Chapters: 2/?
Fandom: Overwatch (Video Game)
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Relationships: Jesse McCree/Reaper | Gabriel Reyes, Cole Cassidy/Reaper | Gabriel Reyes
Characters: Reaper | Gabriel Reyes, Jesse McCree, Hanzo Shimada, Cole Cassidy (Overwatch), Genji Shimada
Additional Tags: mcreyes - Freeform, Angst, McReaper, Brainwashing, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Healing, Canon-Typical Violence, Reysidy
Summary:
The deepest romantic loves can generally be broken down into two types of passions: violence and adoration. The line between them is thin, and each is only a marginally different form of worship from the other.
It's easy—effortless, even—for the Reaper to know which thing he wants...at least until Gabriel begins to muddy the waters.
Third and final revision. Promise this time.
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[it's been a very, very long time since I've written for any fandom, never mind Overwatch, so I wanted to repost here something I drabbled in Discord for a near and dear friend of mine.
And saying that I feel the need to preface it with a little OOC blurb as I'll be using tags for this drabble and quite frankly I'm too old and tired for the usual discourse that comes with the bullshit of a small, insignificant niche of gatekeeping jackals that yip and yap over every little mote of annoyance they snatch out of context. So to all those mangey jackals, kindly fuck off, block me and continue to circle your drain of ugly hatred and loathing elsewhere, thanks.
I withdrew from Overwatch well before all the bad shit that went down with Blizzard, Activision. I do not and will never condone the heinous and disgusting actions that were finally brought to light, and I will always support victims and witnesses to come forth and speak up and report the injustices that have been wrought upon them.
With that being said, I left the fandom long before Jesse was retcon'd and Cole overwrote the lore. I don't care who the IRL person was, nor do I care to know anything about the person that they are, insofar as they reap the consequences their actions have sown. Justice will be served. But Jesse McCree will always be Overwatch's BAMF gunslinger outlaw, and will never be any sort of IRL reflection for me. Jesse McCree will always be Gabriel Reyes' right hand man in Blackwatch and not some easily forgotten "who is this guy? he did what now? IRL? fuck that guy he doesn't deserve any sort of spotlight".
My Jesse McCree will always be my Reaper's.
Period.
I won't name swap.
I'll be keeping Jesse McCree for myself and my writing, reclaiming and claiming the name that just fits the character. There is no other Jesse McCree than Overwatch's, Blackwatch's, Deadlock's Jesse BAMF McCree.
Here's the drabble: ]
Same shit, different year. Just numbers on someone's calendar, an agenda to weasel out and squash. It's not like he'd been ignorant of the date or the significance or the value of making appearances, it's just…
…
Distracted, determined, focused. Factors that play in measuring how fleeting time really does fly by. That and he'd wanted to just avoid people at all costs this year. Especially after the heat Blackwatch brought the whole organization. Moreso than usual at least.
A quick glance to his watch and a twinge in the pit of his gut that may or may not have been some sort of guilt has him sucking it up and making his way to where everything's cheery, merry, and bright. Maybe he'll be able to snag a bottle of something on the way back to his pile of bureaucracy and bullshit.
A habitual sweep of the festivities runs a headcount of the Usual Suspects milling about, noting who's missing but shrugs it off with mental nonchalance. He does his best to nod and grin that lopsided smarminess of his when greeted, passing through with handshakes and back slaps, quick hugs an pecks to the cheeks of those closest to him.
Artfully avoiding a certain someone while building up the New Years alibi.
Seconds tick by and there's no time left, nowhere to slink off to, he's caught in every sense of the word.
"Jesse…"
Their eyes meet and the off-tone vocalized Countdown from Ten is drowned out by that cheeky grin and glint in the younger man's eyes. His own reflects the same whorl and melange of threatening emotions, sentiments unspoken in their world of shadows. And there might just be a crinkle of crows feet upturned in something more than smirking amusement, even if his stern and tired features remain masked.
But nothing matters anymore when midnight strikes, taking whatever fight or flight his brain screams at him to engage in.
Yanked, an arm settles around the outlaw's waist, a rough hand comes up to card fingers through thick unkempt hair and scruff, and in his reciprocated kiss he tastes whiskey and ash, sour and sweet and smoky.
Same shit, different year.
But at least he's not alone now.
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