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It's winter in Hanamura. Immaculate blankets of snow cover both the new and the very, very old, leaving nothing but a hush that turns Cole Cassidy's stomach in more ways than one. He's never been outside of the southwestern US or, more recently, Geneva -- and he's definitely never seen snow before.
He hates it. He hates the ice, he hates the cold, he hates how it looks so pretty through the window yet every time he goes outside, the air punishes him for his wanderlust.
He also hates black ops when they have to wait for intel just to be able to walk out of their digs.
Commander Reyes sits in the corner, boots crossed on a low table, reading some book Commander Morrison gave him months ago. It's in Spanish, which Cole never learned to speak -- he was out of his mother's house too fast for her to pass on anything but her genes.
"Whatch'a readin', boss?"
Reyes looks up from under his heavy brows, the rest of him as still as the city. "A novel."
Cole leans away from the window and folds his arms. "I can see that. What's it about?"
"You cold, cowboy?"
Cole nods.
Reyes looks back at his book. "Good. Keeps you alert."
"Not if we just sit here all day. Gonna blow my brains out."
"Well, do it over there," Reyes turns a page, "And use the silencer."
"I hate this damn gun," Cole lifts his piece, some sleek new issue, small and matte black.
"It's state-of-the-art. You're lucky to have it."
"It's too light and it hits like a spitwad." He rises, tries to make his way to the back of the tiny room, and ends up putting his foot through a paper door. "Fuck! Shit."
Reyes chuckles, a sort of low and smoky cackle that stays in his chest. He's the only one who appreciates Cole's sense of humor, and Cole thanks him for it by listening to every word out of the Commander's mouth. As often as is humanly possible, anyway.
"Can't take a six-shooter into a restaurant meeting. If shit goes south, I don't wanna hear so much as a glass break."
"Don't worry, boss," Cole smirks, stretching his back, "I'm the goddamn soul of discretion."
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The meeting at the restaurant gets switched last-minute into a quick discussion at a noodle shop -- typical shake-up tactics, says Reyes. Not necessarily a bad sign. If anything, it could mean they're just as eager to avoid conflict as Blackwatch.
Two men in black suits stand up from the counter when Reyes and Cole approach, each bowing and then shaking Reyes's hand. Cole scans the older man: Sanjuro Shimada, leader of the Shimada-gumi, notorious yakuza gang based in Hanamura. Their specialty is arms dealing but there've been reports of drug trafficking and white-collar extortion as well -- the later of which directly concerns Overwatch. The brass is likely hoping to--
Cole's eyes snap to the younger man.
He can't stop himself: "Hel- lo."
All three men stop and look at him. No one addressed Cole; no one was going to address Cole. It was clearly implied that Sanjuro was dealing with Reyes and Reyes alone, with his eldest son as observer and partner. Hanzo (Cole did manage to get his name) will eventually take over the family business and must therefore be intimately acquainted with the Shimada-gumi's present and future dealings. It was quite obvious that Cole was brought as mere set decoration, so that Reyes didn't look like he'd come under-manned and unprepared.
Cole's eyes do not leave Hanzo Shimada, who looks, if Cole had to call it anything, puzzled. Not annoyed. Maybe even amused.
"Hello," Hanzo mutters back.
"...Moving on," Reyes gestures to the stools at the bar, "Let's take a seat, Mr. Shimada."
Cole sits on Reyes's left (as far away from Hanzo as humanly possibly,) and the Shimada's sit on the right. He listens to the meeting. He's sure he listens. He's sure he's on top of things, just like Reyes would want him to be. He's sure he's ready for anything, should push come to shove, hell or high water -- he'd never leave his brother hanging on the job. But the issues of Blackwatch and the Shimada-gumi and the rest of the all-too-troubled world seem like some harangued teacher trying to get his attention when his thoughts are clearly outside the room.
Because Hanzo is beautiful . That's the only word for it. His face is all noble angles and dramatic edges, a wicked brow and sharp cheekbones, deep eyes that unload kill shots every time he so much as glances at the cowboy.
And Hanzo is glancing at him -- he probably can't not look, since Cole has been staring ever since they sat down. He can definitely feel Reyes's annoyance through the back of the Commander's head, but he doesn't care. If Reyes lets him go home outside of a body bag, it'll have been worth it. Every second of looking at Hanzo is worth any price.
