It had been a long and agonizing day for you. Your body creaked and ached with every step you took, your eyelids heavier than lead, and your attitude was awfully sour. You grumpily trudged home in the rain, your umbrella hardly doing you any good for the wind blew the water directly at you. You didn’t want to look at anyone, you didn’t want to talk to anyone, you didn’t want anyone touching you. You swore if anyone came within an inch of your being you’d bite the closest limb off their body. All you wanted to do was go home and sulk, scream, punch something—just about anything to take the edge off.
In the midst of your world-ending fantasies, you finally make your way home. You fumble with your keys, grumbling to yourself as you keep grabbing the wrong one. You practically rip the handle out of the door as you turn it and the door opens with a slam against the wall as you storm your way in and toss all your things to the floor. Screw cleaning up, that was a problem for future you.
You make your way to the living room so you can lay on the couch and mope, but— there he is. Your sweet, special boy. With all the negativity you’ve experienced today, you almost forgot he existed. Your sweet pup Jesse was sitting on the couch, looking over his shoulder and directly at you with a smile on his face. You could hear the gentle thump of his tail whacking the cushions due to the pure joy he had of seeing you again. Either he hadn’t noticed you were in a bad mood, or he chose to ignore it. Either way, he quickly rises from his seat and rushes over to you, nearly tripping in the process. Jesse pulls you into a tight embrace and already you can feel the stressors of your day melting away. You gently nuzzle your face into the chest fur that always fluffs out from his shirt. He never buttons the top-most button on his shirts because he simply has too much fluff. He thinks it’s embarrassing, you think it’s adorable.
“Hi, hi, hi!” he says excitedly as he licks your face. “I missed you! You were gone too long! I was afraid you’d never come back. Never do that again.” You try to conceal the roll of your eyes. He does this every time you leave, no matter how long you are gone for.
“I know, I know,” you respond, wrapping your arms around Jesse’s beefy body and gently stroking his back to get him to calm down. “I don’t have to go back out for a while. I’m all yours.”
Jesse couldn’t contain his excitement, letting out high pitched whimpers and whines as he smothered every inch of you with his slobbery dog kisses. Such a big baby, you think to yourself. Ever since you saved him from the streets he’s been awfully clingy. Of course, you let him do it because he’s earned these daily pleasures after a life of hardship. You have only yourself to blame for this spoiled little beast.
“Alright, alright. Down boy. Down,” you command once you’ve had enough. Jesse responds immediately, ceasing his kisses and letting you go. However, the sad look in his eyes were a little overkill. You tell him to sit on the couch and wait for you, which he does without hesitation. Once he’s settled in, you go to your room to change into your cozy pajamas. Perhaps you just sit and wait a few moments to wear down Jesse’s patience. Every now and then you like to test how good of a dog he is, and he often blows your expectations out of the water. Such a good, well-trained boy. You couldn’t have asked for a better puppy.
You slowly make your way back to the living room and as soon as you are within Jesse’s eyesight you can hear the thumping of his tail hitting the cushions yet again. He’s practically bouncing in his seat, dying to lunge at you and take you in his arms. Before his resolve breaks, though, you raise a hand and tell him firmly to stay. Jesse’s body goes rigid, eyes locked on you like a delicious piece of meat dangling just out of reach. You sit down beside your lovely pup and gently pat your lap. With this, Jesse becomes far more relaxed and a smile makes its way back to his face. He removes is hat and sets it on the coffee table before he lays back and rests his head on your lap, his tail wagging lazily as he lets out a soft grunt in approval. Now that is the adorable puppy you’ve come to love so much.
Jesse shuts his eyes and you run your hand through his messy hair, taking a moment to massage his floppy ears when your hands got there.
“Mnn… love ya so much,” he whispers before giving your fingers gentle kitten lick with that tongue he simply can’t keep to himself. “I love you too,” you mutter in response, trying to keep your composure as your chest swelled with pure love and adoration for this sweet pup.
Now, this. This is what made everything worth it. Coming home to Jesse, your Jesse, always made everything feel okay. You don’t even remember why you were in such a bad mood in the first place. All that mattered was you had your pup in your arms and you can finally put this day to rest.
You lean back on the couch and shut your eyes. The couch dips a bit as you feel Jesse adjust to the new position and lay on top of you. He was a little heavy, but not suffocating. Just enough pressure to give you that feeling of home. You press a gentle kiss to Jesse’s cheek, then relax and let your consciousness drift away.
Jesse refused to leave your side the entire night, and when you woke up the next morning, you were greeted to a warm, loving kiss from the pup you’ve come to adore.
Hello! I want like to try opening up for drabble requests. Slight NSFW allowed. Think PG-13, non-descriptive. You know those scenes that get a little steamy in the movies and then the camera pulls away? That stuff is okay. Sorry, I am not comfortable writing full-blown smut.
I’ll also write:
angst
action
fluff
aftercare
romance
poly
monster or supernatural versions of characters
Rules: No yandere, noncon, abuse, incest. No super specific requests either, I want to try and keep the readers as general as possible.
Characters I won’t write for:
Junkrat
Roadhog
Orisa
Baston
Winston
Torb
Sorry, I’m picky.
Nonplayable characters who are okay to request for:
Sojiro Shimada
Maximilien
Balderich
Gérard Lacroix and Emily ONLY if involved in a consensual poly relationship with either Tracer or Widowmaker.
(Examples of nonplayable characters I won’t write for: Mondatta, The Queen of Junkertown, Katya, Efi, esc.)
Have patience, I won’t tolerate anyone who comes to me being demanding or entitled.
