#cuio writes

[fromtheshadcws]

As it happens, Gabriel is sitting on the floor of the shower with his clammy face in his hands when the news reaches them.

Or rather, it reaches his roommate first; Gabriel can hear, dimly the voices of Morrison and Lopez, he thinks, one of their other squadmates, filter in through the bathroom door. Muffled, but deadly serious; even through the haze of his migraine and the water pouring down on him, Gabriel can tell.

He feels like shit, between the headaches that make him want to slam his head against the wall and the growing pains (and ain't that ironic, growing pains at the ripe old age of 25) and the way his stomach seems to be wanting to join the circus, with how its flipping and tying itself into knots. Round five of the shots; not quite as bad as four, which had 90% of them flat on their asses for an entire weekend and saw three casualties, but not exactly a walk in the park either.

But something in the way Morrison's voice filters through, subdued, the fear hidden underneath the clipped syllables (kid's learning, he'll give him that much) makes Gabriel groan and grumble himself to his feet. He stubbornly ignores the way the room spins, lazily going in and out of focus, and douses himself in ice-cold water before hurrying to join his teammates.

He almost wishes he didn't.

"Fucking hell," Lopez breathes out. Jack is silent now, watching the holoscreen in their room with the kind of impassive silence that precedes the storm. And Gabriel finds himself sitting on the edge of their sofa, wrapped in two towels, staring.

"...while the entire West Side and Palmer Park have been declared red zones. Civilians are being evacuated as we speak, but it will take the army at least a few more hours to evaluate the scale of the damage. The Omnium near the North End of Chicago and the immediate surroundings have been declared lost. Now over to..."

It's starting, Gabriel thinks dimly. And then, right away; bullshit, it's been starting for a long time now. But it's one thing to base your fear on hearsay about some rogue omnics south of Guadelajara. Seeing it in a city he's been to, recognizes the buildings of?

He knows Foard, the petite blonde girl from down the hall with a gnarly scar across her cheekbone, has family there. He wonders if she's watching.

He wonders if she's praying.

(Another piece of themselves they have to give up. As a soldier, he shouldn't be this enraged on her behalf - wars come with casualties, with a price to pay. But he thinks of Maywood and little Ana Sofia, and finds himself balling his hands into fists until they bleed and cramp up.)

"Detroit," Jack says after an impossibly long silence. In the background, the reporters on screen still drone on about evacs and military interference and the international response to the huge number of calamities, but it doesn't quite register.

"Yeah," says Gabriel, lamely. His chest feels too tight, cold. "Detroit. Guess we're going to have to hurry the fuck up."

Two days later, Seattle is hit. Another week later, right in the middle of a two-day Resistance Drill, San Antonio falls, but they only hear about it after. They lose two more people that same week, morale is so low Gabriel's almost fucking impressed.

He can't stop thinking about one particular shot, when the news about Detroit's omnium had been on the holoscreens for 24 hours straight and networks were running out of material to use. Reruns of the same few grainy shots kept appearing, of a group of Bastions tearing down an apartment building like it's nothing. The military is nowhere to be seen yet, evacuation's messy-

It haunts him for days.

A week later, when he's called into Rodriguez' office after their evening drills, there are a million questions Gabriel means to ask him. Instead, he finds a solemn determination and ice-cold eyes watching him from behind the desk, and a piece of paper with his name on it.

He thinks of Foard, and Ana Sofia-

He thinks of the omnics tearing down neighborhoods just like Mayfield-

He thinks of Jack, those Indiana summer-sky eyes now overcast, no longer bright and unmarred-

and signs his name.

Because if they don't, who else is going to?

[fromtheshadcws]

it’s technically sinday here so uhhhh. have some smut? r76, ovi, eding, bottom!gabi, just some old dads having fun w eggs tbh

"You're doing so well, baby."

