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It's All Your Fault

Chapter Text

Overwatch, an organization of heroes determined to bring justice to the world, wherever they may be needed. Composed of the best of the best, Overwatch was the binding force of the world. Paragons of virtue, paladins for the people, veritable warriors, battling for the world.

Hanzo had heard all the stories, had watched the news, had grown up around the legends. Genji had joined them first, years ago, and, now that the pair had reconciled (a bit, not yet on the terms they were as children, but enough to be able to have conversations with one another), he had managed to convince the elder Shimada to join the crew. After a bit of wheedling, bartering, and promises that Hanzo would be cashing in at some later point of time, of course. However, Hanzo could not help but feel that he would not be needed in Overwatch, seeing as he would be joining the ranks of titans, and, inside, even with his skills as an archer, he couldn’t quash the niggling feeling in the pit of his stomach, that, perhaps, he wouldn’t be good enough.

Genji assured his brother that they would need a sniper, as the opposing Talon forces had an almost unstoppable sniper within their ranks, which only served to excite Hanzo’s nerves. Multiple reassurances later (“No, Brother, I did not say that to deter you! I meant that you might be able to stop her, as your skills are unmatched!”), Hanzo agreed to join the team.

And that was what brought him to where he was now. Standing outside of the meeting room where he would introduce himself to the members of Overwatch, both old and new. His throat felt like a desert, and he felt as wound up as a taut bowstring, nerves starting to get to him now. He took a deep breath, wondering how they would receive him (with looks of haughty pride, disgust, looking down their nose at him, eyebrows cocked, snorts and laughter bubbling up in their throats, because why would they want to have someone like him within their ranks and he should really stop this thought process now, because he was a Shimada, he should have more confidence in his skills), and stepped forward to press his hand against the thermoscanner next to the door. With a soft sigh, the door opened, and revealed to him--

“C’mon, McCree, you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me!”

The table was full of agents, all bickering or engrossed in one activity or another. Genji was located off to one side, seated next to an omnic (“Zenyatta is my master. He taught me forgiveness.” Hanzo remembers rolling his eyes, and he represses the urge to do so now”), and he turned his head towards Hanzo when he appeared in the doorway. A very large woman with a shock of pink hair on her head was enraptured with a smaller woman, whose hair was tied up in a loose brunette bun, and they did not look up at him when he entered the room. Two older men, one impossibly huge and the other peculiarly small, were engaged in raucous conversation, one that even the presence of a new person in the room could not interrupt. Then, dead center in the table, a group of four people were bickering, playing cards splayed out in front of them. One with long brown hair, who was furiously chomping on her bubble gum, another whose hair was pulled back into a ponytail, dreadlocks a gradient from brown to a neon green, and yet another, with hair layered and swept to the side, who had her finger pointed accusingly in the direction of the last man, whom he could not get a good look at, seeing as he was on the receiving end of what seemed like some sort of complaint. All he saw was red and black plaid, stretched across broad shoulders, a mess of brown hair, and a wide-brimmed, tan hat. And, lastly, at the front of the table, were the only four that looked up to him when he entered the room. A man with a thatch of grey hair on his head, a nasty scar across his visage, and what seemed like a permanent scowl etched into the lines of his face, seated near a woman whose looks were timeless but eyes aged, long blonde bangs swept gracefully to the side, with the rest pulled back into a ponytail. Behind her, a woman with hair black as ink, that fell like such down her shoulders, with a swirling tattoo under her right eye, and, lastly, at the head of the table, presumably the leader of the operation, was…

A real life gorilla.

Hanzo stared, feeling like he was just dragged into a circus and not a world-renown organization of heroes. The gorilla up front cleared his throat loudly, getting the attention of almost everyone in the room save for the man with the hat. As if on queue, like a child entering a classroom, all eyes and heads swiveled to stare at him, which almost caused Hanzo to step back and bolt. He wasn’t used to this (he was a sniper, damn it, he was supposed to be out of the way, out of sight, and now there were all these people staring at him.) Everyone had quieted down, conversations dying out, people shushing others, and there fell a hush throughout the room.

Or, it would be quiet, if a certain man wasn’t still speaking.

“--darlin’, now, just admit I’m better than ya at poker. I’m far more experienced, that’s fer certain, and I don’t quite appreciate yer accusation! Now, don’t get all quiet on me now, Lena, I know yer a chatterbox...”

The man with his back to Hanzo was still speaking, a twang to his voice, something Hanzo had never heard before, and he couldn’t quite describe it, though he found himself quite annoyed by it as of right now. Hanzo just wanted to get through this already, and this oblivious man was completely ignorant of the situation he was in. That is, until the man with the head of grey hair towards the front let out a long sigh through his nostrils, and slammed his fist on the table.

“Jesse McCree. For once in your life, would you kindly shut the Hell up,” he growled out, voice gravelly and commanding.

‘Jesse’, or, as Hanzo knew him, the oblivious man, sputtered and seemed like he was about to launch right back into another tirade. That is, until the woman sitting next to him, the one he had addressed as ‘Lena’, grabbed him by the shoulders and flipped him around.

At first, his expression was one part confused and three parts angry. A snarl tugged at one side of his mouth, all unbridled animosity, and it seemed permanent on his face until his eyes landed on Hanzo, who was still awkwardly standing in the doorway. All at once, the man’s expression dropped into one of sheepish embarrassment, and his cheeks seemed to flush with warmth. Hanzo watched as he sat down where he was, looking thoroughly chastised, and more than a mite ashamed. If he weren’t so annoyed, Hanzo would feel sorry for him, looking like a kicked pup. But he wasn’t in a pitying mood.

The gorilla at the front of the room nodded to Hanzo and beckoned him closer, encouraging him with a smile. Hanzo nodded and gracefully moved into the room, finally letting the door shut behind him. He still felt the cold heat of anxiety prickling his skin, but, as the seconds ticked by, he fell slowly into the businessman moniker he had had to adopt as the heir to the Shimada estate. He drew himself up, tilting his chin up and folding his arms together behind his back. The eyes locked on him followed his every move.

“Ahem, now that we have your attention,” the gorilla was speaking, Hanzo realized numbly, “I would like to introduce you all to our newest member of Overwatch. He is the brother of one of our cherished members, Genji. Now, let’s get a move on with introductions.” The gorilla sat up a little straighter, giving Hanzo a wide smile, before beginning once again.

“My name is Winston. I’m the leader and head scientist of the newly recalled Overwatch and I was the one that sent out the recall in the first place. If you have any grievances, questions, or need help with anything, do not hesitate to come find me.” The gorilla-- no, Winston, nodded his way before relaxing in his seat. Hanzo bowed at the waist a bit, acknowledging him as such. From there, introductions moved clockwise.

The blonde, ageless woman was known as Mercy on the battlefield, but referred to as Angela while off-duty. She’s the medic for the operation. Hanzo finds her quite nice, if a bit mysterious.

The woman behind her is Fareeha, or “Pharah” in the field. She was part of the offensive line, a woman of extreme strength, with an interest in the finer points of demolition, a young soldier of Egyptian heritage. Hanzo pegs her as someone to cover in the heat of battle, and he files away the way her hand rests on Angela’s shoulder as useful information.

Next is the man who succeeded in shutting the mouth of the man from earlier. He is Jack Morrison. That’s all he offers, other than a grunt of him being ‘unofficial second-in-command’, and Hanzo immediately feels intimidated. Everyone knows the stories of Jack Morrison, of the previous leader of Overwatch. He knows he doesn’t have to introduce himself, and Hanzo gives him the same acknowledgement as the others, with a slight bow.

The man with the dreads is Lucio, the one that brought about revolution against Vishkar in Rio, the woman next to him is Hana, a video game streamer from Korea. They both seem extremely young, but they look excited to be there, and they both give him matching grins, that he returns with polite bows.

Zarya is the tall woman with the pink hair, she gives him a hearty smile and flexes an arm, which Hanzo takes to mean she is one Hell of a force on the battlefield, while Mei is the short, thicker woman next to her, who introduces herself as a climatologist. Hanzo greets them both in kind.
Torbjorn is the shorter man who was engaged in raucous conversation with the other older man earlier, and he clacks his metal arm at Hanzo with a hearty laugh. Reinhardt introduces himself just as loudly, boisterous and overwhelming. Hanzo gives them the same treatment as the others.

Then, Genji, who only nods at him, which he returns just the same, and the omnic, Zenyatta, whose voice is metallic yet soothing, though Hanzo is loathe to admit the latter. Another bow for them.

Then, the ‘Lena’ woman, who eagerly tells Hanzo how excited she is to be working with him. She tells him how she’s heard much about him from Genji, and Hanzo is almost swept away by her attitude, before he catches himself and only gives her a bow, rather than a smile, as answer for her introduction.

Lastly, it was that man.

He stands from where he’s seated and turns to look at Hanzo, what looks like newfound confidence tugging at the corners of his lips. Hanzo immediately feels a sense of irritation, though he quashes it to remain civil. The man in front of him take his hat off, exposing rough and tumble layers of thick brown locks, all strewn this way and that, and watches him put his hand over his heart, a smile playing at his lips.

“My apologies for earlier, sir, didn’t mean’ta ignore ya like that,” he drawls, and Hanzo feels his eyebrow twitch involuntarily, “they call me McCree, sir, Jesse McCree.” He goes through a show of putting his hat on again, one side of his lip twitching into a smirk, and continues on with his introduction, “but you can call me anytime.” He accentuates the line with a wink and a tip of his ridiculous hat.

Hanzo feels his ears begin to burn a bit, and he’s sure he can’t hide the disgust that’s likely plastered across his face. He’s not sure how to react, and he feels like everyone in the room is waiting with bated breath. He’s pleasantly surprised when he watches Lena smack McCree over the head. Hard.

McCree lets out a loud curse and grabs at the back of his head as he goes to sit down, now being thoroughly berated by a rather irritated Lena (“Would you wait at least a week before you start flirting with the new recruits? I don’t care how long this dry spell’s been lasting, you get yourself in order, damn it, and stop being so… so….” “Thirsty.” “Yes! Thank you, Lucio, stop being so thirsty, McCree, it’s embarrassing!!”) and Hanzo feels absolutely dumbstruck, watching the team either laugh in good humor or shake their heads. He certainly wasn’t expecting any of this when he decided to join the famous Overwatch.

Winston cleared his throat and stood, quieting the whole room instantly. He nodded towards Hanzo, indicating that he could introduce himself now. The eyes all returned to him, staring, and Hanzo straightened his back even more, further giving off that air of regality. He was less nervous now, especially after taking stock of what was less of an organized team of heroes, and more of a rag-tag bunch of vigilantes. And, though he was still a mite irritated, he did feel like McCree’s attitude and horrendous pick up line might have helped minutely with calming him down.

“Greetings. My name is Hanzo Shimada. I am brother to Genji, and I am pleased to make your acquaintance. I am skilled in archery and excel as a sniper. I look forward to working with all of you. I hope we can all work together properly in the future,” Hanzo says in a measured and even tone. Hanzo uncrossed his arms, pressing them against his sides, and bent down for a low bow, properly greeting all of his new teammates.

After a beat of silence, in which Hanzo straightened up again, Lena gave a loud whoop and was suddenly in front of him with a flash of blue light. The elder man took a step back, surprise in his eyes, as Lena grabbed his shoulders, one clothed and the other barren.

“Cheers, love! I’m tickled pink at being able to finally meet you! I’m sure I speak for everyone when I say we’re pleased to have you! Welcome to the team!” Lena is all bubbly words and glowing cheeks, and Hanzo can’t help the slight smile that tugs at the sides of his lips. Affirmations spread around the room, and Hanzo feels the last of his nerves slip away at the widespread acceptance he finds greeting him. He relaxes a bit, feeling less high-strung, and watches the British woman blink back to her seat, before diverting his attention back to their leader.

Winston gives the room a smile, not bothering to hide his pride for his team. He continues the meeting for a few more minutes, describing how they would be including Hanzo in team drills the following week, giving him a few days to settle in. He gave Hanzo a tablet that was preset with meal times, a map, directions for an assault directly on the base, and various other pieces of intel. Hanzo thanks him, and Winston adjourns the meeting, directing Genji to lead his brother to his room. His new team all begin to file out of the room, giving him nods, waves, big smiles, and congratulations, as well as a hat tip and another wink (which Lena catches and promptly smacks the offender on the arm). Leaving him, his brother, and the omnic Zenyatta in the otherwise empty meeting room. Hanzo nods at the omnic, the one his brother calls “Master”, and the robot responds in kind, before floating out of the room to give the two Shimadas some privacy.

“Brother. I am happy you joined,” Genjii is speaking to him as he stands and makes his way towards the door, and Hanzo is quick to follow after him, “you will be a valuable asset in future battles. A sniper of your caliber will be able to pick off agents left and right.” Hanzo nods, thanking him gruffly, and they lapse into a comfortable silence. The weather is balmy at Watchpoint Gibraltar, with a slight breeze the gently weaves its way through the folds of Hanzo’s kyudo-gi. He finds he quite likes it, especially with the scent of sea salt weighing heavy in the air.

The walk from the meeting room to his room is short, and Hanzo finds he’s soon left to his devices in an unfamiliar room. No, in his home, and after being on the run for so long, it’s a welcome change. His bags have already been deposited, neatly placed near a small cot off to the side of the room. Other than that, there’s an en suite restroom, complete with toilet, a few cabinets, and a sink; a nightstand is next to his bed, as well as a computer desk with a chair. Lastly, a small closet and a dresser, but, otherwise, the room is vacant. Very bare bones.

Hanzo busies himself with unpacking, making his bed, hanging his bow and quiver up near the door for easy access, putting his clothes away, traditional clothing hung neatly in the closet, while normal clothes were folded and placed in the dresser. When the last piece of luggage had been emptied and put away, Hanzo heard a light rap at the door. He gave the room a once over and deemed it sufficient, before turning to answer the door. He opened it, blinking in the sudden wash of natural light, and was greeted by the sight of McCree.

He looked embarrassed and his hat was off his head, placed over his chest like earlier in the meeting room. Hanzo took the moment to drag his eyes down the other’s person, one eyebrow cocked as he took stock of him. He had an angular face, with high cheekbones, craggy nose, slightly thinner lips, and rather sharp eyes. His hair was just as haphazard as earlier, flyaway hairs near his side burns, which blended into his beard and goatee. His facial hair was rough, untrimmed, and barely styled. Hanzo raked his eyes downward, along the length of his thick neck, watching his Adam’s apple bob with a gulp; down his broad chest, partially concealed by his hat; along the muscular curves of his biceps; down his right forearm, which is all toned muscle, dusted with thick hair, and then down his left, which, Hanzo realizes, is composed of metal and wires, a prosthetic not unlike his own two legs. He wonders how he lost his arm, but files it away as something to ask about at another point in time. He resumes his visual descent down McCree’s body, finding big hands, both metal and flesh; he drags his eyes down to his belt, which is adorned with a large and gaudy buckle, emblazoned with the acronym “BAMF”; down his nicely fitted blue jeans and ending on the tips of boots peeking out from under his jeans. He looks exactly like an old Western cowboy, Hanzo realizes with an inward laugh. Hanzo nodded a bit, snapping his eyes back up to McCree’s face, who was looking a bit more red and a lot more uncomfortable.

