Jesse is seventeen when he finally finds someone to match his mouth.
He's cuffed to a chair, arms behind his back, and there's a right Aryan beauty staring down at him like he’s a piece of meat. The man leans down, puts his hands on the arms of Jesse’s chair, and gets right in his face — doesn't say a fuckin’ thing, just tilts his head like he’s seein’ something worth a damn.
Jesse’s mouth twists down, and he headbutts the motherfucker.
And gets backhanded for it.
The guy’s got a ring on, because of course he does, and Jesse can tell that it cut his cheek up, just a little. Stings like a bitch. But blondie’s bottom lip is split right open, and Jesse watches him grin through it with teeth bared. He doesn't realize he’s growling until the man ruffles his hair and leaves. He can’t believe they took his fucking hat. He’s gonna kill ‘em all.
(Jack walks out of the interrogation cell and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He tells Gabriel to keep that one, and Gabriel sucks the blood from his split lip.)
The Aryan beauty is Overwatch Commander Jack Morrison, and all of Jesse’s Deadlock buddies are dead.
So he kills those memories of camaraderie and rapes the loss he feels. He drowns himself in training and drills and discipline. He becomes a soldier instead of a thug, though he's not really sure what the difference is yet.
He blows a hole through a training bot’s head, and Reyes puts a hand on his shoulder. It’s warm and heavy, and Reyes says, “You did good, boy, take a break.”
“Ain't your boy,” Jesse replies, but he lowers his six-shooter and slides it back into his thigh holster. He’ll clean it back at his bunk. He doesn't shrug out from under Reyes’s hand, but he doesn't look at him either.
Reyes makes a sound that sits right between a laugh and grunt. He squeezes Jesse’s shoulder once, then flicks his cowboy hat forward. Jesse squawks, slaps at his Commander’s arm, gets a stray piece of his hair yanked for his trouble.
(Gabriel falls into bed beside Jack, pushes his nose right into his neck and says, “I want him.”
Jack says, “We’ll have him.”)
Jesse doesn't realize he’s standing at the precipice of something great until he’s been shoved off of it, over the cliff’s edge and he's plummeting, plummeting, plummeting down.
Morrison puts a tray down in front of him and says, “You're too skinny.”
Reyes ruffles his hair more and more often, and, each time he does, his hand grows slower and slower. Until it's just a stroke, and Jesse purrs at him like somethin’ pathetic.
Morrison puts that stupid blue duster over his shoulders when the Siberian cold starts to get to him on an op. Reyes is the one to take it back, once they get back to Moscow.
He catches the two of them kissing against a wall and it’s Morrison that sees him watching. He looks at Jesse over Reyes’s shoulder and his eyes are so, so blue. His fingers are white and long like piano keys and they tangle so prettily in Reyes’s black curls. Jesse wonders what happened to his Commander’s beanie.
But Morrison is just looking at him, and he sees Reyes’s hand sneak down, down, down. Morrison flutters his eyes closed like he doesn't have a choice, like he'd rather keep staring, and Jesse has just turned eighteen.
(“Scare him away, huh, ricura?”
“Put that mouth to better use, Gabe, the way I taught you.”)
Jesse climbs the ranks like they’re rungs on a ladder and he's being chased. Eventually, they give him his own room, and he thinks about Morrison and Reyes a lot while he's in there. He thinks about Morrison’s eyes and Reyes’s hair. He does not let it become a problem.
Until it doesn't matter anymore.
Reyes bumps his arm on his way to mess, puts his hand right between Jesse’s shoulder blades, and says, “Get lunch with me?”
It's not phrased like a question but there's a lilt in his voice, like he's not sure what Jesse’s response will be. Stupid, considering the shiver that skips down Jesse’s spine.
“Sure,” he replies. He looks up at Reyes’s face and sees that there's a crescent shaped bruise coloring his cheek and brow bone. Reyes wears it like he's proud of it, like it looks good on him, the son of a bitch.
