#varg does smut
“Satya, please, lemme—”
“Shh,” she says, the black grip of her prosthetic finger against his lip. “You must be conscious of volume.”
“I—I know, I just—c’mon, please, I’m—”
“Close?”
He nods, his hips stuttering upward in a desperate attempt.
“What will you do for me?”
“I’ll—” Jamison swallows and scrunches his eyes shut. Sweat sticks to his temples. “I’ll repay the favor. I will. Double.” Biting at the smile by the corner of his mouth, he gives his middle and index fingers an indicative pump. “Promise.”
“How very generous.” Her hand slicks up the length of his cock, thumb trailing just up the underside to swirl soft circles where he’s most sensitive. “And if I refuse?”
Neurons snap at the very thought. “I could—hah, I could—dunno, maybe—”
But Satya kisses him, softly, fully, drinking his disjointed words with a gentle kind of hunger. She smells like jasmine and tastes like the chocolate biscuits he’d left her and he absolutely cannot stand the slow attention she’s lavishing him with, one casual stroke at a time. If he could find the courage to curl an arm around her, perhaps he could pull her into his lap so he might tease her in return, but he remains as still as he can, prosthetic hand coiled into leather upholstery—the conference room is the last place he’d expected a wristie.
“I won’t refuse. I wanted to see your reaction.”
Jamison struggles for composure. “Why?”
“I like the way your mind works,” she says, and treats him to a tightening upstroke. “I wanted to see if you would come up with an alternative.”
“Oh.” His thoughts scatter, bewildered. She likes his mind? Is that a compliment? “Didn’t really—hah—didn’t give me a proper chance, you know. S’not fair.”
“I’m well aware.” The sharp gold-hazel of her eyes captures his attention. “There will be plenty of time for alternatives later. That is, unless you would rather adhere to your first suggestion?”
With a pleading moan locked behind his teeth, Jamison thrusts up into her hand again. She feels so fucking good; she drives him up a wall with varying speeds and how she likes to squeeze him just at where he’s thickest before teasing the wet bead of white down his tip, sending his sparking nerves aflame. His fingers itch to steal her like she’s some cherished painting worth millions but he sucks in a ragged breath and opens his eyes and looks at her because he must commit this to memory, he must: she sits across from him, one leg crooked behind his, an amused smile cresting her countenance, the crisp angles of her uniform a stark contrast to the patches on his unbuckled trousers.
“You name it,” he says, far huskier than he’d intended, “I’ll adhere to it.”
“Very well. I look forward to it, then.” It’s hot, breathless, spoken by his ear. The sheer promise in each syllable makes him want to shout.
Satya sharpens her speed and increases her grip, and then before he can manage a gasp, she leans forward and down and slicks the head of his cock between her lips and oh fuck, she feels fantastic—her tongue draws a thick line and she begins to suck and her hand pumps him with haste, a constant, tightening throb that arcs through him in laving fire—god, he can’t take it any longer, he can’t, please, please—
He shudders as a bolt of pleasure lances through him, sweet and aching and entirely perfect, and he tries to ride it out with desperate little rolls of his hips. She works him through each trembling shock and pulse; her hand mimics his thrusts and the welcoming heat of her mouth swallows every drop.
Utterly unwound, Jamison lets his left hand splay across her shoulder. The pristine fabric of her uniform dimples beneath his palm as he watches her draw away, her tongue tending to one corner of her mouth. He knows he ought to say something, but his mind is pleasantly blank.
“Acceptable?”
He nods, dazed.
“Good.” She sidles closer, prosthetic fingers combing back a stray jet lock from her bun. “The others will be here soon. I will leave repayment to your discretion. You did say double, correct?”
“Double,” he says, testing the word. “Yeah. Yeah, I think so. Double.”
A moment ticks by where she seems to study him. “Will this be a continuously transactional arrangement?”
Jamison frowns. “Meaning?”
“A favor for a favor for a favor, ad infinitum.”
“Ad infinit—” He feels somehow tongue-tied, like he’s a little too drunk. “Uh, maybe? If that’s what you want. You won’t hear no complaints from me. Honestly, I’m just—”
She kisses him once more, damp fingers lined along his jaw; it drops the words right back down his throat. He finds himself leaning in, eager, ecstatic, his heartbeat a harrowing thunder ensconced beside his lungs. He slides his palm around her waist and to the small of her back, and then she’s situated between his thighs, her breath a soft flutter against his lips.
“Double it is, then,” she says.
“Double,” he agrees. “Ad infinitum?”
Satya’s aplomb fractures with a snicker. “If that is what you want. Ad infinitum.”
