howling at || N O T H I N G

lorcanthropy:

Two people ever got Mal to freeze even for the slightest of seconds: His father–the abusive prick–and Dom. Dom wasn’t happy about being woken up, and he wasn’t about to drag an angry wolf into a tiff that had no reason to even exist. “Two things, in the sink!” he hissed, crossing his arms. 

His voice lowered, Mal continued to argue, “An’ they’re bloody rinsed. Not in th’way of makin’ anythin’. No one’s askin’ yeh t’be a bleedin’ maid, either.” Mal could clean up after himself, but it had been late and they had all been tired. Why was this even an issue? Was his dirty plate and glass somehow a carrier of a new super-plague he was unaware of? “Get yer knickers straight an’ use th’other side’ve th’sink, fer chrissake.”

it’d be almost comical watching the pair of them freeze when he rose his voice if dominik wasn’t irritated over being dragged out of bed to settle this. the bedroom door is left open, sheets rucked to the side as he draws closer with bare feet and a low warning growl to the pair of them. the pair of them weren’t likely to get accustomed to the change in routine just yet, that was apparent.

“I said to shut up. Both of you.”

there’s a snarl to his voice now and he lets out a terse breathe, walking past the two pups to instead set about working on making coffee. unceremoniously he pours the old pot of stale brew right on the dirty dishes and turns to pull out a pan off the hook to drop onto the stove. two birds one stone. once the coffee machine is gurgling, he pauses just long enough to draw in a steading breath. patience was far from his strong suit.

“Sit. Now.”

He nearly flinches at the harsh tone, but pride and composure won’t let him. He’s not some simpering, tail-tucking pup anymore. He refuses to be. So he keeps his shoulders squared, chin high, eyes sharp and narrowed. Some part of him knows he’s being petty. It would’ve been easy to wash the plate and glass--any other day, he would’ve just done it and not said a damn thing. It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. 

Today, it does. 

He sits down, teeth clenching as stale coffee splashes over the dishes. He wishes he’d just washed them. He shouldn’t have said anything. But he balls his fists under the table and listens to the pan clang and the coffee machine start. He wills it to percolate faster, because he knows the faster Dom gets caffeine, the faster his short fuse lengthens and his temper settles.

Boxer boy? Ooh, when he wasn’t falling apart, Mal would box him about the ears for that. Christ. He didn’t need stitches, his body was already doing that work for him, and this was just wasting time. He stayed still, though, let him sew him up. Waste of a first aid kit, really, Mal needed those for when his boxers threw a punch too hard and didn’t want to call an ambulance. He’d been a field medic, he’d seen worse.

“Course I fuckin’ know that, yeh twerp.” He groused, but it was already done, and Mal was getting to his feet. “It’d take a lot more fer me t’bleed out, boyo,” he heard Dom’s voice in his ear–play nice–and sighed. “Cheers.” Buttoning his shirt back up, he squared his shoulders, “Feel like comin’ on a little adventure with me?” The men who had stabbed him hadn’t gotten far, and it sounded like a fantastic idea to teach them a little lesson. 

Satisfied he’s done his due, Jamie grabs a towel off the rack and wipes his hands with a grimace. He really doesn’t like the mess. “Took you a while to work up to the thank you, but I’ll take it.” He wasn’t really expecting that much. He found him bleeding, closed him up. It would’ve been stranger not to do it, and Dom would’ve been ... well, not pleased. He knew Mal would’ve healed eventually, but the stitches seemed neater. And faster. 

✧ – @scrxffed & @lorcanthropy

“Both of you shut the fuck up.” it comes out a snarling growl, agitation visible as he’s woken up by the sound of voices. too loud, too close. the pair of them are still working out the logistics of this fucked up thing and dominik is resolutely stubborn in refusing to choose. in his mind it was stupid, there was no need to choose.

so he peeks an eye open, irises stained crimson, and regards the pair of them with a muscle jumping at his jaw.

Oh, and it takes everything Jamie has not to freeze at the sound of Dom’s voice. He doesn’t like being scolded. Never has. And apparently, it’s not something he could ever grow out of. He’s finding that’s true for more and more things, the longer he spends with Dom. 

“Shush, boxer boy. I’m trying to concentrate.” When Mal bats his hands away, he just puts them right back, pushing edges of torn skin back together so he can stitch the wound closed. It doesn’t have to be a bang-up job. All he had to do was close the wound and Mal’s body would take care of the rest in time. But Jamie’s a perfectionist, so he stitches neatly and efficiently. 