The noise Gabriel makes is downright filthy and weak; this half-huffed sigh of frustration and arousal as he writhes in the sheets, face pressed against Jack's cool palm. A grounding little gesture, or as much as it can be when he feels like he's about to burst out of his own skin, cock bobbing against his stomach uselessly.

He's not entirely sure why he's let Jack convince him to do this. Especially now. Perhaps years ago, when trust was as easily given as it was received and they weren't old and scarred and broken—

Baring his soul had been easy, then. Now?

"Shut up," Gabriel hisses.

Jack just laughs, and it's goddamn embarrassing. But then there are slick fingers between his legs as Jack leans in, pushing Gabriel's knee up with one hand as the other presses against his clenching hole, and Gabriel nearly howls.

He can feel the weight of them, how they sit heavy in his gut. It's.. odd, in the way that's so goddamn hot he can barely think; every time he shifts, hips rolling as he uselessly fucks the air, the gelatin eggs move and shift around, brushing against his prostate with maddeningly soft nudges.

"I bet," Jack says quietly, "that you can take at least a few more for me. Look at you, Gabi."

There is marvel and awe in his voice, but the sharp edge to it doesn't escape Gabriel. Eyes widen as he lifts his head to look at Jack, chest heaving with exertion; he wants to snap back, dig his teeth into the scarred soft flesh of Jack's shoulder, anything, anything to convince him to wrap those delicately prodding fingers around his cock.

Jack looks goddamn beautiful when he breaks, but like this, sharp and wild and hungry and dominant, he takes Gabriel's breath away in entirely new, inescapable ways.

"Don't- know," he grunts out, mouth falling open into a silent gasp when Jack rubs his tight ass, the way it clenches harshly to keep the eggs inside. "Fuck, Jackie, just goddamn touch me already—"

"No."

The denial is almost painful and Gabriel arches off the sheets when Jack leans back, denies him any kind of touch in favor of just watching the wraith. He knows he loos a mess, knows it all too well; gnarled fingers twist into the sheets as he shifts and groans, ass clenching, smoke falling off of him in restless coils. Fangs are bared but it doesn't seem to deter Jack in the slightest; if anything, it spurs him on on on.

"You haven't earned it, soldado," says Jack coolly, and Gabriel's eyes roll back when there is a cold-slick touch against his ass. Between one blink and the next Jack grabbed another egg and nudges it against Gabriel's entrance, gentle but insistent. Unyielding like iron and all Gabriel can do is whine.

It's pathetic, and he hates it—

But the bone-deep surrender is absolute.

"There you go," Jack murmurs as Gabriel rocks his hips, legs slowly but surely falling open again. He is too full already but Jack presses and presses until his ass is stretched around the semi-hard intrusion. At its widest point, Jack stops, and Gabriel's eyes go wide at the burn.

"I know you can do it, babe. Be good for me."

He's not good. He's an omen of death, a mercenary, dead and broken and black as tar; but when Jack urges him on Gabriel folds as he always does.

Inevitably.

Finally, finally the next egg is pushed past his rim and slips inside with the filthiest noise, nudging against the ones already stretching his stomach until it's bulging slightly. The new weight puts even more pressure on his prostate and Gabriel wheezes at the jolt of electricity that runs up his spine, hips rolling in stuttering jerks, a silent plea for more.

It's almost too much; Jack splays his hand on Gabriel's stomach and presses down gently, moaning at the way Gabriel's skin is stretched taut around the weight in his belly. Gabriel flushes.

"Jackie, please-"

He hates begging. Hates it with an intensity that makes him snarl even as his eyes roll back in his head, cock leaking on his stomach. But he begs, fucking the air uselessly, breath coming in hitched little gasps as the eggs jostle and shift, driving him slowly out of his mind.

"I've got you, baby," Jack breathes. He leans over Gabriel, steadies himself with a hand on Gabriel's shaking thighs to kiss him. It's sloppy and filthy and really, if he was a little less on the edge Gabriel would have winced at how sloppy it is, and fuck he might be drooling but Jack doesn't care, just licks into his mouth and runs his palm up Gabriel's flank like he's placating a wild, bucking animal.

