “Windy City” (remembers that that is a year he'd like to forget, thanks) - the winds would bite down to the bone. He can still feel Chicago in his lungs sometimes.
Soft spot or not, he still has enough sense to dress for the occasion (somewhat). The biker jacket staves off the chill, the leather softened with age, the colors good and faded. It's a memento from an uncle that he can't force himself to throw out, a well loved high school graduation gift. There's a stray strand sticking out of the cuff that bothers the living hell out of him, but it's always been a reliable old thing. The inside is soft and warm and still smells of sweet tobacco.
The song ends – he quickly presses the replay button. Lets his fingers trail over to backpack in his passenger seat, onto the clutch.
There's a brand new pack hidden in his center console. His fingers itch; he wants to rip open the console, tear away that plastic, suck down a good cancer stick. Suck down a few good cancer sticks, hell, he wants the entire goddamned pack. They're 5.99 now-a-days, damned if he's not going to get his money's worth. The girl behind the counter (kind of a ditzy looking thing, baby cheeked and sleepy eyed) mentioned “Quit a year ago” when she handed him the pack. The unspoken, universal sign for “you know these are bad for you, right?”
People always think they have your best interests at heart. In true Jack Morrison fashion, he gave her an award-winning smile and said, “These things are so bad for you – this is my last one.”, walked out the gas station, and threw them in the center console. Out of sight, out of mind.
That was a good three hours ago – the roads have gone from drowsy gas stations, fast food joints, and all-night-diners, to empty land and towering trees. It's startling – he'd forgotten that all of this even existed.
The roads are all empty, save for the stray passing truck. The jeep putters along the lonely roads, the only discernible sound the growling motor and the music playing from his stereo. An mp3 from his phone, soft and sad. Staticky with age. He knows the words, mouths along, I wish to my lord, I'd never seen your face, or heard your lying tongue...
The only movement that catches his eye is the falling snow and the stray winter bird taking flight.
You cause me to weep, you cause me to mourn...
Pa used to play this song sitting on the porch, watching the fields sway in the mid-summer's breeze. Strumming his guitar to the barn cats and the old hunting hound who did nothing but snore.
He can see it now - the colors leak behind his eyes and bitter begins to swell in his mouth. The sun set crimson in the summer nights, the off-gold stalks of wheat, the ever encroaching night. The old Morrison Farm, a painterly memory.
It's been so long, he didn't even say goodbye before he'd left. He'd meant to, meant to walk up the creaky front steps, meant to walk in his old home, but it...just never happened. No time, no energy, he justifies to no one in particular. No time, no energy (no guts).
Pa was going to scold the hell out of him, but he would understand. He always understands.
- - -
(you could go back a tiny voice whispers from the backseat it's only two miles, you could go back and forget this whole bad idea.)
- - -
The road turns from rough, holey asphalt to dirt. The jeep continues to putter, the wheels standing firm on the ice. Joan's a reliable old gal, probably the most consistent thing in his entire life. He'd saved the money for a summer, pinched here and there, worked and worked and worked. The year before he left, he'd bought her from the neighbor down the way for a cool $600. She was a mess, but she was his.
She'd survived Indiana, survived college, survived Chicago, and she would survive this. They were the duo, after all – Jack and his beat up jeep “Joan the Warbler” (so elegantly named after the warbling noise she would make after a freeze had set in). It's one of those titles that has to be said in full – Joan the Warbler, not just “Joan”, not “Jonnie”, and certainly not “Warbler”.
He eyes the backseat, sees a mess of blankets and pillows strategically placed to avoid unwanted viewers and thinks, for a humorless second, that Joan the Warbler's been his longest fling. How...strangely pathetic.
He turns back to the road. The forest seems to grow in size every feet his travels, the spindly branches reaching higher and higher into the sky. It's quiet, so very still. The animals have lain down for their slumber, the birds all flown south. The almost black clouds lumber along in the sky, the branches look like fingers, clawing at the heavens.
A dark figure stands at the side of the road, looking back and forth, waiting for him to drive past. A white tail, he supposes – they've been migrating in the area as of late, undeterred by the bitter cold. They're strangely polite creatures, watching him drive past before it crosses.
There's a glimmer of something as the headlights flash (a shine of eyes, he thinks) and in the rear-view mirror, he watches it walk slowly across the road and back into the forest...strange, he'd never seen a deer with that tall before...
No matter.
- - -
The road stops as a sort of plateau. He pulls Joan the Warbler to the very edge, places the car on idle. The song on the stereo changes, a symphony in allegretto time - a callback to his "all classical music, all the time" phase. He presses the “back” button.
Jack opens the door, sitting at the edge of the seat. Cold has a smell, crisp and clean, that floods his lungs and makes his heart flutter. He turns the stereo down low, leaning on the edge of the door to look into the forest.
In the dim light, the well-trod path into the forest looks almost like a mouth, wide and dark and gaping.
There isn't a person in sight – hasn't been for the last twenty minutes. In the falling snow, there is a perfect stillness.
It's not surprising. No one knew this forest existed, let alone how to get here. It was one of those well kept secrets from his childhood – the forest his siblings had run through, had caught frogs in, the forest he would jog through during high school, the forest he took his first lover to... This is his forest.
It feels like he'd spent his entire life here, tucked against the paper birch trees, nestled in the stubborn tufts of grass, running with the deers and the rabbits. Even now he can remember the dark green of the leaves, the rich brown of the ground, the white-and-black flecks on the trees that created the perfect kind of maze for a child.
In his youth, he could walk the two-and-a-half mile stretch from the farm to the very edge of the forest, over the creek. He remembers washing his feet in the water before trudging home as the sun set, his cheeks ruddy with exertion.
There's a ball of warmth that bubbles in his stomach when he thinks about that. Nostalgia incarnate.
He pulls the keys from the ignition and Joan the Warbler gives a heavy sigh, seemingly happy to rest after such a long drive. Jack pats the steering wheel lovingly, reaches over the center console to snatch up his backpack. He pauses, opens the console and pulls out the cigarettes.
The headlights shine even when the door closes - they'll turn off on their own in a moment. But for now, Jack leans against Joan's grill and tears the plastic with his teeth. His lighter still has a little juice in it, the tiny flame warming his fingers.
It's so weirdly delicious, the nasty tobacco calming the shake in his hands. Once upon a time, smoking was the only thing that could calm his nervous shakes - Laura Palmer, eat your heart out. He watches the snow, tendrils of smoke climbing into the air.
He's going to miss this car.
- - -
At the mouth of the forest, Jack hears that tiny voice again.
We should go back.
He walks in.
- - -
Jack falls into a steady march, his feet matching the slow beat of the blood in his ears. Left, right, left, right, left, right, left – it's soothing in it's monotony. He can concentrate on that, can mark the time in his head. Left, right, left, right, left, right.
His mind toes the line between working overtime and slowing to a crawl and in the chaos between the two, he's created a sort of cocoon to lull himself. The silence is a static white noise, the crunch of snow underfoot the only thing breaking through his pattern. Left, right, left, right.
Clouds roil overhead. For a moment he thinks of the ocean. Is this what the fish see when they look up? Rolling clouds, sloshing and churning? What would be above it, then, where was the surface?
Flakes fall into his eyes, catching in his eyelashes. The gentle fall has turned into a downpour, a fierce wind whipping through the trees. Cold clings like the lover, fingers slipping beneath the folds of his clothes and curling around his cheeks. He buries his head further in his jacket, the burn in his fingers bordering on painful.
He can live with it a few minutes more. Left, right, left, right, left right.
Jack hums in time with his steps, softly singing to keep his pace steady. He can tie bits and pieces of the song together in his brain, frankensteining it as best he can. The song thrums in the back of his head, the steady pluck of a lonely guitar pulsing in his ears. In the pines, in the pines...
Left, right, left, right, left, right
There's a note on the dashboard of his car. A note in the mailbox of the farm that he can't step foot on. A note en route to his sister that will arrive within the day. His affairs are in order to the best of his ability and now...now it's the final act. The curtains wait with bated breath in the wings, ready to close.
The small flutter of fear in his chest is drowned by a strange sort of determination. He begins to walk once more, despite the ache of his feet. The snow has soaked into his boots, blisters will form soon. And still his walks, aimed for the very heart of the forest.
Left, right, left, right
Time clicks by. The storm continues, getting worse and worse with every step and he still he keeps his pace steady, Don't you lie to me...
How awful would it be to find his body? This sad, lonely man, sitting in the center of a forest, waiting for death to find him. How could he do that to some poor person?
No, he'll walk until no one will find him. His note has enough information, they can glean the rest if they want to. Really, who's going to care? Jack didn't know that many people, was actually close to ever fewer. People were loud and chaotic and too much for him to bare half of the goddamned time.
His mask fits perfectly. Quiet, polite, professional. Look any further and you start to see the black-vined kudzu growing on his perfectly polished persona.
you can't have that, can you jackie-boy?
His mask fit perfectly. Now it's askew, cracked at the edges. He can't wear it anymore.
And really, isn't this is a better solution? This is the only solution. And sure, it's equal parts selfish shame and justified hopelessness and goddamned if he cares.
No one will miss him.
It would be just like falling asleep. That's what they said. Like lying down for the great, big sleep; a quiet, dignified death.
If he was lucky, the animals would get to him before the people could – it's a strangely comforting thought. Coming from the earth, going back to it – the circle of life never ends.
There's a thick sheet of the snow on the ground now – up to his calves. The wet trees smells of fresh wood, the snow smells almost tinny now. He's tired, he's so tired. He's ready for that great big sleep, to float away on a magic carpet back to the land of dreams.
He's made his peace. He's ready to see his Pa again.
Left, right, left, right, left, right. The monotonous steps that ring in his ear, the wind of the storm, the crunch of snow. Left, right, left, right.
He walks and he walks until his breath becomes stilted. He leans against a tree, his vision swimming. Jack Morrison is not an unhealthy person – he's a goddamned runner, after all. But he's winded, the ache in his bones thrumming throughout his entire body, and the burn in his fingertips has turned into a full blaze. His face, his body, feels as if it's burning, eyes stinging from the wind. The snow in his boots have rubbed his feet raw and it's actually fairly painful to walk now.
For a second, he tries to remember how long he's walked. The trees behind him look just like the trees in front of him, which look just like the trees he passed ten minuets ago. Jack laughs, breathlessly – it...really never occurred to him how much the cold actually effects you. He really hadn't taken it into account – at the time it hadn't mattered.
Did it matter now?
