Hanzo
took the news well, all things considered. Or, at least, well by
their ill-conceived metrics.
There
was no screaming, no threats or denials, just a quiet acceptance,
when they expected the message to be received with Hanzo’s infamous
ire.
But
Hanzo’s grief was private – a quiet storm. One that demanded no
witnesses.
It
wasn’t as though the others were blind to this, however. They
surmised what was happening behind closed doors by the way he carried
himself, by the way he undertook his training with a renewed
ferocity, by the vanishing bottles of alcohol from the Watchpoint
kitchen. At any questioning, he asserted he was alright, that loss
was an expected outcome in such an undertaking and in spite of all
things, he would not admit out loud that he missed you.
Missed
you so deeply that his chest ached, hollow, in the space that you
once occupied.
But
he would suffer in silence. As he was meant to.
He
was a cursed man, and what little happiness he had found with you was
never meant to last, though he never thought that it would end with
your untimely demise. He hadn’t even found out until a week
afterward, due to being on his own mission, and the risks that such
news would potentially cause. He remembered with painful fondness the
way you wished him well before your tandem departure to opposite
sides of the globe, the subtle swell of excitement on the return trip
at the thought of seeing you and –
It
didn’t matter. Not anymore, at least.
Whatever
had been would exist only in his memories, remnants of what he should
never have allowed himself to have.
It
was only when his so-called well wishers became more insistent did he
lash out.
Genji
offered, not for the first time, for him to sit in on a meditation
session with him and his Omnic master, to help him come to terms with
your loss. The screaming match with his brother – that he belatedly
realized may have been one sided – escalated into a meeting with
Winston in his office, barring him from missions for the indefinite
future. He stormed off to his quarters after leaving a sizable dent
in the wall.
What
did they want from him? Was he not permitted to grieve in his own
manner?
It
was insulting, the way he was treated like something damaged. It
wasn’t as though he were performing less than expected. By Athena’s
data, his scores in training simulations were up to par, if not
better than usual, and the few missions he had been sent on in recent
months were successes. He did team exercises, assisted others with
their training, showed up to dinner and “team bonding” nights at
regular intervals. And if he was quieter than normal, it shouldn’t
have mattered when he was a man of few words in the first place.
He
was fine. And the sooner the others would come to understand
it, the sooner they could all move forward.
In
the dark of his room, he took another long pull from the neck of the
bottle and coughed – it was likely some swill of McCree’s, but he
wasn’t picky given that the next supply run wasn’t for another
week. Barred from missions and training, there wasn’t much else to
do on base late at night but languish, and restlessness churned under
his skin.
His
door slid open suddenly, causing him to nearly choke on another
mouthful of liquor. He snarled at the intruder, words that almost
sounded like Get out if it weren’t for the burning of his
throat from the pilfered alcohol. But they were not deterred, and
stepped into the room without flicking on his light, hardly more than
a shadow. He opened his mouth again, to tell them off more soundly,
when they bodily fell into him with a murmur of his name.
He
shouted for Athena to turn the lights on, heart pounding.
The
bandages covering you barely registered over the visceral sensation
of holding you in his arms. He didn’t even realize he was shaking
until you were soothing him, hands smoothing over his back in long,
repetitive strokes. He could only hold you tighter in response,
desperate to believe that it wasn’t the product of wishful thinking
and long-suffering despair. He must have said as much out loud, or
something of the like, based on the words that finally became clear
to him.
“I’m
here,” you murmured hoarsely. “I’m home. I’m home.”
His
eyes stung, but he did not cry, only buried his face into your
shoulder to muffle his relieved sob.
Thank you! I love post orgasm torture so I tend to squeeze it in wherever I can. I’ll do a couple for the both of them 🙂
Soldier 76
He’s definitely a bit apprehensive when you first bring it up. You can put what where? He’ll look at the collection of sounds and worry until you show him how bendy they are and how they won’t hurt him. The first time you try it with him, he only gets half hard, made soft by his slight fear and his apprehension. All the better for you though, and as you lube up the sound, he softens a little more. But when it first goes in, he holds his breath and lets his eyes flutter shut at the feeling as you hold his cock upright and let gravity do all the work. His legs unconsciously spread wide open as it goes further and further down, as if it would help with the sensation of being spread.
After that, he would get a little intrigued by the feeling. He’s a little unsure of how it feels when it goes in all the way, intimidated by how much his own body can take. Eventually, he gets hard when you whip out your sounds, happy to take up until the middle of the range of your sounds before he taps out. It makes him feel vulnerable like nothing else does. Not even anal sex while spread open wide makes him feel the same way.
Jack finds it very hard to cum just from sounding; he doesn’t know if it’s because of his age or if his body just doesn’t work like that, but he likes the sensation…he thinks. It confuses him a little but it feels good so he doesn’t mind if you sound him whenever you want. He does oddly love the feeling of it in him when you give him a handjob or lick at his cock. It provides a sensation that’s unrivaled by anything else in your arsenal, and he gets super aroused from it really quick, and he’ll blow his load the moment you take the sound out and fuck him.