"I've got you, that's it, you look so pretty. Think I'm gonna make you come like this."

Gabriel’s eyes widen.

He can't—

but he knows better to argue with his soldier when those blue eyes are sharp and hungry so he just nods, arching off the bed to press himself against Jack. It's not quite as good as skin on skin but the rough fabric of Jack's fatigues rubbing against his feverish skin is good nonetheless.

God, he's so full.

"Please-" he chokes out again, shuddering at the way Jack chuckles.

Calloused fingers run gently over his stomach, teasing the hypersensitive skin. They swipe up the precum and smear it over Gabriel's stomach until he has to throw his head back, too goddamn ashamed at how easily he falls apart like this. Jack nudges a knee between his legs and Gabriel jerks, two seconds away from rutting against Jack's leg until he comes because he's just that goddamn close.

Jack Morrison is not a merciful man.

"Tsk," he grins. He kisses Gabriel again and rubs over Gabriel's nipples until he's wheezing, and then pinches.

"Fuck-" Gabriel chokes.

"That's more like it," says Jack, and that's about when Gabriel stops trying to keep track of what the fuck his soldier is doing. Jack twists and pinches his nipples until they're swollen and raw, tugging at the barbells mercilessly; the jolts of pleasure-pain are relentless, not letting up until Gabriel is near tears.

He hates to beg. But he does. There's livewire in his veins and his hips are twitching as Jack leans over him, one nipple pinched and twisted as Jack ducks his head and swipes his tongue over the other.

"Look at you, you want it so badly. You know you can come, baby. Come for me."

He almost doesn't want to, now. There is an angry, vicious little thing in the back of his head that rears up at the sweet words, the sense of being owned that comes with being rendered utterly helpless. Gabriel hates it and needs more, more more more as his muscles tense and he mouths at Jack's jaw helplessly, claws shredding the sheets.

"C-can't, Jackie, Jack please fucking touch me-"

Jack's eyes light up and really, that should have been warning enough.

Suddenly, Gabriel’s mind stops working; Jack laughs at how helplessly eager Gabriel is, at the wet, weak noises he makes when he presses the blunt curve of another egg into his ass. Too fast, too full, and Gabriel tumbles over the edge with a raw, shattered-glass scream, stripes of white covering his stomach.

"I said," says Jack even as Gabriel is still wheezing and sobbing through his orgasm, cock an angry-red as it jerks against his stomach, "Come. I'm calling the shots today, baby. But you're doing so well. Now catch your breath-"

He grins, a wicked little thing, as he twists one of Gabriel's nipples again, prompting a weak, raspy groan.

"We're only halfway, after all.”

[fromtheshadcws-moved]

 ‘💬

Gabriel only hears the last bit of conversation from his place in the shadows, but he can see what’s going to happen moments before Akande’s conversation partner does. He will not pretend to be able to read the tall man; it’s been too long and his poker face has only improved in prison, Gabriel would assume. But despite the pleasantries and the lack of anger on Akande’s face, the tension is palpable even to Gabriel.

“Profit is not our concern. You know better. We aren’t criminals, satisfied by wealth and power. We know better.”

Even from where he is standing, Gabriel can see the shift in Akande’s stance; something about the way the light hits his face when it tilts, dark eyes peering out on the world far below them. Here, on a balcony somewhere in Venice, something big is about to happen. Gabriel can feel it in his bones.

He inches closer, grumbling a quiet answer to Sombra before cutting off the connection between his earpiece and the comm network. They’re done; he’ll meet up with her later.

“There is no ‘we’,” the man says, sounding all too gleeful about this. Like he has been circling over the growing mess that is Talon’s leadership like a vulture, watching Akande’s return and the events that followed. Now, he is swooping in to strike. To kill. Certain of his victory, and his place in the food chain. “Talon is going in a different direction.”