When the meeting is over, Reyes is remarkably calm.
"You're a fucking imbecile, you know that?"
"What? What'd I do?" Cole's knee-jerk reaction is to feign innocence, swear to good intentions, and pray his charm wins out in the end. Two years in Blackwatch and he hasn't learned: you don't pull one over on Reyes. You don't even try.
"You could've compromised our objective. Next time you see a pretty face, you lock eyes with your boots -- you feel me, cowboy?"
"Yeah, yeah..."
"What."
"Yes, sir," Cole pipes, and he means it.
They walk back to base in silence --relative silence: Reyes mutters into his earpiece while the inside of Cole's head explodes over and over again, like carpet bombs caught in a tunnel. He's floating above the street, above the world, looking down at the town like a tiny tourist shop snow globe. This kind of thing has only happened to him once before.
Coincidentally, that was also the last time he'd done something really stupid.
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With negotiations at a stand-still, Reyes gives the team the day off. More likely he just wants to walk Cole, like a dog, so that he'll stop breaking furniture and making trouble out of thin air. Cole opts to head down to the local cafe for fried chicken and coffee, tells Reyes he'll bring back some after he takes the long way home. I want to see the sights, he tells him. Maybe take a tour. Get some education.
Bad excuse, Cole tells himself as he makes a bee-line for the Shimada estate. Reyes knows I don't care about education.
He soon finds himself at the gate, engaged in his own negotiations with a very scary man wearing a black suit, an ear-piece, and the highly visible outline of a gun.
"Cole Cassidy," the man repeats.
"That's the name."
"And you want to what?"
"Wanna talk to Hanzo Shimada, if he's in. Err, that's, Shimada- san, right?"
"Shimada Hanzo."
"Is that right? Yeah. The oldest."
The guard blinks slowly. "You're Cole Cassidy. You want to talk to Shimada Hanzo. You met him last night and you want to talk to him."
"Thassright!" Cole puts his hands on his hips, visibly impatient. "Can I?"
"Fuck. Off."
It takes nearly an hour for Cole to casually peruse the perimeter, note guard patterns, discern choke-points and map potential blind spots. It takes him another hour to figure out how to scale a smooth, icy wall in cowboy boots. He ends up chipping paint and damaging what has to be very expensive property, but when he finally lands on the other side and comes around a few well-hidden paths, he's rewarded with one of the finest sights in all of his twenty-one years.
Two young men dressed in white practice archery in the snow, like an ancient painting in some forgotten corner of the world. One of them has green hair and wears orange accents. He holds his bow, which is taller than him, with an impatient sway. The other, whom Cole instantly recognizes as Hanzo, wears dark blue accents and has shed half the robe to make his shot. Cole can make out the beginnings of a tattoo on his left side; the shoulder is colored, but empty lines extend just past his elbow.
He remembers the faded ink on Sanjuro's wrists, the tiniest traces of dragon fangs.
Thwap.
An arrow lands in the wall behind Cole's head. He touches his cheek, but feels no cut -- just the very startling after-rush of wind.
The younger boy asks a question in Japanese, peering over curiously.
Hanzo has turned and is re-nocking his bow. The other, younger in manner if not in form, peers curiously in the cowboy's direction.
"Don't shoot!" Cole shuffles forward, hands in the air. "I'm unarmed!"
"You," Hanzo says, in English.
He starts towards Cole with such intensity that Cole reaches even higher. He wonders which will make Reyes angrier -- him breaking into the Shimada estate, or him getting murdered in the Shimada estate.
He grins, hopeful for the former. "Hello again."
"Who're you?" The green-headed boy, now much closer, is easily recognizable as Hanzo's relative -- those eyebrows have to be genetic.
"Cole Cassidy," Hanzo recites. "Of Blackwatch."
The younger Shimada laughs. "You want to be dead, Cole Cassidy?
"Haha," Cole cocks a hip, faking an impossible calm, "Not today."
"Where are the others?" Hanzo cuts in.
Cole blinks. "Others?"
"Your men. Your Commander Reyes." He lifts an arrow to Cole's chin. "How many have you come with?"