“What can I help you with, McCree?” Hanzo asks, tone curt and to the point.

“Well, I’m here to apologize for earlier,” McCree begins after a deep breath, his eyes locked on Hanzo’s, who notices that they are quite the warm brown, “I was actin’ a right fool. Wasn’t kind of me to treat ya like that, ‘specially on yer first day on the team.” He places his hat back on his head and extends his human hand forward, that Hanzo stares at with eyebrow still arched. He hears an audible gulp from McCree, who continues blathering on in that voice of his, “I figured I’d come ta amend things and maybe offer a fresh start. So, nice t’meet’cha, they call me Jesse McCree.”

Hanzo stares at the hand in front of him, before slowly raising his eyes to look at the man in front of him. He smirks, delighting silently in the way McCree jumps a bit, and his lips twist into a nervous smile. His irritation from earlier has ebbed away, deemed as irrelevant, and the fact that this fellow went out of his way to come apologize for his behavior only served to soothe the vexed dragon. Hanzo crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe, crossing his ankles, and replies to McCree in a smooth, lightly teasing tone.

“Yes, I’m aware, and I am allowed to, what did you say? Call you anytime? Is that right, cowboy?” Hanzo smirks a bit more as he watches the way McCree’s eyes widen and his cheeks flush, and he has to hold back a snort as the other man’s jaw drops open. McCree tries to compose himself, standing up straighter, and is about to (presumably) respond in a flirtatious way, when Hanzo cuts him off.

“Well, Anytime-san, I thank you for coming by to apologize. I accept. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Hanzo fakes a long yawn, stretching his arms up into the air, “it has been quite the long day. I’m going to retire now. Have a good night, cowboy.”

Hanzo begins to close the door on McCree, who has begun sputtering (“Wa-- Wait, what, hold on a tick, darlin’, uh, I-- Shimada-san, uh-- fuck, wait--”), and he gives him a barely there grin as he shuts the door completely, leaving the other man out in the hall. He presses his ear to the door and listens to the sound of McCree, who lets out a low whistle and kicks something, if the jingle of the spurs on his boots is any indication. McCree mutters as he walks away, but all Hanzo can make out is, “damn tease”, before the voice is far enough away that he can’t hear him anymore. A smile spreads itself across his lips before he can stop himself.

Hanzo has a feeling he’ll enjoy being a part of this organization.

Chapter Text

Hanzo expected a little more gossip and lot less acceptance when he joined Overwatch. What with Genji being in their ranks far sooner than he ever was, he had anticipated whispering and hateful glares, seeing as he was the reason why Genji was more cybernetic than man. But, much to his silent delight, he was welcomed with open arms.

For the first few days, Hanzo explored Watchpoint, scaling buildings and cliffsides like a child, finding where the communal showers were, scoping out the best views, and slowly coming out of his shell. He found that Lena was a joy to be around, as she blinked to and fro, excitable and bubbly. She impressed him with her teleporting abilities on more than one occasion, though she was sometimes immensely clumsy with them, and Hanzo made mental notes to watch her closely during battle.

Reinhardt and Torbjorn are a pleasure to listen to, what with their booming voices and boisterous attitude. He was almost roped into a drinking game with the pair, but, with one look at the alcohol content on the bottle they had procured, Hanzo politely declined, despite their goading and teasing. Although, he did stay to watch them, and ended up damn near doubled over in laughter as the pair began arguing drunkenly in their respective native tongues, startling anyone who even tried to approach the recreation room.

Lucio and Hana are difficult to keep up with. Being so young, the both of them move at speeds the aging Hanzo can’t exactly be on pace with, not for lack of trying. He wasn’t too bad at the video game tourneys that Hana schemed up, and he enjoyed listening to the soothing sounds of Lucio’s music. They managed to make him feel a lot younger, though he sorely paid for it later, when his back ached from being hunched over on the couch for too long.

He only sees Jack a handful of times during the few days of reprieve he has, and those times are when he enters or exits the training area, sometimes in the mess hall, and more times near the meeting rooms. He is almost always accompanied by Fareeha, Mercy, and/or Winston, possibly all three. He felt unnecessarily dwarfed around him, even though there wasn’t much of a difference in height between the two of them. Hanzo found it best to just avoid him, for the time being.

Hanzo never sees Mei without Zarya, the two seem practically glued at the hip. He catches the pair in the kitchen once, flushed cheeks and guilty looks on both of their faces, both awkwardly standing in drastically different spots. He connects the dots immediately, leaving them to their devices. He wonders how many other agents are involved romantically like that.

He spends time with his brother more than anything, meditating with him, attempting to fix the bond. He feels unimaginable guilt when he watches steam blow out of the slots in Genji’s cybernetics. I did this to him, he thinks bitterly, even though he knows that his brother has forgiven him, he still manages to beat himself up for it. But he takes baby steps towards redemption, struggling to catch up with Genji, rather than the other way around. He even manages to be more than just curt with his omnic master, taking the time to listen to his (rather annoying) monotonous monologue of peace, love, and acceptance. Hanzo may hear him, but he doesn’t take it to heart. At least, not all of it.

His favorite pastime over the course of the last few days has been teasing their resident cowboy. At every chance he gets, he refers to him as ‘Anytime-san’, which, from the looks of things, embarrasses McCree to no end. If he encounters him in the hall, he makes it a habit to lock eyes with him and smirk, which usually results in the other man stopping dead in his tracks with eyes the size of dinner plates. Once or twice, when he lingered around the training hall, watching the others practice their various skills, he would catch McCree’s eye, and he would stare for a moment, reveling in the way McCree squirmed under his intense gaze, before he would cease and smile as he looked away. He sometimes swore he heard a whine like a neglected hound from his direction once or twice.

No matter how many times he would encounter McCree, he never let him get a word in edgewise, keeping him at a distance where he could poke, prod, and pick on, while leaving himself without a scratch.

What a fun game this was.

The fun and games all ended when Winston began to include Hanzo in the regimented group training they conducted every few days. The first one went off without a hitch, as he climbed walls and sniped the AI programmed bots from a distance, marveling the team with his skills. They commended him afterwards, all gathering around to compliment him (which he preened at, like a proud dragon, chin tilted up as he soaked himself in the praise showered on him), save for McCree, who just stared slack-jawed at him from the sidelines.

He tossed the dog a bone with a side-eyed glance and a smirk.

Their second training emphasized working together, and Hanzo found that Zarya’s gravitation hammer, combined with one of his special arrows that split into a handful of other arrows upon first impact, maximized damage output. Mei had a similar attack, where she tosses out a drone that freezes all the AI in the surrounding area, and Hanzo utilizes that to his advantage as well. Sniping from behind Reinhardt’s shield also proves for great strategy. He finds himself slipping into an easy rhythm with the other members of Overwatch, feeling comfortable for the first time in years.

Of course, when one finds themselves solace, something must come along to wreck it.

Hanzo has taken to coming to the practice range after dinner, when most everyone has either retired to bed or gone to the rec room. It’s a chance to breathe and think, which he’s grateful for. It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy the presence of the others, it’s that he needs a moment to himself sometimes. The range offers him silence, interspersed with the occasional therapeutic thwack when his arrow hits its mark.

His mind wanders. He’s been with Overwatch for a little over a month now. He thinks of how he’s happy to have found a home here. He thanks any deity that will listen for his brother’s forgiveness. He ponders what strategy to use next time he plays a video game against Lucio and Hana. He wonders if Angela and Fareeha are as close as Zarya and Mei. He thinks of teasing the cowboy.

He enjoys playing with McCree. It all serves as a fun pastime, a no-risk, high-reward relationship. And he knows that the cowboy isn’t serious in his flirting, seeing as he catches him being flirtatious with damn near anyone on the base (something that is a delight to watch, Hanzo remembers the way Zarya loomed behind McCree when his compliments on Mei’s outfit got too friendly, and the withering look that Jack shot McCree’s way when he made some joke about calling him “daddy”). Filthy dog, Hanzo reminisces with a snort. Out of everyone on the team, McCree seems to have the most character. He’s charming, yet obnoxious, dons a style all his own, reeks of cigars, whiskey, and something Hanzo can’t quite place, and his rugged looks only serve to add to his odd charm.

When it begins to approach midnight, Hanzo usually finds his way to the communal showers, which are all empty at this time of night, and he takes his time under the spray. Tonight is no different, as he feels his muscles relax, hot water running down his back in rivulets. He soaks, lathers up, cleansing himself of the sweat and stress of the day. While it’s nothing like the onsens back home, Hanzo cannot deny that he loves it. Nothing but him, the water, and silence.

Clothed in sweatpants and a loose tee, with his hair damp and down, clinging to his skin, Hanzo watches the ground as he waltzes back to his room, humming softly under his breath. The chirp of crickets serenades him, lulling him into a sense of security that envelopes him. A perfect night.

He hears the soft jingle of spurs, feels the presence of another person, and he tilts his head up to catch the eye of a certain cowboy. McCree was smoking a cigarillo, wide eyes locked on Hanzo, practically frozen in place. He looks like a child who was caught with his hand in the cookie jar. The archer just smirks at him, not bothering to halt in his procession back to his room. He bids him a goodnight, throwing in an ‘anytime-san’ for good measure. Hanzo’s just about to get out of earshot when he hears a mutter from the cowboy’s direction.

“What was that?” He asks, voice lilting a bit. Hanzo tilts his head and glances over his shoulder, that smirk still playing on his lips.

McCree stiffens up again, jaw clenching, and Hanzo silently preens when he sees the way the cowboy’s cheeks darken in the moonlight. It’s so easy, he thinks to himself, wondering if the other man would pass out if he were actually trying to make him blush. When Hanzo doesn’t completely disregard him (like usual), the gunslinger clears his throat, seemingly finding some confidence.

“Just said, I ain’t ever seen someone as beautiful as you,” McCree repeats, rugged voice barely above a whisper. He quickly retreats, hands, both flesh and metal, stuffed into his pockets, having used up almost all his confidence just to say that, and Hanzo is left in the hallway, frozen in place as he listens to the sound of spurs getting farther and farther away.

Blood has rushed to his cheeks. His eyes are bugging out of his skull. His heartbeat is thudding loud and strung in his ears. His throat is suddenly constricted, like a vice is clamped on his esophagus, while one word, rasped in a smoke-addled croon, rings in his eardrums.


Chapter Text


The word bangs around his head like a pinball, knocking his thoughts loose and leaving his concentration scrambled. Hanzo stares numbly at the ceiling, stark white and illuminated only by the moonlight streaming in through the window. His heart hasn’t ceased its incessant thumping since he heard what McCree said earlier. So simple of a word, leaving the cowboy’s mouth so easily, and yet, here he was, blushing like a schoolgirl. It might not have even meant anything to the gunslinger. Hanzo grits his teeth and rolls onto his side, curling on himself in a last-ditch effort to quell the staccato beating of his heart, or to untangle the knots in his stomach. He falls asleep to the thought of lips, ringed in an ungroomed goatee, set beneath a craggy nose, curling themselves around a four-syllable word that has never sounded so sweet.


Hanzo jolts awake, hair haphazardly strewn about his head, eyes wide, breathing labored. His heart hasn’t ceased its unending throbbing, and he was sure the knots in his stomach were actually chrysalises, for they’d opened up during the night to let loose butterflies, who had found shelter in his insides. His dreams had shown him no reprieve, as he’d been tortured by the sound of spurs jingling in the distance, of a foolish grin, of a metal hand holding a burning cigarillo, of tawny skin against a backdrop of moonlight, and lips, full and enticing, saying the same thing over and over again. It continues to ring in his ears as he forces himself out of bed to go through the motions of the morning, dragging his feet as he throws on clothes and ties his hair up tighter than usual, as if suffocating the strands would squeeze the memory from his head.


He stares into the bowl of rice Genji set in front of him, like the grains held the answer to why he was obsessing over something as trivial as this. He only grunted in acknowledgement to everyone that greeted him that morning as he stared at his untouched food. How was he supposed to muster up an appetite when his stomach was filled with the fluttering of butterfly wings? Hanzo knows the team can sense something is wrong, especially his brother, yet no one bothers to pry, and why would they? It wasn’t like he had known these people for years. For all they knew, this was just something he did, sulking about like a spurned child. When he hears the distance jingle of spurs, causing the flapping in his guts to pitch into a frenzy, Hanzo abruptly stands, only to quickly abscond from the room to avoid questioning. He catches the sight of the tip of an absurd hat around the corner of a hallway. The speed with which he escapes could have rivaled Lucio.


It still rings in his ears, teasing, taunting, kicking the insects that have taken residence in his stomach up into a riot of twittering wings. He’s managed to seclude himself on top of a building on the base, away from prying eyes. He grips his chest tightly, eyes squeezed shut, and attempts to will the rapid-fire beating away. A word should not be able to get to him like this, wriggling under his skin, planting itself like a parasite in the forefront of his mind. Yet, here he is, avoiding his team, avoiding him, and what for? A word? Hanzo grinds the heels of his palms into his eyes, letting out a low groan when all he sees imprinted on his eyelids is a ruggedly handsome smile, laugh lines like parenthetical marks bracketing his lips. He flops back onto the rooftop, letting the summer sun bake him into the concrete.


Hanzo is not alone on the rooftop for long. No, soon, his brother is seated next to him, and Hanzo can just sense the worry on his face, although he cannot see it past the mask his brother wears. Genji lets his elder brother peel himself off the roof and sit up before he finally broaches the subject at hand.

“Brother, what is troubling you?” Genji asks in their native tongue. Hanzo narrows his eyes at the ground below them, warring with himself internally. Hold onto his pride or divulge what was bothering him? The archer bit the inside of his cheek as he crossed his arms and yanked his gaze upwards, smoothing his expression, despite the hammering in his chest, and the wings tickling his stomach lining.

Pride won out.

“Nothing. Just a bad dream,” Hanzo replies smoothly, feeling the ice cold liquid of anxiety settle in his veins. He waits a few beats, listening to his brother whirr beside him, a sense of uneasiness weighing heavy in the pit of his stomach. It’s only when his brother extends an arm to haul him into a hug that he realizes his bluff worked, albeit the relief he felt was accompanied by an almost overwhelming guilt. Genji gives his bare shoulder a squeeze and insists they talk about the nightmare. Hanzo’s throat clenches up, realizing he has to continue this lie for a bit longer, and he scrambles to grasp at what he could possibly be dreaming of. It seemed tactless to bring up the way he had killed Genji, and there wasn’t much besides that that would be able to cause such a violent reaction in the elder Shimada. He balls up a fist in his sleeve, mind racing, until he finally blurts out.

