The McHanzo thing I had been talking about yesterday. It went a little different than I wanted it to be (… I wrote half the thing in my head before falling asleep and it was DA BOMB and the second I sit down I can’t bring out a well-formed sentence :’ ) ) but it is aight all in all.

McCree dreams vividly, but not thoughtlessly. He is always conscious of his dreamstate, even if is not exactly possible for him to actively influence what happens.

So when he opens his eyes and realizes he is in the middle of working over his father’s field, he only smirks quietly and keeps going, motions smooth and practiced even though he hasn’t done the work in was more than three decades.

He wonders who will visit him this time. Working with Overwatch has given him plenty of jerk-off fuel, what with working with people of all different shapes and sizes, and genders but all around gorgeous.

The land around him looks dull and strangely devastated. Almost post-apocalyptic as there is no bump in the burning, orange horizon. None of the green, juicy fields to be seen that Jesse had grown up with; only the certainty of a dream that this is, indeed, his father’s farm.

He eyes the stable every now and then; wonders if Mako will lumber out any second, huge and silent, glinting with sweat. His large gut – center piece of a lot of McCree’s idle fantasies when he sits around the base; thinking of how nice i would be to fuck his cock against the massive, firm expanse of it – heaving with his breaths of exertion.

However, this is not a Mako dream. It is, apparently, a Hanzo dream.

The archer is suddenly just there next to him, dressed in a fine suit that seems just a tad too tight; the see-through white dress shirt straining across his pecs, the two buttons there looking ready to pop off at any second.

He has his suit jacket across his shoulder, and even without a car to be seen anywhere, McCree knows with deep certainty that he’d broken down on the nonexistent road.

“Howdy,” Jesse drawls, righting himself up. In his dream, Hanzo is always a little different than in reality. A bit smaller, a bit kinder. A bit more amorous. Like now as he smiles up at Jesse, thin but there, letting his expensive suit jacket fall into the dust.

“Please,” he murmurs, stepping a little closer and into Jesse’s personal space; not shy of the grime and sweat Jesse is sporting; meticulously clean hand lifting to be placed across Jesse’s swarthy chest. “I need your assistance.”

“Do you now,” Jesse drawles, eyes travelling down, eying Hanzo’s chest. Watching just how see-through it is, his dark, small nipples looking obscene and swollen through the fabric.

“I am in need,” Hanzo continues, deep voice so cultivated and friendly – a cat purring for a treat.

He dreams of Hanzo more often than of the other Overwatch members. It is a little embarrassing. Not as embarrassing as what he will make Hanzo do and say in his dreams.

There, Hanzo is not constantly cool and crippled by his past. In his dreams, Hanzo will open his tight shirts and show him the plumpness of his pecs; hard and round with muscle. He’ll cup them and offer them to him, voice still a purring lilt as he asks him once more to help; tells him he needs the relieve.

In dreams, there is nothing weird about him just leaning down in the middle of the dusty, infertile field and moulding his lips around one of Hanzo’s plump nipples. There is nothing weird about suckling like a babe, and listening to Hanzo’s breathing growing deep and labored, one hand lovingly carding through Jesse’s hair.

The next day, Jesse will be awkward around Hanzo – taciturn and a little shy, the vivid dream still so prominent that he thinks he can taste the thick cream of Hanzo’s milk pouring across his tongue – but in the dream, feelings of humiliation and embarrassment are far away.

There is nobody there to judge him; nobody there to question the hayball suddenly there, perfect to bend Hanzo across – or how he can just sink into the snug fit of the archer’s body without preparation.

Hanzo is even warmer than the stifling, dry heat around them. He grunts and arches with Jesse’s thrusts, crooning at him; telling him how much he loves it. How he craves the unforgiving girth of Jesse’s cock to spread him open until tears shoot into his eyes.

He’ll tell him how he wants to worship his cock; go down on his knees and be smothered by the heavy sac of Jesse’s balls; the weight of his dick. How he wants to be down and warm his cock in the tight sleeve of his throat. How he’ll let Jesse hold him down; choke him on his dick until he gags.

All of that he tells him in his deep, cultivated voice; accent thick and mesmerizing and doing things with Jesse’s head.

