“B.O.B.! BREW SOMETHING!!!” The next heroine in my #Overwatch #DrinkAndDraw series- none other than #Ashe. Fittingly, it felt like a big gang of folks had gathered to drink tasty draft beers at #UnsungBrewing and #ArtSchoolCollective ‘s event this past weekend! Catch ya’ll at the next one! . . . #mkmatsumoto #michaelmatsumoto #blizzard #deadlockgang #elizabethcaledonia #art #sketch #illustration #drawing #instagramart #instaart (at Los Angeles, California) https://www.instagram.com/p/BuUu7Wxl2nB/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1rne7zks1nhdb
Bleary and dazed, he opens his eyes to a black ceiling. His secluded alcove in the watchpoint’s barracks is still mired in shifting shadow; scant blades of light peer in from beneath the patchwork drape swathed over the threshold, just bright enough to skip pale slants across the chrome floor, but nothing more. The blankets have been rucked down toward the edge of his mattress—too hot, too suffocating, too close—his left foot half tangled in the thick of them to keep the inevitable creeping paranoia banished beneath his bed.
There it is again: a shy yet steady pressure pathing from the hollow of his throat.
He isn’t dreaming. He can’t be. His dreams never happen like this. When they settle in, they yield shrouds of choking smoke and swatches of dripping ruins and sheets of glistening metal. Plumes of fire spark the way, flickering with faded echoes of forgotten things long since passed. Garbled voices find him in the dark, a constant and deafening roar, ramping and ramping and ramping until it’s as if an engine means to split his head and he can do nothing but gasp in empty paralysis. When he’s dreaming, the wasteland always rises up from beneath and swallows him like quicksand—
And yet someone is kissing him.
His neck, his shoulder, his collarbone, his cheek, his jaw. It’s soft, hesitant, in gentle patterns of twos and threes, and with a tenderness that sends pleasurable prickles down his spine. A soft weight pools over top of him, centered somewhere over his chest, an anchor to keep him from lapsing back into smoke and nightmares.
After he spends another moment blinking in blackness, he lets the rest of his senses guide him. A leg hooks around his, joining his ankle hidden amongst the sheets. The warmth of a hand presses down by his sternum while the mattress dips at his right side. Disheveled drapes of hair brush his cheek as a kiss presses to his jawline, delicate and silky and threaded with a familiar spice. The dim bleed of a crystal catches in his peripheral; the pressure shifts, and then the moon glides in to frame his face; another kiss at his chin.
Realization sculpts his thoughts, and he finds himself at a loss for words.
This feels… god, he doesn’t know. Good? It feels good? It feels so good he ought to be dreaming but he isn’t because his dreams are never like this and yet it doesn’t quite make sense to him because surely she’d ask before coming in here—but it feels good, like that tight, elated feeling he gets when he watches his creations burst, like that lilting drum on the undersides of his ribs when he gets a shred of praise. It’s all gentle strums on his heartstrings and enveloping warmth cornered inside his lungs, guided by a grounding touch that sweeps the sands away and lets him breathe.
Try as he might, he can’t remember a time anyone has cared to kiss him awake.
And that sort of… hurts, he thinks, but in a good way—because while it might not have happened before, it is happening now, and that is something he can live with.
Tentatively, he lets his left hand coast up the curve of Satya’s back. Her nightgown rumples under his thumb, but he keeps stroking in scattered patterns as she traces a trail of kisses along his clavicle. Each touch earths tiny coals in his skin.
A part of him wants to ask why she’s here. He should know better than to assume she’d want to visit like this on her own accord, especially in the dead of night. (Or morning? Is it morning? It might be. He does tend to lose track of time after the sun sets.) Perhaps shades of her own came skulking out from beneath her bed and chased her here? While he does not think of himself as a particularly effective nightmare deterrent, if she would rather spend her time with him until sunrise, he isn’t going to complain.
In fact, he could get used to this. He really could. He doesn’t sleep well and when he does manage to doze off it is often out of necessity, but waking up like this? God, it’s almost unfair. Exhaustion weighs his movements, heavy and lethargic with fatigue, but he doesn’t want to fall asleep again because he might miss her, he might miss this—and she feels so warm and comforting and he wants to do so much more than knead small circles into her back but he is so unbelievably tired, his heart a fluttering mess—
And then Satya sinks down into the pillow beside him, a kiss against his shoulder. Her right hand slides across his belly and locks with his left, and although he cannot cradle her completely without his prosthesis, he crooks his elbow inward and tries nevertheless.
Jamison nuzzles into her hair and lets his consciousness slip.
Squeezing her fingers, he hopes she’ll still be here when he wakes.
