(LOL if I owned this show would I really be writing soft-porn about two random characters on fanfiction? I could just make it canon if I did)
Because the world needs more human Le Quack and Cajun thing.
Honestly I really don't know what came over me on this one…
So before I dove into this atrocity of a fanfic, I actually managed to do a smidge of research. And base it on the human counterparts of a duck and fox.
Emile Decoudreau, otherwise known as Cajun, speaks Louisiana Creole. Therefore, he is a black character.
Aubin Canard, alias Le Quack, is simply French. (white)
Creole derives from the original French language (honestly I think it's a pretty damn awesome dialect) and I put two and two together and BAM! Two men that have canon-ally met each other only once are now doing the nasty.
Katz is also mentioned at the very end. This kinda derives from my previous story, Heart Over Mind, where Katz is their employer, but they do the dirty work. As in, Le Quack or Aubin kills people, and Emile chops them up and eats them. This is less OMG YAOI BL! Then HOM.
Why they're in a motel, you decide.
Language Barrier
"It isn't the same."
"Wh—huh," from the depths of sleep Emile clawed his way back into the conscious darkness of the Bates Motel (no relation) located somewhere in the emptiness that comprised Nowhere, Kansas, when the tense silence that made an ideal lullaby for the chef was interrupted and the rhythm and music made of air collapsed; a shame too, for he was just a reach away from a good dream, comprised of syrup, handcuffs, and Aubin. Dream Aubin seemed such an ideal partner—he didn't speak, not like the real one.
Emile supposed he could enact his dream in this world, too. But they didn't have syrup, only day old yogurt stuffed into a broken, leaking mini-fridge; and though he wasn't one to shy away from kink, there was just something about licking old food off his partner that made him a little grossed out, no matter how delicious it once had been.
The vice grip of sleep, though still lingering over him, had loosened its hold just slightly. Yet, one too-long slip of the eyelids and he would be out for the rest of the night. Aubin had better make this quick.
"Did you hear me?" again he whispered, voice sharp and clear and not at all touched by exhaustion when it reached Emile's ears; Jesus, what time was it? They had met at the damn motel at about one, finished up an hour and a half later, so two-thirty, argued about something damn stupid until three and then…
"It isn't the same." He said it clearly this time, and the creole chef produced a sigh that, almost in itself, caused Aubin to drop the entire subject altogether, roll his ass over and sleep. But the topic nagged at Aubin's brain over and over again, withdrawing until he thought it was forgotten, only to sneak back up and bite at his head relentlessly. He couldn't sleep, not when a mistake needed to be dispelled. He had to right it.
"Creole French is not the same as regular French," the jewel thief stated, crossing his arms under the sheets and looking up into black empty air, at the ceiling, "in fact, Creole French is a sub language, not even worthy enough for comparison."
"Mo laimé twa." Emile, now somewhat wide awake, reached his arm out, felt for the body on the other half of the mattress. His fingers connected with warm flesh, and without another word on the matter the cook slid across the empty space of the fairly large bed and circled an arm around Canard's middle, pecking the skin of his neck as he settled in close.
"See? In French it's je t'aime. I can't even fathom the number of linguistic changes it took to create that verbal beast."
"Mwen vle nou." Emile hadn't responded to the jabbing insults. If there was something he learned about Aubin Canard, alias Dr. LeQuack, it was that arguing with him got nobody anywhere; in this case, it turned what would have been a great night of casual sex into an awkward slumber only hours ago as both of them outright refused to admit defeat. Instead of going to sleep in each other's arms (yuck, he thought, how damn womanly did that just sound) it got to the point where the manager was rapping on the door frantically, at the sounds of possible domestic abuse. The poor man hadn't really expected the tire iron when it hit him dead center in the forehead, and his eyes had rolled up to behold it one last time before the collapsed, half in the doorway, half out.
"No witnesses." Aubin had breathed, weapon still in clutched hand, and Emile had half a mind to pounce and fuck him right in front of the wide eyed body. He hadn't, on account of his frustrations toward this damn language battle.
But round two was upon them, oh yes. It had begun the moment Aubin had woken him from slumber, and Emile wasn't counting on this one slipping away from him. He was tired of this conversation; it had died the moment the manager did, and Cajun hadn't any thoughts of its resurrection. There were more pressing matters to attend to.
Mainly the one growing in his pants.
"Mwen vle nou." The creole man repeated, amidst Aubin's half-French half English ranting's; it was a low statement, complemented by a lick to the collarbone. With or without his partner's consent, Emile hopped up so he straddled the French man's hips, and ran the tips of his dark fingers down his pale chest. That got Aubin to shut up for a second.
"And-Qu'est-ce que ça veut dire?" the con grabbed Emile's wrists, holding them it the same grip that swung the tire iron only an hour ago, and the thought only sent a pleasant chill down his spine, pooling in his groin. He lowered his lips down to Aubin's bare torso, running his tongue up and down so it left trails of wet, and stopped just above his boxers, "what did you say?"
Cajun laughed. Without breaking eye contact, those haunting blues widened as Emile slid just above the crotch of Aubin's underwear, balancing himself on his knees so he only slightly floated above it, and darted his tongue out so the tip tasted the bumpy hem of cotton shorts. He lifted himself only slightly, and licked around Le Quack's navel, and dipped ten fingers into the boxers, pulling them down so they mixed with the fabric of bed covers.
"I want you."
And as if that was the response he had been waiting to hear, Aubin flipped Emile to the side without so much as a breath; the cook hit the post of the bed, jolting upright to place a hand on his throbbing head (so much for a romantic evening, that may need some stitches) and without warning, flopping right back down into the abundance of sheets as Aubin pushed him.
"No matter how ugly Creole is," He grabbed Emile's wrists, and reached toward the dresser only inches away from the bed, where something gleamed in the trickle of moonlight; before he could even process what the fuck had just occurred, his wrists were clasped together, tied to a sturdy bedpost that, as demonstrated moments ago when he broke his skull in half, had no intention of giving way, "it always just sounds so magnifique when you're screaming it."
The chef pulled, testing the limits of his bound hands, "Where did you even—"
He motioned his head, eyes trailing to the floor, "It was on him, so I snatched it. Along with a couple of other things. Though I'm unsure if they serve for actual arrest purposes," he leaned in close, and began to undo the top button of Emile's nightshirt, "or if this motel is a lot kinkier then I first thought."
"We've got the rest of the night to test them out," he caught Aub's bottom lip as he leaned down again, and Cajun bit the skin hard enough to draw blood, "make it last. Katz is gonna have our heads when he finds out about this guy. Or what I put in Sunday's stew last week."
Aubin laughed; the nightshirt was tossed to the dark floor and his own briefs disposed along with it.
"Hey, as mama always said, 'Il ne faut surtout pas perdre'. Let nothing go to waste. And I've heard the corporate executive meat falls right off the bone. He wouldn't know the difference between Ben James and beef jerky."
Emile got out one last quick laugh before Aubin's lips touched his own, and the two were at it again; though, what Aubin though were screams of pleasure spoken in Creole was actually the reciting of a recipe. After all, he simply couldn't let the poor man go to waste, not after all the trouble they had gone through to kill him; maybe in the morning he would ask Aubin to chop him up and put him in ice. Katz had been asking for a new Friday cuisine, and manager marinara, along with some fettuccini, didn't sound too bad.
I really like how it starts out with them arguing about French and Creole and ends with some Hannibal Lector type sex talk.
Cause I mean did everybody forget the fact that Cajun Fox wanted to cook and eat an old lady
Or Le Quack beating an elderly couple with a hammer and subjecting them to torture to get money
These two are damn crazy
What a twist!