“Father’s death. I dreamt of father’s death,” Hanzo gets it out in a shaky, breathless voice, and he swears he can hear an intake of breath from his brother’s cybernetic body, even though no such thing can happen. The silence settles between them again, thick and full of unsaid sentiments. Genji wraps his other arm around Hanzo, embracing him completely, and Hanzo feels his stomach lurch suddenly. He hasn’t been held in so long. The archer feels pinpricks at the corners of his eyes, and, before he can realize it, he has wrapped himself around Genji in return. The brothers stay there for long moments, Hanzo’s face buried in the crook of a metal neck, and Genji’s hand tangled in the hair on the back of Hanzo’s head. A reconciliation that was a long time coming.

They part and Hanzo smiles genuinely despite himself, and he knows that Genji is returning the expression below that visor. Hanzo turns to face forward once more, keeping close to his brother, and they settle into a more comfortable lull. The sun hangs low in the sky still, pulling itself from its slumber slowly, and Hanzo realizes with a start that it’s not even past nine, and yet, so much has happened today. His earlier worries seem especially trivial in retrospect, and he feels as though he’ll be able to face McCree (and the rest of the team) easier than before. Genji had more than succeeded in calming him down, although for what the ninja believed was a different reason. The archer still felt the bile of guilt in his throat, though it died down when Genji gave his bicep a reassuring pat, before he bounded off the roof and in the direction of the training hall.

Oh. The training hall.

Hanzo launches off of the roof, his prosthetics making the landing easy, and bolts towards his room, realizing he’d left his Stormbow and quiver in his room. Careless, for certain, but he’d amend it during their practice today. It wasn’t a team practice, like it had been the day prior, it was more one-on-one demonstrations, or solo practice. Hanzo feels the bubbling of a nine-letter word teasing the edge of his consciousness, and he shoves it back with a bite to his inner cheek. He would not let it get the better of him this time. He grabs his bow and quiver, straps them both on, and investigates himself in the mirror. Without thinking, he moves to fix his hair and smooth out his kyudo-gi, before he catches himself sprucing up for nothing other than a training session. He would be a mess at the end of it, so it didn’t really matter what he looked like.

He chastises himself internally as he races back towards the training hall, only to catch the sight of a tall rugged figure swathed in a length of vibrant red, with the sound of tinny spurs ringing along the walls of the hallway. McCree glances towards him, a smile splitting his lips, that damn mouth, and he winks one amber-colored eye at him as he turns to enter the training hall. Hanzo has abruptly halted, feeling a multi-syllabic word shove its way to the forefront of his mind once more, though he refuses to give it as much power as it had before. While the butterflies in his stomach have resumed their frantic flying, and his heart has increased its tempo, Hanzo is determined not to let how it affects him show. He keeps his head high and his expression clear as he enters the training hall, even with the whispered rasp echoing in his eardrums.


Chapter Text

Fate is a cruel mistress , Hanzo thinks bitterly as he stares down his sparring partner, his stomach twisting into intricate knots at the sight of the cowboy, who has changed into some clothes that are easier to fight in. McCree wears a fitted white t-shirt (Hanzo would deny that he dragged his eyes down the curve of the other’s biceps), riding up dangerously above the waistband of the navy sweats he has thrown on, revealing a sliver of naturally tawny skin (the archer bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood, even as his fingers twitch with the desire to touch, scratch, grab ), and even his normal boots are swapped out for trainers. He’s pulled his hair back into a loose ponytail, and it gives Hanzo a better view of the cowboy’s face, which he drinks in greedily, like a parched man lost in the desert. McCree isn’t paying attention to him, though, he’s talking animatedly with Lena, who is hanging haphazardly over the edge of the sparring ring. The archer grits his teeth while wrapping his hands in tape, wrenching his gaze from McCree to focus on preparing.

Winston emphasized that today’s training would be focused on hand-to-hand combat. One could never know when they would lose their weapon or run out of ammo, and it was essential that they know how to handle themselves in the case of such a thing. The others had already began their own training, Torbjorn and Reinhardt grappling with each other in the ring next to theirs, Lucio and Jack going at it in the final ring, while the others (sans Lena), lined up for target practice on the other end of the hall, waiting for their turn to practice their close-quarters combat. Hanzo flicked his focus back towards the gunslinger, watching as he waves at Lena, who is making her way towards the target area. He feels his heart catch in his throat when McCree turns towards Hanzo, eyes like molten amber burning into him, filled with mirth and warmth. The archer’s lips pull into a tight line, downturned, as he melts from the inside out.


“Are ya ready, partner?” Hanzo swallows down the organ in his esophagus, and nods curtly, balling his hands into fists and assuming a battle stance. He narrows his eyes, trying to focus, even as McCree grins at him.


McCree settles into a fighting stance, legs spread apart, and he bounces on the balls of his feet as he approaches Hanzo. Hanzo inches forward in kind, keeping his hands loose. They circle each other, the gunslinger and the archer, and stare, one’s eyes filled with amusement, while the other’s reflect intense concentration. McCree slides his foot a bit too far on one step, and Hanzo lunges forward.


His first punch connects with the cowboy’s breast, who plants his feet to prevent the knockback, even as Hanzo bounces back out of his reach. McCree smirks (Hanzo’s breath catches in his throat), and he launches himself into an arcing punch. Hanzo grits his teeth as he’s thrown backward from the force of it, though the bottom of his prosthetic feet find traction quickly. He locks eyes with McCree, who gives him a phantom hat tip and a wink. Hanzo’s eye twitches from irritation (at being caught off-guard, at the cowboy’s rugged good looks, at his nonchalant air, at his own confusing feelings), and he finds himself jumping back into the fray before he realizes it.


Punches fly, kicks connect, they grapple with one another (Hanzo feels that he is at a disadvantage, not only height-wise, but the places McCree grabs flood with unbearable heat, and he wrenches himself away quickly every time), until, finally, Hanzo is breathing hard and feeling thoroughly abused. He moves to call the match off when, suddenly, the floor is rushing up to meet him, and the lights above him are obscured by the broad visage of Jesse McCree. His smile is wide, his chest heaving with labored breathing, and his hair sticking to his forehead with sweat, and Hanzo is staring, the lights above the other man illuminating him like a halo, though the archer feels far from heaven.


There are knees planted on either side of his hips, and there are hands searing fire into the skin on his shoulders, and the man that he’s been taunting has him pinned, utterly, completely. Hanzo can’t breathe, his lungs suddenly forgetting to hold air, and his stomach is practically a pretzel, while McCree just hovers above him, oblivious to the storm he’s created inside Hanzo. The cowboy lets out a slight chuckle (it shakes the archer to the core, rumbling through him like thunder clouds), and that charismatic smirk is directed at him once more.


“Well well, would’ya look at that? Yer as pretty as a picture, Shimada-san,” McCree croons at him, and Hanzo damns his complexion when he feels his face heat up once more. Pretty , he feels that worm its way into the forefront of his thought process, and the archer bites the inside of his cheek once more. His fingers dig into the ground below him, as he attempts to ground himself, even as McCree shifts to rest on his haunches, blinding Hanzo momentarily with the suddenly unobstructed lights. He feels the other get off of him (the air is suddenly freezing, the places McCree touched no longer brimming with warmth, now barren and cold), and he lays there, dazed, confused. He feels so off-kilter, out of his element. He listens to the sound of footsteps, going away from him first, and then returning. There’s a big hand, covered in calluses, being extended to him, and he takes it without thinking. He’s yanked upwards suddenly, and there’s another hand, this one comprised of metal, on his hip.


Hanzo jolts, whipping his head up, and McCree is suddenly there , so close to him, and he can make out the gold flecks in those amber irises, and he feels his throat clench, his cheeks are so warm , and that hand on his hip tightens a bit, steadying him, which he is thankful for, since he is sure his knees are about to buckle. The gunslinger’s lips (which Hanzo notes are chapped, not that it matters, he’s enraptured by them anyways) split into a wide grin. The scent of cigarillo smoke (heady, thick, full of spice) should not be so enticing. Hanzo curls the hand he has unwittingly placed on McCree’s chest into a fist. The taller man’s eyes sparkle with delight. Hanzo wishes death would embrace him now.


“Sorry ‘bout that, darlin’,” it rolls off his tongue so easily, the pit of Hanzo’s stomach fills with heat , “y’look like you needed some help, and I’m nothin’ if not a gentleman,” he is far from it, if he knew of the veritable torture Hanzo was going through right now, “good fightin’ out there. Never seen someone fight like that, y’had, what’d they call it? Grace. I wouldn’t mind fighting with you more often,” that hand on his hip pulls him forward a bit more, and Hanzo cannot take it.


Do not touch me!”


It rips from his throat at the same time he shoves himself away from the cowboy, wrenching out of his grasp (although the places he’s touched still radiate warmth, the pit of Hanzo’s stomach encased in heat), and the shout rings around the entire training hall. A hush settles in the building, and Hanzo can practically feel the eyes of his teammates’ on him. McCree is staring at him, with something that looks like hurt in his gaze. The sun in his stomach freezes over when he realizes what he’s done.


Hanzo schools his expression, and tilts his chin up to glare at the cowboy, attempting to reign in control of the situation, of his rowdy feelings, and is horrified when he watches McCree’s hurt expression harden. He catches him scowl, before McCree is vaulting over the side of the arena and stomping away, taped hands stuffed into the pockets of those ratty sweats, and the archer cannot pull his eyes away from the other’s retreating form. Hanzo can still feel the eyes of his teammate’s on him, an ashamed flush crawling up his neck, and he realizes numbly that he should follow him and apologize, although his pride has seized the muscles in his legs, keeping him pinned in place. He stands there, veritably sweating, as he waits for everyone to go back to training, which they do, albeit awkwardly. It’s only when he starts hearing low whispers and hushed conversations does Hanzo finally move, stiffly making his way out of the arena, then the training hall, though he doesn’t make it very far when he is stopped by a robotic hand on his arm.


Hanzo whips around and is only slightly disappointed when it’s not McCree there to greet him, but Genji, who jerks his head to the side, the universal sign for “come with me”.


“We need to talk,” Genji says in that robotic cadence, and Hanzo glares at the floor before nodding, regrettably, but agreeing to the meeting nonetheless.


The Shimada brothers walk in an uncomfortable silence, Hanzo’s mind racing to pick up the pieces of viable excuses as to why he lashed out like that. He felt like he was a child being taken to the side, chastised for throwing a tantrum (which was ironic, considering it was his younger brother that was going to speak to him, not even anyone older than him). They finally stopped outside of the mess hall, Hanzo realizing with a start that he had not strung together an excuse. Although, when his brother spoke, he realized he didn’t have to.


“Look, brother,” he speaks in soft tones, in their native tongue, “I know that the nightmare you had last night truly upset you, but that is no reason to take it out on our teammates. McCree-san did nothing to you,” Hanzo bites back a pained bark of laughter, “and he does not deserve your wrath. You must apologize for your words.”

Genji grasps Hanzo’s shoulder tightly, giving him a reassuring squeeze. Hanzo dares not reply, lest his voice betray him, and only gives a tight-lipped smile and a jerky nod as a reply. He can’t see his face, but he can practically sense the reassuring smile his brother would be giving him right now. The younger turns and makes his way back over to the training hall, leaving Hanzo standing there, alone to his own thoughts, which are torturing him by replaying what he said to McCree, an infinite loop of “do not touch me” played over a still image of the cowboy’s hurt, hardened glare.

Chapter Text

Hanzo does not see McCree for the rest of the day, at no fault of his own. Not a single soul on the base saw him for the rest of the day, not even at dinner. Hanzo caught Genji looking in his direction multiple times, as if to say “go find him”. However, pride was a terrible thing, and Hanzo was quite possibly the proudest of all the Overwatch team members. The elder Shimada simply ignored his brother’s visor, pointed his way, and went about his day. The sense of guilt that had made its home in the pit of his stomach refused to leave, and Hanzo had to deal with it gnawing at him, until he found himself in front of McCree’s door, once night had fell.

He glared at the metal, wondering why he was here, why he had to apologize for his personal space getting invaded (not that he was truly angry, it was more that he was angry at the situation, at the lack of control he had over his own feelings and reactions). If anything, McCree should be the one that apologized to him. Hanzo raised his hand to knock nonetheless, knowing that, regardless of his thought process, he had to bite his tongue and swallow his pride, however tough that medicine was to swallow.

Yet, even poised and ready to knock, Hanzo somehow could not get his arm to move. He stood there, idiotically, attempting to force himself to just get it over with, but he couldn’t. Until, finally, he furiously crossed his arms and stalked stiffly away from their resident cowboy’s door. To Hell with his attraction, with his silly schoolboy crush, to Hell with Jesse McCree. He didn’t need to apologize, he shouldn’t have to apologize. At some point, McCree would just forget about it and they would go back to being proper teammates, simple as that.

Hanzo wasn’t expecting an almost 40-year-old man to give him the fucking silent treatment.

The following morning at breakfast, McCree refused to look at him, or even say good morning. Hanzo grit his teeth at the childish behavior (he had no place to criticize, considering he had literally ran away from conflict the previous morning), and simply ate, even with the knowledge that the rest of the team was uncomfortably watching the two of them while they made conversation. Hanzo attempted to block them out, even if eyes on him still caused a spike of anxiety to stab his insides. He’d deal with McCree and his pouting later.

Later never came.

Whenever Hanzo would find himself in McCree’s general vicinity, the cowboy acted like he didn’t exist, turning away from him and deliberately speaking to anyone else, or downright leaving the room if it was just the two of them. Hanzo swore under his breath plenty of times, wondering just how long this insufferable man would keep up this game.

Apparently, for a week.

At least, it was a week until Hanzo finally broke. The ignoring was irritating at first, taxing after a few days, and downright depressing after a week. When he found himself running (literally) straight into McCree, who didn’t even bother to look down at him or say sorry, Hanzo finally snapped. He whipped around and fisted a hand in McCree’s serape, which tightened around his neck, wrenching a choked sound out of the taller man’s mouth. Hanzo found himself feeling the tiniest bit guilty, but mostly irritated.

The gunslinger rounded on him with a hard glare, lips curled into a snarl, and the archer almost took a step back at the sight, though managed to stand his ground, attributing his confidence partially to the fact that he knew he could fight McCree if it came to that (which he desperately wished it wouldn’t). Hanzo planted his feet, refusing to be bullied, and stared at McCree with a cool, expressionless look on his face.

“What is yer problem,” Jesse snarls at him, taking a step forward into Hanzo’s space (he knows he’s mad and, yet, just his presence is awakening the butterflies in his stomach again, though their fluttering is much more nervous this time around). Hanzo squares his shoulders and sets his jaw, meeting McCree’s gaze, which is burning into him in the best/worst of ways. He jabs a finger into McCree’s chest, glaring darkly up at him.

