Yo. FUCKIN’ yo. @crimsontentacles was like… harassing me with lewd headcanons about stripper!Hanzo and stripper!Reaper and I was a helpless victim…
basically this is a lot of smut and choking and I haven’t proofread it but you get to read it anyway. it’s all @crimsontentacles‘ fault who watched the whole process and was a horrible enabler.
The light dims, music lowering to a mere background murmur; low and throbbing with drums that seem to mimic a beating heart. The crowd is still talking – vying for drinks and the occasional lap dance alike. It is not quite certain where in the room the bustle starts to cease and heads start to turn towards the rhythmic metallic clinking coming from behind the dark curtain, but eventually, everybody settles in, fingers drumming nervously and knees bouncing – tonight, nobody is new to the club, and the anticipation of what they knew was going to come is palpable.
The music lifts into a harsher, more prominent rhythm when the curtain twitches open to allow the two dancers on stage; the metallic clinking louder and more melodious as they make their way down the catwalk in slow, measured steps, the chains binding them dully reflecting the moody, soft light in the room.
The air – thick and warm from too many excited bodies and bad air conditioning – suddenly almost feels oppressive. Nobody talks. Eyes follow the movements of their bodies; the rigid lines of their proud backs.
Reaper’s strides are long, eating up ground and putting himself in front of his partner within just a couple steps. Soon, he yanks on the chain binding their wrists together. He seems impatient. Ill-tempered. His body is a coiled spring, muscles tight and rigid in his shoulders, and the swell of his biceps.
Hanzo stumbles from the sudden jerk. He doesn’t make it look like stumbling, though – a graceful lunge of his slim, prosthetic feet that enables the narrow, long cloth covering his crotch to flutter and give the audience tantalizing glimpses of his cock. When he rights himself, his dark eyes are narrowed and boring into the broad back of his partner.
The onlookers can’t figure out whether the two genuinely hate each other or whether it is just an elaborate, well-trained act.
Maybe both.
They start a tight, dance-like circle that has their half-naked bodies almost touching; predators looking – waiting – for a sign of weakness in the other. Their wrists subtly flick in time with the music – sending the chain to jingle again and again as they move, shoulders round with muscle and rolling as if preparing for a fight that only Reaper really looks equipped for with heavy boots and protective mask. The thick muscles of his thighs bulge and shift against his fishnet stockings.
Next to him, Hanzo looks shockingly naked and vulnerable; body on display other than the length of silk binding his hair and the narrow strips of fabric in front of his cock and ass, filigrane lengths of metal around his hips keeping them in place.
His muscles are shifting in the light; he looks full of barely restrained power – small and compact and not to be underestimated.
Reaper has the height advantage, though. He is boring down on his partner, mask glinting like bone in the diffuse light, body big and overbearing, boots heavy next to the positively delicate synthetic feet as he forces Hanzo to retreat before him; makes him take one small step at a time.
Hanzo’s eyes are narrowed, the corner of his mouth lifted above the snarl of his teeth as he is forced to take yet another step back, shoulder blades almost brushing the pole Reaper tries to trap him against.
Their hard stares bore into each other, the music thudding around them as Reaper suddenly surges forward while simultaneously yanking on the chain binding them, forcing Hanzo into the hard lines of his body, their heaving chests pressed closely, nipples tight and excited despite their murderous looks.
Their audience stares in silent, conflicted arousal.
.o.
Every time Hanzo squirms, Reaper pulls the chain tighter around his neck. His range of expression is limited due to the mask, yet dark satisfaction is rolling off of him in dizzying waves as he tilts his head and presses close to the other dancer in a parody of comfort.
Hanzo’s back is arched, leaning against the man behind, face a little red from lack of air. He has one arm up, hand clawing at the side of Reaper’s hood – he is not struggling against the chokehold his partner has on him, despite the chain binding their wrists together digging visibly sharp into his windpipe.
Their bodies seem to be convulsing with the music; slow, undulating waves as Reaper lets his free, unbound hand wander across Hanzo’s chest; squeezing the pecs and cupping them for their audience’s viewing pleasure. He is showing Hanzo off with a kind of self-indulgence that is almost more obscene than the act itself – an owner presenting their pet.
When he pinches one tan, oval nipple, he stoically takes Hanzo’s needy backwards arch, his heavily booted feet planted wide for better purchase.
He is standing like a rock; expressionless and terrifying as he pulls on the chain again and gets Hanzo to convulse like a snake when his throat gets crushed cruelly, and his breath shuts off completely for just a few precious seconds. Reaper takes the struggles of his partner’s compact, strong body, free arm curling around his waist, dark hand splayed on the quivering abs of his belly – as possessive a gesture as it is weirdly comforting.
