ecriture du desir

message me privately to discuss commissions.

[evilwriter37]

Writing does not mean condoning.

Writing does not mean romanticizing.

Writing does not mean normalizing.

Writing means writing.

Writing means exploring.

Writing means creating.

Stop conflating the mere act of writing dark content with condoning/romanticizing/normalizing that content.

[ecrituredudesir]

For some of us? Writing means getting paid.  I don’t condone or normalize any of the things I actually write. I cater to a demand so I can put my skills to use and pay bills.

[ecrituredudesir]

I also, you know, rely on my commission money to eat regularly and have literally any money at all, so if you want me to stop writing/producing “disgusting” stuff, anon, feel free to buy my silence for a monthly sum. 

[ecrituredudesir]

i've seen some of the shit you write on archive of our own and furaffinity, how can you deal with being so disgusting? your content is nasty

Hi anon. My content is comprised primarily of commission work. While my views don’t always reflect on what my commissioner has me write, I “deal” by destressing with a face mask (that I was able to buy with commission money) and reminding myself that my commissioners were what funded the $200 I was able to spend on my family for Christmas. Have a nice day.

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The Death of the Black Dragon

Original Work / Original Character Commission Warnings: death, torture, gore, graphic depictions of gore, eye gore, extreme violence, eye trauma NSFWE / 18+ Summary:  A commission written for a client on furaffinity. A black dragon is captured and subsequently dismantled by two scalpers looking to sell his body parts on the market.  Please be warned for graphic depictions of torture, gore, eye trauma, and a bunch of other darker themes. Not sexual in nature. This can be read here. 

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Contamination

Fandom; Rainbox Six Siege Warnings: Dubious Consent, Transformation, TF, Pseudophallus, Werecreatures, Body Modification Pairing: Valkyrie/Twitch NSFWE /18+ Summary:  A commissioned work for someone on furaffinity. Multiple agents are exposed to a virus known to morph human bodies into that of animal-like beasts. Twitch embraces these changes as scientific evolution. Valkyrie finds them terrifying. Regardless of Valkyrie's horror at her changing form, though Twitch plans to enjoy every second of her new body. This work can be read here. 

[ecrituredudesir]

accepting graphic content fanfiction commissions

please be warned that the following themes may be disturbing to some. entailed is my commission information. My price per commission is usually $1 per every 150 words. However, at higher levels (10k words+) I might start raising my price depending on the difficulty and content of the work. I write based from fandoms, games, television shows, OCs, original ideas, self inserts (your self insert, not my own), and varied requests. If I’m not familiar with the content you’re asking me to write, I do my best to research it and familiarize myself with it.  I have a degree in English, and examples of my short fanfiction requests/writing can be found here: My AO3 More graphic commission work found here: My Furaffinity LIMITATIONS Literally ask, the worst I can say is no. I will not judge you or be rude to you over your kinks. If you wish to remain anonymous via your request, I can submit it without saying who requested it. I WILL Write: All genders/sexes/pairings/relationships. SFW NSFW / NSFW Extreme kinks like inflation/gore/vore/watersports/tickling/etc Human/Anthro YCH / Your Insert I WILL NOT Write: loli/shotacon (excluding babyfur in NONSEXUAL situations) nsfw work for minors raceplay/racist content

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relief

Nsfwe / nsfw / 18+ only HEAVY WARNINGS for omorashi, piss kink, desperation, wetting, graphic depictions of sex Voltron; Keith x Lotor / Keitor / Lokeith Keith gets a little too handsy after a training session. Keith isn’t so kind as to let Lotor get a break to go relieve himself in the heat of the moment. Fic under cut. Also available on AO3.

