reaper thighs

You hear him softly breathing next to you as you lay in bed, under the covers, rereading a slightly dog-eared and well-loved book. It was faint, barely audible above the sound of the pitter patter of rain.

The thunder struck suddenly and loudly and Jack jolts awake, eyes immediately flying open and body tense. He had always been a light sleeper and the noise was close, unpredictable. Loud noises - bangs and whistles - always made him be on alert, even during the waking hours. Perhaps because of his training or, likely still, some deep-seated trauma, he reacted quickly to startling noises.

You lay a hand upon his broad shoulder, rubbing it to soothe his nerves. “Just a storm,” you clarify, smiling. “Go back to sleep.”

He squeezes his eyes shut and groans, groggily turning on his side to face you. “What time is it?”

“Just past midnight,” you say, running your hands through his soft, white hair as he stares at you with bleary eyes. “Plenty of time to rest.” You smile lovingly down at him, so uncharacteristically defenseless. Disarmed, the way so few saw him. He even had the habit of being guarded around you. But, now, he was just tired.

After some incoherent grumbling, Jack reluctantly sits up. Another thunderstrike cracks in the distance, this one slightly farther away. He doesn’t jump when he hears this one.

“Whacha reading?” he asks, stifling a yawn. You mention the book with a lopsided grin.

“One of my favorites. Probably have read it a dozen times.”

You feel his muscular arm snake around your waist, pulling you into a stifling bear hug. He does so almost effortlessly, like a child hugging a favorite stuffed animal. “What’s it about?” he asks.

“Hey, hey! I can’t breathe!” you mumble into his chest, half-seriously. You attempt to make yourself comfortable and scoot over, sitting between his legs. His arms wrap protectively around your waist as another flash of light shines and a thunderbolt shakes the windowpanes.

“Read it to me,” he says, laying his head down, peering over your shoulder. You lean your head against his and smile.

Hours later, you wake up in his arms, the book atop your chest, warm and tangled up in blankets. You glance up at Jack, his eyes closed and his chest rising and falling softly. You put the book to the side, turning slightly, and drift back asleep with your old soldier.

He hasn’t spoken to you in days. Not since he came back from the mission. His eyes are distant, focused on a point in space that only he can see. His motions are calculated and almost robotic, as if Genji Shimada has switched off and his augmented body’s autopilot has been enabled.

He’s like a different person. Not the quick-witted and wry man you had come to care for.

It’s too much for you to handle. You finally confront him. Only it’s as if he’s not there. He stands before you as if he doesn’t even hear you, doesn’t acknowledge your presence. You call for him but the answer is only silence.

“Genji...”

You’ve never done it yourself but you’ve seen him take off the metal mask that covers his face. Leaning up, you slowly graze your fingers across the cold steel, the edges of your fingertips feeling for the subtle indents until you find the right grooves. You press on either side and the mask comes off with a slow puff of air.

He blinks, like a man trying to wake from a deep sleep but there is still cloudiness to his expression. The scars that line his face seem particularly deep today and his eyes are sunken and dark, as if he has not gotten much sleep.

“Genji...” you repeat, expression and tone soft. “What happened?”

He shakes his head, giving no motion to answer except to close his eyes.

You gingerly put his mask down on the table beside you and slowly reach a hand out, cupping his cold, scarred face. Your touch runs up to his cheek, pulling his gaze to meet yours.

“Please. Talk to me.”

His eyes meet yours and there is nothing but distant sorrow and pain.

“It... it was like a nightmare.”

He surprised you by leaning in, pressing his forehead against yours, once again closing his eyes. You feel a bit of the tenseness in his posture releasing.

“Tell me.”

EDIT: Just realized this said Gabe and not Jack, whoops.

Genji doesn’t own too much any longer as clothes are something he… doesn’t really need. Even still, he has the ability to wear them and still enjoys the occasional fashion. Well-tailored suits that don’t snag on the joins of his prosthetics for formal events. A dark-colored yukata he sometimes wears during the hot summer months when the sun shines directly onto his reflective surfaces. A select few winter coats that help him keep cozy despite his built-in heating system. Yet he stumbles upon you, guiltily wearing an old Blackwatch shirt he once had, and watches you in amusement as your stare turns from startled to deer-in-the-headlights. His laugh is disarming and he smiles softly at you, urging that you keep it. “It looks far better on you,” he insists.

