12th Batch Ko-Fi Fics: 4th Fill

Reapzo – continuation of this – brain washing; exhibitionism; spit roasting – Reaper shows the Overwatch Agents how well he’s trained his new pet.

.o.

The rubble beneath Hanzo’s knees and hands only hurts for a moment before Reaper slips silky tendrils across the hurting parts and shields him from the sharp edges.

He is confusingly nice like that: He will show Hanzo off to whoever damn well he pleases, humiliating him by forcing him to come again and again on slippery tendrils that fuck deep enough to bulge his belly, but he will also make sure he is not being *hurt* in the process; wrapping himself around him enough to keep him warm and secure from potential chafing.

Maybe Hanzo has been in his custody for too long, but it makes him feel all warm and… protected, even when blackness curls around his throat and forces his head up. Makes him look at the Overwatch Agents that stand a careful few feet away, staring with pale faces and gaping mouths.

His mouth drops open. He wants to say something. Apologize, maybe? Or tell them not to look? But Reaper knows what he is doing even before he himself knows it, and the ink on his throat slides up across his chin. Small tendrils fill his mouth, dragging against his tongue until Hanzo obediently licks at them. Lets himself get throat fucked by Reaper until his eyes go glassy and everything is nice and muted.

He barely registers that some of the Agents are calling out to him, and trying to get him to snap out of it; or answer their queries, maybe. He can’t, though; not with Reaper’s little tendrils tickling the back of his throat until he gags wet and lewd, his whole body rocking with it.

Hanzo stares at them, hot with humiliation and need. He’s ashamed to admit that Reaper has trained him to respond to the feeling of being naked and exposed to others; letting them see the swing of his fat, hard dick and how he angles his hips into the fucking.

Months ago this would have been unthinkable. Ludicrous, even. Now, after months of training and being conditioned, he can’t fathom not being filled by the silky blackness of his captor. He is addicted to the feeling of getting his insides spread out on Reaper until he feels almost nauseous.

The monster is feverishly hot; a constant, slow churning in his guts like a particularly lazy flow of magma, and this, too, had been something he had to get used to first and then became addicted to later. Hanzo feels so *cold* without Reaper fucking him; pushing fat, undulating tentacles into every orifice of his body until Hanzo is not sure anymore where one begins and the other ends.

He knows he should be mortified and humiliated, being exposed and shown off to his former colleagues and, yes, friends, but he can’t dredge up much inspiration for actual thought when Reaper is slipping into his loose, sloppy hole flirtatiously.

Hanzo groans when just the tip of the tentacle pushes inside, then pulls out again while more tentacles wrap around his thighs and pull them farther apart. He tries to turn his head and look back, whine at the amorphous mass that is behind him, but Reaper’s grip is unrelenting and keeps his head turned the way it is. Doesn’t let him look away from the pale, shocked faces, or the slowly dawning realization that Hanzo is actually not in *distress*.

As Hanzo stares into Mei’s face and watches her pretty, plump mouth drop open in an ‘oh’ of surprised understanding, Reaper’s tentacles start shifting.

Hanzo gets lifted off of all fours and turned around like he weighs nothing. When he starts struggling, a long, thick tentacle slips into his sloppy hole and presses gently against the swollen bump of his prostate – and just like that, his vague, pathetic attempts at fighting off the slick, velvety mass dissolve into nothingness.

He is held up like an offering, his arms stretched up above his head and held secure by the monster. His legs are spread, knees up and almost at his ribs. Reaper shows him off, and Hanzo obediently loves it, his cock prominently jerking and dribbling as he feels the stares of his former comrades on his body.

Reaper laps at him, warm little licks of his appendages that pull back only reluctantly because he wants to *touch* him, but he also wants to *show* him.

Hanzo’s hips get curved forward, his loose hole on display for their audience to watch as he gets slowly, intimately spread on a sleek tentacle. He gurgles wordlessly, mouth still open and used by Reaper, who had pulled back but is still idly petting across Hanzo’s tongue.

Reaper wants to show off his superiority and Hanzo couldn’t have stopped him even if he had wanted to. All he can do is play right into his hands, gurgling and drooling and trying to fuck himself on the cock-like tentacle that’s dipping into him at a rate that is not enough. Not nearly enough.

He imagines coming like this, in front of his erstwhile friends: with a monster fucking him deep enough that his belly bulges, orgasm rolling over him without a need for his cock to be touched.

Coming like he’s been *trained* to do, shameful and slutty – and when more tentacles slide across his pecs, flicking and lapping at his hard, needy nipples, he knows that he has no chance *but* to show off what he has learned.

Let them see how far the Shimada heir has fallen.

2nd Batch Ko-Fi Fics: 4th Fill

Lúcio/Reinhardt – daddy kink; exhibitionism; mentions of past abuse – Reinhardt has a good boy and shows him off

Originally, Reinhardt had wanted Lúcio on his lap facing their audience, but a look at his face where his eyes had gotten very big and very vulnerable had him change his mind quickly.

Now, he is rather happy about his change of heart, because watching his boy’s face while he slips two warm, slick fingers into his butter soft hole is even better than to watch at the envious faces of the people milling around them.

Lúcio is a true trooper, taking the prickling embarrassment in stride now after Reinhardt as plied him with warm, tickling kisses along his jaw, and endearments whispered into his hot little ear.

In the beginning, of course, he had still been a bit shy; pressing his face against Reinhardt’s neck, his fingers curled around his biceps and gripping painfully hard with anxiety.

Lúcio is a good boy who hasn’t been treated well by people that should have cherished him, and Reinhardt had let him ride out his little panic attack, rubbing up and down his back before his boy had slumped against him, exhausted already and murmuring – begging – for him to continue.

“You’re doing so well, baby boy… They love watching you,” Reinhardt rumbles intimately against his ear, fingers twisting deeper, feeling how wet and hot Lúcio’s clutching walls are; how his rim is twitching around him, trying to pull him in deeper, spear himself more on Reinhardt’s long, wide fingers.

“D…” Lúcio is muffling himself against Reinhardt’s collar; he has been chewing on it since Reinhardt made him take the second digit, but now he turns his head away, presses his sweaty forehead against Reinhardt’s neck and breathes quick and excited. “Daddy,” he whines, and their audience murmurs appreciatively. They step a bit closer, tightening the circle around them, and Lúcio ripples around him and cries out softly.

It is a blessing, really, to be allowed to show him off like this. To have him against him trusting and warm, even though he is so very embarrassed by showing off the stretch of his ass, and the soft mounds of his balls just dangling there between his thighs. There is no chance for him to hide; not with his knees spread wide around Reinhardt’s lap, and his fingers clutching at daddy’s vest for dear life.

Reinhardt hums and lets his free hand squeeze at Lúcio’s neck one last time, gently pushing his dreadlocks over one shoulder to let the others see his muscular back. His palm, dry and comforting, runs along Lúcio’s spine, making him arch like a kitten, pressing into the fingers spearing him and making him cry out for daddy once more.

Reinhardt squeezes one of his ass cheeks, then finally reaches around his thigh and cups the soft sac there, testicles round and firm in his gently rolling fingers. He has to twist his wrist awkwardly to let their audience see what he is doing, but he gets rewarded with Lúcio squirming and puffing hot little “Ah… Ah… Ah…”s against his neck, his hips rutting, fucking his sleek, pretty cock against Reinhardt’s belly.

