CamWrites

A place for all the words I've written... and those yet to find their way onto paper.  Writing blog for all my Overwatch stuff, asks always open for prompts. May be nsfw, minimal tags. http://ko-fi.com/cambam

[fireflyquill]

I started thinking about why I hate taking pictures and this blurb was the result.

McHanzo. Genji being an annoying little brother (but Jesse helps to fix it)

—

“Come on, anija, would it kill you to smile?”

“I *am* smiling,” Hanzo hissed through clenched teeth.

Genji winced. “You’re scaring the children.”

“There is only one child here right now and he is holding the camera,” Hanzo retorted.

The shutter clicked. Genji exaggerated his disgust. “Ick. Again.”

“No.” Hanzo pursed his lips into something he’s often insisted was not a pout.

“For fucks sake, just… Stay… Still!” Genji took several shots that barely caught Hanzo in their frame before giving up.

To be fair, Hanzo didn’t seem like the type who liked pictures, and so the team had never tried. But he was slowly and surely warming up, largely due to his new and tentative relationship with McCree, so when Genji casually asked whether he would consent to a photo, Hanzo begrudgingly agreed to taking the most awkward photo Genji had seen to date of his brother.

Genji proudly showed his acquisition to every damn agent on the beach, which of course sparked the most ridiculous photo contest. Shot after shot, however, the agents were only left with either terribly unflattering pictures, or pictures where Hanzo proved that his ninja skills were not only useful for dodging bullets.

Mei tried the direct approach, and politely asked whether Hanzo would consent to the picture. Hanzo nodded, and she captured him scowling just as the wind blew his ribbon into his face and was too afraid to ask again.

Tracer decided to try for speed. While Lena was in fact able to get within range, the speed of the camera shutter failed her, and she only captured blurry, Hanzo-shaped blobs.

Sneaking up on him didn’t work either, Lúcio reported glumly, holding a dreadlock that had been the victim of a slice that was meant for his nose.

Genji used guilt as his tactic of choice, complaining how he had missed out on a decade of pictures of and with Hanzo. As a result, Hanzo consented to a series of photos where he looked completely and utterly devastated. Genji regretted his strategy instantly, and gently escorted Hanzo to the nearest ice cream truck to make it up to his brother.

Jesse watched the mayhem, generally unimpressed.

“Don’t see why y'all gotta make this a *thing*,” he muttered at Genji after he and Hanzo returned from the ice cream stand with matching triple scoops.

“It was supposed to be in good fun,” Genji admitted.

“I’m not sure he wasn’t having fun,” Jesse shrugged. “At the beginnin’.”

“I ruined it,” Genji sighed, giving his ice cream a half hearted lick. “I just wanted some happy pictures of him. Of us.” Genji gestured to the team.

“Well shoot, why didn’t you just ask? I get those all the time.” He fiddled with his phone.

Genji shot Jesse a suspicious look. “Is my brother clothed in these pictu—”

He stopped mid-sentence, and his jaw dropped.

Jesse’s phone contained photo after photo of Hanzo smiling naturally for the camera, laughing and happy like Genji had not seen in a long time.

“How did you get these?!”

Jesse shrugged. “Asked if I could take ‘em. I reckon he gets a lot more relaxed when he doesn’t expect the photographer to tease him about it afterwards, and when it’s not some sorta game at his expense.” McCree’s voice was gentle, but didactic.

Genji peered closer at one particular picture, where Hanzo was looking straight at the camera, his bright smile full of fondness, and realized that the smile wasn’t for the camera at all. It was for *Jesse*.

“He trusts you,” Genji realized with a quiet awe. The truth of Jesse’s worth sunk in, and Genji slumped forward. “I fucked up.”

Jesse let him wallow for a short while before speaking again.

“Hey, Hanzo darlin’?”

Hanzo turned his head from where he was lounging on a beach chair with his sunglasses on, having finished his own ice cream ages ago.

“Hn?”

“Can I get a photo of you two?”