“It is.”

The handshake is a cordial one, but Akande’s fingers tense a nanosecond before the man’s eyes widen.  

Behind his skeletal mask, Gabriel grins.

“But you won’t be coming along,” Akande says, and pulls.

Gabriel watches the man’s feet disappear over the edge as he joins Akande’s side. There’s a scream, and a dull thud, and then absolutely nothing.

It’s a long, long way down.

“Who was that?” he asks, only mildly curious. Whoever he was, he now no longer is. Akande seems just as uninterested, sorely unimpressed. He dismisses Gabriel with an air of indignance, the way Gabriel has grown accustomed to.

“No one you should worry about.”

Akande stares over the edge of the building for a moment, mask in hand; suddenly, his costume has something absurd, the hard lines of his face clashing with how frivolous his purple robes are. But befitting of a king that wants his throne back, Gabriel supposes.

He shrugs, dismissing the issue.

“The others are all taken care of.”

Akande gives him a solemn nod, and that’s debriefing taken care of. He turns away from the edge of the balcony and stalks away, a man on a mission. Gabriel peers down one last time, skin buzzing at the death at the feet of the building. The man will be found soon enough. And then, Maximilien’s security will make sure that it will be as if nothing ever happened.

He hurries to fall in step next to Akande with a few long strides. Akade doesn’t acknowledge it; he doesn’t need to.

“Good. Let’s go.”

They make their way back inside, through a secret entrance hidden in the old walls of the building. It’s a little over the top even for Gabriel, but he says not a word as Akande leads them down secret passages and hidden hallways. He walks with purpose, the self-appointed king, sparing not a glance for the rulers of old that look down on the pair with expressions etched in stone.

If the rest of the people present have an opinion on Doomfist entering the dramatic boardroom with new company in tow, they do not show it. Gabriel does not recognize all of them; they watch as silent as the statues they just passed, not even mumbling amongst themselves.

There are more empty seats than occupied ones. Gabriel picks one, the fabric of his elaborate costume rustling as he sits down. Akande passes Maximilien in silence, though a slight nod is exchanged when he, too, finds his seat.

Gabriel notices.

This is the inner sanctum. Or one of them, he supposes; Talon is like a swarm of roaches, popping up everywhere and equally hard to eradicate. Judging from the faces, they are even more all over the map than Gabriel had thought.

For a moment, nothing is said. Maximilien’s opticals produce a soft, mechanical hum as he looks around the table, but in the end, it is Akande who speaks first.

“We have a war to start.”

Gabriel smirks.

War, he can work with.

[fromtheshadcws-moved]

You watch him sleep sometimes.

Now, don't get me wrong - no no, this isn't meant as something creepy. Though you'd like that, probably.

Always a penchant for the dramatics.

No, you watch him sleep. And though the ache to touch is always there, fingertips ghosting over the shell of a freckled ear, see-through lids veined blue and fragile - you refrain.

You are cruel, but you would not dare disturb him when he sleeps. Not when like this, the years fall off of him. He smiles in his sleep, for fuck's sake.

Not always. Sometimes, there's the fear. It makes him curl in on himself, or trash and groan, dead and deadly from the past coming to life in his dreams. You want to comfort, really you do -

he lets the monster under his bed comfort him, how fucked up is that?

But usually, you just watch.

The rise and fall of his chest, steady even if old age creeps up on him. The crow feet crinkling his eyes. The vast planes of his skin littered with the past -

some of it yours, and you ache, and you whisper your pleas for forgiveness into the night.

I saved a plate for you, you never say.

Sometimes -

when you're really, really lucky -

he reaches out even in his sleep.

You watch.

You touch the hand that searches and press it against your dead, hollow chest.

Only he can make something blossom there, even in the death of sleep.