“Daddy… D-Daddy,” Lúcio whines, voice going a bit high and weepy, his nails raking along Reinhardt’s vest as he squirms and becomes restless, head falling back, dark, docile eyes staring at the ring of strangers that are close enough to touch now.

Reinhardt lets him squirm and whine; it only takes a bit of a squeeze around his testicles to have him stay still enough to get finger fucked, and not try to crawl up on daddy’s shoulder with the sudden restless energy that is coursing through him.

He cries out beautifully when he comes, long and hoarse and arms curled around Reinhardt’s neck like a man that is about to drown, hips jerking back onto his fingers and forward against his belly, jittery as he rides out his orgasm in front of all those watching eyes.

Reinhardt has never been more proud of his boy.

I promised 1 fic of an older compilation

And it doesn’t get much older than the very first comp 🙂

Since today is easter, I thought the Oviposition fic might be just what everybody needs today

If you want to check out what other fics are in the compilation, you can find the post on it here with links to my gumroad where you can purchase it.

If you want to tip me, you can find my Ko-Fi here

other than that: please enjoy ❤

Reaper76 – Oviposition – Being A Goold Old Boy

Reaper is shaking his head in refusal, rubbing his forehead into the bedding. His shoulders are bunched tight and shaking, body gearing up for denial that never comes. It only takes Soldier’s large hand at the small of his back, blunt, broad fingertips rubbing into the clammy, sweaty skin, to calm him back down.

“Yes, you will be,” he tells him, gruff voice low, almost gentle for him – yet still very much no–nonsense. He watches how Reaper already struggles, rim pouty and constantly moving as he tries and only barely manages not to bear down on the three smooth ceramic eggs currently nuzzled within his guts. Every time the swollen rim flares open, Jack can see the dark grey bottom of the last egg he fitted into him.

He places his thumb squarely on the opening and pushes gently as the other hand rubs Reaper’s back, trying to soothe away his low, pained grunt. Reaper’s voice has considerably climbed in the last five minutes, sweat breaking out all over his back and sides at Jack’s calm announcement.

“I will give you one more egg. And then you will put on some nice, comfy clothes and go out. I want you to go and get a glass of water and stay where others can see you for four minutes. One for each egg you let me push into your slutty, needy ass.

You don’t need to talk to anybody. You don’t even need to look at them. I just want you to be a good, brave boy.

And when you’re done… then you can come back and we’ll take care of this.”

“No, please,” Reaper rasps. He sounds almost in tears; almost enough to make Jack rethink his demand. Still, as he begs, he angles his body backwards, presses into Jack’s thumb just to feel him jostle the heavy eggs already in his gut; making him feel swollen and bulky to the point where he thought he might not even be able to walk without a waddle. The thought of going out into the open like that makes his toes curl and smoke billow from between the clench of his teeth.

“You love this,” the Soldier tells him gently. He leans down, presses a fleeting kiss to the clenching, lube–wet muscle, and proceeds to wipe his lips against one round, plump ass cheek. He watches Gabriel shake his head in denial, shoulders pulling towards his ears, body trying to become thick, dark smog before he can make himself go corporeal again.

Jack smirks, hand fumbling for the last egg lying on the sheets. Even after all these years Gabriel had not changed. Seems not even death could make him any less of a greedy humiliation slut.

“It’s okay. You don’t need to admit it. You got me for that, right?”

He sits up again, the ball of his hand pressing firmly against the small of Gabriel’s back to prepare him for the new egg. Still, Reaper sounds panicked when he feels the smooth edge of the ceramic kissing up to his hole. He throws his head back with a drawn out grunt, body shaking and sweaty, rim flexing closed in denial, then blooming open greedily for more.

Jack waits patiently until that happens before asserting pressure, slow and consistent, his cock surging at the sight of Reaper’s rim stretching for the intruder.

“Naughty slut,” he murmurs practically absent minded. His free hand slides down, cups the tight swell of Gabriel’s abdomen and massages it lightly, voice pitched low, murmuring soothing nonsense as he makes Gabriel accept the intrusion.

He imagines he can feel it, too – the eggs moving within him, one pressing against his fingers… or maybe it’s just Gabriel’s muscles, iron hard and quivering, his cock hanging in an undecided half–hard state since Jack’s announcement.

He takes long after the last egg. Jack lets him move however he wants, which first is a slow, calculated collapse onto his belly, and then with a soft groan onto his side because he can’t deal with the pressure.

Jack cleans him with a wet rag, wiping the drool and tears of overstimulation from his face even though he is fussy, trying to pull away and growl. It morphs into a groan when it makes the heavy objects in his gut shift.

“Are you ready?” the Soldier murmurs finally, soft wide sweater and pants laid out next to Reaper.

Gabriel tried to ignore them, not even deigning to look, but now he is, hands slowly kneading into the bedding.

“I don’t know about this…” he mumbles, and Jack sighs with a soft, indulgent smile and leans down, hand rubbing across Reaper’s shorn scalp.

“That’s okay. You don’t need to know anything. You just need to do what I tell you, because you’re a little slut and you want me to. Right?”

For a moment, Reaper’s face contorts; he looks unhappy and stubborn, tears filling his dark, beautiful eyes even as his cock starts to get interested once more – and then it smoothes out and becomes practically serene, head turning so he can nuzzle into Jack’s hand.

“Yes…”

“Very good. Then get up and be a good boy. Four minutes. You can do it.”

.o.

Gabriel is shaking by the time Jack slowly guides him into a kneeling position, their grip on each other’s biceps white knuckled and bruising. There is a wet spot slowly, stubbornly spreading on the front of Gabriel’s sweatpants and Jack’s voice sounds rougher, barely even human anymore, when he demands: “Did they see that? Did they see what a nasty little slut you are?”

His eyes are wide, a little wild. He feels crazy and thinks he must look the part. Sound the part. Gabriel groans, knees crashing the last couple centimeters to the floor when his legs give out.

“Who has seen you?” Jack wants to know, voice a little lower, hand rubbing shakily across Gabriel’s shorn head, feeling the rasp of the stubble against his palm. Gabriel doesn’t want to answer – he is preoccupied with shoving weakly at his pants, trying to get them off.

“I need to… please… Jack I need to…” He has trouble speaking and concentrating. There is black smoke wafting in delicate tendrils from the corners of his eyes. His voice is hoarse like Jack has fucked his throat for too long and too rough.

He can remedy that – as Gabriel finally shoves his pants down to his incredible thighs, Jack fishes out his dick. His heart is beating so fast, he feels harried. Under attack.

“Have they seen what a slut you are? Have they seen that you’re a dirty whore that’s debasing himself just to get some dick?”

Gabriel is clutching at Jack’s hips. He is shaking more intensely now, sweat dripping down the sides of his face. He grunts, bearing down, pushing at the clutch of ceramic eggs nestled in his guts.

When the wet head of Jack’s cock smears across his mouth, he opens it just the same, eyes opening, staring up helplessly at the Soldier. Letting himself get used.

Jack nudges his hips forward, drags the sensitive glans across Gabriel’s tongue and listens to the soft thump of an egg hitting the ground – watches the slight strain around Gabriel’s eyes – and thinks that he must be crazy; to stick his cock anywhere near Reaper when he was like this, mindless, straining, grunting, body caught on the sharp edge where it didn’t know whether the sensations bombarding it were good or bad.

But he was so very sweet like this, too; trying so hard to be open and receiving; letting Jack murmur sweet abuse at him and clamoring for more of the same treatment.