Reblogging this for my new followers! Hit one hundred sometime last week. I added more characters onto the nonplayable list, and added poly! I’m really feeling some poly! requests right now~
Hello! I love the old Western McCree drabble. Can I please get some headcanons for Jesse, Gabe, Genji, and Hanzo comforting and praising a s/o that has a really low self esteem ans hates themselves. Thank you in advance! I kinda hit rock bottom, heh...
Jesse
Has a hard time understanding how you could hate yourself when he loves you so damn much.
Nearly breaks his heart to hear you say something like that. But your feelings are your feelings and he’s here for you.
Will praise every little small step forward you take ‘til you’re sick of hearing him talk (that’s a lot).
Cuddles the hell outa you and hums/sings to you on the particularly hard days. Improved a whole song for you one night while strumming on his guitar.
Gabe
Clinical when it comes to his advice, he’d like you to seek professional help, whatever it takes to pull you back up again.
Makes sure you know you have people who care about you (him being your number one fan, of course).
Lets you lead the conversation, listening more than anything, and adds in comments letting you know when he relates.
Every bit of comfort and praise comes from the heart. You can feel it and tell by the way he looks at you when he says it.
Genji
He knows what it is like to hit rock bottom, to lose all the confidence you once had, he gets it and is deeply empathic.
Will encourage you to join him and Zenyatta, if Zenyatta could help him then surely he can help you.
He texts you the dankest of memes. He likes to make you laugh. Knows it helps to keep you out of your own head.
Takes the initiative to make plans with you. Takes you on dates to places that he knows you like, and knows will make you feel special.
Hanzo
No one is as intense a listener as the one: Hanzo Shimada is. This in itself makes you feel better, every word that you say is important.
Asks if you’d like his advice, because he knows he doesn’t appreciate or welcome advice that he didn’t asked for (you’ll more than likely say yes anyway).
Will have you meditate with him. He says this is the number one way he reflects on his own insecurities and hopes that it will be of help to you.
Being a bit of a perfectionist he understands the self-criticism. Is willing to help you improve in any of the respects you feel need working on.
Hello!! I saw the post asking for clarification and I don't know if it was mine but just in case it was: reader has been assaulted in the past (years ago) and from it believes any person showing affection is now a yandere and feels too unworthy of person's genuine love, and kind of reaction upon hearing this what happened to them
(P-2.0) Just wanted to add thank you so much for always being so considerate and kind you’re amazing and I can’t say how wonderful you are from the bottom of my heart. Just know that if it’s not something you’re into it’s completely okay! Take care of yourself first hun ❤
Thank you! This helped me, I wrote a little something for you. Thanks for your patience! Hope you like it ❤❤❤
Hi! I love your blog so far. Could you please write a fic about Zarya with a fem! S/O who is quite chubby and asks Zarya to help her with her diet and exercise?
“Come! It is time for strength training. I will help you grow big and strong! Like me,” Zarya says with a wink and a flex of her arm.
You scoff. If you could manage to be half as strong, and fit like her you’d have met your goals ten times over. Truthfully you’d rather leave the bulk, and mass marvel-inducing strength to her (you love it on her). You would be confident with nice, simple visible tone in your arms and legs, a healthy uptake in your physical endurance. Zarya is more than willing, far more than happy -absolutely elated- to help you meet your goals.
Though, as is custom with your boasting girlfriend, she sometimes exaggerates your goals for the sake of morale; you appreciate the enthusiasm; you need it, working out is hard. Figuring out what to eat, when to eat, and how to not feel bad about eating while working to be fit, is also hard.
Zarya is also more than willing to voice her opinions on matters of the stomach as well. Her more professional ones: including a meal plan of when to eat, what you should be eating, and what snacks to grab when you’re feeling the hunger pangs in between meals. While, at the same time, letting you know you should never starve yourself (may whatever God be with you if she ever caught you doing so).
“Today!” She states throwing a finger in the air. “You will do squats, so that you may crush skulls between them.” She squats herself, making a circle with her hands between her legs.
You chuckle, shake your head. “I’ll settle for having a little less flab.” You smack your thighs, pinch the fattier parts to emphasize your point.
“We settle for nothing less than what we are striving for!” Then she remembers that is what you’re striving for. She shrugs, raising a hand in the air. “So if that is what you want then so be it, let’s get to it!”
How would McCree or Hanzo deal with finding out their s/o had been assaulted and is the reason why they have such bad trust issues?? I refresh this blog daily to see when you update cause your writing is just impeccable and I honestly reread things sooooo many times cause you get the character so perfectly! Thank you for all that you do!! <3
Hanzo’s of half the mind to find and kill the man, more than half. He’s paying attention, as you’re not done talking yet. But his mind is striving to figure out which agent would most likely give him the current location of the person who had hurt you so much you’d break down -out of fear- at the inquisition of his desire to make your semi-casual relationship a steadfast one. But not just give him the location. At the same time forget the fact that they ever gave it to him in the first place.
The word that gets thrown around about him is: reformed. The reformed former yakuza prince; the reformed wanderer; the reformed Shimada brother. He finds it all to be rather optimistic. While he picked a side (when he had sworn he’d die before he did), joining Overwatch hasn’t taken the assassin or the yakuza out of his blood, and it is still well within his character to kill and get away with it while he’s at it. For you, it’d be worth the trouble.
He had expressed his interest in going steady, and you had expressed your distrust in his intentions. Upon asking why you felt that way, you turned into a babbling, nervous mess like he’d never seen you before. Confessed to him the nature of your past relationship. Never, even when Hanzo was neck deep in clan ideologies, did assaulting someone seem to him like a viable option for showing affection or keeping the assumed person from leaving him.