Genji perked up, his eyes glistening comically. Hanzo considered the request, as well as his brother’s enthusiasm, and snorted. “Very well.”

He walked towards them, and Jesse kissed him happily on the cheek as he walked past to sit down beside Genji. Genji threw both arms around Hanzo’s neck as soon as he was in range. Hanzo squawked as he was pulled into a hug, but laughed at his brother’s foolishness.

“Say cheese!”

Genji printed 20 copies of the photo, and had one blown up large for his wall.

[camwritesshit-blog]

The laugh was soft, musical. Not for anyone but himself and the crystals that blossomed from the small planters in his room. Tickled into producing little tones with the music he has playing over his own speakers when he’s close enough and making him laugh again when they do.

Deft digits maneuver the mineral mixture they’re settled in and rotate the little crystals to better help them form evenly. It’s a routine in his little haven of a room. This storage closet turned into a garden area of sorts where the chips and fragments and slivers of his history slowly, so slowly grow.

Optics glow in a dim, thoughtful pulse as he tends.

The chromite, high and pure tones. The skagg with it’s achingly resonant basses.

He loads up one of this restored audio files and lets his doorwings spread and lift to expose more of his speakers. Singing quietly along with the mecha on the file in the midranges and simply humming to keep the volume lower when they reach into soaring heights. The criss-crossing of vocals and jeweled tones anticipated before they happen, the piece memorized not simply because it is but because it’s been played so many times.

And Bluestreak delights in all the soft, discordant and weak chimes and bongs he hears in his little room. Reminders that one day again the crystal spires of Praxus will come alive for all to hear.

[camwritesshit-blog]

Emergency commission time!  I’ve got a bill to pay and less than 24 hours to do it, so if you’d like a little fic, let me know!

I don’t have anything set up to do this, but here.

MY KOFI

One is 500 words, so you can stack if you’d like. Anon? Just drop the prompt in the message! I’ll post them all here when done. Or message me, it’s all good.

I’ll do just about anything!

NSFW - Yes! Most kinks - Yes! Soft fluff, Angst, pining, whatever!

Thank you!!

[archaeosaint03]

[hermitsghost]

[camwritesshit-blog]

His farm isn’t large, truthfully it’s really only himself and a small collection of animals. Two border collies, a wide assortment of stray cats that come and go as they please, a few chickens and of course, Jesse.

The garden isn’t terribly large, though he always has extra to take to the farmer’s markets, and weeding and watering is a few hour chore at most. It leaves him time during the early afternoon to write, and when he’s finished with that, he works out.  It’s a predictable routine, but satisfying.

Even more so is during the late afternoon, when he puts the chickens back into their coop and feeds the cats hanging around.

Today though, even after he whistles, Jesse doesn’t come in.

It’s... odd. Though he hasn’t had the cow for more than a few months, he’s always come when called. In fact, the reason Hanzo even found him at the auction was that he’d whistled for one of his dogs and suddenly found a cow following him around. It’d made the previous owner spitting mad, and once it was clear they shared a rather... mutual distaste for each other, Hanzo had offered to purchase Jesse on the spot. Truthfully, he still isn’t sure if what he paid was more or less than he should have, he never looked it up. Won’t. It was worth it then and still is now.

Which is why he’s worried once the cow doesn’t come after the second whistle.

So he sets off into the pasture, calling Jesse by name every minute or so. Walking to the edge, then along the fence until he finds a broken spot. His heart sinks. Milkers like Jesse are smart, everyone knows that, and he can see the clear scuff on the other side of the fence where it’s been climbed over.

...perhaps Jesse was unhappy here? Hanzo had done his research, but... he was no expert. Doubts and worry flood his mind as he walks further from the pasture’s barrier until he cannot see it behind him anymore. Whistling again, but there’s no soft moo to answer. No grunts, no anything. It’s an hour past when he finally hears something, rushing along the grassy ground until it morphs from unintelligible, unsure sounds into the familiar grunting and lowing he’s come to know. Distressed but clear and that’s what matters, so he follows until he comes into view to find Jesse. Dirty, clearly upset and covered in burrs, but as far as he can tell, mostly unharmed.

