#incapable of writing cisgender werewolves. mox is trans in this.

[doublearmbars]

fic: full werewolf off the buckle (part 1)

summary: the mox is a werewolf fic, part 1. A series of vignettes about how he copes with the change over time.

word count: 1581

characters: Jon Moxley/Dean Ambrose, Eddie Kingston, Seth Rollins

Read on a03 here or below the readmore

 He wakes up in the woods. There’s mud caked to his bare back, clumps of it matting his hair. Everything hurts. Not like he took a bad bump. This is bone deep and everywhere. He sits up, shivering. His vision is still too sharp for this body, but he can make out the back of the motel he’s staying at. At least he’s close.

 The bed of leaves he’s sitting in does nothing for the cold. It’s frigid. Early December in Indiana and he tastes blood on his tongue. He wretches and nothing comes up, the muscles in his back quaking.

 His legs aren’t steady but they’ll hold him as he leans heavily on the nearest tree to stand. The bark opens scrapes on his hands and the hot blood steams in the air.

 He limps around to the parking lot. It’s still early in the morning, just after dawn, nobody around, but his hackles are up. Naked in a motel parking lot is not a great place to be.

 His only thought is that Eddie can fix this. Eddie can do something. He can’t even think the pain is so loud right now. They were sharing a room, he remembers because Eddie made some joke about not bringing anyone home. He finds it, the rough sidewalk is cold beneath his feet. He knocks, putting most of his weight on the doorframe. When he hears the familiar grumbling coming towards the door his heart finally stops racing. The door opens and he tries to push his way in.

 Eddie Kingston is a solid wall. He’s still scowling from being rudely awakened, but his expression flip flops to something gentler when he sees who’s at his door, then back.

 “Get in here.” Eddie rasps, gesturing with a hand urgently.

 When he doesn't move, Eddie pulls him in by the shoulder, shuts and locks the door, quick with the flimsy chain. Eddie’s in his sweats and a big worn shirt, socks cause it’s freezing even inside.

 He’s still fighting to get his parasympathetic nervous system back online, eyes darting around, catches a glimpse of himself in the TV reflection, momentarily captivated by his own trainwreck of a face.

 “Mox, you with me?”

 Right that’s. He’s Mox. That’s him. It always takes a minute to remember. He turns to face Eddie.

 “It happen again?”

 He nods.

 “I heard you leave, thought it was for a smoke.”

 He shrugs, shakes his head.

 Eddie’s hand is on his chin, turning his head from side to side, inspecting. His head feels so heavy, like he can’t hold it up on his own.

 “Jesus Moxie, you look awful. You need help cleanin’ up?”

 He spooks, pulls back, shakes his head rapidly. It doesn’t make sense, Eddie knows him. Eddie has seen him. This is too far though, Mox is too raw.

 Eddie puts up his hands, backs up a step.

 “Alright, try this. I’m gonna grab you somethin’ clean and help you to the bathroom at least.”

 He stamps over to Mox’s bag and pulls sweats and a shirt off the top, then hands them over.

 If Mox had any energy left and didn’t feel like his joints were jello, he’d push Eddie away when he half picks him up, barely letting Mox put any weight down. Once he’s inside the door he shrugs Eddie off, and shuts the door in his face when he opens his mouth, brain tuning out the gruff complaints from the other side.

 The tub’s too small but he sits down in it anyways, just lets the water pelt his back. He can feel the dirt loosening. He doesn’t want to scrub. Scrubbing would mean acknowledging his body and he       can’t.    Thinking about it makes him nauseous. Washing the grime out of his hair, that he can do. He lets it stick to his forehead and cover his eyes. Any way he can have less sensory information to deal with is great.

 He sits for a while, turns around and lets the water slide down his chest. There’s blood under his fingernails, which isn’t unfamiliar. He puts one in his mouth, using a canine to scrape the muck out and spitting it into the murky water between his legs, then repeats with his other fingers.

 Eventually he does lather soap between his hands and does a cursory clean, standing and letting the remaining filth run down his legs and into the drain. He goes through the process of toweling off almost robotically, eyes closed, and gets dressed.

