#pornowrites

“Where is he?” Widowmaker asks before she’s rounded the corner through the door - the door which she hadn’t even knocked on first.

Rude, but that’s fine. Sombra had been alerted to her coming up the elevator three floors ago. All information pertaining to a certain booze-drenched, Ex-Blackwatch cowboy has been secreted away to a private drive, leaving only boring Talon memos and one video feed running on the displays when Widowmaker strides in, unannounced but not unexpected.

“Somewhere near the bottom,” says the hacker, lounging with one leg draped over the arm of her chair. She enlarges the stream from the storage room surveillance. Reaper is hardly visible in the shadows, but there’s a familiar distortion. A hazy blackness that clouds images on the normal spectrum and can’t be picked up at all on infrared. “If they’re so worried about him wraithing into places he’s not wanted then he should be contained. I’ve got better things to do with my day than play Where’s Waldo.”

“He’s an ally, not our prisoner,” Widowmaker says coolly, arms folded as she comes to Sombra’s side.

“If you say so.” Sombra takes that to mean Talon hasn't figured out a way to cage Reaper yet. Not surprising since they can barely track his movements in their own house.

Widowmaker stares intently at the video, and for just a moment she’s not watching every corner, aware of every detail of the room. Sombra tilts her chair back to admire the long curve of the woman’s spine, fingers pressed to her lips with intrigue.

“You know, I’ve been thinking. We need to take on a job without the third wheel, araňa. Let’s go have some fun. Remember Chile? You and me, holed up in that quiet little cabin in the mountains, watching the snow fall…”

“That assignment was pointless. The target never emerged.”

“We still made good use of the time.” Then, daring to take her life in her own hands, Sombra reaches up to trace along the spider tattoo with a clawed nail.

It’s subtle, like all of Widowmaker’s mood changes, but if you know what to look for then a slightly arched eyebrow and a tiny quirk of the lips is the same as watching her come undone. Encouraged, Sombra twiddles her fingers, activating a neat little program that runs from the underlay of her suit -- one which she knows the assassin is fond of.

“Remember how much you liked this?” she asks, grinning at how the tiny electrical pulses stimulate Widowmaker’s skin, inciting gentle twitches and shivers as she rakes her charged nails down the woman’s back. Widow’s eyes drift closed, but she’s still tense. “Ease up. This is my kingdom. No eyes watching in here but mine.”

That she’s certain of, because the truth is it’s the first reason why Widowmaker is such a frequent visitor. After every outing Sombra locates and fries a dozen of Talon’s bugs that have crept into her quarters. The sleeper agent is their employers’ only means to spy on their loose cannon, but the arrangement is acceptable. Because here in Sombra’s kingdom, Widow is allowed to relax and grin and show signs of life without having to worry about her handlers deciding another round of treatment is in order. That’s the second reason that keeps her coming around.

And the third? The company, of course.

“I remember how insufferable your flirting became afterward.”

“Oh? Then you have to remember begging to come while I was kissing your pussy.”

Normally a statement so forward, so uncouth would earn Sombra the harshest of sideways glares, but now free from the prying eyes of her handlers Widowmaker actually smiles.

“C’mon! We never have girl time anymore,” Sombra whines and pats her lap. “We can braid each other’s hair. We’ll paint our nails and chat about boys.”

“Do you ever stop talking?”

It's beauty in motion, the way Widowmaker’s skin-tight leotard highlights her lithe body as she slings a leg over to straddle Sombra. The hacker bites her lip at the thigh muscles suspending Widow just barely in her reach, hovering above her like she’s waiting for something. Sombra sits up in her chair with delight and crosses her legs with one knee over the other, offering herself up for the assassin’s use.

“Yeah, yeah, no need to get snippy. I got what you want right here.” She flexes her fingers again, nails crackling a gentle charge. “What’cha got for me, little spider?”

