𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧 𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙧𝙨.

@coyotefaced​: " the way you flirt is shameful " reverence, his last bastion of pride, the way his hand pushes back his stray hair.

“ hm. ”  is  his  initial  response,  an  obvious  wealth  of  information  in  that  single  syllable.  he  lays  there,  curled  surprisingly  tightly  against  the  cowboy’s  side  and  allows  the  calloused  fingertips  upon  mussed  hair  -  allows  the  attention.  he  basks  in  it,  even,  a  dragon  king  being  worshiped  -  though  the  gestures  are  returned  in  kind,  through  the  fluttering  of  his  own  killer’s  fingertips  upon  tattoos  and  scars  that  adorn  the  map  of  his  lover’s  body.  keen  ears  take  rapture  in  the  light  thrum  of  mccree’s  breathing,  a  rhythm  so  like  the  slow  lull  of  rain  pattering  against  the  window. 

they’re  on  a  bed  far  too  small  for  two  grown  men,  but  it  is  delightfully  comfortable  -  if  nothing  else  than  the  excuse  of  the  allowed  intimacy  in  their  proximity.  he  does  not  know  how  long  they’ve  been  here,  nor  does  he  care.  all  that  the  assassin  delights  for  at  this  present  moment  is  the  warmth  permeating  his  senses  on  this  rainy  afternoon,  and  the  surprising  peace  he  feels  within  his  bones  because  of  it.  still  though,  he  casts  his  partner  an  amused  glance,  dark  eyes  flickering  briefly  with  warmth  before  his  head  returns  to  it’s  nesting  place  near  jesse’s  shoulder  -  close  enough  that  he  can  see  the  lines  upon  his  handsome  face. “ and  yet  you  fall  prey  to  my  advances  time  and  time  again,  gunslinger.  ” 

              “ …you’re kidding ”

the response garners a literal visual of the wind being taken out of the cowboy’s sails all at once, the hunched, defensive posturing he’d taken up in an effort to demonstrate how much he was not to be fucked with…. is now being fucked with. his shoulders slump and he leans back against the seat and stares across the glowing skyline, scanning. his hands go to his face and where he rubs with his palm, he cools with the other. jesus fuckin’ christ. 

whatever game this shimada is playing, he thinks they’re tied neck and neck. he’s never been the brightest but his wits were never dull and still now, still here he finds his strikes being met with a surprising amount of efficiency. in this moment he’s been bested, though he’s certain it won’t be for long. i can see the family resemblance, now. 

his shoulders rock once in a muffled, single laugh. mccree’s head rolls back. 

              “ – okay, fine. deal ” 

he offers his hand again, in earnest and relaxed. how many deals with devils does he have to make in a single week? 

              “ dessert for needlework. if i didn’t know you any better - and frankly, i don’t know you yet - i’d say you were feelin’ generous ”

he  watches  mccree  cycle  through  an  amusing  amount  of  emotions  in  one  single  breath,  and  can’t  help  the  mischief  that  plays  at  the  corner  of  his  lips.  what  an  interesting  man,  the  gunslinger  was.  in  truth  he  isn’t  surprised...  jesse  knowing  of  his  origins,  of  the  shimada  origins,  would  make  any  man  wary  to  make  a  deal  with  him.  it  wasn’t  as  if  the  yakuza  were  gentle  with  their  bargaining,  and  as  the  former  heir...  well,  he’d  been  less  than  kind  in  his  deals.  that  hanzo  had  long  since  been  left  behind,  however  (mostly).  the  one  that  replaced  him  was...  not  so  much  gentle,  as  more  wary  of  the  world.  he  could  not,  and  would  not,  push  beyond  what  he  needed  for  his  atonement. 

self  punishment  was  hanzo’s  specialty. 

                        ...but  a  little  cake  couldn’t  hurt. 

@coyotefaced:  lighter :   my  muse  pulls  out  a  lighter  and  lights  it  for  your  muse  to  use  to  light  their  cigarette.

smoking  is  commonality  they  both  share  -  a  sort  of  quiet  intimacy  that  belies  the  nuance  of  their  relationship.  smoking  after  dinner,  smoking  when  stressed,  smoking  after  a  hit,  smoking  after  a  romp...  it  was  a  dirty  habit  that  had  increased  tenfolds  in  jesse’s  presence,  but  he  hardly  minded  in  the  slightest,  even  less  so  that  the  gunslinger  smoked  more  than  him.  his  oral  fixation  was  no  secret,  no  tempestuous  lie  -  not  when  it  came  to  jesse  mccree  anyway.  he  regarded  the  cowboy  with  clearly  darkened  hues  sometimes,  and  when  it  was  just  them  -  in  the  dark  -  and  his  plump  tiers  were  illuminated  by  the  cherry  end  of  a  cigarette...  well,  it  was  hard  not  to  focus  on  those  lips. 