Of all the things Satya could be doing after sucking him off and leaving him utterly spent against a wall down some secluded corridor, the last thing Jamison expects is for her to adjust his suit.
With a methodical grace, she straightens his trousers over his hips and zips them properly, making sure to smooth out the lingering wrinkles (and he cannot help himself; he squirms under her hands, half pleasure, half over-sensitive discomfort). To his continued nonplus, his mussed white dress shirt receives much of the same treatment: she fastens each dainty button one by one, her fingers as swift and precise as always, a fastidious trail up the front of his chest and to the top of his collar, taking pause only to tuck the disheveled ends into his waistband and to tighten his belt. The bright smudge of red lipstick on his jacket’s lapel is a lost cause (and a mistake; his fault, too eager), but that does not stop her from meticulously scrubbing at it with a handkerchief.
It is safe to say that Jamison has never had this happen to him before. Not just the blowjob against the wall in the middle of a very loud, very crowded celebration part—any part of this, really. Prior to Overwatch’s clandestine recall, he would have never been caught dead dressed this way, not if he valued his reputation, especially within Junkertown’s cutthroat walls. Not to mention that in the blur of his previous intimate encounters, no one had seemed particularly concerned about their state of dress post-sex, no less his. It just wasn’t something anyone thought about. Didn’t matter much when they were crawling off of him half-dazed, anyway.
This, though. Oh, this is—this is new.
Countenance perturbed, she frets over the rumples in his shirt, fingers ironing out as many imperfections as she can, putting him back together with the same prompt decorum with which she had taken him apart, and it feels as though his heart is squeezing itself through a vise. While he would much rather be rid of this bloody ridiculous outfit (and it is ridiculous, he thinks, at least in his humble opinion), the fact that she is tending to him with such courtesy and gentleness makes him all too willing to acquiesce to the rest of the night’s droll and stuffy activities just for the sheer chance that this might happen again.
That isn’t to say he expects yet another impromptu iteration of her down on her knees with her mouth around his cock and his hands in her hair, because he doesn’t. Can’t. Shouldn’t? Oh, if she were keen, though, that would be absolutely fucking fantastic and he would not object to it by any means, but—well, he doesn’t know if he has it in him to suffer quite so quietly.
Just… having her do this again would be nice. Fixing his shirt, adjusting his jacket, picking at the top button by his collar because it isn’t where it should be. Perhaps combing some of his unruly blond shocks back into their proper place or rubbing the pad of her thumb by his mouth with the excuse of you missed a cake crumb in a delicate whisper down by his sternum.
It’s a strange kind of tenderness, and he finds himself craving it already.
When Satya finally comes to the loosened wrap of his tie, he forces a swallow and meets her gaze. Her own appearance is almost perfect despite their previous activities—hair kempt, dress pristine, not a single detail out of place—the red of her lipstick in a faded smutch being the only telltale sign. He isn’t sure what he finds hotter: the fact that she still looks fucking ravishing, the fact that she’d swallowed him all in one go, or the fact that she is actively trying to hide the evidence.
He takes a long moment to mull it over as he watches her pluck a golden-colored tube from within the tiny purse slung across her hip, pop off its cap, and then apply a simple coat over her lips. It is slow, painstaking, accomplished with her usual carefulness, and if he is being truly honest, it looks almost—sensual? He never thought he’d say that about someone fixing themselves after something like this, but, well, there’s a first time for everything, right?
Oh, and that smirk. That smirk. That is on purpose. He’s sure of it.
Fuck him dead. He’ll definitely have to go with the last one. He does love a woman who can hide evidence.
Satya stashes the lipstick tube in her purse once more, a pleased curvature shaping her smile. On her tiptoes (because she is still not quite tall enough in her heels), she gives him a brief peck on the mouth before tugging on his lipstick-touched lapel—time to go, it says, we’re needed.
Jamison hasn’t the faintest idea why anyone would possibly need him at an event like this, but he isn’t going to make a fuss. If the sultry look she’d given him had been any indication, it is possible that whatever sort of thing had happened here might somehow happen again, and potentially outside the realm of suits and celebrations—oh, and what he wouldn’t give to have her splayed down upon her bed with his face buried between her thighs.
Sucking in a harsh breath, he swallows down a frustrated groan and tries his very best to focus.
If he does anything at all to jeopardize that chance, he just might flatten the place.
Satya reaches for her drafting pencil only to find it absent.
After a cursory glance around the workshop, she is thankful to see that it hasn’t taken a dive off of the tabletop. Instead, it appears to have rolled into a pile of eraser shavings in the next space over where Jamison scratches various designs in the faded pages of an old notebook.