Lotor could commend the little paladin on his mettle, but more than that still, Keith was notoriously determined. Their training session has devolved from swords to fists and then to the head of lips and tongues before they’d even finish the points-scoring system. It had been no better once they made their way from the training room itself, trying to avoid the risk of be ing caught, to the changing room and showers. For someone half-Galra, Keith’s height had put him at what Lotor would have thought to be a disadvantage, but he knew better than the underestimate anyone who was a little smaller than the average; how often had he pitted himself against stronger, larger, full-blooded opponents and come out the better from his higher speed? Still, once they detached from the heated kisses of the immediate battlefield, Keith had not been willing to take the even-tie they’d ended on that easily. They moment they were out of public sight, Keith had seized one of Lotor’s wrists, taking the precaution, at least, to grab one of the bottles of slick mystery-fluid used primarily to rub down and moisturize after washing in the showers. Taking a seat on one of the benches of the locker room, he wasted little time in pulling Lotor into his lap. It’s immediately obvious that Keith was hard from the pressure where Lotor’s hips pressed to his own, Lotor straddling him to make the situation a little more comfortable. There’s an old, familiar pressure in the pit of his stomach; the urge to relieve himself had been part of why Lotor had finished their training session in the first place, but Keith’s lips were already at his collarbone, and he decided he could hold it, just a little longer. “Are you always this excitable after training?” It’s impossible to hide the amusement in his tone, which only hitches when Keith reaches behind him to take a firm handful of Lotor’s ass, squeezing in retaliation for the teasing. He was sure he would have been silenced, had Keith’s lips not been so enamored with teasing blue and magenta marks into his skin with both teeth and lips. At one point, he feels Keith nearly bite and that draws a slow exhale from him as well. “As much as I appreciate your vigor, I need a moment.” He started to shift, though he’s reminded of Keith’s ever-present impatience and before he can move to shift off of the other’s lap, Keith grips his hips and pulls him tighter, growling a quiet ‘wait’ into the curve of shoulder and neck, flush to his collarbone. It’s enough to send a quiet shudder down Lotor’s spine, though the pressure in the pit of his stomach was becoming too much to ignore now. Did Keith not know of why he was trying to break from him, or did he simply not care in that flood of demanding desire? Somewhere in the back of Lotor’s mind, he registers the sound of that bottle being popped open, and only one of Keith’s hands holding him down. He can’t see it, the occurrence taking place behind him, but there’s a little bit of surprise as he feels the chill of slicked fingers tucking under the back of his pants; Keith truly wasted no time, no romantic displays of shameless grinding against him to drive them both on. Lotor could respect such simple sentiments; Keith knew what he wanted, and he wasted very little time getting to it. There’s also a deep set, unspoken gratitude for the fact that Keith’s fingers did not bear the same retractable claws as his own, and that he kept his fingernails trimmed short—it kept the brush of fingers against his entrance from stinging, especially when Keith teased a single finger inside. Lotor’s jaw clenched, and his claws gripped against one of Keith’s shoulders. The pressure stretching him was not unwelcome, but it makes it that much harder to try and control himself, to hold back. “Keith.” His voice is a bit rougher, dropping in pitch as his eyes close tightly, trying to center his thoughts on restraining himself. “I need to take a break before we do this, and go-“ “Hold it.” It’s less of an instruction and more of a soft command, and Lotor, who had never been allowed himself to be commanded by anyone short of his father in his life, felt a warm heat rush through him. So Keith did know just exactly what he was doing to him, and that little bit of lost control makes Lotor’s pulse race. Could he hold it? He had no preparation, no anticipation for what Keith was doing, and he was already feeling the subtle burn of trying to restrain himself for this long. In his musings, Lotor nearly missed the start of pressure from the second finger, coaxing in the with the first one. He’s thankful that even if Keith was being particularly cruel in making him hold himself, that he had been liberal with the stand-in lube. He exhales sharply through pointed teeth as Keith kisses a path up to his jaw, teeth tugging almost playfully at the lobe of his ear in comparison for what the former Paladin’s intentions were. The stroke of fingers in him go deep until he could feel the knuckles of the hand brush against him, and that enough is to make Lotor’s breath shorten into quiet, barely contained rasps. He’s just as hard as Keith now, and that didn’t help the situation either. “Hurry,” he replied in a quiet demand, feeling Keith’s fingers spread in him to help the slow stretch. He wouldn’t break and they both knew it; the Galra in them made them of a sturdier stock than either of their other features. Neither are patient enough to try for a third finger, and Lotor’s