 Mox’s face in the fogged mirror is a reminder. He’s still here, he’s still human. Even if his body doesn’t feel much better, his brain is more together.

 He opens the door, and Eddie’s right there.

 “No arguing. Fucking freezing in here.” He says.

 Eddie has his blanket. Mox’s favorite, the one he commandeers every time he and Eddie drive together. Must have gotten it out of the car while Mox got clean. Eddie wraps it around Mox’s shoulders. He curls it tight around him, pressing it against his nose, his face, letting the soft fabric somehow soothe.

 “Thanks.” Mox’s voice is rough, almost a whisper. His throat is better from the steam in the shower, but not by much.

 “You hungry? Need something for…. Whatever the hell that was?”

 He nods emphatically. He’s fucking starving. Needs something that's not copper on his tongue.

 So Eddie practically feeds him cold pizza, and hands him two ibuprofen which he takes gladly. And when they’re done, both sitting on Eddie’s bed, nothing but the sound of the half-working radiator to listen to, Eddie yawns and stretches.

 “You’re sleeping with me. No buts.” His tone allows for no argument. He turns off the light and lays down.

 Mox wraps arms tight around Eddie’s middle, burying his face in his chest and tucking his legs up. Small, but inseparable from Eddie’s warmth. He feels Eddie drape an arm over him and pull the covers up. And he is warm and safe enough that the pain fades to dullness.

 _____________________________

 It’s okay for a while after that. Whatever happens to him keeps happening, like sleepwalking, but he always wakes up close to wherever he was staying. He also starts remembering more of the missing time. It’s so full of sensory input that trying to recall anything clearly is like standing in a wind tunnel of scent and sound. There’s flashes, like once in Florida remembering the exact taste and sensation of biting through a crocodile’s hide into the soft flesh beneath. But consciousness in the change still eludes him.

 As he moves up, it gets harder and harder to hide. Roadside motels in the middle of nowhere turn to larger chains in suburbs and cities. The wolf gets restless. It chafes under the spotlight. He really doesn’t want it slipping loose, not when he’s got two people whose careers are tied directly to his. Roman knows better than to poke at his secrets, but Seth? Seth clocks him so fast it scares him. Insists on going with to watch.

 Seth shows him the video later. It’s dark as shit and the quality is awful.

 In the video he- Dean- is standing at the edge of some woods. He’s sweaty, fidgeting. He jerks his neck one way, suddenly, like he heard something.

 It starts. A low keen in his chest, frantic breathing, and then his shoulder-blades snap in unison. He doubles over, and the sound he’s making is so human. More cracking bones, and a strange wet sound as muscle knits itself into new shapes. There’s a glimpse of his head as his spine realigns in a sickening roll, visible under the remaining skin. It snaps up, and one yellow eye barely catches the light. Something falls to the ground. Teeth. They rain from the bloodied wet maw as it contorts into a muzzle, tongue writhing like an eel. The wolf is on its knees, or it is until they fold violently back into digitigrade position, putting it onto all fours, back arching.

 It’s not a real wolf. Someone who had never seen a wolf in real life might think so, if you saw it in the dark, in passing. The back legs bend like a dog’s would, ending in massive paws, but the front retains something like an elbow, with a strange mix of hand and paw at the end. It’s the size of a small bear, and the fur, when it shakes off most of the blood, is tawny, shaggy and coming out in places. It turns its head towards the camera, pulls its long ears back, and growls like no other creature on earth can. Then the feed cuts.

 It should probably be horrifying. That’s his body, after all. Somehow it doesn’t scare him. It's comforting, in a way, to know that his pain is justified. That it's a traumatic event once a month like clockwork. He has experience with those.

 Seth said he drove away as fast as he could. That the wolf ran alongside until he hit the highway. He was real messed up about it, didn't ask to come with ever again. He was there after Dean changed back, which he supposes was the important part. But the shine of having a werewolf for a partner came off real quick after that. There would be no oversized dog kisses, no wet noses, no running with the wolf. Only Dean, before and after, and the beast between.

#teddy writes #incapable of writing cisgender werewolves. mox is trans in this. #also there is some.. well what i would consider mild body horror in the transformation sequence.