“Maybe I should let them in when I’m done with you,” Jack murmurs, belly feeling tight and hot and prickly. He feels Gabriel’s fingers spasm at his hips and his nails getting sharp and dangerous for a second. He plows on, listening to Gabriel strain, imagining his rim – slimy with lube, slowly stretching open farther and farther as he tried to deposit another egg: “Let them in and see you; curled around your little clutch of eggs. Let them have a look at your sloppy, fucked out hole. Let them know just exactly how you need to be handled in the future.”

Gabriel whines long and high through his nose; a weak whistle as he digs his sharp claws into Jack’s hips, pain licking up his spine and only adding to the heat of the moment as Gabriel jerks and shudders, his constricting muscles forcing another egg out while his cock drools thick globs of cum to the ground.

“Yeah that’s it,” the Soldier murmurs, hands holding onto Reaper’s head, fingers rubbing along the greying stubble of his skull. “That’s. It.”

1st Ko-Fi Fic Prompt :)

Here’s the first fic in my list commissioned by @mujaween following this post of Genji hacking McCree’s phone to look at lewd pictures and wanting all the dirty details… got a bit carried away and it got ~2,400 words instead :’ )

“Ugh Genji… come on, you’re a good lad an’ all but I can’t…” Jesse trails off, eyes tracking the movement of the bottle Genji is slowly swaying in front of him, tantalizing as the dark liquid sloshes inside.

Genji hums, the sound a bit robotic behind his mask, and kneels down next to Jesse in a fluid, graceful motion.

“What’s the matter? Don’t like it anymore?”

Jesse’s dark eyes are pinned on the bottle. He wants it badly, Genji can tell, but he’s not yet reaching for it, cheeks going ruddy red beneath his scruffy beard as he shrugs his shoulders and tugs the brim of his hat down to shield his eyes from Genji’s unwavering stare.

“Yourbrother’sgon’beangrywithme’sall,” he slurs quick and under his breath, then adds a bit more intelligible: “Can’t be comin’ home to him stinkin’ of booze all the time.”

Genji shifts minimally, his cock feeling warm and heavy beneath the fabric of his codpiece.

“It’s just once a week,” he wheedles, “Can’t believe the big Jesse McCree is cowed by some little housewife antics.”

Jesse flinches and chokes on his spit, quickly sitting up straight from his slump on the roof of the base and eying Genji nervously… or embarrassed? Genji cocks his head, watching the color of Jesse’s face darken even more before the other suddenly thrusts his arm out and practically snatches the booze out of Genji’s hands.

“Ye’re right. ‘course you are. Just once a week – a man is allowed to enjoy himself, right?”

Genji nods sagely. “Of course he is.”

“Yeah. Yes. ‘Course he is.”

Genji slips closer, settling down next to Jesse, hands folded casually across the swell of his cock beneath the fabric, faceplate in place to shield how hot his cheeks had gotten and how glassy he knew his eyes are already.

Jesse unscrews the booze easy enough and knocks shoulders with Genji amicably, then takes a little swig.

.o.

Jesse is no alcoholic by any stretch of the imagination, but he’s cocky and trusting enough that he lets himself easily get goaded into drinking a bit more than he should.

When he starts rummaging in his serape to fish a cigar out of its depths, it is easy for Genji to nab his phone for a second, place the little chip on the back and push it back into the back pocket of Jesse’s jeans.

He then tucks out his own phone, heart beating fast with adrenalin as he selects the app he needs, watching as a new picture folder is being downloaded.

His mouth goes dry when he finally opens it up and he is presented with Jesse’s private pictures. The latest one just greets him in a tiny preview yet still makes him bite his tongue to keep quiet as he quickly taps on it.

Next to him, Jesse finally has produced the cigar and carefully clips the end, humming a little tune back in his throat. He has no idea what his silent companion is up to as the unreadable mask is directed at the screen of Genji’s phone.

A screen where he can see what he knows is McCree’s dick – fat and ruddy, with his hairy belly visible in the bottom of the frame while the rest is occupied by his very own brother, gazing up with an out-of-it expression as he suckles at the cock.

Genji shifts, free hand dropping between his thighs, grabbing at his cock as he stares mesmerized at the POV shot; how Hanzo’s perfectly groomed beard is already shiny with spit. How there are more tacky spots along his sharp cheekbones where McCree must have rubbed the tip of his cock against – or maybe even slapped Hanzo with his dick, and isn’t that a nice thought? His brother on his knees, begging for cock and getting slapped with a big ruddy dick for his trouble?

Hanzo is almost cross-eyed, staring up into the camera, his dark eyes bottomless and glassy. Needy. There is a bulge in the left side of his cheek where Jesse has pushed his dick into, and Genji wants that so badly he almost feels nauseous.

When he sees the date of the picture, he wants to sob. Last night. Last night Jesse got to fuck his brother; had him on his dick like a cheap whore and made pictures of him sucking his dick – and Genji… Genji has been in his room, grunt fucking his fist against the mattress and imagining it was Hanzo; sloppy and used and just as slutty as he always imagines Hanzo will be.

“Had a good night yesterday? You were gone pretty quick.” He can’t stop staring at the stretch of Hanzo’s lips around a cock, or the metal of McCree’s arm, fingers curled unforgivingly in Hanzo’s hair – ready to pull him down on the dick and use him as a fleshlight.

Jesse grunts noncommittally, then seems to think a bit more on it, eyes squinting into the dark sky as he recollects what he’s been up to – then the corner of his mouth ticks up.

“Yeah. Somethin’ like that. Was good.”

Genji can see that. His eyes are glued to the screen, thumb unwilling to swipe to the next picture. The longer he watches, the more details he can see; like the fact that Hanzo is wearing make-up; subtle but there, the sharp, dark line around his eyes a bit muddied by unshed tears.

God, Genji wants that. Wants to fuck his brother so good he cries.

“Yes? Did you have fun?”

Jesse chuckles, rolling the lit cigar into the corner of his mouth and leaning back against the wall, cocky and satisfied.

“Yep. Had some good wholesome fun with… uh…” He starts to realize with whom he is talking about whom and clears his throat awkwardly, finishing his sentence a bit lame with: “Yeah. Had fun.”

Genji is not deterred. His belly is on fire and his cock is spitting pre-cum against the tight fabric of his codpiece.

“Did my brother save a horse, cowboy?” His voice falls short miles of playful. It is rough and low. It becomes difficult to speak with the mask on, his breath hot and thick until he lifts his mildly shaking hand and unlatches it.

Jesse is quiet for a bit, taking a swig of the booze. He eyes Genji’s face which has to be as flushed as he feels, his hand curled around his phone so tightly that the case creaks.

“Shit,” Jesse murmurs, his cheeks taking on another deep, warm glow. He scratches at the back of his head, not looking at Genji who directs his gaze back down, swipes to the next picture and whimpers very quietly in the back of his throat.

“Yeah… s… s’pose so,” Jesse mutters next to him as Genji stares at his brother in a black dress that almost looks like a maid uniform but does not quite. There are pink slips of fabric everywhere; a silky band around his waist, and a laceline of it along the hem of the skirt. His hair is bound with a pink ribbon as well, though not all of it. It looks more artful like this and less like a necessity, and as he stares at it, something connects in his mind and he swipes back to the first picture and – there it is. The pink little slip of silk just barely visible in the black mess of Hanzo’s hair.

Genji lifts his free hand unthinkingly, biting at it to keep quiet; keep himself from slipping his dick out in front of McCree and fucking it, thinking of his big, serious brother wearing a little dress for his man just yesterday. His tits look fantastic in it, too; his torso is too broad, making the fabric strain, and giving his pecs a plush, full look – like they are perfectly capable to being fucked good.