In his dreams, Hanzo is the perfect fit on his cock; tight and warm and slick; always so ready to receive, that little pink hole opening up greedily, muscles buttery soft for Jesse’s thick, rude fingers, and his even thicker, ruder dick. He’ll ripple around him like a seasoned whore, clenching and suckling, body obviously well trained to play with a cock, and Jesse will find himself wondering about it in his waking hours; watching Hanzo surreptitiously from beneath the wide brim of his hat – trailing the muscles of his body and staring at the always-unhappy slant of his wide, sensual mouth.

Jesse dreams of everyone in Overwatch, but Hanzo visits him by far the most often.

I think about toshinori being like the go to person when one wanted a nice deep fuck before he was injured but he always secretly wished that someone would take on the “challenge” of fucking him instead and giving his the A1 anal orgasms that he craved, so when he got injured it was kinda a blessing I disguise because now his poor dick doesn’t get hard anymore so he’s on the receiving end of those nice deep fuckings he craved as a young man

Even before All Might – before he’s gotten the gift of being the hope of the people – Toshinori has been handsome.

He knows it, too – though it hadn’t been on the forefront of his mind most of the time.

He’d been just as tall and optimistic; muscular, if not as beefy as All Might would be.

He’s never had trouble finding partners to share a night, and he thinks – hopes – they’ve had their fun, even if the encounters had been a bit… lacking for himself.

It’s been humbling – maybe even a bit humiliating – to find himself unable to perform the way he used to after his life-changing injury. Not that it mattered much at the time.

It took him a while to come to terms with his body slowly starving away in front of his own eyes; watching his hair go frizzy and loose its shine; his eyes sinking in deep, skin stretched tight across his skull.

He is a far cry away from the handsome man he had once been, and suddenly nobody was lining up in front of his door anymore.

For All Might they still come, yes. But not for Toshinori. Not for him.

Until they did – sort of, at least. Eraserhead and Present Mic – Aizawa and Hizashi… and suddenly his inability mattered again, made him feel ashamed on a bone-deep level that unnerved him fundamentally.

Had him shying away from Hizashi’s overt, and Aizawa’s quiet advances, waving them off with a forced grin and a half-hearted explanation about how he was tired – because there was no way he’d be able to satisfy them. Not like this – and…

“Maybe you should just stop assuming things,” Aizawa murmurs moist and warm against his thin neck, dragging him down to the mattress with a hand fisted in the back of his shirt.

It’s not hard for them to peel him out of it; it is one of All Might’s shirts and large enough to pose as a nightgown for Toshinori. His boxers are just as precariously hanging from his frame, easy to drag off his long, skinny legs. Exposing him to the cool air of the room.

He’s not sure he shivered, but he must have been because two bodies descend on him and keep him warm. Hizashi is babbling, fingers quick and intrusive, and Aizawa is quiet and intense, and there is little else Toshinori can focus on when they overwhelm all his senses.

.o.

Hizashi fucks him first, and deep down he is thankful for it because it means Aizawa is at his front; calm and collected, dragging fingers through his hair and staring down into his slowly watering eyes as Hizashi fucks him in sharp, tiny thrusts.

“That’s it,” Aizawa mumbles, one of the few things he says, and Toshinori holds on to it like a lifeline as he is too weak to hold himself up and needs Hizashi’s hands around his hips to keep him in place.

“So warm. Such a good little hole to fuck; isn’t he, Eraserhead???”

“Can’t say. Haven’t fucked him yet,” Aizawa grunts, and then after a second of deliberation continues: “Sure does look like it, though.”

Hizashi cackles, a little out of breath, hands warm and gentle and so in contrast to everything else. He’s not moving much; basically just drags his cock along an inch of the quivering, nervous walls of Toshinori’s insides, but he doesn’t need more than that.

His body is alight with a bone deep sensation; a.. a need that makes him feel like he has to constantly bear down on the cock; like he has to pee; like he has to come immediately, but not really…

It makes him whiny, maybe. A bit. He can’t tell, but Aizawa is shushing him with low hums and takes up his petting once more.