it’s  his  turn  to  be  the  one  smoking  in  the  dark,  however.  he’s  lounged  out  on  the  balcony  -  shirtless  and  sweltering  in  the  dorado  heat,  and  huffing  lightly  at  the  burning  cigarette  in  hand.  he  notes  jesse’s  presence  joining  him  before  he  hears  the  door,  notes  his  large  frame  in  the  chair  next  to  his  (close,  they’re  set  impossibly  close  -  because  hanzo  likes  to  be  close  to  him),  and  glances  to  him  with  the  vaguest  notch  of  warmth  in  normally  imperious  eyes.  he  sees  the  cigarette  in  the  gunslinger’s  mouth,  and  moves  to  flick  the  lighter  in  hand  -  when  it  sputters  sadly  and  hanzo  doesn’t  even  miss  a  beat. 

a  slow  inhale,  then  the  release  of  smoke,  before  his  own  papered  tobacco  is  back  in  his  lips,  and  he  leans  forward  reducing  the  distance  between  them  to  negligible.  the  cherry  of  his  cigarette  butts  up  against  mccree’s  own  unlit  one,  and  he  breathes  just  so,  allowing  tender  ashes  to  illuminate  and  trickle  their  heat  into  the  cowboy’s  own.  it’s  impossibly  intimate  and  close...  close  enough  that  he  can  see  the  amber  flecks  in  mccree’s  gaze,  the  ruggedness  upon  his  features.  hanzo  removes  his  own  cigarette  then,  away  from  his  lips,  but  he  does  not  lean  away  -  does  not  increase  the  space  between  them.  instead  he  regards  the  vaquero  with  darkened  hues,  through  thick  lashes  and  a  regal  facade.  as  he  breaks  the  spell  of  their  proximity  and  leans  backwards,  he  smirks,  and  smoke  curls  lazily  from  the  corners  of  his  mouth...

@coyotefaced​: his head slides into place, just to his left. with a restless tilt. with weight. calloused hands snake around his front, under his arms, and hold fast, weight shifts. his forehead rests on his shoulder, his tricep. clavicles. upon each one, a mark from his lips, and a quiet little promise, a song older than either one of them could hope to grow in a combined lifetime.

he  is  fixated  in  front  of  the  gas  stove,  eyes  glued  with  almost  unprecedented  religion  to  the  crackling  skillet.  in  his  hand,  a  spatula,  and  he  carefully  turns  the  eggs  and  ingredients  within  the  pan  with  precision  only  someone  as  dutiful  as  hanzo  shimada  could  manage.  even  making  omelettes  was  an  art  form,  apparently.  the  early  morning,  and  the  slow  rise  of  the  sun  over  the  sierra  nevada  mountains  has  him  feeling  peace  in  a  way  he  could  not  begin  to  describe.  that  -  coupled  with  the  knowledge  of  whom  rested  peacefully  in  their  shared  bed,  no  doubt  burrowed  beneath  age  old  quilts  and  pillows.  it’s  in  moments  like  this,  he  thinks,  perhaps  he  can  give  himself  an  inch  of  forgiveness,  as  genji  had  requested. 

he  startles  him  -  a  coyote  in  the  night,  slipping  up  behind  some  lazy  prey.  but  hanzo  does  not  jump  at  the  heat  formulating  at  his  back,  at  the  warmth  and  strength  of  the  man  pressing  to  him.  hanzo  sighs  in  bliss,  the  sound  like  a  summer  gale  as  he  basks  in  the  attention  provided  to  him.  for  a  moment,  he  simply  leans  backwards,  lulling  himself  into  a  daze  with  the  caress  of  sweet  fingers  and  mccree’s  southern  scent,  drawing  a  placated  purr  from  the  dragon’s  within  that  formulates  in  his  own  mouth  as  a  wanting  hum.  haphazardly,  he  turns  the  skillet  off  (omelettes  impeccably  made,  as  always),  and  sets  the  utensils  aside.  then,  he  leans  backwards  fully  into  the  gunslinger’s  offered  body,  his  own  killer’s  fingertips  skirting  flesh  and  metal  in  a  way  that  can  only  be  described  as  tender and  almost  reverent.  a  light  grip  has  him  raising  the  flesh  hand  to  his  lips  -  and  he  flutters  utterly  gentle  kisses  across  his  knuckles,  his  fingers.  rare  moments,  indeed,  to  catch  hanzo  as  vulnerable  and  open  as  this  -  but  it’s  hard  to  not  melt  into  the  warmth  and  safety  of  the  man  behind  him,  and  all  he  has  to  offer. 

kinslayr said: “ take a break. ” fting soft touches or a smooch

i lost the hamilmeme

he should know better than to work this long. as good as he was, as they were, there is nothing to be gained if everything is lost to sleeplessness. he simply can’t help it. a month into this endeavor he’s still stuck at a dead end in the phillippines and their globe treading seems to halt with the first traces of humid air. deathly still and silent. walking outside is worse than any waterboarding he’d ever been prepared for. 

four countries, ten thousand miles. they trail their mark by weeks, and if the payout wasn’t in the hundred thousands? he would have left it alone. they would be off on some new adventure or bender or some other poorly thought out plan of attack and still have their resources intact and –

his spiral halts. the world stops rotating for a moment, and his face melts into the archer’s rough fingers and once more he’s struck by how much comfort the simple act of existing with another human being brought. struck like lightning, struck like a truck. he groans and lifts his own hand and traps him there, momentarily. 