He thinks back on his little housewife comment earlier and McCree’s weird reaction to it. He closes his eyes and breathes in deeply through his nose.

Jesse is still not looking at him. He seems embarrassed and Genji can’t even fathom it when just yesterday he’s had Hanzo in a dress sucking his dick.

“You definitely pulled the stick out of his ass,” Genji murmurs. Jesse is startled into a laugh, his voice sounding a bit hysterical when he answers: “Don’t know ‘bout that one. If anything I replaced it with somethin’ else.”

Then he takes another quick swig, his face looking pinched – like he is chastising himself for speaking like that, though Genji does not know whether it is because he is talking like that about his lover or because he is talking like that in front of his lover’s brother.

Or maybe both.

Genji pushes on to the next picture and becomes very quiet, staring at it as Jesse mutters under his breath, holding the bottle of booze to his chest like a shield.

Genji feels like crying as he stares at a picture of his brother’s ass. Hanzo seems to be kneeling on a bed or something, bracing himself on his shoulders so his hands are free to reach down and spread his cheeks apart for Jesse’s – Genji’s – viewing pleasure. There is black fabric bunched around his waist, probably of the same damn dress, skirt flipped up to let his lover fuck him and cream his hole; his hole that is flushed an irritated red from usage, loose and wet, obviously freshly dicked as it is still gaping buttery soft, with a thick drip of cum slowly oozing out of it.

Jesse is shifting restlessly next to him; has been for a while now, in fact – both of them quiet for a long time as Genji has been absorbed in the picture of his brother’s fucked-out cunt, and Jesse thinking… whatever.

When Genji glances over, he can see the bulge of his dick. Jesse’s always said that booze made him horny, and thinking of his brother behaving like a cockslut obviously only makes matters worse.

Genji swallows but his throat is still dry.

“How is it?” he asks. Jesse eyes him out of the corner of his eye, then grunts. “How’s what.”

Genji licks his lips, stares down at the screen of his phone, eyes tracking the red gape of Hanzo’s sloppy hole.

“How is it to fuck my brother.”

Jesse goes very still next to him, and for a moment Genji thinks this is it – Jesse will stand and walk away and never talk to him again. He won’t go telling Hanzo, that’s not who Jesse is, but he will definitely not stand for Hanzo’s brother to-

Jesse pushes his hat far down above his eyes until Genji can only see the ruddy red of his cheeks – so very similar to the color of his fat, hard dick when it slips into his brother’s used holes – and the line of his lips clamped tightly around his cigar.

He’s not gone yet, and Genji… Genji has to know. He’s going crazy having these pictures at his disposal; knowing that Hanzo willingly let himself get photographed like this-

“Jesse,” he rasps, leaning forward a bit, hand between his thighs, slipping the codpiece to the side to let his dick at the cool night air, wet with pre-cum and flexing with the need to come. “How is it to fuck my brother. Is he good on your cock? Does he feel nice?”

“Fuck yeah he does,” Jesse grunts, voice wrecked; so deep Genji can barely understand what he’s saying. “Can take me any time of the fucking week; anywhere I want. He’s so hungry for it; can’t fucking keep up with him most o’ the time.”

Jesse pinches the cigar between two fingers to keep it from falling to the floor, his mouth open and wet as he pants, hand on his dick similar to Genji though he has not yet pulled it out.

He sounds haunted; like he has to confide; like he’s been dying to for an eternity and the knowledge of how lewd Hanzo actually is is keeping him up at night.

Genji is jerking off openly now, staring at Jesse. He leans forward, pushes his hat back. He needs to see his eyes; how he looks like a man on a chase. Jesse flinches back a bit, licks his lips, glances at Genji’s face, then at his dick, out and wet and flushed an angry red.

“Shit,” he whispers, then a bit louder once more: “Shit.”

He closes his eyes, swallows, then opens them once again. Stares Genji straight in the eyes.

“He feels like he’s gonna keep your dick for good when you fuck him. He doesn’t wanna let you move but begs for it like a cat in heat. He’ll scratch you up for pullin’ out, an’ for pushin’ in. Pretends like he doesn’t want dick like he needs it to live and gets crazy for it a second later.”

He’s got his cock out now as well, both of them panting, staring at each other jerking off. Genji imagines it; Hanzo acting like a man possessed, howling like a goddamn cat for dick, to get fucked, but not wanting it to move as well.

Jesse curses under his breath, lets his head fall back, hips flexing into his fist. Genji closes his eyes and bites his lips; tries to imagine his brother’s hole on his cock; silky and wet and so very well fucked.

“He’s trained like a seasoned whore,” Jesse suddenly continues, hoarse. Genji bites his tongue. “Can take anything you give ‘im. Loves to be slapped around a bit. Wants to be fucked like a slut and acts like one, too. I-”

Jesse looks almost pained, his fist looking like he’s strangling his dick. “I wanna get him to a gas station sometime. Have him dolled up and ready for use. Watch him get dicked by the truckers. He’d love it, too.”

Genji has trouble swallowing, his tongue hanging out like a dog, cock aching.

“I want him,” he rasps, returning Jesse’s startled gaze, the sound of them jerking off slick and lewd in the cool air. “I want to fuck my big brother, Jesse.”

They stare at each other as they come, cheeks dark red and breaths puffing out, but an understanding between them that makes Genji feel nauseatingly hopeful.

(You can tip me here if you like 🙂 )

short ‘n dirty exhibitionist Hanzo for @kirinlust‘s pic that will keep me awake at night for the forseeable future.

They could be mistaken for a couple, Hanzo thinks. The market is bustling and he has hooked himself into his acquaintance’s arm, walking with him through throngs of people and inspecting the wares that were on offer. His partner was kind enough; not prattling uselessly as they moved along, seemingly content with Hanzo’s presence.

Nobody would think that they had met up only an hour earlier in a Starbucks, exchanging a few distracted niceties, the tips of Hanzo’s ears burning with nervous excitement while the other man was distinctly distracted, eyes glued to the zipper of Hanzo’s long, dark coat.

“I need to see it,” he’d said suddenly, wiping his sweaty hands at his jeans and slipping from the stool. Hanzo had felt his heartbeat ratcheting up as he’d been grabbed at the wrist and pulled towards the men’s room. He’d felt naughty; downright devious. He’d done it a few times before, though on his own. Walking the streets with his hands deep in his pockets, wearing high boots and the long trench coat so nobody would be any the wiser.

That he was naked underneath.

The men’s room had been empty, though Hanzo felt it would not have mattered to the other man one way or another – and that made everything that much better. He felt like he was helpless; as if he was being bullied by this man into doing it; being filthy in public, showing himself off. The man was big and broad enough to give the impression, gently bullying Hanzo into a corner of the room, next to the pissoirs. He was huffing almost obnoxiously loud.

He was just as excited as Hanzo. The thought made the archer stupidly giddy, nipples peaking tight and painful, rubbing against his coat as he thought about what would have been if other people had been there; men standing at the pissoirs, or washing their hands as he got inspected publicly; the practically-stranger nearly ripping his coat open as fast as he could to get an eyeful of the wares; staring greedily at Hanzo’s naked body, watching as his cock moved beneath the gaze, lifting up, showing the ladder piercing along the underside.

“Oh yeah,” the man had said, palming Hanzo’s chest, cupping the swell of his tit, “yeah you’re filthy, aren’t you?”

