yooo this is the thing I’ve been working on the past four days during the live-write I did 😀 Hanzo and McCree getting tentacle fucked by Reaper ❤
They’ve been out in the field for two days, sitting listlessly around the crates, keeping watch for Talon agents. McCree, who’d been all for the subterfuge – had been, in fact, the first to volunteer going on the mission – was no longer sure it even worked. Maybe Talon was a lot smarter than they gave them credit for; or they were a lot dumber and had been too naive thinking it would work: sowing out carefully laid information about a huge shipment of weapons and ammunition, then proceeding to sit it out on the edges of a small Mexican town.
Nobody had come yet.
He shifts his seat on one of the crates and groans at the pain in his back. He wasn’t that young anymore, apparently. He pushes his hat back from his face and peers blearily up at the moon. It was their last night before Tracer and Reinhardt were to come to transport the ‘precious cargo’ to its next destination.
His hand shifts from the broad brim of his hat down to his ear. He pushes the communicator, opening up the private line to Hanzo.
“How’s it looking up there? Anything suspicious?”
“Nothing. The people have retreated to their homes half an hour ago and only the occasional straggler can be seen.”
McCree hums and sits a little straighter, makes it a point to open is eyes wide and roll his shoulders just to shake off the sleep creeping up on him.
“You think anybody gonna be mad if we were to sneak off for half an hour?”
“You flatter yourself.”
Hanzo’s answer is clipped, but McCree can hear a certain note of amusement – dare he say playfulness – in the words. He takes the ribbing good naturedly.
“Ah hell, darlin’. Don’t tease. Y’know I was awfully embarrassed ‘bout that. You’re just too gorgeous, sometimes – beggin’ for cock and showin’ off those pretty tits like that…”
He’s waiting for a response, idly flicking the tips of his boots to make his spurs jingle. Time stretches with nothing but the slowly softening heat pressing down on him. When he’s counted to hundred without a response, he finds himself wondering whether he offended Hanzo. He is pretty sure he hadn’t, given Hanzo’s penchant for indulging in McCree’s dirty mouth, but one could never be too certain with the archer.
He presses against the communicator again, listening for the soft static indicating the line opening up once more.
“You okay? Didn’t fall asleep on the job while gettin’ serenaded by yours truly, now, didja?” No answer, just the almost ocean-like quality of the static in his ear, making the hair on his arms stand up. Or was that the strange feeling creeping up on him? He sits straighter, righting the hat to clear his vision and tries to peek up as inconspicuously as possible at the house he last saw Hanzo nimbly scale up a couple hours ago.
There is nothing to be seen; not even the flap of the soft, yellow scarf above the rim of the flat roof.
He starts counting in his head again – a little quicker this time, brows drawn, hand inching towards Peacekeeper without a target in sight. Still, it calms him to feel the familiar broad shape of the weapon against his palm.
The communicator springs to life even before he reaches fifty this time.
“Mc… Jesse! I-” Hanzo’s voice is garbled and barely intelligible, half due to the sudden patchy contact of the line, and half due to the fact that Hanzo had sounded like he was choking.
“What the…” McCree is up on his feet within the second, Peacekeeper in hand, chest feeling tight with nervous anticipation of an unseen attack.
Lifting his gaze openly without worrying about their cover, it is not hard to make out the location of the ambush: Straight above him he can see it crawling over the edges of the rooftop. A weirdly thick mist wafting out before pulling back in again, making it look like it was almost… pulsing. Living.
Now that he is listening for it, he can hear faint sounds from up above – the scrape of metal against stone, faint grunts of exertion. The sound of Hanzo’s prosthetics dragging across the rooftop as he fights against whoever… whatever had silently snuck up on them.
How, though? How could this have happened? As he scans for the fastest way to scale the building, he slams his hand hard enough against his ear to jam the communicator painfully deep into his auditory canal.
“Will be there in a sec. Hang in there, partner.”