“You are my problem,” he punctuates each word with another jab to the cowboy’s chest, steadily pushing him out of his space with every poke, “you dare to invade my personal space and then proceed to give me the silent treatment like a child after I expressed my irritation.” Hanzo spits out the words, anger bubbling up in his throat, while his stomach is held in the icy vice grip of anxiety. He’s not sure how the gunslinger will react, he’s not been in an altercation like this with an acquaintance in years . McCree’s expression of anger drops for a moment, replaced by disbelief, and Hanzo feels a spot of triumph, before the other man’s face falls into fury once more.

“I’m yer problem?! No, no, yer my problem,” McCree gets back into Hanzo’s space, and the archer damns himself for taking an instinctive step backwards, “yer all up on me one moment, then yer hollerin’ at me the next, when I’m tryna flirt back!” Hanzo feels his throat seize up, his eyes widening as he watches McCree’s fury fade into exasperation, coupled with a dusting of ochre on his tawny cheeks. “Yer givin’ a man some puh-retty mixed signals here.” He sounds so tired, like he’s been lamenting over this for a while now, and guilt rises in Hanzo’s stomach like bile. He turns his eyes away as McCree takes his hat off and cards his human fingers through his tussled hair, because he knows what he should say (“I’m sorry, I was scared, I’m not used to this, I have been flirting with you”) but he can’t force it passed his lips.

“Y’can’t blame a guy fer not wantin’ to speak to ya,” the cowboy mumbles under his breath, and Hanzo tenses when the taller man presses his metal hand to his bare shoulder, partly from the cold and partly from the sudden contact. He’s acutely aware of McCree’s presence, bold and asserting and encompassing. Hanzo cannot bring himself to meet the other’s eyes, nervousness has frozen him in place, and he can barely hear the cowboy speak to him over the thud of his heartbeat in his ears.

“Can ya just… Stop playin’ with me? Tell me if yer not… Even the tiniest bit serious. I’ll back off.” Hanzo’s cheeks are burning, his heartbeat is thunderous, and he still cannot look at McCree. They stand there in silence, until, finally, Hanzo’s throat loosens enough for him to speak, quiet as a mouse, though he is anything but.

“I was playing with you,” he mutters, affirming what McCree had already said. The cowboy lets out a long sigh through his nostrils, and, suddenly, the hand on his shoulder is no longer there, and Hanzo whips his head up to watch the taller man shoot him a disappointed look over his shoulder, before he begins making his way down the hall. The archer struggles to string together some form of a sentence, to explain himself, to expound upon what he said, to say what he means , but it’s too late. McCree has rounded the corner and is out of sight.

Hanzo deflates, tense muscles sagging as he staggers to lean against the wall. He pinches the bridge of his nose, silently cursing himself. Idiot. Coward. Spineless. The archer grits his teeth and conjures up the thought of being gone, of leaving Overwatch. With a self-depreciative snort, he realizes he’d probably even do that wrong. He’d fuck it all up, like everything he did.

Exhaustion settled in his bones, heavy and weary, and Hanzo resigned himself to returning to his room. He desperately needed a drink, and there was a stash of his favorite alcohols waiting for him in his otherwise spartan room. Nothing quite like drowning one’s sorrows in copious amounts of alcohol.



It’s barely even midnight and Hanzo has already emptied an entire bottle of sake, done a few shots of shochu, and polished off two beers. The alcohol was settling, warm and comforting, in his stomach. He could not stop thinking of McCree the whole time he imbibed, giving into his vices while imagining what he should have said to the cowboy. Imagining gave way to muttering, which led to him talking to himself, which evolved into performing both parts like a lonely theatre kid. The more he drank, the more boisterous and angry he became.

“And, another thing,” he shouts, pointing towards the mirror in his room, which he has designated as the McCree in his one-man production, “you. Are insanely attractive and it drives me mad .” Hanzo takes another swig of his alcohol and adopts a pose where he slumps back and hooks his thumbs around his belt, smirking at his reflection, “y’know, partner,” he mocks, heavily accented voice twisting oddly around a twang that does not suit his vocal cords, “I know how attractive I am. I like to flaunt it in front of you. And you never do anything about it.”

Hanzo snorts and saunters over to the mirror, glaring at his own reflection, before he presses an accusatory finger against the glass. He knows, somewhere passed the fog of intoxication, that he’s being absurd. But he’s having too much fun berating his idea of McCree to want to reign himself in. “You have no idea what I could do about it cowman .” A sole thought worms its way through the haze. The archer feels his lips pull up in a smirk as his brilliance hits him full force.

“In fact, why don’t I go and show you right now?”

Before reason can wrest him away from impulse, Hanzo finds himself outside of the resident cowboy’s room, banging incessantly on it. Despite stumbling over here, with an alcohol-addled mind, the archer held himself in a proud and refined way, chin tilted up, eyes hooded. He knows not what he’ll say to McCree, he didn’t think about it on the way here. He just knows he needs to do something about that insufferable swagger, that smirk, those rugged good looks. He’d wipe that look of smugness, or the hurt one from earlier, or the disappointment he’d gazed at Hanzo with, all off his face.

McCree opens the door, looking like he’d just woken up (which, of course he had, it was almost one in the morning), and stares blearily at Hanzo, who is dumbstruck by the sight of the cowboy in front of him. He’s frozen in place because there is so much tawny skin out on display, as the cowboy was only clad in a pair of boxers, that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination. Hanzo’s mouth is dry as he rakes his gaze along the gunslinger’s form, following the curve of bulky muscles, down to the “v” of his hips, along the tantalizing trail of hair that disappears under the waistband of his undergarments. It’s almost enough to cause Hanzo to bolt. He feels like he needs some liquid courage to actually do anything about McCree’s attractiveness, which was the whole reason he was here. Luckily, the cowboy speaks, and Hanzo is spurred into action.

“Hanzo…?” His voice is sinful , raspy with smoke and sleep, confused, and deep enough to rock the archer to the core. He makes a noise in the back of his throat and surges forward, pushing McCree backwards into the room. Pressing his hands against the other’s muscular pectorals, Hanzo walks them both back into the room, listening to the sound of the door slide shut behind them, much to McCree’s evident confusion. The cowboy grabs at Hanzo with one arm, the prosthetic abandoned somewhere else, while he sputters (“Shimada-san? What’re you doing? Why’re you here? You reek of booze, are you drunk?”), though the archer pays him no mind. When the gunslinger’s knees hit the bed, Hanzo shoves him, and watches him hit the cot with a twisted sense of satisfaction. He climbs on top of the cowboy, who is now staring at him with eyes wide, suddenly speechless. He slams his hands down on the mattress, caging the taller man in as he straddles his hips. McCree’s sharp intake of breath doesn’t go by unnoticed.

The moonlight is the only thing that illuminates the room, and it highlights the sharp angles of McCree’s face so well, Hanzo leans in to bump their noses together, watching the way those chocolate eyes are swallowed up by a rapidly expanding pupil. Yes, this is exactly what he wanted, to do something, to act upon his impulses. He noses McCree’s cheek, inhaling the scent of cigar smoke and sweat like a rare cologne. The cowboy shivers when he leaves a wet kiss against his stubble-covered cheek, Hanzo drinks it in as he drags his lips down the curve of the cowboy’s jaw, up to his ear, where he bites down on the lobe and teases it. He doesn’t miss the way Mccree scrabbles to grab at his shoulder, and he revels in the drag of blunt fingernails through the fabric of his kyudo-gi. Hanzo releases the skin he’d started to abuse and lets out a breathy laugh, and McCree keens underneath him.

He has control again, control of the situation, of his own feelings, and though the haze of alcohol is there, he knows what he’s doing. He knows what he wants. And he wants to tease McCree, to rile him up so sweetly, to make him realize what exactly he does to Hanzo, the effect he has on him. The archer tells him so, growling into his ear, and he loves the rasping breaths that McCree is greedily inhaling.

“You are,” Hanzo starts, voice thick with desire, “the most insufferably attractive man I have had the displeasure of lusting after.” McCree digs his nails into the archer’s shoulder, who only delights in the way the cowboy is coming undone. “I’ve wanted to do something about this for so long, to show you what you do to me, and yes, I am drunk right now,” Hanzo admits while he shifts onto his forearms, almost chest to chest with the gunslinger now, “but I am not joking. I want you, Jesse McCree, more than I have ever wanted anyone before.”

McCree surges forward suddenly, knocking the breath out of Hanzo’s lungs as he is the one now pressed against the bed, and McCree is staring down at him, straddling his hips. Hanzo’s face is so hot from an amalgamation of embarrassment, alcohol, and desire, and he wants so much. He stretches his hands out, grabbing McCree’s cheeks and pulling him down, not into a kiss, only to stare into his eyes, which are looking at him with such warmth that Hanzo feels like he might melt beneath them. The cowboy is too much for him, he’s the sun and Hanzo feels like freshly fallen snow, pristine and pure until the heat begins to break him down, becoming unbearable. This is truly torture, to want someone so much, to be turned out like this, and Hanzo cannot even turn back. The gunslinger is still staring at him with bated breath, waiting for the archer to make the first move. He closes his eyes, unable to bear staring into those eyes for much longer.

“It’s all your fault,” Hanzo says hoarsely, “you called me beautiful.” He manages to open his eyes again, and he sees the realization in the taller man’s gaze, before he lets his eyelids slip shut once more. “Now look at me, look at what you’ve done to me,” he laughs derisively before he pulls the cowboy even closer, their lips just a few inches apart now.

“Take responsibility, Jesse.”


Chapter Text

The rest of the night was a blur.

Lips. Tongues. Teeth.

Rasping breaths. A big, calloused hand. The scent of cigarillos, musk, sweat. Scars felt under roaming hands. Nails dug into feverish skin. Moans, pants, keens, growls.

Hanzo remembers the crash of lips against his, their scruff scraping against one another, and wrapping his arms around broad, muscled shoulders. There was a moan against his mouth, and it sounded suspiciously like his name, though he was too far gone to care at that point. It didn’t matter, McCree had been there , kissing him like his life depended on it, with passion and desire behind every slide of his lips, and Hanzo had been on the receiving end of it all. The archer vaguely remembered shrugging his way out of his kyudo-gi, his pants, until he and the cowboy were both in similar states of undress. They kissed, lips opening to let in roaming tongues, while hands groped and pulled. Hanzo remembers sucking the cowboy’s lower lip into his mouth and nibbling on it, which rewarded him with a particularly husky growl. He reveled in the reactions he drew from McCree. The taller man had bit at his neck, leaving small love bites down the pale expanse, and whispered praise against his skin. Hanzo remembered very little about what was actually said, but he did know he’d felt so appreciated and loved , he’d almost cried right then and there. McCree had laved his tongue down his hairless chest, leaving kisses in his wake, and Hanzo recalled shaking near violently, unused to this sort of attention. He wanted and McCree seemed like he would give him whatever he desired.

However, no matter how far his drunken self wanted to go, McCree would not let him touch below the belt, so to speak. To be fair, he also did not go beyond the waistband of Hanzo’s undergarments, and, instead, he just showered his body with attention, with love, leaving hickeys here and there, until Hanzo felt tears prick at his eyes, and McCree had moved up to kiss away sobs that were bubbling up in the back of his throat. The archer remembered holding the cowboy close to him, arms entangled, as their kisses faded from passion-filled to chaste. They had laid side by side, pressing soft kisses to the other’s lips every few moments, until the warmth of the other man’s body, the alcohol in his system, and the tiredness he felt in his bones dragged him into a deep, restful, dreamless sleep.

When he woke, his head throbbed, and everything seemed far too bright. Hanzo’s body ached, his throat was dry, and he was in an unfamiliar, far more messy room. He squinted at the nightstand, which boasted a piece of paper, a few pills, and some water, and then at the empty space next to him. He listens attentively for the sound of rushing water or anything that would let him know that the cowboy was still there, but, alas, there was none. The archer grumbles and rolls over to the nightstand for the well-needed provisions that he suspected McCree had set out for him. The note mocks him, but he refuses to read it. Not yet, at the least. Water and aspirin were far more important.

He gingerly tilts his head back, ignoring the throbbing behind his eyelids, and downs the water with the pills, his parched throat grateful for the liquid, and his headache soon to be thankful for the aspirin. Hanzo blearily sat up, feeling an ache in his knees as he realized his prosthetics were still on. The wall behind him holds him up as he slumps against it, trying to collect his thoughts into a coherent string. He remembers most everything he did, but it was like his impulse control flew out the window, along with his sanity. The archer presses his palms against his face angrily, the urge to scream bubbling up inside of him, although it lost against his hangover. He questions what he did last night, running over the events again and again, and debates bolting from the room so he doesn’t have to face McCree. But, if he remembers correctly through the drunken haze, the cowboy had seemed to want him just as much as Hanzo did. Yet, as far as the archer knew, that could’ve been some odd drunk dream.

He withers under the thought, trailing his fingers along his neck and chest where he feels the ghost of lips and teeth and the scruff of a beard. There should be marks marring his skin, love bites scattered across pale flesh, and he desperately wants them to be there. Hanzo wants the events from last night to be real, and he hopes the mere fact that he’s in this room is enough to confirm what happened. But he needs to know.

The archer pushes himself out of bed and stumbles over to the bathroom, despite the aching protest of his limbs. He stands there in the darkness of the small restroom, his heart thudding in his eardrums, before he flicks up the lightswitch to confront what happened the night before.

The light pierces his retinas, and his headache swells in pain, but, reflected back at him, other than the tangles of his hair and his grumpy expression, is pale skin marked with bitten bruises. Along the column of his neck, scattered across his pectorals, reminders and assertions that he had not, in fact, dreamed that McCree had truly wanted him too. Despite himself, he grins, pressing his fingertips against a large hickey on the junction of his neck and shoulder. It was real . Hanzo feels like soaring, even despite his hangover, at the thought of McCree actually wanting him . He had not ruined this, even with his stubbornness, his pride. There was a joy keeping him upright as he bounced back over to the bed, a spring in his step that normally isn’t there. He climbs back onto the cot, which still smells like cigarillos and musk and McCree , and turns to stare dreamily at the door, when he catches sight of the note on the nightstand.

Oh, right, the note.

Hanzo grabs it and reads the one sentence on it, written in chicken scratch, and feels his stomach plummet on this emotional rollercoaster he’s unwittingly strapped himself into. His joy abandons him for better places, and the archer lets his eyes slip shut even as he balls up the note and throws it to the ground. He should have known better than to get so excited over this. He lets out a rasping, self-depreciative laugh, burying his head in the pillow and inhaling the scent of a man who will likely break his heart. Hanzo tries not to think about what he has to do later, even though the finality of the statement was written in bad handwriting on a scrap of paper he’s discarded on the floor of a room simultaneously so unfamiliar, and yet, seemingly like home.

8:00 p.m, training range 3, we need to talk.  