And yes, Hanzo was. He was filthy; he wanted people to know he was. He almost wished the man would slip behind him in the middle of the market; make him expose himself, show everybody how hard he was, his cock rubbing against the inside of the coat, getting tender and a little painful; smearing it with his excited pre-cum. He wanted them to see that he was naughty and liked to go out as good as naked.

“Here. Here is a good place,” his companion suddenly muttered, pulling him into the space between two houses on the edge of the market; the next stands only a few feet away, cutting the bulk of people off while still a few strolled past Hanzo’s back. He could feel some accidentally brushing him as they walked, not paying attention to the two men standing there. Hanzo’s hands felt numb. He was rooted to the mouth of the alley, staring at the other man with wide eyes and a fluttering pulse. He hadn’t anticipated to be actually doing it. Stupid, really, when he had met with the stranger for this exact purpose; had scoured dingy websites looking for someone accessible, someone that would love to see him show himself off in public…

“Come now,” the man urged with a low voice, glancing shortly over Hanzo’s shoulder, then back at him. “It’s perfect here.” He’s palming his own crotch now, gently squeezing the subtle bulge of his erection; and that more than anything jerks Hanzo out of his sudden lethargy, a bolt of arousal spiking through him at his companion’s lewd display.

He makes a conscious effort to breathe through his nose, slow and even as he reaches for the zipper of his coat. He can hear people talking behind him, hear the crunching of their boots. It’s not cold enough to see his breath but so cold that nobody looks twice at his heavy get up.

“Yeah, that’s it,” the man rasps, eyes glued to his chest and every centimeter of skin that is revealed. He looks a little crazy; eyes bulging, mouth set in a straight line. Hanzo wonders if people can put one and one together if they look over and see him and his intent stare.

He hopes they will.

Somebody of the endless throng at his back knowing he was exposing himself in public; showing his body off to somebody whose real name he did not even know.

He felt hot despite the cold around him, toes curling in his heavy boots when he spread his coat with trembling hands. His cock was swaying ridiculously in front, bouncing with his hectic rabbit fast heartbeat.

“You’re so naughty. Filthy exhibitionist,” the man said, staring at Hanzo’s dick, hectic red spots appearing on his throat. “You like this, yeah? Showing yourself off in public? Fuck, a couple people have stared at us already.” He clenched his hands into tight fists, then carefully relaxed them at his sides when Hanzo’s cock jerks in response, pre-cum bubbling up at the slit.

“Yeah. Yeah. You love that. Fuck. Come on, show off for me.”

Hanzo licked his lips, neck prickling. Were they looking at him right now? Were more and more people starting to stare at him, seeing how he stood with his feet a careful shoulder breadth apart, discreetly holding his coat open? Were they looking as he slowly lowered himself into a squat, letting go of his coat and putting his hands to the ground?

He glanced up at his companion, but couldn’t hold eye contact for long. His pulse was racing, thinking about a wrong movement, or a gust of wind causing his coat to slip from his knees and expose his naked legs.

That would get people’s attention. His cock jerked, dripping more pre-cum that oozed from the slit and started drooling down to the ground, leaving evidence of his naughtiness right in the open.

“Yeah. You’re a filthy slut,” the man murmurs, staring down at him, eyes flicking up to the happenings behind him every now and then but mostly staring at him, taking all of him in.

“I should make you turn around like that. Show everybody what you are. Or maybe… Maybe get you in a club. Give them some permanent markers so they can write on your body. I could show you off for them before, though. Show them your tits; how plush they are. Fuck, you got nice tits you know that?”

Hanzo is staring up at him, mouth a little open, eyes glassy. There’s a little puddle of pre-cum between his boots. Could people hear the man talk?

“Can you come like this?” the man rasps now, “Right in the open? Just from a bit of dirty talk?”

Hanzo licks his lips, lifts his hand and rubs a finger around the pulsing, swollen head of his cock – then lets it trail down to wet the thick vein bulging between his ladder piercings.

“I… might…” he curls his hand around his cock, the tips of his ears throbbing. He has his cock in hand with people walking at his back. He can hear one of the salesmen from the market loud and obnoxious; it’s like he’s standing right next to him, hackling about one thing or another.

He can feel his cock pulse in his hand, more pre-cum dripping down his knuckles. The air is so cold but all it does is make him feel hotter. More naughty. His nipples are hard, little tips and he wishes someone would pinch them and pull on them meanly. Make them hurt as he jerks off beneath the heated gaze of the stranger.

“Holy shit,” he’s rasping, wiping one hand over his mouth, eyes still a little bulging as he stares at Hanzo. “You’d do it. Freak.” He sounds relieved; almost gentle as he says it, then his eyes become a little harder, head jerking towards the end of the alley behind him.

“Get up. I wanna see you take a few steps like that. And then you can jerk off for me.”

Hanzo almost stumbles when he carefully stands. He wants to reach for the sides of his coat, make sure it will not swish more than intended and expose him – but a quelling look from his partner has him keep his hands uselessly at his sides, knees feeling weak and wobbly as he slowly walks towards him.

He’ll do it. He’ll jerk off for the stranger in public. Shoot his cream against the wall of a dark alley where anybody could walk past and see. Maybe be disgusted at whatever creep would do something like it.

The thought has his balls pulse almost painfully. They jerk hard enough that he feels nauseous for a moment as he walks, cock bobbing until he carefully takes it in hand, moving down the alley naked and with his dick in his fist.

He thinks he might be addicted to this.

Nobody of his team may ever know.

Oh oh oh! What about dom!Gabe instructing Jesse to go on a Hanamura train, wearing a certain article of clothing that signals that he’s to be groped. However, the surprise is that the whole car is on it. And EVERYONE wants a piece. Cue Jesse get his wrists tied up by the hanging straps or having his legs spread for pictures. there was a name for this but I don’t remember what. :3

Gabriel reaches down to get a good hand full of the kid’s ass, squeezing hard enough to make Jesse go on the tips of his feet as he wipes his wet lips against his dom’s jaw. He is making needy little sounds that almost make Gabriel re-think the whole plan to get the kid into the train station restroom and fuck him against a dirty toilet stall.

He can feel McCree’s cock against his hip, too; eager and hard, probably leaking everywhere. The kid was so hot for the experience, Gabriel couldn’t bring himself to call it all off just to get that warm, gripping hole on his dick that McCree was so very generous with.

“You ready?” he murmurs when the train pulls up into the station. Jesse whines high and nervous. His eyes are a little too wet and his cheeks burn a deep red. He looks like he’s on his best way into subspace already and Gabriel smirks as he reaches down and pops open the button of his jeans, eyes not leaving his sub’s face as he carefully pulls down the zipper until Jesse’s young, sleek cock pushes out into the air.

“Well then. In with you, slut.” He pushes Jesse towards the door that slides open, watching as the kid stumbles and awkwardly hobbles because his pants are sliding farther down his coltish hips. He looks fucking drunk, and Gabriel can’t wait to get his hands on the video footage afterward.

All those hands on Jesse’s body; how he’d look freaked out and needy, faintly, sluggishly struggling in their groping hands after the first commented about the kid’s dick being out in the open and already flushed with need.

He’d gather him up later, draped across the back of a chair, hole soft and gaping, cum trailing down towards his balls – and Jesse’d tell him about how two big guys held him down and spread his legs and showed the whole car what he had to offer.

Jesse was such a good slut.