And as he takes a running leap towards the low ledge of a balcony, he feels like there is an answer crawling out of the earpiece: a sinuous, soft voice, deep enough to make him doubt it was even real, laughing at him.
“This will be fun,” it purrs and Jesse almost slips in his mad scramble up the dilapidated side of the squat building, the wet sound of Hanzo choking in the back of his mind.
For the first few moments it almost physically hurts to look at the apparition – like Jesse’s brain actively works against the sight of the amorphous black mass on the rooftop – how it seems to be corporeal and ethereal at the same time, mist wafting off of it like it’s hot coal left outside in a fine evening shower, all the while the smooth, deep blackness of the main bulk keeps sinuously moving; expanding and retracting before the gunslinger’s doubting eyes.
In the end, there is nothing to do but to believe the unbelievable, however – not when the creature… person… creature… has Hanzo firmly pinned and lifted into the air like an offering, thick tendrils of darkness (very corporeal, very real) around his chest and thighs keeping him raised just enough to deny him any form of purchase or leverage to squirm his way out of the chokehold.
As McCree watches, more blackness creeps around Hanzo’s form, curling around his arms and pulling his scrabbling hands away from one appendage that had formed a rigid, thick collar of oily darkness around the archer’s throat.
Jesse stands like an idiot, watching as Hanzo struggles, face slowly reddening from lack of oxygen. Smaller tendrils have split from the restraining, dark barriers holding him firm and secure, and as McCree looks on, weapon pointing at the ground in the lax grip of his fist, they worm their way beneath Hanzo’s clothes, playfully tugging the already wide gape of his yukata even farther apart.
“Mc…Cree!” Hanzo forces out before the thick appendage around his neck abruptly tightens itself once more and takes the last bit of air out of him. The large mass wafting and moving seems almost… amused. McCree feels vaguely nauseous at the distinct feelings and impressions he can sense trickling through his mind from the creature. He feels like a bumbling oaf, fingers clumsy and brain sluggish as he lifts the revolver and hesitantly points it at… at what. What was he supposed to shoot? There was no head, no heart, nothing he could even name.
“I don’t… aw damn…” His throat tightens, watching as the mass pulls Hanzo closer to the pulsing, dark core, letting him rest against its surface as the small tendrils keep cheekily pulling his clothes apart – dragging the remaining arm of his garment down his bicep and exposing the other side of his chest; even more tentacles getting to work on the sash wrapped around the trim waist.
Jesse’s arm sinks down to his side once more, mouth hanging open as he watches the mass pull apart fabric, sinuously sliding across exposed skin that seems almost sickly bright next to the absolute void of light dancing imp-like over the quivering ridges of Hanzo’s stomach – pulled as tight as the rest of his body’s protesting muscles. Hanzo’s lips are pulled back from his teeth in a vicious snarl, eyes rolling in their sockets, trying to pinpoint his attacker just as fruitlessly as Jesse had moments prior.
Watching him, Jesse gets reminded of a wild horse sensing the imminent branding – mouth frothing and hooves dancing.
“It’s more fun when you fight.”
Jesse startles, fingers helplessly tightening around Peacekeeper. That… was the voice from earlier. The dark, intangible whisper sliding into his very core. A sibilant hiss that seems to crackle like electricity and makes the hair on the back of his neck stand.
“You… can talk?” he asks, and his answer is a derisive cackle that settles in his belly – not unpleasant, he realizes with not a small amount of guilt.
Hanzo’s sash flutters to the ground. The tendrils had not been idle; working and slithering – curiously, studiously plucking at folds of clothing until they give way before them. Hanzo’s belly moves quick and fluttering with his panting, desperate breaths, and McCree flushes a dark red of shame when he realizes he had forgotten about his partner’s earlier struggle for air. The void seems to be kinder than Jesse McCree: it had loosened its merciless chokehold; instead flicking the end of the tendril that had curled once completely around Hanzo’s neck, along the soft, vulnerable underside of his chin as if it were petting him.
