Thread: Overwatch, Reaper and Windowmaker (Vulgrim x allycat)

Staring up in to his mask, Widowmaker must've felt something -- something strange, deep down, something that tickled her almost-beating heart. She wasn't as alone as she thought she was. Amelie was dead -- had been, for some time. Talon had murdered her years ago. But with her death, the perfect assassin had been born, someone who only felt alive in the face of danger, or when she squeezed the trigger, lining up the perfect shot and an incredibly blissful kill. Whatever it was she must have realized, Reaper had, too. They weren't so unlike, the both of them. Their similarities went beyond their love for chaos and carnage, went beyond working for Talon. They both loved to gamble, and the things they liked to bet the most? Their very lives. Reaper loved being in control. He loved showing this little spider that her venom couldn't stop him. That her web couldn't tangle him. That he was completely immune to her, that he was in control. He smirked, though she couldn't see it. The blue-skinned whore must've loved this feeling, must have loved the uncertainty of what was to come next, even if it was death. And Death was staring her right in the eyes. It laughed in her faces, its cock buried in her throat like a sword in its sheathe. He could see her consciousness fading, the life slipping from her -- and he felt her heart still in a way it hadn't before, as if she was well and truly dead. The cock hadn't been pulled from her throat yet. He waited until the eyes rolled back in her head. When the man's wrists were tied, he gave them a few experimental tugs, looking up at his wife with risen brows. A grin played at his lips, but it was soft and short-lived. Trying new things, are we? Gerard asked, trying to insert some light humor in to their love making. When she put her breasts to his face, he nuzzled them and gave each one a tender kiss on her rosy buds, his teeth grazing one before she pulled away again. Before too long, something else was in his face instead -- something moist, warm, wet, and much more sacred. It was a shame that his wife's most intimate spot had to be the thing that snuffed him out. Naive, gullible, and as trusting in his wife as he was, he didn't think much of it. She'd pull off of him eventually he knew that, he trusted that, he believed that. His lips parted, and he pushed his face further in to her pot, licking up Amelie's honey. Little did he know that this wasn't Amelie anymore. His wife was well and truly dead. This was some artificial thing, some person that'd been created in a torture room. She wore his wife's face, she had his wife's voice, but it wasn't her. Gerard hadn't known that his wife had become the thing she'd feared most in her life, and he never would. His tongue buried in to her, though he couldn't breathe. But she'd pull away, give him the chance. He knew that, and he trusted her. At least, that was what he kept telling himself. There was an explosion in Widowmaker's throat, and something swelled. Just as she'd been about to fade away, her vision black and blurred, she'd find herself coughing and choking. Reaper's cock tensed in her throat, and thick ropes of his hot, sticky spunk went down both pipes, choking her. He groaned loudly, halfway with pleasure, halfway with anger, and pushed hard on the back of her head, forcing her nose against his pelvis as he forced the woman to swallow all of him. And then there was relief or disappointment, perhaps. Death pulled its scythe away, and his cock dislodged itself from the warm tightness of Widowmaker's throat. It sprang free from her messy lips with a light pop! , leaving a mess of drool and cum behind in its wake, doomed to dribble down her chin, on to her naked breasts. Still as thick and stiff and long as he was going in, Reaper shamed the assassin by putting the fat belly of his tool across her face, from chin to forehead. Juices oozed from his crown like some kind of fountain, spilling on to her flesh and painting the woman's bluish skin a creamy white. The man let out a faint ' tsk, tsk, tsk , as if scolding her for something. You aren't dead, he rumbled at her. Not yet. I still have use for you, little spider. He pulled his cock away from her ike he'd stolen the woman's trophy, as if it was something to be revered. The man backpedaled a step or two, then simply fell in to one of the seats along the wall. His cock stood like a tower between his legs, erected like some kind of monument that represented everything Widowmaker wanted in life. Thrill, danger, uncertainty. He spread his arms out along the back of two adjacent seats, looking very much like a king from where he stared down at the cum-drenched woman who sat on her knees. Reaper curled a finger at her, gently beckoning the woman over. Crawl. He wasn't asking.