As he got closer, more things came from the boy’s scent, but they’re things Mal tries to ignore, questions come, but not ones he wants to ask this early in the game. He keeps himself light, still easy-going looking, acting, but his age exudes through his pores. He’s not as old as Dom, but his wolf wants to ensure the pup knows who in this room is the alpha between them. It’s calm, though, the atmosphere almost gentle considering the circumstances.

Should the atmosphere change, however, it would be a hard thing for the pup–Jameson–to swing the fight in his favour. Here, in Mal’s home. The lingering thought that Dom may be angry if this should end that way, however, kept him from making the first aggressive move. The handshake was firm, they both had good grips, but Mal didn’t turn it into any sort of contest as he let go.

“Aye, somethin’ we’re all always workin’ on, I wager.” As the seconds ticked on and Jameson revealed more and more about himself, Mal noticed just how many ways they were alike. Con artists, grifters with a nack for reading every little twitch of emotion to cross a mark’s face. Right now, Mal was the mark and he wasn’t fond of the role. He played his cards close to his chest, not about to let this pup get anything over on him. The fact that Dom had told Jameson about him gave him a lot of feelings which he would have to process later. “Never gave me a name, no.” A lie as easy as breathing, “I’d be stupid t’figure I’m th’only wolf he’s ever met, though.”

Jamie knows the score. Mal is bigger, stronger, older. Fully capable of doing real damage, and Jamie’s come to him on his home turf. He’s at a disadvantage--a big one. And his entire presence there is predicated on a single, solitary idea. Not a bluff, not really. He’d hedged his bets, and he knows there’s someone they’d both rather not piss off. 

He’s confident enough to bank on it, smiling as they shake hands and let go. This isn’t about posturing. Jamie’s proud, but he’s not arrogant, and he doesn’t need to try asserting himself over someone who doesn’t seem to have any interest in doing the same. No part of him wants a pissing match. Leave that to the testosterone junkies.

“Met?” His laugh is soft, humorless. “Right, we had a hell of a first meeting. Really left a lasting impression.” Some part of him is still bitter, still looks at the scar on his thigh with disdain for what it did to him. What it does to him every time the moon gets too big in the sky. He doesn’t regret the years he spent with Dom. But he regrets every night he’s spent mindless and rabid under the full moon. It’s not who he is. It’s not what he is, and he hates it. “So what happened between you two? Lover’s tiff?” Idle curiosity, but it’s edged with something meant to hurt. It isn’t fair. Mal looks so comfortable in his skin ... with the thing lurking underneath it. The envy stings, so he lashes out at the source. It’s petty and pathetic. He knows that. Hates that. 

He does it anyway. 

Jameson needs more than words to feel better, that’s the one truth stuck bone deep. Even when he moves and touches, he enjoys how pliable his pup is beneath his hands. The way he melts in his fingertips. Dominik wants to kiss him, to feel his skin under his hands and taste his sweet little whimpers on his tongue. Distantly he thinks of the same question Jameson ponders; why did his boy ever run away? Why did he leave? Only the younger wolf has the answers to that but it can wait. Right now he allows himself to be clung to, to be dragged close.

“I know,” he admits, watching those pretty features twist up with coming tears. “You wanted to hurt me the way I hurt you, baby.” Fingers smooth along Jameson’s distressed features, coaxing him closer where he can hold him in his arms and kiss his forehead. “I’m sorry I couldn’t find you sooner. I thought…” A terse breath slips free and he buries his face in the crook of Jameson’s throat. “I thought someone had killed you, it was the only reason I stopped.” Dominik gives Jameson what he needs to hear, the blatant truth, even as he leans back enough to steal a kiss, to cradle his little boy’s face and slowly devour his mouth with lewd curls of his tongue and soft nips.

Thumbs rub away tears, smoothing the slow dampness until his fingers are slick with it. Dominik pulls away, lingering close and kissing stray tears upon those familiar cheeks. “You’re my sweet little boy, I would never abandon you if I had a choice.” But he hears the soft rumbling of Jameson’s stomach, a physical reminder of the reason he’d taken the other wolf away from the comfort of a bed and placed him close by in the kitchen. Lips press against tears once more, his smile fading until it’s a ghost of before. “You’re hungry, let me make your food and then we can go back to bed or watch some television if you feel up to it.”

Dominik goes through the motions, pulling out plates and finding some bacon left over. First he cooks the french toast, humming softly and pausing between each slice to nuzzle Jameson, stealing a kiss with a slight smirk. Soft words color his song, the language old and twisted up until it’s an inaudible melody. The bacon sizzles, the fragrance filling the kitchen as he lets them cook and checks briefly on the pup’s leg. So far the slight swelling looks as though it’s ebbing, a good sign and he feels gingerly along soft skin, pleased when the bone is lined up until his fingertips. A soft apology slips free as he turns the bacon, letting it curl up and grow crispy.