It occurred to him that perhaps he never cared enough about another human being to feel that delusional. But that’s not true, he cares now. He cares that you find it difficult to believe that his caring is genuine, and not from a dark, frightening place. He cares so intensely that his own steady hands threaten to shake out of anger for you, not at you. It would be painful for him to let you go. If that turned out to be what you wanted then so be it, he’ll let you go.
You shook when you recounted the relationship, and he only interrupted you to tell you that you did not have to provide detail; it was already hard enough for you to speak. Bottom line: you didn’t feel loved, rather shackled and abused. You felt it ruined you for others, and made you unworthy of genuine love.
Hanzo is often intense before he realizes that he is being intense. He takes your hand and holds it flat against his chest. “My love for you comes from here.” He squeezes your hand; his heart beats strong against your skin. Your eyes are still glassy, and your lip trembles as you look at your hand in his. “I have patience enough to wait… if time is what you need.”
A few tears roll down your cheeks, you sniffle. “I don’t wanna make you wait. I trust you… I wanna be official.” You nod your head and do your best at gifting him with a smile.
“So it is,” he says.
He gives you a kiss on the forehead. You cup his cheek to keep him close. “Please don’t go after him,” you whisper.
“Hmpf.” How like you to be in his head. That used to frighten him. He doesn’t mind it so much anymore. Hanzo gives you another, longer kiss, stands back and crosses his arms. “Have you forgotten? I am reformed.” You raise your eyebrows at him, disbelieving. “As you wish,” Hanzo concedes; the man may live… for now.
So I heard this song Through The Valley by Shawn James. What if female reader quietly sings this while playing her guitar and McCree overhears. I feel like it’s a song he can relate to.
You strum on your guitar and curse under your breath. “No that’s not right,” you grumble. You strum again; curse again, strum and this time you find the cord meets your standards. They all sounded perfectly fine to him. Then again he’s no expert at the guitar, plays it casually in his spare time or when he’s feeling particularly inspired, and he may be a little biased (he thinks you’re a swell gal).
He sits just outside of the rec room, it has great acoustics. You’re notoriously known for packing up the moment anyone tries to join you, so he sits and he listens. The plucking of strings followed by chords turns into a melody that is vaguely familiar. Then you start singing, softly, he can barely hear it. McCree turns his ear towards the doorway, closes his eyes to hone his hearing and listens intently.
You’re giving him the chills. Gooseflesh all along his arms, raising hairs on his neck. Through The Valley; right there? That’s a good song choice.
♬My mind and my gun, they comfort me– because I know I’ll kill my enemies when they come…♬
You’re making him fall in love with the song all over again, it’s been years since he last heard it. The song still resonates with him (especially when it’s sung quietly from your lips), even now that he’s somewhat settled in Overwatch.
The song ends -all too soon- he claps, forgetting that he’s supposed to remain inconspicuous in order to ensure you’ll keep playing. McCree waits with bated breath, like a child awaiting a chiding for being where he’s not supposed to be. Cautious footsteps stop at the doorway. He opens his eyes to see you hugging your guitar to your chest, a bewildered look on your face.
McCree grins, leans his head against the doorframe. “That was real beautiful.” You purse your lips at the compliment and narrow your eyes at him. “Just so you know,” he points to the arm that’s still wholly flesh and littered with goosebumps, “yer responsible for this.”
The sharpness of your eyes soften, pursed lips turn into a smile. “Thank you.” Looking down at your guitar you fiddle with the strings nervously. “You play right?” He nods. You look back into the room, then back to him. “Wanna join me? I’d love to hear some pointers, if ya got any.”
It takes a lot of effort not to make a fool of himself by hopping up onto his feet, stuttering about how much he’d adore joining you. Play it cool, hotshot, he thinks to himself.
I am absolutely in love with your Old west Jesse mccree fic! I feel like it’s really in character for him in this Au! Slightly less chivalrous and more moody! Thank you for writing it I would love to see some headcanons for this version of him at some point but I just wanted to let you know I loved it!
Young! Genji x reader in a school au sort of situation like the reader is shy etc and he wants to woo her please! Thank you~
Genji sits at the back of the class because it gives him the opportunity to mess around when the subject at hand becomes a bore for him, as they often do. He barely cares about showing up to university in the first place. It’s just another thing that is required of him. He plays mobile games, scrolls mindlessly through social media. Phone hidden behind his backpack. Keeps his earbuds hidden away by a beanie that the professor would much rather he didn’t wear.
You sit at the back of the class because the professor is notoriously known for picking on the people who sit up front. You’re too shy to deal with that kind of pressure. Opposite to him, you do pay attention. A model student in fact, you pay attention intensely.
Genji took it upon himself one day during class to stare at you. Creepy, yes. But he wanted to see how long it take for you to notice the weight of eyes, and tear yourself away from the professor. A three-hour course, it took you exactly forty-six minutes and twenty-three seconds to notice. He timed it on his phone. You looked at him once, back to the professor. An alarm went off in your head. Did a double take and asked him what he wanted.
“Yo,” he said in response.
“Hi?”
“What is your name?” he asked.
You leaned forward and whispered it to him. Eyed the front of class afraid that the teacher might catch you slacking off for once.
“Pretty name,” he said. “I am Genji Shimada.”
“Thank you.” You looked down at your halopad, blushing. “I know who you are,” you said without looking at him.
Ah, of course you did. Everybody does but he didn’t like making assumptions of strangers. With that, he let you be, didn’t want to push past that point and end up making you uncomfortable. At least with your name he could find you on some of the various social media that he endlessly peruses through.
It’s comically difficult to chase you down after class. He just misses you every time. He’s watched your backpack disappear around corners, your head bop up and down in a crowd to thick for him to move through so many times. So Genji hasn’t had a chance to charm a phone number out of you. Even for a ninja, you move too fast. Must be all that nervous energy propelling you forth.