distinctly aware of one hand dragging the material of his pants down enough to just expose his ass, Keith rolling his weight up with his hips once to push his own down. The material of their training pants is pliant and easy to maneuver, and it isn’t long until Keith is hard and grinding skin-against-skin, hard between the curve of Lotor’s cheeks. There’s a bit of chill again: fresh lubrication, and Lotor can nearly hear his heart pounding in his ears from the fact that Keith wasn’t going to give him the break he needed to relieve himself. There’s a press, Keith positioning himself to ease the tip of his cock in. Lotor is almost furious at the slowness of it, and he presses down in his brief moment of impatience, reminding Keith that the position he’d chosen for them gave Lotor a little more control than what he’d anticipated. If Keith was going to make him stay, then Lotor would insist on finishing it as soon as possible. A low groan slipped from Keith’s lips, eyes closing as the prince in his lap rides down against him. He rolls his hips up to meet him, the slow, deliberate stretch of muscles around him sending a grinding shudder through his spine. “Fuck-“ It’s a word Lotor has heard him say before, in much akin to the way he knew quiznak was used, and it tells him that the motion was doing something right. It’s difficult to move though, to put pressure and strain on the very same muscles keeping him from wetting himself, but he believed that Keith’s thrusts under him alone would finish the ordeal quickly enough. Lotor feels the scrape of still-slick and trimmed nails against his shoulder blade—before his fingers dug against the skin, and Lotor can’t anticipate what happened next. With the one hand against his back and his other hand gripping Lotor’s thigh so tightly he was sure it would bruise, Keith started moving. It wasn’t the slow, affectionate grind upwards that he might have anticipated otherwise; when Keith moved, he moved fast, a rough pace set as he pitched his back against the wall behind the bench and slammed upwards. Were it not for the grip on his leg holding him down, Lotor would have sworn that the movement could have dislodged him from his position, but as it was, it rammed Keith so deeply into him with such a quick motion that it tore a surprised, heated little moan from the prince, his head tilting back for a moment to spill pale hair across his shoulder and back. It didn’t stop there, Keith’s hips snapping up to pull from him then repeat the motion, and startled, he felt the jerk of warmth slide through him like a knife. “Not so hard.“ Another thrust, and Lotor’s breath caught in his throat. “I can’t hold back if you-“ His attempts at commanding mercy into Keith’s motions are ignored, and the hand that had held him down by the thigh moved, his grip still snug, but now with the back of his palm and his wrist pressed to where Lotor was hard; it made sense, suddenly, why Keith had only pulled the material away from his bottom and left him hard still protected by the cover of his pants. Blue eyes snapped up to the shadow of a smirk across Keith’s lips, barely hidden by how he had taken to burying his face into the other’s collarbone—it was difficult, with Lotor’s height, to maintain this position and try to silence him with kisses.  “Don’t hold back.” There’s an indignant, frustrated little moan as Lotor felt Keith press, with no kindness, to the bundle of nerves in him that sent spikes of heat through him. It’s the pressure and the continued, fast thrusts that make something almost snap in him, and he flushes a dark color as he feels himself spilling over. “Wait, wait-“ It’s the closest he’s ever come to pure humiliation, but it rushes forward all at once, claws digging into the skin of one of Keith’s shoulders but the other half-breed can’t bring himself to care. It isn’t cum, that would have been a relief of its own, but Lotor can’t help but feel shame burn through him as Keith fucks him so feverently that he could no longer hold back. The dark, hot stain of urine appears on the front of his pants, each little stream making him pulse around Keith in a way that had Keith groaning sweetly into his shoulder. Lotor’s breath comes in a shudder, leaning hard into Keith’s body as he empties himself in the tightness of his own pants against Keith’s lap. Whether it’s the heat or the rush of power that comes with making Lotor desperate enough to wet himself, Keith gave a throaty little groan, his hips pressing up deep once more as he came. He bites teeth to skin as he muffles his own noise, feeling himself jerk once, then twice with the sensation of finishing inside of the other, nearly glowing with the adrenaline of seeing the other undone so beautifully. Though the relief Lotor felt was far more physical than emotional, he’s left with the embarrassment of the mess he’d made, only comforted by the slow, praise-like kisses that Keith lavished his well-marked throat, and there’s the nearly-awkward realization that while he hadn’t managed to physically cum, the sensation alone had been something similar, either from the direct stimulation of his prostate or the way Keith had been shamelessly eager to take him. He’s still half-hard, and by the time Keith recovered, he was more than willing to take care of that as well, slowly peeling back Lotor’s training pants to remove them, using the heat of his palm to stroke Lotor off until he was shaking in his lap all over again.