"Woah there! I ain't come with -- this is just me!" Cole's hands are still up, but now he's smiling. Being so close to Hanzo makes him feel high; he hopes it doesn't get him killed. "I just hopped over the fence, was seein' if you were home! Yer guard wouldn't even send a message. Was just gonna pop back out if you weren't around."
The younger Shimada looks over his shoulder at the fifty-foot wall guarding their family's compound, then back at Cole with incredulity. "You do want to be dead."
"No, goddamn it, I just... Can I put my hands down?"
Hanzo lets the bow string go slack, but keeps the arrow pointed at Cole's chest.
"I just wanted to talk to you. Maybe take you... to a... I dunno," Cole looks directly at Hanzo, "What d'ya'll get up to for fun around here?"
Hanzo and the other exchange confused glances.
"Y'know! If you weren't, uhh, workin' today, or training... what would you wanna do?" Cole puts his hands on his hips and clears his throat, attempting another winning grin. "With me."
Understanding hits the two Shimada's in very different ways: Hanzo's eyes hits the dirt, and the younger one slowly starts to laugh like a mad-man.
"Ohhhho-ho-ho-ho-ho!" He looks at Hanzo with his hands up and outstretched, as if he physically cannot hold the amount of glee emanating from this moment. "Han-zooooooo!" He says something in ecstatic Japanese that makes the eldest son strike out with his fist -- he misses.
"Hang on!" Cole puts his hands back up, "What'd I --? I was only tryin'a --!"
"Genji," Hanzo grits out, unslinging his quiver, "Take these inside. I am going to escort Cole Cassidy to the door."
The boy named Genji, titillated beyond words, takes Hanzo's equipment and heads deeper into the compound. Hanzo, boiling to the surface, takes Cole under the arm and forcefully leads him towards the exit.
Cole isn't that surprised at how easily Hanzo drags him away; he's still gawking at the archer's exposed muscles. "Hey now! Woah there! Aren't y'gonna... are we goin' out then?"
"Are you truly a Blackwatch agent?" Hanzo drops his arm, but Cole's position is quite clear: follow, or be manhandled again.
"Yeah. Why?"
Hanzo gives Cole such a thorough once-over that the cowboy gets a non-cold-related shiver. "There is nothing about you that suggests a gift for subterfuge."
"Ha! That's funny, darlin'. I was gonna say the same about you. Y'could stop traffic with a face like that. Where you been all my life?"
Hanzo looks at Cole as if he's never seen anything like him. "You are actually serious."
"'Course. Yer gorgeous and smart and y'handle that bow, like, damn, I ain't never met anyone --"
"And you actually scaled that wall. You eluded the guards."
"To get to you, Hanzo," Cole smiles, huge and engulfing, like his warmth. Like his arms, one of which he slides around Hanzo's waist. "Is that too fast? Is that -- this is okay, right?"
Hanzo is mute. His face is a complex mask as he processes the situation. Cole's seen the look before. He's thinking that Cole is a liar, that he's got some other agenda, but he doesn't want to believe that. Cole remembers the looks he gave him in the ramen bar.
"Just gimme a chance to show you I ain't foolin'."
Then he tosses his gun on the snow. Hanzo glares at it, then at Cole, even more suspicious.
"Can we go inside there and talk?" He points to a smaller building, off to the side, with the same tiled roof as all the others.
"That's a sauna."
"Sauna, sure, just -- can we just go inside? It's cold as fuck and I'll probably get shot in the head if I'm out here with you."
Hanzo's stoic face cracks a wry half-grin and Cole's heart cracks in twain. He heads to the sauna, beckoning with a jerk of his head.
"If anyone sees you out here with me, it is not my safety that would concern them."
Another shiver, not cold-related.
The sauna is warm, both in temperature and aesthetic, with polished beams of pale oak and beech, with branches of bonsai and peach trees in humble earthen vessels. The smell of fresh water greets Cole like a dear friend and he realizes how long it's been since he's last experienced anything so real, so close to nature. Images of cranes decorate two massive curtains that block the lowered entryway where Hanzo makes Cole take off his boots, his coat, his hat, and bids him dust off any remaining dirt or snow. They step bare-foot down a quiet hall and it strikes Cole just how small the place is -- he has to crouch through the doorways. He's never been inside anything built by man that wasn't shoddy beyond belief or decked in gilded steel.
"How old is this place?"