It’s mid-semester now and the professors showing a video of all the things he’s already taught. A way for people to freshen up before the big test. Every social media he found you on he sent a friend request and you accepted each one. Ever since the introduction, you’ve been inching ever closer to his spot, and he’s been doing the same.
Genji eyes a two player game on his phone that tells him the both of you play it, thanks to the linked account. He opens up the app and sends you an invite. He watches your phone light up with it, grinning from ear to ear. You look, see who it’s from, and eyeball him. Play with me, he mouths. Pay attention, you mouth back.
He rips a piece of paper from a notebook he doesn’t use. Writes on it, folds it, and slides it over to you. You take it cautiously like a kid in grade school, unfold it and purse your lips.
Come on, play with me. You know all this stuff, I know you do. Take a break.
You write something and slide it back.
I know it, but do you know it?
The note goes back and forth until the page is filled from top to bottom, front to back. You’re both grinning like idiots. Neither of you ends up paying attention to the video, and before he knows it it’s time to leave. Class has never flown by so fast for him.
Genji shoots up out of his seat, startling you. “Sorry, sorry,” he says with a chuckle. “You have another class?”
“Yes, “ you say gathering your things in a hurry. “In ten minutes, all the way across the campus.”
“May I have your number?” He holds the paper and pen out to you. You don’t take it. Instead, you throw your backpack on and make your way down the stairs. He’s feeling solemn for a moment, but then you pause.
“Take a look at the last thing I wrote you,” you say. “And chin up.”
With that your gone in a flash. He unfolds the piece of paper to find your number and a little message that says, text me and we’ll continue this argument, that is if you’re cool with being proven wrong :). He is.
Drabble request! I was watching a Western & they said, "Never make a deal with an outlaw, they'll double cross you." Could I request a Western au drabble of this with McCree & a female s/o that's so in love with him, she's in denial to the bad things he does & makes a deal with him anyway? Maybe the deal is her wanting to be protected from someone who is trying to force a marriage proposal on her? Kudos & cookies if he does something terrible then realizes his feelings & gets her back! <3
Ran long again! Didn’t see a way to fit this into a drabble. A head’s up! Jack isn’t portrayed in a good light here, just in case you don’t want to read about him as a villain. It’s also violent, misogynistic. It is the old west after all. 5k.
Jesse McCree’s a man who knows a meal ticket when he see’s it. Even if it came waltzing up to him in the form of a young, fine, prissy, doe-eyed, and desperate damsel. He’ll admit it was pretty brave the way you marched up to him in that dirty, backwater saloon. He was surrounded by cowboys who looked like trouble, and he’s man enough to admit, were much more frightening than himself (at least to the naked eye).
Some of the men that he was drinking with would have come unhinged if a breeze happened to blow their hair out of place. McCree, well he’s more of a bear. Dangerous if you get too close. And it’s common sense not to poke a bear.
Yeah, you were brave. Shaking like a leaf, wringing your hands together, and stuttering over your words. You laid down a deal you had for him and that deal seemed to be an easy payday. He was to escort you to the border of New Mexico. In return, McCree would receive a pretty, flower embroidered, little bag full of double eagles and silver dollars weighing down his pocket up front. Once you were escorted you’d give him the name of the person back in the very town you picked him up in that’s keeping hidden an even heavier coin purse.
Brave, sure. But you know what else you were? Fucking stupid.
Every jingle of the coins in that purse of yours had another drunk, thirsty, nasty, and ruthless cowboy putting their hand on their hip.
McCree took a long drag from his cigarillo, blew the smoke out slow and easy, and then put it out on the table. “Sweetheart… wish ya had come to me in private, didn’t have ta go and make a spectacle outa askin’ for my services.”
You shook your head, greatly confused, and ignorant. “I’m makin’ no spectacle, mister.”
“Ya most certainly are, and you’re ruinin’ a perfectly good poker game while you’re at it.” McCree tossed down his winning hand onto the table. He wasn’t gonna win much, not one of those men had much to their name. But for the sake of pride, and all the mess they were spitting he was looking forward to showing them who had the better poker face.
While you were stammering your griefs at him the unwarranted, less than desirable offers started to come your way.
“Don’t gotta pay me to let ya ride my saddle, baby.” Your eyes blew wide and glassy as the old, smug cowboy sucked on his teeth, sat back and patted his lap. “Come hop on, it’s free.”
McCree carefully stood up. Everybody in the room went stiff as a board. A few shot up out of their chairs, guns drawn from their holsters. Alert and hostile, every pair of eyes (just an eye in some cases), trained on him.
The pretty payday you were offering up on a silver platter could have been salvation for more than one gambler, outlaw, or lowlife in that room. More than one of them hadn’t had anything substantial to eat in over a week, hunger could make a man do crazy things. For a few the money was an afterthought. They saw you as something nice, something pristine. Shiny and untouched in a dirty dust filled town… something they wanted to possess.
“Darlin’ why don’t ya go wait outside for me,” McCree said.
“So you accept my offer?!”
“I do.” One of the men grumbled at the declaration, a man with hollowed out cheeks. McCree side eyed him and the twitchy fingers that hovered over his gun. “Now, git,” he demanded.
You turned swiftly on your heel, dress flaring out at the ankles, ready to bolt on out of that saloon. One of the men, who in his mind already believed you belonged to him stood in your way, and would not be budging.
McCree had six shots in his gun. There were seven men. He had to discern which one was the most yellow-bellied out of the lot. Which one would back down once the bodies hit the floor?
