Spitting Image [Remmy/Al Shipfic]

“Spitting Image”
A Remmy/Al shipfic by Hasty
Pack Street and its related characters are the creation of Weaver. Thanks, Weaver!
Thanks to every anon who helped me get this off the ground.
Thank YOU for reading. It means a lot to me!
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
i've had enough beer for one evening. it’s past,
5? jesus.
time creeping on me from behind. along with whatever i’m s’psed to be doing, like, er, dealing with that fucker. ’s a fucking idiot for all the bullshit he spewed, pretty much said he thinks preds are lower than him, lessers. we deserve to be poor, spit on
faggot.

pretend i'm not. i throw another beer at the recycle can, i thought i’d stop,
i'm too drunk right now.  i don’t think i’d say what i need to. do it tomorrow. or today, the sun’s coming up now…
why does he hate me so much? what’s the problem? I wanted to make him feel at home. all the pressure under the sea. the real deal. drowning all the time
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
i wake up at one. wipe the spit off my muzzle as i climb out of bed, walk over to the mirror. kinda ugly wolf, out of shape, beer stains on his shirt, yellow teeth. never smiles. guess that’s what he sees. i’d run too.
under the showerhead i figure how to face him. wait in the lobby for him to come back from work? like last time? make it public? he slurred the whole block. fucking held us down in the mud, lick the pavement,
need to use the plural. pack street’s a family. i’m the alpha for this big family. we look out for each other, have weird little habits, cause were preds we do that, live funny, but we make it work and get along. we’re a little tv show. every character is okay. they are friends.
honestly i don’t fucking know these people. i drink in my bedroom.
i’ll talk to them really try to talk and they’ll just play up to me, keep up their role, “al sir yes yes al.” so you stop trying, talk to yourself instead. ok. we got insulted by some asshole. sure i’m upset. gotta protect ‘ur reputation, mhmm. sure
“it’s the PACK WAY”, ‘s voice reverberates like gunshots in a traffic tunnel, fingers to my chest, blood, fall, they got a chalk outline right on the ground for me. “alpha.”
buckle my belt. i’m pissing and moaning. this isn’t a big deal. besides i don’t have a choice, i have to do this in public. he was being a cunt. they are pissed. i live here. i ought to care if they do.
no one has ever seen me go down the stairs. luck? point is i just end up places, great for the role, when Remmy pulls in a little after two i’m on the couch staring at the tv. he creeps in the hallway, trying not to look at me. i wait until he’s halfway, then
“where do you think you’re going?”
his knees are rattling loudly. so loud it’s kinda funny, i smile a little, turn my head to him, “shame you’re here, right?”
stretch my body while I walk over to him. he’s in a sweater today, looks nice. i don’t want to hurt im. “…on PACK STREET,”
“Al, I’m so fucking sorry –“
“what?”         clear my throat.   “what are you?”
“…I’m -”
“a piece of shit?  hates his neighbors?” he takes the same stance for whenever he’s gonna get a lecture. always happens to him, a bunch of stuff about PACK STREET. i hear it over the television oncea week. when it hits he puts his left knee against a stiff right leg, twists ‘is back and leans forward. mouth turned down in the corners, eyelids sag. embarrassed melancholy, a fake feeling you learn from pictures. he wants a role on PACK STREET. this is his audition.
fuck the audience. i’m not letting him buy in. “come with me.”
he follows me up the stairs. i drop the pretense some, slouch me shoulders. plod to my room. he weaves down like he’s dodging a sniper. wolter watches from down the hall and i think someone saw us in the lobby. enough eyes to get word around. i pull him by the neck through my door, throw him against the wall and kick it shut.
let’s start.
“what did you call ozzy?”
he stalls, looks at the floor. he always stalls. why?
“tell me.”
“I called him an addict…or an ex-con.”
“that all he is to you?”
he tenses his legs and begins to pull his knee into place. stoops. “No, he’s a great musician –“
“what song’s he play?”