Jack...well, he just can't tell. The tiny flutter of fear has turned into a tiny flutter of regret, and it's still overpowered by that strange determination.
Just a bit further. All he needs to find a tree big enough, a heavy trunk, one that will let him curl beneath it. And then he can rest. He pushes away, stumbles, rights himself. Begins to walk once more.
His steps are slower, each step taking every inch of strength to do. It's so cold. He wishes his phone had power, he wouldn't mind listening to that song again. Maybe just one last time, a fitting goodbye.
There's something in the corner of his eyesight. Big, dark, creeping closer. Really, it should scare him – there was nothing natural about the way the thing crept, nothing natural about it's ever growing presence.
Instead, it occurred to him that he never realized Death looked like that. Didn't think it walked on four legs or was so tall. Jack had imagined it as so much more...liquidy. Gooey, drippy even. Good for Death, he muses, being drippy and gooey was probably a huge hassle.
He trudges along, one eye watching the creeping-walking-thing, the other trained on the white-and-black trees. The snow billows about, the storm becoming a full fledged blizzard.
The thing creeps closer – he's not afraid. For some morbid reason, he welcomes it. Dying in a blizzard is a surprisingly lonely way to die, after all. If this thing wanted to go with him, who was he to tell it no? He slows his pace even more, lets the thing catch up with his long, lumbering steps. It gives a grateful snort, shaking snow out of it's mane.
They're walking beside each other, their steps slowly falling into the same time. Right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left.
It gives a grunting breath, giant puffs of air blowing from it's long snout. Jack gives it a quick once-over, his brain trying to piece Death together.
Long legs, very, very long legs. As tall as a man is long, a great, sharp snout, with pointed ears pulled against it's skull in the wind. Massive, oval paws that spread with every step. A long, wispy tail. Inky black fur, clean and silky looking, with a mane circled around it's head and neck. Are...are those wings tucked against it's shoulder blades?
What a strange looking creature, Jack thinks as he collapses, his body finally giving out. Fitting, when you think about it – wasn't it the Egyptians that said the god of Death was a Jackal?
He didn't remember Anubis living in the US of A, or walking on all fours, or having fucking wings, but really, it's not his place to judge. Death could be a fucking clown for all he cares, as long as the job is done.
Death spreads it's oily black wings to their fullest length, giving one, two flaps. The snow flies about, a halo of flakes exposing the forest's floor. Grass pokes from the leftover film of white, little blades peering into the blizzard.
It stands over him. It's probably quite the majestic sight, Jack thinks as Death leans down, it's snout rolling him onto his back. Death's eyes are the reddest thing he's ever seen – more red than rubies, then blood. They're crimson, as crimson as the sun setting on summer nights...
'Pa's not gonna believe me' he thinks as he dies, watching as the thing opens it's mouth, a great maw of crystal teeth and black saliva, 'He's gonna think I'm nuts.'
Chapter Title: no one said living in the forest is a good idea
Chapter(s): 2/3
Rating: E
Wordcount: 5461
Warnings: sex, blood, gore (the three things that make life interesting jk)
Summary: it’s their own little slice of paradise
Author’s Notes: someone needs to get mccree a bandaid
“Do not give me that look.” Genji frowns. He's got a light-up collar in one hand, the scruff a very big, very hairy, very whiny wolf in another. His jacket and boots are soaked, snow sliding down his neck, “I told you if you did it again, I would make you wear this.”
The werewolf in question whines again, practically pouting. But he sits still as Genji slips the collar on, pressing the “On” button. Bright blue begins to shine around the collar's center. “If you did not attempt to attack me every time I came back, you would not be wearing this, McCree.”
Jesse makes a cacophony of grunts and whines, trying to explain his point without using his words.
Well...speaking with a muzzle must be pretty difficult, Genji will give him that. Besides, he can make out the gist of what Jesse's saying.
“That may be, but I do not need to be “kept on my toes”,” he leans down to gather the tossed-away jar of peanut butter. The oranges have rolled down the front steps, “If anything, you are the one that should be practicing, you mutt. You're getting lazy.”
Jesse snorts, plucking the cluster of bananas from the bushes and trotting into the cabin. They make quick work of it together, getting the groceries off the ground and into the kitchen. The eggs are (mercifully) intact, even if the cereal is a little worse-for-wear.
In this form, Jesse may trot on the ground, but he can stand on his back legs should the need arise. His front paws can still open doors and manipulate handles (however, he's pretty poor at delicate tasks – he's broken plenty of forks this way). This comes into handy when Genji hands him the last bag of groceries and turns to to put the kettle on the stove.
“I got another request,” He says after a moment, listening to Jesse struggle to put a bag of rice into the rice container (they have containers for everything – cereal, rice, coffee, milkbones – a place for everything and everything in it's place, right?) Jesse huffs, deeming the rice to be a lost cause and trotting back to Genji with the half opened bag.
“Get me the tea box, won't you?” Genji takes the bag and puts it aside, turning back to the kettle. The water has begun to bubble, “I am glad they appreciate my work. I'll have to send word to Zenyatta, I keep forgetting to send his in the mail.” He takes the tea box (in reality, a particularly pretty box that once held papers and is now holds little tin boxes of loose leaf teas) from Jesse's jaws, searching over the little containers for the right one. Jesse huffs again, laying besides the stove, his feet tucked neatly underneath him (he looks very much like a cat when he does that, Genji thinks).
One ear perks, his tail beginning to thump against the ground. It's been awhile since Genji's spoken of his old master.
“He mentioned visiting the next time he gets to the states. It would be nice to see him again.” Genji pulls the desired tin out, measuring out the leaves and taking a clean mug. The peppermint leaves crackle in the hot water, “Would you like to?”
Jesse gives a soft woof and a yawn, his tail still thumping against the floor. Years and years ago, he'd met Genji's former teacher and good friend Zenyatta. Jesse mentions him from time to time - the monk had made quite the impression.
Genji takes his tea to the front windowsill, settling in to watch the snow. From the side of his eye, he can see Jesse's back leg shaking – he looks like a rubber band pulled taut, ready to fly.
“Do not leave for too long.” Genji says, taking a sip – Jesse gives another woof and barrels out the door.
- - -
Mating season for North American werewolves starts in the middle of winter, when the forests are quiet and the nights are cold. It's a kind of twofold effect: fertile werewolves will produce litters in the late spring and it creates a tight bond between the mated pair. Things are...different for werewolf/non-werewolf partners. There's a slim-to-none chance of litters being produced. The few that are often are born too early and born sick. Furthermore, most non-werewolf partners have a hard time keeping up with their more energetic partners.
Ergo, most of these partnerships don't work.
But, clutching a cup of steaming tea and watching Jesse frolicking in the falling snow (actually frolicking - considering he's a full grown werewolf, this looks just as silly as you think), it seems so worth it. Genji sits against the windowsill, one leg tucked under him, the other swinging back and forth. He gets a weird sense of joy seeing Jesse chasing shadows, his collar a streak of bright-blue in the ever growing darkness. If you'd asked him ten years ago if he thought he'd ever feel so at home, he would have have laughed in your face.
They'd built the cabin by hand, cut every log in this house, sanded every surface smooth. It was theirs, theirs, this little slice of paradise. A cabin with two floors, located in the center of the forest, right across from the river. A tiny garden in the back, the stubborn pine littering the back steps with dark-green needles. Together, they sustained themselves and were happy with the life they'd chosen.
Jesse could run around without fearing he'd become someone's rug and Genji...well Genji had peace and quiet. And that's all he'd ever wanted. It wasn't “loneliness”, like the townsfolk insisted, it was freedom. Jesse leaps, catching a particularly big snowflake between his jaws, falling back and rolling. The whole scene is really very cute, very...Jesse. It's hard to believe there's a late-thirty-something man under all that hair.
Genji sits the cup in his lap, goosebumps rising on his arms. He closes his eyes, resting his forehead against the chilly glass.
- - -
“Come with me.”
That's all he'd said, reaching his hand out. It must have looked so funny, this tall, burly, beast of a man standing over this tired, morose looking shell of a person, “Ain't nothin for either one'a us here.” Genji remembered the day. Hell, he could tell you the exact hour, minute, and second. The leaves were falling, the wind had been particularly nasty that day. Dressed all in black, clutching a photo yellowed at the edges and cracked on one side. Autumn smelled like rain, the ground soft and pliant and so very, very cold. He couldn't make himself turn around, couldn't make himself look at that fucking tombstone...
For a moment Genji had hesitated. He wasn't stupid, he knew how dangerous werewolves were. They were unpredictable, they were ruled by instinct, they were wild animals. This was stupid, fool hardy and practically signing his death warrant.
“Do you trust me?”
That was it. The thing that made Genji throw every fear, every worry, every unseeable detail out the window, because yeah, he did. He really, really did.
He trusted Jesse more than he trusted everyone else, because Jesse was real. He couldn't be arsed to lie about useless matters, had a pretty poor filter, and acted with his heart rather than his head and, Genji never felt the need to hide around him. He could be himself, giant gaping flaws and all.
So in the night, they left. Left appropriate letters to their families (well to Jesse's family; Genji didn't have anyone else) and decided to start anew.
- - -
And here he was, years later, sitting by a windowsill and watching his partner play in the snow. How time flies.
His eyes flutter open. Jesse's not out front anymore, instead stomping into the house, his fur dotted with snowflakes, his tail wagging madly. Before Genji has a chance to stop him, he shakes the water from his back, sending freezing droplets everywhere.
“YOU MUTT!” Genji shrieks, nearly spilling his tea. Well, that certainly spoiled the mood. He's soaked, the flannel not doing much to keep him warm (hey, only so much one shirt can do). The almost-dead fire in the fireplace is finally snuffed out.
Jesse actually looks a little ashamed of himself, tucking his tail between his legs and laying his ears against his skull. He pads to Genji, giving a pathetic whine.
“Do not start with me. Why can you not do that before you come inside?!” Genji glowers. He feels like his mother, scolding his wayward brother and himself for something silly, “How many times must I to tell you? Not. In. The. House.”
Jesse lays his head against Genji's thigh. He gives a low grunting noise.
“You are ridiculous.” Genji pinches the bridge of his nose. Jesse pushes his head into Genji's thigh again, whining even louder. He taps his paw against the ground, nuzzling his muzzle against the inside of Genji's knee, “No, you are a grown man, I am not falling for that.”
Jesse plants first one paw on the windowsill, and then the next, raising his head to press it against Genji's chest. “Use your words.” Genji grumbles. His hands find those soft, sensitive ears, scratching in just the perfect spot. Jesse's tail begins to wag, “I would not get upset with you, if you did not shake in the house, mutt.”
