#mczo

moody? hanzo? always. there’s a noticeable tenseness in his crossed arms to bar the other from entering so easily, a sterner frown on his lips that casually become touched - he will resist, he always has. however, it’s not the type that has pushing arms or blatant verbal rejections, but a barrier that encourages more coaxing, he’s not going to admit it - but he is not opposed to being given sweet treatment. enough warmth can melt even the most frigid of ice. 

Send 👄 for our muses first kiss.

most of the earliest moments spent with jesse are the fuzziest, be it from the heat of the alcohol or from burning bodies sliding over one another, hanzo can’t remember exactly. he just knows of pure, unadulterated heat. 

maybe that’s why in the drunken haze hanzo even considers it an option, having spent weeks upon months in the cozy comfort of a certain western man’s company from what had once been the most coldest of camaraderie. it had been particularly hot that summer’s eve, the polyester and cotton of his kyudo gi sticking to the damp trunk of his body, exposing more of his skin than he usually does in hopes of cooling down. partnered with the sake and copious amounts of the cowboy’s liquor, it’s safe to say he’s derailed beyond the point of his casual drinking.

the drunken glow is a pain he’s been long numbed to, finally having been intoxicated enough past the point of feeling it. he’s still flushed, nonetheless, unknowingly swaying at the hip despite a muscled arm flexed firmly into the warm earth between them, serving as his only solid means of support. had anyone would have told his younger self that one day, he’d be getting drunk with some unruly cattleman under the stars, young hanzo would have worked even harder to prevent it from happening, but fate changes and here they are, pleasantly inebriated to the point where the world’s problems slide off of their broad shoulders just as the alcohol does down their throats.

 even in this stupor, his senses feel eyes on him, though the lack of hostility doesn’t make him inclined to do anything about it, the archer merely raising his own to meet the dark pools that stare him down. there’s something different about mccree tonight, that easy going, decorous charm had died down to a quiet, apathetic void of mystery. that bite of nuisance he generally presented hanzo out of amusement had softened to a sweetness baring an awful resemblance to the honey in their whiskey. something about it is enticing somehow, hanzo’s own eyes veiled by intrigue laced with bad judgement as he finds himself wavering closer, cheeks hot but breath hotter, so much to the point where his lips can feel the hitched puff of breath from mccree’s mouth until they can’t anymore when the distance is closed. slowly his dark eyes fall closed, the stiffness in his body melting just enough to lean closer to mccree as his lips gently work against the soft flesh he tastes. 

the silence is as heavy as the night they idle in. it's warm, a little too cozy even, but it's not an uncomfortably suffocating one that made one's lungs strain for reprieve. it was a time where not much talk was needed to communicate, though there was nothing that needed to be said as they tended to their own business. 

dark, honeyed eyes are shameless in their wandering over the archer’s shadowy figure. hanzo looks absolutely godsend in the dim blue glow of the moonlight filtering into the bedroom from between the slots of the blinds. his stare is unwavering over the taut muscles of the other’s back hugged tight by that sleeveless tank, the dark, intricate ink that decorates the man’s skin. he’s fair in paying attention to the solid thighs in those pants so figure-tight, even mccree is rendered breathless.