Hizashi is halting, nearly stopping, makes considering noises and then changes his angle, and pushes –

and Toshinori can’t help his cry, so sudden and visceral, tasting blood in the back of his throat as his fingers, thin like twigs, claw at the bedding, body thrumming, cock feeling so tender even though he knows – he knows it’s soft between his skinny thighs, pathetic and pink, and he feels like he’s going to come but that is impossible, and

“You’re doing so well, Yagi,” Hizashi hums, voice vibrating across his back, raising goosebumps. “You feel so warm and perfect. Clenching down like a good boy. Can’t believe you’ve never done this before – look how sensitive you are. So easy for us. So easy.”

And suddenly he comes; bone deep, throbbing, the sensation robbing him of his senses as his body spasms and they hold him through it, gentle him down as his eyes roll up into his head and he’s drooling; just a few watery drops of cum dripping from his foreskin as his intestines nearly vibrate with the sensation, muscles clamping down, undulating, massaging–

and Toshinori has never felt anything like it before, but it is more encompassing, more mind blowing than any orgasm he’s ever had. It takes him so completely, so deeply that it is almost frightening, taking his breath and mixing a little blood with the saliva dripping from the corner of his mouth-

and he doesn’t think he’ll ever even want to feel anything else. Not when he hears Hizashi sing for him; sounding so satisfied even though Toshinori hasn’t done a thing.

Mister Shimada thinks he’s pretty clever, Jesse supposes. Or, just as likely: he thinks McCree is an idiot.

He grins wryly, big hands curling around Shimada’s trim hips, holding on for the ride as the man slowly lifts himself up onto his knees. His cock emerges in a gratifying slow slide; wet and girthy, the swollen rim dragging along; clinging, suckling, clenching.

He’s not the first Mr. Shimada has approached – he has no illusions there. The whole thing is too practiced: the room carefully arranged and picked out to the prissy man’s exact standards. Jesse, who has no qualms about rickety beds with squeaking hinges (in fact, is quite partial to them, as they so boost his ego), doesn’t care either way.

He’s got his dick in a warm, pretty thing, and is lounging in a hotel room far above his pay grade to do so.

That Mr. Shimada is ignoring him is… annoying, but no deal breaker.

Mr. Shimada thinks Jesse is an idiot, after all, and the fact amuses Jesse to no end. Enough so to let the guy play.

In reality, Jesse knows exactly what’s up: has figured it out the moment the little whore had started groping his belly, hairy and with a good layer of fat, face twisted in what should look like disgust but actually seemed more desperately hungry. Like he hated himself for how much he loved how imperfect McCree is.

A suspicion that was only confirmed by how Mr. Shimada preened in front of the mirror; back ramrod straight, spine a sensual, sweat slick curve in front of Jesse’s admiring eyes. He’d brace himself with both hands just above Jesse’s knees, and make sure his biceps bracketed the generous swell of his tits.

He’d watch his own cock bounce in the reflection; pink and not entirely hard, but still oh-so-pretty as he fucked himself on Jesse’s cock.

Next to Shimada’s noble beauty, Jesse is a mutt; hairy and soft around the middle; chest not as firm as it used to be, beard too unkempt.

He doesn’t much care, though, if it gets him Shimada’s tight body after long tedious meetings. Doesn’t care at all, in fact, if he doesn’t have to do anything; just lie there and let Shimada cuddle with his dick while he puffs on a cigar and enjoys life.

He’d not the idiot Shimada thinks him to be, but he’ll definitely not let him know.

Usually Hanzo comes prepared for his hunts. He’ll have a nice room picked out, and a mirror placed at the exact spot that he’ll need it.

He’ll have towels ready and bottles of water close at hand.

He’ll have a camera set up to enjoy the footage later.

This time had been too sudden; too spontaneous for any of it. He’d not expected the need to jump him and bite into him. He’d not expected his business partner to be so perfect.

He figures what did him in was the heavy gut hanging over the belt. The ostentatious rings biting into the flesh of short, thick fingers. The soft cheeks trembling with every motion of the head.

All contributing to him luring his victim into a seedy hotel with bad lighting and smelly sheets.

Just him and a crappy cracked mirror that’s angled badly and shows too little of the action.

He has to roll his eyes until they hurt in their sockets, but he needs to see it.