“If you want, I can give you something for the pain,” he offers, plating the bacon beside the french toast and pouring in the egg wash to the pan to make scrambled eggs. “It might make you feel a little weird but it’ll make you hurt less.” Dominik watches his pup, stirring up the eggs in the pan until they were light and fluffy. Cooking is almost cathartic for him with the weight of Jameson’s eyes following him. The scrambled eggs are browned at the edges and he turns off the stove, plating them and reaching up in the cabinet for syrup. “What do you say baby?”

He has a reason. They both do. Dom had a reason not to come, and oh, it’s good to hear it. So many years thinking he didn’t matter. So many years thinking he’d been released. Unwanted. Discarded. Even addled and dazed, he’s struck by a wave of relief. Not unwanted. Not discarded. Just ... lost. Strayed. Not for the first time, he regrets leaving. Not because of the pain it caused him, but because of the pain he hears seeping into Dom’s voice. He missed him. 

He lets himself be pulled closer. Lets himself be kissed and hugged and held and comforted, because in that moment, it feels right. It feels like he’s supposed to be here, with Dom. Alpha. Safe. He lets out a plaintive whine when Dom pulls away, but he doesn’t go far. Just far enough to cook, and Jamie’s stomach growls angrily to remind him it’s been too long since he’s eaten. How long? He doesn’t know. Before. He just thinks ... before. Bones crunched and his blood sang, and the moon and dirt and sharp teeth at his flank and scruff. 

Before. 

He scrubs his hands over his face, trying to chase away the haze hanging in his head, but it won’t go away. When he tries to make it, the pain comes back. Dom’s prodding his leg. His hands are careful, soft, gentle, but it still hurts. He does growl this time. Softly. It’s not a warning or a threat, but a reflex. It hurts. He doesn’t like being touched where it hurts. 

He’s scrubbing his face again, and he sees Dom looking at him. He asked a question. Jamie swallows, mouth dry. “Already feel weird.” Starving. Dizzy. Sore. Like something in him is trying to sober him up, and something else is trying to drag him back into the fog. He’s not sure which is winning. “Think I need to stand.” But when he shifts toward the edge of the counter, his body protests, and he doesn’t make it far. He chokes down a whine, frowns, and snatches a piece of bacon. Food makes everything better. Dom makes everything better. 

Ah there’s his little pup, keening sweetly and clinging to him for safety. It’s as though they’d never parted. Dominik cards his fingers through dark hair and presses a kiss to flushed skin. He wants to tell the boy to breath, to let his body do the work, but it goes unspoken in the way he holds Jameson and whispers against his skin, “Shh baby, you’re being so good.” Then he hears the familiarity of an apology mumbled out, the sound making him smile just a fraction. It’s like an old dance and he remembers the step like he remembers the taste of air in his lungs.

“It’s okay,” come practiced words. Dominik is gentle with his hands as he makes a temporary brace for the broken leg. Examining Jameson carefully, he allows himself to be weak, to lean in and steal soft kisses with gentle words. “Just like that baby boy.” Hands wander, pressing into skin, feeling, making slow work of ensuring that everything is healing. Jameson is warm, his skin flushed with pain and Dominik hoists the younger boy up into his arms gingerly. Carrying him isn’t difficult, no, it reminds him of when Jameson was younger, his eyes bright and trusting. When he’d bath him and make sure he was safe.

Walking into the kitchen, there’s a soft chuckle on his breath as he glances at the pup in his arms. “You’re okay baby boy, I was angry with you before and it’s my fault you’re hurting. I want to make it all better.” Setting Jameson on the counter, he turns to the refrigerator for a moment, grabbing an ice pack and wrapping it in a towel. Lifting Jameson’s leg, Dominik smoothes the cold compress along his inner thigh, cold fingers ghosting along sensitive skin. Leaning in close, his lips brush along the shell of his pup’s ear and he hums out saccharine warm words with fluttering breath. “You’re my sweet little boy and nothing will change that.”

His nose pressed to dark hair, breathing in Jameson, scenting him. Fingers spread those thighs further, his hand steady with the compress as his free hand runs along the uninjured leg with fluttering touches. It would be so easy to drag him to the edge of the counter, to get down on his knees and taste the sloppy mess he’d left behind in Jameson’s belly. Dominik toys with the idea as cold fingers dance further between warm thighs. “Look at how pretty you are,” he whispers into an ear. “So hungry and so soft for your daddy.” But it’s a tease, to get Jameson sensitive to him once more, to lure him in again with soft words and fleeting kisses.