The day drags on. Hanzo gets dressed and makes his way out of the cowboy’s room, doing the walk of shame back to his own quarters. He avoids making eye contact with anyone, though he gets a few “good mornings” from some of the agents, which he returns with a mutter back. The archer grabs some fresh clothes and scurries over to the communal showers, once again, steering clear of most everyone on the base. He scrubs himself until it hurts, until his skin is red, and then he disappears back into his room once more. The minutes tick by like hours. He runs over what he is going to say (“I was not lying last night, Jesse. Please.”) and then discards the thoughts. He doesn’t know what the cowboy wants to talk about. For all he knows, it’s positive. But, there’s that niggling suspicion in the back of his mind that knows. If it was something good, he would have told him in the morning, rather than leaving him alone and cold in a bed that was not his own. The hours tick by like days. Hanzo overanalyzes until he worsens his headache, wondering about “what if” and “maybe” and, more than anything, “why”.

Why did he join Overwatch in the first place? If he had known what awaited him, he wouldn’t have ever let himself get recruited. Feelings like these are so. Confusing, frustrating, painful. People have said that love is supposed to be liberating, that being in love will set you free. Hanzo finds it to be stifling. There’s nothing liberating about not being in control, of being at the mercy of your own feelings, of falling too hard, too fast, and getting too little in return. And Hanzo realizes, numbly, that he feels the beginnings of a love he never wanted for a man he never expected to love in the first place. He bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood. Why does he feel so much, things he’d never felt before, for a man he’d barely begun to know? Two months. Though, people have fallen in love in less time before, he supposes. Like the famous tale of star-crossed lovers, Romeo and Juliet. And look how that ended , Hanzo thinks ruefully as he watches the digital clock on his nightstand flick to 7:45 PM , with death and heartache and families torn asunder .

Hanzo pushes himself up from the cot and slides on some sandals, ice settling in his veins as he makes his way out of his room and in the direction of the training ranges. The sun has already set, and the moon taunts him as she hangs low and heavy in the sky, a reminder of moonlight illuminating sharp features on a man pinned underneath him. There’s a handful of agents still wandering the grounds, though they pay him no mind. He feels like every step he takes is towards the guillotine. He wonders if he should just leave. He convinces himself not to.

The lights in the third training range are on when he gets there. He can barely hear the sound of gunshots outside of the mostly soundproof building. Hanzo steels himself, standing up straighter, taut, like the very first day he joined Overwatch, and moved to open the door.

He wasn’t prepared for the rush of emotions that swelled forth in his gut at the sight of Jesse McCree.

He’d tried to talk himself out of whatever ridiculous crush he had on McCree during the day, to convince himself that he wasn’t actually infatuated with their resident cowboy. He figured he’d at least quashed the feelings, and that the anxiety that settled in his bones was purely from the fact that he had to confront the gunslinger about what happened last night. But, once he walked through those doors, that crush he’d tried to bottle up burst forth, surging through him and leaving him wide-eyed and breathless in the doorway of the training range.

Jesse wore one of his nicely fitting plaid shirts (that Hanzo had not been tempted to put on when he’d seen one on the floor of the room he’d woken up in), and a pair of dark blue denim jeans, with his signature cowboy boots, belt and outrageous buckle, and his cowboy hat. He was hyper focused, that gun of his held tightly in his grasp. The one he calls “Peacekeeper”. McCree didn’t look towards him when he entered the range, no, he just focused and fired a round at the line of practice targets, hitting each squarely in the chest. Hanzo felt like he’d been one of the targets, if the way his heart skipped a beat was any indication. McCree’s profile, intense and craggy, with eyes meant only for the targets he’d just decimated, was all that the archer could stare at. And he continued to stare, even as the cowboy placed his pistol back in the holster on his belt, and turned to meet his eyes.

They stared at one another, Hanzo frozen in place once again, and McCree watching him intently. The seconds dragged on between them. Hanzo’s desire to bolt grew with every passing moment. The taller man let out a long breath, which Hanzo tensed at, and began walking over to the doorway. McCree’s spurs jingled with every step he took, which was slightly eerie to listen to in the otherwise silent hall. Hanzo felt the sound in his core with every step that the other man took towards him until, finally, they were close enough that the archer had to tilt his head up to look at him. Up close, he could see the tiredness in his eyes, in the way his eyebrows were knit together, and Hanzo hoped for nothing more than it to not be caused by him. But he knew that he was the reason why. McCree pulls off his hat and cards his hand through the mussed locks, a pained chuckle escaping him. Hanzo feels his throat constrict.

“Hey, Shimada-san,” he wants him to call him Hanzo, he doesn’t want this formality, but he can understand why he won’t, “‘M sorry to pull ya aside like this. But I gotta know,” Jesse will not look at him, will not meet his gaze, and Hanzo wants to force the cowboy to look, to read what he wants to say in his eyes so he doesn’t have to speak it out loud, “what was all that last night? Arguing with me, then comin’ to my room and… Y’know,” Hanzo unconsciously moves his hand up to trace the marks he knows are on his skin, well-aware of what ‘y’know’ refers to, “and, I’m just, so confused .”

The cowboy looks at him, locking eyes, and his mouth curls into a self-depreciative smile. The archer grips the fabric of his kyudo-gi tightly. McCree leans down a bit, pressing his forearm against the wall behind Hanzo, and speaks once more, tone a touch lower and much more exhausted.

“I asked you yesterday, Shimada-san, to tell me if you were just the tiniest bit serious,” Hanzo gulps, the desire to look away almost unbearable, but he can’t move his eyes from Jesse’s intense gaze, “and you said you were playin’ with me. Now, I’m gonna ask you one more time, I heard you say it last night but I wanna hear it from you, without the alcohol helpin’,” Hanzo tries to nod smoothly but he ends up just jerking his head minutely, “do you want me, Hanzo?”

His eyes are pleading, his brows are drawn together, and his smile is tight, tense, barely there. Hanzo has to say it right now, before he loses his chance, and he is sure that he won’t get another one if he messes this one up (and he’s surprised he got this one in the first place). He forces himself to raise his hands and cup McCree’s cheeks, feeling the scrape of stubble against his palms, watching the spark of something in the other’s amber eyes, and, though it takes him a few tries, he’s able to say what he means to the cowboy, for once.

“Yes, I do.”


Chapter Text

McCree wasted no time in pushing forward into a bruising kiss, which Hanzo returned with just as much vigor. Their lips pressed together, hot and insistent, but it was more about the contact and less about technique. McCree kept it chaste, leaving sporadic and restrained kisses against his lips, along his cheek, and Hanzo felt his face heat up as he wrapped his arms around the taller man’s shoulders. There it was; this attention that he wasn’t used to, that McCree was more than happy to shower him with, and Hanzo was overwhelmed with emotion once more. The coldness of the elders he’d grown up around, the lack of affection his father had given him, the isolation he’d gone into while on the run for 10 long years, all of it culminated into a hard exterior that Hanzo wasn’t sure anyone could break through. And yet, McCree had only gently prodded at his shell, and it had fell apart so easily. Hanzo squeezed McCree tightly, feeling the curve of the cowboy’s smile against his skin, and he wondered how much more he could take before he melted underneath warm hands and warmer words.

The gunslinger pulled away from Hanzo’s cheek (much to the latter’s chagrin) and pressed their foreheads together, staring deep into the his eyes. He felt himself burning from the inside out, and he couldn’t stand it. He tried to lean forward and capture the cowboy’s lips again, but McCree moved out of his range, and Hanzo couldn’t help the pout that formed on his lips. Jesse chuckled, low and amused, which shot through the archer unexpectedly. A shy smile pulled at his lips as the taller man shook his head a bit, eyes closed, and then those amber orbs were back on him again, filled with mirth and want .

“You’re beautiful.” Hanzo feels a jab of delight, intermingled with shock, shoot through him at the compliment. He squirms in McCree’s arms, casting his eyes to the side, even as a full bodied rush of heat floods him. McCree grabs his chin between metal thumb and forefinger, tilting his face back so Hanzo is forced to look at him. “You’re gorgeous,” he breathes out like a prayer. Hanzo glances away again, fighting the hand that is holding his head facing forward. He cannot handle this sort of thing, truly, he’s not accustomed to it. Yet, McCree will not let him go. He feels more than sees the other man move, and then there is a pair of chapped lips pressed against the side of his mouth. He shuts his eyes tightly, biting his lower lip, because McCree is so sweet, he is too much, and Hanzo cannot properly deal with all of the emotion welling up inside of him.

Plus, the cowboy will not stop speaking, much to Hanzo’s internal misery.

Praise is whispered against his skin nonstop (“Perfect, lovely, prettiest darn thing I’ve ever seen, good shot, smart, brilliant, handsome.”), interspersed between kisses, and Hanzo has to repress the urge to hide himself. He’s sure he is as red as the other man’s serape by now, and McCree still will not stop. Hanzo feels like he might overheat at this point, but the cowboy’s mouth refuses to stop running.

“Shut up,” he hisses out, dizzy from the heat that has settled on his cheeks, “stop saying those embarrassing things!” He feels the rumble of McCree’s laughter and then those eyes are locked on his once more, a wide grin splitting the other man’s lips. Hanzo is flushed the darkest he’s ever been, and this seems to amuse McCree more than anything. Despite Hanzo telling him to, it seems as though McCree isn’t willing to listen to him, nor be silent.

“Darlin’, sweetheart, sugar, baby,” Hanzo will deny the delighted noise he made in the back of his throat at that pet name until the end of his days, “ooh, like that one, don’t’cha? Hanzo, now, be honest with me,” Hanzo feels a flesh hand tangle in the hair at the back of his head, and then he’s being tilted to gaze up at McCree, who has an ochre flush on his own cheeks, “d’ya really want me to stop?”

Hanzo already knows the answer, and so does McCree, though the latter seems hellbent on torturing him, drawing anything he wants out of the archer, and Hanzo doesn’t want to give in, but that expectant puppy dog look on the cowboy’s face makes him cave. He looks away from him with a grumbled “no”, and listens to Jesse chuckle, before there’s lips back on his jaw, and a soft, breathy, “good boy” rasped in his ear. Hanzo’s knees go weak .

Before he can be subjected to more sweet torture at the hands of a certain Jesse McCree, he pushes away from him, disentangling himself from a warm grasp he really does not want to be parted from. It looks like Jesse feels the same way, if the exaggerated pout he sees is any indication. A smile pulls at his lips before he can stop himself, and he files away the slack-jawed look McCree gets for later use. Hanzo reaches for McCree and grabs his collar, pulling him roughly down into a searing kiss, which causes a confused noise to escape the taller man’s throat. It doesn’t last for longer than a few moments before he pulls away, eyes hooded, and smirks at the sight of a dazed cowboy in front of him.

“I prefer to keep my romantic affairs private, Jesse McCree. Now, if you insist on driving me wild ,” he punctuates that with a nip to the other’s lower lip, and he silently delights in the noises he can pull from McCree, “I suggest you take me to your quarters, where I can be far less… reserved.” He notices the wide-eyed look Jesse gives him, before the gunslinger is nodding vehemently and grabbing his hat from where it’d fallen on the floor during their escapades. He eagerly opens the door, and Hanzo can practically see McCree’s non-existent tail wagging. So cute, so eager, so easy , the archer thinks, even as he walks through the door that McCree is holding, feeling just as eager to retreat behind closed doors, where he doesn’t have to worry about anyone catching them in a compromising situation. Though, he fails to notice the glow of green lights in the shadows of the abandoned training range 3, along with an amused mechanical chuckle.


The second the mechanical doors of McCree’s room slide shut, Hanzo is pressed against them. Jesse wastes no time in getting back to what they had started in the training range, lips against Hanzo’s throat, kissing the marks he’d left there the night before. The archer whines, scrabbling for purchase on the other’s back. He digs his fingernails into the other’s shoulder blades, acutely aware of the way McCree drags his large hands down Hanzo’s sides, along the curve of his backside, and down the back of his thighs. Hanzo lets out a yelp as the cowboy hoists him up by the back of his knees, suspending him between the door and Jesse’s body. The archer wraps his legs around the taller man’s hips, pulling him closer in a desperate attempt to stay upright, even though McCree seems to have him steady, if the hands cupping his ass are any indication. He quirks one elegant eyebrow at the cowboy, who has pulled back to give him a wolfish grin, as if to say ‘what do you think you’re doing?’. Jesse doesn’t explain himself, just surges forward and captures Hanzo’s lips in an intense kiss that leaves the shorter man breathless and giddy.

Even with prosthetic heels digging into the his hips, McCree kisses Hanzo, like a man on a mission. And, apparently, Hanzo was that mission, since the cowboy was definitely on him. The archer lets out a soft gasp when Jesse drags his lower lip into his mouth, sucking gently on it before he releases the abused skin with a pop. Hanzo refuses to let Jesse get very far, as he pushes back in, catching the cowboy’s lips in an open-mouthed kiss. He lets his eyes slip shut, more than enjoying the taste of spicy cigar smoke, a hint of whiskey, and something wholly McCree . It pervades his senses, encompassing him, until all he can think about is the man who has him pinned against the door.

He’s content to kiss until he can’t breathe, but McCree seems to have other plans, as he has to bite back an unexpected moan when the hips that he’s wrapped his legs around roll against his own. However, Jesse has no qualms about embarrassing noises, as his lips part from Hanzo’s and he lets out a guttural groan, those hands, one metal and one flesh, tightening their hold on the archer’s cheeks, and McCree begins to rut against him like a horny schoolboy. Hanzo gasps loudly, digging his fingernails into the muscled expanse of Jesse’s back, not expecting the sudden friction against a very aware part of his anatomy. Scrabbling to gain control of the situation, the archer tries to halt the other’s movements, because McCree is losing himself against Hanzo, and the shorter man has other plans for tonight that he’d like to enact. He tightens his legs around McCree’s hips until they are pressed as close as possible, with no possible room for movement. Jesse looks a mite irritated until Hanzo kisses the slight scowl off his face, leaving him with a dopey grin on his face, and nods in the direction of the bed. He’s met with enthusiastic nodding.

Refusing to climb off of McCree, Hanzo holds on tight, peppering kisses and nuzzling into the column of the other’s tawny neck. The raspy breaths that Jesse gulps in are more than enough to spur Hanzo on, as he begins to bite and suck at the junction of his thick neck and broad shoulders. He’s decided that he likes the taste of sweat and lingering cigar smoke, as he moves to leave another mark on the most sensitive part of McCree’s neck, when the back of the taller man’s knees hit the edge of the bed and they both fall back onto it. Hanzo pushes himself up to straddle Jesse’s hips, finding the sight of the cowboy (disheveled and breathing heavy but somehow still with that confident grin on his face) splayed out underneath him to be something he would not mind seeing often. He sits back on his haunches, delightedly watching McCree stare at him with dark hunger dripping from his gaze, like he wants to unwrap him and devour him whole.