Jesse gives a growly-whine, tail wagging furiously. His head drops onto Genji's shoulder, one paw swatting at Genji's shirt.
“Don't be rude.” Genji gives a him a firm tap on the nose, “Go get more firewood.”
Jesse gives another swat, ignoring Genji's request. There's something in his eyes, a feral mischievousness that Genji's oh-so-knowledgeable of. He smirks, taking the werewolf's head in both hands and holding it still, leaning down to press his nose against Jesse's cold, wet one.
“Get the firewood,” He murmurs, eyes half-lidded, “Be a good boy and go get it. And then you'll get a treat.” Jesse's off like a shot. Genji laughs, places his cup aside and walks upstairs – wolfish, indeed.
- - -
There's something nice about sleeping with a dog. Well, Genji knows better to call him a “dog”. Jesse's really not into that, but he's into praise, so it all evens out in the end.
It's awkward, but Genji reaches behind him to scratch one of those soft, floppy ears. Jesse huffs in appreciation. He shifts his hips, the thick knot inside of him still hot and heavy. Jesse grunts, one paw-like-hand clutching Genji's firm hip and keeping him in place. Genji has a tendency to squirm during their sessions, which pulls painfully on Jesse's knot. It takes the fun out of the afterglow!
“You were enthusiastic tonight,” Genji grumbles snuggling back into the werewolf's broad chest. His fur is thick and full, and so wonderfully warm, “Full moon have anything to do with that?”
Jesse grunts, one lazy ear flopping forward. He's not keen on “moon” jokes either, but Genji can't help himself. You can't just let these opportunities get away!
“No matter.” he yawns, eyes fluttering shut, listening to the soft thump thump thump of Jesse's tail against the bed. He's such a puppy sometimes, even while locked together with his mate, “It was nice.”
Jesse laves his tongue against Genji's neck, his tail still wagging against the bed. Something about the chill of winter gives him such a boost of energy. It's put to good use.
“We'll have to go hunting in the morning,” Genji says, half awake, “Maybe when the snow settles. I hate hunting when it's sleeting, the deer are getting good about hiding.”
- - -
There's a puff of auburn fuzz in the holly bush again. Genji sees it in the morning, standing on the back porch with his coffee, watching the storm progress. Jesse eyes the fuzz for a moment, eyes narrowed and ears pulled back. With a breathy woof, Jesse trots into the forest.
Genji flicks the puff away. Little puffs have been showing up all around the house – it must be the deers.
- - -
“Were you rolling around in the pines again?”
Jesse shakes his head no, pine needles falling every which way. His fur is mattered with sap and he looks particularly...sticky.
“You're an awful liar.” Genji plucks him by the scruff and begins dragging him to the bathroom.
This is where the fight begins.
You need to understand – when he's human, Jesse is actually fairly good at these things. Takes a shower every other day, attempts to keep his beard in presentable order, tries to look like a normal human being.
As a werewolf, he's subject to werewolf whims. It's a far cry between a man's brain and a canine's – Jesse the Man knows not to roll in the pine sap and track mud into the house. Jesse the Wolf will get into the garbage and not give a damn.
Jesse had attempted to explain it awhile ago - "'s not like I can help it - somethin' 'bout strong smells is just so appealin'." They'd gone over the subject for a good two hours and in the end, Genji was just as clueless as he was in the beginning. Jesse summed it up as "it's a werewolf" thing and left it at that.
Learning to balance the two takes practice. Sometimes, it's like having a dog, especially when Jesse makes a high pitched howl and takes for the door.
Genji's faster; launches himself and catches Jesse around the middle, planting his feet on the floor. It's pretty difficult to wrestle a full grown werewolf into submission, but Genji's stronger than he looks. It's a slow, laborious process – Jesse trying to escape, Genji trying to get him into the bathroom. He's going to throw his back out, if this keeps up.
Genji gets them to the bathroom (after prying Jesse from the doorframe) and sits back, taking a deep breath. Jesse sits, pouting in the bathtub, his ears flopped over his eyes. This is his workout for the day, Genji decides as he rolls up his sleeves, he's taking a fucking nap after this.
The moment the shower head springs to life, the fight begins once again. Jesse yowls as Genji “calmly” reminds him that if he didn't thrash so much, he wouldn't get soap in his eyes.
- - -
Jesse's better for the hair dryer. Which is relieving because there was no way Genji has enough towels to dry him. Jesse pouts but stays still and only complains for a moment when Genji blows too close to his ears. It's actually very nice to see him clean – there's a multitude of colors in Jesse's coat that only appear after a good wash. He's got a good amount of red in him, flecks of yellow, and silver in his chin that make him look pretty distinguished. Jesse darts away when Genji deems the entire process complete. He's rolls in the laundry, trying to get his scent back in his fur (there's something so embarrassing about smelling like baby powder).
Genji drops into bed, pulls the covers over his head, and takes the best snooze he's had all month.
- - -
“It's been three days,” Genji says quietly, watching the snow fall. The storm's taken a liking to their home and has decided to stay. Genji's pretty happy he managed to do some grocery shopping in town before they ran out of meat, “Are you stuck?”
At the foot of the bed, Jesse sighs, his body curled into a tight ball. His muzzle nestled into his bushy tail. It seems like he's fast asleep, but Genji knows better. His left ear is slightly raised, his mane not entirely settled. It will be midnight soon, the fourth day just over the horizon. Genji's patient. He knows Jesse needs time. He'll wait but...well, no one likes the waiting game.
“I'm not in any hurry.” Genji says, before he rolls over and falls asleep, “But I would like to speak with you again someday.”
- - -
Lacing up his boots, it's hard not to laugh. Jesse's always excitable before the hunt, bouncing about like a fresh whelp. He gives a short bark, pacing at the front door, the bow in his mouth.
“Stop rushing.” Genji murmurs, looking over his equipment and picking up his quiver.
The bow is...a sensitive subject. Not something he likes to dwell on, a moment passed down from a long dead brother. There's etching on the side, neat, tiny kanji that Genji conveniently never reads and sometimes he wonders what his brother would think if he saw his precious bow now. Genji likes to think he'd be amused.
He counts the arrows before strapping the quiver to his back and tightening the holster around his combat knife. Genji takes the bow from Jesse's mouth and steps out into cold, the werewolf bolting around him and into the forest. The snow still falls, the storm calmed considerably but lingering within the pines. He can see a flash of a red tail between the trees.
God bless the hunt.
- - -
It's...a little bizarre seeing how Jesse changes while at work.
He goes from goofy and silly to serious at the drop of a hat. His ears are pricked forward, eyes narrowed and searching. Nose to the ground, he quickly picks up a scent, Genji following behind him as fast as he can.
Genji's job is simple. If Jesse can't take his prey down, then it's up to Genji to head it off, distract it, and incapacitate it until Jesse can catch up. It's a dance he's well versed in, one he prides himself on. They compete with one another, who will take down the strongest prey, the most prey, the weirdest prey. The house is rarely without meat.
They make a good team. Jesse is heavy, strong, keen on what's moving in the darkness and Genji is quick on his feet, quick to react, and a well trained killer.
“You'd make a good wolf, Genji.” Jesse had said once, dragging their kill back to the cottage – they'd spoken on it once or twice. Werewolf venom isn't what you think it is – it's not a “one bite and you've got fur” kind of thing. It's actually pretty dangerous – as the species evolved, the werewolf's venom grew more and more toxic. Plenty have died from the venom alone and those who don't often turn feral within the first few moons and must be put down. Some propose that was the whole reason for the venom turning so lethal. Too many werewolves who went feral too easily, too deformed to mesh with packs, and too unstable to sustain themselves. It would make sense that biology would become selective.
It takes a careful hand to transition a human to a werewolf and it's...quite the commitment. Not one to be taken lightly. They'd categorized as a “we'll cross that bridge when we get to it” and left it at that. Still, there were days where Genji wondered what color his fur would be...
- - -
Werewolf body language is an art all it's own. It's like any spoken language that's ever existed, it's changed in so many ways and in so many ways stayed the same.
Werewolves naturally walk on all fours – ultimately, it's more natural to them and is faster. Werewolves aren't really made for mortal combat - They can fight with best of the magical creatures, but they don't prefer to.
Much like their four-legged counterparts they're hunters at heart. Speed is a surefire friend when you need to eat.
In all honesty, it's always slightly unnerved Genji how fast Jesse switches from two legs, to four legs, back to two. There's distinct differences between the two, differences he's learned how to watch for. A werewolf that walks on all fours is a calm, relaxed one. A werewolf that stands on it's back legs is...well, it's not great, but it's not the worst thing. It's usually a curious one, a nervous one, things of that ilk.
But when a werewolf stands on two and puffs his mane out?
That's bad.
That's a “this is my place and you need to leave” and a “I have no problem fighting” signal.
Werewolves have thick manes for that reason alone - it's a barrier against teeth and claw and a status symbol (many compare them to lions in that aspect - Genji would argue they're more like peacocks)
Genji stops the moment he hears that low, deep growl. Jesse's mane is fully bristled at this point, his claws unsheathed. It doesn't take long to see what's got him so upset: another werewolf, stands not 30 feet away, it's own mane ruffled to it's fullest.
This normally isn't a problem. Jesse's let traveling werewolves pass through his woods before – hell, he invites them to the cabin and gives them a meal.
But this is very, very different. This isn't a traveler, this is a conquistador – a werewolf trying to take his territory. It's something of a rite of passage for fledglings, challenging an alpha. They test their teeth against a well aged fighter and, if they lose, learn what to do next time.
Here's the thing - it's standard procedure for fledglings to challenge alphas with packs. If they lose, they integrate themselves into the pack and learn from said alpha and his family. Pack alphas lead the tribe, train the children, and sure up the numbers for safety.
Solo alphas are an entirely different ballpark. Pack alphas have their tribe to fall back on to defend their territory, solo alphas are just that - solo. They don't have secondary ranks to fall back on, just their own claws and teeth. Solo alphas rarely take in fledglings and especially rarely take in fledglings that challenge them.
Goofy as he can be, Jesse's been the alpha of this forest for well over two decades, since he was a pup. It goes to show, there's a reason for that. In any other case, Genji would consider coming up against him suicide.
The new werewolf's tail wags low and straight, giving his mane a good shake. Sometimes it's all posturing – it's happened once or twice, an upstart pup who thinks he's hot shit and thinks he can take down a king.