“…he played a samba, once. I don’t know which one.” he twists his back.  “It was at-“
“what else is he?”
he sputters while he finds words. he wants to be wrong, to miss something, so i can tell him and then he’ll be in his place and i’ll be in mine, things back in place. he’ll say sorry, i’ll tell him to get out as a yes, things back to normal.
“He’s funny, gregarious, emphatic, and likes to make the whole pack happy.”
“that include you?”
he moves his lips, he’s bluffing, hopes i’ll cut him off because he has nothing to say. i wait, he folds, mouth creases to a frown.
“what did you call betty?”
fucking stalling again. bracing himself for the fire.
“say it.”
“A bitch.” he hides his teeth behind his lips when he speaks. wants to make it softer.
“No.”
he is surprised. i explain myself.
“you called her my bitch.”
the furnace groans. i can’t sleep sometimes because of how loud it can get. i stop and grab a beer from the fridge, let him listen, think on where this is going. think of where we are.
he didn’t move while i was gone. he honestly wants to patch this up. good sign.
now for the hard part. crack. sip. “what did you call me?”
i let him stall all he wants this time.
“I called you a rapist.”
“mmhm.” i stomp toward him, lower myself down and grab his shoulders. he didn’t see it coming. his legs shake underneath him. i push down on him to get him to stop. look him in the eye.
“were you right?”
“No!” he bleats. shifts his eyes to miss mine. i don’t snarl or flash my teeth, try to look blank, just stare. i don’t want him to fear me. i want him to look at me. when i let go and move back he’s fighting tears. he takes the same hunched-over stance immediately. i take a drink.
“do i make people do anything they don’t want to?”
“No.” no pause. good.
“do I own anybody?”
“No.”
“why did you think that?”
he pauses to swallow spit. “Because you and Betty did the hierarchical dominance…thing that one night and I didn’t know what was happening.”
“that all?”
“…”
“you don’t see anything else?”
“…no?”
“who talks to me?”
i take a sip.
“when do you see me?”
“…”
“people stay out of my way, see that?”
“…”
toss the can in the trash. ““i don’t want an apology. it won’t make you less of a cunt or solve any problem. you think i’m the worst bastard here. you think i own people, run things. i don’t. i just act like i do. then the pack follow along to make it look real. that’s my job here, to front. full time. i barely know who lives here.” his face curdles. body changes from the lean thing to ramrod stiff. “if they knew me i couldn’t have the same power. i’m s’psed to care about the territory, not the suckers innit. so i don’t. i just keep to myself. if i need to, i defend someone. but mostly its making people think they’re part of something. when you went off you said what the pack wouldn’t. told me what i looked like. i need to look like a bastard.”
he looks ready to throw punches.
“you think this is bullshit. say it.”
he hesistates. don’t blame ‘im.
“…really? THIS is your big speech?” he’s making time to clear tears from his throat. make him sound more serious. “I’m bombarded by a totally different culture, creatures acting in ways I can’t predict but still holding me accountable for any fuckup. A game with rules no one will tell me.” he moves his hooves in circles when he talks, jerks his arms. “That’s the life I’ve lived for months. And now you say it’s just a big act, some fucking weird joke. Why does everyone else take it so seriously if it’s just a show? Why, every time I talk out of turn or say the wrong thing, do I get myself a lesson in the ways of predators, always justified by some natural inclination, instinct…whatever-the-hell you want to call it? Is it natural or isn’t it?”
“first things first. instincts are excuses. preds have some things they do because they do. howls. sleeping at day. can’t change. then some things just keep happening because people keep doing them. biting at the neck. you get used to it and keep doing it. custom. nice word for it. most of this pack stuff is custom. people do it cause they’re used to it. gives them something to be. they keep doing these things they can be somebody. somebody they know. thats why we have pack street. let people think they’re somebody.”