“Easy now,” the creature croons, one small tendril slipping across and dancing over Hanzo’s bellybutton, then dipping deeper and plays with the sparse hair it finds there. Jesse could swear it curled around the small hairs, tugging them like a lover would. “No sudden movements, sì? We wouldn’t want you to embarrass yourself… it seems you have lost quite a bit of clothing. So easy to slip down, now…”
Hanzo is flushed, though no longer on account of the loosened tentacle around his neck, chest moving in slow, careful drags of air.
“Jesse,” he says slowly, voice rough from the earlier abuse of his throat. “Shoot.”
The little tentacle is still wriggling – plucking playfully at Hanzo’s treasure trail. The apparition as a whole seems supremely unconcerned with their plotting. In fact, it feels like it is patiently waiting for them to get on the same page, namely…
“Where should I shoot, Hanzo? Tell me!” Jesse hisses, cybernetic hand curling into a helpless fist as he stuffs Peacekeeper in its holster with almost petulant anger. “What should I shoot, partner?”
“Just… do something!”
He jerks against his bonds in frustration – violent and sudden, and nearly managing to free himself before the appendages tighten up again, pinning him to the moving, pulsing core.
“Oh that’s not nice,” the dark voice whispers. It almost sounds like it is pouting. “If you only work yourself up, maybe you shouldn’t be allowed to talk anymore, favorito.”
Jesse watches as another tentacle splits itself from the constantly moving mass, his own mouth dropping open in mindless sympathy as it unerringly finds Hanzo’s thrashing head and slithers across his jaw, not deterred in the least by the archer fighting against the inevitable.
Hanzo’s teeth are grit, refusing to open up to the almost lovingly prodding tip, and Jesse watches in morbid fascination as the tentacle loses its form and becomes like the mist constantly wafting off the beast – slithering insidiously through Hanzo’s teeth and his flared nostrils, driving into his body without any hope of keeping it out.
Hanzo’s eyes widen in alarm, a wet choking sound forced out of his throat as the appendage resumes its physical form once more – easily forcing the clench of his teeth apart, until his jaw is spread too far to get any good leverage for biting. As it is, he is helpless – body convulsing in small, pathetic waves as he tries to come to terms with this new situation, the black mass wriggling powerful – almost muscular – in his mouth, making him drool and choke until they manage to arrange themselves into a barely civil stalemate.
Jesse can almost see the way the void dark tip of the tentacle lovingly strokes the very back of Hanzo’s tongue; can almost hear the amused, sardonic whisper of the creature: ‘There you go. Wasn’t so hard, was it?’
He takes a helpless step closer, eyes roaming the expanse of the rooftop, looking for a way out of the situation and finding none. His gaze gets drawn back to Hanzo time and time again; how he has stopped struggling for the moment and simply hangs in the coiling embrace of the creature, naked chest heaving and eyes half closed.
Jesse takes another step forward without noticing, watching as Hanzo’s throat works – a slow, almost lazy contraction as he swallows, Adam’s Apple bobbing; then again; and again, drool slicking from the corner of his mouth, face steadily darkening. How far down was the tentacle slipping? Was it slowly slithering down his throat, making its way towards his stomach? If it was, it had to be small enough not to choke him because his chest was still heaving – moving with studiously calm breaths.
“So soft and squishy on the inside,” the voice purrs. “Wet and warm… I wonder…”
The appendage spreading his jaw open moves – lifts and forces Hanzo to tilt his head back, giving Jesse an even better view of his throat, thick and straining; bulging in a way it only did when Hanzo was taking cock like a champ, and let McCree use his throat in quick, dirty jabs of his hips, balls slapping messy against his chin…
Jesse’s mouth runs dry, eyes fixed on the sight of Hanzo swallowing even more laboriously than before, his cock filling helplessly, eagerly lifting at the mere sight. It is a shamefully Pavlovian reflex: he is well accustomed to the exquisite feeling of Hanzo’s massaging throat.