Above him, Miller is breathing loud and labored. Every now and then he tries to push himself up onto his elbows; wants to see the handsome man kneeling between his thick legs – yet every time he halts half-way through and sinks back down with a low groan.

Hanzo has to use a hand to push Miller’s gut out of the way, and to get at his cock, but his price is all the better for it: dick short and fat; bumpy in places with irregular veins. A brick red tip that looks similar to the shade his cheeks have reached after Hanzo divested himself of his clothes.

It’s an ugly cock, but it couldn’t be more gorgeous for Hanzo.

He watches himself in the mirror; well-kempt and in absolute top-shape; suckling the man’s inferior dick like a candy treat.

He fantasizes about riding him; grunt fucking himself on the girth of Miller’s cock; the large, soft belly pressing into him, making everything awkward.

Maybe he’d allow him to fuck him from behind; rest his gut on the small of Hanzo’s back. Have his sweaty, thick fingers grope his hips and tight belly and firm pecs.

He wants it – wants it bad – but he wouldn’t be able to watch himself, too. The frustration makes tears well up in his eyes. He feels like Miller would be perfect; command him around. Use him like a fuck puppet – like Hanzo wasn’t leagues above him.

Hanzo would go along with it, too. Revel in it. If only he could see himself… body greedy for an inferior, ugly cock; twisting unnaturally to make it easier on him to dick him down…

He almost sobs in his frustration, chest burning, hand cruel on his own erection – lamenting how he is a slave to his whorish needs.

erasermic au where present mic is the loudest partner to ever exist and they’ve been evicted 4 times

what about

trans!Hizashi (Present Mic) tho. like.. yes please…

Aizawa grits his teeth, looking down at the almost painful curve of Hizashi’s back, offering up his ass, rim reddened and pouty as it stretches slowly, slowly, slowly around Aizawa’s cock.

He has one hand on the back of Hizashi’s head, fingers curled tight into the long, blond hair, but Hizashi is whimpering and he can’t find it in him to press him any tighter into the pillow to keep him silent.

“Shhh,” he whispers, trying his damndest to go slow; to not fuck Hizashi like he needs to, in an effort to keep his crying at a minimum. “All’s good. All’s good, shhh,” he mumbles, words slurring, chest burning at the feel of Hizashi impossibly tight on his cock.

The problem is how sensitive Hizashi is, he supposes.

His hips stutter and Hizashi’s breath hitches and then he jerks back out because he can’t help it, and Hizashi wails, hips lifting, offering himself up, needing the fill of Aizawa’s cock, and damn can this man get loud.

Lazy morning, soft sleepy sex with erasermight is my new favorite thing. Let those old men rest and be happy

Aizawa is fucking him lazily; almost slow enough that Toshinori wonders if he fell asleep again: forehead pressed between the sharp cuts of Toshinori’s shoulder blades, his warm, moist breath fanning against the valley of his spine.

Every now and then, though, Aizawa will twist his hips; give his thrusts a new angle that makes Toshinori’s toes curl and his breathing speed up.

There are a few drops of blood soaked into the towel he’s dragged across his pillow, though nothing to be worried about yet.

The constant throb of pain in his side is dull, almost as sleepy as their coupling.

Aizawa is mumbling, but it is too indistinct to make out anything – his hands are gentle as they trace Toshinori’s painfully visible ribs, and his lips leave wet little smears when he presses sloppy kisses against his back.

He might not be able to hear him, but he can quite imagine what he is saying, and it is enough to make him want to squirm in embarrassment, pressing his forehead against his arms, and breathing quick and warm into the little space he created.

“Don’t,” he rumbles. He can taste the blood frothing at the corner of his mouth, but the feeling of his impending orgasm low in his shivering belly is more prominent than anything else.

Aizawa hums and lifts up higher on his knees, easily taking Toshinori’s slim hips with him. He can’t possibly reach in to nuzzle his face into the back of Toshinori’s neck, but he makes due by gently biting whatever he can reach; leaving distinct points of dull pain behind that makes Toshinori squeeze down on his cock.