Hanzo looks at him suddenly. "Approximately one thousand years."
"What?"
"At least, this building is." Hanzo looks at the wall, runs his hand along the grain with deep affection. "Some of the buildings are older. Most are younger."
"That's...ho-lee shit. I've never been... that's incredible!"
Cole's stomach flips with the return of Hanzo's smile: this time, it reaches his eyes. "It is good that you notice. There is a word... I do not know how to translate. It is like a sense, or a feeling. We draw great satisfaction from the very old and the worn. No, that is not right," Hanzo frowns, searches, "An appreciation for the imperfect. Something that has time."
"I gotcha," Cole says. And he does.
Hanzo leads Cole to a small room outside one of two saunas. There is a raised platform of smooth wooden planks, a small pool just to the side, and a couple hanging white robes. Cole doesn't wait for Hanzo's polite offer to sit -- he starts taking off his outer shirt.
"What --"
"Look, I got nothin' on me," Cole gestures to his skin-tight black undersuit, moving around so Hanzo can see, "See? Got nothin' in my pockets," he pulls them inside-out and a couple arcade tokens fall to the floor, "Got nothin' in my --"
Hanzo steps forward and puts his hands on Cole's hips, as if to hold him in place.
Cole isn't going anywhere. A dark hunger has taken over the archer's eyes and he's locked underneath them.
Then Hanzo twists Cole around and shoves him against the wall. The cowboy slaps his palms on the wood, grunts from the impact, eyes wide and startled. The archer knocks Cole's legs apart, easy as pie, and searches him thoroughly -- very thoroughly, Holy Hell. Hanzo starts at the cowboy's neck and works his way down, feeling, grabbing, sliding. He takes his time, like he's counting ribs and testing the density of Cole's thigh muscles. Cole shivers so many times he thinks he might break apart, pleasure building hot and fast in his groin and spreading upwards like a southwestern wildfire. When Hanzo's hand grazes his groin, it's all he can do to keep from whimpering out loud.
Hanzo stops after picking apart his boots. "You're clean," he says, sounding a little surprised. A little aroused.
"Well, shit, not anymore! Jesus fuckin' Christ. Do that again."
"Which part?"
"All of it -- or just," Cole groans, forgets English, and grabs Hanzo so he can trap him against the wall, get his hands inside that elegant robe and return the favor.
Except that Hanzo doesn't budge. He's smaller than Cole and they're probably matched for muscle, but Hanzo twists out of his grip, resists without visible effort. The cowboy takes a step back, startled again.
Then Hanzo turns towards the sauna and starts removing his clothes.
Cole takes a whole minute to understand that he should follow suit. He's stripped fast before, more times than he'd like to admit, but he never thought it could be an art form: the way Hanzo slowly sheds his traditional garments, the way he pulls the belt, shrugs back the shoulders, lets it all fall like so many diaphanous leaves to the floor, revealing just --
"Christ, you are," Cole inhales, "Holy fuck."
The archer doesn't respond, doesn't even look at the cowboy as he hangs his clothes on empty hooks. His back is a network of muscles all painstakingly earned, his sides dwindling to a solid waist and a high-curved ass. His legs are studies in sinew and his cock is pink and perfect against his thigh. Cole thinks he looks like a predator as he steps forward; his body rolls when he moves, like he was built for the hunt. A knockout any way you slice it.
The coup de grâce: Hanzo's hair falls from its sash just as he walks into the sauna. Cole follows like he's heard a starting gun.
A raised circular mound in the center of the sauna holds gunmetal-gray stones, like a slim pyre with a grate on top. Cole's eyes linger, just like they did when he first walked into the building. There's something uniquely beautiful to it, even though it amounts to little more than artfully arranged rocks. The warm wood paneling continues in a short rectangle, with even higher raised platforms all around, like curving benches. Hanzo is crouched by the opposite side of the stones; when he rises, Cole immediately senses the presence of a fire.
He also sees Hanzo's front. His eyes immediately lurch to the side, as if it's not proper, then realizes this was Hanzo's idea. He corrects himself, puts them right back on wherever they want to be. It's a big day for new sensations; he's never experienced anything like shyness, but something about Hanzo's calm authority makes him feel hot all over, nothing to do with the room's rising temperature.