“Jesse!”

The cow bleats at him, but doesn’t move. Ears flat, hands reaching out but legs staying planted where they are. It takes Hanzo a moment once he’s close enough to realize why, especially once hands are grasping at him and he has a six foot cow trying to nose into his neck. He takes the moment to hold Jesse close, whispering soft words against the soft ears laying so flat. Petting him along his head and shoulders, reassuring enough so he can pull away to look down.

Blood lies thick and sticky along the back of one leg. A cut, it looks jagged... perhaps from a stick or root, if the milker had fallen down? It runs from mid thigh to just behind knee, matting the brown fur in quite a bit of rusty colored mess. Though it doesn’t seem to be still bleeding, and for that he’s grateful.

“...shhh, we’ll get you fixed up. Can you walk with me?”

He doesn’t know how much Jesse understands, the information on that bit seems scarce, but he knows that he’s at least as intelligent as Kenji and Tomo. Something Jesse shows once he’s calmed down a bit, the snuffling and wet, scared sounds ceasing as he settles. Hanzo strokes over hair and ears until he can feel the shakes and shivers leave the cow’s body, then starts to gently lead him back to the farm.

It takes a while, Jesse seems reluctant to put his full weight on the injured leg and Hanzo doesn’t push, so by the time they’re back into the pasture and can see the barn it’s nearly night. Kenji joins them, keeping pace alongside their legs with perked ears. Something Hanzo knows is because she can smell the fear still lingering on them, ever the protector.

Once inside he tries to put Jesse in his stall only to find that hands cling to him, unwilling to let him go.

“I need the first aid kit, Jesse. Please, I’ll be right back.”

Worried eyes flick to the door and back, but he lets go and shuffles awkwardly. Clearly uncomfortable. Kenji lays down at his hooves and Hanzo slips out to grab the kit he kept in the barn, rushing back to find Jesse struggling to lay down, wincing every time the wound pulled but eventually in his nest of hay and blankets. Turned just so that the cut is visible and giving the farmer a clear view of just how deep it is. Not enough to need stitches, but perhaps only just.

Gentle hands clean it up, wiping the blood from fur in short, soft strokes. He goes through a few rags and an entire pack of cleaning wipes, frowning the whole time. Especially since once it is clean, it starts to sluggishly bleed again and Hanzo gets another distressed sound out of Jesse. They break his heart, truly. It’s as quick as he can that he smears oinment on the cut and wraps it, securing it with tape and an apology.

“There you go, all cleaned up.”

Well... the leg. The rest of the cow is still terribly dirty, but without getting the leg wet, he can’t do any sort of full wash. Instead, he picks out another package of wipes and cleans up what he can. Wiping the worst of the dirt and mud off, and when he’s finished with the back, he nudges Jesse over gently to start on his front. Handing him one too, which is promptly taken to his face and neck.

It isn’t until he’s wiping off pectorals that he notices they’re swollen, he’d forgotten about milking entirely. And unsure if Jesse is even interested in trying to do so, he simply continues until they’re finished cleaning. Taking the dirty wipes and rags and bagging them up, setting the first aid kit aside and just as he’s about to leave, he feels a tug at his pants. Turning to find a hopeful expression on the cow’s face and hands framing his chest. 

Hanzo huffs. The position won’t work for a bucket, but...

“...of course, just, ah... will it be enough if I...?”

He gestures to his mouth, somewhat unsure if it would be enough. Usually he gets a few mouthfuls, not enough to drain anything. Still, he’s willing to try if Jesse doesn’t mind.

And judging by the way he seems to get comfortable, patting his chest, he doesn’t mind.

So the farmer carefully lays down, tucking himself next to the cow and leaning in. He finds his eyes closing even as his mouth presses to pectoral, hesitantly. As many times as he’s milked Jesse, he’s never done this from the start.