Bruh… Young McCree with a praise kink, bending over backwards and submissive AF for Gabe in the bedroom just to get any kind of encouragement or compliment. Getting hella turned on when Gabe fucks his throat or spanks him when fucking him. Fuckkn… This shitty kid in a collar, drooling and panting when he’s called a good boy

Alternatively: Gabe wants to show his protege off to Jack, prove that this kid was a good investment, so he has the commander come down to watch he and Jesse spar. Except Jesse is the kind of guy who gets adrenalin boners, and Gabe is a petty bitch who’s been getting the cold shoulder from too-good-for-this-shit Morrison. Sparring turns into suggestive wrestling, and then into fucking Jesse through the floor. Jack can’t help but watch, grumpy but turned the fuck on.

*shifty af eyes*

why not….. both….

Gabriel throws an arm around the kid’s shoulder as they walk down the hallway. He hears his surprised little intake of air and magnanimously ignores it. Instead, he tucks him in close to his chest, arm curling tight around his neck to tilt his head closer. Gabriel angles towards him – a practiced move to let the hood shield most of his face.

“Listen to me, pretty boy,” he growls low. Close like this, he feels like he can almost smell the immediate rush of hormones the kid produces. He feels McCree swivel subtly, tucking himself more firmly beneath his commanding officer’s arm, chin angling towards his chest as he glances at him; everything about him puppy eager.

“You improved a lot these past weeks. Stopped being a little punk shithead.” He jostled him a little, eyes flicking between his face – slowly filling with hectic red dots – and the hallway they were marching down. “I told Morrison to get his ass down and watch you work. So…”

He halts him just before the locker rooms and leans in a little closer still, voice dropping, staring into the kid’s eyes to get his point across.

“You gonna be on your best behavior. Show him what you’re made of. And maybe you’ll get a little treat afterwards. Got it?”

McCree’s mouth opens in a vacant expression of dreamy surprise, his eyes fixed – not on Gabriel’s gaze, but lower, staring at the curve of his lips.

Kid knew how good recruits got rewarded.

“Yes, Sir,” he breathes and Reyes puts one large hand into the back of his neck, squeezes it and shakes him once, firmly.

“Good boy.”

He should’ve known that he’d made a tactical error.

.o.

McCree had a boner large enough to tent the front of the black training elastics he wore, and Morrison couldn’t stop staring at it. He had noticed – Gabriel had noticed – he was pretty sure everybody had noticed, just not the kid himself.

He looked feverishly eager, a glint in his eyes that seemed almost crazy as he threw himself against Gabriel again and again, his lanky body having no hope to overpower the sturdy sheer muscle mass that was Reyes, but making do with what was at his disposal anyway.

He was resilient to a point of idiocy, and Jack couldn’t help but respect a man that was fighting with such tenacity while sporting a spectacular hard-on. Christ… he could even see a wet spot slowly forming.

“He’s good,” he says, forces it out past the lump in his throat. He has his arms crossed so tightly in front of his chest that he can barely breathe. Gabriel’s facial expression is dark. Sour. He suddenly slams the kid down onto the ground and holds him there with the weight of his body.

“No,” he retorts simply – grunts it, because McCree is trying to stem up, ass lifting involuntarily, and Gabriel bares his teeth, presses down with his own hips, large hands around the kid’s wrists. Jack feels heat wash through him. He feels like he shouldn’t be watching this – tries to catch Gabriel’s eye to say good-bye and flee… but Gabriel isn’t looking over to him. He is staring at the unkempt tangle of the kid’s hair that neither of them had managed to shave into an acceptable buzz cut yet.

“He’s more than good, idiot,” he spits out, and moves – spreads his knees until he has the recruit’s long legs between them and (Jack stares, mouth dry, cock feeling ridiculously swollen in his uniform pants) thrusts forward – an unmistakable grind of his hips, hard enough to rock McCree an inch or two across the mats, accompanied by a harsh grunt from between clenched teeth.

“He’s the goddamn best recruit I got.” McCree makes a strange, high whistling sound and stems up further – gets leverage enough to lift the heavy bulk of Gabriel up. Like this, Jack can see the bulge of his cock more prominently – it is pressing against the thin fabric of the elastic black onesie and bobbing ridiculously beneath his body. The kid is not wearing any underwear, he realizes dumbly just now. “…And a fucking disgrace,” Reyes snarls finally, one thick arm sliding underneath McCree’s throat, forcing his head back, choking him.

Jack is rooted to the spot, helpless to watch. They’re grappling still, but McCree’s movements have become aimless and sluggish. His sweaty face is starting to turn beet red from lack of oxygen.

Gabriel is rocking forward, hips curling into him in a rhythm that couldn’t be misconstrued. He’s rutting against McCree like an animal – fucking him into submission, and McCree… lets him.

He doesn’t even try to grab at the meaty arm choking him; just takes the abuse until it looks like he’s going to pass out and Gabriel makes a throaty, gurgling sound of disgust and lets go of him.

“Best goddamn shot,” he growls and lifts up, braces himself with one hand on the mat as he jerks his hips forward, slams against McCree’s ass. The kid makes a soft sound, tilts his head, tries to lift… His eyes are glassy, eager, mouth swollen and wet with spit. Gabriel doesn’t let him go far – his large hand slamming down on the side of McCree’s face, mashing him into the ground, holding his head down while he bucks and fucks against his raised ass.

They’re making a spectacle and nobody is pulling them apart. Jack surely isn’t fucking stepping into the makeshift ring and dragging Gabriel off of his prey.

“Best goddamn shot I’ve ever seen,” he repeats bitingly, white teeth glinting in his face, upper lip curled back in a silent snarl, “And swaggers in here cock first, the stupid, fucking idiot.”

Gabriel is putting one foot on the mat now, shifting his bracing hand onto McCree’s slim hip to lift his ass into the rocking, punishing thrusts. There’s no pretense anymore as to what Gabriel is doing, and Jack shifts from one foot to the other, uncomfortably turned on, sweat beading on his brow.

.o.

McCree is submissive and puppy eager and that makes it almost worse – brings Gabriel’s blood to a boil, because he could have accepted McCree’s stupid grinning face, as he swaggered in and showed off his dick tenting his body suit, swinging side to side, bobbing because he wasn’t wearing a fucking thing beneath.

But this.

This feverishly eager glint in his eyes, his absolute capitulation before his officer, letting him grunt fuck him into the mats, not even whining to get his cock out or his ass in the open to get properly dicked…

He’d been fighting like the devil, yes, but only so he could get close – mash his face into Gabriel’s neck, have his head crushed into his sweaty pits; get close and personal with his commanding officer, cock leaking, making a spectacle out of himself in front of fucking Morrison of all people.

“That’s it?” he snarls, dragging his cock through the cleft of McCree’s covered ass “That’s the finest you wanna show the Strike Commander? Your god damned dick dribbling through your shorts?!”

McCree is fucking whimpering, ass subtly pressing back, trying to feel more of Gabriel’s cock – and it gets his fingertips itching until he relents with a low snarl, grabbing the back of Jesse’s suit and ripping it with ease across the meager swell of the kid’s ass.

Fuck they still needed to get him filled out, but it would do. It would fucking do.

There was commotion around them and he was waiting for somebody to grab him, to pull him off the kid – but nobody was coming. No hands restricted him as he got his own cock out and slapped it meatily against the kid’s exposed crack.

“You a little freak, McCree?” he asks roughly when he leans up and doesn’t hold the kid down any longer, only for McCree to stay put obediently. He’s chewing on his ridiculously long hair and drooling on the mats.