Hard to say because every gunslinger in the west thinks they’re the quickest draw. But every one of them but one would be wrong. Jesse McCree; he’s the only one who’s right.
Before you could understand the gravity of what was happening McCree drew Peacekeeper and gave six men their own individual, crippling bullet.
Pop! Pop, pop, pop, pop, pop!
In the time it took for McCree to reload a bullet a man of decent skill could have shot him dead. It was a short opportunity of one-point-six seconds. The last man standing had a fully loaded gun. If McCree were in his place, McCree would have already been dead.
The last man standing wasn’t McCree and wasn’t so much as half as good as him. He could have lit up a cigar, threw back a glass, readjusted his hat, and then reloaded his gun with all six shots, and McCree still would have been faster.
He pointed the gun at the man. “Ya feel like livin’ today, partner?”
The man nodded desperately.
“Throw your gun behind the counter then. Go on.”
The man complied without hesitation. Threw the gun with such vigor it broke several bottles of liquor and the dingy monogrammed mirror behind the bottles of liquor.
You hadn’t screamed once. You stood there, wide-eyed, hands pressed to your belly, perplexed.
“That’s some quick shootin’,” you said, out of breath even though you had been standing perfectly still.
“The quickest.” McCree grinned, he winked at you as he motioned for you to head out the saloon doors. “Let’s get goin’.”
Two and a half weeks later
“Alright, sugar… I think you’ve had just about enough.”
‘Just about enough’ was an understatement of grand proportions. The bartender had been keeping you well watered. Used you for his entertainment. Seeing as the drunker you got, the more you rambled, and the man had thought that was the funniest thing.
That was all fine and good to McCree. The bartender kept you out of trouble so he could do work. While you were getting piss drunk at the bar McCree was negotiating transport. Securing your ride out of there. A private train car, owned by the very gentleman he was speaking to, that would take you out of state, and to safety. Your deal with McCree would come to a close, you could move on with whatever life you were after, and he could move on with his.
McCree pulled you up and off of the barstool by your arm, tugged on the brim of his hat and nodded towards the bartender.
“Thank you kindly fer babysittin’ her for me,” McCree said.
You used both your hands and all your surprisingly strong, fool-drunk strength to shove him in the chest. Nearly stumbled backward and flat onto your ass in consequence. You managed miraculously and somewhat comically to stumble back into balance.
“I… am not– a child.” You stomped your foot. Crossed your arms. Narrowed your eyes, and swayed to and frow. Looked a lot to him like a God-damned child.
“My most sincere apologies, princess.”
McCree carefully reached out to you. Eyed what he knew was a spring in your step and the means to make him chase after you. Before you could bolt he snatched up the collar of your dress, yanked you forward, picked you up, and tossed you over his shoulder.
He carried you up the stairs to your shared rented room. Several ladies and gentlemen whistled and hooted at the sight. He thump, thump, thumped up the stairs. Heavy steps on hardwood. McCree kicked open the door with a grunt. He had every intention of laying your ass down on the bed and leaving. He’d get piss drunk himself, seeing as you sure did look like you were having fun. He’d have you sleep off all the liquor and let you in on the next plan of action in the morning.
As he was slipping you down off of his shoulder you wrapped your legs around his waist. You clung to him, dug your heels into his back. Cupped his face in both of your hands, and kissed him roughly. Moaned, opened your mouth, and flicked your tongue over his lips. You smelled like a straight bottle of liquor, tasted like one too, but that wasn’t something McCree was adverse to.
He’d be a liar to deny that there had been tension building as he escorted you across the state. No use in pretending the times he had to avert his gaze to keep from catching you in an indecent position didn’t happen. That he was disappointed that he never did catch you just shy of covering up. He wouldn’t mind seeing you in an indecent position. Dreamed about it a couple of times.
McCree’s only a man. A lowly one at that. He kissed you back. Returned your tongue with his own. Dragged his fingers down your back, and groped his hands down the length of your waist. Stopped when he had two hands full of your backside. Electricity shot down his spine, fire coursed through his veins, it was hard to stop.
He’d come to have a general understanding, why the man: a rich, powerful sheriff (something you had failed to mention when you pitched him your deal). A lawman you were proposed to had been trying, come hell or high water, to get you back in his clutches. The deal had turned out to be far more than what he had bargained for. Not anything McCree couldn’t handle. For that reason, and that reason alone, he didn’t call it off.
A few shootouts with the men hired to bring you back home. Adrenaline rushed horseback chases. Several fistfights. One son-of-a-bitch who thought he could touch his gun and you in the same breath…
McCree came to his senses when something crawled into his guts and gnawed on them. Whether it was guilt or something else he wasn’t willing to come to terms with… the feeling had him pulling away, and moving his hands to a more respectable place on your body.
Of course you couldn’t make it easy for him. Since you couldn’t have his lips you planted yours on his neck. Licked and nibbled your way to his ear. “Make… ’n honest woman outa me,” you said.
McCree chuckled. “Uh, uh, sweetheart… ‘fraid I’m not ready for that kind of commitment.” McCree pried you off of his body. Threw you down onto the bed. You groaned, sprawled out. A cheeky grin plastered on your face.
“How decent of you, sir,” you slurred.
McCree huffed. “It ain’t decency. If I settled between your legs, honey, by the time I pulled away you’d be quite attached,” he shook his head, “can’t have that.”
You shrugged your shoulders, tried and failed to lift up your dress. “‘M already attached… so what’s your excuse for not takin’ advantage now, huh?”
He scoffed at the confession. “Do me a favor?” McCree said. “Shut up and go to sleep?”
You threw your hands down on the bed. “Fine.” Turned over grumbling some nonsense that he couldn’t catch. You passed out as soon as your eyes closed.