“Damn,” he murmurs, hand inching towards his crotch before he catches himself and curls his fingers into a tight fist. He wasn’t going to jerk off to Hanzo’s predicament. He refuses to.
A faint jerk of secured hips and a soft, muffled noise of protest from Hanzo alerts Jesse to another predicament: Hanzo’s hakama, already perched precariously loose on his hips after the creature had so dexterously divested him of his sash, had slipped down with the help of two more impish appendages.
And if that wasn’t a sight for sore eyes – Hanzo’s body straining and spread, on display, a flush of exertion crawling down his bulging, working throat, seemingly for the sole purpose of showing off his tits – and his cock….
His sleek, pretty cock that Jesse loved to ride – grind down on and make Hanzo clench his teeth in an attempt to stay quiet – , is curved up eagerly, flushed the same shade of humiliated red as his face. It bobs pitiful, greedy when one of the oily tendrils slides along his lower abdomen, just the very tip of the appendage teasingly wriggling against the base of the archer’s cock, hinting at touching it. The fucking thing is playing coy.
“Hanzo,” McCree chokes out. It sounds more scandalized than he actually feels, his voice no longer his own. He should be scandalized, though. He would be well within his rights to be – after all, Hanzo has gotten hard from the careless play session; from getting stripped bare and shown off by this reality defying amalgamation of darkness like he was nothing more than a toy.
Hanzo jerks at the sound of Jesse’s voice, belly flexing, hips helplessly curving up. He looks like he wants to thrash again – to loudly deny what his body was obviously eager for. All he manages to do, however, is to show off the hard, needy curve of his cock – the way it flexes for the touch of the creature -, and to liberally drool past the thick, pulsing tentacle he has dug his teeth into, his beard wet and gleaming with saliva.
Jesse wonders numbly how the creature feels. Whether it was as cool and smooth as it looked – like marble sliding and slipping along Hanzo’s body; or whether it felt hot like a fever; like slowly dying coals trickling dangerously across the skin.
In any case: Hanzo obviously likes it.
“It seems I have caught myself a little slut. Who would have thought?” the creature cooes. It is shifting around Hanzo; contracting, balling together, reshaping itself into what could vaguely be described as a humanoid shape all the while its appendages keep moving with it – lifting Hanzo higher and forcing his thighs farther apart.
The darkness slips towards his knees, hooks behind them like Jesse’s hands had done so very often, and lets the upper body sink back in turn until the archer his hanging helplessly, feet kicking in rage and head almost lying cushioned against what could be the shoulder of the wafting, ethereal form.
Jesse stumbles forward another step, hands raised, eyes wide, feeling like he had to be there if the tentacles suddenly lost their otherworldly form and Hanzo fell. Stupid, really. Stupid.
He was so helpless; there was nothing he could do. Even now, with its bone chilling vaguely humanoid form, there simply was nothing to attack. The creature was nothing. A large mass of concentrated, cheeky nothing.
“No closer than that, cowboy.” Jesse’s spurs jangle loudly as he jerks to a halt where he stands some five feet away from the display. The creature seems to turn its head towards the struggling archer – watches as the tentacle starts its agonizingly slow retreat from Hanzo’s throat. (Intimate. Gentle. Erotic. The thickest part of the tentacle throbbing, pulsing; the dark void strangely glistening and wet as it re-emerges from those secret, deep – soft and squishy… – places inside Hanzo’s body that Jesse would never be able to reach.)
There’s a soft hissing sound and McCree thinks that it had to be the creature inhaling deeply. Sniffing at its prey…?
“After all…” it resumes smoothly like nothing had happened, “You get to play with him every night, don’t you, puto? Play with him in every way your little ingrate brain can dream off – and he lets you because he’s a slut for the degradation. The indignity.