Always liked the thought of snake Gabriel, so strong he can crush cars in his coils! And Jesse is super into him, but totally embarrassed cus he doesn’t know how snake anatomy works and cant find his cloaca XD

Gabriel lies back and watches the human fumbling away. He’s just been fed by Jesse, and he is lazy and content enough to let him nervously feel him up without lashing out at him.

Jesse’s cock is out and in his fist, and while it looks nice enough – dark with blood and fat around the middle – Gabriel has no intentions of making this any easier on the kid.

Jesse has had no trouble finding his cock (not hard when it slipped out of his genital slit so ready for some loving from the fumbling young man that had so readily drooled all over it in his haste to worship Gabriel) but finding the tiny opening of Gabriel’s cloaca seemed a lot more difficult.

Gabriel throws him a smug smirk when Jesse looks up at him, and stretches out slowly; letting him see first the muscles in his upper body, then in his tail as he undulated it lazily, the pitch black scales on the back a fascinating contrast to the pure white of his belly.

Jesse gulps audibly and lets go of his cock in order to stroke both sweaty, big hands across Gabriel’s tail. It is a nice sensation – especially when the gentle fingers stroke across his small cloaca again without noticing.

Bush viper Hanzo, smol and powerful and quick, and Gaboon viper/rattlesnake Jesse, so much bigger and lazy and thicc. Jesse just laying over Hanzo doing his pretty mating dance and wrapping around him, holding him down. Hanzo is being indignant and trying to play it cool but how can he when that agile little rattle/tip of his tail is slowly playing with the opening of his cloaca and getting him ready for Jesse’s snake dicc?

Anonymous said: “

Rattlesnake Jesse. His tail starts rattling during orgasm. :3c

“

When Hanzo moves, the sharp scales along the back of his tail dig into the softer flesh of McCree’s underside. He grunts, twisting once again, trying to keep his prey still while the inquisitive tip of his tail nudges against the tightly closed genital slit.

“Come on,” he huffs, rubbing his scruffy chin along the side of Hanzo’s face. “Come on.” He’s definitely whining, but there’s nothing to it. He’s horny, and Hanzo is beneath him, pretty and warm from the sun he’d been lying in just a moment ago, and writhing so enticingly just for him.

“You are a brute,” Hanzo hisses, fingers digging into the loose sand around them, trying to drag himself away to no avail: Jesse is easily twice as heavy and crushing him against the warm ground. “And get off of me,” Hanzo spits, blue tail lashing, trying to twist himself out from beneath McCree’s frustratingly thorough grip.

He can feel himself loosing the uphill battle quickly. McCree is a charmer, even if he is unbelievably clumsy, and Hanzo can feel the sticky wet drag of his cock against the back of his tail.

McCree is already out and needy, when Hanzo’s muscles are just about now starting to give in to the insistent prodding of his cheekily rattling tail.

“Just a little bit,” McCree murmurs, wheedling as he reaches around and cups Hanzo’s pec, squeezing it in time with his slow, rolling thrusts.

As it looks to Hanzo, McCree will be too lazy to drag himself around and fuck him; rather, he’ll rub himself off against Hanzo’s smooth, warm scales, taking the pain of the sharp ridges along his spine digging into his soft belly in stride, while feeling Hanzo up and playing with the silky slit of his genitals.

It could be a worse day, he supposes.

Aizawa swears he’d only closed his eyes for a second, but when he drags them open again, Toshinori is just there next to his desk, leaning a bony hip against the wood, looking down at him with a grin.

“Sleepy?”

Aizawa grunts and shifts, shouldering the layers upon layers of scarf higher to hide the frown of his mouth.

“There is nothing dishonorable in taking a break, you know,” Toshinori continues. It is annoying. He is annoying. As All Might it is more bearable; the unceasing optimism that gets the students fired up, and inspires them to do their very best. As Toshinori, however, it sets Aizawa’s teeth on edge, even though he is so much more subdued in this form. (His true form, if Aizawa had any say in it.)

It makes him feel more… inadequate. Fake.

Aizawa is battling a constant, throbbing headache; eyes dry and scraping in their sockets. Hankering to sleep for ten years or never to wake up again in the first place.

Next to the pain Toshinori has to feel on a constant basis, half his lung, and stomach ripped out… coughing blood… he feels pathetic.