He tossed a blanket over you, then made his way back downstairs.
“Damn, man, you fire off fast,” the bartender teased.
McCree took a seat. Dismissed the comment with a sigh. “Can this man get a glass a whiskey?”
“Sure thing.” He poured him a generous amount. Slammed the glass down in front of him. “Free, if you’ll answer me a question.”
“Shoot.”
“Outa all that ramblin’ she did she never did fess up whats so damn bad about the feller she’s runnin’ from, would ya happen to know?”
McCree took a long sip from his glass, put it down half empty. “That fella yer speakin’ of? Has had four wives. All of his wives perished from what the official reports say are accidents.” McCree downed the rest of his drink. Let the man draw his own conclusions.
Another bar, another town, another week of dodging his demise. Sheriff Morrison wasn’t the only lawman after him. McCree’s had a bounty on his head from the moment he joined the Deadlock gang as a kid. He’d have one on his head until the day he died. The men who came after McCree this time thought maybe you needed saving from him.
It was a close call for the both of you. By the time the ordeal was over, you and he had gotten into a shouting match over just who was to blame for it. He almost went to the hanging tree, you almost went back to Morrison.
“Yer a big idiot!” you shouted. “Why you gotta challenge every alpha male that comes yer way, huh!”
“If I’m an idiot then yer a dumb fuckin’ broad!” he shouted back. “It’s inhumanly possible the miss that many shots!”
“Well maybe if ya bothered to teach me like I been beggin’ ya, then I’d hit a few!”
“Oh?! So it’s all my fault then?!”
“You got it, mister!”
He left you fuming with the family who was hospitable enough to offer discreet housing just outside of the town the train would be picking you up from. Three more days. He couldn’t wait for the conductor to take your ass away. He can go back to looking out for himself, the one thing he’s been doing his whole damn life. The one thing he’s good at.
He must have look pissed. Like a man not to be messed with. The bartender gave him his drink and swiftly moved on to the next customer. The seats next to him empty. Groups seated at tables out of the vicinity of his fumes.
Good. He didn’t much feel like being cordial. Except…
“Hear you’re the John escortin’ my fiance…” A man took a seat next to him. Motioned for the bartender to give him the same thing that McCree was having. “That money she’s offerin’ you? That’s my money. My money. There’s plenty more where it came from. You know what else I got? Jesse McCree? I got influence. Influence as far as the eye can see.”
McCree cautiously took a look at the sheriff. Dressed nice. In a suite with silver chains hanging from the pockets and everything. Silver badge pinned over his heart. Silver hair, matching a silver beard peeking out from under his black hat. Out of all the shootouts, all the running, he never did see him. He never came to do the dirty work himself. Guess he realized if you want something done…
“You like cigars, don’t you, Jesse?”
McCree made no motion to confirm or deny. He despised being called Jesse, made him feel like he was a dumb runt again. He looked back over his shoulder to see how many bounty hunters the man had brought with him. A quick scan showed no one. He came alone.
Morrison reached in his breast pocket, fished out two cigars. He lit one and slid the other over to McCree. It rolled past him, came to a stop at the end of the bar, ignored.
Morrison sighed, clicked his tongue. “I’m tired of the theatrics. They make a man such as me look bad.” He puffed on his cigar, drank his liquor. “Not having control over your woman is embarrassing, I hate being embarrassed, Jesse. So I’m gonna make you a deal.”
McCree stayed silent, grinding his teeth together. The presence of both him and the sheriff became too much for the people sober enough to sense danger. Most had gotten up and taken their leave. Left only the bartender and a few drunk patrons too slammed to care.
The sheriff fished into his jacket, pulled out a leather-wrapped document. He untied it, opened it up, and threw it down on the bar, thud. “That right there is a pardon, it’ll remove the bounty off yer head, give you a clean start. Already got yer name on it too. Don’t it look pretty?”
It sure did. Fancy writing, on fancy paper. Not yet signed. “That sure is somethin’,” McCree said, low toned and skeptical.
“Can’t keep you from goin’ and putting a brand new bounty on yer head once you’ve got it removed, or do anythin’ about the folks who just don’t like ya, but I bet you never thought you’d see one of those in yer lifetime.”
He was right about that.
“I’m willin’ to sign this for you. Pay you double whatever petty cash that girl is promisin’ you. If ya take me and my wagon to her, right now.” He took another drink, another drag. “You have ’til I finish my liquor to decide, once I leave I ain’t given this offer again.”
Sherif Morrison puffed on his cigar, pulled his hat low and let McCree ponder.
That damn document was beckoning to him. Sang siren songs. Implanting pictures, tempting visions of what kind of life he could have without being a notoriously wanted criminal. Just a severely dislike individual. Over time them feelings would fade, bounty hunters would move on to the next payday. He hadn’t chosen the life of a wanderer, a low life, rather was orphaned into it. He could get a nice plot of land with the money. Raise some horses, chickens, get himself a herd of cows. He did love taking care of the Deadlock animals.
He could see the pens, the hard work that would need to go into building them. Could hear the cows mooing, the pigs snorting, the rooster crowing at dawn. A couple or so little brats fighting over something trivial, the way little brats are supposed to. Could hear his wife tell them to settle down or they won’t be getting any supper.
He looked at the pardon. Sheriff Morrison took another sip of his drink.
“How do I know yer not gonna double cross me?” McCree asked.
“Ya don’t.” Morrison sat the glass down, barely any liquor left. “Some way my girl didn’t know you wouldn’t double cross her. Gotta put yer bets on the right cards; I’m the right cards.”
McCree sincerely wished that the man hadn’t given him such an undeniable offer. If the sheriff is putting up this much to get you back then you must mean something to him, right?