A sly smirk. An scrunched nose It’s not hard to see Widow’s been thinking about this too, because she watches Sombra’s reaction as she slowly slides her palms over the slick glossiness of her bodysuit. She’s playing to her audience, making a show out of pulling her leotard away from her breasts.

A tingle runs up Sombra’s spine that has nothing to do with the electricity coursing across her outfit.

“Well?” Widowmaker drawls, “Are you just going to stare and leave me to do everything myself?”

Sombra would never dream of such a thing. Not when she’s been dreaming so often of getting to play with those fantastic breasts again; of once more getting to hear Widow’s filthy mewlings while her skin takes on a pinkish hue because of a quickening heartbeat. She’s curious to know how warm she could make the cold-blooded woman with her touch.

They really do need to get off this base. Sombra would kill to have those gorgeous thights wrapped around her, stiletto heels digging into her back

Vaguely aware of Widow lightly grinding down against her knee, Sombra leans forward and lolls her tongue over one of the dark, supple nipples. She takes her time sucking and grazing it with her teeth, pleased by the hums of approval and encouragement she receives as the flesh goes hard from the attention.

And it’s sweet for as long as Sombra decides to be sweet, but even she has only so much patience. Widowmaker rolls her hips, massaging herself over the bend of the hacker’s knee through her suit. That’s when Sombra settles back, considers the tit still shiny with saliva, and presses a nail to it.

“Merde!”

When she tosses her head back it’s hard for Sombra not to admire Widow’s long, graceful neck, or the way her hair cascades in sleek, black streams over the elegant curves of her body. And it’s a good thing for her that Sombra’s past her days of falling stupidly in love, because if she were made of anything less steely the soft bob of Widow’s throat when she moans under the rippling shocks would have done the the former gang member in.

...which is not to say she isn’t harboring one hell of a crush, but at least she’s being smart about it. Widowmaker wouldn’t have any interest in her otherwise.

In Blackwatch they’re called deathgrams.

All operatives are kitted out with the standard GPS beacons, but some take it a step farther. Internal monitoring equipment is not required - it can show up on invasive scans, which can be difficult to explain during undercover work.

But for some soldiers, when their heart stops, they want it to be known. Death triggers a virtual intelligence to initiate any number of protocols, everything from warning brothers-in-arms against rushing into danger to recover a mere corpse to remotely deleting sensitive information from datapads. Sometimes agents with families use it to send goodbye letters to loved ones.

Four days after McCree fails to meet his check-in Gabriel gets an automated message in his personal inbox.

Hey Boss.

Feel weird writing this. Always figured that anyone lucky enough to get me would get you to, but in case your still kicking around then I wanted to say sorry. I aint a fortune teller so I got no way of guessing what does me in, but I know your probably pissed as hell about it. do me a favor and make sure the asshole who got me gets his, alright?

I aint gonna let this get to heavy. It wouldnt be fair to unload all that on you since you cant exactly answer back. Point is, you know how I felt. I never said it outright, but I’m not any more subtle than you are stupid. And since regs don’t much matter now, I just wanted to let you know that I love you. Always did, always will. I could tell you cared about me too, so dont fret about me going to my grave without knowing it.

I never had much religion in me, but if there is an after Ill keep a seat open up at the bar for you. Just dont rush to get here.

-M

Gabriel reads it twice over. He commits the message to memory, complete with McCree’s lack of understanding of basic punctuation principles. The words, he keeps with him. The meaning, he’ll deal with later. Someday.

He purges the message from Overwatch’s server, then gets back to coordinating the recovery mission.

“You’re a son of a bitch,” Reyes grumbles at McCree’s bedside just a couple days later.

The cowboy is unconscious, pallid, and missing an arm. He might lose a leg too, but Zeigler is hoping to save it. But McCree is stable, and though his future with Overwatch is up in the air, he will live.

Oh, he’ll live. He’ll live to pay for putting me through that, a wayward voice in Gabriel’s head huffs. He’s so emotionally exhausted that even the relief of Jesse’s survival hasn’t fully hit him yet. Happiness will come later, after sleep.

