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Patreon Compilation – Fic#317 – Reaper/Soldier76 – bottom!Reaper; slutty!Reaper – The Need
🕑 Added 2024-12-26 06:30:20 +0000 UTCThis week's fic is a 'blast from the past' fic! To see on why that is, please have a small look into the pinned post. As already stated there, I can't encourage you enough to link your patreon to discord to have a peek into the patron-only channel – or to DM me for further info if you can't/don't want to link. Thank you!
Readable for all tiers this time :)
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This blast from the past is Patreon Comp Fic#41! Please enjoy this Reaper/Soldier76!
Reaper/Soldier76 – bottom!Reaper; slutty!Reaper – Reaper just has such a NEED to get fucked. It doesn't matter by whom. Or what.
(Reaper gets fucked on a police baton. It was another object originally but I don't think that would fly here.)
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Gabriel Reyes has had a secret that he never really intended as one: he likes cocks. Loves ‘em, really. He’s never been ashamed of the fact, but it never really came up in polite conversation, either.
He’s liked having them ram up his ass until he felt like he just had to taste them in the back of his throat. He’s liked to have them beneath him so he could sit himself down on them, riding them until they gave him their cream and made his belly feel full and warm.
He’s liked being on his knees and fucking his throat on them until tears started running down his cheeks, eyes rolling up into his head with lack of oxygen. Feeling like he’s full to the brim with nothing but big fat dicks that at least try to satisfy the constant itch under his skin to be owned and fucked and utilized.
It hasn’t been a secret, but others have made it one; they hadn’t wanted to see it. He’s been big and broad with thick, round muscles and a shorn head, so they wanted him as a daddy and not as the one spreading his ass with both hands and begging with a failing voice to be put through his paces and have his tender little cunt rawed until it was swollen plump and obscene.
Years later, Reaper has the same secret. Being a medical abomination has not changed anything in his desires; a fact that he’s had to learn the hard way, trying to satisfy himself on his fingers first and then illegally obtained toys later, just to realize that they just… won’t be enough. That they can’t emulate the feeling of being nicely spread on a living fat cock and have a pair of big hands hold on to his hips to pull him back onto it…
It’s made even more difficult this time around to get his fix. Overwatch is seemingly everywhere, watching his every move, always searching and hoping to snatch him up – and the fact that he is looking like a corpse, a big scar bisecting his his torso, skin a pallid ashen hue… it does not make it any easier to finally get laid; to just spread his thighs and let someone have at him and fuck him until he doesn’t have to think about anything else but the massive cock drilling into his guts and making it so very difficult to breathe.
It’s driven him up a wall, quite frankly. It drove him close to tears more often than he’d like to admit; this need to get his belly filled and just be fucked nice and hard and thorough. It is embarrassing just how much he needs it; to be held down and made to feel cock, but it is even more embarrassing how long it had taken him to figure out how to get what he is craving.
By now, however, he’s made it into an art. Making out the nearest seedy glory hole establishment and slipping inside hidden beneath a cloak. Hoping to whoever fucking watches that Overwatch hasn’t followed him this time and will not raid the place while he is there with his legs spread and his cunt full of cock while his own dick is happily swinging along.
He’s known for a long while about these glory hole bars; back when he’s been in SEP… maybe even before that, but he’s never paid them much mind. They never pinged as an option on his radar, and he could still kick himself for his own stupidity.
They are glorious, really. He just has to push himself through a hole until the soft rubber is snug around the cinch of his waist and then needs to do nothing but let himself get serviced.
Nobody fucking cares about him being a huge muscled guy or about the gray of his skin when they are presented with his thick thighs and fat ass.
He doesn’t have to do much. He just has to figure out whether he’d rather spent the night on his back or on his belly; whether he wants to stick out his ass and let them see how nice and round it is, or whether he wants one of the guys working there to put his knees into stirrups until he is helplessly suspended and showing off like the whore that he feels like.