Genji readies his bow, eyes trained on the new werewolf - he's only seen a fight get bad once and he'd rather not see it again. Jesse snaps at the air, snarling. The new werewolf responds in kind, stepping forward. They're getting closer and closer, growling and snarling.
“Go home” Genji snaps over the barking (he never could keep his ever loving mouth shut) “There's nothing here for you.”
Jesse bristles even more (if possible), his muzzle swinging towards Genji as a signal to “shut up”
Genji's too busy staring at the other werewolf - he's finally noticed the human and the grin he gives makes Genji's hair stand on edge.
It happens so fast Genji can't tell you how it started. A flash of fur and teeth and the sharp clack of claws and suddenly they're fighting like their lives depend on it.
Genji backs up, pulling the arrow back and steading his hands. His eyes try to track their movements. They're moving so fast, the other werewolf's teeth buried into the crook of Jesse's mane, Jesse kicking with his back legs, trying to tear the other's stomach open. He gets a good kick in, fur going every which way. The new werewolf doesn't seem to notice, digging his claws into Jesse's chest.
Genji wants to leap in the fray, to tear the werewolf off of Jesse, but he knows better. In this moment, Jesse's mind is one track and simple - get rid of the problem. Genji leaping in would get them both killed - so he steps back, plants his feet, holds the arrows still and waits.
Jesse gives a yelp as the other werewolf grabs a hold of his left ear. There a horrible ripping noise as the skin tears - Genji could cry. Jesse's ears are so sensitive, the new werewolf must have picked up on that.
He lets the arrow flight – it makes it's mark. The other werewolf rears back, howling in fury. The werewolf snarls at Genji and Jesse takes the advantage, sinking his teeth into the werewolf's flank. The werewolf trashes, still howling. Jesse flips them both, his teeth still buried in the werewolf's flesh - with a well placed kick, the werewolf launches Jesse back.
Jesse launches himself again, but is flung back by the younger werewolf. The other one is gaining the upper hand, he's fast, he's...tricky. He grabs hold of tender areas and shakes his head fiercely to cause the most damage he can. In an awful way, it's actually pretty fascinating, the science of a werewolf fight. If it wasn't Jesse fighting for their (their) lives, Genji would actually watch nature play it's part.
The other werewolf grabs Jesse by the scruff and flings him into a tree and suddenly Jesse just...stills.
The panic begins to rise in Genji. He's no lightweight, he can take down magical creatures quick as you please but...a werewolf riding on hormones and blood lust is outside of his ball park.
He can't leave Jesse. He won't leave Jesse, that's out of the question. The second werewolf licks his chops, slowly advancing on him. Genji rips arrows from the quiver, beginning to fire in succession.
He's no marksman, but the arrows find their marks, sinking in deep.
The new werewolf doesn't seem to notice them, too high on adrenaline, ripping the one still lodged on his arm out and careening towards him. With a howl, it leaps at him, throwing them both a good few feet away. They roll together into a clearing, struggling in the snow. Genji thrusts the body of the bow out, catches the werewolf's jaws between the solid wood. The bow's sturdy stuff, reinforced with steel but he can feel the material beginning to creak under the werewolf's back teeth.
Struggling, Genji can feel the werewolf's soft underbelly with his feet. He gives a good kick, scrambling back when the beast gives a howl of pain (from the sound of it, he struck lower than intended). The arrows fly everywhere and in the darkness of the forest, he can't find them quickly. He rolls away, one eye still on Jesse's still form.
Genji snatches the combat knife from within it's holster – an anniversary gift from Jesse, believe it or not. He's used to working with stronger stuff, but beggars can't be choosers.
The werewolf snarls at him, lips pulled back all the way. He's beginning to froth, the white spotted with dark red. It's...almost reassuring – Jesse wasn't able to kill him, but he sure as hell was able to hurt him. The corners of it's lips begin to pull upwards. It's a macabre, unnerving smile, his eyes glinting bright yellow. They dance around one another, sizing the other up. The werewolf is obviously unimpressed, smirking.
“you've got spunk,” He snarls around blood-stained teeth, “no wonder he fought so hard to keep you.”
Genji doesn't respond to the taunt, dodges as the werewolf slices forward. It's a dance he knows well – keep them moving in circles, keep them on their feet. Genji's faster, he's agile.
The werewolf steps wrong, twists his left arm forward to strike at nothing and Genji swings, swings twice. Sprays of blood splatter the ground, the smell stinging his nose. The werewolf rears back and Genji gets him on the muzzle. The werewolf howls in pain, stumbling back to grab his nose. The fight's starting to take a toll on him – red meat drips behind the auburn fur. The beast's got murder in his eyes.
“No one keeps me.” Genji snarls, leaping back as the werewolf attempts to launch forward. He bounces off the tree behind him, onto the werewolf's back, fingers sinking into the blood-soaked mane. The werewolf bucks, trying to toss Genji off. Genji holds fast, crawling up yanking the werewolf's own left ear and slicing it off. The meat gives way like butter, the werewolf shrieking in pain.
An ear for an ear.
The werewolf slams his back into a tree. Genji swears he can hear something snap in his ribs. It's like a punch to the gut, the wind being sucked from his lungs, pain blooming immediately. The werewolf slams him again, Genji falls to the ground, his knife clattering away.
He's trying to catch his breath, his hand still clutched around the werewolf's ear. It's a weird moment of stillness, both of them trying to recover.
Genji pulls himself across the ground, seeing the tell tale glint of metal in the darkness.
The werewolf stalks to him on all fours, limping. Blood gushes down his mutilated face – he huffs, bloody, frothy saliva running down his jaws.
“i'm going to enjoy taking his land.” He chokes, grabbing Genji by the leg and pulling him back. Genji tries to kick at him again; the werewolf bats his foot away, claws sinking into his thigh. The werewolf looms over him, the paw on his leg transferring to Genji's head. He pushes his face into the snow, his muzzle pressed against Genji's cheek, “but first i'm going to fuck you in front of him. gonna fill you with my pups on his territory.”
Genji growls, struggling. The werewolf stinks of gore, his hot breath starting to make him nauseous.
“gonna keep you for a good long time. make you keep my pack in his home – how's that sound?” The werewolf huffs a chuckle, torn lips pulled into a sneer, “c'mon chatty-kathy, whatcha say to that?”
Genji grumbles something into the ground – The werewolf gives him a good shake. He picks Genji up by the head, ignoring the gasp of pain and turning Genji to look at him, “speak up.”
Jesse roars, ripping the werewolf off of Genji. It's not a fight this time – it's a massacre. The werewolf doesn't stand a chance and, as Genji leans against a tree to stand, it's a true reminder why Jesse's an alpha.
It's a flurry of fur and claws, bits of flesh, pink and raw. The werewolf's gone from growling and roaring to whimpering and screaming in pain.
Jesse slams him on the ground, forcing his head to look at Genji.
“APOLOGIZE.” Jesse snarls, claws sinking into the werewolf's skull. His voice is raspy and deep and a strange wave of terror washes over Genji. He's never heard that voice before. A spark of mortal panic leaps within Genji for a moment, this horrible thought of That's not Jesse, That's a beast, That's not Jesse, That's a beast ringing in his ears.
Genji can just make out the tiny “i'm sorry” beyond the broken jaw.
Genji doesn't look away when Jesse snaps the werewolf's neck. It's really very merciful – the forest isn't kind to the weak, after all. Genji quells that spark of mortal panic - if he was "a beast", Jesse would happily keep him alive, let him suffer. Werewolves heal fast, it would be so easy to keep him alive enough to begin to recover and then return to re-injure him.
Jesse is no beast.
He heaves a sigh, sitting back on his haunches. He runs a paw through his mane – he's a mess. His fur matted with blood and snow and dirt and mud. His torn ear drips, the flesh hanging limply by a thread. He looks considerably older, Genji thinks.
They've got to get home, get them both bandaged up. Jesse looks like he's been shoved into a meat grinder.
Genji's in no better shape. He's no stranger to setting bones, but he'll need some help with his ribs. The blossoming pain is starting to make his vision swim.
He pushes away from the tree, stumbles to Jesse. Jesse accepts him easily, holding him close, tongue laving out to lick the cuts on Genji's cheeks.
“We are so lucky werewolf spit heals.” Genji grumbles into Jesse's chest.
“Thought I was gonna lose you.” Jesse buries his muzzle into Genji's neck, eyes squeezed shut. Jesse's mane has deflated, his fur hanging and he looks so...tired. They trudge back to the house, leaning heavily on one another. Jesse drags the dead werewolf behind him.
Series: Viva Las Vegas Or: How Jack Morrison became Jack Reyes
Chapter(s): 1/1
Rating: T
Wordcount: 3,174
Warnings: brief mentions of sex
Summary: When in Vegas, do as the Vegasans do.
Author’s Notes: i just wanted to do r76 week like the cool kids :3c
No one could tell why this year's summit was being held in Las Vegas of all places.
It's doesn't fit, when you think about it. No one thinks "important, world changing decisions" when they think of the City of Lights and nothing has really cooled Vegas' debauchery - not politics, war, or time.
But there he was, Strike Commander Morrison of Overwatch, shaking hand with Senator Who-Really-Cares-They're-All-The-Same in Sin City itself.
The Bellagio was as beautiful as they said, the marble halls echoing with voices and the click-clack of overpriced shoes. The wine flows freely, waiters in pressed white shirts offering him bits of this-and-that. The lights make the night seem like daytime, the sounds of the city vibrating in the air.
Vegas was, and is, eternal.
Knowing what he does about politics, Jack assumes whoever chose the location has a girlfriend in the area. Hell, most of the people here probably have a girlfriend (or two) in the area. It's the nature of politics – get some work done, romance your paramour, get more work done. Two birds with one stone, right?
He feels slimy enough having to shake hands with these people; he can't see the appeal of hopping in bed with them.
- - -
You don't have to be a genius to see Jack's not a "Vegas" kind of guy. The loudest Bloomington ever got was the church's summer potluck when the pastor decided to fire up the organ and play Bruce Hornsby (every summer - there's only so much The Way it Is one man can take).
Vegas is pretty. Hell, Vegas is beautiful. But it's too much - the city's too loud, too...fast. It's like the ocean, churning and crashing. The people never seem to stop moving, they just kind of...gyrate everywhere.
He won't be singing Presley anytime soon, let's go with that.
But it has it's perks, he guess. Five years ago saw the repeal of the “12:00 AM Marriage Limit” and couples were getting hitched all hours of the night once more.