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marked

Sheith one-shot [806 words] semi-nsfw, nonexplicit smut. mild body worship, hurt/comfort, Shiro is self conscious over the stretch marks and scars left from the Galra torture and body alterations. Keith wants to reassure him that he still loves everything about him. Fic under cut. 

The first time they do anything more than kiss after Shiro’s return from Galra capture, Keith notices the other’s hesitance to remove his clothing. Before Kerberos, Keith had been fond of seeing the other work out casually in his barracks room, the sinew of muscle flexing across his back as shoulder blades met, the flex of his arms lifting his own weight. Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen that yet, he hadn’t seen the other bare any more skin beyond the length of his forearm under his shirt, and the slip of skin above his collar. Even with Keith straddled flush in Shiro’s lap, he could pick up at the other’s tension when his thumbs trailing the hem of his skin-tight shirt. It’s when he dips his thumb under that fabric that Shiro pulls away from where he’d been pressing kisses to Keith’s jaw and catches Keith’s hand. Keith’s gaze tears away from where his eyes had almost hyper-focused on where the fabric ad lifted, and settles on the other’s gaze instead, inquisitive as to why the other had stopped him. “…It’s… not like before. The Galra changed more than my arm.” Shiro, started, his grip loosening now that he had given Keith some sort of warning over what to expect. It only concerned Keith more, and gingerly, he used his free hand to press against Shiro’s shoulder until Shiro’s back hit the pillows behind him. “It’s fine,” Keith promised, preparing himself for whatever the other was warning him of, both hands moving down to Shiro’s shirt to slide his palms against the skin. The fabric bunched at his wrists, and as he slid his bare palms up the other stomach first, relishing in the skin under his fingertips. Shiro’s cautious anxiety was purely about the aesthetic of what Keith could feel under the pads of his fingers; small divets of the skin, where the skin had been stretched too quickly, where the muscle mass Shiro had been forced to put on had developed preternaturally. Keith didn’t know if it was the food he had been given, the hours fighting for his own life, or druid magic, but Shiro had been left with a little stretch marks across the waist line, arching gingerly up against the formation of his abdominal muscles. He was littered with scarring, from what Keith was sure had been battle, torture, or a terrifying mixture of both. He knew that Shiro could be wary of his arm at times, in the subtle intimacies of their make-out sessions in the last weeks after forming Voltron, but he supposed he could understand the wariness here, too. “Is this what you were worried about?” Keith asked, mauve gaze rising to focus on the dark flush of shame on Shiro’s expression. Shiro’s silence said all, and Keith let the push of his shirt cease just below Shiro’s pectorals. One hand lingered there, holding up Shiro’s shirt, while the other brushed his palm back down over the ‘damage’ to his skin, before settling to curve along his hip. “It’s fine,” Keith muttered, sliding to rest his weight against Shiro’s thighs rather than his hips. “You’re beautiful. No matter how you’ve changed, you’re still Shiro,” He mumbled, leaning over to arch low, pressing his first kiss to one scar that stretched just under where the hem of his shirt stopped. While he knew Shiro would question the word beautiful, compliments from Keith had been rare and shy, before Kerberos, and even now, he was fumbling a little on how to be sweet. He’d seen it in movies, in the human saturation of romance in film, and now he was trying is best. Shiro found it flattering, and endearing. “You’re no different. No matter if they changed your body. You’re still you,” he spoke in between kisses graced across the other’s skin. His thumb brushes with utter reverence down one of the stretch marks that curved down the slope of his abs, peppering a kiss at the tip, then along where it disappeared under the edge of his pants. It’s a reverence, a promise that Keith thought no differently of him, that he didn’t find him unattractive or deformed. “Keith-“ Keith lifted his hand from where he’d held back the shirt, trusting the bunched fabric to stay for long enough to press a finger to Shiro’s lips. His little kisses to Shiro’s skin were pleasant, and sweet, but he fully intended to show Shiro that he would not hesitate to love every inch of him—no matter how much of it was different from what he remembered. “Let me learn your body again, Shiro.” The fingers at his stomach dipped lower, tucking under the hem of his pants, and Shiro’s breath hitched in his throat as he let himself relax enough to allow Keith to explore him.

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stress

shiro/keith, season 1  blurb, shortfic, SFW 342 words under cut

His fingers are caring through his hair, trimmed short, and Shiro’s grateful that his first attention has been caught by the strokes of white hair, front and center, and that he doesn’t address the arm that hadn’t been on him before Kerberos, either. He isn’t asking a real question, he knows what hair is, but the concern is not for what it was, rather, why it was. “Stress,” Shiro murmurs, tucking his real arm, his flesh-and-blood palm up where Keith’s shirt tended to ride up under his jacket. The skin is familiar even after so long, but it’s clear from the way his other lingers to support him that he’s afraid to touch Keith with it. “It does crazy things. Don’t I look ten years older?” He’s trying to make light of it, make a hesitant joke, but a frown creases Keith’s lips and makes the younger man shift his weight against Shiro’s thighs to get comfortable enough to pull back, not letting Shiro hide in his shoulder. “No. You look tired.” It’s a compliment, but the same brutal honesty that Keith tended to always give. The smile that Shiro’d forced feels a little more genuine, and he gives a quiet laugh. “I think all of us are going to look tired before this is over. Does it look bad, though?” Shiro’s voice drops a few decibels, and though Keith knows he’s trying not to worry over it, he regrets bringing up the strands of white for the reaction it draws from it. “No,” Keith repeats, and pushes back the white hair across his forehead to plant a kiss there. No, as long as Keith could see him, hold him, have Shiro there again instead of MIA: Presumed Dead like the reports had said… No, nothing looked bad on him.