“Eh? Eraserhead?” Toshinori leans down, crystal blue eyes fixed on Aizawa’s tired gaze. He’d drifted off while Toshinori had been waiting for an answer.

Annoying, annoying, annoying.

“Ah. Why don’t you let me get back to work. The sooner I finish, the sooner I can get home.”

Toshinori straightens, gaunt face so very serious as he lifts both arms, giving Aizawa a double thumbs-up.

“You are honorable, Aizawa. Dutiful. I respect you, even though your methods are too harsh. I recognize, however, that you are just as harsh to yourself as you are to your students, and that is admirable.”

Aizawa watches him warily from the corner of his eyes, pencil held loosely in his fist. He wonders what Toshinori is up to; he looks almost nervous.

“Still,” Toshinori continues, and even though shadow has swallowed his powder blue eyes again, Aizawa feels like he is being watched from the deep set gauges beneath Toshinori’s brow. His arms are still extended, still giving him a goofy double thumbs-up. “You deserve a break every now and then, Eraserhead. You deserve to relax.”

Aizawa is getting intrigued, turning his head minimally, and taking Toshinori in. Tall but continuously slouched. Ill-fitting suit hanging off of his emaciated body. Yagi Toshinori thinks that he is the impostor; the front – not All Might. He caters to his huge alter-ego body. Wants to be prepared to change at the drop of a hat wherever he is. Wants to be prepared to help.

“What are you on about?” he mumbles, vowels slurring – half from sleep-deprivation, half because he just doesn’t care.

And then he does wake up full and sharp as Toshinori suddenly moves; sliding down and beneath the table, quick and fluid – folding his tall, lank body in on itself with a deftness that shows how clearly he knows himself despite everything.

“What are you-” Aizawa starts, then chokes on his own words. Toshinori’s hands are at his fly; opening it quick and clever.

“You deserve to relax as much as anybody else, honorable Eraserhead,” he hears Toshinori’s deep voice mumble from beneath.

He feels a sharp pang of nervous shame as he thinks about how late it is; how he has to smell – but then Toshinori’s warm, moist breath is huffing against his cock; so effortlessly slipped from his underwear; and a nose is snuffling into the unkempt thatch of hair at the base of his dick. Inhaling. Exhaling.

Warm and gentle, just as the broad, long hand that is holding him upright. Keeping him steady for Toshinori’s welcoming mouth.

Aizawa curls forward, hands balled into fists, eyes wide as he stares at the divider giving him modest privacy in the office from the other desks closely pushed against his on each side.

Nobody is here. It is dark other than a few stray lights.

Nobody is here other than Toshinori beneath his desk, suckling the tip of his cock warm and gentle into his mouth; tongue lapping at the slit, coaxing him to fatten up and fill out the space.

“T-Toshinori,” Aizawa grinds out, toes curling in his boots. His knees want to lift and clamp reflexively around Toshinori’s bushy blond head, but the man’s hands are there, holding them down. Keeping him seated as he crawls further in and slides down the throbbing shaft.

Taking Aizawa in deep, deep, deeper without a hitch until he can feel the crown push along the soft palate and even farther.

He holds his breath, eyes squeezed shut, cheeks bulging with little puffing breaths as he feels the wet resistance for a second before Toshinori shifts and relaxes and then he pops past that, too – and he can’t believe it, but Toshinori is deep throating him like it’s nothing special. Lets him deep dick his throat with an unending patience that brings water to Aizawa’s usually perpetually dry eyes.

Someone is taking heaving breaths that border on sobs, and he realizes with a start, that he is the one doing it. He clamps a hand across his mouth, and the other shoots down; fists in Toshinori’s thick fringe, then slides farther back to the untamed nest on the back of his head.

His hips jerk and jutter but he doesn’t do much in terms of moving. He’s fixed quite neatly behind his desk and he can’t believe Toshinori is sucking him off.

Great, long pulls as he bobs his head smoothly, his already gaunt cheeks hollowed even more to cushion Aizawa’s cock lovingly – and when Aizawa’s trembling hand manages to let go of the fist full of hair and slide down, he can feel the bulge of his dick through Toshinori’s thin cheek.