Admittedly, it's sweet to see young couples running out of gaudy, neon churches, their faces shining with delirious joy. Even from the windows of this too-perfect, too-expensive hotel, he could see them celebrating on the streets (talk about eagle-eye). Sitting another stifling gala, in another smothering suit, Jack can't help but watch these happy couples with a pang of jealousy.
He's no blushing bride, but...hey a man can dream right? He's never been interested in big weddings or elaborate ceremonies. They just seemed so stressful.
No, Jack leaned more towards the small and the sweet - a handful of friends, a quick ceremony. He feels like such a teenager, sitting in class and daydreaming about flights-of-fancy. He turns his attention back to the woman speaking to him, his face fixed into the best smile he could muster.
45 minutes to go.
- - -
45 minutes feels like three days. When he's finally allowed to leave, he all but drags himself to the elevator. It's exhausting, kissing that much senator ass and he's really ready to sleep off this jaw ache.
And besides – he's not needed until 1930 the following night. Which means a whole 19 hours of sleep.
Christ he hasn't had that in ages.
Morning run be damned, after 2 straight weeks of 18 hour days he's going to get some shut eye if it kills him.
- - -
In everything but name, they're together.
So there's no real surprise when he gets off on the “wrong” floor, goes into the “wrong” hall, and puts his key into the “wrong” door. Jack has his own room but, as with most things, it goes unused.
He never did like sleeping alone.
Reyes snores lightly, already fast asleep. He's in a similar boat, overworked and with a staggering sleep debt. It's...unnerving – Reyes' is a naturally light sleeper, it says a lot that he doesn't awake the moment Jack opens the door.
Honestly, Jack's surprised Gabriel hasn't asked for a different room. When he'd stormed out that morning, he was certain Gabriel would want to get as much space between them as possible.
What had the morning's fight even been about? Jack can't even remember - only that there was no goddamned reason for it to turn into a fight at all.
Putting it lightly, things have become...strained between them. New standards of authority, new ranks, new procedures - politics has wormed it's way into their love life, a death sentence for most. Jack rubs his eyes, trying to shake the stupid fight out of his head.
Years ago, they didn't fight about this shit. Hell, they barely fought at all.
Sure, they had disagreements, differing opinions. There's no such thing as a couple that won't have that and anyone who says different is a piss-poor liar.
But they never turned into the screaming, name calling, trash-flinging matches they are now. Jack thinks about some of the things he'd said that morning, feeling an embarrassed flush creep down his neck. He knew better – knows better.
Still...still they sleep together. Considering circumstances, that says a lot.
During SEP and the war, they slept back to back - both with one eye open, half a mind ready to spring into action. Between them, they made one functioning human being and, at the end of the day, that's all you need.
Do that enough and it becomes a habit. Practice that habit for years and it become a necessity. Jack doesn't sleep well when he can't feel Gabriel's back against his. It makes him fell unprepared.
He tosses his clothes off, stripping to the skin. Taking off the heavy armor, he's not Strike Commander anymore he's Jack. He feels normal again - a feeling he never thought he'd long for so much.
It's easy to find Reyes' hoodie (one of many) in the dark. He slips it over his shoulders, nuzzling his face into the soft insides. The musk of cologne and cigarettes surround him, cradle him. His bare skin tingles as he stumbles to the bed.
“Move it,” he grunts, pushing Reyes to the side
Gabriel grumbles and rolls back. Jack flops onto the bed, heaving a great sigh, the tension leaking from his muscles. The blanket is soft and plush, the pillows cool to the touch and goddamn is he happy the UN is providing the best of the best for their commanders.
Arms snake around his waist, pulling him into the warmth of Reyes' chest. Jack groans, laying his head back on Gabriel's shoulder, his eyes fluttering shut.
"Hey." He whispers, fingers interlock with Gabriel's, "Sorry about this morning."
"'s okay."
They sleep.
- - -
He gets a good two hours of sleep before he feels lips on his neck.
“Jack. Jaacck.”
“Wuzzit.” He slurs, head still tucked into the pillow.
“Jackie wake up.”
“Dunwannah.”
“C'mon Jackie – up, up, up.”
How Gabriel can go from 0 to 100 is completely beyond Jack. He'll never quite understand this man's bizarre form of energy storage - dead exhausted one minute, running around the room the next - really, it's entirely unfair.
“Wake up John” Gabriel nuzzles his mouth into Jack's neck, drumming his fingers against his hip, "I've been thinking."
“I'll alert the authorities.” Jack grunts, his words still slurring. It takes everything in him to be semi-coherent.
“Don't play. I'm being serious.” Gabriel snaps, nipping Jack's shoulder. He's sitting up on his elbow now, his fingers still drumming on Jack's hip, “We need to get a new apartment.”
“Gabe we have an apartment,” Jack opens one exhausted eye, searching around for his watch.
In reality, it's not so much an apartment as Gabe's quarters on base that they'd decided to share. And sure, the place is way too small for two full grown men, Jack will admit that whole-heartedly. But it's not like they have time to apartment hunt.
“No, a bigger apartment. Actually, no, no, a house.”
Oh lord, Gabriel's thinking big. Jack rolls his eyes, sliding off the bed to crawl along the floor, still searching for his watch. It's one of the things that he both loves (and, at this time of night, loathes) about Gabriel. An idea will pop in his head and suddenly he leaps headlong into it, going through every minute detail, every con and pro. Gabriel's mother had a name for it - "thinkin loco".
“It's 1:17, Gabe," Jack groans, holding up his (finally found) watch, "Did you really wake me up to tell me we should get a house? Because you could told me that when I woke up."
“Actually, I woke you up to tell you we should get married, but yeah, that too.”
Oh.
Well, that woke him up.
Jack sits up bolt-right, eyes gone wide. Married?
...Married...
“Have you been drinking?”
“No!” Gabriel guffaws, that wonderful, throaty laugh, “Why do I have to be drinking to ask you to marry me?!”
“Well, you've either been drinking or you're joking, and if you are joking, it's not funny.” Jack climbs back on the bed, irritated.
“I'm not joking either.” Gabriel's smiles, grasping Jack's hand, “We're in Vegas, after all, we could go right now.”
Gabriel seems so serious...Jack looks at their hands, studies them. He can almost convince himself that Gabriel's being entirely sincere. Gabe's smiling at him, that serene, sweet smile that he reserves for the people he cares for. It's so rare to see...
Why would he want to marry a screw up like you?
Jack snatches his hand back. He stands, beginning to pace the floor, back and forth, back and forth.
“Why?” Jack starts, his hands on his hips.
“Why not?” Gabriel swings his legs off the side of the bed, leaning back on his elbows, “I love you, you love me. Does it have to be more complicated than that?”
“The press -”
“Doesn't have to know.” Gabriel quirks an eyebrow – Jack hates how he looks so confident in everything.
“...A ceremony...we'll have to tell everyone.”
“No we won't because it's not “everyone's” businesses what we do. Hell, I'm not planning on telling anyone. Are you?”
"You've always got an answer for everything," Jack snaps, still pacing
"That's why you love me." Gabriel smirks
Jack gradually begins to slow, one hand still on his hip, the other running through his hair (He can hear Gabriel chiding already -“You're going to pull all your hair out like that!”)
And then he gives a breathless laugh, gingerly sitting besides Gabriel. Adrenaline begins to flood his body, his brain going sixty miles a minute.
“You want to get married, oh Jesus...”
His head falls into his hands, his eyes still wide and searching.
This...it doesn't make sense, not to Jack.
He's not a good person, he's possessive, he's easily jealous, he's petty - this list could go on and on for miles.
His skeleton's don't have a closet, they have a goddamned house and Gabriel wants the fucking keys. No sane person would do this.
"I...we got into the stupidest fight this morning." Jack spoke into his fingers, "We keep getting into these petty, bitchy arguements over shit that isn't even that important, and you want to get married. I don't understand..."
It keeps repeating in his head Why would he want to marry a screw up like you, why would he want to marry screw up like you, why would he want to marry screw up like you?
“We don't have to.” Gabriel's soft voice cuts through the fog. A hand rests on the small of his back, rubbing small circles, “We can wait as long as you want to. Hell, we never have to get married, if that's what you want. I didn't mean to scare you.”
It will always amaze Jack at how...kind Gabriel really is. His gruff exterior hides someone so warm, so unfalteringly selfless. Jack gives another breathless laugh, his eyes beginning to sting.
“No...no, I want to but...oh god, Gabe, you could do so much better.”
Jack knows his flaws. Knows them well. Knows them very well, knows that Gabriel doesn't deserve to be tied down to someone who can barely function as a human being.
But Gabe laughs. Grabs Jack by the shoulders and pulls him down, guiding his head into a kiss.
“Don't think I agree with that, mi luna.”
“You're a stupid man Gabriel Reyes.” Jack says into his lips, clutching onto him for dear life.
They stay like that for what feels like an eternity, holding onto each other while the city thrums beneath them.
“Okay.” Jack says finally, his eyes squeezed shut.
“Okay?”
“Yeah....okay.”
- - -
They dress as quickly as possible, as casually as possible – the best kind of hiding is in plain sight, right?
“There's a service elevator,” Jack says breathlessly, his hands playing with the edges of Gabriel's hoodie, “Down the hall. We take that, avoid the media circus outside...”
Gabriel laughs, grabbing his duffle bag – leave it to Jack to think about the “escape plan”
“We need a witness.” Jack's sitting on the edge of the bed, legs shaking, “Ana?”
“Naw, not this late with the kid.” Gabriel's looking in his bag for something, his back turned to Jack, "Now where did I..."
“Who then?” Jack's hands fiddle with one another, finally grabbing onto his knees. He chews his bottom lip - he's too old to be this nervous, but the butterflies in his stomach have turned into fucking hornets and he feels like he's going to be sick, “I guess they'll have somebody there-”
“Stop worrying. C'mon, let's go.” Gabriel tosses the duffle bag away, guiding Jack to his feet, “I know who to get.”
- - -
Contrary to popular belief, Jesse does not sleep in his hat. He does, however, sleep in his underwear and like a fucking log.
Which would explain why he shrieks when Gabriel hollers in his ear “UP AND AT 'EM, MIJO”
Jesse flies off the bed, lading in an ungraceful heap while Gabe wheezes with laughter.
“T-The hell y'all doin here?!” Jesse demands, his eyes darting between a choking Gabriel and a deer-in-the-headlights Jack, “What's goin on?!”
“Nice shorts,” Gabriel snickers at the dancing sheep that dot Jesse's boxers, “Get dressed, you're going to a wedding.”