![A Bad Idea[ Link to Ao3 ] Jamison has had his fair share of bad ideas, and this is undoubtedly one o](https://64.media.tumblr.com/389014bdbb2030cd10e45a4225e76659/tumblr_non2cs3k861us3io8o5_540.gif "A Bad Idea[ Link to Ao3 ] Jamison has had his fair share of bad ideas, and this is undoubtedly one o")
A Bad Idea
Jamison has had his fair share of bad ideas, and this is undoubtedly one of them.
Not that jacking off in the shower is a bad idea, because it isn’t. It is discreet, private (relatively speaking), a form of stress relief, and requires far less cleanup than he presently has the energy for—which, by all accounts, should categorize it as a good idea. And it is, really, when he considers the pros and cons, because he would much rather spend a few extra minutes rubbing one out than suffer a stubborn stiffie for hours on fucking end, and he already has trouble getting to sleep as it is without being distracted by that telltale tightness in his trousers; he doesn’t need any of this.
But while it isn’t a bad idea by inheritance, it is the chosen subject matter that makes it particularly bad. There are countless things he could think of to help himself along, and yet his mind is firmly focused on the one person who would never want him in a sexual sense.
Maybe it would have been better if he hadn’t discovered her real name. ‘Symmetra’ is a lovely moniker and as impersonal as one can get with corporate uniforms and prim makeup and polished nails, but Satya—oh, fuck him, just the sound of it is beautiful—Satya is personable and dresses in little blouses and bikinis and lathers herself in sunscreen and laughs at his jokes and pokes him playfully on the nose and mimics his accent and gives him the rest of her drink (“It’s clearly your favorite”) and keeps his painted grenade shells and—
Jamison bites his lip to suppress a groan, his back pressed flush against the cool tile of the shower wall. He sits upon the stall’s bench, prosthetics removed, doused with drumming water, and he palms his cock with a degree of hesitance, still not entirely sure of his decision. He knows he should because this damn erection has been around since seeing her in practically nothing (wet, soaked, strips of sapphire clinging to every delicate curve) and if it hasn’t buggered off by now he’s certain it isn’t likely to go away on its own, but that doesn’t stop him from second guessing himself because if she knew about this at all, if she somehow found out, it would be—
Fucking terrible, actually, because his stupid fantasies always involve more than just her sitting there with her clothes off, and, well, maybe that’s just not how she is? Maybe he’s got her all wrong in his head, that the intimate personality he’s dreamed up is something too different than how she’d be in reality, but—
God, she’s hot in his lap and grinding against him, kissing his chin, his cheek, his brow; she’s running her hands through his hair and murmuring soft little praises when he glides his tongue over her clit, deliciously thick thighs squeezing him close; she’s whispering his name (“Oh, Jamison, please”) as he slicks two fingers in and then the length of his cock; and she’s always enjoying herself, always, and she tells him as much because hearing her is a turn on all in itself, but sometimes she tells him what to do, how to do it, what things she likes, how she’d love to feel him lose himself and come (and it wouldn’t matter where because he likes making a mess and she doesn’t mind; on her back, on her breasts, in her mouth, or—oh, if she’d let him—god, please—he’d come deep inside so he could feel her squeeze and clench through every god damn earth-shattering second of his orgasm) and just the idea, the concept, the very fucking notion of her getting off with him (because god if he doesn’t imagine it) is almost too much to bear and it makes his blood sing with unfettered want and he doesn’t bloody care if poetics are stupid or cheesy—he absolutely aches for her.
Jamison starts to stroke himself under the running water, unable to resist a second longer. It doesn’t matter if his fantasies are wrong or ridiculous, it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t; they’re just fantasies and it’s not like Satya would want to fuck him anyway, so why not indulge? His mind is already astir with how she’d looked on the beach today in that tiny set of togs (and it’s torturous; he runs that image of her over and over and over again in his thoughts, drenched and dripping out of the ocean, a siren straight from seafoam; if she were a record, he would be wearing grooves into her with the sheer frequency and he cannot seem to make himself stop) and it’s clear he needs to hurry and finish up already so he can finally focus on other things, so—why not, right? What’s the harm in another bad idea?
He releases a breathy sigh as he works his cock in a tight upstroke. His hips rise just slightly from the bench, a desperate little movement, and he tries to find the right rhythm. Pleasure knits through him and he grits his teeth, eager for more.
She would be—yes, in his lap, legs spread around his hips, and that sleek little sapphire piece would be nudged just to the side so he could feel how wet she’d be (and because of him; she’d make sure to tell him that: I’m like this because of you) and maybe she would tease him a while, rubbing herself against the bare underside of his cock, kissing him senseless and nipping at his jaw. Her kisses would be addicting and he’d never get enough; he would kiss her mouth, her throat, her collarbone, and she’d pepper his shoulders with gentle pecks and soft bites to match all his birthmarks and freckles.