The first few sucks get nothing, but then the rush comes and Hanzo sputters, falling off and choking in air as milk sprays his face and drips down his beard. Gasping for a second before Jesse guides him back and croons at him, encouraging and expectant all at once. It takes a firm suck to make his throat work properly and then he’s pressing closer. Fingers curled around waist, leg tucked over the closest one to him, the uninjured one. Somewhere in the streams of milk he shudders, the pleasure of it all worming from his slowly filling belly. Finding a rhythm that lets him control how quickly it fills his mouth the longer he lays there, something natural he remembers from an age ago guiding him now.

It’s at a soft grunt that he finds himself being nudged again and though he knows that there’s no way he’s emptied the cow fully, he obligingly moves to the other side. Lazily thinking that perhaps just a little off the top is enough to hold Jesse until the next day and leaving it at that. He finds that his mind has softened, everything is soft and warm. The sound of his own swallows is added in to the ambiance, and though he is still greedily drinking he starts to slow down. Slower... Slower...

A cold nose wakes him but only to snuffle and join his sister in the hay.

So he slips back into sleep as well, craded to that broad chest with the taste of milk still on his tongue.

[camwritesshit-blog]

The barn is warm when Hanzo steps in, closing the big door behind him to keep the still chilled air from rushing in. There’s little movement this early, but that’s part of the reason he’s up and working already. It gives him time to start chores and get things done before the world wakes and starts to hustle and bustle.

Plus, he finds it comfortable in the quiet.

So one task at a time he works, cleaning and sterilizing equipment and setting up glass bottles. A small enough operation that it can be done by hand, though he keeps a set of cups and flanges ready anyway.

...not that he truly likes using them, no, he’s found the enjoyment of hand expression suits both him and his cow rather well.

Then he’s off to Jesse’s stall with the custom made bucket and a small smile on his face, chuckling softly when he hears the lowing coming from the cow’s stall. Opening the door and walking inside with a gentle click of his tongue. Moving the bucket aside so it isn’t squashed between them when Jesse comes over and presses up against him. Shoulder first, dipped and pushed against the farmer’s chest firmly, a sign the cow is happy to see him.

“Yes, yes, I am happy to see you too. The night was long, I know.”

Hanzo can’t help but smile even wider though, he appreciates the warm welcome that comes every morning. It is something to look forward to, and he does.

Gently he pushes Jesse off and attaches the bucket to a harness. Patting the tall milking stool and waiting until the cow is settled before slipping it over horns and head to rest it carefully just below the swollen pectorals. The design fits close to the strong torso, curved in the right spots to catch milk whether it sprays or drips, an invention of Hanzo’s own after so many frustrations with regular ones.

Ears perk and shift, listening to movements and finally, Hanzo presses up against his milker’s back and reaches around to cup each pectoral firmly. There’s a soft sound of relief as he begins to first gently massage them, encouraging them to let down, then knead in rolling motions. Firm into the muscle and milk sack, steady pressure to the nipple and release to move back. Working to the music of soft grunts and lowing, the shuffling of hooves and rasp of fur. Tail whipping around every so often to knock against his legs, like a reminder that it's there. Something Hanzo forgot one time and forever must endure the repercussions of, even though he'd apologized over and over again.

It's soothing in some ways, the sound of milk hitting the wall of the bucket in rhythmic waves. His hands are sure and certain at the work, and though he can see over Jesse's shoulder into the bucket often times he simply closes his eyes to indulge in his other senses. The feel of both muscle and the minute vibration each spray causes. The shift of heat and mass below his own chest, their breathing both when it synchronizes and when it does not. The sounds that come with life, the inner workings of the body that a man can hear when he is pressed so closely to another being. Heartbeat, digestive system, the whoosh and swish and a myriad of other small things no one pays any mind to usually. Even the hands that inevitably come up to grasp his own when they near the end. Wrists stroked, hands petted, part of the ritual that they complete each morning, with Jesse becoming more and more touchy the closer to the end it is until only drops remain able to be pulled with his fingers and the cow lets out a pleased, rumbling sound that never fails to make Hanzo chuckle. Only then does he open his eyes back up again.