He decides to take the initiative, undoing the sash around his midsection and letting the kyudo-gi he had on fall open, exposing his chest. McCree’s eyes flick down to the expanse of skin, hands reaching forward to press against a toned and tight abdomen. Grin widening impossibly, Jesse pushes his hands up, flicking his thumbs over those pebbled nipples (Hanzo bites his lip and suppresses a gasp, though he’s sure the way he tenses up is enough to let McCree know how much he enjoyed that little gesture) until he reaches the other’s shoulders, where he pushes the fabric the rest of the way, exposing his entire upper body. Hanzo pulls his arms out of the sleeves and throws the garment behind him onto the clothes-strewn floor, eyes locked with Jesse’s the entire time. The smirk he gives the other man earns him a wink in return, as those hands drag back down his abdomen again, leaving gooseflesh in their wake. Hanzo decides to return the favor, fingers making deft work of the buttons that keep the plaid shirt on, before he presses his hands against a hairy, tawny, scarred chest. Shrugging out of the shirt, Jesse continues to grin at him, while big hands settle themselves on his hips. The archer rubs his fingers along the other’s dusky nubs, watching them perk up with intense curiosity, though it does not warrant the same response he gave the cowboy.

Hanzo flicks his gaze up to McCree’s face, an eyebrow arched elegantly in question. His partner gives a slight shrug and a small laugh. “Jus’ never been sensitive there,” he explains, rubbing one cool thumb and one impossibly warm one into his hip bones. Hanzo tries not let his pout show, abandoning his pectorals to grip his shoulders instead, as the taller man’s hands snake around to his backside and grab at his cheeks through the loose pants the archer wears. Biting back a noise of delight, Hanzo shifts on top of McCree, pushing himself up onto his knees as the other’s fingers begin to tease his waistband, like he was itching to take them off. He watches the man underneath him cock a brow in question, asking for permission, which he’s about to give when he gets a sudden idea that has him smirking playfully.

The archer climbs off of McCree, much to the other man’s confusion, and stands facing the bed, waiting for Jesse to sit up so they could lock eyes. With the other’s gaze set on him, he tilts his chin up, looking down at McCree with hooded eyes, and hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his pants. Hanzo tries not to feel embarrassed as he shimmies his hips from side to side, slowly pushing the garment down his body, and finds it quite easy to not succumb to shyness when Jesse’s jaw drops. He finds resistance when he attempts to push the garment past his straining length, though, with another push, he manages to get it past the aching part of his anatomy, and lets his pants drop the rest of the way, hitting the ground with a soft ‘thump’. His uncut cock stands up straight, curving towards his navel, standing proud and erect in its trimmed nest of thick black curls. While he has Jesse’s attention, he reaches up and pulls the ribbon out of his hair, letting the strands fall around his neck in a mess of inky strands.

“Pick your jaw up off the ground, cowboy,” Hanzo teases, as he gingerly steps out of the pants he’s abandoning on the floor. He catches the other man snapping his mouth shut, eyes bugging out of his skull, and blue jeans looking like they were about to burst with how badly a certain organ was straining against them. McCree drags his tongue along his bottom lip, hunger and lust blowing his pupils wide as they gobble up the chocolate of his irises. The archer saunters forward, prowling like a hunter, finding newfound confidence in how openly and wantonly the other man wants him. He’s barely within reach of Jesse when he finds himself being dragged forward by two big hands on his hips, until he’s straddling McCree’s lap, who has now occupied himself with kissing at Hanzo’s chest. The archer chuckles, carding his fingers through the gunslinger’s oaken locks, even as those hands grab and paw at his ass insistently. Jesse circles one dusky nipple with his tongue, eliciting feverish moans from Hanzo, who moves a hand up to block out the sounds, as the cowboy presses his lips to the pebbled piece of skin and sucks .

The noise that escapes Hanzo can only be described as pornographic.

He’d like to think that he’s not that sensitive, but, his rare brushes with sexual escapades having mostly succeeded in leaving him unfulfilled and bored, he’s not exactly well-versed in what makes a good lover. Previous partners had been just a means to release and nothing more. Yet, with McCree laving at his chest, fingers kneading his backside, enjoying pleasuring him more than getting himself off, Hanzo finds himself peculiarly overwhelmed and awfully delicate under the other’s touch. Jesse seems keen on dragging more embarrassing noises from his lips, if the way he’s begun trailing that hot mouth down his abdomen is any clue. The archer feels dizzy, heat bubbling below his skin, hand clamped tightly over his mouth in a vain attempt at keeping the pathetic mewls and groans locked inside.

It’s getting increasingly difficult to hold himself upright. He fears he’ll fall for a moment, limbs quivering, until he’s suddenly on his back, head on the pillows, and a foolishly grinning McCree staring at him from where he’s twisted to set Hanzo down. The archer blinks owlishly, pushing himself up on trembling elbows, watching as Jesse turns completely to face Hanzo, crawling halfway up his body on hands and knees. His brows furrow, wondering why there was suddenly a lack of attention being showered on him, as McCree stops and takes in his expression. “What,” he breathes out, voice quivering like his muscles, “are you doing?”

The taller man doesn’t answer him with words. Winking at him, the gunslinger promptly ducks down to continue the descent he’d so rudely abandoned before. Hanzo is taken by surprise, muscles tensing as he sucks in a stuttering breath, wondering where exactly McCree thinks he’s going, still half-dressed and teasing his abdomen with sucks, nips, and searing lips. His lust-fogged mind supplies him with an idea that has his cheeks darkening to an encompassing rosy hue. He opens his mouth to ask where the cowboy was running his mouth off to, when the words leave him and an almost painful moan replaces them.

A pretty pair of bitten lips are wrapped around the head of his cock, and dazzling amber eyes stare up at him, twinkling with mirth despite how heavy they drip with lust. Hanzo scrabbles to reach a hand down and thread his fingers in those caramel locks, propped up on one elbow now. The sight of Jesse, who has begun to swirl his tongue around the weeping head in his mouth, on his erection, seemingly enjoying himself if the slight rise of the corners of his stretched lips is any indication, has the archer gasping unceremoniously. McCree seems to like that reaction, as he suddenly lets his eyes slip shut, pushing down further on Hanzo’s throbbing anatomy. He can’t hold back the low groan that draws itself out of his mouth, deep and desperate, nor the bucking of his hips, although there’s hands, metal and flesh, holding him down. Jesse gets halfway down the other’s length before he hollows his cheeks and sucks .

The high-pitched noise that flies from Hanzo’s mouth as he throws his head back could likely be heard by any passerbys that happened by the room, but he couldn’t help himself. The handful of times he’d been on the receiving end of oral was only so his partner could distract him from the burning stretch of fingers inside of him, not purely because they wanted to, and certainly not to focus on his own pleasure. And now there was an attentive lover there, perched between his quivering thighs, bobbing his head and rubbing soothing circles into his hipbones. Tightening his grip on the other’s locks, Hanzo begins to gently thrust upward into a wet and welcome heat, eyes squeezed shut, focusing completely on the man who was quickly driving him to the brink. McCree took it in stride, letting the archer take control with a satisfied hum, gazing lovingly up at Hanzo from beneath mussed bangs, although the man on the receiving end was too blissed-out to pay attention to the way Jesse was staring at him.

The slick and sloppy sound of McCree slurping around his partner’s erection punctuated the breathy moans and hitched sighs that tumbled out of Hanzo’s mouth, who was now shallowly fucking Jesse’s face. Humming happily around the organ in his mouth, Jesse pushed down a bit, like he was trying to nestle his nose in the dark curls around the archer’s anatomy, and succeeded in dragging a pathetic noise of want from the man underneath him, who unintentionally ended up bucking upward. Jesse took the burn of an unexpected bump to the back of his throat in stride, though he ended up pulling off of Hanzo’s spit-slicked cock to drag in some ragged breaths. Petting his hair with one shaking hand, Hanzo has moved to stare dazedly down at McCree. The cowboy grins, gives him a wink, and goes to dive back down once more, greedily taking in the erection he’d abandoned.

The archer fists his hand in the other’s hair, groaning loudly, the rapidly tightening coil in his stomach threatening to snap. He can’t last much longer with the treatment McCree is so readily giving him. There’s a tongue teasing the sensitive foreskin that has pulled back to expose his head, pressing against his frenulum, winding him tighter and tighter. Hanzo scrabbles to pull Jesse off of his cock, pulling roughly at his hair (he doesn’t miss the delighted noise that vibrates around his anatomy when he pulls, filing the information away for future use). He tries to speak a few times, starting and stopping with stuttering breaths puncturing his dialogue, before he’s finally able to let out a breathy warning, still desperately attempting to pull the other off of his leaking erection.

“G-Going to, McCree, please, not going to last m-much… longer,” Hanzo groans, feeling his cheeks tint even darker (if that was somehow possible), when McCree flicks his amber eyes up to lock on Hanzo’s, stilling in his unrelenting movements for a moment to give him a wink, before he shoves himself all the way down. His nose hits Hanzo’s pelvis, buried in thick dark curls, and there is suddenly a throat spasming around the archer’s erection.

The loud yell of “Jesse!” could definitely be heard outside of McCree’s room.

He empties himself into McCree’s throat, shooting his load deep into an eager mouth, as the cowboy slowly moves up and off of his rapidly softening cock. Eyes watering from overstimulation, Hanzo watches Jesse through bleary eyes, as the man visibly swallows and licks his lips, like the cat that’d gotten the cream. The archer blinks, willing the tears in his eyes away as he realizes that McCree was still half-clothed, those blue jeans straining to contain a leaking erection, if the wet patch on the cowboy’s crotch was any indication. Hanzo, whose bones had suddenly decided to turn to jelly, wanted nothing more than to give Jesse the same pleasure he’d just received. He raises a shaky hand and beckons the cowboy over. Jesse wastes no time in crawling forward on his hands and knees, hovering above Hanzo with a lewd, proud smirk gracing his features.  The archer winds his arms around Jesse’s shoulders, pulling him down for a kiss that tasted like himself mixed with McCree’s own unique flavor, in an amalgamation that Hanzo thoroughly enjoyed. He unwound one arm from around the other, dragging his hand down that muscled abdomen until he made it to the cold and heavy piece of metal that was keeping McCree’s pants closed. He pulled away from the kiss, staring down at the belt buckle, emblazoned with the letters “BAMF”, which Hanzo snorted derisively at

“Hey baby, that’s a lil’ bit of an ego bruiser,” McCree teases, pouting puppy-like at him, which results in a roll of his eyes as he moves his hand back to tap deliberately at each of the letters, saying what they stand for with every tap.

“Bad Ass Mother Fucker,” he says, slowly, dragging out the consonants and staring at McCree with teasing mirth glittering in his eyes. The cowboy holds back a laugh, cheeks tinted an embarrassed maroon, as he leans down to press his forehead against Hanzo’s. He speaks, voice a breathy drawl, his eyes hooded as he stares down at his partner’s lips.

“Now you just make it sound stupid,” he mumbles, head tilting as he pushes forward to leave a chaste kiss on Hanzo’s smiling lips, “I’ll have you know that title is rightly earned, sugar, an’ this belt buckle is like no other. Don’t make fun of it now.” Hanzo chuckles, dropping his other hand down to grab at the buckle, blindly attempting to get the offending article undone so he can dip his hands below the waistband of those tightly-fitted blue jeans.

“Do not jest, McCree, this buckle could have easily been bought at any tacky gift shop,” the archer breathes back, leaning forward to steal another kiss just as the buckle comes undone. Bingo . He abandons the buckle to pop the button on the pants, then it’s just a simple zipper away from the other man’s undergarments, and, more importantly, what was underneath those . McCree helps him once the enclosures are taken care of, reaching an arm back to shove the undergarments down, distracting Hanzo with sensuous kisses that take his breath away. The archer feels more than sees McCree shed his clothes, until they are both in a similar state of undress, and Hanzo pulls away as Jesse sits back on his haunches, eager to get a good look at his partner’s-- what the fuck .

Chapter Text

“Holy shit,” Hanzo chokes out in a rush of air, staring at an organ that stood tall and proud from its nest of thick unkempt oaken-colored curls. He’d never seen someone this big before, and, for one terrified moment, he wondered how they would fit that inside of him. He dashed those fears away, figuring McCree, attentive as he was, would make sure he felt a minimal amount of pain, if any at all. Then, he focused a bit more on the throbbing part of Jesse’s anatomy, and his throat seizes up completely.

There, along the shaft, were six horizontal piercings, silver balls on either side of the jewelry, for a total of twelve balls. Hanzo’s mouth went dry, unable to tear his gaze away from such a large, decorated appendage. He couldn’t imagine how it would feel inside of him.

Hanzo wanted him immediately, more than anything or anyone he’d ever wanted before.

Jesse cleared his throat, brow cocked in question, a slight nervous edge to the smile on his face. Embarrassment darkening his skin, Hanzo realized he’d been staring for a bit longer than he should have. McCree scratched at the back of his neck, eyes averted, “somethin’ not to yer likin’? We, uh, don’t have to go, y’know-”

“No! No, I want it, please,” Hanzo blurts out, shoving himself up and grabbing at McCree’s arms, eyes wide. He watches Jesse’s shocked expression for a moment before the other man busted up laughing, head thrown back as he moved to tilt the archer’s head up, fingers underneath his chin. Bending over, he pressed their foreheads together, sliding his hand around to grip the back of his partner’s neck, good-humor twinkling in his eyes. Hanzo could not help the flush that overtook him. He felt like he was being laughed at, pouting at the idea, which caused another stray snicker to escape the cowboy’s kiss-bitten lips.

“Alright, sugar, since you asked so nicely,” Jesse purrs, “I guess I can give it to you.” Hanzo gulps, feeling a bit nervous as he is moved to lay back against the pillows once more, a hungry Jesse following close behind. The archer feels the other’s thick cock press against the inside of his thigh, huge and, quite frankly, a little terrifying. Hanzo forced himself to pull away from McCree, who was already tilting his head to capture the other’s lips, and visibly swallow. Jesse looked down at him confusion evident in the cock of his head and the tilt of his eyebrows. He takes in a shuddering breath to steel himself, questions dancing on the tip of his tongue.

“I… A moment, please.” He extends one shaking hand down between them to trace his fingers along the head of Jesse’s erection, eyes trained on the pleasured way his partner opens his mouth, a soft sigh of delight escaping him. The archer moves his hand down a bit more, digits dragging along the bars of the six frenum piercings on the shaft. That elicits a more violent reaction from McCree, whose head drops down to press against his shoulder, a breathy whine assaulting Hanzo’s eardrums. He feels his cock, which has been trying to catch up after being spent earlier, give an interested twitch as it rises. Jesse rocks his hips forward, chasing the fleeting contact that Hanzo gives to him with his fingertips toying with the top frenum piercing.