You wake up from a night with the cowboy and you don’t know where your clothes went. Groggily, you recall throwing them somewhere in the house but a quick scan leaves you with only some wrinkled undergarments. You rummage through the drawers and find a simple tee shirt, either faded black from use or purposely a darker grey. It’s hard to tell which. Fifteen minutes later, he stumbles out of bed as you lazily attempt to comb out your bed head with your fingers. “Is that my shirt?” he says with a cocked eyebrow. You grin. “Perhaps it is.” McCree makes a show of letting out a long, exasperated sigh. “I’m gonna need that back, you know,” he drawls with a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. You pretend to recoil in defiance. “You’ll have to take it off me, then.”

It’s raining so hard that you can’t see more than a few feet in front of you and you are stuck at a bus stop in a European city that you cannot pronounce the name of. There’s a roof, thankfully, but it’s dark and there likely won’t be transportation for at least an hour, maybe more. Jack doesn’t look happy but he doesn’t want to risk braving the weather to find a place to stay. “You’ll catch a cold,” he grumbles and you tease him about sounding like an old man. You don’t notice but you begin to shiver. With one swift motion, he drapes his large jacket over your shoulders. “But…” you begin to protest, but he shushes you. You feel a little guilty, seeing the goosebumps raised on his muscular forearms. But you are warm. Some time passes before you catch him glancing at you from the corner of his eyes. “Want it back?” you inquire, making the motion to take it off. He shakes his head, turning with a faint pink to his cheeks. “I’d rather you wear it,” he mutters reluctantly.

Soldier has always loved the spring. The season changes and the weather warms up but not too hot. There is a buzz in the air of animals stirring from their slumber and new leaves rustling in the wind. It’s a lovely sort of white noise, soothing compared to the eerie stillness of winter.

McCree loves the fall. Autumn leaves crunchy, a time for layered clothing and fresh cups of coffee. The orange and red of the leaves is warm and inviting and the bugs are finally gone. He likes the smell of Thanksgiving dinners and the gentle wind-down of the world bracing itself for winter.

Genji used to love winter. A cold time to spend indoors, drinking to get warm and cuddling with a cute girl under a heavy blanket. It was a slow season for the yakuzu, a time of play when all others began to settle. Now, he enjoys spring. The rejuvenation of life. The colors of the world were something he used to take for granted but, for now, they are still his.

Disclaimer: Doomfist is really difficult for me to understand. He’s calm and smart and strong but his whole demeanor and outlook on life is really strange. He doesn’t take pleasure in being the best, like Sombra or Widow are. He doesn’t seem to be overly concerned with knowledge, like Moira, or revenge, like Reaper. I just don’t understand him very well.That being said, I imagine he likes a man or woman who is well put together. Someone who has a daily routine and sticks to it - work, gym, maybe some sort of interest in the nightlife. He loves those who are sophisticated and have depth. He might be about power and strength but those come in different forms. It’s important that his lover be well spoken and charismatics, able to control a room with a few phrases. They must be able to hold their own in danger, whether that means a strong fight or flight instinct. They should be well adjusted in all aspects of life. He’s a gentleman at heart but he still wants only the best; he won’t settle for less since he won’t give less. Sometimes, he goads his lover. “Impress me,” he says on an early date. He wants to be taught about the paintings in the art museum you brought him to. To enjoy a winery with someone who appreciates the subtleties. You must be as willing to show off at a fashion show or a ritzy gala as you are on the field of battle or in a heated discussion with clients.He wants it all or he wants nothing. Because if he is going to commit, that will be it. This person he cares for will never be a weakness for him because they are strong and quick in their own right.

