[ @ccrruption continued from xx ]
He knows it’s the wrong thing to do the moment he presses his nose close, warming the weather-chilled tip against the other’s skin and he’s uncertain if it’s the tension threading along Jack’s shoulders or the grab of his wrists that snap him out of it. Still, he can’t move and it’s not entirely due to that secure grip the blond has upon him. He’s always been intoxicating. Beneath the suppressors, the scents of the others that Jack is often around, beneath it all is the telltale flavor he can almost taste upon his tongue.
He wants to, there’s no denying that. He wants to beyond the fleeting and often chaste brushes of mouth to a cheek, a neck or the rare touch of lips.
Time and time again he reminds himself that he can’t, they can’t, and some kind of distance has to be maintained. He’s the Strike Commander after all. The Golden Boy in the public eye while he’s nothing more than the mangy soldier swept beneath a rug and kept secret. The speaking of his name is both a warning and a plea, tearing him in two different directions. He wants to step back, needs to, but he can’t. He nudges closer, only to find Jack pulling away from him, sinking as if pained to the ground at his feet.
It’s a sight that makes him freeze in place and bring a sense of agonizing clarity. He steps back then, ready to turn and go about his way, head ducked and hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie, though he’s stopped again, this time by the trembling fingers that reach for him. It feels like an eternity before he works up the will to move, not in retreat, but in a careful lowering of his weight to the ground.
That hand is taken and Jack is drawn into his side, held close by the wrap of his arm and the return of his nose to his neck. It’s the front he breathes against now; slow, steady. Imprinting him to memory as he has done so many times before.
“I should go,” his voice soft and no more than a murmur.
he’s shaking. he can’t stop it, not this time. more than once they’d seen each other out of sorts in public yet they were still able to maintain composure. the two respected commanders, alpha and omega, heads high and words strong and secure. it didn’t matter what issues they were having in private, everything melted away in the public eye. but here, they were alone. alone, and jack was terrified of the sensation tugging at his chest, making him sweat, making him unsure.
no, he wasn’t unsure. he knew exactly what he wanted.
being against gabriel’s side was nice, it was comforting, but it wasn’t enough. on hands and knees, jack moves to his front, pressing to his chest and keeping them flush together. those same trembling hands grip at fabric now, his shirt, anything he can reach. feeling those lips against his neck, the warmth of his breath. fighting against everything they were meant to be yet again. it’s all they ever did. fight. resist. overwatch was crumbling, people calling for blood in the streets -- some even calling for morrison himself to step down, for his trial as a traitor, to find him guilty of espionage, to put him in jail for the rest of his life. he was the figurehead, and carried the brunt of the hate on his shoulders.
everything was burning around them, everything was falling apart, but they still had each other. they always had each other. they always would.
“no, gabe --” the words are choked out, holding fast, refusing to let him loose just yet. “please don’t, don’t go. god, don’t leave me again. you always leave...” calloused hands find their way to that head of familiar thick dark hair, keeping his face against his neck, his own head tilting to expose that gorgeous and unmarked expanse of skin at the base. his soft purring, his scent, his posture -- everything screamed, begged, pleaded for gabriel.