he disagrees. “blahblahsomething” he starts, i’m not listening, fuck him,
“don’t fucking say you’re not a part of this. that this is happening to you. i asked earlier if you thought y’re part of the pack. you don’t, and you don’t want to be. instead you try to be part of PACK STREET. you act the same everytime you piss someone off. talk back, give a few cheap excuses and weak accusations. play the newbie. you bitch and moan, get hung up on other people’s little tics. they “correct” you. correct you to “getting” the pack, what it is, does, how it does. it’s something you can’t join, only watch. if you kept your mouth shut no one’d bother you, but you butt in anyway, to hear yourself talk, make yourself known.
you think boiling over was a breakout? it’s the opposite, you fuck up more than ever and y’ll always be different now. never getting it but getting noticed, told, making the pack something you can talk about, a big team. now next to us is a guy who can never be part of us. shows we have a limit. shows the pack is real.”
he looks wretched. i don’t know if he bought it.
“you want a beer?”
he grunts. “Sure.”
i get beers. we drink.
“i brought you in here to act the alpha. but fuck that. i think we have the same problem. i lead the pack but i can’t be in it. you live with the pack but can’t be in it. that’s why i’m having this talk here. i blew up for show. i kinda have to, you don’t. i want you to feel okay being yourself.”
he slackens. “…Jesus, Al.”
i don’t know what to say but i don’t want him to leave.
“Why don’t you tell people how you feel?”
“they need me. i’d let them down.” he doesn’t argue the point. i crush my beer. wave the can.
“like bullweiser?”
he looks at the can. he’s thinking about it. “More than I’d admit.”
he makes a little grin. it’s cute. i smile. oh. i pull it down,
“Why’d you smile?”
shit. “thought of a joke.”
“Never seemed like the joking type to me.”
“you’ve no idea, remmy.” can i call him by name?
“Well, let’s hear it.”
all i know are terrible jokes i see on talk shows. “what does the easter bunny get for making his baskets?”
“…I don’t know.”
“two points.”
he laughed!
“Got any more?”
“okay…”

guess i knew enough bad jokes to finish a 12-pack of beer between the both of us. we moved to the living room a while ago. he was pretty drunk, sitting on the ottoman. i sat in the armchair, trying to catch up.
“…the bartender asks him ‘how did you die?’ n the bunny says ‘mixin-my-toasties.’’”
he was dying. when he laughs he shuts his eyes and sucks in his chest. i liked to watch it rise and fall. this time they were open. watching me watch him.
“…what’re YOU lookin’ at?”
“remmy cormo.”
“Good choice!”
“best thing in the room.” his face drew in. that was way too fucking open.
“…you’re pretty funny, Al. I wish you’d been more open like this earlier.” he smiled at me. the ottoman’s kinda big for him so his legs swayed. he crossed and uncrossed his hooves in his lap. like he was building something in his head.
“remmy.”
“Al?”
“why did you stick around?”
“What are you talking about, why? You’re nice.”
“the talking-to i gave earlier.”
he shifted, brought his head up. “That’s why I stayed. I thought you were a fucking asshole who beat people up. Emotionless and unapproachable.” he looked for words. “But you aren’t. You care about other people. You said a bunch of shit about how you don’t know the pack, just live around them, whatever. But you still want them to be happy. You live to make a home for them, give them something familiar. You value them enough as animals to fulfill that need for them. That’s pretty selfless, I think.” he looked at the wall.
“…and you don’t think i’m just an asshole. You listened to me when I talked. Told me jokes for hours just because I asked.” i sat up in my recliner and walked over to him.
“if i’m wrong, tell me.”pulled him close to me with an arm around his back, and he let it happen.
thank god. the kiss was really sloppy. he’s not used to wolf’s teeth so he slid along the front row. i didn’t really care. i just liked holding him. the wool is weird to hold, even when you press it down hard it still makes a barrier between you and the skin. so when he move it was muted, kinda. he twisted while we kissed and i could feel it where our muzzles met but the body just rumbled a little. when i opened my eyes his were open. i felt strange. i broke it off and stepped back.
we didn’t say anything. he walked over to me. rubbed his head on my belly. i walked him to the bedroom like. kinda a waltz, him following my feet.
my bed was unmade. clothes on the floor. i felt like shit.