Then he carefully pulls away and stands up, walking around to unharness the bucket from the cow's front and take the fresh, frothy milk over to pour it into the bottles. One and a quarter, though once all the cats have their share he'll be left with half of one, enough for his own needs. They're capped and placed out of the stall before he turns around to find Jesse up off the stool and prancing on his hooves, looking at Hanzo rather expectantly.

"No, I have not forgotten, you are impatient."

The look he gets is a dirty one, Jesse whipping his tail around and bringing his hands in to cup his own pectorals pointedly. There's still droplets clinging to each, and though he's the one who proclaimed the cow impatient, Hanzo finds himself walking over quickly once his attention is brought to where those hands frame. Though this time it's him that sits on the stool, adjusting it with a lever on the side and spreading his knees to accomodate the bulk that eagerly presses between them. Hands dropping from chest to reach out and grasp Hanzo's shoulders, holding him as he obligingly opens his mouth and takes the first nipple in. Suckling on it to pull the last of the milk out and letting his own hands rest around the furry hips to keep himself from sighing in pleasure.

It's thick, creamy and warm. The last of the hindmilk, fatty and delicious and sweet as it streams into his mouth. Eyes slit, barely open. Mouth working each drop he can, and the sounds change the longer he does so. From himself he can recognize the soft grunts of pleasure and rasp of breath through his nose. From Jesse, something that sounds almost like cooing, encouragement against his suckling. The smell is stronger too, hay and dust and musk and milk, all of it mixing in his nose to complete the experience.

Only when prodded does he release the first pectoral, nuzzling to the other side without fully opening his eyes to latch back on. Gripping tighter when again the fresh milk floods over senses and sets him alight into sensation and comfort. Suckling slower, so that it takes longer to empty the second side and prolongs the moment. When he's nudged off, however, he doesn't protest. He simply releases the swollen nipple and breathes a sigh of contentment. Taking a moment before he stands and moves the stool back to the side where it belongs, reaching to stroke over hair and ears when he passes Jesse by to open the stall door up again.

"Alright then, out you go."

Hanzo has to laugh when he's hit by a swishing tail as Jesse trots by to go into the pasture, eager to get out into the rising sun and bask in the warmth of summer. Then he turns and starts his own chores up once again, cleaning the stall and feeding the rest of the animals.

It'd be time for the night milking soon enough.

[undead-artblog]

dracula/undead au

also pls find me on twitter: @undead_artblog

[camwritesshit-blog]

The thick haze that drifts over his mind is a constant now. It slows his reactions, undoes his carefully crafted attention to detail and leaves him awkward, stumbling.

It’s when his knees hit the ground that he realizes that it’s because he’s dying, and wonders exactly how that slipped his notice.

Or perhaps it hadn’t, and he’d simply forgotten the longer blood dripped from his body and slower his mind had gotten. He can’t remember that anymore either.

So he finds a wall and props his body up against it, slow-moving fingers groping until they find his had and placing it sloppily on his head. Watching as the colors blend together and fade into grey... and just before it all goes black a pair of boots he thinks he knows pass in front of his vision. Black boots, nudging at his legs and what he thinks is a voice saying his name.

Not just his name.

“Jessito...”

He tries to look up, tries to see who it is, strains what little sight he has but can’t seem to lift his head no matter how hard he’s trying. Fingers flex as if they’re trying to grasp something and cannot, to weak to do more then twitch in his lap.

Then suddenly his face is lifted by a gloved hand under his chin and he sees. The man who owns those boots. The man he’d thought dead and gone.

And eyes well with tears as black finally clouds in and covers him, a name he can’t manage to say caught behind lips that can’t move and a tongue that’s numb.

Gabriel.

Gabriel.

