Iâm Gabriel, he/him only. Iâm 23, sometimes I write and draw. Mostly I throw amusing spaghetti at the wall and hope something funny sticks. Primarily overwatch focused, but thereâll probably be the scant other stuff too
I used to run the blog @ow-anteater before my account was unceremoniously terminated. I got it back but realised the fresh start was actually kind of nice! So if you like what you find here, thereâs a whole back catalogue to go through over there lmao
Proper about and DNI under the cut
Actually hit most of it lmao. Gabriel or Gabe, my grandma calls me Gabba and my dad just calls me G. Iâm 22 and pretty cool. Mixed Greenlandic Inuit and white, currently living in Denmark so if youâre American our time zones are way off and Iâm sorry. Iâm trans, tme and gay âđœ
Also, English is not my first language and it really shows some times. This is just what the grammar is gonna be like
Iâd appreciate if minors blocked the tags â#minors dniâ or â#minors do not interactâ before following as I have been historically known to dabble in writing explicit stuff and the idea of kids reading along is #yucky.
And I know we clown on the futility of DNIs but like ⊠if this is you you will eventually get blocked:
You canât be normal about/around trans women, black people or children
Just the general people youâd suspect a brown gay trans man wouldnât want to hang with
You spend a lot of time arguing for the existence of âtransandrophobiaâ
Your blog exists to ship real people or canonically gay characters in straight ships
Iâm neither a proshipper nor an anti; Iâm an adult man with a job. I probably lean more anti tho in that if I see you seriously using the term âfancopâ or âpurity cultureâ about fandom you will not be able to access my blog much longer
You still think asexuality is a discourse topic instead of just a sexuality that people have
Your main is focussed on disordered eating. When I say âAnaâ I am talking about fictional character Ana Amari, not the ED
I hope you're doing well. It was really fun to hang out with you back when overwatch wasn't dogshit. I miss your writing. I want to give you a big hug. I hope you're still telling your original story with your lovely immortal fellows. I hope you're doing well
@overwatch-does-stuff
This is the softest thing Iâve ever read, Iâm sorry Iâm late on the responses.
I miss it too, and Iâm glad youâre out there. Iâm doing good, all things considered
That Christmas comic has me feeling absolutely insane (baffled (vaguely positive?? (what is going on))) WHY was that straight up just a mid-tier fic from late 2018 in comic form???? Up to and including such banging tropes as:
- Everyone lives together, more or less forced to be a found family
- Everyone is split into pairs or trios to do Whacky Hijinks and/or be shipped together
- Ugly sweaters being somewhat a focus point
- Christian hegemony goes so entirely unquestioned that a character named after a Yoruba deity is in charge of Christmas decorations
- Anyway, GAY KISSING!!!
- Glossing over or ignoring canon events that should probably have more heft ie. Amari family reunion no drama??
- Emphasis on âsaving the worldâ and not a word about what that means
- infinitely mounting world building, an ever expanding character list with more and more desperate attempts to imply they all know each other intimately and always have
- Genji dino nugget
Overwatch lore you are a sluggish beast dragging yourself on your belly towards no conclusion at all with the vague illusion of liberal american politics dripping from your wounds. Please never change
The first time Jaime becomes painfully aware that he is lovely, Kassem wears an unfamiliar face.
Itâs not the first time. Theyâve stumbled across each other with bodies fresh and impermanent, faces morphed or hidden before and it wonât be the last either. Time has slung them into each otherâs orbit uncountable times already. The first time - at what Jaime has heard other, more temporary beings, describe as âthe dawn of timeâ - heâs pretty sure neither of them were much more than formless clouds of heat and potential. If Jamie had figured out how to give himself anything resembling eyes a few millennia before he did, thereâs no doubt in his mind that Kassem would have been beautiful, even then.
No, the newness is not anything newsworthy in and of itself and that is not why the realization suddenly carves through his chest like a knife.
Kassem is leaning back on his hands in the shade, his face remade in a cascade of unfamiliar angles, his hands suddenly slender and free of the freckles Jaime spent a week mapping out sometime last century. He would recognize him anywhere.
Jaime puts his hand to the small of some woman's back, parts the sea of people gathered on the square and walks. He knows that Kassem has seen him, knows where this ends and that it still has to begin somewhere. So he stops a couple of meters away from the low table Kassem is sitting at. He wavers on his feet, two women dressed in flowy robes pass between them.
âYou look good,â he says and canât help that there is a breathy, too honest quality to it. Like heâs run miles through the cold, breath stuck in his throat and cheeks flushed. Kass just looks at him, smiles mostly with his eyes. Eyes that, Jaime suddenly notices, have retained their teint of burned amber. A flash of sunset though his midnight gaze. He would have been no less terrifically beautiful with eyes made wholly anew, and yet Jaime finds a pang of gratitude tingles through his spine.
âThank you,â Kassem says, and like always, he manages to say it like itâs hiding some shared joke, âyou too.â
Jaime runs a flighty hand over his own biceps, shrugs almost unapologetically. âSame old, same old.â
Kassem smiles until his eyes nearly close with it. He nods, almost imperceptibly. âCome sit anyway.â
Jaime does.
âWhat have you been up to?â Kassem asks and raises a teacup to his lips while Jamie shuffles carefully down beside him. Their knees do not touch under the table, but the few centimeters of air between them buzzes like a beehive.