The drill sergeant in Gabriel who usually stomps out thoughts like that instead lays off this time.

Less than two months. That’s all the time it takes before McCree is up and walking on his own legs, barely acquainted with the artificial arm prototype but already begging to get back to work. He’s got some healing to do yet and then has to be evaluated, but it’s looking to Reyes like he’ll be fine to return to Blackwatch. Angela really is a miracle worker.

“Say,” McCree starts slowly, and Gabriel has been waiting all day for this. McCree’s been helping out with clerical duties in his office (not without complaint of boredom, but still). Recently the cowboy’s been hung up, trying to talk about something uncomfortable but afraid to spit it out. “While I was MIA, you didn’t happen to, uh, get any weird messages?”

Reyes plays it cool. “Weird messages?”

“Hell, I only ask ‘cause I had one of them chips that kicks on when it don’t detect no life signs. Thing is, chip was in my arm. So, well, I found out that when the arm got taken off, the VI went ahead and sent off some… premature e-mails.”

Reyes sets his datapad down. This conversation has been a long time coming, yet he still doesn’t know how he wants to answer. If McCree wants to stay in Blackwatch then Gabriel has to not have seen the man’s dying declaration. He could lie, say the message never got through, and they can continue maintaining the indefinite holding pattern of “don’t ask, don’t tell”. He’d be saving both their careers from going down thanks to gossip and scandal at best, fraternization charges at worst.

On the other hand, he’d nearly lost Jesse.

“What’s the date?” Gabriel feigns completing some paperwork. McCree will understand. After a short pause the subject is allowed to drop.

“It’s the fourteenth, Boss.”

He feels himself frowning. February fourteenth. Valentine’s Day.

Gabriel Reyes was not a man who put much stock in signs from the universe, but even he had to admit it was one hell of a coincidence. Especially since they’d found McCree, busted up but still breathing, on Christmas Eve.

“Can you believe we’re finally doin’ this?” Jesse asks in a hoarse whisper, eyes drifting blissfully closed while Gabriel kisses down the curve of his shoulder.

The commander chuckles against Jesse’s skin. He’d said finally. Not “actually” or “really”, but finally - like it was inevitable that they end up half-undressed and rubbing cocks like horny teenagers. And shit, maybe it was inevitable. In nine years while everyone else in his life had broken his trust, Jesse was the only one determined to be at Gabriel’s side. He was the only one Gabriel couldn’t afford to lose.

He rolls his hips, pinning Jesse down to the couch. Every repressed fantasy about bending McCree over his desk, all the nights spent with his hand down his sweatpants, thinking of his second’s pouting lips have nothing on the real thing. Gabriel meets Jesse’s upward bucking in time, and they’re both too damn hard to do anything but hang on for dear life.

“Say you’re mine,” Gabriel moans, throat dry and completely, utterly heedless of it.

“Yours, darlin’. You got me. Always did.”

He says it like a promise, and in their clumsy rutting Jesse pulls Gabriel to him. He seals it with a kiss that tastes like bitter cigar smoke.

It truly is ridiculous sometimes, how much clerical work the United Nations expects an organization of soldiers to do.

Ana works her way through the ever-growing list of messages on her datapad, answering and closing out those she can right away; flagging for tomorrow the ones she cannot. Her colleagues know by now that the precious few evenings not spent on assignment are reserved for her daughter, and no one dares press Amari for more of her time.

But Fareeha is with her father, and that means Ana is left to whittle away the hours in her apartment with her datapad, a cup of hot tea, and a naked German man on a leash.

“There should not be any clattering,” Ana warns, voice firm but gentle.

Beside her chair, on all fours as he’d been for the past hour, Reinhardt lowers his head in shame. The fragile saucer and teacup balanced between his shoulder blades are shaking with the strain of his tired arms, distracting enough to Ana that it makes it difficult to read.