The proud heir of the Shimada clan letting himself get fucked by a dirty mutt any time the criatura sucia just so much as sniffs in his direction.
It would be only polite to share him don’t you think? Especially when he is so very eager to give his body over.”
The way it talked… was so… familiar…?
The tip of the tentacle at last slips out, and Hanzo lets it go with a wet gag and a shuddering, coughing drag of air. The tentacle keeps dangling above Hanzo’s wet lips, dripping a mess down onto his flushed cheeks that was only in part drool.
McCree’s cock jerks.
“Jesse…” Hanzo groans, voice hoarse. McCree slowly curls his fingers into fists, then relaxes them again. He barely dares to blink.
“Yes…? Hanzo?” His tongue feels clumsy in his mouth. He doesn’t know what to say. What should he say? There is nothing he could- Should he comfort him somehow?
“Don’t…” Hanzo licks his lips, slick with spit and whatever the appendage was oozing – a murky black substance that slipped along his cheeks, dripping off the sharp angles of his jaw towards the floor. As Jesse watches, Hanzo’s tongue flicks out and laps at the liquid on his bottom lip.
Suddenly he has to wonder about the pulsing of the appendage again – the muscular, erotic pulsing as it had slithered deeper and deeper into Hanzo’s throat. Had it been pushing out the slime the whole time? Depositing it right into Hanzo’s belly, filling him up in slow increments…?
Jesse rubs his hand across his face. He needs to stay focused. His head pounds. (His cock pounds…)
“What? Hanzo… What,” he urges, gaze flicking towards the creature standing still – seemingly waiting. Anticipating. Holding Hanzo up in the air, naked and vulnerable.
“Don’t… look,” Hanzo finally gurgles out. He has difficulty talking. His head is sinking farther back, throat stretching and bobbing with his every slow, leisurely swallow. “Look away.”
Jesse grits his teeth, eyes going flinty. Peacekeeper feels comfortingly heavy against his thigh.
“I ain’t gonna leave you alone, partner. I ain’t gonna think bad of you, or-”
“McCree!” Hanzo interrupts him while the creature chuckles in the background – a sound that gives Jesse goosebumps along his forearms and makes his belly clench.
New tendrils of darkness split from the void of its body and start licking along Hanzo’s back; playfully tickling through the cleft of his ass; rubbing along the taut, big muscles of his thighs.
Hanzo struggles to lift his head and stares at Jesse bleary eyed – and suddenly he understands.
Hanzo likes what is happening – pupils huge and nearly catlike; face a little slack with need… He likes what is happening and doesn’t want Jesse to see it. He is not supposed to witness how Hanzo’s cock is flexing in eager anticipation when the darkness curls around his thighs – or how he struggles to bring his knees farther apart when a little tendril cheekily rubs right behind his balls.
“Yeah?” Jesse rasps, watching as one dark appendage curls around Hanzo’s cock; slim enough to wrap around it in loving, tight circles, the pale flesh like marble in between. “You like that, do you? Some nasty tentacles holdin’ you up, showin’ you off…”
He was babbling with nerves.
Hanzo flushes, face messy with drool and translucent, greyish slick, mouth dropping open as the tentacle squeezes his cock and lifts it away from his belly – pulls it upright just so Jesse can see everything that’s going on. How the small tip lovingly rubs across Hanzo’s swollen glans, paying special attention to the wet slit.
Hanzo’s dark eyes flick to his for a split second, seemingly trying to gauge what his words mean – then lets his head fall back on a low groan anyway, hips jerking up shamelessly, trying to fuck into the steady grip of the tentacle. He huffs in frustration when it simply follows his movements, belly muscles clenching and relaxing. He pulls at the restraints around his arms, testing their strength. They tighten in response.