(He is, and it does.)
Reyes walks with him around the back of the hall, into the kitchen where the staff smiles and hands him two trays. Jesse goes to take one from his Commander, but another cook pushes a third tray into his hands.
“You just- You just figure I couldn't pass this up?” he asks, a little incredulous, as they walk away. He doesn't recognize the path they’re taking, but he knows it isn't back towards the mess tables.
Reyes laughs, and Jesse is sure he would pet his hair if his hands weren't full. “Figured you wouldn't say no,” he says, mouth tweaked up, “No matter what I asked.”
And, shit, if that doesn't make Jesse’s hair stand on end. This lunch- He knows it’s more than that. It’s an invitation. To somethin’. He taps his thumb against the edge of his tray and tries not to think about what he’s walking into. Or his head might rocket off his shoulders.
They come up to a door that has Strike Commander written below the narrow window, emblazoned in silver. Jesse swallows, loudly, and Reyes’s smile grows a little wider. Asshole. He doesn't knock, just shoulders the door open and strolls in, like he owns the damn place. Jesse follows him like a child, suddenly coltish, suddenly demure.
Morrison doesn't stand to greet them. He looks like he might fall down, if he tried, but he takes the tray Reyes hands him with a little grin. His eyes are dark around the sockets and there’s a bruise coloring the sharp ridge of his jaw purple and blue — there are more than one reason for he and Reyes to have matching marks, and Jesse doesn’t even try to understand which of them applies. Then he turns that smile on Jesse, and Jesse just blinks at him. Reyes pushes him towards a chair at the desk, opposite Morrison, and makes him sit.
And Jesse has never been more frightened in his life.
“You didn't scare him into coming down here, did you?” Morrison asks, and Reyes grunts, sitting beside Jesse and pushing papers off the desk to make room for his lunch tray. It occurs to Jesse that he is in Reyes’s spot. Shit.
“Can't scare me into nothin’,” he replies, and decides that that’s enough from his mouth for the day. He takes a scoop of what’s probably supposed to be squash and makes himself shut up by eating it.
Reyes grunts again like he agrees. He eats like he's starving, and Jesse watches Morrison watch Reyes. Strike Commander takes smaller bites, measured, distracted, like if he looks away from Reyes the moment will be lost. Jesse wonders if that’s what family feels like. Probably.
Morrison says, “You finish that write-up for Tallinn?”
“Workin’ on it. Got, like, two pages left.”
“What is this, high school?” Reyes grins around the fork in his mouth, “Hop off, man.”
Morrison rolls his eyes and it’s so unbearably fond that Jesse makes himself look around the office. He’s surprisingly content to let them ignore him, like this is normal, like they do this every day. They talk around him, not really over him, and it's- Yeah, Jesse can admit that it's nice.
He’s noticing that there's an alarming amount of grey and black and red in Morrison’s office, hardly any blue at all, when a boot taps his calf. He looks up, and Morrison, with his blue, blue eyes, asks, “You good?”
It’s a question with a lot of layers — more than Jesse can count, certainly. But he leafs through all the ways he could be not good and realizes that they’re all bullshit. He’s good. He’s good with this.
“I’m good,” he says, “I’m, uh. I’m good- with this.”
(Jack makes a satisfied little noise, and Gabriel doesn't stop smiling for the rest of the day — not until Jack drags him down in bed and kisses it away.)
Jesse puts his hypothetical money on Reyes. He thinks that there is no way Reyes will let Morrison make the first move. Not with all his alpha male bullshit.
As it turns out, he should have just bet on himself.
The dirt in front of Jesse’s cover explodes in a spray of gunpowder and soil and dead grass. He pops up to return fire- And Reyes hits him hard , shoves him down and blankets him with his own body. Something whizzes through the space where Jesse’s head had just been and — is that a fucking arrow? — embeds itself in the wall across from him.