He felt stuck to his seat. Tongue a useless rock in his mouth. But then the sheriff reached for his glass. “Alright, alright… follow me.”
Morrison grinned. “Knew you were a smart man, McCree.”
“Sure,” he grumbled.
McCree had instructed the sheriff to follow him, but it was Morrison who led the way out of the saloon. His wagon waited outside, along with five of his men who needed to be commanded to put their guards down, and guns away. Not alone after all. Morrison wanted him to get in the wagon. Like hell. He had his own horse, he’d use her, and they could follow.
The little house on the hillside came into sight in short time. McCree halted his horse, she protested with a whinny. “I wanna see that pardon signed ‘fore I go in ’n get her. A nice family lives in there. Their pa’s quite protective of ‘em, it’d be fer the best if I grab her by myself.”
“I’ll do ya one better,” Morrison grabbed the pardon, signed it, and threw it over to him. McCree caught it out of the air. “There ya go. If you betray me, I’ll just have teh put that bounty right back on yer head. Them papers no use without my good word.”
Interesting after sight. McCree slipped the papers into a pocket on his horse’s saddle. Rode the rest of the way up to the house, and hopped off. As he thumped up the steps you opened the door, leaned on the frame, and crossed your arms.
“Yer loud as hell.” His body blocked your view of the men behind him. Unaware, you smiled and asked, “Still mad at me? I, for one, am over it.”
“Ain’t mad at ya.” McCree swallowed a hard lump in his throat. Looked down, couldn’t bear looking right at you. “Need ya to follow me.”
“Where we goin’?” You take a step out of the door without even knowing where you’re going first. It sickens him to see the trust you have in him. The destination didn’t matter to you.
You trotted down the steps before coming to a dead stop. Horrified by the sight laid before you. “McCree? McCree, what the hell is this?” Your voice cracked with hurt. You clutched your belly, your mouth fell open in disbelief. “McCree?”
“Alright, doll face, that’s enough. You’ve bothered this man enough,” the sheriff said.
Morrison closed the distance between you and him quickly. Reached out to grab your arm. You swatted him away with an animal like growl. Backed up, shook your head, and spit demands at him. “Don’t touch me!” You backed up more, almost tripped over your own feet. He reached for you again. “No! Don’t fuckin’ touch me, you monster!”
The third time he reached he made contact. Yanked you hard. You collided with his chest, face grimaced in pain. “That’s no way for a lady to talk,” he said. He dragged you alongside him, feet kicking up dirt, cussing with every single demand that you continued to hurl at him.
At the wagon, your fighting dissolved into begging. “McCree! Please don’t let him take me! Please!”
The sheriff picked you up like you didn’t weigh nothing more than a bag of feathers, and tossed you into the bed. You hit, however, like a bag of rocks. “Want you to hush up now, girl.”
“Yeah?!” you barked back. “And I want you to go to hell!”
McCree wished you’d listen. Go quietly for your own good, for the sake of the hot, breathtaking guilt weighing him down. Then he wished you would keep on keeping on because he likes hearing your fighting words, and he’d done nothing to deserve any sort of relief from the turmoil churning bile in his belly.
Morrison hopped up into the bed with you. Looked at the man holding onto the reins and nodded towards something he was holding in his hand along with them. A riding whip. The driver handed it over. He reared it back and brought it back down on you at a merciless velocity. You screamed out in shock and pain. He did it again, and you screamed louder.
“Stop,” he said too quiet for any of them to hear over your wailing. McCree repeated himself, still too quiet. Walked forward before he was fully aware of what he was doing. Went for Peacekeeper, no thinking. All of the sheriff’s men watched you take a beating, didn’t notice him run up to the back of the wagon. Didn’t notice him point a gun at their leader’s head. “Hit her one more time and yer fuckin’ dead.”
Morrison stopped mid-swing. Threw the whip over the side into the dirt.
McCree was so fucking stupid. That dream them papers had given him; his wife on the porch; her voice, it belonged to you. It belonged to you whether he liked it or not. What good’s a dream without the one person featured in it? Was about the right time for him to stop being a fool and just admit he was stuck on you. Like most of the lessons he had learned in life he had to learn it the hard way.
“The hell are you doin’?” Morrison asked.
“Changed my mind,” McCree said. “Let her go.”
Jack slowly turned around. Motioned with one hand for the men surrounding the wagon to keep cool heads. He pointed to you. “She worth the piece of mind them papers would’a given you?” he asked with genuine confusion and shock.
“Yeah,” McCree said. Plain and simple. Wouldn’t have been much peace of mind putting his fate and you in that man’s hands.
Morrison closed his eyes, tilted his head up towards the sky, and breathed in deep through his nose. Opened his eyes in such a way that seemed he had heard words from God himself.
He looked down at you and shook his head. “You ain’t worth that much to me. You’re barely worth any more of my fuckin’ time, my money, my effort. You’re common, sweetheart.”
“Sounds like you should toss her then, asshole.”
“Yer right, Jesse McCree. But its a matter of pride.” The sheriff eyed the gun pointed at his face. Sucked on his teeth. “I’m not arrogant enough to believe we stand a chance against you and six bullets.”
McCree reasons with him: “Nobody’s gotta know ya stood down.”
He stood back, gave you space to crawl your way out of the wagon bed. Barely enough. You bumped against his shins, and he looked down upon you like a dumb dog who doesn’t know right from left. Looked like he wanted to kick you for the transgression.
Morrison said, “Should’a never bothered with you.”
You opened your mouth to throw something back at him but thought better of it. McCree breathed a sigh of relief when your mouth snapped shut. You jumped down onto the ground, backed away from both him and the wagon.
