Pairing: mchanzo (hanzo/mccree)
Kinks/ Warnings: superhero au, costumes/ masks, secret identities
Summary: When the masked hero Vigilante reveals his true identity to Hanzo, he doesn't get quite the reception he was expecting.
“But I just took ‘em off!”
Jesse McCree- part-timer, deliveryman, and now alter-ego of the mysterious hero Vigilante- stared back at him with such wide-eyed, wounded-deer disbelief that Hanzo very nearly felt guilty for thrusting back upon him the mask, scarf and hat with which he had only just been entrusted.
“You heard me.” He held the dark strip of fabric that composed Vigilante’s mask between thumb and forefinger, as if it were some distasteful item of lingerie. “Put them on.”
For a moment it looked as though McCree was going to try and argue with him, maybe produce some of those smoky Southern niceties he liked to pour out for him like finely aged whiskey. It was almost a pity to see him half-laugh in wonderment and begin to tie it mask back into place. Not, Hanzo reminded himself sternly, that they would do him any good without Vigilante’s mystique to turn their cliches to charm. Right now he was just the American who delivered the mail and had the nerve to strike up conversations with him in the hallway as if they were more than acquaintances.
(The drinks they shared once or twice a week did not count.)
It was, of course, not Jesse McCree who had spent the last few months courting him with impromptu rescues from Shimada Inc. and its remaining yakuza goons, or sweet-talked him, or demonstrated the uncanny ability to say things to his face that would earn anyone else a fist in the mouth. Things like you done with your little pity-party? and how about you treat me with a little respect before I leave you to rot, hombre? that made his heart pound and his pride flush hot in his cheeks, sharp tongue shrivelling in his mouth.
“You ever think,” McCree asked casually, eyes darting up to meet his as he knotted the fabric behind his head, “that you might just be in denial? Unless you’ve got some kinda kink for masks you ain’t mentioned before.”
Hanzo seated himself at his desk and scowled. “It is almost as if you do not want to fuck me.”
Yet his head still span when Vigilante straddled his hips, eyes creased with the smile hidden behind his scarf. Beneath, his shoulders formed a broad, relaxed frame over the barrel of his naked chest, dark with hair and criss-crossed with the scars Hanzo had spotted countless times down the deepened v of a shirt when McCree had visited (not that he had ever paid them much attention). A muscled stomach, softened at the belly, formed the final distraction before Hanzo gave in and looked between his legs, where, from an untamed patch of hair, the hero’s erection bobbed thick and dark with blood.
(Jesse McCree would never have made him hard like this.)
In a titanic display of self-discipline, Hanzo’s hands wandered little further than Vigilante’s hips. “It is an improvement,” he allowed.
“You mean with the mask,” Vigilante quipped, shifting his considerable weight in Hanzo’s lap until he moaned deep in the back of his throat, head smacking dully against the wall, “or without anything else?”
“Do you ever shut up?” Yet, willingly or not, as Hanzo worked his aching dick free from his slacks he found he was smiling- crookedly, maybe, in challenge, but smiling nonetheless. He even managed to bark out a surprised laugh when Vigilante reached right back and slicked him with lubricant with his own hot, paw-like hands. “When you want cock, maybe?”
Vigilante cocked his head playfully, revealing an eyebrow raised in theatrical query. “Guess you’re about to find out, Mister Shimada.”
When he finally sank down onto him, hole soft and pliant as it enveloped his cock like a fever, head thrown back until in his pleasure Hanzo glimpsed a scruff of beard above the edge of the scarf, Hanzo could almost make himself forget not just that only Jesse McCree, in that devil-may-care cadence of his, had ever called him Mister Shimada but that, right now… he liked the way it sounded.