“Dumbass, fucking puto idiota, so stupid,” Reyes is yelling, but, Jesus, he’s on top of Jesse in the middle of a war zone, saving his life like it’s fun. Jesse is so unfamiliar with want that he doesn't know how to act, doesn't know how to pursue things like a normal person. So he jumps in headfirst, like some kind of dumbass fish.
He gets his hands up around Reyes’s neck, pulls him down that extra inch or two, and kisses him like it’s all he knows how to do.
Reyes makes a noise, and Jesse just swallows it. He feels his Commander’s tongue edge at his teeth, and he tries to swallow that too. It makes Reyes laugh a little, right into his mouth, and it's so sweet. Jesse doesn't know why he hadn't done this sooner. Fuck. He could get hard like this.
Another arrow zips over their heads and thunks into the wall, right beside the first. Reyes’s tongue slides back behind his own teeth, and Jesse actually whines. Only to have his lip nipped at and pulled.
Reyes moves above him and slots their legs together so that he can press and-
“Reyes, McCree, report.”
That's Morrison, crackly and loud in Jesse’s earpiece. Slowly, he realizes what Morrison must have seen: Jesse poking his head out and Reyes tackling him down, neither of them coming back up.
Jesse wants to reply that he’s good, he’s great, pinned under his Commander’s weight, but Reyes beats him to it.
“We’re just fine, ricura,” he says, finger pressed into his ear and purring, and Jesse thinks that, were he anyone else, that would probably bother him. Instead, it makes his gut clench and his breathing hitch. Fuck.
“What the hell are you two doing, we’ve got a job to do,” Morrison shoots back, no-nonsense, and Jesse flicks on his mic to say just taking cover, that's all when Reyes covers his mouth with his hand.
“McCree was just showin’ me what he can do with his mouth, besides run it,” Reyes says, and Jesse hopes to God that no one else heard that. Jesus fuck. But then Morrison is laughing over the line, definitely cracking that white smile of his, and Jesse melts into the dirt a little more.
“You’ve got time for that shit later,” Strike Commander replies, “Get this done first.”
Reyes grunts the affirmative and gives Jesse a shark grin.
They get the job done.
When later comes, Jesse is so exhausted that standing long enough to shower is an accomplishment all on its own. He’s falling asleep under the spray, head bobbing, so of course that’s where Reyes catches him.
“Dry off, get dressed,” he says, and Jesse does so on autopilot. He feels floaty and as heavy as lead at the same damn time. This always happens after an op, no matter the turn out. He runs himself into the ground each time, collapses into bed afterwards and sleeps like he’s hungover.
He startles when Reyes pushes at his arm, realizes he’d started to drift off with his shirt halfway on, and tries to shake himself to attention. It doesn't work, but he does manage to pull his shirt down. He looks at Reyes and remembers being pinned by him. He begs his body to wake up, to think about how fucking hot that was, but some part of his brain wonders what sleeping under that warm, solid weight must be like, and he loses the battle spectacularly.
It must show on his face, because Reyes says, “Don't worry about it,” and guides him away from the showers.
Jesse barely has the energy to realize that this isn't the direction to his room at all, and he's definitely too far gone to give a shit. Reyes walks him through a door and, hey, there's a bed. He’s given just the tiniest nudge and it's all he needs to tip forward, face falling right into a pillow that smells like shampoo and cologne and sweat and something wonderfully male.
“Get some sleep, kid.”
He does not need to be told twice.
(“What did you do to him? Jesus,” Jack says, first thing out of his mouth when he slips into their room. His eyes find Jesse sprawled out on their bed, clothed, clean, and out cold, and he raises an eyebrow at Gabriel.
Gabe shrugs, feet up on the coffee table like Jack has asked him not to do, “Put the little shit to bed. He was drowning in the shower; thought he might do better here.”
Jack’s overcoat is thrown over the back of the couch and he falls down into the seat beside Gabe, “You work him too hard.”