“Where… Why are these here?” Hanzo breathes out, embarrassed to even be asking, even as panting starts up in his ear. He cards the fingers of his other hand through Jesse’s hair, tilting his head to look at the erection he was toying with. “Why is it so large ?” The archer’s last question is little more than a whisper, but it draws a gasping laugh from McCree, who is using his metal hand to pluck Hanzo’s teasing fingers away from his now leaking erection. Their fingers lace together when he pushes the offending hand against the pillows, keeping him pinned there, while he moves to lean on the elbow of his other arm, propping himself up so he can look at Hanzo with a tenderness that he is not used to.

“Got ‘em towards the end of my time with the Deadlock gang. Actually had quite a few in my face too. I’ll show you a picture later,” he chuckles a bit, rolling off of Hanzo, much to his dismay, and kept talking, “took the rest out once I was ‘recruited’ into Blackwatch, but I liked the way these ones look. And,” he’s been digging around in the drawer on the other side of the room, Hanzo staring, enraptured by the way those back muscles move, “how they feel.” McCree gives a little ‘aha!’, closing his hand around something before he turns back and saunters over to the bed, Hanzo laying back down from where he’d been propped up on his elbows to flirtily smirk at Jesse. The cowboy gives him a lascivious grin, holding up an unmistakeable half-full bottle of lubricant, and waggling his brows comically at Hanzo. The archer can’t help a small chuckle that escapes him, even has Jesse clambers on top of him once more.

“So,” McCree drawls, dragging out the vowel, nosing gently at Hanzo’s collarbone, “how d’ya wanna do this, darlin’? I’m fine with--”

“Fuck me,” Hanzo blurts out without hesitation.

The silence drags on between them as they stare at each other, Hanzo’s face steadily darkening in an embarrassed flush, while McCree looks dumbfounded, like he wasn’t expecting the powerful, controlling archer to want to bottom. As the seconds tick on, Hanzo finds himself regretting what he said, and almost goes to take it back when he hears McCree give a good-natured chuckle, bending down to capture Hanzo’s lips in a searing kiss. The gunslinger nips at his bottom lip, running his tongue along the crease of his closed mouth. He forces the archer’s lips open with his tongue, demanding entrance that Hanzo is willing to give tenfold. Lapping at the inside of his mouth, the deep kiss the cowboy gives him has him reeling from the intensity.  The archer isn’t sure where he is when they finally part, lips bitten and wet, mouth slightly parted to let out panting breaths. The hunger in Jesse’s eyes is dark, dangerous, a palpable desire thick in the air around them both, and Hanzo cannot suppress the shiver of anticipation that runs through him.

McCree flips the both of them over, leaving Hanzo pressed against his chest while the cowboy lays on the bed. He pulls Hanzo up, pressing feather-light kisses to his jawline and neck, distracting him completely from the pop of a bottle opening. He spreads his legs wider as McCree’s hands slide down his back, until the metal one grabs one pale globe and pulls it away, stretching him open a bit, while the flesh hand, with slick on the digits, drops to tease his hole. Hanzo cannot help the shuddering breath he lets out, hips jerking slightly when those fingers trace around his fluttering hole. McCree pushes his middle finger against his opening, and Hanzo gasps when the digit slides in to the first knuckle.

It’s not that he has not done this before- god, has he done it before - but there’s something different about this time. With the tenderness and affection McCree has shown him, it feels like he’s not just being used as a means for release, and that this won’t just be a one-night stand like his previous encounters. And it has been a while since someone else had their fingers inside him, since his only partner for the past few years has been himself. Even then, it’s been a few weeks since he’s had the chance to pleasure himself, so it takes a moment for him to fully take the thick finger within him, though he’s glad that Jesse goes so slowly. Hanzo lets the cowboy suck another hickey into his neck, high up enough on the column of pale skin that he knows the others will be able to see it. He can’t find it in himself to care.

The archer wiggles around just as McCree begins to gently, slowly, thrust the digit in and out of his hole. Jesse stretches him bit by bit, until Hanzo is relaxed enough to accept another thick finger, and then he feels himself stretch a bit more, as those fingers scissor and thrust into him. There’s a slight burn, a bite, to the tender way his partner prepares him, and Hanzo finds he likes it a bit, especially when the flutter of pain fades away to a delightful, pleasurable stretch. He’s biting back small noises when McCree works in yet another finger, stretching him even wider, and the bite of pain comes back once more, a bit stronger now. The whine that leaves him is borderline pathetic, but Jesse doesn’t seem to mind, not when he’s swallowing down every possible sound that escapes Hanzo.

Pushing back against his fingers, the archer greedily takes every scissor and thrust of those digits, wanting, needing more than just this. He’s about to force himself away from the cowboy to tell him so, when those digits curl just right and he goes boneless, a desperate moan tearing from his throat. Jesse stops, pulling away to take in the glassy-eyed expression that Hanzo has now, with his mouth hanging open, looking like a proper mess, before those fingers start to brutally assault that spot inside of him. Hanzo shamelessly twitches around his digits, sucking him back in every time that McCree pulls his fingers back, even though they’re sure to come thrusting back into him every time. He’s not sure how it could get much better than this, honestly.

And then, Jesse does what he always does, and starts speaking .

“Baby,” Hanzo is automatically weak, that rasping drawl and that word , the combination is sinful , “you’re so good for me, so tight, so greedy,” the archer feels Jesse kiss along his jawline, scruff scraping against his own, and then that voice is breathy and delectable near his ear, “you keep on suckin’ me in, it feels good, an’ I’m not even inside you yet,” Hanzo groans, grinding himself against the thick cock trapped between the two of them, breath stuttering with desire, “can’t wait to bury myself in ya, fuck ya ‘till ya can’t walk,” that drawl is thickening around his words, and then that prosthetic hand pulls back to smack his ass. The slight sting of pain is does more to him than he thinks it should. He can’t handle much more of this abuse, the coil in his stomach starting to wind up once more, sensitive after his previous orgasm, but McCree is unrelenting, speaking filthy words that elicit more of a reaction than Hanzo is want to admit. He’s getting increasingly frustrated with the taunting, as he’s more than prepared, and McCree’s dirty talk only serves to further wind him up.

“Darlin’, I wonder what you would look like with my cum drippin’ out of you.” That does it. Hanzo gasps and pushes himself up to stare down at McCree, who suddenly thinks that he’s done something wrong, as those fingers vacate him, and Jesse is holding up his palms in surrender, a panicked expression marring his face. Before he can get a word in edgewise, Hanzo grinds down onto him, watching the panic flutter into pleasure, and the archer growls deep in his throat, eyes hooded and dripping with desire.

“Enough of your teasing,” his voice is guttural, and Jesse’s eyes widen even as his hands settle on his hips, “if you do not fuck me right now, Jesse McCree, I will find someone who will.” That gains him a glare and a slight snarl, then he’s being pushed up a bit, and there’s a hand guiding a slick, decorated part of Jesse’s anatomy up to press the leaking head against his stretched hole. Hanzo bites his lip, perched on his knees, hovering over something so big , with Jesse ready to plunge into him at any moment. When there’s no movement for a few moments, Hanzo tilts his head to look at McCree, who is grinning up at him wolfishly. He winks lasciviously at Hanzo, pulling him down a little more and teasingly pressing against him, and the archer damn near shoves himself down to make the relentless teasing stop. Jesse has the audacity to speak, not even granting him the sweet relief of penetration, words a heavy drawl and a question.

“Ready to ride the cowboy, baby?”

Chapter Text

McCree starts to enter him, slowly but surely, and Hanzo has to bite down on his lower lip to keep from crying out as something much, much thicker and longer than anything he’s ever taken before stretches him out. Even the lube doesn’t seem to help much. The sensitive head pushes inside, and Hanzo grits his teeth against the painful burn. It doesn’t add to his pleasure like before, just hurts . There’s so much of him to take in, and He’s only now gotten the head in. He feels McCree stop, shuddering below him, and then there’s a soothing hand carding gently through his hair, the metal one placed on his hip rubbing gentle circles into the skin there. He leans into the touch, slowly relaxing underneath those big hands. Jesse murmurs sweet nothings below him, some in English, some in a language that Hanzo does not recognize at first, though he hardly cares. As long as it was rasped in a voice as delightful as Jesse’s, he didn’t mind what was said.

He takes a steeling breath, much more relaxed under McCree’s touch, and forces himself down a bit more. The breath turns into a gasp when he feels the cold metal of the first piercing press against the outside of his hole. Hanzo bites his lip hard enough to crack the skin, preparing himself for a painful stretch, and shoves down. He takes in the first three piercings, halfway down McCree’s cock now. He’d been prepared for the uncomfortableness of the piercings, for them to scrape at his insides, but they roll against the interior of his walls so nicely , that he has to admit, panting and shaking on top of McCree, that he loves it .

Hanzo growls under his breath and shoves himself down all the way, biting back a cry of mixed pain and pleasure as he seats himself completely on top of the cowboy. His limbs shake and he has tears at the corners of his eyes from overstimulation, not to mention the fact that his erection has flagged a bit from the pain. The archer closes his eyes, rotating his hips slowly, trying to chase the pleasurable friction from being penetrated that he knows is there. He ignores the gasping breaths from the man under him until the friction he generates causes him to plump up once more, standing proud between the two of them.

Cracking his eyes open, he blinks down at Jesse, who is staring up at him reverently, with warmth in those auburn eyes. McCree cups his face with his flesh hand, rubbing his thumb across Hanzo’s abused lips with the softest of sighs. The archer turns his head and sucks the thumb into his mouth, holding the other’s hand there while he shifts from where he is, perched above McCree on his knees, to pull himself up a bit (the slide of those piercings out of him- perfection ), and then to slide back down. He keeps his eyes locked on McCree, who looks dumbfounded with his jaw hanging open, as Hanzo begins to ride him slowly. The archer laves his tongue around the digit in his mouth, biting at his fingertip, before sucking it back into his mouth greedily. Jesse makes an almost wordless noise, hips jerking upwards a bit. Hanzo’s eyes flutter closed at the sudden burst of friction, pushing himself higher on his next upthrust and slamming back down to meet McCree’s hips. The soft ‘slap’ of skin on skin echoes throughout the otherwise quiet room, punctuated by Hanzo’s soft moans and grunts, and the intense, shuddering pants coming out of McCree.

“Mm, Jesse,” Hanzo groans, rolling his hips as he moves his attention from the one digit over to McCree’s index and middle finger. He sucks both into his mouth, pressing the flat of his tongue against the thick fingers while he rides him. Jesse has steadily become more and more vocal, grunting and groaning beneath the archer while he meets his thrusts with his own. The rhythm is moderate, good enough to build up the tension in the coil of their stomachs, but not quite enough to go beyond that. And with Hanzo sucking on fingers like a dirty whore, he hardly pays attention to the fact that he should probably speed up. Although he seems content to suck and bite at the digits in his mouth, that hand is suddenly pulled away from him, and those hands are now lifting him up and off of the thickness inside of him. Confusion colors his expression, until he’s laying back on the bed once more, McCree pushing his legs up to point to the ceiling. His smirk, his eyes, even the tilt to his head, drip with desire. Hanzo shudders, having a feeling as to what will come next.

“W-What,” he begins, but it’s cut off by a moan when the head of Jesse’s cock presses against his already gaping hole. He throws his head back, realizing how much he missed the sensation after it came back to him. McCree doesn’t hesitate, slamming forward with such force , until he’s buried to the hilt and Hanzo is blinking stars out of his eyes. His partner gives him the most lewd grin, dragging his hips back slowly so he can feel those piercings rub his insides more and more. Noises escape him in the shape of loud moans and panting breaths. The archer presses a shaky hand against his mouth, attempting to hold back the embarrassing sounds, as Jesse slams his hips forward. Hanzo grips the sheets with white knuckles as that bruising pace continues, McCree’s fingers digging bruises into his thighs. With barely contained moans, Hanzo grinds back onto the gunslinger, the warmth in his groin crescendoing into a raging fire, until McCree suddenly stops, buried to the hilt inside of the archer.

His whine is pitiful, but McCree seems to relish in it, as he leans forward, practically bending Hanzo in half, to press his lips against the hand that is still clapped over his mouth. Tears of overstimulation beading at the corners of his eyes, Hanzo stares at him, red-faced and slightly sweaty, with an incredulous look on his face. Jesse tilts his chin up a bit, staring down at him with amber eyes almost swallowed by the dilation of his pupils, and smirks.

“Wanna hear that pretty voice, darlin’,” he rasps, and Hanzo’s eyes widen before he shakes his head violently, embarrassed enough as it is, “no? But baby,” he shivers expectedly, “you sound so good. Lemme hear you scream for me,” Hanzo is about to shake his head again, when McCree suddenly gives him a rough thrust forward, tilting his hips just right --

The archer’s eyes roll back a bit, loosening his muscles enough for McCree to easily take the hand that had been concealing his embarrassing sounds, pressing a kiss to his calloused palm while keeping an eye on Hanzo’s expression. The archer glares at him, snatching his hand away and dropping his hand down to grip at the sheets on the other side of him, giving McCree a terse nod. The man in question pouts down at him, leaning forward and giving him a brief eskimo kiss.

“Don’t glare at me like that, honey, didn’t mean to upset ya,” he gives him a chaste kiss, and Hanzo cannot stop his lips from quirking up at the ends, “just like hearin’ when my partner is havin’ a good time.” Hanzo chases him for another brief kiss. He lays back on the bed, reaching his hands up to grip at the pillows on either side of his head, and smirks haughtily up at Jesse, who is moving back to give himself more leverage. The gunslinger stops, quirking one interested eyebrow down at the archer.

“Maybe you’ll get to hear me scream when you give me a reason to,” Hanzo purrs out, a challenge, as he grinds onto McCree. The man’s eyes widen, bushy brows shooting up towards his hairline, while he moves his hands down to grab at his partner’s hips, Hanzo letting his prosthetic ankles rest on Jesse’s shoulders. Jesse grins down at him, thumbs pressing into the skin at Hanzo’s hips with an intensity that he should probably be wary of, but he’s more interested in the how his partner will take the challenge he’s issued to him.

“Then I sincerely hope you’re ready to deliver, baby,” he drawls back, before he’s lifting Hanzo’s hips up off the bed and pulling his hips back to drive a brutal thrust forward, aiming at just the right spot , and that thickness settles inside him for only an instant before his prostate is given the same treatment again. And again. And again. Until those thrusts start to blur together into a bruising pace that gives him no time to recover.

He owes it to his pride and stubbornness that he manages to hold back the sounds bubbling at the back of his throat for the first few thrusts. But when Jesse slams back home the fifth time, and has the audacity to grind himself into that sweet spot, Hanzo cannot take it anymore. A loud groan rips from him, back arching like a bowstring stretched taut, and eyes squeezing shut against the tears of overstimulation that threaten to flood his tear ducts. McCree gives him not even a moment before he’s attacking that spot inside of him once more, fast and hard and so, so good , that the noises he’d held back begin spilling out of him with fervor and vigor. Moaning, panting, mewling, groaning, head swimming in pleasure and cock throbbing with the desire to cum. He’s not sure how much more of this brutal pace he can take until the coil snaps for the second time tonight.