When Gabriel slaps his naked ass experimentally, he makes a ridiculous high-pitched sound; almost whistling through his nose, clenching his ass visibly, then relaxing again.

Gabriel could see people in his peripherals. They were milling but quiet. Watching.

Morrison was a bright blue point in their midst – he’d almost forgotten he was there watching. It fans his ire on anew.

“You like my best recruit, Morrison?”

He feels like he might be going insane. He’d told McCree more than once that he’d be the one sending him around the bend but he never thought it would be like this: rubbing his cock first down then up between the cheeks of Jesse’s ass, rolling his foreskin down in the process until the air of the gym hits the exposed glans – all because McCree was… McCree.

They’re all just watching. Reyes can smell their excitement, the earthy notes of their worked-up bodies. Most of all he smells McCree. Unwashed and sweating, hormones wafting off of him like steam, back contorted into an unnatural bend just to get his ass up.

He isn’t even jerking off, the idiot – his hands still obediently next to his head, clawing at the mat, making soft, breathy, girly sounds as he gets to feel his commander’s cock.

He’d send him to the showers like that: a large tear in the back of his suit, ass out, dripping Reyes’ cum in thick, creamy globs, the front of his suit equally messy.

Jesse would enjoy it, too. The ribbing he’d get. Grin broad and toothy like he was fucking high, and just slowly peel out of his ruined suit.

Reyes really had thought he’d stopped being a fucking punk. Now he knew Jesse McCree would always be one.

Yo. FUCKIN’ yo. @crimsontentacles was like… harassing me with lewd headcanons about stripper!Hanzo and stripper!Reaper and I was a helpless victim…

basically this is a lot of smut and choking and I haven’t proofread it but you get to read it anyway. it’s all @crimsontentacles‘ fault who watched the whole process and was a horrible enabler.

The light dims, music lowering to a mere background murmur; low and throbbing with drums that seem to mimic a beating heart. The crowd is still talking – vying for drinks and the occasional lap dance alike. It is not quite certain where in the room the bustle starts to cease and heads start to turn towards the rhythmic metallic clinking coming from behind the dark curtain, but eventually, everybody settles in, fingers drumming nervously and knees bouncing – tonight, nobody is new to the club, and the anticipation of what they knew was going to come is palpable.

The music lifts into a harsher, more prominent rhythm when the curtain twitches open to allow the two dancers on stage; the metallic clinking louder and more melodious as they make their way down the catwalk in slow, measured steps, the chains binding them dully reflecting the moody, soft light in the room.

The air – thick and warm from too many excited bodies and bad air conditioning – suddenly almost feels oppressive. Nobody talks. Eyes follow the movements of their bodies; the rigid lines of their proud backs.

Reaper’s strides are long, eating up ground and putting himself in front of his partner within just a couple steps. Soon, he yanks on the chain binding their wrists together. He seems impatient. Ill-tempered. His body is a coiled spring, muscles tight and rigid in his shoulders, and the swell of his biceps.

Hanzo stumbles from the sudden jerk. He doesn’t make it look like stumbling, though – a graceful lunge of his slim, prosthetic feet that enables the narrow, long cloth covering his crotch to flutter and give the audience tantalizing glimpses of his cock. When he rights himself, his dark eyes are narrowed and boring into the broad back of his partner.

The onlookers can’t figure out whether the two genuinely hate each other or whether it is just an elaborate, well-trained act.

Maybe both.

They start a tight, dance-like circle that has their half-naked bodies almost touching; predators looking – waiting – for a sign of weakness in the other. Their wrists subtly flick in time with the music – sending the chain to jingle again and again as they move, shoulders round with muscle and rolling as if preparing for a fight that only Reaper really looks equipped for with heavy boots and protective mask. The thick muscles of his thighs bulge and shift against his fishnet stockings.

Next to him, Hanzo looks shockingly naked and vulnerable; body on display other than the length of silk binding his hair and the narrow strips of fabric in front of his cock and ass, filigrane lengths of metal around his hips keeping them in place.

His muscles are shifting in the light; he looks full of barely restrained power – small and compact and not to be underestimated.

Reaper has the height advantage, though. He is boring down on his partner, mask glinting like bone in the diffuse light, body big and overbearing, boots heavy next to the positively delicate synthetic feet as he forces Hanzo to retreat before him; makes him take one small step at a time.

Hanzo’s eyes are narrowed, the corner of his mouth lifted above the snarl of his teeth as he is forced to take yet another step back, shoulder blades almost brushing the pole Reaper tries to trap him against.

Their hard stares bore into each other, the music thudding around them as Reaper suddenly surges forward while simultaneously yanking on the chain binding them, forcing Hanzo into the hard lines of his body, their heaving chests pressed closely, nipples tight and excited despite their murderous looks.

Their audience stares in silent, conflicted arousal.

.o.

Every time Hanzo squirms, Reaper pulls the chain tighter around his neck. His range of expression is limited due to the mask, yet dark satisfaction is rolling off of him in dizzying waves as he tilts his head and presses close to the other dancer in a parody of comfort.

Hanzo’s back is arched, leaning against the man behind, face a little red from lack of air. He has one arm up, hand clawing at the side of Reaper’s hood – he is not struggling against the chokehold his partner has on him, despite the chain binding their wrists together digging visibly sharp into his windpipe.

Their bodies seem to be convulsing with the music; slow, undulating waves as Reaper lets his free, unbound hand wander across Hanzo’s chest; squeezing the pecs and cupping them for their audience’s viewing pleasure. He is showing Hanzo off with a kind of self-indulgence that is almost more obscene than the act itself – an owner presenting their pet.

When he pinches one tan, oval nipple, he stoically takes Hanzo’s needy backwards arch, his heavily booted feet planted wide for better purchase.

He is standing like a rock; expressionless and terrifying as he pulls on the chain again and gets Hanzo to convulse like a snake when his throat gets crushed cruelly, and his breath shuts off completely for just a few precious seconds. Reaper takes the struggles of his partner’s compact, strong body, free arm curling around his waist, dark hand splayed on the quivering abs of his belly – as possessive a gesture as it is weirdly comforting.

The music starts to dip, the heavy beat softening into a more sensual roll of dark tones as Reaper’s hand starts turning, heel grinding against Hanzo’s belly, until long thick fingers point down towards the other dancer’s crotch, drawing the gaze of the enraptured audience lower… lower… towards the lift of the small cloth Hanzo is wearing, his cock tip perfectly outlined beneath the thin material; made see-through by the wetness seeping into the fabric. It is clinging to the head of Hanzo’s cock, slick and obscene, showing off the swollen shape as it flexes for their entertainment, lifting the cloth up enough to give a little glimpse of his swollen, ripe balls.

Hanzo’s lips are moving, eyes staring at the ceiling sightlessly.

When Reaper’s hand slides lower, the palm rubbing across the wet outline of his cock with an air of total possessiveness, Hanzo jerks once again in one powerful, smooth wave, the machinery in his calves hissing as he rolls up unto the balls of his feet, just so he can fuck against the broad, brown hand.

Reaper pulls his head back for a second – changes sides so he can use his chained hand to almost lovingly card through the thick, loose hair at Hanzo’s temple. He looks sinister as death himself, large and dark, towering behind Hanzo with an indifferent face of bone white metal.

He seems cool and aloof even when he curls his hand around the other man’s cock, broad thumb rubbing firm – almost painfully so – over the wet tip peeking pink through the eggshell color of the fabric. The music is low by now – nearly non-existent, so the soft tinkle of their connecting chain can be heard as Reaper keeps petting his partner, wrist flicking to let the links clank together – never letting anybody forget the power he holds, even as he is benevolent enough to let Hanzo fuck into the cup of his hand. (Benevolent enough to let him breathe without pain, and swallow without bruising himself up.)