It's overwhelming, is the thing. Cole is a man frequently in over his head, but never out of his element. His chameleon charm and quick wit are the only reasons he's still alive. He relies on them in such a way as to be outside his own understanding: like how his heart beats, but it's not him that beats it.
As Hanzo approaches, he can't even trust his own heart. It's liable to pound right through his chest.
"Did you... is that a fireplace?"
"Of a sort." The archer takes his hand and leads him up to sit. The grace of him, body and demeanor -- Cole has to take care not to trip.
"You gonna burn me alive, Shimada?"
Hanzo chuckles: a low, rich, multi-textured rumble Cole immediately traps in his mind, saves for later.
"Pour water on the rocks, cowboy."
He gestures to a wooden bucket below with a long ladle hanging against the side. Cole leans down, a long-arm reach, scoops water and relishes the sizzle that follows. Steam hisses through the stones just as Hanzo pulls his face right up to his waiting mouth.
And Cole Cassidy melts. The kiss is so much softer than he'd been expecting, so much gentler. Usually when a black ops provided time for a tryst, it was hot and heavy, fast and rough -- people usually expected a big young gangster like Cole to give it hard and get out before the sun rises. Not that he doesn't also love a quick tumble now and again; already he can feel Hanzo's fingertips digging into scalp, a violent promise of intensity not yet released.
This was more like being savored. Whetting his appetite so he can devour me later, Cole thinks. He's heard about the dragons.
Hanzo plies their lips with care and restraint and it breaks Cole's heart. He can't remember the last time someone was so gentle with him. Usually it's Cole trying to get the other one to slow down, to appreciate the little things. Now Hanzo is stroking his cheek and linking their lips so as to draw electricity through the soft skin -- Cole actually feels a little shock race up his spinal cord, light up his brain to regions unmapped. It adds to the unaddressed heat in his belly, the building wildfire. He presses back, weaves their tongues, pushes his hands up so that both men are cupping each others' jaws. Precious object holding precious subject.
"Y'taste like fried chicken," Cole snickers, smoothing back Hanzo's hair. Sweetly nuzzling his nose.
One of Hanzo's eyes twitches. He shakes his head, trying not to smile. "We ordered lunch earlier." He kisses the corner of Cole's mouth. "I don't like going out in the snow."
"Me neither." He feels Hanzo stroke the back of his neck and shivers, tries to draw even closer. "Christ, I'm glad you stayed in. It's nice to look at, though. I ain't never seen snow before this trip."
Hanzo perks. "No?"
Suddenly he withdraws, stands on the platform, reaches up, and pulls on a long braided cord. What was once flat wood slides into slotted shades and Cole is illuminated by natural light: a vast, walled garden. Only five boulders of various size disturb the perfect blanket, dotting the white in a pleasingly random pattern. One bare tree sentries the gate and reaches for the hoary sky with spindly limbs. Something about it is eternally calm and perfect and it draws Cole in, despite Hanzo caressing his thick thighs.
"Fuck. I ain't ever seen snow like that."
"Best appreciated from afar," Hanzo mutters as he re-gains his attention with a bite to the shoulder.
"Ah." Cole leans his head to the side, exposes more for Hanzo to nibble. "Uhh, no one's gonna take a stroll and see us, right?"
"Shh."
Now they are both straddling the bench, Cole's thighs over Hanzo's, the cowboy struggling to get closer yet unwilling to break the sweet tension that Hanzo has so carefully cultivated. He strokes Cole's broad back, his broad shoulders, his broad everything -- those wicked eyes search his hairy chest and brown arms in ways that make Cole bite his lip, want to show off even. He leans back, lets the greedy young heir gaze his fill, while his own hands map the grid of Hanzo's abdominals. He presses up to his chest, where he squeezes and strokes the archer's generous pectorals.
Hanzo's eyes flutter shut. Cole's own eyes widen.
He thumbs Hanzo's nipples. "You like that?"
The archer lowers his head from the heavens to meet Cole's gaze. His pink tongue leaves a glistening trail over his cupid's bow and Cole feels his groin lurch forward. That's a yes if Cole's ever seen one.
"Can I suck on 'em?"
Hanzo lets out an abbreviated, breathless laugh. "You do not have to ask."