Of course, McCree takes it upon himself to expedite the process, because he starts doing what he always does that drives Hanzo crazy. Speaking .

“Oh yeah, baby, you sound so fucking good ,” Hanzo moans out his name, eyes snapping open as that rough rasp begins to wind him up more and more with every syllable, “yeah, Hanzo, you’re so tight around me, fuck ,” he tightens around him, clenching down as Jesse grinds against his prostate once more, “so hot. So fucking sexy . Sexiest man I’ve ever met, cleverest too, you drive me insane ,” Hanzo’s apparently not the only one slipping into insanity, “wanna see how you look when you cum, baby, see if you can cum from cock alone,” Hanzo’s almost there, the fire in his stomach raging into an inferno, he just needs one more push.

It comes in the form of another thrust forward, and a rasp of, “cum for me, Hanzo, baby.”

His eyes roll back, head tossed back against the pillows, as a scream of pure bliss, of “Jesse”, rips from his throat, his cock spurting thick ropes of white all over his and McCree’s stomach, a surprising amount of it for how he’d come not even an hour ago. He tightens so much around the gunslinger’s decorated anatomy, keeping him buried deep within him, and he’s delighted to feel the other man convulse above him, and a rush of wet heat inside of him. There’s also a loud groan of his name echoing in his ears, as Jesse leans forward, bending him almost in half again to kiss him messily. His hips stutter in slight thrusts while he empties his load inside of Hanzo, messily painting his insides white. The archer’s spent cock twitches with the last vestiges of his orgasm from where it lays on his stomach, pearls of white smearing between the two men. The both of them continue to kiss (despite the mess between them), tenderly, de-crescendoing from their passion to chaste pecks placed on both of their kiss-bruised lips. Only when they part completely, staring into each other’s eyes, does McCree finally move to pull away.

His cock slides out of Hanzo, leaving a gaping hole that begins to leak white, despite his attempts to clench and keep the fluid inside. Jesse gives him an appraising glance as he climbs off of the bed and heads towards the en-suite restroom, presumably to get something to clean them up with. Hanzo doesn’t know what there is to appraise, he assumes he looks like a right mess. He lets his legs fall to the bed, his joints aching, and the familiar pain of post-coitus starts to settle in his bones. He knows he should pull his prosthetics off, but he’s exhausted . HIs eyelids are so heavy, he almost lets them slip shut, but then Jesse is by the bed with a warm washcloth. He hums in appreciation as the fabric slides along his sweat-slick skin, cleaning up the mess on his stomach, and swiping along the leaking fluid from his hole. He lets out a soft moan at that, which earns him a chuckle from McCree. Only when he’s been properly tidied up does Jesse go to climb into bed next to him.

The man is huge and the bed is barely big enough to hold the both of them, and, while Hanzo isn’t exactly a lithe being, he knows it will be a tight squeeze. That is, until he shifts to lay on his side, and finds McCree already there, facing him with adoration in those eyes. His cheeks burn a bit, even as Jesse wraps his prosthetic arm around him and tugs him closer. Their chests press together, and legs are tangling around each other, until they are almost inseparable. He feels like he should be annoyed, but he finds himself actually loving the contact, especially when Jesse uses his flesh arm to provide Hanzo with a suitable pillow. He lays on the limb, eyes flicking up to meet with McCree’s warm ones, and a smile finds its way across his lips. Jesse looks a little shocked for a moment, before those amber eyes shift into tenderness, and the two sated men share a look akin to the beginnings of love, their eyes slipping shut moments later.

They sleep dreamlessly that night, content to be wrapped around each other.

Chapter Text

Hanzo wakes up slowly, lethargically, with a vaguely familiar ache in his lower back, and a pair of arms wrapped around his midsection. He shifts, feeling a twinge of pain shoot up his spine, as his joints pop from the movement. Grimacing at the sounds, he turns to peek over his shoulder, and catches sight of McCree’s peacefully sleeping face. He stares for a moment, not daring to breathe, as the cowboy takes in deep breaths, still enthralled in sleep’s grasp. Hanzo lets a quiet smile spread across his lips before he attempts to wriggle out of the other’s hold, which tightens. The archer grunts, grabbing at the other’s wrists to extricate them from his body. With a bit of manhandling, he was finally able to haul himself out of bed, though McCree’s content face had now twisted into one of confusion. Hanzo rolls his eyes, fighting off the urge to climb back into bed just to soothe the other’s features, and hobbles over to the restroom.

The lights of the en-suite burn his eyes. Blinking away spots of blinding light, Hanzo stared at his reflection. He looked a mess, hair haphazardly mussed, eyes rimmed red with exhaustion, with half-moon bags weighing down the skin below them, and a scowl marring his lips. But that was nothing compared to the rest of his body, which looked like he had either gotten into a rough fight or had a very nice night . With a smirk, knowing exactly which one he’d gotten into, Hanzo dragged his fingers down his neck and along his chest. The marks that decorated his skin stood in stark contrast to his pale complexion, varying shades of red and purple in splotches along the expanse of his neck, and the dips and valleys of his chest. He pressed his digits to the tender fingertip-sized bruises on his hip bones, feeling a giddy sense of pleasure at the knowledge that he was so marked up, for everyone to see. Not even the high collar of his more traditional clothes could hide the mark set near his ear and below his jawline, not that he wanted to hide any of the decorations adorning his skin. Hanzo hums happily as he goes to wash up, using the restroom and splashing his face with water.

After making himself a bit more presentable, he cracks open the door of the restroom to peek his head around the corner, only to find McCree still sound asleep in bed. He tiptoes out of the en-suite, being careful not to wake the other man, and climbs back into bed and under the covers. With the knowledge that Jesse is still in the throes of slumber, he presses his back to the other’s warm chest, sighing contentedly at the contact. That is, until the cowboy is suddenly tangled up with him, arms and legs entwined, and a scruffy beard is being rubbed into the skin of his neck.

“Jesse!” He yelps, though he can’t help the grin that splits his lips, while the other turns and blows a raspberry on his neck. Hanzo can’t help gasping, wriggling to try and free himself with more vigor, even as his cowboy starts to press wet kisses along his jawline. His laughter is abruptly cut off when he is being forced to look backwards and his lips are stolen in a heated kiss. A moan bubbles up in the back of his throat, as Jesse teases the seam of his mouth with his tongue. He debates opening up, letting him in, wondering if they could get away with a lazy round in the early morning, but the protest of his lower back (a reminder of his age, damn it all), has him forcing himself to part from the other’s mouth with a malcontented groan. Though, that doesn’t seem to deter Jesse, who is pressing a very aware part of his anatomy against Hanzo’s backside, while those big hands, one like fire and the other like ice, trail down the plateaus of his abdomen and down, down, down -

“Good morning, darlin’,” is purred in his ear and suddenly Hanzo’s legs feel like jelly, even more so when the cowboy starts to paw at his groin with his flesh hand. The archer relents for a moment, letting Jesse grope and grind on him, before he finally has to put a stop to it, lest the bed become their home for the rest of the day.

He wriggles in the other’s grasp, turning himself around to stare into chocolate eyes shining with warmth and a lascivious smirk. McCree gives him a wink, hands kneading the meat of his backside, and Hanzo has half a mind to succumb to his ministrations, but the light filtering through the window up high on the wall, and the distant sound of birds chirping, makes him more than aware that they both need to get up. Hanzo lets Jesse steal a few more closed-mouth kisses (morning breath is definitely a thing), before he pushes away from him with a sigh, which the other man pouts at. The archer gives him a pointed look, which quells any sort of complaint that might have been lying in wait at the back of Jesse’s throat, and forces himself to get out of the bed.

Hanzo pads around on the cold floor, trying to locate his clothes. He finds his pants and underwear in a pile where he’d done his mini-strip tease for McCree, and he moves to bend down and grab the garment, which earns him a wolf-whistle from behind him. The archer can’t help the quirk of a smile that graces his features. He teases the other man back by shimmying his hips while he slides his underwear back on, turning around to find McCree staring at him reverently. Hanzo’s self-satisfied smirk earns him a tongue stuck out at him. He tosses a pair of underwear at McCree, who catches it midair and throws it back at Hanzo twice as hard. The resulting hurl of the garment at McCree smacks him directly in the face and throws him back against the pillows with the force of it.

The room is silent for a moment. Then, abruptly, Hanzo erupts in laughter, clutching his abdomen as he throws his head back and practically bellows laughter. The shock on McCree’s face is there for long minutes after Hanzo comes back to his senses, wiping tears from his eyes. He’s grinning, ignoring the cowboy as he goes and scoops up a soft, worn flannel button-down shirt, decorated in plaid shades of blue and yellow, and shrugs it on, before turning back to Jesse, who has left his jaw hanging open for quite some time now. Hanzo uses his index finger to lift the other’s lower jaw up, finally yanking McCree out of his stupor. The cowboy’s sudden grin is devious, and Hanzo lets himself be manhandled down for a few slow, chaste kisses, allowing the affection until McCree’s hand squeezes one of his cheeks and he has to pull away.

“Jesse, we have to get up,” he chastises, turning around to button up the shirt he’s decided, then and there, is now his, and listens to McCree grumble under his breath. The rustling of sheets and the sound of a waistband snapping follows, as Jesse finally gets out of bed and starts getting dressed. Hanzo finds his hair ribbon, his kyudo-gi, and folds everything into a neat pile. He feels disgusting, what with the mess from last night sticking to his skin, and he needs to brush his teeth something fierce , if the feel of grit on them when he runs his tongue across them is any indication. Hanzo is about to leave the room and go take care of a much-needed shower and teeth cleaning when strong arms are being wrapped around him once more. He can’t help the way he melts backwards into the warm embrace, tilting his head up to look at Jesse, who swoops down to steal a quick kiss.

“Baby,” he starts, and Hanzo blames him for the way his knees almost give out, though the tone “jus’ wanna know, is this… uh, a one time thing or--”

“Jesse McCree,” Hanzo snaps, turning in his grasp to fist a hand in the other’s hair and drag him down to meet his eyes, which are wide with confusion, “I am not someone who beds just anyone that compliments me. And I certainly would hope you would have more confidence in me, in this,” he reaches a hand down and laces their fingers together, feeling more than seeing Jesse’s breath quicken, “I would like to continue this… relationship we have entered into.” He stares right back at Jesse, who isn’t moving. Or breathing. Or responding.

Hanzo is quick to stumble over his words in an effort to fix this mess, “I-I mean, that is, if you, of course, if you would like to continue this, I did not mean to assume, my apologies,” Hanzo yanks his hands away and is about to bolt like a scared colt when McCree suddenly comes back into his senses, and then there is a pair of big hands cradling his face and lips pressed to his. The noise he makes is part surprise and part relief, especially when the prosthetic hand drops to intertwine their fingers once more.

Smiling sweetly, Hanzo parts from Jesse, who is blinking lazily down at him, and buries his face into the other’s shirt, which rewards him with a gentle chuckle, and a warm, tight embrace. Fingers card through his hair (god, he likes that, he likes it a lot ) and then McCree’s voice is rumbling above him, thick like honey, and just as sweet.

“Why, darlin’, of course I’d like to continue this here relationship,” he coos back, and Hanzo lets out a soft sigh of relief, “I’d be a fool to turn down someone as pretty, clever, and amazin’ as you.” The archer preens under the praise, tilting his head to kiss the other’s chest through the fabric of the red plaid flannel he wears. McCree uses his finger to drag the other’s head up again to steal another chaste kiss, and Hanzo accepts it graciously, before he pulls away with a glint in his eyes and a mischievous smile on his face.

“If you would, Jesse, I feel disgusting after last night’s events. I’d like to wash up, and you do too,” Jesse frowns down at him, about to open his mouth and protest, but Hanzo presses his finger to the man’s lips, effectively shutting him up, “but, I was wondering, if you wouldn’t mind joining me. There’s some spots I always seem to miss, that I’d like some help with,” he takes Jesse’s hand and drags it around to rest on his backside, eyes half-lidded and a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

Words seem to have escaped Jesse, because all he can do is nod enthusiastically, and follow after Hanzo like a lovesick puppy as the archer leads the way to the communal showers.


After showering and changing into actual clothes, the pair end up making their way to the mess hall to catch the last dregs of breakfast. Hanzo has to begrudgingly abandon the shirt he’s stolen from his boyfriend- boyfriend- the moniker sends a delighted thrill through him, as he’s never been involved like this with a man. Only brief kisses or trysts here and there, spattered in with the times he’d been involved with women, but never had he had the chance to be committed to someone like he is now. And he wants to hold the other’s hand, or wear the shirt he’d had to leave in his room, but he is not sure how the others will react, and he certainly does not want to make anyone uncomfortable via displaying such indecent public displays of affection.

When the two enter the mess hall, almost every Overwatch agent is present, and they all whip around to stare at the pair with wide, guilty eyes. Hanzo and McCree halt in place, staring at the others, until Tracer stands where she’s sitting and wolf-whistles at the two of them.

The entire hall erupts into applause and laughter and whistles, and Hanzo feels his skin start to burn with embarrassment, although Jesse is no better, and he has half a mind to either leave or unleash the dragons on the other agents, until he feels a hand intertwine with his own, and the cowboy is stepping in front of him with a scowl.

“Quit it,” he hollers at the others, dragging Hanzo with him towards the kitchen area, “y’all are actin’ like a bunch of teenagers, like y’all’ve never seen a couple doin’ the walk o’ shame before. Grow up, ya babies,” and that only earns them loud laughter as the door of the kitchen closes behind them.

Mortified, Hanzo presses his face into the other’s back, and lets out a low groan just thinking about the fact that everyone knows. Everyone knows . And, the worst part is, he know why everyone knows, if the slight rasp of his voice is any indication. He’d screamed so loud the previous night, it was no wonder everyone was aware of their newfound relationship status. Well. At the very least, he was glad that it meant no one would think of them differently.

McCree has been muttering under his breath the whole time, and Hanzo finds himself scooped up in a tight embrace as the other man glowers at the door of the kitchen. “Those darn children, makin’ fun of us like that, who do they think they are?”

Hanzo chuckles softly and wraps himself around McCree as well, pushing himself up on his tiptoes to steal a kiss that tastes far more minty than before, and grins up at him when McCree’s troubled expression immediately soothes. He lets go of his boyfriend and goes about preparing breakfast for himself, as McCree follows him around once more. With rice in the rice cooker, he leans against Jesse’s chest, idly playing with the fingers of his prosthetic hand.

“Whose fault is it that everyone knows?” Hanzo questions when McCree is in the middle of nosing one of the marks he left on the other’s neck. It earns him a huff and a gentle butt to the back of his head.

“Not my fault, sugar. You're just too darn loud,” Jesse quips back, toying with the hem of the other’s shirt. Hanzo pushes himself away from Jesse, glancing at him over his shoulder with a coy smile playing on his lips.


“No, Jesse, I’ve told you before. It’s all your fault.”