“Verzeihung,” Reinhardt whimpers. The huge expanse of his back rises with a deep breath, then the noise halts. All that is left is the faint, muffled buzz just on the edge of hearing.

Poor man, Ana thinks as she reaches for the remote resting in the curve of his spine. He was so eager, so desperate to please, but whomever had previously held his leash had made absolute hash of his training. At times he’s too rambunctious to follow instruction, and he sulks after a reprimand rather than immediately correct the problem. But that’s all right. Ana knows how to address misbehavior, and she is patient.

She dials up the intensity on the remote, and the hum of the vibrator inside Reinhardt’s clenching hole rises a pitch. To his credit, the bulwark of a man maintains silent composure as the toy thrums persistently against his prostate. He knows better. Last time he broke form and came even though Ana hadn’t given him permission. Now, in addition to the collar around his neck, Reinhardt must also wear the tortuous cuff that keeps his member hard and aching but unable to release.

His sad whines when she’d locked his already-stiff cock into the metal rings had both broken Ana’s heart and made her smile.

“Mind yourself, kalab.” She replaces the remote and picks up the delicate, ceramic teacup. The liquid inside is still sloshing around, and while Ana waits for it to settle she feels a pang of sympathy for her poor, sweet pet. Reinhardt only struggles because he’d lacked a skilled mistress capable of handling such a rambunctious submissive, and now that he’s finally found one he’s simply too excitable.

It’s going to take a long time to break him into a proper plaything.

Ana sips at her tea and returns to her messages, ignoring the heavy cock hanging between Reinhardt’s thighs as easily as she does the sweat prickling on his brow. She won’t grant him the satisfaction of touch tonight, not even of his own. She understands his anxious nature isn’t entirely his fault, but Reinhardt will have to earn his way back into Ana’s good graces. After enough time has passed that she’s sure he’ll appreciate the privilege, maybe then she’ll take the ring off her giant puppy for a few minutes and let him rut against a pillow. But for now there will be no praise until he can learn to obey.

By the end of the evening the vibrator is singing on its highest setting, reducing Reinhardt to a shivering, mewling mess who clearly wants to beg for mercy. Ana waits for him to speak out of turn. She’s ready to put another toy in him when he acts up. He doesn’t though, and with a twinge of pride Ana rewards his restraint. 

“Good boy,” she coos. She pets Reinhardt’s hair fondly when he rests his head in her lap and smirks when he moans, so grateful to finally be paid some of her attention.

Reyes folds. The man in the red coat wins the hand, and with murmurs of discontent coming from the other players the chips are pushed his way. He collects his prize and prepares to excuse himself.

“Think that’ll do it for me tonight. Mighty kind of you fellas to lend your hard-earned American dólares to the cause. Rest assured, I’ll be takin’ fine care of it in your steads.”

The mood at the table is not cheerful but not hostile. The man gathers his belongings, tips his hat to the remaining players, and is allowed to leave without being accosted. Nobody seems the wiser for having just been robbed.

He’s wised up, Reyes thinks. More subtle. He throws enough hands to ward off suspicion, but at the end of the night he walks away with full pockets. Not the fastest way to get rich, but a lot less risky than holding up a bank or hijacking a train.

Reyes doesn’t leave the game right away. On a riverboat there are only so many places one can go, and there are regular haunts besides the gaming hall where he can catch up with the fugitive later. He doesn’t want to seem too eager to keep McCree in sight.

...But he does want to seem a little eager. On his way out the door the card sharp does toss him an extra glance over the shoulder, and Reyes knows the plan’s working.

He plays for a while longer, then goes back to his cabin where he dines privately. He stays in until after nightfall. Chum the water too much, make himself too available, and his target won’t take the bait. After a sufficient time has passed Reyes heads to the bar. He’s two gin slings and twenty pages into a dull book when McCree appears and invites himself to sit down. 