“If you would be so kind as to hand that to me,” she says, “it would be greatly appreciated.”
“Hand you what? Got about a million things over here. Protractor? Measuring stick?” He peers up from his drawing, eyebrows raised, a red grenade shell between his metal thumb and forefinger. “Inspiration?”
She stifles a snicker behind her knuckles. “I just need the—no, the pencil there. The white one just by your elbow. No, no, your other elbow. Yes, that’s it. If you would?”
“Yeah, sure, sure.” Swiping it, he holds it out to her in the graphite smudged flat of his palm. “All yours.”
“Thank you, Jamie.”
It is perhaps a touch too late before Satya realizes her error.
Mortified that she would dare to call him something so personal—and out loud!—she clenches her fingers around her pencil in momentary panic. When she snaps around to apologize, she discovers that he is very still, statuesque, a strange sculpture of stark angles and blond fire crunched in his chair. A crease crinkles his brow as he regards her with what she can only hazard to be bewilderment, but it isn’t his usual deadpan display; there is a smile there, however faint.
“Jami—Jamison,” she amends. “That is what I meant. Jamison.”
Several moments of complete silence envelop the room, and Satya thinks she could melt into the floor.
And then, softly, “No one’s called me that in a real long time.”
“I… I apologize,” she says, squashing as much sincerity into her voice as she can possibly muster. “I misspoke. A simple mistake. It won’t happen again. If you are uncomfortable with—”
“You can call me that if you want.”
Whatever words she’d meant to use next must have evaporated because her throat is very empty. She scrambles for something to say, but despite her generous vocabulary cobbled of assorted languages, nothing of significance comes to her rescue.
“I won’t mind if you do,” he says. “Just old, is all. Been a while. A long, long while. I reckon it’s been years.”
Satya falters. “Years?”
“Don’t remember how many, but yeah, definitely years. It was—it was something Mum and Dad used to say. Them and the old man and his little missus from the ranch over the road. I used to go scouting with their grandkids sometimes. Y’know, before everything.”
Something compresses tightly between her lungs. “Clearly this means something to you. It seems very… personal, all things considered. Are you certain?”
“Junkrat, Fawkes, Jamison, Jamie. S’all the same, I suppose.”
Jamison scratches at his hairline, eyes averted to the tabletop, a charming flush in the height of his cheeks.
Losing himself might not be such a bad thing after all, he thinks, his mouth hot on her neck.
Even as a child, it has always been difficult for Jamison to keep his thoughts straight. Everything seems to race, a constant leap from one topic to the next, prompted by swatches of conversation and pretty things that catch his eye and loud cracks of sudden noise that fissure through his chest like the thrum of thunder. His attention is a soft putty pooled in someone else’s hand; thumb and fingers mold it into a different shape every few minutes, forever driving his focus to something else, something else, something else, to insignificant things that hold no true bearing, and yet regardless of where it catches, it always boomerangs back to lovely sets of charges and bundled sticks of dynamite and bottles of chemical compounds he knows by sight and smell alone, no labels required.
He can never be certain where his thoughts will take him, but there is one thing he is certain of: everything is better when she’s near.
He doesn’t even remember when it started. It must have been a few months ago at the very least. Over the course of the past half year, her presence has gradually become a more comfortable and familiar phenomenon, one that seems to have somehow crept up while his back was turned so that it could envelop him without his cognizance. Whether it was tinkering in the workshop or slapdash dinners in the mess hall or those rare moments stolen out by the beach, she would ensnare him with quiet snickers and subtle humor and the plots of very cheesy Indian films, and then there came the times where he’d be aboard the ORCA with her in the adjacent seat and all of him seemed to suddenly settle, as if simply having her near granted him this new, superseding focus that could somehow ascend the distracting clamor of everything else.
It is perhaps one of the more remarkable things he’s experienced. Not because being consumed so utterly by something that isn’t gunpowder and grenades makes him feel all fluttery inside, but because shipping out is a delight for reasons beyond exercising his thumb upon a detonator’s switch and because returning to the watchpoint means more time spent entangling with her. Formal events are bearable, his downtime is an envious balance of production and dalliance, and assignments are barely assignments at all.
But he still loses himself, just as he always does. He loses himself in her like he loses himself in coils of wire and chemical amalgams during late nights upon the workshop floor because he must finish this set of explosives, he absolutely must—because doesn’t know when his thoughts will still long enough again for him to focus, for him to properly work, for him to put all the little pieces together without thinking about the twenty other things he should have done the other night or last week or a bloody fortnight ago.