Cole goes in. He hunches like a man at worship as his tongue laps and circles Hanzo's left nipple. The archer growls, links his arms over Cole’s shoulders, leans into the attention, glowing like a lord receiving his due. His pale skin reddens within seconds, the nub grows hard under Cole's lips. His noises heighten with the cowboy's increased aggression and together, they unlock a mutual secret: they both like it rough. Neither has experienced anything like this before, and the shared knowledge lights something desperate, something deep. Like the steam around them, it billows and rises and makes all the world a haze.
Cole thinks he hears a small moan on the back of Hanzo’s sigh and chases it, gently bites the raised flesh. He switches to the other pectoral while his gun hand kneads the first, wild and hungry, feeling Hanzo's cock twitch against his leg, reeling for more --
“Add more water.”
Cole looks up with a brow raised to his hairline. “Huh?”
But Hanzo is leaning to the side, busy procuring a bottle of what looks like some kind of pale oil from a hidden drawer in the wooden sides. “Pour more water on the stones. It is getting too dry in here.”
Cole is a little miffed and weirdly turned on that Hanzo can even think about atmosphere at a time like this. But following the archer’s orders puts an odd little thrill in his loins, so he obliges. He dumps enough water on those stones to make a kettle scream.
When he leans back, Hanzo is at his throat. He’s guiding Cole to his back, sucking his pulse, fisting his hair, pushing one powerful hand up his sternum to make sure he can't escape. His free hand is uncapping the bottle and squeezing the oil. Cole knows what’s coming, but that doesn’t stop him from crying out when Hanzo slides one slicked finger against his rim.
His legs jerk upwards and his heels plant on Hanzo’s thighs as the archer lavishes attention from perineum to tailbone. Cole’s too big for the wooden bench; he has to clutch the sides to keep from teetering over. He's shaking. He's painfully eager, as Hanzo discovers when he pries him open. The air is getting damp but he can definitely feel how wet his cock is getting, knows what it must look like under Hanzo's dark stare. He's always been a top, but to be looked at like that, to be touched like this.
It's almost too much. A world of feeling erupts from the base of his spine and his eyes clench shut.
Hanzo’s free hand rubs up towards his belly. “Cole?” And then, so soft: “You are not having trouble breathing?”
“Yeeaahuh -- naw,” Cole snarls, “Just. You’re really. Fuck, how are you so calm?”
Hanzo chuckles, leans over Cole, slides back his messy hair. “I am not calm at all.”
Cole has to keep his bent legs in the air while Hanzo teases his entrance and kisses his collarbone. His knees hike up when the archer adds a second finger, works inside, curls up in search of the spot that will undo the cowboy once and for all. Cole flexes around Hanzo's finger, tries to relax, tries to absorb some of the ease from the warm and tranquil setting. From Hanzo himself.
“Y’sure look calm,” Cole pants.
“I’m focused,” Hanzo whispers. He kisses Cole’s plush lips, lingers over them like sweet ripe fruit. Then his whisper gets husky; Cole thinks he sounds like how the first smoke feels. “I am focused on making you feel good.”
“Ahhnn fuck. Y’re too good t’be true.”
Hanzo hums and adds a third finger. He watches Cole's whine with brutal fascination. He waits until Cole jolts -- he found the spot -- and smiles like a killer.
Then he whispers: “I am far from good.”
Cole’s hands shoot out to help keep his thighs up. Hanzo’s fingers are working him into an early rapture, making Cole feel more vulnerable than he’s ever felt before. And why shouldn’t he be? Deep in the forbidden home of his enemies, in a room out of time, surrounded by mist and heat, with a man who controls dragons working out sounds that he didn’t know he could make?
He's open for Hanzo, and the archer can sense it, but he's also caught in the moment, the way he's making Cole react. He presses, gives, pushes deeper with those bow-calloused fingers. The gunslinger clutches Hanzo's back, his hair, they hover when his body jumps with pleasure.
"Hanzo. Hanzo, fuck."
The air is so full of steam by the time Cole gives in to begging that he thinks for a moment they’re back outside in the snow: everything washed together in a monochromatic haze.
“ Hanzo ,” he pants, “Fuck me. Fuck me now, I swear t'God -- I’m gonna -- please.”