For Mei, her primary love language is words of affirmation. She likes being told that you love her and care for her. She likes validation because she can be shy at times, unsure of how to be in a relationship. She worries she is awkward or that she isn’t contributing enough. A little encouragement goes a long way with her. Her secondary love language is quality time. Mei spent so much time in near isolation that just being with a person, just the two of you, is an intimate moment enough. Her least important is acts of service. She is an altruistic person by nature and will never automatically assume you are taking advantage of her. She’s just happy to help.For Mercy, her primary love language is receiving gifts. She’s not materialistic but, having worked long hours in hospitals around the world, she greatly enjoys and appreciates creature comforts. Besides her love of chocolates, she enjoys small trinkets she can take on the go. A lovely fountain pen, a locket she wears around her neck, a fancy picture frame she can keep in her office. Anything that reminds her of you while she is saving lives. Her secondary language is quality time. She has so little free time to herself that she enjoys any she can spend with someone who is flexible with theirs. She doesn’t need elaborate dates, just a pizza night and a silly movie. Her least prominent language is physical touch. She’s so used to contact with other humans that she sometimes seems a little desensitized to it.As for Widowmaker, her primary love language is, maybe surprisingly, words of affirmation. She wants to be praised and told she is doing a good job. She wants to hear that you care for her even if she doesn’t want to admit it. And god forbid if you insult her - she will never forget it. If you speak to her like she is the person she once was, she may start to believe it again. Her secondary love language is physical touch. She has a very impersonal set of skills. To be close to someone, touching them, feeling their hand slip into hers... it catches her off-guard. It’s unlike what she remembers. It’s nice. Her least prominent is acts of service. She doesn’t really care one way or another in general. Her apathy in situations lend this to be her weakest language.

You heard the news and immediately raced down to meet him. It wasn’t difficult to find him, the metal on his boots clanging against the hard floor, the sudden CRASH of something as he flung it across the room, the almost feral growling that came from beneath his mask. Everyone was trying to make their way from the area, discreetly but quickly. One or two of them gave you looks of sympathy. They knew what you meant to him. They knew you were the only one who could talk to him in this state.

Hanzo: His primary love language is acts of service. Particularly unprompted ones. He feels that you care about him when you do things without needing to be asked. When he is tired, you make dinner for him. When he is angry, you let him vent his emotions out. When he looks lost or hurt, you ask if he is okay. When you know about how he feels before he does, and act accordingly, that’s when he knows. His secondary love language is quality time. Just wanting to be with him because you enjoy his company is a pretty big deal to him. The yazuka prince in him is used to people wanting something out of him. The idea that he alone is enough is surprisingly touching to him. His least impactful love language is words of affirmation. He cares little about lip service and only wants to hear nice compliments when they’re unprompted and genuine.

Genji: His primary love language is quality time. Genji walks a fine line between being an adventuring hero and being a shunned, dangerous member of society. When someone speaks to him like a normal person and wants to do mundane activities with him, it makes him feel whole again. More like the Genji he once was. Someone who can see past the prosthetics and cybernetics and acts as if he were a normal boyfriend. His secondary language is physical touch. He has lost large parts of his body and much of what he has left is scarred. When someone wants to touch him, to make contact with him, it’s extremely endearing to him. His least important is acts of service; he feels capable enough to do things on his own. He doesn’t like putting other people out.

McCree: His primary language is physical touch. He’s a touchy-feel boy with no qualms about snuggling up to you. He loves to rub his scratchy beard against you, grab you around the waist, pull you in close as the two of you nap, burying his face into your hair or your back or you chest. It doesn’t have to be sexual but it sure can be if you want. His second language is quality time. He can’t squeeze ya if he isn’t near ya. And he likes to be near ya, even if you aren’t cuddling. But being near you will make him want to cuddle you. It’s a vicious, adorable cycle. Watching television, going on drives, getting a drink at the bar. Anything with you. His least important language is acts of service. He doesn’t really want you to go out of your way for him. If anything, he wants to be the gentleman and make your life a little easier.

Soldier: Easily, words of affirmation is his most prominent love language. He needs reassurance constantly that he is doing well, that you love him and want to be with him, that everything is fine. He’s used to things crumbling around him and he needs to make sure nothing is amiss with you. He has some trauma he needs to work through and a calm, understanding voice is all that can get him through some dark times. His secondary love language is physical touch. It’s difficult for him to admit it but he really craves the feeling of your skin against his. Even if it’s just a hand over his. He needs the closeness of another human to make it feel like he isn’t constantly falling apart. His least is receiving gifts; he doesn’t want them or thinks he deserve them. You are more than enough for him.