Satya isn’t lovely sets of charges or bundled sticks of dynamite or bottles of chemical compounds, but she might as well be. The rest of the world could erupt into nuclear holocaust, and he’d never even notice.
“Please,” she says against the wall, and it is decidedly disheveled and shed of all the pleasantries such an entreaty would entail; “if you don’t stop teasing, I don’t know what I will do with you.”
“I’ve got some suggestions if you’ve got an ear.” Aching and hard, Jamison mouths yet another kiss along the column of her neck. He is flush against her back, his left hand plunged beneath the pleats of her sweeping sapphire saree petticoats. “Thought you wanted to wait ‘til we got back? You’re the star of the show, after all. Guest of honor. Probably be a bit conspicuous if she went missing. What about the monkey and the others?”
“I’m not worried. Patience is one of their virtues. They will survive not seeing me for twenty minutes.” Satya glances over her shoulder, gold-hazel eyes mirthful and alight. Loose locks of jet hair ruin her perfect bun. “What about you?”
Sparks snap in his belly. “Patience was never one of mine.”
“Then hurry.”
Jamison hates wearing suits, anyway.
His heart is his own cannonade as he thrusts in. Her saree is cumbersome and the folds flow far past his legs, but she feels exquisite and the crystal in her left palm etches the circled faces of moons into his bare back and her thick thighs around his hips lock him in. He kisses an exposed shoulder and shudders at how hot and wet she’s become, thoughts mussed, nerves exulting. Stifled noises catch in her throat with each swift movement of his hips, and he leans her back against the wall with his hands clamped on her generous rear, breathing heavy curses into her hair and against her mouth.
It’s hard to handle how inexplicably good she feels. She is at the center of everything with her gorgeous eyes and radiant skin and lilting accent, and the posh, raucous gala he’d never wanted to attend seems so impossibly far from this darkened corridor, an entire universe away, inconsequential and boring and completely pointless. He’d rather let his focus drip away, let his hands wander, let her come around his cock; he’d much rather lose himself here with her than work himself back into that stuffy suit jacket and sit around tables of their merry ragtag band of teammates and clusters of too-important VIPs, all demanding to see the bombshell sighing his name.
Satya is all consuming, even as she crumbles apart. With a helping hand between her legs, she kisses him to suppress the noise, and all he can seem to think is mine,mine,mine, a punctuation at the hilt of every thrust. Her muffled moans splinter through him like a thunderstorm and the tight heat around him feels sublime and nothing else in the world matters more than how perfect everything is in this moment, however brief—her prosthetic arm hooked around his neck, her legs squeezed around his hips, Jamison on her talented tongue.
When he comes, it’s hard and pulsing and messy and good, but she ushers him on until he’s entirely breathless and spent, a deep exertion corded in his thighs. He leans his metal arm against the wall to allow himself a moment to recover, and as he draws in long, jagged breaths, the world slowly starts to bleed back in, blot by blot: her hiked saree, his discarded gear, the slickness of their sweat, the twilit corridor, the opulent gala below, the evening’s warm air.
She presses her forehead to his, nose to nose, eyes half open. Her hair may be out of place and her petticoats may be rumpled and her saree may have come unpinned, but she is just as magnificent now as she was at the night’s inception.
Jamison kisses her, overcome, his thoughts as still as a looking glass.
Jamison has never been all that good with emotions, anyway.
Even if all she grants him is brief trips to her room in the middle of the night when the lights are dim and the waves of Gibraltar crash upon silent shores, even if ephemeral touches and frantic kisses and the far too fleeting feel of her dragging her fingers down his back are all he could ever hope to glean from this, even if she refuses to address the peculiar thing that’s somehow wrest itself from inside the husk of his heart and the equally dilapidated curls of affection she leaves in her wake, even if he could somehow find the appropriate scraps of words and assemble something out of their debris like he manages with every other aspect of his life, he knows none of it would do him any good because—
Because it isn’t what he wants.
He has always been resourceful. That’s what got him this far. Missing a limb or two, sure, but still mostly intact. He’s always made the best out of a bad situation because there’s not much more you can do than grin and bear it and light a fuse in hopes that it’ll make all the unsavory things disappear in a single, heartstopping blast.
And that’s what this is, really. Making the best out of a bad situation. Albeit without that particular blast.
It might not be what he wants, but what he wants is pointless—because even if all the stars aligned and the eclipse cast the earth in shadow, even if he’d somehow hailed from someplace proper like Sydney and all its glittering buildings instead of cutthroat Junkertown in the back of beyond, even if she’d never been scoped out by that dodgy corporation and all of its vicious bureaucratic ladders and policies, even if they’d somehow still met despite the sheer random chance the rebirth of Overwatch has given them both—it would never happen.