One side effect is that it makes him cum a lot harder for some reason. He doesn’t know why, but if you do a bit of foreplay with sounding, he’ll cum harder and spill everywhere once you let him cum. It does impact his ability to hold back his orgasms though, and it’s a wonderful way to torture him because he’ll actually struggle to force himself back from the edge when you stop just before he cums.
Genji
Alright so maybe it’s a bit old at this point, but we all know Genji was a slut when he was younger. He’s definitely tried sounding and might have played with really big sounds on his own. It’s not a kink that he used to do with his playmates, since he didn’t want to let them anywhere near his slit. Now though, he’s laid off the sounding since he’s not quite sure how his body will take it now.
If you have a good range of sounds, he will happily experiment with you. He’ll hold himself up for you while you insert it, moaning out loud how he feels it going down through his cock and through his fingers, getting harder and harder the bigger the sound gets. And when you fuck him with it, you have to force his hips down or order him to keep still because he’ll buck up as though he can fuck himself with it. Dangerous, very dangerous, and you end up having to strap him down so he won’t disobey you again. It only makes him love it even more since it makes him feel so helpless and at your mercy.
Let me tell you, the size of the sounds this man can take is mindboggling. You have to work your way up, but he takes it. Sometimes he’ll beg you to finger his prostate and fuck him with the sound and it makes him blow his load so quick. It’ll push the sound out completely and he’ll happily clean it up for you afterwards, whimpering and mewling that he can go again and again and again. And boy does he go so many times. He’ll cum from sounding so easily if it’s one of the bigger ones and especially after he’s blown his load once.
Once he starts using sounds again, Genji can’t resist using them on himself while you’re away. He might set up a little area where he’ll record himself and send it to you just to tease you or for you to use as fap material when he’s away. He’ll moan and writhe, playing up his pleasure and going as deep as he can with the sounds. He might put a plug in his ass for good measure but he’ll cum boatloads and eagerly wait for your punishment when you get home.
so… i don’t play overwatch?? buuut a couple long conversations with my good friend juliet and approximately eleven consecutive watches of the ‘dragons’ short later and… here we are with a little bit of shimadacest. i caught FEELINGS, y’all.
TW: incest, trauma trigger reaction, minor dissociation
He thought he had it figured out. Peace, acceptance. Presence in the now, instead of belonging, chained, to the past. Genji worked hard for that progress, for that presence, for that peace. He fought for it. He earned it.
Just one moment, and it’s all undone. He’s all undone.
More pieces of him are synthetic than organic, anymore. He’s accepted this; he’s no less a man without the flesh and bone he’s lost. Still, there’s an ache that nags at the edges of his awareness – some of it is physical, the phantom pain of limbs long gone and the chafe and soreness where steel and silicone fuse with his skin, but some of it he can’t seem to place or placate. Tatami mats and river rocks feel different under his feet, now. The ramen bowls he loved as a child don’t taste the same. Sometimes even the roof of his own mouth throws him off – his tongue is calibrated for accuracy, not familiarity. Not nostalgia.
Hanzo is familiarity and nostalgia, wrapped up in a body that stumbles under the guilt that he refuses to put down. Hanzo belongs to the past, to Genji’s and to his own. He’s chained himself to it, and Genji fears he’ll drown in it.
Genji knows better. He knows to leave the past where it lies, but if he’s ever had a weak spot, it was always Hanzo. His brother’s thighs are thick and solid and warm under Genji’s good hand; his cock feels the same when it swells in his grip. Like this, he can almost forget time has passed. Like this, they’re just two brothers, in secret, all over again.
When Genji takes his brother into his mouth, hot and heavy and so, so familiar, he doesn’t taste how he remembers. Genji remembers the heady smell of Hanzo’s sweat on humid summer nights, how his scent would tint the taste of his skin to something wholly Hanzo, something he couldn’t describe if he were given years to put it into words. To his synthetic tongue, Hanzo tastes like – barely anything. A little salty from sweat.
It hits him like a brick to the chest. How much he’s lost. Not his body, not things that can and have been replaced. No, he’s lost so much more. The memory of taste, of touch. The way he interacts with the world.
The first sob bubbles up from deep in his gut before tears start to fall; it sounds wrong, too, electronic and truncated, lost somewhere in his vocal implant’s processing. Hanzo pulls his head back, hands on either side of his cheeks, gritting his teeth through the unnaturally hard grip Genji’s prosthetic hand has on his hip.
“Genji?” he asks, brows furrowed hard. “Why are you crying?” It takes Genji a long time to answer, breath hiccuping, tears running into the corners of his mouth. They taste wrong, too. Everything’s wrong, all of it, it’s not mine it’s not mine it’s not mine pounding a panicked rhythm inside his mind.
“I can’t taste you,” he says, finally, in a buzzing whisper. “It’s not right.”
demialwrites 