“Delightful,” the creature purrs. It doesn’t sound sincere. More darkness creeps up around Hanzo’s twisting form, wrapping around his hips and stilling his movements as another slim tentacle slips between his cheeks. “I knew you were a slut for it; could see it from miles away. How do you function without a cock constantly stretching you open, Shimada? Do you get antsy without a dick? Do you get the jitters, having to sit still hours and hours on end, no cock there to tide you over, ream you like you need it to live…”
The tentacle has started wriggling into the tender little orifice Jesse knows so well, and Hanzo isn’t struggling against the intrusion – is, in fact, trying to help things along as he strains to push down into it, muscles shifting and flexing as he works with whatever leverage he can glean out of his predicament.
Another tentacle slithers close – and another one. Jesse would worry if they weren’t getting everything messy and slick; slime dripping down to the floor as they writhe and move – pushing each other out of the way in their haste to slip inside, as if they were sentient beings all on their own; and wasn’t that a nice thought? Those slim, eager little things wriggling into Hanzo’s willing body, splitting off to each do their own thing; slipping against his spongy walls and insistently pressing against them to figure him out; feel how his body moves around them, how his internal muscles squeeze down and hold them in a secure, loving grip.
Hanzo makes a soft sound – high and short; a little whine as he gets spread on the three little tentacles that start pulsing, filling him up with their slime until it drips out of him in a sticky mess that gets absorbed back into the large, dark frame – an endless cycle of giving and taking, as Hanzo bucks and writhes; jerking violently when more appendages surge up around him and stroke along his pecs. They mold themselves to the underside of the muscles, squeezing like hands, small tips flicking across the stiff peaks of Hanzo’s nipples until a low, long moan rumbles right out of him. The sound climbs up, gets more desperate and wail-like the longer the tentacles play with him; feel his chest up and playfully force their way into his body.
McCree shifts awkwardly from one leg to the other, cock thick and needy behind the tight confines of his fly, the swollen head trying to painfully push it’s way up behind the large, heavy buckle of his belt. He wonders if anybody will notice if he opens it; if anybody would even care if he started jerking off to the sight of the archer getting willingly molested in front of him.
(Oh and how quickly the mighty have fallen – his noble intentions of not getting off on Hanzo’s predicament now biting him in the ass; but how could he have known Hanzo would love it? Would willingly open his mouth again for the flicking tip of the fat tentacle, tongue out and throat vibrating with his low, wrecked grunts whenever one of the smaller ones pushes into him too harshly?)
“McCree… don’t you want to play, as well?”
Jesse flinches, hand immediately dropping back down to Peacekeeper – which is no longer in its holster. He sharply looks down at his hip, mouth hanging open in confusion – and immediately regrets having taken his eyes off the enemy because he gets wrenched off his feet by large, grasping tentacles.
“Don’t you want to have fun like your pretty little slut here? I seem to recall you being just as much a whore for cum when you were still so young and tender… Always lurking around the outside of my office; hoping I’d call you in again… let you crawl beneath my desk and play with my cock. Such a greedy young man you’ve been. Can’t have evaporated just because you found yourself a cum dumpster, sì?”
And finally the penny drops.
“Oh no… don’t look so angry, guapo. It’s not been your fault – you’ve simply never been able to outwit your Commander; just how things are supposed to be.”
Jesse tries to wriggle for a moment, but quickly stops when he feels the intense strain the movements put on his shoulders. Gabriel has to admit that his former protegé has gotten the worse deal of the two; dangling trussed up like a hog above the archer, limbs uncomfortably bent… but in the end the simple truth wins out that Gabriel doesn’t necessarily give a fuck about his comfort.
He was, after all, a man of aesthetics – and he got himself a pretty pair of pets today, if he did say so himself. He studies them; enjoys their differences. The sharp cut lines and smooth skin of the archer against Jesse’s soft rolls of fat around his broad, swaggering hips and hairy belly.
He has gotten soft, his boy – but he was still a pretty catch; still deadly and gorgeous, even pouting like he was now.
“Look at him, McCree. Your whore is loving every second of it.”