“...A wedding?” Jesse scrambles to his feet, yanking his clothes off the floor, “Who the fuck's gettin married at 2 in the--”
He pauses, midway through the first jean leg and looks between the two. He knows that smirk Gabe's giving him.
And then he grins, bouncing to get into his jeans quicker.
"Well shit, if ya'll'da told me, I would've brought something fancier."
- - -
It's a whirlwind from the hotel, to the marriage license bureau, to a wedding chapel (who knew it would be so tempting to be married by Elvis?)
Jack stands in the hallway, staring at the empty pews and sleepy receptionist. They're the last couple of the night, it seems, the reverend welcoming them warmly.
"Let me know when you're all ready to get started." He says, getting his cards together and leaning on the pedestal - he's got this speech perfectly, could tell it to you by heart, Dearly Beloved we are gathered here today...
Jesse's sitting at the front pew, reading over the chapel's brochure ("It costs how much to have Elvis sing?!"), Gabe's adjusting his jacket in the mirror one last time. Jack continues to stare at the empty chairs, running his finger over the well-loved wood.
"I keep thinking I'm going to wake up," He murmurs, "That this is all a dream and you went back to base after this morning."
That I'm going to wake up alone, is the unspoken fear, And I'll have driven you off for real this time.
"Your dream wedding would have more food," Gabriel chuckles, taking off his beanie. He's freshly shaved, his beard messy, but acceptable.
“Maybe. And you'd have a full head of hair.” Jack grins, turning bright red. God, what he wouldn't do to see Gabe's natural hair right now.
Gabriel snorts, cupping Jack's face in his hands. The world seems to melt away, time standing still – they sway, foreheads pressed together. "Listen to me,” Gabriel murmurs, eyes boring into Jack's, “I know you probably didn't expect, you know...this.
He motions around before looking back at Jack, “I know you probably want a big wedding with the fancy shit. I'll make it up to you – we'll do this right, the moment we can.”
A lump's starting to form in Jack's throat, “We don't need to. This is right.”
Tears prickle at the corner of his eyes – this is right. This is totally, perfectly, absolutely right.
“C'mon, save the waterworks for the end.” There's a warble in Gabe's voice that he can't hide.
Dearly Beloved, we're gathered here today...
- - -
When the Reverend asks for the rings, Gabriel fishes a tiny box out of his pocket. He slips a silver band onto Jack's finger and that's when the real waterworks begin.
“Did you plan this?!” Jack demands, fighting back sobs. He feels like such a two year old right now and he could care less.
“No,” Gabe's eyes shimmer, “I've been carrying those around for a while.”
“You're a stupid man, Gabriel Reyes.” Jack cries, capturing Gabriel's lips with his own, “I would have said yes a long time ago.”
- - -
Jack can't stop looking at the band.
The curtains are open, a shaft of moonlight slinking into the room. The city glows and churns beneath them, feral and alive.
A trail of clothes marks a path to the bed – his body aches, heat still thrumming in his belly. The all important consummation of the marriage has left him boneless.
“I can't believe we did this.” Jack whispers. Gabe's eyes are closed, but he's listening, rubbing circles on Jack's lower belly, “Jack Reyes...I like the way that sounds.”
“Think you'll still tell everyone to call you Morrison?” Gabe rumbles.
“Yeah. Until we're ready to tell everyone.”
Gabriel makes a noise of agreement. Jack presses a kiss to Gabriel's jaw, their fingers locked together. There are love-bites all over Gabriel's neck and shoulders...they look good.
“What time do they need you again?”
“1930.”
“Good,” Gabriel bites down on the junction between Jack's neck and his shoulder, “Because you're not getting out of bed until 1929.”
Jack groans in delight, his toes curling into the sheets. They move together, the sheets soaked with sweat, the pillows and blankets tossed away. Skin to skin, heart to heart, it's hard to tell where one ends and the other begins.
They lay still, staring at one another.
“I...I still don't understand.” He says, squeezing Gabe's hand, “Why me?” The nagging doubt raises his head once again.
There's a pause. Gabe raises their hands up above their bodies, studying the way their fingers twine together.
“Because I love you. No matter what we fight about, no matter how many times we fight – I love you. Always will.”
Series: The Strange Case of Mr. Shimada
Chapter(s): 1/3
Rating: E
Wordcount: 968
Warnings: no warnings this chapter
Summary: What the townsfolk consider "lonely" and what Genji considers "lonely" are two very different kinds of lonely and if his boots get chewed up a second time this month, he's going to starting wishing for the first kind.
Author’s Notes: the werewolf fic no one wanted but got anyway.
On a good day, the drive into town roughly takes an hour and a half. Add another 45 minutes for grocery shopping and a drive back and that's a four hour trip that would exhaust even the most outgoing of people.
Double that exhaustion by two for Genji – he's gotten very unused to people as the years have passed. It's a far cry from his youth, where his phone would be blowing up at any given time. He likes it's solidarity now. Likes it a lot, likes it enough that he's wary to tell people that he even lives in the forest. Once or twice the question has appeared, and every time it's waved away with a (forced) pleasant “Oh, here or there.”
But townsfolk are funny - they always manage to weasel out the answers, one way or another. After all, it's not hard to notice that Genji's not from the area. Curious glances aren't new and irritating questions are a-plenty, but that just comes with living in a tiny town in the heart of rural America.
Over time, he just got used to "Why the forest?"
It was just "the thing".
- - -
That said, there's a strange kind of calmness that comes with saying hello to the locals over the apple section. In Japan, he would read stories of strange, rural American towns. Of bewildering cults and of how deranged the people could be. In reality, the strangest thing Genji's seen was the night the art house decided to run a showing of Un Chien Andalou and the PTA decided to protest.
- - -
Father Winston's cart runs into his and he profusely apologizes, worried about Genji's (barely moved) carton of eggs. He insists on switching, on the off chance that there are any shattered ones and stating that Genji needs them more.
“You're all skin and bones!” he says with his trademark deep laugh, “You need more protein, young man!”
(Genji doesn't comment on the three containers of peanut butter hidden in the basket. At least one of them is getting the proper amount.)
They talk for a bit. “The snow's really falling this year” “Glad I got the driveway salted early” “Think it'll ruin the harvest?”
Father Winston invites him to the church potluck (again), hoping that Genji has rescinded on his decision of solitude (he hasn't).
“Well, don't be a stranger! You're always welcome!” Father Winston says, undeterred from asking again next year, “Athena tried her hand at dumplings. She wanted you to give it at taste test.”
It's really very sweet, albeit a little misguided. Father Winston says he'll put some aside for Genji and bring them to the cabin when the ice thaws.
“Only so much driving one does with poor eyesight,” Father Winston smiles at him, wiping flecks of dust from his eyeglasses.
- - -
Every time he checks out, the blue-haired lady at the front asks him “Aren't you lonely up there sugar?”
Every time she asks, Genji smiles and says no, he's really not.
- - -
After the grocery mart, he stops at the art house to pick up his check. One has to make a living somehow, don't they?
Miss Vaswani (A tall, stern woman with a honied voice and an almost obsessive need for order) slides the check to him. She watches him beneath her eyelashes.
“I don't understand how you can tolerate such quiet,” She says as he slides the check in his pocket, “Even I need some movement once in awhile.”
Genji says nothing, instead eyes the poster hanging on the cork board wall. A new artist would be passing through town to get to Washington State, a younger lady who was doing “wonders” with bright colors, cute imagery, and gore. Genji's seen some of her work – she's very talented.
“You know, I got another request for a commission, Mr. Shimada.” Miss Vaswani says, “They said they'd pay you quite handsomely.”
It's a nice offer. A recently married couple wanting a scroll to christen their new house, willing to pay through the ass for one. Genji declines (as per usual), and walks back to the truck, nestling his face in his scarf.
Miss Vaswani knows better. At this point, she just asks to out of politeness. His scrolls take months to finish and perfect. Inspiration is hard enough to come by as is and he doesn't need a pushy client making it worse.
The truck is coated in a thin layer of white when he gets back. The sky is dark-grey, almost black, the clouds fat with snow. They'd been predicting a tough winter and it sure as hell was living up to that. The snow just didn't seem to want to stop anytime soon.
At least the roads aren't as bad as they were last year. Genji's not the greatest driver there ever was (in fact, he's pretty terrible). Nearly getting into a head-on collision due to ice is not something he wants to repeats, thank you.
So, after a quick stop at the bank, he straps the groceries in and turns back onto the main road. He takes a deep breath, gripping the steering wheel tightly and going as slow as possible
It was Jesse's turn to get groceries. Genji's going to turn him into a fucking throw pillow.
- - -
Before we go any further, dear reader, we should clarify something about the strange case of Genji Shimada and his so called “loneliness”.
The townsfolk are the only one that view it that way.
Loneliness is the furthest thing from Genji's mind, as he turns from the main road onto the unpaved path – his home is actually very lively.
Just...not in the way the townsfolk would understand.
That is to be expected, really. Genji didn't expect it himself, but life sure does change when you start living with a werewolf.
Series: MIAMI Or: The Worst Road Trip Ever Undertaken
Chapter(s): 1/?
Rating: E
Wordcount: 2,482
Warnings: warnings for non-graphic violence and sexual assault in this chapter
Summary: A love letter to Hotline Miami, Synth Pop, the 1980's, and a Whole Mess of Bad Life Choices (Also, Jesse really needs to find a new job.)
Author's Notes: LMAO I’M REALLY NOT SURE WHAT I’M DOING. SOMEONE PLEASE HELP ME.
Looking back on it, nothing about what happened was a good idea.
Ideally, he would have turned around, left the room and never looked back. He could hear the sirens in the night, after all - usually a sign to leave ASAP. Even the stupidest grunt knows to run from the fuzz, but at the time, something had rooted him to the floor.
He remembers how small, how dark the room was. Flowers made of neon blue giving the room an unnatural glow, the blood that pooled on the ground turning almost purple. Jesus H. Christ, the smell, though. He'll never forget that smell, as long as he lives. Heroin has this kind of awful, burning, vinegar-y smell that stains everything around it. There was coke on the blood soaked tables, the white powder clumping in a red-white batter. The building is dead silent, the soft gurgle of blood in the lungs of the target is the only thing he hears.
That and breathing. Shallow, slow, exhausted breathing, like someone's run a ten mile race with no finish in sight.
In front of him is a body. A naked, starved, shaking, totally coked out...Kid.