[fromtheshadcws-moved]

if you could only feel the flame from the candle i’m burning for you

This is where it started, so this is where Gabriel always returns. It is the law of things, and even he, stubborn little thing, cannot deviate from. Even in the digital age, cycles remain and balances are kept. So he comes back, and he weaves his way through a mass of bodies and sensory overload until he finds it, the place in the middle of it all.

If he keeps running in circles, he won’t get anywhere; but there’s a rise and a rhythm and a fall to what he does, moving with the digital tides, and he must learn the rules if only to prepare to break them, later.

The scotch here is shit, but cheaper than tequila and the burn in his throat lasts longer. People will buy him scotch, too. Even as he waves them off with a wiggle of his fingers, a brush of lips against soft cheeks with a sheen of sweat; not today, chico, but thank you for the drink. Their protests fade into white noise and that--

That is what he likes.

He dances with his eyes closed. Bodies pressed against him until they're all just one big, drunk undulating mass. Underneath his feet, he can feel the world itself throb as he throws himself at the counter beat; or maybe it's the bass, thump-thump-thumping until his heart falls eagerly in line.

He finds it here, every single goddamn time. And every single time, it takes his breath away until he's nothing but information, a twirling swirling body made of light and static and digitalized 12" singles.

In between every flicker of the stroboscopes that made the world feel like a slideshow. In between the scratchy voices and the buzz of a record that skips. Whispers that slip into his veins like molly; he’ll dance until he falls apart into a million little bytes and pieces and is loathe to find his way back.

Gabriel talks to ghosts. He did not expect them to talk back.

The mesmerizing lights pulse and flicker until he sees stars even when his eyes are closed, everything is digital now, even his heart, and his mind slips away with it as he lets the current of the modern world drag him under until he can barely stand.

At home, his head still spins; the hiss of the fridge and the murmur of his television tell him welcome home, sweetheart.

When Gabriel grazes his fingers over the dust-covered screen of his old LCD, his skin prickles with static that feels like a lover's kiss on fingertips scarred by cold blue fire.

"Come dance with me, sometime.”

"Love by the minute, forever by the hour, sweetheart.”

Gabriel, dizzy-drunk on life, molten sizzling warmth in his stomach and his soul rattling in his body like loose wires, disconnected, tuned out, grins.

"I've got time. I'm gonna find you."

[fromtheshadcws-moved]

@booptheworld

Dame pan y dime tonto, she said to him, face splitting open in a bloody grin when he had found her, and Reaper wasn't sure whether to smother her or embrace her.

Goons still on their trail, the miserable scene illuminated by brightly flashing warning lights and alarm that makes him want to grab his ears or a drink or both, anything to get rid of this fucking migraine.

And Sombra, fucking Sombra, all banged up and nowhere to go, collapsing into giggles that bordered on the hysterical. Clutching her translocator, idly beeping, in one hand, the front of Reaper' s coat in the other, and if he squinted he could see the beginnings of a bruise starting to bloom on her temple.

He picked her up like a princess and for once, she didn't complain. It made him rage. Even back at their own little hiding spot, as she swatted his hands away when he tried to clean her split lip, his stomach squirmed and his fingers trembled as he turned away.

She'd laughed, brushed past him to get to her computer because he imagined her fingers were itching to get to work with this new information. Normally, he'd have let her. This time, he grabbed her by the shoulder and twisted, roughly, towering over her. She looked up, eyes a little dim but no longer fading in and out, and Reaper bared his teeth.

Dame pan y dime tonto, huh?

“Even if it kills you?”

A shrug. “But it didn't, guapo. And I got-”

He kissed her then, rough, all teeth and blood and snarling, and even then he knew she was never going to let him live this down. Not in a million years.

"Don't wait up." A growl, a gust of wind and he was gone; he didn't look back, but some part of him hoped that maybe this time, he would have at least left her a little speechless. That would be the one fucking silver lining to this shitfest of a day.