[camwritesshit-blog]

It’s funny how much he enjoys it, those little acts of what some coin submission and he refuses to label. Things like settling down on his knees comfortably and easing his mouth over a cock, hard or not, to rest his head against thigh and stay there.

Because it’s enjoyable. To him, to his partner. Really, it’s less about being a cockwarmer and more about the pleasure of a prick on his tongue. The musk in his nose, the hand that inevitably lands on his head and strokes his hair.

Sometimes it’s just that. Jesse holding his head still and letting his lover do as they will. Whether that’s actively using his mouth or even reading, he doesn’t care. He’ll obligingly relax his throat for the first and lightly suckle every so often for the second. Eyes falling to half-mast, pleased noises trickling from his throat no matter what happens.

Often it turns into him actually blowing them, though the ‘when’ is never set in stone. Dick fattening against the soft insides of his cheeks and urging hands or words get teasing first. Where he kitten licks and suckles and gives just a bit of sensation but not nearly enough. Forcing his partner to make the choice to fuck his mouth to get what they want or to succumb to his whims and take what he gives them. Something that Jesse will nudge towards depending on the day.

To have his mouth used hard, cheeks slapped and hair pulled and made to hold the head in his throat until it spasms in a gag and then longer until when he’s pulled off he’s choking, breathing ragged and raw and cum hot in his own boxer-briefs.

Or him in control, keeping his partner hard for hours. Tying their hands if they can’t keep them off, enjoying the flavor of skin and how it changes. The texture of hair, the soft ripples of muscles straining and sounds pulled from tight throats. Ultimately encouraging them to come, coaxing rather, until they’re sagging and exhausted and done.

...perhaps looking at it, it’s not so funny how much he enjoys it.

Heh.

But damn he enjoys it.

[great-master-airplane]

McHanzo with 20:”I think you’re just afraid to be happy” and 21 “Why are you so nice to me” I love me some angst

Sorry this took so long! Life has been a little crazy lately. Thank you for requesting and for your patience!

20. “I think you’re just afraid to be happy.”

21. “Why are you so nice to me?”

Keep reading

[camwritesshit-blog]

Sometimes he remembers it.

And sometimes that sometimes is just that, a memory. Objective, reliving it through a glass where he can see what happened. Sometimes he notices where he should have moved, where he was just too far to one side here, didn’t take those few steps he should have there.

Angela says it’s unhealthy to do so, but he isn’t interested in talking to anyone about it and so those sometimes stay. That ‘what if’ that can range from a shrug and dismissal to some of his darkest days of self-flagellation. Where he stews in it, flexing fingers that should still be there and drawing blood because his nails dig too deep and don’t let up.

Then there’s the sometimes that’s more than just memory. Where it’s more like reliving. Flashbacks. Those are the ones he hates the most because one moment he’s cutting up vegetables and catches a glimpse of metal out of the corner of his view and the next he’s neck-deep in blood and agony and stuttered thoughts that can’t seem to break free of their loop. The memories that leave him aching for hours and even days after. Bone deep hurt. Toe-curling, hair pulling, breath-stealing hurt and he’s ashamed to admit just how much it affects him.

He doesn’t want pity, for anyone to feel sorry for him because of something that seems so common in and around them. Lost limbs are hardly the handicap they’ve been throughout history, hell... Genji’s more prosthetic than not and for him to feel so strongly about his arm. To not be able to deal with it the way he wants to be able to? Even more shame.

So he wears his serape like a shield. Not just because it’s tactically sound to hide anything that could give him an advantage... that’s the reason he gives anyway... but to keep it hidden so people forget, even if momentarily, that it’s there. So that HE can forget that it is.  It keeps it out of the forefront of his mind and lets him work.

Funny enough, then there are the times he’s glad for it. Unworried about how it looks connected up against scar tissue, doing tricks along the fingers and showing off the tools hidden inside the fingers. Waggling them in a wave at whoever passes, finger guns given cheekily to passersby. No shame, no guilt...