Pulling away, he leaves a chaste kiss on Jameson’s lips, coaxing the pup to hold the compress to his leg. Dominik focuses on making breakfast just the same way as before their world imploded on itself. There’s a ghost of a smile on his lips as he pulls out ingredients, setting them on the counter as he mills about. “Aside from french toast, what does my baby boy want to eat? I’m in the mood to cook so sky’s the limit.” Dominik talks as he moves, hands working on stirring together the batter he’ll soak the brioche in once the pan heat up on the stove. “Anything at all,” he promises, pulling out more than a few slices and setting them aside with the egg wash before taking his place between Jameson’s legs.

“Let daddy take care of you sweetheart.”

He wants to protect his leg. It’s instinctual, it’s reflexive. He wants to curl around his leg and growl and snarl until the pain stops, but he doesn’t. As strong as those impulses are, there’s a stronger one. The impulse to yield. To let Dom fix it. Make it better. Make the pain stop. Keep him safe when he’s completely and utterly defenseless. His leg is broken. It wouldn’t hold his weight if he wanted it to, and it’ll take at least a day or two before the bone’s mended enough to support him enough to stand on, much less walk or run. Fighting is a pipe dream.

He needs Dom. So even when Dom’s careful touches make the pain worse, even when the splint makes Jamie groan in pain, he doesn’t try to pull away. His breath catches when Dom lifts him up, and his head spins a little with the sudden change in direction and position. He’s tired. The healing takes a lot out of him, and his stomach’s gurgling hungrily, even though the aches make him nauseous. 

“Wanted to hurt you.” It’s whispered like a confession. An apology, soft and distant. His mouth is dry. His voice is hoarse. “I wanted to.” He can’t think of why. He knows there’s a reason, but it’s far away. When he tries to reach for it, it’s like grabbing smoke. It disperses, and he’s left with nothing. His head is fuzzy, drunk off Dom and muddled with the pain. 

He shifts on the hard counter, trying to get comfortable and stilling when Dom lifts his leg. “Cold,” he mutters, but he doesn’t try to push it away. He leans in. He nearly lets his head fall on Dom’s shoulder. He could fall asleep there. Safe. Protected. Food can wait. He’s so tired. There’s a lazy kind of warmth in the pit of his stomach as those cold fingers move up his leg, and Dom’s voice is a thick, scratchy wool blanket that makes him feel boneless and pliable. He tries to think again. Why did he leave this? Why did he run away from this? Again, he knows there was a reason. Distantly, he’s aware that it’s there. But it’s far away from him, out of his reach. He doesn’t try. 

Dom’s moving away, but he’s back again before Jamie can work up the energy to complain. “Bacon?” He doesn’t actually remember the question. He just remembers what his answer would’ve been. He shifts a little closer to the edge of the counter, wincing when bones grind and muscles spasm. He doesn’t remember taking the compress, but it’s cold against his palm as he lifts it up to stare at it, puzzled. His other hand curls in Dom’s waistband. 

“I wanted to hurt you.” 

Oh, so the pup’s talking down to him. That’s a great way to endear himself to Mal and make him feel comfortable and right at home with this whole thing. His movements are fluid, he nearly sloshes around the room as he gets a bit closer, though there is a sort of drunken master-type air to him, like he’s only playing it up, the drunk Irish stereotype. That’s just how he moved, though, like he was liquid, powerful, a flood barely contained by the walls of his skin. 

It didn’t appear that there was a fight brewing, and when he answered with another cocky aside, that was about enough, in all honesty. “Jameson,” normally he liked the name, one of his favourite whiskeys, but this time, uttering it left a bad taste in his mouth, like sucking on a rusty nail. “No, that yeh don’t.” He could take him, most likely. No matter how many fights this pup had seen, Mal could take him. 

Why were the attractive ones always so like this? “Well what d’yeh want, then, skulkin’ in here off th’pages’ve some bad gangster book like that eh?” He smiled, gentle, almost kind. “Y’don’t trust me,” duh, “but y’know Dominik,” Mal wanted to know how well, was this his pup? Christ. “Figure y’trust his judgement, don’t yeh?” He slid himself up towards him, a formal handshake extended. “Lookin’ t’get th’skinny on me, just ask, stop playin’ these vague games, mate.” Mal wouldn’t hit on him… yet. But Mal had questions for ages, most of them for Dom not the pup. Mainly why he’d never mentioned this.