There is no struggle to be had from the Japanese man any longer; he is hanging in Reaper’s grip, a warm, compact bundle straining for release and utterly shameless about it. When he feeds him his tentacle once more, Hanzo merely lifts his head into it – stretches his throat and welcomes the appendage with a warm little lick of his clever tongue.
His cock is hot in Reaper’s grip, the sensations coming from his appendages dizzying and new; he’s never tried using them like he did now; slipping them into warm, welcoming bodies and filling them up from both sides.
“Look at him,” he purrs again, stepping a little closer, eager to see the archer’s liquid, dark eyes widen in mindless alarm when the tentacles start wriggling deeper, shoving and prodding gentle yet focused, crawling the long way through his intestines and creeping down his throat, taking care not to choke him this time.
They fuck him with little pulses of their serpentine bodies, repeatedly spreading his rim that little, excruciating bit more that makes his eyes water and his hands curl into fists. His belly is heaving, and when Reaper concentrates hard enough, focuses on moving the appendages just right, a small bulge appears in Hanzo’s lower belly.
Hanzo’s eyes roll up at the sensation, a gurgling moan forced past the tentacle throat fucking him.
Jesse – is not looking. His head is hanging, sweat dripping from the tip of his nose, hairy thighs straining as one stray little tentacle plays with him; the soft tip digging into the warm, humid space behind his balls, wriggling into the thick bush and curling around the base of his cock.
Reaper growls; would’ve grit his teeth if he’d had any right now. He loosens one of the tentacles holding the archer’s arms, and lets it shoot up to curl tight into McCree’s long, shaggy hair, using it as a means to wrench his head back.
McCree groans like he’s hurt. His cock, ruddy and fat, jerks as the little tentacle starts to crawl up along the shaft.
“I said look at him,” Gabriel hisses and wafts closer – close enough to see the sweat on their heaving bodies, and feel the feverish heat radiating off of them. He watches the muscles jump in McCree’s scruffy jaw, focusing on how his mouth drops open on a low groan as he stares down at his partner.
When Gabriel is satisfied that McCree will keep watching, he follows his gaze down to where Hanzo is moving his head; little, almost dream-like thrusts as he actively deepthroats the tentacle that’s been motionless since Reaper’s attention has been diverted. Small sounds of mindless, greedy need spilling from him as he struggles to get more attention, more stimulation, more fullness… simply more.
He looks insatiable in his need – the tentacles simulating a battalion of lovers solely for Hanzo’s amusement. They mimic hands that grope his plush tits and pinch his nipples or slide down his belly, leaving sticky, greyish slime in their wake just to fondle his balls and squeeze his cock…
He is getting fucked and pushed to his limits – and Reaper delights in pulling him back down down again when he gets too excited; laughing deep and satisfied at the desperate clench of Hanzo’s belly and the arch of his chest. They’re looking at each other, now – needy and mindless, staring helplessly at the other’s flushed face. Reaper wonders what might be going through the little whores’ minds.
He feels dark glee thrumming through his body when he suddenly denies Hanzo everything on a whim, and simply retracts his tentacles; leaving the archer’s cock to bob in the warm Mexican air, that pretty, swollen hole empty within a second, softly gaping and dripping the copious amounts of slick he’s pumped into him.
Hanzo cries out in alarm, eyes wide and a little wet – flicking from Jesse to Reaper, mouth dropping open, obviously only seconds from whining a desperate ‘Why?’. He catches himself; bites his lip; slides his gaze to the side even as his belly heaves and his cock flexes out a little drop of salty pre-cum, the head flushed a dark, dusky pink. He looks seconds away from crying and Reaper thinks he’s never seen anything more tantalizing.
That is, perhaps…
“Ah! What the- What the fuck?” Jesse’s voice cracks on the last word like he’s a teenager all over again, body trembling, eyes large as he fights against the pull on his hair uselessly. He wants to look down, of course, and see what is happening to his poor cock, and how Gabriel used the delicious distraction of Hanzo’s desperation to let that little tentacle crawl farther up his cock; let it lovingly squeeze the fat, swollen head and slot the thin tip against the slit there.