Until the next time there is and again he remembers. 

And again the cycle starts over.

[thankyousirmayihaveanother]

just to be clear, I’m staying here as long as this site functions. I have 0 intentions of deleting this blog, I will go down with this ship if only to see exactly how bad it gets

[zet-sifo]

Sometimes I render things but i don’t have THAT TIME for ending them. Maybe I will end them or something and do prints??

Also, the first one is based on Coco and the second is about Hanzo gang from thatpunchkid on youtube

[camwritesshit-blog]

There’s no recognition in the red eyes, only agitation.

The wraith, Reaper, was swirling and shifting. Half man at times, half smoke at others, the one in control dictating how he moved and acted. Whorling around and encompassing Jesse’s legs and feet only to swirl back the other way and solidify up again. Staring at walls, through the outlaw and into nothing, then starting the cycle over again.

So he’d picked up his guitar and sat down. Letting the smoke curl around him and the man stare at whatever called his mind and instead plucking out a small melody. Voice joining soft and low, hoping that something inside Gabriel will recognize him.

“Remember me, though I have to say goodbye…”

It takes a moment for the wraith to turn toward him, another to look at the guitar instead of at nothing.

“Remember me, don’t let it make ya cry…”

Jesse smiles as the smoke starts to settle, crooning to it with tender adoration.

“For even if I’m far away, I hold ya in my heart… I’ll sing a secret song to ya, each night we are apart…”

It’s slow, that creeping movement that happens inbetween seconds. Where he looks up to see those eyes now watching him intently. Not through him, not past him, but at him as he plays. The tick in fingers is still there, soot black claws clicked and flicked together, but the man emerges until he’s sitting across from McCree. Looking a little lost, a little confused, but focused.

“Remember me, though I have to travel far…”

Legs form and the wisps ease up until they’re only seeping from between barely there feet.

‘Remember me, each time ya hear a sad guitar…”

He knows when Reyes is back when he hears a shuddered, shaky breath, but keeps going. Singing to the older man as if he’s nothing else to do but be here like this. Holding his gaze, and reaching out with his hand palm up to sing the last bit.

“Know that I’m with ya, th’ only way that I can be… until yer in my arms again…”

It’s hesitant, but when the hand falls into his Jesse closes his fingers around it and smiles wider still. Squeezing gently against fingers and letting the last words fall from his lips as he gathers the wraith up in a hug.

“Remember me.”

[camwritesshit-blog]

With Tumblr's upcoming policy changes, if anything happens to your blog where else can we find you? Because I'd hate to lose one of my favourite writers because Tumblr deems your blog too 'inappropriate'

fdhlfkajhd. I have an ao3 that i don’t really post everything to but in light of this will try to upload all my drabbles to at least? I don’t really play on any other platforms though...))

[camwritesshit-blog]

Jesse ached.

But it was that good ache, that heat that would wash through a man and make him shake. The kind that rattled pleasure from one’s bones and turned them into jelly.

Something not far off from the current situation. Where he’s got his knees tucked up under his hips and ass high. Cock heavy and dripping but untouched. His hands are up by his head, clutching at blankets and hiding particularly intense sounds. Close enough to bite, to muffle his cries when he can’t quite help it.

Gabriel causes those often.

There’s a sharp smack again to his ass and he shudders. The pain that starts sharp and settles into a warm ache. It’s enough that his ass is red, that he can feel his blood throbbing under his skin and all he does is spread his legs a little more, arch his back up for another strike. Jolting when it’s hands gripping him almost too much to take, the pressure making him arch up in reaction and a cry to rip past his flesh hand. How the tongue that presses in just after has him whimpering, clutching at covers like they’ll settle the pleasure.

They don’t, but just when he’s feeling that pleasure start to rise up over the heat it pulls away and he’s swearing as much as he’s begging the wraith to come back and finish him. So deep in the heat and pleasure that everything feels hazy around the edges, like he’s drifting as much as he’s so very present in the moment.