“Works himself too hard,” Gabriel replies, stretching his arms above his head and draping one over Jack’s shoulders, “He’s a lot like you.”)
Jesse wakes in a sweaty, hot startle. He is sticky in none of the fun ways, and he can’t move. He’s pinned down and, yes, he begins to panic. He wiggles and squirms under the hot, hot weight, until he feels a hand on his shoulder and a voice so rough it must have been aged in a fucking barrel.
It’s Morrison, shaking him lightly. Jesse, head still foggy with sleep, makes a noise that steps right up to the edge of a whine, and blinks into the dimness of the room.
“C’mmander,” he says, swallowing. Jesus, he’s sweating out of his skin. He squirms again, getting his hands under the heat and the heaviness that has made itself right at fucking home on top of him. His hand brushes soft curls and he twines his fingers in them, pulling.
“He tends to migrate towards whoever’s warmest,” Morrison says. Jesse pauses in his pushing and yanking to look at the blonde. He’s sitting right there against the headboard. In the same bed that Jesse and this other fucking prick are in. With a tablet propped up on his knees. Motherfucker doesn’t look even the least bit sorry.
“Fucker’s killin’ me,” Jesse wheezes, and the tablet gives enough light that he can see Morrison’s smirk. The glow is pale and it makes him look paper-white and tissue-thin.
But the Strike-Commander reaches over and places his hand on the back of Reyes’s neck. He must squeeze, or something, because Jesse feels Reyes shudder all the way from Morrison’s hand down to his knees. He doesn’t roll off of Jesse, just shoves his face into his throat and shifts to better slot their legs together.
“Oye , mi chico,” he rumbles, and, fuck , if that doesn’t touch Jesse in all the right places. It occurs to him, then, what kind of situation he’s in, and how damn important this could be. Jesse’s never been one for emotional tangos — never been good at the delicacies that come with real relationships. But Reyes is on top of him. Again. And Jesse glances back at Morrison just in time to see his smirk shift into something much, much sharper. More teeth. More intent.
So Jesse jumps right in, like he always has. He won’t be scared by this.
His fingers, still wound tight in Reyes’s hair, curl and tug a little more, just to feel Reyes shift in response. He’s still burning like a fucking furnace, and it’s still just as uncomfortable, but Jesse feels how soft his Commander’s hair is, how hard his body is against him, and he just doesn’t give a shit.
Reyes is breathing hot against Jesse’s neck, so he tucks his head down to speak right into his ear, “Sí, mi Comandante.”
Reyes’s beard scratches against Jesse’s throat when he presses his mouth to his Adam’s apple. It’s not a kiss so much as a scraping of teeth, a growl pressed right through his skin, into his bloodstream. And, shit, that's it. That'll do it.
Jesse’s cock starts to swell in his ratty sweats, and Reyes must know, because he twists his hips in a way that gets Jesse to gasp.
“Shit,” he huffs out, and Reyes chuckles so deeply that Jesse can feel it move through their chests.
Reyes gets an elbow under himself, and he uses the gap between them to slide his other hand up Jesse’s shirt. His skin is wet from sweat, and the fresh air raises up a wave of goosebumps, but Reyes’s hand on his belly, just below his ribs, is hot like a damn brand. Jesse feels him nuzzle up the line of his throat, feels his beard scrape against his jawline, and then they’re breathing the same air. Jesse arches up to kiss him, but Reyes pushes him back down with a smile.
"We were s’posed to talk about this,” he says, and Jesse can taste the words. They’re so good, so nice, but he doesn’t want to talk .
“Talk later,” he replies. He is almost nineteen years old, and he wants to rut. Like a damn dog, like a starved coyote. Jesse bucks up, tries to get their cocks together, and Reyes, fuck him, grips his hip with that hot, hot hand. He squeezes around the bone and keeps Jesse pinned down to the mattress. His thumb digs into the space between the arch of Jesse’s iliac crest and his pubis, and Jesse groans, higher and whinier than he would like.