The music starts to dip, the heavy beat softening into a more sensual roll of dark tones as Reaper’s hand starts turning, heel grinding against Hanzo’s belly, until long thick fingers point down towards the other dancer’s crotch, drawing the gaze of the enraptured audience lower… lower… towards the lift of the small cloth Hanzo is wearing, his cock tip perfectly outlined beneath the thin material; made see-through by the wetness seeping into the fabric. It is clinging to the head of Hanzo’s cock, slick and obscene, showing off the swollen shape as it flexes for their entertainment, lifting the cloth up enough to give a little glimpse of his swollen, ripe balls.
Hanzo’s lips are moving, eyes staring at the ceiling sightlessly.
When Reaper’s hand slides lower, the palm rubbing across the wet outline of his cock with an air of total possessiveness, Hanzo jerks once again in one powerful, smooth wave, the machinery in his calves hissing as he rolls up unto the balls of his feet, just so he can fuck against the broad, brown hand.
Reaper pulls his head back for a second – changes sides so he can use his chained hand to almost lovingly card through the thick, loose hair at Hanzo’s temple. He looks sinister as death himself, large and dark, towering behind Hanzo with an indifferent face of bone white metal.
He seems cool and aloof even when he curls his hand around the other man’s cock, broad thumb rubbing firm – almost painfully so – over the wet tip peeking pink through the eggshell color of the fabric. The music is low by now – nearly non-existent, so the soft tinkle of their connecting chain can be heard as Reaper keeps petting his partner, wrist flicking to let the links clank together – never letting anybody forget the power he holds, even as he is benevolent enough to let Hanzo fuck into the cup of his hand. (Benevolent enough to let him breathe without pain, and swallow without bruising himself up.)
Hanzo’s chest is flushed beneath the warm, yellow light shining down on them. It’s heaving and shiny with sweat, his mouth dropped open as his abs quiver and clench, hips curling forward into Reaper’s large hand.
His fingers are still clenched in the man’s hood, pulling in mindless pleasure until Reaper rears his head back and shakes it like an unwilling hound while simultaneously taking his hand away from Hanzo’s crotch and placing it on his hip instead – giving the dark room full of anonymous faces a perfect view of the man’s cock lined out beneath the wet material clinging to it.
Only when the desperate clench of Hanzo’s body relaxes, hand losing its grip in favor of reaching for Reaper’s hip like the other one, does the other man resume; fingers dancing along the wet dick beneath the cloth, dragging along the prominent, fat vein and circling the swollen head until the audience can hear the breathless cry coming from the dancer.
Reaper’s shoulders shake in obvious mirth. His hand stops petting Hanzo’s hair and slowly reaches for the short length of chain. He drags his movements as long as he can, obviously revelling in the sudden tension in the room; how their audience seems to hold a collective breath in preparation for what is to come. Hanzo’s eyes glaze over in the dim light. Large and black and shining like polished onyx as Reaper strangulates him with slow, perverse pleasure and presses his large hand against the jerking line of his excited cock.
The music has stopped. The wet sounds of Hanzo’s desperate fight for oxygen are loud and horrible and gorgeous in the sticky room. His abs are clenching, the large muscles in his thigh shivering as he fucks frantically into the loose tunnel of Reaper’s hand, the cloth covering his dick sliding wet and clinging along the slick skin of his cock.
When he comes, he does so silently; mouth open and body one long, quivering string, fingertips digging into Reaper’s flesh with bruising strength.
Reaper laughs. A low droning sound straight from a nightmare as he pulls his hand away and shows the room Hanzo’s shame soaking into the fabric of his cloth.
It is only when Hanzo starts convulsing again, drool slicking from the corner of his mouth, that he suddenly slackens the tightness in the chain – does, in fact, curl it from around Hanzo’s neck, a pretty ring of bruises circling the man’s throat like a collar as his shaking legs can’t keep his body weight up and he collapses to the floor.
Reaper stands impassive above him; silent again. Watching predator like as the shorter man tries to get back to his feet – to get himself back together – and fails miserably.
Music starts bleeding in once more in heavy, hypnotising beats. Uncertainty starts to bleed through the room, people shifting in their seats, casting little glances about – until Reaper moves again; drawing gazes back and arresting them with his sheer presence.
He slowly crosses his arms across the width of his muscular chest,legs shifting closer together, knee lifting minimally as he shoves his left foot forward and nudges the steel cap of his toes against Hanzo’s shoulder… collar bone… throat… uses it to tip the man’s chin up until Hanzo is forced to stare into the darkness behind the lights surrounding the stage before he turns his head from the staring eyes with a dull flush creeping through his cheeks.