//

The trail of corpses was noticed, eventually, and cleaned up, but somehow they managed to stay under the radar long enough to return to their day-to-day routine. In as much as they had one, at Talon.

Nothing changed.

Nothing changed, only that in an idle moment, Sombra kissed him. The blood was gone but his mouth tasted like iron regardless, and when she pulled back, the urge to duck away and leave was almost too strong. She tasted like orange juice and he like ashes and he licked his lips, almost confused. Sombra just laughed, booping his nose like she did every day.

“Dame pan y dime tonto, guapo. Let them look, this time”

[fromtheshadcws-moved]

☯ + the slipstream incident

"What the fuck do you mean, it's gone?"

After the silence that had seemed to last forever, Reyes' voice was the one that cut through the tension and with it, murmurs started up again. None of them, however, dared to look at him, which really told him everything he wanted to know.

He wasn't even meant to be here. It wasn't Blackwatch intel; it was just a goddamn first flight of a new aircraft, and one they might not even use. Blackwatch had other ways of getting around, and a teleporting ship wasn't the highest on their list of priorities. Or budget. But he had been curious, and Morrison had granted him permission to be present in the control center, watching from a polite - if reluctantly so - distance.

The thing was, he wasn't entirely sure that teleportation was the go-to. Not yet. Not when O'Deorain had explained to him just how finicky it was; people were more complicated than machinery, sure, but this project included both.

They'd lost enough people to the Omnics already, to Talon. Adding more because of their own stupidity...

These people were supposed to know what they were fucking doing. But his guts had been more right than all their fucking calculations and now, with 'COMMUNICATION LOST' flickering on the large screens in huge, red, damning letters, when Reyes looked over to the head of the science department, the one who had given clearance for this test flight, all he got was a hesitant shake of the woman's head.

"We're trying to reestablish communications, but-"

"Not good enough," Gabriel growled. He pushed his way past a stammering scientist and squinted at the data stream, thoughts racing. "It can't just have fucking disappeared. What about the pilot?"

"Sir," the head of Engineering coughed. "Please return to your place in the observation-"

Teeth curled back in a snarl, Gabriel turned to the man. There was something delightful in the way he shrunk back, fear lighting up his impassionate grey eyes.

"Fuck you," Gabriel growled. "There is a goddamn pilot in that experimental ship of yours, and you better not have lost track of her."

Behind him, Morrison talked to the gaggle of scientists in hushed tones, but Gabriel ignored it. He shoved the scientist sitting in his way to the side and sat down, fingers racing over the keyboard. Fuck 'observation deck'. This was one of theirs.

The migraine-inducing flashing lights disappeared in favor of the last few seconds of footage that they had received and Gabriel leaned back in his chair, scrutinizing. No sign of anything going wrong, not even a warning blip on their radar; on one of the screens, the pilot's face appeared, sunshine of a smile and eagerness in her eyes.

"This is bloody fantastic, sir! Oh, one second-"

Attention waxed and waned, some distant clicking of buttons and then-

Nothing.

He rewatched it again and again and again, until the flickering image of the ship teleporting away was burned into his retinas. Even as the discussion behind him turned from hushed to a near-shouting match, Gabriel watched; ever in search of a sign, a clue. Transmissions were still dead; just an eerie static noise from the comm channel that the pilot - Oxton, he thought absently - should be using. Should be checking in on.

"Gabriel-"

Gabriel twitched and flinched away from the gentle touch, eyes burning with rage as he looked up at Jack.

He knew that look.

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

"They're trying, but..." Jack gave him a small shrug. "Unless the ship turns up, there's no way to trace it... Wherever it is."

Wherever it is.

With a sigh, Gabriel pinched the bridge of his nose. A migraine was already lurking, pressing against the back of his mind with more and more insistence. Eyes closed, the brilliant pilot's smile flashed erratically in his mind.

I'm sorry, soldier.