The sensation makes him bite the flesh of his palm, hips jumping, balls clenching.

He comes too fast. Way too fast. It is embarrassing.

Annoying, annoying, annoying.

But Toshinori doesn’t seem surprised. He swallows him down, then laps like a kitten at the silky head, trying to get every last drop.

When he slips out from beneath the table, he has put Aizawa neatly away and looks as put-together as gaunt, slouching Toshinori does.

Aizawa isn’t looking at him. He is staring at the divider around his desk, chest still heaving, eyes wide open. Cheeks a deep red.

“I hope I could be of help,” Toshinori’s deep voice mumbles. There’s his warm hand in the middle of Aizawa’s back, giving him a small, friendly rub.

“You should go to sleep soon. Eraserhead.”

A Reaper76 fic for @kinkyarkhive as a little goodie for his very very good work on the last fic compilation ❤ he wanted some more Oviposition with Reaper being able to feel the eggs inside Soldier’s body….

“Are you nervous, Jackie?”

Reaper presses against the Soldier’s back, heavy and feverishly hot. Jack clenches his jaw and squeezes his eyes shut. He looks like a little kid that tries to tell himself the Boogieman isn’t real, and isn’t that just delightful?

Reaper hums thoughtfully, his smoke curling around Jack’s trim hips, dipping beneath the hem of his jacket; and then down into the waistband of his combat pants. Jack breathes out forcefully through his nose, head falling forward, forehead against the wall.

“You don’t need to be nervous,” Reaper assures him with a low rumble, the tendrils whispering across Jack’s tight cheeks, then slithering between them. There wouldn’t be any space for it if he had used his hands, but smoke always finds a way.

Jack huffs and lifts up onto the balls of his feet, legs spreading instinctually at the playful pressure against his hole.

“Easy for you to say,” he grunts out. It is difficult to make out his facial expression and discern what he is really thinking when half his face is still obscured behind the mask, but that is half the fun of the experience.

He whines, high and canine when Reaper’s smoke starts curling into him, gloved fingers dragging along the wall. He dreads what is coming just as much as he is eager for it.

“You will show yourself off to the others, will you not?” Reaper murmurs against his neck, eyes going heavy lidded as he feels the Soldier’s insides in such a very intimate way. It is not like fucking his fingers into somebody; it is like being inside another body; feeling his soft, giving walls around him, a little wet and so very hot as he gets filled with more and more smoke.

With more and more of Reaper.

“You will walk through the base with my clutch, will you not?”

Soldier is vibrating, and gently hitting his head against the wall. He doesn’t answer for the longest time, breathing going wet and deep the more Reaper fills him with his smoke; slipping into all the little folds of his intestines and filling the space; making his presence known.

He knows, trapped under the heavy fabric of his combat gear, Soldier’s cock is hard and leaking. He has been needing this for a long time; has been asking for it, even – and so close in the wake of a mission gone well, it transforms him into a shuddering mess laughably easy.

“Yes,” he admits finally, voice high-pitched. Almost child like. He is bouncing gently on the balls of his feet. He is still fully clothed, yet filled to the very brim with his lover. The sensation has to be agony.

His breathing is wet. Reaper wonders if he is drooling beneath his visor.

“I will fill you up, Jackie-boy,” Reaper purrs against him, body alight with the feeling of Jack all around him. His intestines soft and warm and welcoming. He is almost jealous of the clutch he will be laying in him. He wants to disperse in a cloud of smoke and crawl into the old Soldier himself. He wants to make him look bloated and pregnant.

He wants others to see.

Jack is panting out soft, wet gasps, back arched, eyes squinted and watery as Gabriel starts filling him up slowly; smoke starting to solidify in a perfectly round orb that grows in weight and rolls easily into one warm bend of the Soldier’s insides. It snuggles itself down in there, smooth and unmoving; the first of Reaper’s clutch that Jack accepts so very graciously, body thrumming and poised. Waiting.

The second has him whining drawn-out and shuddering, and the third has him scrabbling for his visor finally, ripping at it ineffectually until his clumsy fingers find the closing mechanism on pure luck. He rips it away from his face, chin a bit wet, lips dark from his biting teeth.