They make the agonizing, obligatory small talk which allows McCree to feel him out and drop a few lines of his own. Reyes plays along, trying to paint himself as cautiously reserved until drunk enough to hint at an interest. It’s a carefully orchestrated cat-and-mouse game. Reyes has spoken to enough jailed Deadlocks to know about the scoundrel’s proclivities, but McCree has worry about misreading a stranger’s friendliness.

Reyes makes a bold move and rests his hand on McCree’s thigh. They finish their drinks and agree to take things to the outlaw’s quarters.

“You got a name?” McCree asks while he’s got his hand down Reyes’ pants, stroking his cock to attention.

“I figure ‘Sir’ will work for now.”

“Have it your way, Sir.” McCree grins, and he allows Reyes to push him down onto the bed.

Reyes is bare from the waist down, but under his shirt and jacket he still has his gun on a shoulder holster. No effort is made to strip him of any more clothing than is necessary. McCree is too hungry for him. Gabriel can see it in his eyes, and were McCree not a wanted fugitive his motives for getting the bandit alone and vulnerable might have been different. He straddles McCree over the hips and grabs the front of his vest in a fist, intent on tearing it loose from the buttons. McCree stops him.

“Expensive shirt.”

“Then best get rid of it fast.”

McCree sits up from beneath Reyes. The outlaw doesn’t break eye contact as he works his arms free of his coat and peels it off. The vest goes next, both the garment and the concealed knife are tossed away in a careless gesture. The white, collared shirt is only half unbuttoned when they both decide that’s good enough. Reyes pins him back down.

“Must admit that I am dyin’ to know your intent,” McCree says.

“My intent,” Reyes begins to answer, knee-walking up the length of McCree’s torso until he is splayed over the man’s shoulders, “is to fuck your throat until we both black out.”

McCree grins at this suggestion, wicked and adoring.

“You’ll forgive my presumptuousness, but I do believe I’m in love.”

He shuts McCree up by sitting on his face. Gabriel holds onto the rickety headboard and rolls his hips, rubbing himself over the outlaw’s beard. McCree’s tongue darts out to tease the sensitive underside of his cock as it passes over his lips, creating a delicious contrast of sensation for Reyes to rut over. Damn. Damn, it’s been a long time.

He risks a backward glance at the revolver still holstered on his... companion’s belt. Confronting Jesse “Deadeye” McCree would be suicide so long as there’s a gun within reach, so he’ll work the long play and convince the murderer to disarm himself.

Well. Since he’s committed to this course of action anyway, why not enjoy it? It’s not like McCree will be alive to tell anyone.

“I’ve been watching you since we left St. Louis,” Reyes offers, and it’s the truth. So is the next part, though he’s less eager to admit it. “Been thinking about all the unholy things I would do to you and how happy you’d be to take them all.”

McCree hums with an upturn like asking a question. It's heaven when he sucks the head of Gabriel’s cock between his lips for a lurid kiss, and damn it, it’s too bad about McCree. He wouldn’t mind getting to play with the handsome man for longer than a night, but a job’s a job.

“Curious? Fine. I’ll show you.”

McCree’s hair is slicked back and is easy to take by the fistful. With a sharp yank he drags the thief’s face up in time to meet the roll of his hips, and McCree takes Gabriel in eagerly. His tongue lolls over his throbbing member, working to appease the invading force even as his throat tightens.

He pushes until McCree resists. It’s a token gesture, but it makes Reyes gasp. Then he drives himself in harder, picking up the pace until he’s fucking McCree’s head into the pillow.

“This is what you want, isn’t it? Rough.  A fight every step of the way. You’ve got a wildness in your soul. I can see it. The fine bourbon and the nice clothes, none of that is who you really are. This is you.”

McCree whimpers incredibly around Reyes’ cock. It feels good to be right.

The bed creaks and a lamp on the nightstand sends shadows scattering over the room with every thrust of Reyes’ body. McCree’s hands are everywhere. Fingers are sent sprawling over Gabriel’s stomach, feeling the definition of his arms, roaming his back, clutching his thighs. He grasps for purchase on Reyes suit and unwittingly pulls the lawman close.