The archer pulls back. He’s wild-eyed, a resplendent mixture of shock and arousal. Cole is surprised, but then he remembers how shyly Hanzo had dropped his gaze when he realized the gunslinger had snuck into Shimada castle just for him, and when Cole had lavished compliments as easily as wildflowers plucked from a field. He’s not used to dirty talk, Cole realizes with a sudden rush.
"Fuck me, baby. I need it." The cowboy squirms his hips on Hanzo's hand, catches his own pecs and exposes his throat. "I need your cock, want you t'fuck me hard. Give it to me, please. Please fuck me."
Hanzo rolls his upper lip back in what Cole momentarily, horrifyingly, mistakes for disgust.
But then the archer is pushing up on Cole’s thighs, spreading him, holding his cock and working in the head with those wicked eyes locked on Cole’s face.
“Yeah,” the gunslinger sighs, admits him, “Fuck yeah. Y’feel -- oh God, Hanzo...”
Hanzo bites his throat. Cole doesn’t know if it’s meant to silence him or if the other man just felt like biting, but he gasps either way. Breath and pain leave his body at the same time as Hanzo slides in and slowly sinks to the hilt. The stretch burns worse than the air and knocks even more electricity straight through Cole’s brain. It's been a long time -- he can't remember feeling so full, so intoxicated. His voice finds a register shamefully high but he doesn't care; he hopes it'll inspire Hanzo to fuck him even harder.
“Yeah, God ,” he links his arms around Hanzo’s neck, desperate to keep him as close as possible.
“You,” Hanzo whispers against his ear, “You are…”
"Yeah, baby?" Cole nuzzles their sweaty faces together, relishes in the unbearable heat. "What?"
“You are noisy.”
The cowboy falters. “Should I stop? I can stop.”
Hanzo leans back and stares down his nose, haughty and wild with desire. “I disagree.”
Damn straight; the way the archer moves, the way he lords over him -- there’s no way Cole can keep his mouth shut.
It begins with the rocking. Hanzo leans back so he can watch his cock leisurely nod in and out of Cole, sensual and self-indulgent. He drops a hand on Cole’s lower belly and presses down. The cowboy builds a dull snarl that turns into a higher-pitched groan when Hanzo finds the spot and pumps, harder but still slow, waking his nerve endings, finding all the right angles. Cole pulls back on his knees and bites his lip to stifle himself but his moans just mingle in his throat, turn into whimpers where he doesn't expect a sudden jab of sensation. The only thing better than the pleasing burn, the exquisite fullness, is watching Hanzo Shimada come apart at the seams.
It builds when Cole moans, “Yeah, fuck me,” and Hanzo’s hips roll faster, churning inside him; it builds even higher when Cole keeps whining, “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,” and Hanzo starts pulsing, hard. He puts a bracing hand on the cowboy’s throat and fucking gives and Cole’s cries drown in the steam. He swallows lava and spits out fire. He opens his eyes like he can't believe what he's seeing. Hanzo is a vision of contorted muscle and dark eyes, nailing him within an inch of his life and he can’t take it, it's too good, he’s too overwhelmed, he’s so close to the edge --
Then Hanzo stops the ruthless pace, pushes a hand up to Cole’s face and soothes him with lascivious kisses as he returns to slow, kneading thrusts.
It's the best and worst thing the gunslinger's ever felt.
“Ahh, fuck! ” Cole sobs. White-hot desperation claws at his skin and so his hands claw Hanzo’s arms. He’s panting and flushed and not thinking at all about how wasted he must look, how desperately he clenches the archer.
But Hanzo is thinking about it. Half his cruel mouth is grinning: the cat that got the canary.
He’s doing it on purpose, Cole thinks. He’s trying to kill me.
"Y'mean sonovabitch..."
Cole strokes from the half-finished dragon to Hanzo’s pectorals, works the archer's nipples until Hanzo's hand tightens on his throat: a swift warning. Cole drops his arms back to where they were -- above his head. The grip softens. Cole's breath stops, thoroughly dominated.
And cared for. “Are you getting enough air, Cole?”
Now the cowboy really is melting. “Sorta.”
Hanzo leans to the side, pulls out the hidden drawer again and drapes a wetted towel over Cole’s face. “Relax. Breathe.”
Now he really is seeing only white. The towel smells faintly of cucumber and is heavy with moisture. It'll help keep his orgasm down, not being able to see Hanzo, which he is somewhat grateful for. He reaches blindly, pulls the archer in until their slick bodies stick together.