Hanzo’s chest is flushed beneath the warm, yellow light shining down on them. It’s heaving and shiny with sweat, his mouth dropped open as his abs quiver and clench, hips curling forward into Reaper’s large hand.

His fingers are still clenched in the man’s hood, pulling in mindless pleasure until Reaper rears his head back and shakes it like an unwilling hound while simultaneously taking his hand away from Hanzo’s crotch and placing it on his hip instead – giving the dark room full of anonymous faces a perfect view of the man’s cock lined out beneath the wet material clinging to it.

Only when the desperate clench of Hanzo’s body relaxes, hand losing its grip in favor of reaching for Reaper’s hip like the other one, does the other man resume; fingers dancing along the wet dick beneath the cloth, dragging along the prominent, fat vein and circling the swollen head until the audience can hear the breathless cry coming from the dancer.

Reaper’s shoulders shake in obvious mirth. His hand stops petting Hanzo’s hair and slowly reaches for the short length of chain. He drags his movements as long as he can, obviously revelling in the sudden tension in the room; how their audience seems to hold a collective breath in preparation for what is to come. Hanzo’s eyes glaze over in the dim light. Large and black and shining like polished onyx as Reaper strangulates him with slow, perverse pleasure and presses his large hand against the jerking line of his excited cock.

The music has stopped. The wet sounds of Hanzo’s desperate fight for oxygen are loud and horrible and gorgeous in the sticky room. His abs are clenching, the large muscles in his thigh shivering as he fucks frantically into the loose tunnel of Reaper’s hand, the cloth covering his dick sliding wet and clinging along the slick skin of his cock.

When he comes, he does so silently; mouth open and body one long, quivering string, fingertips digging into Reaper’s flesh with bruising strength.

Reaper laughs. A low droning sound straight from a nightmare as he pulls his hand away and shows the room Hanzo’s shame soaking into the fabric of his cloth.

It is only when Hanzo starts convulsing again, drool slicking from the corner of his mouth, that he suddenly slackens the tightness in the chain – does, in fact, curl it from around Hanzo’s neck, a pretty ring of bruises circling the man’s throat like a collar as his shaking legs can’t keep his body weight up and he collapses to the floor.

Reaper stands impassive above him; silent again. Watching predator like as the shorter man tries to get back to his feet – to get himself back together – and fails miserably.

Music starts bleeding in once more in heavy, hypnotising beats. Uncertainty starts to bleed through the room, people shifting in their seats, casting little glances about – until Reaper moves again; drawing gazes back and arresting them with his sheer presence.

He slowly crosses his arms across the width of his muscular chest,legs shifting closer together, knee lifting minimally as he shoves his left foot forward and nudges the steel cap of his toes against Hanzo’s shoulder… collar bone… throat… uses it to tip the man’s chin up until Hanzo is forced to stare into the darkness behind the lights surrounding the stage before he turns his head from the staring eyes with a dull flush creeping through his cheeks.

Reaper places his boot down in front of him. He seems to be waiting for something and, when nothing happens, he suddenly lifts his other leg and lowers his foot onto the nape of Hanzo’s neck, forcefully pressing him down.

Only the people in the front row can hear the low, aggressive hiss of “Do it!”. There is another second of hesitation, Hanzo struggling half-heartedly and weak as a kitten against the boot pressing him down without mercy, before he stops and closes his eyes in something like relieved defeat.

When he starts to do it – starts to lick the steel cap and black leather of Reaper’s boot without a doubt – he applies himself to the task with single-minded determination.

His eyes are closed, lashes lying dark and pretty against his sharp cheekbones as he first just licks, then kisses, then rubs his cheek against the warmed, wet metal like a cat seeking affection.

Reaper is impassive above him, head tilted, mask watching the proceedings, and only the prominent bulge in his tight, skimpy shorts showing off his interest in what he was seeing. When he pulls away, Hanzo chases after him, pink tongue out and eyes snapping up towards his mask. He almost looks out of it – his aloofness and almost feline pride having given way to a submissive kind of desperation that couldn’t be part of the act… could it?

The beat surges and Reaper rounds Hanzo, arm held in deference to the chain connecting them, powerful leg swinging across Hanzo’s hip until he is standing above him, watching, assessing, head tilting slowly from side to side as he seems to contemplate how to continue playing.

In the end, he drops to his knees, free arm reaching beneath Hanzo’s belly to hitch him up, get his round ass in the air and on display for the audience who watches, struck silent and with stuttering breaths, as Reaper starts moving; a slow, dirty grind of his crotch against his partner’s ass, rutting him like an animal to the beat of the heavy warm beat of the music.

He fakes at fucking Hanzo, yet it still seems more obscene than the real thing; thick muscles bulging against the restraints of the fishnets, sweat on his back gleaming as he curls it into his thrusts, hips snapping forward and driving against Hanzo with selfish, sensual finality.

The chain is rattling with his violent movements until Reaper grabs a hold of it with an air of impatience, bound hand splaying between Hanzo’s shoulderblades and pressing him down to the floor, making him rub his face against the dirty stage as the other arm around his hips keeps him hoisted up for the faux fucking he is receiving right there on the stage.

Hanzo looks blissed out, arms, when he tries to stem against the tide, shaking fiercely until he simply curls them around the pole next to his head and holds on for dear life. Reaper snarls behind his mask and stands one boot up next to Hanzo’s knee with a heavy, dull thump, body slicked in sweat as he pulls himself up higher, and practically mounts his partner like an animal, fingernails digging into Hanzo’s back and slowly scratching him up as Reaper gets more and more into the act.

The rhythm of the song picks up – and so do Reaper’s movements. He is leaning forward, head hanging low as he seems to fully concentrate on the task of drilling Hanzo into the stage, make him take a cock that wasn’t available for the taking, grunting low and fierce with every sharp thrust that presses his poor cock against the lush curve of Hanzo’s ass, squeezing it painfully, deliciously.

The sweat pours off his shoulders, tickles down his back, and his toes curl in his boots, wondering what the boss would say if he simply said ‘fuck it’ to everything and pulled his cock out; shoved Hanzo’s ridiculous little cloth piece covering his ass to the side and shoved in deep where Hanzo was warm and ready; loose from earlier and…

The music stops abruptly, and so does Reaper, chest heaving, eyes wide behind his mask, staring down at the back of Hanzo’s head (staring at the way Hanzo slowly, almost shyly drags his tongue across the floor as if fucking missing Reaper’s boots).

The room is silent, charged with a kind of feverish, mad lust as Reaper makes his protesting muscles move and forces himself up, arm imperious as he jerks on the chain and forces Hanzo to rise from his breathless, powerless sprawl on the floor to a more-or-less firm stance on all fours, and then, after another little encouraging tug, urges him to slowly rise unto his feet.

Reaper leaves. Slow, cadenced thumps of his boots, not unlike his solo shows when the music hasn’t started yet and he enters the stage with overbearing confidence. The chain pulls taut between them just once – then Hanzo starts walking, face flushed but impassive; as if the front of his little crotch piece wasn’t soaked with cum, clinging to the tantalizing swing of his cock.

Only a few more steps. Only a few more fucking steps and then Reaper would be able to slam Hanzo against the next best wall and finally drive into him like he pretended to do on stage.

Only a few more steps.