Hanzo +Genji+Sojiro – Hanzo gets hot over silverfox Genji and remembers his time with his father.

---

In the beginning, Hanzo had doubted the cyborg claiming to be his brother even was Genji. True, his first gut instinct had recognized the eyes the man – the creature – had revealed to him, but after the situation had calmed down and the adrenaline abated, he had not been so sure anymore.

Soon after officially joining, however, his fears had abated. There simply was no way around the truth that, yes, the cyborg who claimed to be his brother indeed was Genji.

The realization had hit him hard that first time he’d seen him without the mask in proper lighting, his belly aching fierce and immediate at the cut of his face; the way he twists his mouth.

That beard. Nothing like their oto-san’s, of course – their father’s facial hair had been always immaculately groomed and perfect, not like Genji’s wild, patchy scruff – but undeniably shaping his face to what he blatantly was: his father’s son.

It hits him again and again just how old they have gotten. That the carefree boy he’s almost killed has become a man that has aged far beyond his years. His voice, gentle and soft when filtered through the mechanics of his mask, is rougher, deeper when without it – and Hanzo tries not to wonder whether that, too, is a courtesy of his failed fratricide.

It troubles Hanzo at night, when he is curled on his bed, one hand feverishly, secretly working his cock as he presses the other to his mouth to muffle his soft, needy cries.

In his head, the both of them get muddled. He remembers the nervous little trysts he’s had with his father; stolen away in the oyabun’s chambers, feeling him move inside him deep and steady and teaching him all about how good it feels to let go and be used… but in his feverish mind, hand wrapped around his cock, thumb and forefinger pinching a bit mean at the crown, he finds himself slipping; the tickle of his father’s clothes becomes the slick, cool sensation of Genji’s cybernetics.

The silky glide of Sojiro’s beard along his taint becomes the scratchy burn of Genji’s greying scruff.

It shames him to no end; how he thinks of his brother when he plays with his foreskin, tugging on the silky folds and slipping a fingertip beneath it. Remembering how his father had taught him how to hold on to his orgasm as he sucked his cock, the tongue of the oyabun doing what Hanzo’s fingers try to emulate; yet when he stares down his trembling body in his fantasies, it is Genji’s knowing, calm eyes that look back up at him.

No matter who he is thinking of, though, Hanzo always whines for one: Oto-san. Whispered into the palm of his hand, big thighs shaking with want as his body burns and his balls work, so close to coming.

It bleeds into his everyday life, too. He finds himself looking at Genji and having to be careful of the first word that wants to come out; the daddy that’s on the tip of his tongue.

It is shameful. Disgraceful.

Dishonorable.

But the truth is he misses his oto-san. He’s missed him since the day he died, whining for him as he fucks himself on his own fingers, never as hard or as deep as his daddy could do; and Genji just brings it all back up again, even if he might not realize it or even would want to. His mannerisms, the way his face moves, the cadence of his voice – it is all their father.

And Hanzo aches.