You immediately know something is strange when Hanzo asks you to wear some of your finest clothes. It’s not that he doesn’t normally take you to fancy places - he does on occasion - but he stresses how important it is. He wants to take you to a very nice restaurant. It’s a cool evening in early autumn and he booked a reservation on the rooftop that overlooks the city. Everything is a little… off. He keeps running his hands through his very well-kept hair, making sure it sits perfectly flat. He adjusts and readjusts his tie. He keeps patting his pocket. When you ask him if he lost something, his cheeks turn pink and he snaps slightly at you, “I’m just fine!” He quickly apologizes to you and you shrug, taking his arm into yours. There’s a good chance you may already know what he is asking. Still, you eat dinner quietly. He was never much one for conversation during meals but he is silent unless spoken directly to. You don’t mind so much. The skyline is beautiful, the city lights are twinkling, and you just enjoy his company. Finally, the plates are cleared away and the server brings out champagne. Your eyebrows raise slightly; this is not his usual drink of choice. He clears his throat, looking sort of grumpy, and asks you about the time you first met. The day he first kissed you, slowly and unsure. And the moment he knew he was in love with you. He stands before you, almost stiff from the formality of it all, and takes your hand. He gets on one knee and closes his eyes as he takes a deep breath. Hanzo tells you how much he loves the look in your eyes as you smile at him. And how he wants to keep that smile all to himself, for the rest of his days. “I never thought I would find such happiness again.” He opens the box in his pocket and you see a large, sparkling diamond. “Will you do the honor of marrying me?” You fling your arms around his shoulders. He’s taken aback at first, but melts at your touch as you cry happily and nod.

It’s a Saturday evening and you finished a picnic in the park with Jesse. It was a warm spring day and the two of you sat, you leaning against his chest, with your faces towards the sun. There were wildflowers sprouting in the field and he leans over and plucks one, putting it behind your ear. You give a little giggle; he always does cutesy things like that. Eventually, the two of you decide to pack up and put things away in the car. He asks you if you want to take a little walk before you go. He takes you by the hand happily and the two of you walk aimlessly, content. “I’ve been thinkin’,” he starts slowly, giving a small smile. “How much I love you. And god, darlin’, I do. And I thought… what if we made this a little more permanent?” He gets down on one knee, taking out a red box from his pants pocket. “There’s no one else I’d rather share my life with. Will you be mine, forever?” You jump up and down excitedly, grinning as you say “Yes!” You lean down to kiss him passionately and he scoops you into his arms, lifting you up around the waist.

Tracer would find the confession super cute and would be very reassuring about it. “First time for everything, love!” she smiles. She may begin to feel a little pressure she puts on herself - she wants to make sure you are ready before you try anything. And she wants it to be good and memorable and gentle. But there’s a moment where the two of you are quiet, sitting side-by-side, and you both just know. Leaning in and wrapping your arms around her shoulders, knowing that there’s nothing but a sweet love between you two.

Zarya is not an expert on love. She’s more upfront about her feelings, never really shy. She can understand your hesitation to tell her, but she assures you that it’s fine. “I can show you the proper form,” she boasts with a smirk. But she doesn’t make a move. She doesn’t know how aggressive to be. So you decide to make the first move. One day, you finally take her head in your hands and lean up to kiss her. She picks you up by the waist and twirls you around, holding you high as you both grin at each other.

McCree gives a lopsided smile. “Do you want to kiss me?” he says, all rugged charm. You blush, too embarrassed to say it out loud. “You don’t have to be shy, now.” You eventually nod, eyes averted from his gaze. “First, we’ll start with a kiss on the hand. It ain’t that bad, right?” He gently takes your hand in his, amused by your shy demeanor. “Listen, we’ll take this nice and slow. You want me to stop, you jus’ say the word.” You give another nod and peek as he leans down and presses his lips to the back of your hand. It makes you feel warm as a blush creeps its way up your body. “Higher?” he asks, one eyebrow raised as his lips hover inches from your skin. You give a third nod. He kisses the inside of your wrist. He asks again, and again. Your forearm. Your shoulder. Your neck. You feel the stubble on his chin and his warm breath behind your ear as he asks once more, “Higher?” You shiver and nod.

You tell Reaper and he laughs. It’s a deep chuckle, almost sinister. “Even more innocent than I thought,” he growls. He takes a step towards you, his overbearing presence engulfing your form. You feel yourself press against the wall instinctly; even without meaning to, he’s extremely intimidating. Your heart feels as if it has stopped, he leans over you. “And you want me to change that for you?” he growls. You don’t know what to say, staring at him in wide-eyed surprise. He takes a clawed hand and lifts your chin up, the metal tips pressing just into your skin. He leans closer, his mask still on, and you can’t help but squeeze your eyes shut. For a few moments, you both stand like that. Waiting for something to happen. But he lets go and you open your eyes, disappointed and confused. You see the back of his cloak and he mumbles a gruff, “You aren’t ready.” For what, you can’t be sure.

