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English
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Published:
2016-06-11
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1,952
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1/1
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wtrmlncrshdbtwnthighs.mp4

Summary:

In which Gabe realizes just how serious Jack is about seeking death between his thighs.

Notes:

so i asked noah when i donated the summary for his fic if this meant that i had to write the sequel where jack actually does get squashed by gabe's thighs, and he said yes, so, well, here we all are,

reading the prequel isn't necessary, but events do get referenced

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

Of course when Morrison had said he’d prefer death via suffocation in Gabriel’s thighs to being shot, Gabe hadn’t expected it to be so literal.

Yet the situation is still this: one more filthy, abandoned warehouse, one more mission they’re both ignoring in favor of their booty call, Gabriel’s bodysuit in the vicinity of his knees, Jack with his pants rucked down to mid-thigh and his cock hanging out; 76 is 69-ing (ha) the Reaper, on his hands and knees above Gabriel, and there’s a distinctly glazed look in Jack’s eyes when he pulls off of Gabe to breathe, directly caused by the pressure Gabe had been putting on his skull with the clutch of his thighs around his temples.

“Jesus fucking wept,” Gabe states flatly, because Jack had been spending enough time just reveling in the sensation for Gabe to notice despite his own distraction; he punctuates the statement with a shimmy, muscle flexing against the prickle of Jack’s short hair, and Jack’s dick flexes and drools a bead of pre where it’s hanging spit-slick against Gabe’s cheek.

“Morrison,” Gabe starts, summarily considers and discards the next three things he could say before settling on, “You gonna keeping staring at it all day or actually get back to sucking,” then bites Jack’s inner thigh hard enough to break skin to goad him – which apparently startles Jack back into the present, the man twitching full-bodied; Jack shifts his weight and drawls, “Just admirin’ how fucked up your cock looks, Reyes,” to cover his reaction, the words tumbling out in that infuriatingly Midwestern golden boy drawl that had been the hallmark of many an Overwatch recruitment holo back in the day. Gabe growls at it, at the reminder of how things had been, and turns his head just enough to get Jack’s cock into his mouth on the tail end of the noise.

Above him, Jack grunts in surprise, then finally (finally!) gets the hint and bends to Gabe’s dick, takes the tip into the mouth that’s usually so well-hidden behind the tactical visor and mask; Gabe lets himself tense up at the way Jack runs the flat of his tongue over the flare of the head, the way he shifts to get both hands on Gabe’s thighs around his skull, sliding fingers between lace and sweat-slick skin; Gabe lets himself tense up and the long muscles of his thighs go tight against Jack’s hands, Jack’s head where it’s buried between Gabe’s legs, and swallows around the responding twitch of Jack’s length in his mouth. He lifts one hand to fondle Jack’s balls at the same time he digs the other in against one asscheek, leaving bruises deeper than he’d intended for the way Jack suddenly finds his rhythm in that moment, sinking down three inches onto Gabe all at once. Gabe would snarl at it if his mouth weren’t full; he grabs Jack’s ass in both hands in retaliation instead, rolls his hips up, and hopes Jack fucking chokes.

Sadly for Gabe’s ego, Jack rides him like a champ, takes in another two inches, massages Gabe’s thighs through the garters and stockings, and Gabe feels something like a fond, well-trodden fury flare up in his chest at it, squeezing his thighs together in retaliation, reaction, to the heat.

Jack bottoms out, the head of Gabe’s cock sliding straight onto his soft palate, and Gabriel has to pull off to shout an obscenity at Jack fucking Morrison as the man swallows and nearly chokes around his cock, swaying slightly on his hands and knees above Gabe at the pressure being put on his skull, crushing him dizzy. Gabe bares his teeth, licks Jack’s rock-hard length, and squeezes his legs together tighter for just a second – before untensing entirely and using the grip he has on Jack’s ass to flip the man onto his back.

Jack lands heavily, breath punched out of him by his impact with the concrete, and before he can sit up, before he can even say anything else, Gabe is on top of him, fingers in Jack’s short hair and his ass parked in front of Jack’s face. There’s a brief pause as Jack reorients, and then he says, “Christ, Reyes, you smell like that damn mission in Chattanooga,” to which Gabriel growls, “It wasn’t in fucking Chattanooga, old man. Memory starting to go?”

He knows what Jack means, though: the one mission in Overwatch’s infant days that had taken them down to the Southern United States in the dog days of July. The foliage had been startlingly, unnervingly emerald, and the humidity had clung to them like a lover as they’d hiked through inches of forest loam to get to their objective; it had been the cleanest air Gabe had breathed that year, but the scent of decaying plant matter had coated the inside of his mouth, all disintegrating lushness, overripe and sickly sweet. The bodies of the aftermath, bloated after only a few hours in the heat, hadn’t helped. Gabriel rubs his fingertips together and the sensation is gliding-smooth, like talcum powder, and he knows it smells like the South, like sticky sweat and the sun-hot leather in their gear, deer half-eaten by puma and infested with bluebottles, and untended roses rotting off their stems. He’d swear sometimes he can hear the drone of cicadas even in the city.

He knows what Jack means, though the thought and memories it evokes makes the incandescence in his chest bloom full-bodied, claw past his ribcage and into his belly, makes his fingers itch to wrap around Jack’s neck and squeeze until he’s gasping, blue, and still, and he knows what Jack means, and it’s like this, like them, like the tremble of a finger on a hairpin trigger.