He’s playing a part. He plays a lot of them: the charming flirt, the sympathetic bar fly, the cheesy villain. Jamie’s malleable. Flexible. He’s suited to fit whatever role he needs whenever he needs, and right now, that’s the role of the passive stranger. He’s got no interest in going to blows with this guy. Hand-to-hand in a fair fight, Jamie knows damn well he wouldn’t come out the winner. 

Although, as a point of personal pride, he’s very good at avoiding fair fights. The more stilted, the better. He’s something of a master at thumbing the scale in his favor. 

And with those first words, he was on edge. The only people who came in like stereotypical movie bad guys were usually real bad guys–albeit usually crap ones who’d watched too many movies–but Mal wasn’t taking any chances. He’d had enough run-ins with various less-than-desirable types that he wouldn’t put it past the Donnellys to hire another wolf, or perhaps some other family. Maybe this pup was from the pack Pasha had mentioned.  “Aye, observant there, yeh are.” He was prowling as though on the lookout for something specific, and Mal gave him his distance, watching him, ready to move at a second’s notice. His wolf was not happy, this one was young and cocky, encroaching on its territory, touching its things. Mal kept his cool.

A mutual friend. “Oh, yeah? An’ who’s that, then?” No insults, it was too early in the meeting for that, and Mal didn’t want–for once–to incite a fight with a stranger. “Feel like all my mates’d let on if they knew a fit lad like you. ‘Specially if yer a boxer.” He didn’t walk like one, Mal knew he wasn’t one, but he let that double entendre lay thick in the air between them. He wasn’t about to do anything stupid, though. Just as slow as the intruder stranger, he crossed the gym, standing with plenty of space between them, watchful eye surveying every move.

“Can’t say as I’m fond’ve havin’ conversations without knowin’ who with, y’got a name, boyo?” The words are assertive, his tone light, almost playful in nature, but with an underlying message: if there’s a fight to be had, get on with it. His wolf itched for confrontation, but there would be no first move on his part, not yet at least. That’s when he caught it. There was a thread of…something familiar on this pup’s scent, a thread of molten redness, of cigarettes and the burning embers. Why did this pup carry a thread of Dom’s scent? 

Some part of Jamie is still an arrogant little wretch who thinks the world is his for the taking, but for the most part, he’s grown past that. He’s been beaten and bloodied. He’s come out on the wrong side of a rough fight. He’s seen enough of all the awful parts of the world, the parts that can only be truly appreciated alone and undefended, and he’s come out the other side with a more ... enlightened view of the world. 

He doesn’t pick fights anymore. He doesn’t back down from them, but he’s learned to appreciate the intricacies of a good conversation over the blunt violence of a fight. And if this does go to blows, he’d rather know the man on the other side of the proverbial saber. 

He smiles when he sees that touch of recognition in the stranger’s eyes. “I think you know who I’m talking about,” he says. His voice is carefully neutral. Indifferent. Passive. There’s an odd sort of possessiveness that threatens to creep up, but it’s not his. Someone else’s. Someone he laid to rest a long, long time ago, and he’s not interested in dredging it back up.

@scrxffed

Outside of Dom, it wasn’t often he smelled a wolf within his walls. The second the door opened and that foresty scent of fur and dirt hit his nose, Mal’s eyes were on the person who walked through. Christ, he was attractive, looked like he knew how to handle himself, too. It was late, the gym was only open for another hour, but he’d keep it open longer if Mr. Blue Eyes asked him nice-like.  

He’d seen the type before, the world on his shoulders and the beleaguered stare of someone who’d been through shit and back and not come out clean. It was the same look he saw every morning in the mirror. He wondered many things, but he’d wait to let that thought train leave the station, only now caring about the fact that he wasn’t carrying a gym bag, which could mean he had other business he wanted to attend to. That got Mal on his guard, but not outwardly, he still appeared relaxed and nonchalant, but ready should the moment arise to fight back.

“Evenin’,” he called, standing up from behind the reception desk, “Y’lookin’ fer a gym, boyo?” Mal would wait and see if the man knew his way around a boxing ring before he’d offer training, wouldn’t want to be insulting. 

Jamie felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up when he stepped through the gym doors. He’d made a point not to cross paths with people like him over the years. Wolves. Shifters. What the fuck ever they were supposed to be.They were complicated, full stop. And Jamie didn’t really care for complicated. 

But this called for an exception to his long-standing rule. A fact-finding mission. Apart from their shared ... associate, what Jamie knew about the man could fit on the head of a pin and still leave a little room to wiggle. He intended to change that. So, he let himself in. Let himself meander inside, take in the gym and the smells and the sights (and the most accessible exits, and the most defensible positions; who knew? they might not end up playing nice).