“its-“
“Shhhh,
please don’t apologize.”
fell on the bed with him. pulled off his shirt. im fucking terrible with this shit but he didn’t say anything, just worked his way up my belly to kiss me again. i put my paw around the back of his ears, massage it. it’s weird being with somebody this small. he reached to undo my belt buckle but his arms couldn’t make it.
“i’ll do it.”
i did. kind of shimmied off my pants and pulled down my briefs too. i had to stop kissing him to do it, had trouble. my dick ached. i felt his push against my stomach. i didn’t know what he wanted.
“uh. do you want to blow me?”
he looked at me cockeyed and laughed long and loud as he sat up. he had to lean his head into my chest to get his hoof to my side and guide me up to.
“Honey, you don’t have to ask.”
honey. christ. i melted. he wiggled his ass when he started licking the tip. i put my hands on his shoulders. just felt along them. rubbed his back a little. felt him breathe. my dick was too big for his mouth, so he went along it with his tongue, slow. it felt incredible. he ran along the head, panting, making it twitch from the heat of his breath. teasing it. he looked up at me.
“Do you have any lube?”
fuck.
“coconut oil…”
i came back in looking like a total asshole, buck naked, cock slathered in white. he laid himself over the bedside. still too little, feet just dangled above the floor while he gave me what he thinks is a sexy look. he looked like errol flynn’s autistic kid. it was adorable.
i scoop another fingerful from the jar, walk towards him. lean over and kiss him on the head.
“are you ready?”
“yeah.”
“just say if it hurts.”
claws make fingering difficult. i rubbed the dab of lube against his asshole, and he shivered, made a cute noise kinda like a flute. i squated a little to line up my dick and pushed my arm under his stomach. then, the first push in. he’s like a vise. i rub his stomach, coo to him a little,
“it’s in, it’s okay.”
he giggled. “Did you just fucking coo to me?”
i shoved it deeper, cut off his laughter. “funny?”
“oh, *gasp* DON’t hurt me, mister,” snickering into the bed.
another ten minutes of inching in, letting him adjust around it, feeling his wool go wet with precum. he’s only halfway down when i stopped. no matter how drunk he can’t take all of it. i really didn’t want to hurt him.
i thrusted a little violently at first. not really in time, just hammering in. more eager to feel his ass clench than i liked to think. i heard him squeak a little.
“everything okay?”
“y-yeah,” no it’s not, go slower. i brought down the speed, got a rhythm, felt for his dick under his stomach. i rubbed along it, trying to pull in time with my thrusts. i heard him giggling now. kind of like a purr and a chuckle at the same time. i think it’s beautiful. my dick felt like it was gonna explode. all of the sensation on one half with nothing on the other. every time I pushed in he pushed back to ease a little further down, stealing my breath. my cock pushing its way back in made a little squick, which he interruptedwith a gasp or a moan, shuddering his shoulders when it went really deep. he’s really liking this. i was worried it would just hurt him. i’m so happy.
“H-Hey, can you slow down your hand, I’m close…”
i eased up, tried to push slower. too late.
“i’m coming…”
i thrusted in up to the knot for the last stroke, fill his ass with my load. i groan. it’s high-pitched. embarrassing. my hand pumped him a little faster and soon he yelped. and his dick twitched, covered my hand with hot cum, his body almost vibrating while he drooled into the bed.
we freeze there and listen to each other panting for a long while. a sticky rope followed my rod when i pulled out. he twisted his head toward me, to see. i took my cum-covered hand out from under him and put it up to his mouth. i laid down next to him, and after he licked it clean we kissed, sloshing the spit and cum back and forth between us. his tongue’s not shy this time. my hands moved from his shoulder to his back, pulling him against me, breaking the kiss to say
“i love you.”
he just smiles at me. i hope that means something.

i lay on the bed with his head against my chest. his face is hot. maybe it’s the wool? i can’t sleep.  everybody’s gonna know. likely do already. will they care?
my sink’s leaking. it dribbles a little. musical. kind of a sad song playing in the kitchen.