“We really should talk ‘bout this, kid.”
“Not a kid,” Jesse says, though it comes out like a plea. He’s growing rapidly harder, tenting his pants, “‘M your- Fuck, ‘m your boy, r’member?”
Reyes damn near growls from atop him, eyes alight, dark like twin eclipses. He squeezes Jesse’s hip like he wants to break it. And he probably could, goddamn, snap his pelvis right in half, have his way with what's left. Jesse’s cock drools and he swallows. Reyes opens his mouth to say something, but Jesse beats him, “Called me that ‘n’ now you got me.” He tries to lift his hips up again, whines when he can't, “Got me good; do somethin’ with me, dammit.”
Jesse is sure he’s going to say no, stubborn son of a bitch.
Reyes says, “Such a f-”
But Morrison cuts in, “Give it to him, Gabe.”
Jesse shakes at the sound of his voice. He’d forgotten he was there, taking up half the bed while he and Reyes romp and roll beside him. Jesse makes himself look at the other man and finds that he looks completely disinterested. He’s focused on that damn tablet, tapping away, won’t even look at them, but the effect he has on Reyes is sudden and immediate; he takes his hand away from Jesse’s hip, slides it down to press against his groin, no preamble, no hesitation. It makes Jesse buck and jump, groaning because the pressure feels so good and smooth and electric.
Jesse’s head spins as Reyes eases both their cocks out of their sweatpants, one after the other, and when the older man grinds his hips down, Jesse can't quite remember how to breathe. He squirms, and Reyes let's him, a rough slide where their cocks meet.
Jesse gets his hands on Reyes’s chest, scrunches up his shirt and doesn't let go. He’s a wreck, all ruffled up. Reyes puts his weight on one elbow, holds his free hand in front of Morrison’s face, and Jesse watches Morrison spit into Reyes’s hand with an ease that looks practiced.
“Oh Jesus, Lord, I’m so fu- hhuucked,” he says, words melting right out of his mouth when Reyes gets his big, spit-slicked hand around both of them.
One of them laughs, Morrison or Reyes, Jesse can't tell. Reyes doesn't move his hand, just holds firm enough to fuck into, and the hot grind of his cock against Jesse’s is enough to drive him wild. His hips cant up and twitch back down, an erratic, uneven beat, but no one is stopping him — probably couldn't if they tried. So he digs his head back into the mattress, grits his teeth, tangles one hand back into Reyes’s curly hair, and it gets Reyes to groan, long and low. He buries his face into Jesse’s neck.
“You got no idea,” Reyes puffs into his throat. He’s got the entire length of Jesse’s neck exposed and he teeths his way up it, marks him real, real good. He gets to Jesse’s jaw, barely enough hair there to be called stubble, and rubs the corner of his mouth against it like a cat. His hand tightens around their cocks, the rhythm he fucks his fist with speeds, and Jesse pushes into Reyes’s face, Reyes’s grip, Reyes’s cock.
He squeezes his eyes shut, wrinkles his nose, twitches and shakes all over, and then there's a hand in his hair. It’s big and cool, stroking over his scalp, and he can feel a shadow move over him in the already-dark. He opens his eyes just in time to see Morrison, just in time to feel Morrison’s mouth on his, already open, already wet. Morrison's hand tightens in his hair, Jesse feels his tongue edge at his teeth, and then he thinks about those fucking piano keys again.
He comes and it tightens him up like barbed wire on an old fence. He makes a noise, but his mouth snaps shut; his knees come up, and he probably catches Reyes in the side. The hand that’s still in Reyes’s hair squeezes and pulls without being told to do so, and Jesse feels Reyes's teeth dig into the meat of his neck.