Reaper places his boot down in front of him. He seems to be waiting for something and, when nothing happens, he suddenly lifts his other leg and lowers his foot onto the nape of Hanzo’s neck, forcefully pressing him down.
Only the people in the front row can hear the low, aggressive hiss of “Do it!”. There is another second of hesitation, Hanzo struggling half-heartedly and weak as a kitten against the boot pressing him down without mercy, before he stops and closes his eyes in something like relieved defeat.
When he starts to do it – starts to lick the steel cap and black leather of Reaper’s boot without a doubt – he applies himself to the task with single-minded determination.
His eyes are closed, lashes lying dark and pretty against his sharp cheekbones as he first just licks, then kisses, then rubs his cheek against the warmed, wet metal like a cat seeking affection.
Reaper is impassive above him, head tilted, mask watching the proceedings, and only the prominent bulge in his tight, skimpy shorts showing off his interest in what he was seeing. When he pulls away, Hanzo chases after him, pink tongue out and eyes snapping up towards his mask. He almost looks out of it – his aloofness and almost feline pride having given way to a submissive kind of desperation that couldn’t be part of the act… could it?
The beat surges and Reaper rounds Hanzo, arm held in deference to the chain connecting them, powerful leg swinging across Hanzo’s hip until he is standing above him, watching, assessing, head tilting slowly from side to side as he seems to contemplate how to continue playing.
In the end, he drops to his knees, free arm reaching beneath Hanzo’s belly to hitch him up, get his round ass in the air and on display for the audience who watches, struck silent and with stuttering breaths, as Reaper starts moving; a slow, dirty grind of his crotch against his partner’s ass, rutting him like an animal to the beat of the heavy warm beat of the music.
He fakes at fucking Hanzo, yet it still seems more obscene than the real thing; thick muscles bulging against the restraints of the fishnets, sweat on his back gleaming as he curls it into his thrusts, hips snapping forward and driving against Hanzo with selfish, sensual finality.
The chain is rattling with his violent movements until Reaper grabs a hold of it with an air of impatience, bound hand splaying between Hanzo’s shoulderblades and pressing him down to the floor, making him rub his face against the dirty stage as the other arm around his hips keeps him hoisted up for the faux fucking he is receiving right there on the stage.
Hanzo looks blissed out, arms, when he tries to stem against the tide, shaking fiercely until he simply curls them around the pole next to his head and holds on for dear life. Reaper snarls behind his mask and stands one boot up next to Hanzo’s knee with a heavy, dull thump, body slicked in sweat as he pulls himself up higher, and practically mounts his partner like an animal, fingernails digging into Hanzo’s back and slowly scratching him up as Reaper gets more and more into the act.
The rhythm of the song picks up – and so do Reaper’s movements. He is leaning forward, head hanging low as he seems to fully concentrate on the task of drilling Hanzo into the stage, make him take a cock that wasn’t available for the taking, grunting low and fierce with every sharp thrust that presses his poor cock against the lush curve of Hanzo’s ass, squeezing it painfully, deliciously.
The sweat pours off his shoulders, tickles down his back, and his toes curl in his boots, wondering what the boss would say if he simply said ‘fuck it’ to everything and pulled his cock out; shoved Hanzo’s ridiculous little cloth piece covering his ass to the side and shoved in deep where Hanzo was warm and ready; loose from earlier and…
The music stops abruptly, and so does Reaper, chest heaving, eyes wide behind his mask, staring down at the back of Hanzo’s head (staring at the way Hanzo slowly, almost shyly drags his tongue across the floor as if fucking missing Reaper’s boots).
The room is silent, charged with a kind of feverish, mad lust as Reaper makes his protesting muscles move and forces himself up, arm imperious as he jerks on the chain and forces Hanzo to rise from his breathless, powerless sprawl on the floor to a more-or-less firm stance on all fours, and then, after another little encouraging tug, urges him to slowly rise unto his feet.
Reaper leaves. Slow, cadenced thumps of his boots, not unlike his solo shows when the music hasn’t started yet and he enters the stage with overbearing confidence. The chain pulls taut between them just once – then Hanzo starts walking, face flushed but impassive; as if the front of his little crotch piece wasn’t soaked with cum, clinging to the tantalizing swing of his cock.
Only a few more steps. Only a few more fucking steps and then Reaper would be able to slam Hanzo against the next best wall and finally drive into him like he pretended to do on stage.
Only a few more steps.
Cyberrat Writes 