Sometimes it is less of a question of how he feels and more of a question of whether or not he thinks that Overwatch might be on to him and he’ll have to be able to get away quickly. Those evenings aren’t quite as satisfying as the ones where he can just let himself be, but he’s greedy enough for dick that the feeling of having to scramble for an escape at any second is not keeping him away from presenting his ass like the greediest cunt on earth.
He loves the establishments that will offer their customers the opportunity to purchase sharpies. And he loves those that are not so goddamn cheap and even buy them for the exorbitant amount of money.
He loves when they fuck him and scrawl dirty slurs onto his ass; when they put tally marks on his thighs or draw crude cocks and arrows on him as if there were any chance somebody could not find the mark of his gaping, fucked loose hole.
He loves being in a rundown building afterwards, thighs still burning satisfyingly from spreading them so wide all night long, and trying to look at his fat ass with a little hand mirror to see what he has been adorned with this time.
Reaper just… he just loves being a dirty whore. A thing. Nothing but a cunt that strange men want to pull on their dicks, not caring for whoever it is that is attached to the hips sticking out of the hole.
Once or twice he even broke into the bars just to watch the footage; see man after man lining up behind him to fuck him; tall, short, fat, skinny… He doesn’t care. He never has. He cares as little about them as they care about him; all he is interested in is what they sport between their thighs – or just how interestingly they can use their fingers.
What is currently being pressed against his loose, glistening hole is neither of the two. It is big and cool and hard.
Metal, his mind supplies immediately. His fingers slowly curl around the edges of the bench he is lying on belly down. He stares straight ahead, blood pumping in his ears and making it difficult to hear the slapping of skin and groaning all around him.
He’s been dicked for three hours. He has lost count of how many cocks he’s serviced. He can feel their slick running out of his used-up cunt. This one is different, though. Wildly different.
There is a hand on his ass, but the texture is weird. His brain has been fucked into a hot scrambled mess and it takes him a little to realize that whoever is pressed up close behind him is wearing gloves.
It is not completely uncommon; but the metal object being pressed against his loose hole definitely is. It does not feel like the sharpie. Some men have fucked him with that just to get a good laugh before becoming too impatient and replacing it with their dicks.
This object feels far bigger. Weirdly shaped.
He squirms and whines, and the man shifts, seemingly leaning over his back, and suddenly there is a very familiar, rough voice rasping through the laughably thin dividing wall: “Don’t move a muscle…”
Reaper freezes. His nanites freeze, too. For just a second, all the buzzing and humming beneath his skin is quiet before his heart picks up beating twice as fast.
Soldier.
He should dissolve into smoke and slide away, but he doesn’t.
Soldier is pressing the metal object more insistently against his rim, and the second the weirdly shaped tip presses inside, Reaper finally realizes what it is: he is trying to fuck him on a police baton. The man is pressed close, shielding what he is doing by his body.
“Finally found you…” Soldier murmurs. He pushes in deeper. The tip of the baton is wide, stretching him immediately and unapologetically. He is hot all over, insides clenching and twisting in on themselves.
He is staring straight ahead, mouth open and soft. His cock is still hard; nobody has paid it any attention except for the occasional flat-handed slap that made him gurgle on his own spit.
“Offering your fat ass to these drunks and addicts… thought you were a more classy bitch than that.”
Reaper is starting to breathe again all of a sudden, panting quick little puffs against the faux leather of the bench he is lying on. The Soldier is fucking him on two inches of the baton. Reaper has no idea if he’ll just leave it sticking out of his ass once he's done and the knowledge is making him even hotter.
Soldier’s voice sounds… disgusted. It trickles up Reaper’s spine like sharp tips of fingernails and nestles at the base of his skull.
He can hear the cap of a sharpie being opened. He shuffles his feet farther apart and bears down on the baton, feeling his obscene rim pout outward, cum of strangers trickling out slimy and gross.
And then the fun finally begins.