“M'fine -- c’mon, please, y’gotta --”
Hanzo’s frantic thrusts rev up again and Cole swallows his own voice. It is easier to breathe under the towel, which is good, because he’s sucking in air at such a rapid rate that he’d pass out otherwise. His moans turn to whines turn to hoarse keening, his whole body shaking in time with those powerful thrusts, the pleasure in his belly spiking like automatic gunfire. The loss of his sight amplifies every pleasure and gives Cole just enough privacy to howl his throat sore. His blunt nails have little traction on Hanzo's wet skin, but he claws anyway.
Then Hanzo slows again. Cole reaches up blindly, pulls Hanzo close so the archer can hear his heaving lungs, can feel how badly he's wrecking Cole body-and-soul. Hanzo rumbles sweetly when their chests make contact. He's turned Cole into a ravenous animal with his selective intensity and now the cowboy can hardly keep from dragging his nails straight through Hanzo’s skin. The archer's hips nod up, quick and jerking, yelping Cole into an early grave.
Then the bastard has the gall to rasp in his ear: “You like that?”
Cole keens high and tightens his legs around Hanzo's waist.
Teasing, a hot knife over a wound: "You like how that feels, Cole?"
Then Hanzo lets him have it again and Cole is done, obliterated. He goes in waves: a sudden rush at the archer's moaning whispers, the mounting crest when Hanzo bites his throat, the rushing crash as the jack-rabbit pace has him wailing, cursing, calling out Hanzo’s name. The archer's firm hand around his cock, hardly tugging before it gushes over his fingers. Cole’d ripped off the towel so he could see the archer’s face and now he really is going to pass out, but it was worth it -- if Hanzo was beautiful before, with his carefully maintained edges, he is glorious in disheveled bliss.
He lets it out after the cowboy, gets his fill with deep, rapid thrusts before crumbling to pieces against Cole's neck. His throat opens with a crackling groan and his body finally experiences total relief; he slumps, and Cole wraps him up in a wet embrace.
But Hanzo rises faster than should be humanly possible. He’s wide-eyed. “Cole?”
It's only then that Cole realizes he’s about five seconds away from unconsciousness.
The flurry of movement is dizzying: Hanzo slides out of him, uses a fresh towel to clean them off, and then helps Cole down from the bench and outside the sauna as quick as can be. He takes him to the small pool outside the door, where the water is kept just cool enough to soothe Cole back to wakefulness. The subsequent flood of comfort is so great that he tugs Hanzo into his arms, unwilling to let too much space crop up between their bodies. Not just yet.
After an indeterminable amount of time, Cole whispers, “Come with me." He presses still-warm lips to Hanzo's perfect jaw, drags them with slow reverence. "Join Overwatch. We could use someone like you." He reaches up to hold that jaw, as if the archer might disappear. "Come be with me in Geneva.”
Hanzo has just enough energy to laugh: another one for Cole’s memory bank. “Wouldn’t that be fun.”
“It would be! I’m serious.”
“So am I.” Hanzo tucks his face into Cole’s nape, finds the cowboy’s big arms to his liking. “I am always serious.”
“C’mon, Hanzo,” Cole buries his lips in the other man’s hair, desperately memorizing every smell, texture and sound. “I can’t leave y’here. You're too good. You’re too beautiful.”
Hanzo replies without emotion: “best appreciated from afar.”
╭∩╮╭∩╮╭∩╮
Cole’s quiet all the way from the base to the drop-point. All he does in the aircraft is play with the two arcade tokens he never got to spend. He rubs them together with the brim of his hat pulled low so no one can see his face. A few well-placed coughs makes the rest of the team think he's sick (maybe coming down with some winter bug), so they leave him alone.
Another bad excuse the boss doesn't fall for. “Cole. Pick your head up.”
He does what the boss tells him to do. Reyes looks him over. Something like concern nearly enters his features.
Then he points to his own throat. “You better have gotten those in a really weird fight.”
Cole pulls his collar up higher to hide the love-bites, grinning. He looks out the window at the white-cloud sky. “Y’should see the other guy.”
.
.
.
.
“Cole, where’s your gun?”
"...Aw FUCK.”