Here's the thing: Jesse McCree is a lot of things, but he's not heartless. He's rude, he's tactless, he's got a mean streak a mile long. He's vicious, he's cruel at times, outright monstrous at others, and he smokes way too much, but he is not heartless.
His fathers didn't raise him that way.
So when The Kid (because that's what he fucking is and Lord Almighty if it doesn't make him sick) looks at him with those blood-shot brown eyes and laughs at him, Jesse can't feel anything but pity. This town...this world, it does shit like this to people. Makes them into...
well, Jesse was never one to call names.
“Go ahead.” The Kid spits out blood. Cum and lube coat his thighs. His entire body is covered in these marks that range from dark purple to wine red.
What a mess.
“Finish what you started.” The Kid throws up bile mixed with blood and something off-white (oh god, Jesse doesn't want to know what that is). There's this mess of gore on the kid's lower stomach – it looks like a child's bad science experiment. The blood and the heroin and the coke and the sex all fucking reek – if he were a lesser man, Jesse would have puked a while ago.
Instead he looks around, finds a ratty blanket that's been tossed aside. The kid protests as Jesse drapes it over him and lifts him up. But then he stills, groaning in pain. His head drops onto Jesse's shoulder and, just faintly, Jesse can hear a sniffle. The Kid's body is so hot, he's practically soaking the blanket in sweat.
The sirens are getting closer. Jessie hurries to his car, gently puts the kid in the backseat, and prays to every god he knows for the engine to start.
The Kid's going to die in a day or two – Jesse can make him comfortable until then.
Well. This is quite the problem.
There's blood caked all over his backseat.
It's not coming up.
Jesse frowns, his arms akimbo. That was leather back there, real leather, not that fake shit they try to hustle at the discount car lots! He was never going to get those bloodstains out, what the fuck.
He plops onto the ground, frowning at the backseat. Sure, they made seat covers for this specific reason, but he doesn't want a tacky seat cover ruining the aesthetic of his car. This was a real life Daytona Spyder, authentic, like the ones they drove in Miami Vice! He'd looked for this thing for years,the goddamned car cost him a fucking fortune and it's not like he has any more arms or legs to give over!
Heaving a sigh, he picks up his bucket and continues to scrub the leather. The ammonia burns his one good hand and the water is going to make his robotic one rust if he's not careful, but he is not going to have some brat ruin his car. He'd seen it on google somewhere, you mix ammonia and dish soap together to get a good leather cleaner.
Jesse can't say he's all that impressed.
Somb's gonna have his hide when she hears about this...
Which is why he hasn't sent her a message yet. The last thing he needs is another chewing out, thank you kindly.
He shoots an irritated glance at his apartment window while he cleans. That lazy bastard was still sleeping. Part of Jessie wishes he'd hurry up and die already, he knows how to take care of dead bodies.
Barely functioning ones? Not so much.
But his fathers raised him better. So he'd brought the kid home. Had to sneak into his own apartment because it doesn't take a genius to figure out the kid was totally fucked up. He didn't need someone screaming murder and really didn't need the cops sniffing around his door.
The kid vomited all over him as he struggled up three flights of stairs and Jesus H. Christ, Jesse just about dropped the brat right then and there.
Instead, he'd dragged him inside, disgusting blanket and all. Jesse stitched up his wound as well as he could, cleaned The Kid up and let him sleep in the (only) bed. The rest of the night consisted of trying to get the blood out of the carpet (there goes his security deposit) and attempting to keep the kid clean (holy shit, what the fuck was this kid eating?)
He loses two really nice mattress covers to this nonsense. Godspeed, he thinks.
The backseat looks as good as it's going to – he's got a friend at the local garage, maybe he “knows a guy”. Hell, who doesn't “know a guy who knows a guy” in this town?
Heaving a sigh, Jesse throws the sponge back into the bucket with a grunt and wipes his hands on his jeans. He pours the rest of the acrid mixture into the bushes (He keeps an eye out for the landlady. She'd give him hell if he ruined her honeysuckles) and opens up his ratty car cover. The poor thing's covered in leaves and practically falling apart, but every little bit counts, right?
There's something of a process for living in “hiding”. With his lifestyle, you have to be inconspicuous as possible. Driving a daytona spyder when half of the block has hovercars probably isn't all that inconspicuous, but the best kind of hiding is in plain sight, right?
Besides, it's Miami.The old folks like that kind of style, hell, the young people like that kind of style. It's something of a mindset in the Florida heat – the old ways are the best.
It's pleasantly cool in the stairway. The landlady sure as hell doesn't skimp when it comes to air conditioning and it's been a fair December, considering. The Florida humidity hasn't been as fickle and there's even been a nice breeze.
The old lady on the first floor is making her Thursday night pupusas, the smell wafting up the stairway. The girl on the second floor is blasting Sade again. There's a peace that comes with the apartment, an intangible happiness that seems to seep into the floorboards.
It's the closest thing to home Jesse's had in years. New Mexico is a long forgotten memory and Oregon is a bad dream he's got no interest in reliving. Sure, his job isn't...ideal, but it pays the bills, puts food on the table, clothes on his back.
And he's got something he hasn't had in a long time: Freedom.
Freedom from responsibility, freedom from guilt, someone took the chain off the dog, and he just took off running. Considering the political environment, maybe he shouldn't really feel like that but watch him run.
And so here lays Jesse McCree, Miami or bust.
There's blood in his carpet. Again.
That's the thing that Jessie's grimacing at.Not the barely standing Kid, who's stitches are now torn open, who looks about to throw up, who's pointing Jesse's own FNS-9 at him.
The Kid will be easy to handle - another twenty minutes of cleaning will not be.
“I'm going to give you thirty seconds,” The Kid threatens (it's like a wet kitten trying to hiss), “And you're going to tell me where the hell I am.”
“Yer gettin my carpet dirty again.” Jessie grunts, putting the bucket aside and taking off his flannel. The Kid still points the pistol at him, his grip wavering. It's hilarious.
“Where the fuck am I and who the fuck are you.”
“And yer pullin your stitches back out. You know how long it took me to get them right?” he walks over to his couch and plops down, unlacing his boots, “'bout as long as it took me to clean the sick off'a you. Four times, kid. I don' know what the fuck yer eatin, but it smells fucking rank comin' back up.”
The Kid looks fairly embarrassed at that comment, but he still stands in place. Jessie spares him a glance and then grabs the remote, flipping on the tv. There's nothing on, there never is, but maybe he can find one of those really corny, state-issued soap operas.
“You....I just asked you a question!” The kid's bordering on hysterical now, “You've got five seconds left – Where-”
“Will ya stop yellin? The landlady don't like yellin durin her nap!” Jessie snarls, snapping around, “I ain't getting scolded by her again, she's gonna raise my rent if I get 'nother one of her nastygrams!”
The Kid just looks incredulous at this point. Part of Jessie can understand – he'd probably be pretty dumfounded if he woke up, half stitched together in a place he didn't know.
Still, the kid could be a little grateful, couldn't he?
“Sides, you still got the safety on, ya dumbass.” Jessie sits back, “Ain't yer daddy teach ya how to use one'a those? The hell they teachin kids now a days.”
The Kid's mouth opens and closes like a fish – he's at a total loss. Jessie turns back to his television.
“ –reports, a spokesperson for the State said that time was needed to consider the bills proposed by the opposition and that they will be looking into this issue. The Government has refused to comment on the topic of political prisoners, stating that such an issue is for “the conspiracy theorists”. The DOW Jones Index reports a decrease to the already low – “
The Kid's sloppy. Jesse hears him a mile away – the whistle of air as the butt of the gun comes down on where his head used to be.
Jesse's old, but he's still pretty quick. He grabs the kid by his thin wrists, gives it a good yank and suddenly, the kid's in his lap, flailing and cursing the entire time. The gun clatters away and Jessie's really grateful that none of the guns in his house are loaded (a fact the kid would have known if he'd bothered to fucking check, Jessie thinks grumpily).
The Kid's still flailing and hollering up a goddamned storm, and there's blood splattering everywhere from the broken stitches and the moment he spits something in a language he can't understand is the moment that he's plucked Jesse's last fucking nerve.
The Kid's smart enough to freeze when Jesse's hand snatches him by the neck – it's almost...funny, in a sick way. Jessie's hand spans the kid's throat – one good squeeze and he's finally got some peace and quiet.
Instead, Jesse leans in close. Close enough that he can hear The Kid's frightened heartbeat.
“Now I've been real patient.” he says in a voice that offers no room for argument, “and I've been a real nice guy and I don't take kindly to people who ain't got a lick'a gratitude. I had a long day and yer starting to give me a headache. So here's what we're gonna do.”
He shoves The Kid on the ground, watching as the kid bites back a howl of agony. The Kid pins him with the most menacing glare he can manage, his mouth twisted into a barred teeth snarl.
“Yer gonna crawl yer ass back into the bedroom 'nd yer gonna lay down and stay quiet until I get my shit together. And then yer gonna let me fix up yer stitches and yer gonna behave yerself until yer mended to my satisfaction.”
Jessie stands, looming over The Kid.
“And then yer gonna get the fuck out of my house. Understand?”
He can practically hear The Kid grinding his teeth.
"What if I don't want you to "fix me up"?" He snarls and Jesse's honestly pretty impressed. There's a lot of fight in a kid he'd assumed was going to die two days ago, a fair amount of gumption for someone who hasn't got a snowball's chance in hell.
"Then yer more than free to bleed out in the hallway." Jesse steps over him and crosses the hallway to unlock the front door, "Ain't no difference to me. Yer the one wastin my gauze."
Jesse holds it open for him (which, in the scheme of things, isn't smart - but at the moment Jesse couldn't give a damn).
The Kid's frown deepens. And then his snarl softens to an almost pout. He shakes his head "no", and grips the edge of the sofa, struggling to stand. Jesse closes the door slowly.
The Kid stumbles to his feet, grunting and wincing at the pain in his side. He gives a sharp noise when Jesse loops his arm around his waist, but slowly eases into Jesse's hold.
Together, they limp into the bedroom, a trail of blood droplets following them.
“What'd they call ya?” Jesse grunts, helping The Kid lay on the bed. The Kid says nothing, still frowning. His fingers twist into the dirtied bedding, his teeth biting into the inside of his cheek.
Jesse sighs again, “Look, I'm not real interested in a roommate that I don' get 'long with, so let's at least got on a first name basis, right?”
He sits on the edge of the bed, looking at the trail that's followed them.
“I'll start: 'm Jesse.” he says gruffly, “So what'd they call you, kid?”