He hides his face in the crook of his elbow, groaning loud and unashamed as the eggs shift within him, moving softly as they seek a way to settle best, and sending dull vibrations through his guts.

Reaper’s eyes are half-lidded behind his mask. He feels drunk on the feeling of Jack’s bowels rippling around his eggs – him – and drawing up tight as if to secure them more firmly inside the tight windings.

Jack grunts and shifts his stance; breathing growing shallow and fast as his stomach begins to press against the waistband of his done-up pants.

Maybe that was the most delicious part of it all: that Reaper could fill him up with his eggs wherever he wanted, and without having to undress him. Just the insidious whisper of his smoke curling into the old Soldier’s body and solidifying into the precious clutch of eggs; impregnate him whenever he so damn well pleases.

He could do it while he’s on base, the next time. Or while he is talking to somebody else… feel his body heat up into a furnace as he quietly dies of humiliation…

“You’re a slut, Jackie-boy,” he purrs against his neck, slowly, carefully placing the fourth and last egg inside him. “Just a useless, little slut… so desperate to be allowed to carry my clutch…”

Jack groans, shuffling his feet wider, lowering faintly into his knees. Reaper can feel his insides rippling around the clutch – around himself – as he bears down on them reflexively, body trying to work them out immediately.

They stay secure, though; nestled in the squishy, moist curves of the old Soldier’s intestines.

As long as Reaper wants them to stay.

.o.

His cock is pulsing in his fist, but he is not paying it more attention than the occasional squeeze. He is fat and heavy in his hand; a nice girth against his palm – but the focus of his attention lies on the other side of the base.

The connection is strong; he can feel the eggs gently moving with Soldier’s motions, and when he closes his heavy-lidded eyes and concentrates, he can even feel the wet, hot clutch of his intestines around them.

They are being held secure, and even though the old Soldier’s body temperature is elevated, betraying his embarrassment about the situation, he has not made any move to try and get them out of him.

Rather, he seems more prone to walking around the base, and the thought of Jackie-boy maybe wanting to show off his faintly swollen belly to the others makes Reaper’s cock swell further in his grip, flexing against his fingers.

He imagines the Soldier in old workout gear, trying to be discrete about the bulge that makes the waistband of the sweatpants draw tighter than usual. He imagines him reaching for his belly subconsciously; framing it with his big, rough hands like a pregnant lady.

Is he waddling? The awkward weight of the eggs in his guts has to do something for him. He has to be constantly hard, dick rubbing against his slacks, lazily drooling into his underwear.

Reaper rolls around onto his front, hips pushing into the tight circle of his fist. He grunts, eyes squeezed shut. He imagines Jack talking to his team mates as he’s filled with Reaper’s clutch. He imagines him hot and embarrassed and horny as he’s hard while chatting with Lùcio; moving discretely to feel the shift in his intestines when listening to Reinhardt talk.

Reaper grits his teeth, fucking against his fist, mind alight with all the possibilities.

Would Jack still be as hot and bothered if Gabriel decided to up the ante and make the clutch move? Would he grunt and groan and start jerking off in the middle of the living room, under everybody’s watchful eye as he is forced to have his clutch right then and there?

Gabriel grits his teeth, gripping his cock almost brutally hard as he jerks into his fist; fucking it fast and brutal; imagining doing it to Jack. Holding him down and grunt-fucking his hole; deep enough to nudge up against his own eggs.

Fuck him until he is bearing down, body confused and alight with pleasure; not knowing how to properly interpret the sensations and just instinctively trying to have the eggs.

The old Soldier is such a good vessel for them, too; he is so eager for the sensation of being impregnated; of having to be careful and protective of the heavy, inky black orbs.

He wants to show them around, wants everybody else to see what a good mommy he is – and yet, he is afraid to do so.

Maybe Reaper really should help him along with that. Creep around the corners of the room, and watch as Jack is forced into labor by him. Feel his intestines ripple around the eggs and himself as Jack gives birth to them… to him…

He snarls as he comes, balls clenching almost nauseatingly hard, jerking out thick, over-eager ropes of cum.

The thought doesn’t leave him afterwards, though. He can still feel them snug and warm inside Jack’s body. He needs to see it. He needs to…