Perhaps it’s unfortunate. It hurts sometimes, like the rest of the old scars that mar his thigh, his forearm; like the tiny nicks and whitened lightning lines that touch choice places upon his back, his chest, his leg; but it isn’t something he can’t handle. Pain is something familiar, and regardless of the form it takes, it comes to him as a strangely helpful focus, something he can channel into his craft, his work; something he can use as a weapon.
He just—he wishes she wouldn’t talk to him like he’s something worth saving. It isn’t fair, not only because he doesn’t need to be saved, but because if he cared to save anyone at all out of the goodness of his heart (and there is some left; she made sure to dig and dig and dig until it bled out of him in all its excruciating glory), it would be her, and it would be from the jaws of those corporate bloodhounds and their entourage of greedy bigwigs because someone like her just does not belong with their unique brand of savagery.
And it is savagery. He knows bloodlust when he sees it. He knows what it tastes like and he knows what it’s capable of. It’s that rivulet of power dripping at the back of his mouth, the knowledge that everything lies in the balance of a red switch.
He could tell her she doesn’t belong with them because he knows firsthand how they grab, how they take, how they ravage, how they rob, but that wouldn’t dissuade her. She is headstrong, determined, and sees things in her own way. The way she murmurs soft things to him in their aftermath gives him small strands of stupid things like hope and longing, but for her to forsake them all would mean something drastic, something dire, something she might not be ready to relinquish.
And she isn’t ready. He knows that. He does. And still, he comes back every other night, hanging around her doorway with his mouth in a grin and his heart in his throat, pistons pounding in his chest and sweat on his brow because he isn’t ready to relinquish this just yet.
He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be ready.
He doesn’t know if he can bear the thought.
If he could go back to normal after this, whatever normal is—that strange in between of floating around, wandering from place to place, wreaking havoc on whatever he touches without something to keep him anchored, present, still—he doesn’t know how long it would last. There are only so many rhythms that can keep him on track, and one of them is here at his side, the warmh of her face buried against his chest.
Even if he could keep her like this, even if he could wake up tomorrow morning with the memories of Junkertown a blurred and pleasant nothing, even if the threat of the second Omnic Crisis were neutralized and world peace were somehow achieved, none of it would do him any good—because it isn’t what he wants.
But what he wants doesn’t really matter, now, does it?
Jamison has never been all that good with emotions, anyway.
Well, we made it! @houstoncomicpalooza is a go! We’re hocking our wares at our booth in hall E at booth AA7! Come say hello! We will be hosting our intro to mold making panel this evening at 6:30! #houston #houstoncomicpalooza #cosplay #eggsisters #eggsistersfx #bloodbornecosplay #bloodborne #warcraft #blizzard #diablo #overwatch #palooza (at Comicpalooza)
Made this for a friend who wanted me to draw Ashe from Overwatch, it was my dumb idea alone to doodle her in cow themed lingerie,,,,, because,,,, cowgirl,, yeehaw
![hippie-hoe-zen:Junkrat being adorable in[SFM] - Ultimate And we can’t forget of… He’s doin](https://64.media.tumblr.com/43cbd6f71d7fdf15293509101f0bd634/tumblr_p9rvfykN4x1wi7xnqo1_640.gif "hippie-hoe-zen:Junkrat being adorable in[SFM] - Ultimate And we can’t forget of… He’s doin")
![hippie-hoe-zen:Junkrat being adorable in[SFM] - Ultimate And we can’t forget of… He’s doin](https://64.media.tumblr.com/95838807a709ffcdffaa825bbe939362/tumblr_p9rvfykN4x1wi7xnqo2_640.gif "hippie-hoe-zen:Junkrat being adorable in[SFM] - Ultimate And we can’t forget of… He’s doin")
![hippie-hoe-zen:Junkrat being adorable in[SFM] - Ultimate And we can’t forget of… He’s doin](https://64.media.tumblr.com/5e4b0f2cd117f57889eecf7146746b4c/tumblr_p9rvfykN4x1wi7xnqo3_640.gif "hippie-hoe-zen:Junkrat being adorable in[SFM] - Ultimate And we can’t forget of… He’s doin")
![hippie-hoe-zen:Junkrat being adorable in[SFM] - Ultimate And we can’t forget of… He’s doin](https://64.media.tumblr.com/18d5835423708edfc87ef872edac3ecd/tumblr_p9rvfykN4x1wi7xnqo4_640.gif "hippie-hoe-zen:Junkrat being adorable in[SFM] - Ultimate And we can’t forget of… He’s doin")