He shrugs. He makes it a point not to count the years and simply let time bubble past like a river. He knows not how many years he is accounting for now, and right now he remembers only dimly exactly what heâs been. Briefly he was a wildfire along the coast of North America, wading through the flames that felt as much a part of him as this current face he wears. For an even shorter amount of time, he planted corn and traveled slowly further south, wearing a manâs face and a wide brimmed hat pulled down low. Mostly heâs waited with no real sense of what all this waiting will net him. At times he wrote flighty diary entries, through the fire scorched the majority and all were in some script he no longer thinks anyone but he could decipher.
âI hear you went on tour?â he says instead and that makes Kassem hunch his shoulders with a sudden burst of laughter.
âA tour?â he asks and the laughter bubbles in his throat and in his voice. Jaime adjusts how heâs sitting, feels the buzzing pride in his hands.
âYou wrote, last time, some poetryâ he says and is again betrayed by the tone, wistful and secretive like he hadnât planned for it to be. âIâd hoped you got to share some of it?â
And this time itâs Kassems turn to shrug. He twirls the teacup once, then twice, looks up and Jaime is treated to the freckles suddenly scattered like secrets high on his cheeks. âMost of them werenât meant for other people.â
At times, Jaime feels crude, almost unfinished, compared to the man beside him. He is a creature of heat and fire and malleable sudden change, and yet he finds that heâs become primarily a creature of habit.
His face is easy, now that heâs learned itâs shape. It stays intact and rarely flickers. He tries, for fun or out of boredom, to reimagine what he could be and finds that he catches glimpses of himself suddenly in mirrors and heâs become the thing he fought to change.
His self seems unavoidable. The shape of his nose the only one he can seemingly dream up. And yet he knows that he changes, right then and there. No blooming freckles, no glint blazing through his iris, but there is something.
âWell, I thought it pretty great.â
âOf course you did.â
He raises his hands reflexively. âI know great art when I see it.â
Heâs not sure, but heâs pretty sure Kassem rolls his eyes at him. One of his hands lands on the table with the distinct clink of a ring wrapped around one finger. And itâs like the sound dislodges something in Jaimes chest. Or dislodges something hanging above his head thatâs lingered there for a while. He stares, transfixed, at Kassems hands and finds, for the first time consciously, that he is beyond lovely.
Beautiful in a way that defies the very definition of that word. He could be anything - has been anything and then some - and yet the thing that is not beauty would still cling to him. It settles like a dying star in the pit of his stomach. It is almost unbearable when Kassem at last looks over, one brow slightly raised. It is both a question and a declaration that he already knows. Mostly itâs a dare.
Behind them, the crowd shuffles on through the market square.
âWould you care for a walk?â Jaime asks after a beat, exactly like heâs been prompted too. Kassem measures him up once, a darting heartbeat of a look over. Then he nods and stretches a hand out to the side after his cane. The eye contact never wavers.
âThought youâd never ask.â
The sun is still enormous and orange. Jaime knows from the taste of the air, that the sea isnât far, but he has no idea what narrow streets heâd have to walk down to get there. It doesnât feel important anyway. There sits a bubbling laughter in his throat and a flighty restlessness in his palms while Kassem walks and retells most of the time theyâve spent apart.
Then he falls silent. Jaime can almost hear the waves, at least he thinks so. The very air glows in soft orange.
Kassem runs a hand across the back of his skull. One of his thumbs digs into the strong tendon right where the skull and spine become one. His hands are soft.
âI think Iâd know you anywhere,â he mumbles and pulls Jaime close until their lips meet. Hungry and soft and familiar. Halfway, Jaime wants to pry his eyes open and see if Kassems face changes and yet stays the same.
He doesnât. He keeps them screwed shut and takes and takes. His hands find their way to Kassems shoulders, seemingly without needing any instructions. Holds him careful and desperate. He knows, can feel and in no way control, how his own face morphs - folds and becomes. It doesnât matter. Heâs learned by now he canât become something that doesnât look like the thing he is. Canât become something that wouldnât fit in the way Kass cups a palm around his jaw.
i really like his dracula skin actually. also, did you guys know i really like gabriel reyes. hey guys, i really like gabriel reyes. from the hit game overwatch (the guy, gabriel reyes) (silly billy gabriel reyes). i really like gabriel reyes.
The next overwatch update removes all gameplay except for the ability to generate animated porn of tracer whenever the spacebar is pressed, and a battlepass.
sorry i'm 50-50 split on the vote why can't i just do both? like both in voting and not in voting
I say this with all love for the many-faceted nature of humanity that I could ever muster, but if there is any doubt in your mind, we operate on entirely different hotness scales
It is the most straightforward choice Iâve ever been presented with. Your indecision is as foreign to me as most types of advanced maths. Projecting myself into the headspace where this choice is in any way a challenge is like asking me to imagine the world how a tree sees it; I will indulge, I will try to be empathetic through all means available to me and yet I will always come up short: the wiring of my entire being is incompatible. Youâve heard me state the sky is blue and told me you waiver between calling it blue or brown
Iâm so obsessed with the idea that Winston cannot change his speech pattern for writing like at all. There is no code, no formal language, barely any formatting, no nothing
The recall takes the shape of an email reading âer, hi agent [name]. Long time, no see. This is Winston, I miss you- was that unprofessional? Sorry. Anyway, You know, the world needs your help, and so do I! Will be seeing you (hopefully, please come.)â