“ gimme a reason to ” he mumbles, turning briefly. his lips meet his palm. 

he’s never been one to complain. it simply wasn’t part of his upbringing. pampered though a yakuza heir may have been, there was much to be said for the cultural implication of simply putting up with it. and so he did - the travel, this horrid humidity. it was enough to murder a man, and hanzo wanted out of here faster than he’d wanted most things in his life... but he saw mccree’s burden with warmed eyes and a melted soul, and he moved to take it. 

his life wasn’t so lonely anymore. his nights weren’t spent in solitude and his meals were now shared with another. his bed was warmed and danger had melted to negligible with someone like jesse watching his back and vice versa. hanzo had set out on this path to redeem himself... to put away his sins. but jesse. jesse had made this a way to live, a way to be... almost happy with him, even if it was hard to think of such things when the outside air was so sticky it was hard to breath. 

his hair is down, damp and hanging about his features in water covered rivulets because he had to take his third shower for the day to simply exist. he finds mccree thinking himself into a hole, as he is terribly prone to doing, and his heart almost fractures at the sight. fond, he’s so damned fond of the cowboy that the dragons beneath his flesh practically purr in his presence, and hanzo advances on him like a man possessed. he is no longer wary of touch, affection. he seeks it now, seeks what they can offer each other. 

it  was  a  simple  enough  job,  and  one  that  paid  well.  while  hanzo  wasn’t  in  the  business  of  body  guards,  his  pocket  book  was  not  so  picky  -  and  he  supposed  he  was  a  decent  enough  fit  for  the  work,  if  only  because  his  preparedness  was...  paranoia  level,  at  best.  the  charge  is  an  older  man,  of  european  make,  and  nearly  as  wordless  as  the  archer  himself.  short  and  sweet  -  watch  his  back  just  for  the  week  he  was  in  the  american  southwest,  as  the  land  had  proven  itself  lawless  and  more  violent  than  a  man  with  that  kind  of  money  could  stand  to  get  through  safely.  frankly,  hanzo  didn’t  care  for  his  reasonings  -  and  he  didn’t  care  for  his  charge’s  background  or  life  story  either.  later,  he  would  reflect  on  this  notion.  perhaps  it  would  behoove  him  to  start  giving  a  shit. 

                                 but  at  the  moment  it  means  nothing. 

the  arizona  moon  wanes  brightly  over  the  sky,  a  speck  of  light  in  the  otherwise  vast  darkness.  his  accommodations  are  nice  enough  -  a  room  adjacent  to  his  employer  and  a  balcony  next  to  his  own,  providing  easy  access  in  case  of  emergency.  the  bed  was  plush  and  warm  and  he  could  stand  to  sleep  in  it,  but  insomnia  plagued  the  archer  like  the  summer  heat,  and  thus  here  he  was,  stretched  out  at  the  patio  table  and   puffing  a  cigarette  like  he  needed  it  to  breath.  his  nerves  felt  electric,  yet  for  some  reason  the  dragon’s  did  not  stir...  while  hanzo  anticipated  something  to  be  coming,  the  normally  preternatural  sense  of  the  spirits  within  him  did  not.  it  was  an  unusual  feeling  -  their  notions  of  danger  not  aligning.  and  it  was  starting  to  give  him  a  headache. 

it’s  movement  below  that  catches  his  attention...  just  the  slightest  flicker,  enough  to  give  him  pause  and  stub  out  the  cherry  of  his  smoke.  the  gesture  does  not  repeat,  but  he  is  no  fool.  bow  and  quiver  in  hand,  he  is  off  the  balcony  and  on  the  cool  grass  within  a  second...  utterly  silent  and  imperceptible.  he  moves  with  the  fluidity  of  a  man  comfortable  in  the  shadows...  a  serpent  in  the  dark,  a  predator  sniffing  out  it’s  prey.  a  lifetime  of  training  focuses  in  on  his  senses  as  he  rounds  the  nearest  corner  -  and  before  hanzo  can  even  think  to  do  it,  an  arrow  is  nocked  and  his  bow  drawn,  the  shining  steel  angled  perfectly  at  a  head.  what  hanzo  does  not  expect  to  find  is  a  man  -  taller  than  he,  larger  in  girth...  and  wearing  the  most  ostentatious  belt  buckle  he’d  ever  seen  in  his  life. 

                                    BAMF.  what  the  hell  did  that  mean?