It had been snuggled against it, idly stroking the little hole, curling down and into the loose foreskin every now and then, playfully tugging on it and testing the give, dipping into the salty moisture it had found trapped beneath, while Reaper had been busy playing with the archer.
Now, though… now it is no longer content with sliding all around the swollen head; now it has started wriggling inside that tender little piss hole, a steady stream of slime oozing from the thin tip, easing the slow, steady way inside as McCree howled and thrashed, more panic than actual pain making his eyes go wide and crazy like a colt’s.
Hanzo is just watching; mouth open, eyes heavy lidded – enjoying the sight of McCree’s cock and the veins around it springing out in stark relief, just as much as Reaper is enjoying it.
McCree seems not to be on the same page, as of yet – groaning high and pathetic, eyes clenched shut tightly as the small appendage worms its way down his cock, undoubtedly making him feel full to bursting, a gentle burn setting his crotch alight.
Another tentacle, not quite as small, slides up between McCree’s legs, taking a short detour through the hairy, humid valley between his ass cheeks, giving his shy hole a little playful nudge, before slithering farther down towards his heavy balls hanging ripe and full.
He groans and bucks, and Gabriel sighs: “Don’t be a baby.” Secretly, he likes it, though; he thrives on McCree’s grunts and moans, desperate jerks and animalistic huffs. He’s always been like that, Reaper remembers almost fondly as he glides slowly around them, watching his prizes from all angles.
Hanzo is more than accepting when he gives him a couple tentacles back, nudges them gently into his warm, fucked open hole. He writhes lustfully; practically preens under the attention, and flushes a dark shade of eager, embarrassed red when the slime already filling him squelches loudly.
It’s like having sloppy seconds, and Gabriel can’t say that he hates the idea.
McCree is still making noise; low, reedy groans, body carefully motionless, obviously afraid of getting hurt if he makes any wrong movements. Gabriel is not going to assuage his worries. Instead, he uses McCree’s momentary stillness to fuck his cock with the little tentacle, and lovingly squeeze those full balls.
He fondles both his prizes in tandem, watches as they break down for him, mewling and sweaty, faces red and cocks twitching. McCree is chuffing like a beast, cheeks quivering as he takes huge, gulping breaths, eyes steadily fixed on his partner’s blissed out face as if determined to ignore that it was Reyes playing his body like a fine-tuned instrument.
They’re quivering for him and he is unashamed in taking everything they’re giving. He is soaking in their desperation and listens to them singing for him. Well – caterwauling more like.
McCree is the first one to break; his face beet red and his soft belly quivering. He looks panicked – actually glances at Gabriel for the first time, brown puppy dog eyes large and helpless.
Reaper laughs at him and lets him hang in there for just a second longer; just enough to enjoy his mounting panic before he pulls out and vacates the way for the thick bursts of cum and slick forcing their way out of him as Jesse groans deep and rattling in his chest.
Hanzo follows seconds after – his orgasm an almost mindless reaction to McCree’s release; the warm splashes of his partners cum across his belly and cock coaxing out of him a conditioned response of mutual pleasure; his body shaking in the throes of it, teeth grit, inner muscles clenching around the squishy, wriggling tentacles inside him.
Reaper breathes with them in the aftermath; quick, little bursts, his heart racing, his body struggling to maintain the ethereal form. He can’t come like he is now… not quite; but it is a close facsimile of it, and he needs to concentrate not to loose control and let them crash to the ground.
What a nice guy he is.
He leaves them on the rooftop; these rookies that had thought they could outsmart him with their stupid, little prank.
They look lovely, covered in slime and disoriented, weak as puppies as they blearily look for their clothes.
He wonders if they’ll be cheeky enough to try fooling Talon again.
He almost hopes they will be.