[ecrituredudesir]

Rivalry

Yuri!!! On Ice request Chrisvik /// Christophe Giacometti x Viktor Nikiforov tw: body worship, hair pulling, dirty talk, nonpenetrative, written in present tense NSFW We’re going to say Viktor still has his ponytail and they’re around 22 in this. The taste of defeat is bitter on Chris’s tongue still, but watching Viktor’s winning performance had his blood boiling with a feeling far from anger. Viktor can see it in Chris’s eyes on the sidelines, and with a casual, smooth smile, those gorgeous eyes offer the silver medal winner a little wink as he wraps up his routine. Viktor knows that the little taunt is a mistake when Chris’s eyes darken in return, and he can see his knuckles whiten with their grip on the rink’s border. 

Congratulations are in order, the normal pomp and circumstance of a new gold medal under his belt, but by the time they make it back to the locker room from the winner’s podium, Chris has got him by the waist and is leading him to the spot they’d found two years prior that was out of sight and out of mind of the other competitors and coaches alike. The locker rooms are large but they disappear before the flood of their backstage supporters can find them, in one of the older shower stalls that weren’t normally used in actual competition now. The body language between them changes abruptly, and Chris gives a light shove that has Viktor’s hands spread against the wall and the younger skater sliding right up behind him. One hand wraps around the thin ponytail of silver hair, and the gold medalist gasps when he feels Chris pull enough to tilt his head to the side, but not enough to cause real damage. Viktor doesn’t get a word in edgewise, and for a moment he’s somewhat concerned he had actually managed to make the other angry with his coy tease with his casual victory. The thought is chased away with Chris undoes his performance outfit from behind, a zipper straight down to the small of his back as kisses siege the back of Viktor’s neck. Chris is taller now, he recognizes, with some lingering disappointment. He’d gotten much too fond of teasing the other for being just a bit shorter, though Chris easily reaches the spots of his neck that the blonde knows he’s sensitive at. His costume is hanging low now on his arms, braced against the wall still but not high enough to discourage the descent of the thin fabric from crawling down over his skin. His arms are the last thing holding it on him entirely at this point, as the back has been unzipped to the small of his back and Chris’s hand has already snaked under the fabric around to his front. As aware that Viktor is of his own, swift arousal at the somewhat rougher handling, Chris is slow. Deliberate. “You’re still so warm,” Chris observed in a hum against his skin, dragging his nails around the curve of Viktor’s naval. Viktor can feel the outline of Chris’s cock press to the soft curve of his almost-exposed ass. “Did you get this worked up because you knew I was watching? Beautiful as always.” Though defeat was embarrassing, Chris could never lie to himself and say that Viktor wasn’t absolutely enrapturing on the ice. It just meant that once again, he’d have to work harder next year. Viktor wants to remind the other that such teasing was cruel. That he should be rewarded his victory, but he knows that requests that Chris touch him more intimately would only be met with more teasing when Chris was like this. Instead, a soft gasp slips free when Chris gives another little tug of his ponytail to get access to the little curve of skin just below his jaw and ear, teeth brushing against the spot in a way that makes his erection throb where it’s still held back by the tighter material of his outfit. They can’t steal spots of time like this for long, not when Yakov would be looking for him and Chris’s coach searching him out in return. Chris can only tease for so long, and his kisses wander to press with a low arch down to the curve of Viktor’s spine, between his shoulder blades. It takes the pressure of Chris’s hips off of his bottom, but with the sound of another zipper, he knows the other had shrugged his own outfit down or off. He can’t see how much. Viktor never failed to enjoy these moments. Maybe it was the adrenaline high of another victory, or the subtle guilt of beating his rinkmate (yet again) that has him thrilled to let Chris work out his teasing frustration on him. There was no shortage of attraction between them, but something about the way the Swiss man truly worked him over, every touch deliberate and every work rolling from his lips in a soft accent of their shared language that