“I am not a child.” The Kid snaps. There's that gumption again.
“I didn't call you a child,” Jesse clarifies with an amazing amount of patience (for him), “I called you “kid”. And that's all I'm going to call you if you don't give me a name.”
The Kid twists his fingers into the bedsheets again.
Series: The Bad Idea
Chapter(s): 1/?
Rating: M (rating subject to change)
Wordcount: 2,112
Warnings: Non graphic sex
Summary: Life sure is fun when you're sleeping with the old guy in the police jacket
Author's Notes: I'm not sure where I'm going with this fic, but it'll be a journey lemme tell u dat. Moon is 18+ and female bodied in this fic, point of view is currently second person I may change that in the later chapters
Let it be known: you know this is a bad idea. It's a really bad idea – Nanu's a few decades older than you, he's cold, he's blunt. Hell, the entire walk through route 17 is dead silent, the sounds of your steps the only thing breaking the silence.
You encounter a raticate just as the station comes into view. Nanu's got his Persian out before you can even grab your pokeballs.
She's pretty good, running the raticate off in a matter of seconds and then suddenly his hand is around your waist, leading you forward. It's a firm grip; you lean into it, just barely clutching your fingers into his jacket.
It's a weird moment of intimacy. Neither of you are entirely comfortable, but neither of you want it to end.
The Meowths that normally dominate the police station have made themselves scarce. You can see the ruby-red glint of Absol's eyes, watching as Nanu ducks his head against your neck and begins to suck marks into your skin. He's surprisingly forward – you weren't really looking for slow and romantic, but he's already got a hand shoved down into your pants, slipping slender fingers into your panties. They find their mark, the rough pads of his fingertips brushing against your clit. You yelp and he growls, pawing at your shirt.
“You're in a hurry.” It comes out more breathless then you'd like, pushing him back for a moment to yank your shirt over your head. You throw it to the floor, pulling him forward to press your mouth against his. It's not so much kissing as much as it's biting. Teeth tug on lips, tongue, anything that your mouths can find. You're pulling him towards the stairs that lead (you assume) to his quarters because you really don't need his Absol eyeing you for the entire event.
The trail of clothes leads up to the tiny loft, just barely big enough for a twin sized bed and a dresser. You're starting to pull down your over-the-knee socks when he stops you.
It takes you a moment, but you can see that blush spreading on his face.
“You're gross, old man.” You laugh, nudging his bare chest with your foot. It's pure luck that you wore the brand new stripped ones (because your black ones are rancid from all that walking).
It starts like this: he grips your hips, pressing open mouthed kisses until he gets to your core, pulling your panties down and moving his mouth against your slit.
Or, it starts like this: when you've screamed through the first orgasm, he lifts his head and you can see him licking your cum from his lips. He stops you before you can apologize, leaning up to kiss you. It's...soft. Like he's trying to be gentle. You can taste yourself on his tongue
Or, it starts like this: you've never done this before. You've never done this before, hell, you've barely even thought about it. You've got enough on your plate. After all, becoming the first champion of Alola is a surprising amount of work – searching for the UBs, working as the International Police liaison, battling this person, and that person, and defending the title. It's a lot.
So when you reach out to “return the favor”, and your hands are shaking, he notices pretty quickly. He guides your hands back down onto your belly, wiping his own against his mouth to clean off the, er...mess.
“I'm fine.” He says when you protest. He's sitting up, reaching into the dresser and you watch him for a moment. He's not a bad looking guy – it's obvious that he's losing some muscle tone with age, but it's still pretty damned impressive. There are scars that criss cross over his belly and arms, stories that you'll probably never hear. You sit up slowly as he fumbles with a box of condoms and trace your fingers down the long one across his left pec.
He jumps (well...there's a first for everything) and then eyes you.
“When I first started in the force,” he takes your hand and guides it to the crest of the scar, “Some punk sicked their lycanroc after me – nearly got me turned into pokechow.”
“Were you scared?” It's a stupid question – of course he wasn't, it's Nanu, he's got no-
“Terrified.” he grins
...Like you said: first for everything.
Or...or it starts like this – he rolls onto his back and guides you on top and says “You set the pace, go as slow as you need to.”
And it takes a minute – it takes several minutes, because it hurts.
And then it doesn't hurt so much.
And then it doesn't hurt at all.
And then he's got his mouth pressed against your neck again, gripping your hips with calloused fingers as you bounce and you're pulling his mouth lower, lower, until you feel teeth on the skin of your breasts and there's this obscenely wet sound of skin meeting skin, and groaning, and keening, and holy fuck you're so glad you agreed to do this.
Maybe it starts with all those. Maybe it starts with none of them.But it ends like this: you're both panting, dotted with sweat. It feels weird to go from feeling so full to feeling so empty. In the darkness, you pull your hand across the bed until you find his, and he tangles your fingers together. He rolls you onto your side and pulls you close to his chest and grumbles into your hair that he doesn't really expect it, but if you stay until morning, he'll make you breakfast.
And so, just to spite Mr. Negativity himself, you stay until morning.
The police station borders on spartan, sparsely decorated with plain, warn furniture, and shedded fur. There are pokebeds everywhere – literally everywhere. The police station, which contains little-to-no people things, is chock-full of pokemon accessories. Everything from beds, to toys, to treats, to the actual pokemon themselves. The pack of meowths flock to him as he trudges down the stairs in front of you, all of them giving you curious glances.
Nanu greats them all by name and walks stiffly to the kitchen. He's wearing these boxer shorts with little rockruff paw-prints all over them and you can't help but giggle as one of the Meowths tries to climb up his leg and nearly yanks his boxers down. He shoots you a half-hearted glare – it's cute.
“I can't believe you're making me make breakfast.” He grumbles as he steps over a snoozing Krookodile.
“Hey, you promised.” You bury your face into his jacket (you totally stole it, but what is he going to do, arrest you?)
The sounds of cooking fill the small police station. You take the time to look around the “living room” (more like the pokemon playroom, but hey, who's going to judge a man that loves his pokemon).
Honchkrow opens one lazy eye and then goes back to sleep, letting his feathers ruffle. Absol watches you with amused, unblinking eyes. He hadn't moved from last night, still smirking at you with that knowing little smile. It's...a little unnerving to see a pokemon thathuman-like, but such is life.
Sableye patters over to you and reaches her claws up, making "graby-hands".
"Does your daddy let you do this?" You ask her softly, leaning down and gathering her up in your arms.
She's a lightweight, barely more than thirty pounds (and to think, when you first moved here, you could barely pick up Mom's meowth). She likes the attention, it seems (but after a moment, you're starting to suspect she's more interested in the studs that you managed to keep on all night).
On the battered coffee table are pictures – simple black-frames containing well-faded photographs. You plop onto the couch (narrowly avoiding Absol's tail and balancing Sableye in your lap) and take them in hand, looking them over. Moments frozen in time: a younger Nanu in his old uniform, a group of tiny Meowths all huddled around him (that would explain the flock all meowing for their breakfast), Po Town when it wasn't overrun with Guzma's entourage...
(There's a small, yellowed one of Nanu and another man that looks just like him standing together. Nanu pokes his head into the room to ask how you like your eggs and mentions that the other man is his cousin that lives in the “states” – wherever that is – and works in the military. He makes a face for a moment and mentions that the other one's a nice guy but “kind of weird” - which is an accomplishment in of itself because Nanu is kind of weird.)
He calls you over when breakfast is ready – everything actually smells pretty good. Eggs, miso soup, toast (a LOT of toast, where the hell did he get that much bread?!). Sableye wiggles, claws tugging gently on your ear.
He grins at you when you look at the table.
“Bet you thought I couldn't cook, huh?” He can certainly sound smug when he wants to.
Eating is a quiet affair – Nanu gets the pokemon's breakfasts before he sits with you and you wait for him. Mom always said you never start breakfast before the host, after all. Sabeleye snoozes in your lap.
“I saw that picture,” you start, taking a forkful of fluffy eggs, “The ones with the meowths – it's cute.”
He grunts, sipping his coffee, “Bad breeders, one of those hoarder cases.
“Aren't I a hoarder?” You joke, snatching a piece of toast.
“This was different.” Nanu eyes you like he's actually being serious,”You've heard of shinies, right?”
“Of course.” You've never really got the concept of shiny pokemon. They're pretty, sure, but the cult around them just always confounded you.
“These guys,” he motions towards the eating pack, “Came from a couple trying to get shinies – they'd bred one a few generations back and got a pretty penny for it. Guess they were trying to keep the gravy train going.”
You pause your fork halfway to your mouth, “Aren't those incredibly rare?”
“Yep. Guess they thought if they used the same mother, she'd produce more litters with them. Didn't go well.”
He tells you about how they'd kept the meowths trapped in the house, how they'd be forced to breed and rebreed, and rebreed, and how disgusting the house was. How, with all of the technology readily available, people still acted like dumbasses. Yikes.
You put your fork down, a little green around the gills.
Nanu notices, grins at you (it's never a particularly friendly grin, is it?), “Too much for you, kid?”
“It's not really breakfast conversation, is it?”
He laughs (he sounds genuinely amused) and goes back to his coffee, “I suppose it's not. But all that aside, when we were able to get the pokemon out, I took this pack home. They'd all bonded particularly close, I guess they wouldn't let anyone separate them, and there was no chance of getting them re-homed if they were going to be so stubborn. They've been with me ever since.”
Persian lets out an indignant meow at that, trotting over and nudging Nanu's thigh.
“This one's the ring leader – my “pride and joy”, I guess. The only one that's evolved.”
You recognize her by the crystal around her neck – the darkinum z-crystal. She gives you a haughty meow and nuzzles closer into Nanu's thigh. She's certainly a pretty Persian, when you think about it (Nothing close to your Persian, but you may be a little biased on that)
Breakfast is finished in relative quiet.
Your plan was to get back onto the road in the morning – you really should get back to the league and see if there were any new trainers trying to take down the Elite 4 (it's been a busy few weeks, now that the Elite 4 has finally be established in Alola, all kinds of trainers have shown up)
That was your plan.
But Nanu's really very good with his hands. Even with his ever vacant stare, he's practically turned you into putty in seconds, his hands moving with a surprising grace over your breasts.
“It's Sunday.” He grumbles and you can feel his cock growing hard against your thigh, “Most people take off Sunday.”
That's surprisingly sound reasoning. And hey, you could have sworn you'd seen some rainclouds when you peaked out the window this morning.
Besides, they'll call you if they need you back at the League – everyone has your phone number.
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