Asked @nesy-art whether I could write a lil something for their McHanzo pic(s) and got granted permission ❤ thaaanks

Hanzo squeezed just beneath the head and McCree kicked out like a horse, spurs jangling loud and obnoxiously. Immediately, Hanzo’s fingers tightened painfully on the wavy hair on the nape of his neck and pulled his head away from his shoulder like an unruly puppy.

“Silence,” he admonishes. His face is impassive. Cool. Collected. There is no hair out of line in his neatly trimmed goatee and when Jesse wants to fall forward and wipe his wet mouth against the black, sharp line, he tightens his grip slightly more and shakes him just for good measure.

“Behave.”

Jesse’s mouth is open, his bionic hand clawed in Hanzo’s wide sleeve because he isn’t allowed to grip his arm and give him bruises.

“Darlin’, he pants, and grimaces when Hanzo swipes a thumb across the blunt head of his cock, trimmed fingernail pressing carefully against the weeping slit. “Darlin’. Sweetheart, Babydoll.”

He chants it like a prayer, hips trying to strain up but the immediate loosening of Hanzo’s slick fist – as if he loses interest in the proceedings the second Jesse tries to wrestle control from him – has the cowboy sitting back down on his ass real quick.

He whines high in his throat. Canine. Needy. His cock flexes in Hanzo’s grip, a dollop of salty liquid getting swiped up and smeared across the thin, hot skin in a practiced move.

Jesse’s mouth falls open. His pits are itching with sweat, shirt sticking to his chest. Hanzo hasn’t let him get out of his clothes other than pushing his shirt up and slacks far enough down to get at his cock.

“Sweetheart, Darlin’, please, I… ahh.. hah…”

He moves his knees timidly at Hanzo’s sides and freezes when the movement makes his spurs jingle again. He glances in dog like submission at the archer and catches just about the tiny, satisfied smirk hiding in the corner of his mouth before he is pushed forward with the bossy grip on his neck, his forehead pressed against Hanzo’s tattooed shoulder.

The archer jerks him off slow and patient, face plain, almost bored – and it drives Jesse wild. He’s huffing and groaning like a beast, clutching Hanzo to himself as much as he is allowed.

“Damn,” he whispers, the nervous fight bleeding out of him; body and mind accepting that he is not going to be leading this one – will just be getting whatever Hanzo wants to give.

It is a little easier, then; to just pant warm and wet against Hanzo’s chest, and let the feeling of his rough, sometimes mean hand wash over him and drive him insane.

Hanzo doesn’t say anything, but he squeezes him a little tighter in praise, the slick tunnel of his hand getting that much more addicting, the blunt fingernails of the other hand scratching his neck minimally.

Jesse nearly starts thumping his heel at the ground in pleasure.

“Dog,” Hanzo says, amused like he can hear Jesse’s thoughts.