had the unbeatable Nikiforov melting like candlewax in the blonde’s hands. “You’re hard already. Is it because I’m the only one who gets to see you like this after you show off for everyone?” Chris teases again, this time reaching around Viktor again but only to palm him through the actual fabric of his suit. Never enough direct contact for Viktor, but he feels the hand that had been pulling his hair reach down to pull the elaborate costume further down Viktor’s thighs. His underwear is pushed with it, so Chris can press his cock flush to skin, grinding in the subtle dip of the valley between Viktor’s ass cheeks. “If we had more time, I would fill you with the same inspiration you give me,” Chris teases, an obvious euphemism as he never ceases the slow stroking over the tent of fabric at Viktor’s front. Viktor rarely ever interrupts him at times like this, enjoying the subtly fantasy the Chris lets him play into. His ponytail is loose from the tugs, lower as strands of spun silver fall around Viktor’s cheeks in a frame that betrays the mess they were getting themselves into a shady, locker room shower stall. That risk alone had Viktor’s heart beating as he feels Christophe suck a slow, dedicated red mark into the back of his shoulder. “You may win gold out there, Viktor,” He murmurs pleasantly, nothing short of affectionate as he sets a slow pace of a grind of rocking against the other, simulating a pattern of low, noninvasive thrusts. “But no one can make you cum like I can. No one can paint your pretty skin as well, can they?” Now he’s a bit cruel about his teasing, though he rewards Viktor’s patience by finally reaching under the fabric again to start stroking him directly, even though he knew that Viktor would make a mess out of his winning outfit. The words are truly starting to have an effect on him now, small flashes of memory flitting from their last shared competitions in mind. They had had more time then, hotel visits and bathroom condoms. Time, and lube. Now, they had nothing but the sound of searching coaches in the distance, and Chris’s voice rougher with how quiet he had to be to drag the other to completion. Much more quickly than Viktor anticipates, he finds himself rocking into those long fingers and rocking back against the hips behind him. Any other time, Viktor Nikiforov’s good-natured pride would insist he’d never do such a thing. With Christophe Giacometti’s hands wrapped around him and working him to completion, he’d do anything to feel more. A time and place for everything, though. “Cum for me,” Chris beckons gently, his free hand finally slipping in the costume as well, fingers tracing up the other skater’s ribs in almost reverence. Viktor was a work of art, one that Chris would never get tired of worshiping as his fingers found the other’s closest nipple, brushing his fingertips across it before catching it between two and giving it a playful roll. The stimulation has Viktor tipped over the edge immediately, despite any wish to hold it off for just a few minutes more. It’s the way that Viktor arches under him, the way that he feels the other inhale sharply but bite his lower lip to stay quiet that has Chris whispering his name and spilling against his back. It’s a few, haggard thrusts of skin against skin that leaves him twitching there, emptying in two, then three little spurts of semi-clear fluid across pale skin that Chris never gets tired of seeing when they don’t have the time to go further than panting, baited breaths and hands that never stopped teasing.  ”Chris-” Viktor rasps, finally pleading aloud. It’s for good reason, in the middle of his own orgasm, he hadn’t stopped that slow stroking pace, and he was close to overstimulating his gold medal winner. Chris places a sheepish kiss of an apology to the back of the other’s neck, ignoring the mussed ponytail trying to dangle in his way, and withdraws his hands.  Spent, but not at the freedom to enjoy their afterglow for long, the two untangle themselves fully with haggard breaths and a passing kiss, but Yakov’s getting louder and when he’s louder that means he’s closer. Viktor has to zip up quickly to go change, but a glance backwards made him fairly sure he saw Chris licking his fingers just to tease him as he tumbles from the small, tiled stall.

[ecrituredudesir]

Ol’ Faithful

Ship: Mchanzo / Jesse McCree x Hanzo Shimada tw: breaking condoms, anal sex, pwp “This is ol’ Faithful.” McCree says, while brandishing wallet in one hand and a thin looking condom wrapper in the other. Hanzo looked up from his bow, carefully polished and the string freshly drawn and tied in his lap. “Is that so?” 