“Arrogant bastard,” Gabriel rasps, “You win them all over with your class and your charms. You let everyone think you’re a proper frontier man, but really you’d rather be on all fours under the table with your head in their laps.”

Gabriel is sure he’s never been so hard in his life, riding the definant gunman helpless. He ignores the paltry efforts to get him to ease off and punishes them by tightening his hold on the cowboy’s head, pressing his nose into his pubic hair until he’s not even fucking McCree anymore; he’s making minuscule jerks, hardly creating any friction at all. The heat and the ownership is more than enough.

Tears stream down McCree’s cheeks. Blunted nails dig deep enough into Reyes’ hips to cut the flesh while the outlaw swallows and coughs around his cock. But as he looks down McCree’s puffy eyes open, and he stares back at Gabriel with the same unbridled desire he’d shown at the card game. It’s needy and shameless and damn beautiful-

Reyes tosses his head back, drags the bandit flush against his pelvis, and begins to shoot his come against the back of McCree’s throat. McCree nearly heaves him off as he chokes from the brutality.

“Swallow it,” he orders. When McCree continues to struggle beneath him he threatens, “Take it all in you or I won’t be as gentle next time.”

McCree makes sloppy, wet gagging sounds as he works to swallow around Reyes’ spasming cock. He’s sobbing, shaking beneath Reyes’ body and cheeks wet against his thighs.

When Gabriel pulls out he leaves a thick, white band of come and saliva that cuts across the dark hair of McCree’s beard. In a fanciful moment, Gabriel threads his fingers through McCree’s hair and makes a cursory effort to brush it back into place. He thinks, what if? But that’s an idle daydream which he dismisses shortly after it begins.

He slides off McCree and gives the outlaw an opportunity to collect himself. He sits on the edge of the bed and listens to the frantic breaths ease into something less desperate, less on the verge of death and ecstasy.

It’s a damn shame about Jesse. Jesse and that incredible bounty on his head.

“I suppose you want me to return the favor,” Gabriel says after a while. He hears McCree chuckle, but he keeps his eyes fixated on the floor where he hopes to locate some of his misplaced resolve.

McCree’s voice is hoarse. It’s still raw from his vocal chords having suffered such abuse. “Hm. A gentleman wouldn’t presume, but a gentleman would also offer.”

Suits Reyes fine. He’s no more a gentleman than McCree, but he does need the outlaw to be shut of that damn gun. Without ceremony Reyes turns and unbuckles McCree’s belt. He knows McCree is watching him - he can feel those dark eyes boring holes into him - but he doesn’t meet the challenge. It’s not guilt that holds Gabriel back as belt, holster, and revolver are discreetly tucked under a blanket and shoved beneath the bed, but something… something like it?

McCree is disarmed. Perfect, he decides. Now it’s as simple as-

The sound of hammer being wheeled back puts a stop to everything. When Reyes looks up he’s met with the barrel of his own gun being leveled at his head. Past it, he catches McCree’s sly smirk.

“Well, Sir,” McCree begins while his voice is still rough and hoarse, but he still sounds playful. “It seems you’ve created somethin’ of an awkward situation for us.”

Out of reflex Gabriel reaches for his shoulder holster; His hand finds the leather as expected, but when he feels for his firearm his fingers close around empty air.

Shit. Reyes sits back on his haunches.

“You know who I am.”

“You must think me a damned fool not to know Gabriel Reyes when I see him. After all, you’ve hanged more Deadlocks than any other lawman.” He shrugs, though not enough to drop his guard. Gabriel would have retaken the gun if he’d been given half a chance. “My condolences on the election, by the way. To your credit, that backwater city wasn’t never gonna make a brown man sheriff so long as there was a white imbecile they could choose instead.“

His pride kicked, Gabriel sneers back, “No, but they might vote for the man who finally strings up the conniving, thieving, murdering outlaw Jesse McCree.”