“Gabe... hah... please!”

He feels the smile against his lower back, a smirk that drags goatee along sensitive skin and has him practically keening. Eyelids fluttering as he feels the blunt pressure against his ass, slick with lube and almost cool to the touch. It can’t be, he knows that, but it feels so good...

Then he’s arching up, toes curling as all at once he’s filled and balls nestle nice and close, along the bottom curve of his ass and taint. Grinding back because the pain isn’t enough to deter him, no, it’s perfect and the first thrust comes with a slap that gets a half bitten sob out of him. How it’s just at the edge of too rough but not quite there and Jesse pushes his hand down underneath him to grip his cock. Not to stroke but to hold, grounding himself just enough to keep from coming right there and then. Pressure against the base, tight enough to be nearly painful but not and he can’t help how he clenches over Gabriel’s girth. Bearing down on it, until something like a mini orgasm has passed and he’s gasping into his metal hand.

“That good, Jessito? Must have been a long time... or have you just been thinking about it since I said something, heh.”

It is that good, but it’s also definitely because he thought about it. Because he’s hinted and damn near set up this rendezvous just for this goddamn scenario. Eager and jittery in a way that he hasn’t been in ages. That younger, much needier man slinking out from his rock to beg somewhat shamelessly for every inch he’s getting. Extra cushion and all, the fact that his rear end is more plush and his gut hangs just enough to wobble. Pecs swollen from his own attention to them, pinching and tugging at nipples much too roughly before he’d been told to keep his hands off. Everything about him is primed, aching, eager. Spread open shamelessly, offering it all up to a man he doesn’t think he can love any more then he already does.

Which might just be why it’s so good. How those hands know just where and when to touch, what’s the edge of perfect, what’s too much. Always waiting for the heat to die down to bearable before those hands start up again.

A sharp, quick smack that makes his dick dribble and his throat close over those funny sounds again. Especially listening to the satisfied one Gabriel makes in return. The one where Jesse knows he’s eyeing the reddened skin, watching it move from slap and thrust alike. That gets him pushing back, just about demanding more.

It’s so easy to fall into that heady pleasure. Where slaps are interspersed with hands spreading him open wide and thrusts knock his balls forward. No predictable rhythm so he’s anticipating it all and jerking at each slap, gasping at each thrust. Finally begging like he babbles... or babbling like he’s begging. He doesn’t know, not anymore. Just that he’s so sore and hot and the fire is cinching balls up tight and he’s dripped a full load out onto the bed already and when he can’t quite take any more abuse he gets a full jab to the prostate and not even his hand gripping his cock can keep him from coming. It’s shooting from him in ropes that lace the blanket and his own gut and chest because he’s being fucked through it. Hard enough to rock him, to send him shaking and aching to the bed, unwilling to move until his love has had his own fill. Even as his orgasm tapers off and shocks of painful overstimulation rock through him he stays upright, eyes shut tight and noises that fall from open lips with every thrust. Hoarse breathing as he feels his partner pull out and stroke those last few seconds out so he can paint the gunslinger’s ass in brands of white.

They burn, but all he does is hold his position on barely capable legs. Thighs trembling, his chest heaving as he breathes in and out in some effort to calm down.

It doesn’t help that his breath hitches every single time either of them shifts, or that when a tongue appears against one cheek, gentle and kitten like but still painful and hot. Until eventually he eeks out a weak sounding, “Gabe... please...” That sounds nearly identical to the one he’d begged out earlier. Though this time it’s rewarded with a chuckle and the Reaper pulling back to let his sore ass be.

Jesse doesn’t move, not yet. It’ll be a moment before he feels he can even try and more before he attempts anything other than arranging himself to lay on the bed...

But damn if it hadn’t felt real, real fucking good.

[sarah-the-ninja]

Rejoice, “let’s fake a relationship for Christmas” fanfic season is upon us.

[dealanexmachina]

Don’t forget “snowed in and have to share a bed” season.