He shivers, toes curled, breath coming hot and fast, and he whines because Reyes hasn't stopped yet. Jesse’s spunk is spread over both their shirts and Reyes’s fist, and it makes the grind of his cock wet and slippery. Jesse barely comes down from his blissed-out little high before his eyes are rolling back into his head, too much stimulation, too much heat and sparks and fire in his gut.
Morrison’s hand strokes through his hair, and Jesse sees him, through bleary eyes, lean his nose into Reyes’s hair.
“Come, Gabriel,” he says, loud and clear, and, Jesus, he does.
Reyes shudders like a plucked guitar string. Jesse cranes his neck to watch Reyes’s come mix with his own, and it’s real pretty. The head of his cock is ruddy and wet, swollen up next to Jesse’s, which is still partially hard, and Jesse runs his fingers through the other’s dark hair. When he looks up, Morrison is staring at him like they’re sharing a secret.
And then Reyes is done and dry. He doesn't collapse so much as submit to a controlled descent, settles himself down, stretched out on top of Jesse with their come sandwiched between them.
“‘S this a developing habit?” Jesse asks. He is surprised at how worn down he sounds. He stretches his legs out, reaches with his toes, and groans as his muscles all loosen up at once.
“Seems pretty developed,” Morrison says, pulling himself away from them both. Jesse can see his tablet still glowing on the end table, but Morrison doesn't pick it up again.
“Do you, uh, I mean,” Jesse squirms, tries to gesture with his hands, “You didn’t come or nothin’ yet.”
Jesse barely has time to turn red before he feels Reyes shift and get his hand back down to where their groins meet. He tucks Jesse’s cock back into his pants, and it makes him jerk and twitch, which earns him a smile from the man that just fucked him silly.
“He’s fine,” Reyes says, and he pushes up off of Jesse and off of the bed, turns around and walks into what Jesse thinks is probably a private bathroom. Lucky sons-a-bitches.
Jesse makes to get up and follow him, suddenly sticky and cold, but Morrison says, “Stay,” like he’s talking to a dog, and Jesse does. Falls back onto the mattress in a sprawl.
When Morrison moves for the first time, it’s to pull Jesse’s shirt off, which he is totally on-board with. The shirt is wadded up and thrown onto the floor, and Morrison pivots so he can look at Jesse’s face without twisting himself around.
“We’ve been lookin’ to catch you,” he says, “And keep you.” His eyes are bright and blue even in the dark. Jesse doesn't know how that’s fair at all.
“Thinkin’ y’all caught me good,” Jesse says, swallowing.
He hears Reyes come back, but doesn't look at him until he feels a warm rag on his belly, wiping him down. His gut clenches, and he starts to sit up again, but Morrison presses his palm to Jesse’s chest.
“I said stay,” he says, but it's not threatening, just firm. Jesse shivers and does as he is told.
He lets Reyes clean him up, let's Morrison look at him. He feels a little bit flayed, spread real thin, but eventually he sinks into a limp complacency. He could probably fall asleep like this, shirtless and fucked out in his CO’s bed.
“You want this to work, McCree?” Morrison asks, and Jesse looks from him to Reyes, back and forth again.
He swallows, nods, says, “Sure, sir,” which he knows makes Morrison chuckle because the whole mattress shakes a little, and then Reyes stretches himself out again, beside Jesse instead of on top of him.
“Then we’ll make it work,” Morrison says, and that's all the reassurance Jesse needs. Reyes drapes an arm over Jesse’s chest, pushes his nose into his hair, and, goddamn, Jesse suddenly knows exactly what butterflies in the stomach feel like.
Morrison lays down on Jesse’s other side, keeps some distance until Reyes grabs him by his shirt collar. They kiss, right there, in the space above Jesse’s chest, and his heart starts to thump a little too fast, too loud. Maybe he makes a noise, because they break apart and Reyes runs a hand through Jesse’s hair, like a pet. Makes him hum and close his eyes, relaxed down to the marrow of his bones.
He’s asleep before he can count to ten.