Junkrat lights up (not literally, thankfully) when you try to casually mention it. “You’re pullin’ my leg!” He’s all manic smiles when he bounces up and down, his somewhat rusty prosthetics creaking. “You can practice with me! I love ta kiss!” He puckers his lips in a cartoonish fashion and you laugh, pushing his face away with your hand. “I gotta say, though, I’m feelin sort of all wobbly inside. Who you wanna know how to kiss for so bad?” You don’t even think, just roll your eyes playfully, and poke him in the chest. “You, you idiot.” You’ve never seen him happier as you say that.

You came back to his apartment, the first time you’ve been there after hours. He had taken off his coat and mentioned he was going to freshen up for a moment, leaving you in a panicked and hyper-aware state. You sat on his couch, attempting to calm yourself, running your fingers through your hair to make you feel like less of a mess. The light meal you ate while at dinner is now swirling in your stomach like a heavy metal ingot.He comes back and smiles softly at you, telling you that you could have flipped on the television. He asks if you want a drink. You refuse but he laughs and says he’ll get something just in case. You turn on the television for background noise as you hear him clattering in the kitchen.The room is sparsely decorated, with furniture in earthen tones, a deep red carpet under your feet. It’s like him. Warm and calming.He returns, two lemonades in hand. Putting them down gently on the coffee table in front of you then plopping down next to you. Very close. He, without thinking, wraps an arm around you. His left.Despite the touch of the heavy and cold metal, heat rises in your body.It’s not that you haven’t been like this before. But somehow it’s different. Somehow, it’s such a close and personal moment. Simple and domestic. He does it without ceremony, without worry. He keeps you close because he wants to and he does it so casually.You’re overthinking, you know.The edge of your shirt rode up slightly and you feel the coolness of his prosthetic hand brushes against your uncovered side. You give a slight shiver as his fingers circle softly. He can’t feel that it’s your skin, doesn’t know how this is making your heart jump into your throat. You even glance up at him but he’s just focused on whatever program is on now.He keeps doing it, absentmindedly. You don’t want him to stop - god, no - but it’s making you bite your lip. You lean in closer to him, your head resting on his chest. He smells like cigar and cologne. His smell. He gives a small noise of appreciation as you cuddle closer to him and squeezes your side harder.You can’t hold back the little half gasp, half moan. He turns to you, eyebrow cocked, and you immediately turn red and bury your face in his side.“What’s this now?” he asks in his slow drawl, amusement ringing in his tone. “Gettin’ shy on me?”“It tickles,” you mumble, muffled in his shirt.“That’s dangerous information, you know,” he smirks. “Want me to stop?”The are several heartbeats before you whine out a muffled “No.”

He’s confrontational by default, it’s just in his nature. If you rise up to exchange clever banter and slightly hostile quips with him, he’ll consider it a challenge. He’ll think about you much more often than he would like, imagining your smug smile and getting a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach. You’re his rival, whether you are friends or foes. In the moments where he makes a good point or a witty remark, you’ll laugh and compliment him. He doesn’t know what to do with that, when you act nicely to him. Aren’t you two butting heads all the time? Maybe this game is more complicated that he assumed. He thinks of you, a lot.If you are the type not to confront his aggressive nature but rather question it, he will find himself dumbfounded. You’ll ask why he is so critical, what you may have done to bother him so much. It’s a question he does not like to ask himself. He knows, of course. His past trauma and defensive nature make him hard to deal with at times. He may lash out or be more rude than intended. He knows, of course, but is so rarely called out on it in such a neutral way. You don’t try to provoke him, may even change some of your habits to make him less hostile. He notices. And tries to do better. He’s not perfect at it, of course. But when he fails, he’ll gruffly admit he was wrong. “That was uncouth,” he says, frowning at you. “I apologize.” He learns by example. Your example.If you neither challenge him nor question him, you may find yourself intimidated by him. He does seem to know a lot, you admit. About combat and archery, about sophisticated tastes and underground dealings. You’ll apologize every time he snaps at you. And he feels immediate guilt. It’s clear to him that you are not made of the same stuff that most people are. You’re gentle by nature, prone to taking the blame and trying to appease everyone. It’s something rare he sees so infrequently. Something innocent and worthy of protecting. He becomes better, not just because of you but for you. No one will speak ill of you again. Or make you feel less. Or ever harm you. Not without swift retribution. He sees so much in you, a softness that he treasures.