McCree gave a low grin that spread his lips and flashed a warmness in his eyes that draws crows feet up his smile lines. Hanzo had learned to expect little ‘surprises’ like this, and the other’s nickname for a condom neither surprised him, nor drew suspicion of his motives.  At the look in Jesse’s eyes, the archer sets aside the bow, and with careful precision—tauntingly so, almost, in the way he moves slowly to fold the cloth away and screw the lid back on the polish he’d been using to refresh his weapon—he takes note to not ask further. No, he’d let his cowboy explain his logic behind such an oddly named wallet place-holder. “Yep,” Jesse hummed, taking silent steps towards where the other sat on the edge of his bed, in their shared room at Gibraltar. He had left his spurred boots at the door, and Hanzo was keenly aware of the lack of jingling metal on metal. Taking the bow gingerly, earning a sharp glance for it (Hanzo had only recently allowed him to grasp it, and his eyes stayed on him like a hawk until it left his hands), he moved to place it aside so he could settle himself in next to the other and brush his chin against the other’s shoulder. Hanzo’s grip on the little kit he kept to service his weapon tightened, his resolve staying as firm as steel. Jesse blew a teasingly warm breath across the lobe of the other’s ear. “Cause I told myself,” the slow drawl continued, “that it was gonna be the one I use with a sweetheart I’m real soft on.” Hanzo knew that the other had a strange way of showing his affection and fondness, but this was something entirely unexpected, and a laugh slips from his lips before he can hinder it. The little noise draws an even warmer grin from McCree, who busies himself with nuzzling the cleft of skin between the shoulder and neck of his favorite teammate. He lays kisses with nibbles of warmth to the other’s throat, before murmuring to the skin. “And it jus’ so happens to expire next month, so I figured now would be a good’a time as any.” The maintenance kit is taken from Hanzo’s hand, and placed on the bedside table. The world spins briefly as the cowboy settles to move their positions, sliding in front of the other to give a light push. Hanzo’s back hits the mattress just in time for Jesse to settle between his legs. The archer isn’t sure if he’s flattered that Jesse hadn’t apparently had a more worthy bed partner in the several years it took for a condom to expire, or curious if Jesse was simply flattering him because of the impending expiration date. Regardless, such thoughts are chased away when he feels teeth scrape gingerly against his exposed nipple, tongue soothing the sting afterwards. The grind of Jesse’s hips forward against his own were equally distracting, the pressing firmness of Jesse’s already present erection though the layers of clothing offering a thrilling friction against his own. “You didn’t think that I might be too busy to entertain these desires?” Hanzo hummed in slow retort, eyes shining briefly as he teases the other with the possibility of delay, his fingers carding through chestnut brown locks, skewing where the other’s hat would normally be. Broad hands settle under his chest, and for a second, Hanzo took a deep breath as he felt broad hands, one a bit chillier than the other, settle under his shoulder blades to lift him up further on the bed. The adjustment is much more comfortable, with Hanzo’s back resting to the pillows as Jesse kept his lips busy with kisses and nibbles along his ribs and, with a little adjustment of the archer’s top, lower. “No darlin’, I really didn’t.” The words were whispered with a sly, devious grin as brown eyes glimpsed up with a flash of mischief. They both knew that Hanzo cleaned his bow when he tended to have little else better to do. It was one step above meditation, a habit lately picked up more from Genji to find peace with rather than battle his inner demons, on his level of ‘I have no other pre-occupations.’ With the way Hanzo’s breath hitched as Jesse’s fingers casually worked loose his clothing, sliding the other half of fabric down his chest and working with no reservations on his pants, they both knew that there’d be little that would stop either of them at this point. While they’d done this plenty of times without a condom, Hanzo wasn’t going to question the other’s sudden motivation for protection, especially not with the metal fingers of Jesse’s prosthetic tugging at the fabric of his pants, and much warmer ones massaging him through it at the same time. His lips were occupied with a fresh kiss, the brush of Jesse’s beard against his own offering a subtle tickle that brought his lips up to an amused quirk, something that never failed to lift his expression. Jesse’s hips rolled once, pressed more to his thigh now with the other backing off to undress him, and Hanzo took the care to reach up, helping untuck the other’s shirt from his pants. McCree had gone through the ‘kindness’ of removing his vest for once, leaving only the button up for him to pop the buttons open. Hanzo can’t help but contemplate over how their position was almost innocent compared to some of their earlier forays and more intimate moments. He registers his legs are lifted once Jesse manages to undo the knot of fabric keeping him out of his pants, and he’s almost naked against the material of Jesse’s