Eventually, she’d look him in the eye and grab hold of him, angling the tip of his cock against the slick wetness soaking between her legs, and then she’d let him in—oh, god, yes—just a bit at a time because it’s been a while, she needs to adjust, it’s all right, and she’d slowly take him in, the wet heat of her clenching around him in such a dizzying way until she’d sit fully on top of him with him buried to the hilt and her hands gripping at his shoulders, her countenance laced with lust.
He’d ask her if she’s okay—because you’ve always got to ask, common courtesy, he’s got manners—and she’d nod and give her hips a delightful little roll, and then he’d clasp his hands on her and help her ride. It would be slow at first, sweet and gradual, all in her control, and she would be marvelous with her long jet hair tangled down her shoulders and the sleek sheen of perspiration on her beautifully dark skin. Maybe she would talk to him in the middle of it, maybe she’d tell him how good it feels, how much she’s wanted this, how she’s touched herself while thinking of this very moment, all while shifting forward and back or up and down to give him a fleeting taste of what it would be like to have her down beneath him where he could just let loose and drive in—
Jamison leans his head back against the damp tile, eyes squeezed shut. He pumps his cock with a hastened pace and tries to focus on each shivering skip of pleasure braiding down his backbone, on that wonderfully tightening coil. Toes curled, he straightens himself and presses his shoulders against the wall, a gravelly noise latched at the knot of his adam’s apple. He thinks of her kissing him, of her rocking over top of him, of her so hot and tight and perfect, and he is so close, so close, but not quite close enough—
Satya would moan his name, shaky and breathless in his ear. She would have one hand down between her legs so she could circle her clit and he’d thrust up into her, teeth on her shoulder (something to remember him by), trying his best to last because he wants to savor every second of this, but there is no way he could hope to keep up such a punishing pace without hitting his breaking point.
How close? he’d breathe, because he is just at the precipice; the slightest push and he would surely drop—
Close, she’d reply, and she would kiss him with such a fierce hunger that it’s as if she’s devouring the oxygen straight from his lungs.
Another few moments, and then something would trip. Oh, her voice; she would make a sound so sublime as she brings her forehead against his—Jamison, Jamison, oh, Jamie, please—and the tight heat around him would squeeze and contract and push in hot waves and he’d thrust upward to meet her because god she feels so fucking fantastic he can’t control himself, he can’t, he can do nothing but move, and—
Everything seizes up. Pleasure pulses through him in wracking spikes as he works his cock in his left hand, unbearable and wonderful and complete. Each stroke forces another tremulous shock up his spine, and he shivers as warm, thick jets of white slick his hand and stomach under the pouring water. He continues for as long as he’s able, reveling in the sweet sensation of total release, a moan pinned tight behind his teeth—he can’t let her name escape aloud.
When oversensitivity sets in, Jamison slumps back against the tile wall. He breathes in short gasps of steam and lets the water rain over him. Rivulets carve down his back and belly, soaking his hair into watery blond stalactites over his eyes. Exhaustion starts to seep in; it inundates just behind his temples before splaying out to encompass his shoulders, his arms, his hips, his leg (and what’s left of the other).
He blinks away drops of water, spent.
Fuck.
With a tremble in his arm, he lifts his hand toward the shower handle, gives it a curt strike to cold, and then lets his fingers hang beneath the showerhead so that the evidence can be ushered down the drain. The sudden temperature contrast jolts ripples of gooseflesh up his arms, but he ignores it. Suffering a little discomfort in the aftermath probably serves him right.
Once his belly has been given a quick scrub, he wipes the water from his face with the stump of his forearm before shutting off the shower. The hollow sound of rushing runnels trickling through the grout and down the grate seems to echo in the empty space of the washroom—all of the others have long since retired to their beds, Satya included.
Jamison forces down a swallow, willing himself not to think about the painted grenade shell he’d seen drop from her hand or the wry little smirks she employs at his jokes or the fit of unabashed laughter she’d succumbed to not six hours ago. It is more difficult than he would care to admit; his mind is a mess, tearing toward her and his work and whatever mission’s next on the docket and the notes he’d scribbled in her blueprints (he tells himself it’s not a mistake) and it feels like all of him wants to split away in every direction so he can be everywhere at once—which is very much not here and very much not alone.
He presses his palm into the space just over his heart. A twinge settles somewhere under his jagged heartlines.
It aches, yeah, but…
God, surely a bad idea’s not supposed to make it ache like this?
Post link
I got a prompt for praise kink like a year ago for my ‘warmth’ smut series and occasionally it pops into my brain from time to time because I wholeheartedly plan on writing it one of these days, but there are times where all I can think about is—
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.
Post link
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.