“Less talk, more jaw,” is what Gabriel demands instead of violence, instead of bloodsplatter and shotgun shells plinking off the ground. “Else I’ll dye this damn grey mop red,” and Jack has the fucking audacity to huff like a laugh even as Gabriel drags him closer by the hand he has in his hair. Jack breathes hot over Gabe, grabs handfuls of his ass then his thighs, touches the cold metal of his jawpiece to Gabe’s skin, and grunts, “Thought you wanted more jaw,” when Gabriel yanks at his scalp.

“Morrison,” Gabe snarls, and Jack finally, finally puts his mouth on him, tongue flat-wet-hot over sensitive nerve endings, lipping at tender skin before licking a broad swath across the clench of Gabe’s muscles. He repeats the motion even wetter than before and strokes up Gabe’s thighs in time to it; Gabriel hisses and settles his weight more squarely on Jack’s face, one hand between his legs yanking at Jack’s hair whenever he does something good, the other wrapped around his dick, jerking himself off this side of too tight, teeth bared. When Jack points his tongue and pushes through, fucking into him filthy wet with spit, Gabe shouts and thrusts down, uncaring of the way he can feel how he’s jostling Jack with the forcible motion – because the fucker probably likes it, Gabriel looking over his shoulder to confirm, down the length of Jack’s body to where his cock stands at attention, curving up towards his stomach and bouncing with every roll of Gabe’s hips for the way Jack is also squirming underneath him. He flexes his ass, his thighs, feels Jack grope hungrily at the tension, digging fingertips in against tendons drawn taut; Gabe feels Jack gasp for air, mouth wide against damp skin for the lack of space he has, and Gabriel sits more firmly down at it, feeding the furious heat in his belly with the sound of Jack’s smothered choke.

The other man doesn’t tap out, doesn’t try to throw Gabe off, claws instead at Gabe’s thigh to get fingers around one of his garters, then his jock strap, then his buttocks, gasping hitched, crushed breaths all the while until he manages to slide one finger too-dry too-much into Gabriel’s ass where he’d licked him soft and open; Gabriel howls, fury excitedly twisting back on itself, and rocks onto the balls of his feet enough for Jack to draw one full breath – which he manages before Gabe is rolling back down to meet Jack’s mouth, the man below him licking at where his finger slides in and out of Gabe, spreading and pressing to work another digit in.

At three and Jack’s tongue, Jack pulls away just enough to bite, scrapes his canines and eyeteeth over the stretch of Gabe around his index, middle, ring, over the surrounding tender tissue, and that’s it, that’s enough, Gabe barely managing to haul Jack up between his thighs by his hair to catch the last two strokes before Gabriel comes all over his face – and Jack just takes it, blue eyes blitzed pupil-black and mouth open as he gasps for air.

“Fuck,” Gabe breathes, then drops Jack’s head to the concrete with a hollow thud, rolls back on his heels to outright sit on Jack’s chest, the other man groaning faintly under the pressure of Gabe’s body, Gabe’s gear, and the multiple shotguns still hanging in Gabe’s coat. Gabriel smirks at it, leans forward to slap lightly at Jack’s cheek, quips, “Don’t die on me yet, old man.”

“Fuck you, Reyes,” is the beginning of Jack’s grated response, which chokes off into nothing, Jack digging fingertips into Gabe’s thighs, when Gabe leans back enough to get a hand around Jack’s cock.

“I’d take you up on that, Jack, if I didn’t think you’d blow as soon as I sat down,” Gabe replies, lets go just to see Jack react, combs his fingers backwards through the silver curls at Jack’s belly and groin standing tacky-tufted from pre, and takes him into hand again when Jack rolls his hips impatiently, straining underneath Gabe’s weight. As predicted, it doesn’t take much more for him to come, barely a half-dozen strokes with Gabe holding on a little too tight before Jack’s twitching and shuddering, digging his heels in against the concrete; Gabe keeps his hand moving until Jack grunts in discomfort, and pulls a few more times for good measure after that, just to see him squirm. When Gabe lets go, he wipes his hand across the front of Jack’s jacket, deliberately smearing the creamy streaks there broader, and says an insincere, “Whoops,” to Jack’s tired, annoyed face.

(He does tuck him back into his pants, though, brusquely yanking Jack’s underwear and trousers back up his legs as he stands.)

 

They get dressed mostly in silence – until Gabe comments, as he’s fastening his third belt and making sure it lies correctly across his hips, “Didn’t know you were that into my thighs, Morrison.”

Jack completely stops his efforts in getting their cum out of his clothes and hair, looks at Gabriel, and then tells him, completely seriously, “Gabe, everything below your stomach’s built like a Cadillac fucked Kim Kardashian. How could I not like it?”

Gabriel stares back at him in complete disbelief – before deadpanning, “I’m leaving now and pretending the last couple of seconds didn’t happen to spare both of us experiencing those words coming outta your mouth.”

(He stays long enough to get dressed, to bite a few bruises into the length of Jack’s neck, and to put a few more on him for good measure, one at each of the corners of Jack’s mouth, before sliding into cellular ash and drifting away.)

 

(He doesn’t go too far. There’s no way 76 could clean himself up completely before his team missed him, and the Reaper wants to see if McCree will be the unlucky bastard to realize what had happened first again.)