chaps. For all of the slow, ‘romantic’ buildup, Jesse was too impatient to move to shed his own pants. Once Hanzo’s were out of the way, followed by the archer’s underwear, Jesse was quick to unbutton the layer of jean material under the leather chaps, shoving his pants and underwear down to his thighs to get in a slow, direct grind by wrapping fingers around their cocks together. The noise he draws from Hanzo is not quite a gasp and not quite a moan, a mixed, quick inhale that had his head tilting back and exposing his throat for McCree to lavish in little nibbles and marks. “Grab the lube, babe,” the cowboy croons into the small of his shoulder, and almost breathless, Hanzo’s free hand fishes for it in the bedside table while McCree teasingly tries to undo them both before he has a chance for it. The Shimada nearly had to swat away the other’s stroking hand to find the concentration to grasp the little bottle, though just as quickly as he’d retrieved it, Jesse nicked it from his hand and popped open the plastic cap, finally releasing the grip he held on both of them to coat two fingers with the slick semi-fluid. Though they weren’t exactly sexually inactive, Hanzo had rarely seen Jesse this quick and intent for a session between them. He barely has the time to part his legs a bit around the other’s thighs to make it easier before he feels one finger, nails neatly trimmed to avoid discomfort in situations like this, stroke along the tight ring of his entrance. With no firm grip around him, no friction pushing him to a quicker climax, Hanzo’s breath relaxes from the rabbit’s pace that it’d been building up to. He’s not as tight as he would be normally—they’d been together yesterday morning, when they’d thought McCree would be called out that afternoon for a mission. He hadn’t been, which was probably why he was more than happy to sidle up with him again this afternoon. Jesse takes no leisurely pace with slipping it in, finding little resistance, and then adding a second after a few quick strokes. Hanzo’s hands moved, fingers dragging against the curve of the back of Jesse’s shoulder; he’d gotten the shirt open, but not off, and he had to tuck his hand under the fabric to get and real purchase against the skin. It seemed for all of his quickness, McCree’s roaming fingers weren’t actually to stretch the other, there was little need for that at the moment, but he wanted to make sure the other was well lubed. The condom may have been pre-lubricated, but there was no telling how much of that had been preserved after several years and lack of use. He does this twice, pulling fingers out once to reapply more of the slick substance before pushing in again, scissoring his fingers in slow, even motions, and pressing in knuckles deep to tease the bundle of nerves he knew the location of all too well. By the time Hanzo moans, precum beading well at the tip of his cock from the stimulation, Jesse was already tearing the corner of the condom open between his teeth and unlubed, metallic fingers. He only pulls his fingers free from the other’s heat to take the careful time in sliding the condom down, unrolling it across the head of his own member first, then down the length of his cock, giving a few strokes to keep him hard for the application process. Hanzo takes this precious time to brush one knee up along the other’s hip, the softness of his inner thigh pressing to McCree’s, and Jesse’s aware those few strokes were entirely unnecessary when he glances up to see the arousal in the archer’s dark glance. Jesse shifted his hips, lifting Hanzo’s up to line up with the well lubed, tight ring, and pressed the head of his arousal in with a slow rock forward. It’s a slow, precarious movement at first, though when met with little discomfort and more demand on Hanzo’s quiet breath than anything else, he tilted forward again to press in. The pace that Jesse sets is nothing short of impatient. His metallic hand presses against the headboard of the bed, while his other sets against the archer’s curve of hip. The rocking pace of hips colliding against hip pushes Hanzo first to the pillows, and the next start to shake the actual frame of the bed. Jesse is far more vocal than Hanzo, he always is, but the low grunts of exertion are mixed with the throaty gasps of the man under him. A curse slips free when, close to his finish, he feels a little tell-tale snap of plastic, a breach in the tightness surrounding his dick. He unravels before he can stop, before he can pull back and amend the issue. It isn’t like they’d been hesitant at all before to go at it raw, though McCree was usually more fond of giving Hanzo a bit more warning before doing so, considering the mess it tended to make. Too close though, far too close, he lets out a throaty little moan against the other’s shoulder, his fingers wrapped around Hanzo’s member in a few, swift strokes that finishes off his lover as well. Hanzo’s nails dug against the Jesse’s shoulder as he felt the little rush of heat that accompanied Jesse’s orgasm, only registering it with some confusion when Jesse pulled out with a sheepish grin, leaving a thin trail of semen in his wake. “Well I’ll be damned,” the cowboy murmured, slight guilt registering as he rolls off the shreds of the broken condom. “Guess the damn thing wasn’t as reliable as the real ol’ Faithful after all.”