“Sir.” One of the men piped up. “Are we really leavin’ her?”
He looked towards the sky once more, nodded his head. “You feel like dyin’ for her?” Morrison asked.
The man turned up his nose. “No.”
“Then we’re leavin’ her… feel like questionin’ my decisions some more?” A threat, not a question.
“No, sir.”
McCree kept his weapons trained on them until they were all saddled up and on their way. Kept it pointed at their backs as they rode off. Felt too easy. He’d be keeping watch for the remainder of the night. Wouldn’t be sleeping, or drinking until you were on that train. Had to stay sharp, had to make up for the colossal mistake he had made.
His arm was shaking, tired by the time it dropped down to his side. He looked behind him to see you had snuck off. You were sitting in one of the rocking chairs on the porch. The man of the house was tending to your lacerations. One across your face, two across your arms. Several red lines accompanying the wounds. He’d observed the entire scene, shotgun in hand. He did not have a kind look for him as he walked up.
“Don’t appreciate you bringin’ them dangerous men to my doorstep.”
“My apologies.” The man gave him a gruff “mhmm” in return. He looked at you, removed his hat. “I am deeply sorry.”
McCree asked if he could finish patching you up. The man handed that choice over to you, and you granted him the privilege, albeit with a well-deserved glare. He sat there quietly while he took care of your wounds. Every sniffle burned his heart, every wince twisted knives in his gut. Eventually, he coaxed you in his lap, convinced you to let him hold you and rock you in the chair. He begged for your forgiveness until the Sun started to rise in the east, continued to beg until it set again in the west.
“Woman, stop lookin’ at me like that ‘n get on the damn train.”
You complied with long coy strides, but only partially. One foot planted firmly on the first step into the train, one foot planted on the ground outside of it. You gripped the silver bar and dangled there with an angelic smile on your face.
“Come with me,” you whispered.
“Can’t do that darlin’.”
“And why not?” you asked as if you knew for a fact he’s had no good reason.
“Cause I‘m no good, you of all people should be well aware’a that by now.”
You shrugged, face softened. Your cheek was bruised something fierce, purple and yellow. “You realized yer wrong, ‘n ya made it right.”
“I’m gonna have a bounty on my head fer the rest of my life, pretty sure it just when up times two with that last stint of ours.”
“Don’t care.” You hopped off the train’s step. He knew exactly what you were coming for. Should have stopped you in your tracks. He didn’t. You threw your arms around his neck and kissed him. A hell of a lot more feeling, more sober passion behind it than the first time. He leaned into it returned what you gave him twice over.
The conductor poked his head out the window, impatiently waiting for you to get inside the train, the hold up was solely on your shoulders.
McCree pulled away, held you at arm’s length. “Yer supposed teh be runnin’ from trouble, not beggin’ it to follow you.”
“I’ll pay ya extra,” you said with a cock of your head and a cheeky grin. “Could use yer protection, trains get stuck up all the time y’know.”
McCree stepped forward, acting as if he was going to get on the train with you. You walked up the steps backward looking him in the eyes. He closed the half door as soon as he got the chance. He tapped regretfully on the ledge and took a step back. Tried not to let your disappointed face change the decision he felt was right.
“Somethin’ tells me yer gonna have a safe transit.” He tugged the brim of his hat down, hooked his thumbs into his belt. The train came to life, got to chugging with a loud, long whistle.
Just before your solemn face left his line of sight you said, “I love you, Jesse McCree.”
He stood at the edge of the platform watching your ride leave at full speed, regretting. He’d been full of that lately. He should have said it back. It wasn’t like it wouldn’t have been sincere. He just… felt it might be harder for you to move on if you had heard it from him. Didn’t feel like hurting you more than he already had.
His horse whinnied, stomped restlessly on the ground. “We’ll get to goin’ soon, girl,” he called back to her. Then something caught his eye, something so unbelievable he had to remove his hat and nearly threw the thing out onto the tracks. “You’ve got to be fuckin’ yankin’ my chain.”
A gang. He’s got an eagle eye for them. Which gang it was he wouldn’t know until he got closer. And they were headed for your train. He sighed, put his hat back on. Looked like he’d be getting a second chance at saying “I love you.”
Male Reader catches (female of your choice) cheating on him. She doesn't know he knows until she overhears him talking to (male friend of your choice) and not-quite-crying, "I mean, I shoulda seen it coming; she's outta my league and all, but… hurts like hell, y'know? Trusting her like that?" etc.
Mercy shouldn’t do this. Shouldn’t snoop. Shouldn’t press her ear to the door where all of the murmurings are coming from. But she’s curious. And if she’s being really honest with herself, paranoid. Paranoia is the leading factor that beckons her to lean carefully against the metal door. The tight feeling in her chest, in her belly, the sick feeling that comes with it; how her heart starts to race, and her face flushes with heat in response to what she hears from her prying is the fault of no one else but her own.
She’d been in such gross denial. Of course; this is why you were acting so distant. What else could it have been?
“Didn’t peg her fer the cheatin’ type,” McCree grumbles. A glass clinks, a metal lid hits a tin like surface. McCree pours liquor for him, and for you.
“I mean, I shoulda seen it coming; she’s outta my league and all, but… still… it hurts like hell, y'know? Trusting her like that?”
Your voice, while familiar, also seems foreign. Tinged with sorrow, something she’s never heard before. Mercy swallows a lump in her throat, fights the flight feeling in her legs, and keeps listening (if she could run, keep dodging this confrontation forever she might have opted for that option).
McCree huffs. Leather groans as he takes a seat next to you on the recreation room couch. “Drink this,” he says. A brief, heavy silence follows. Mercy’s guilty conscience has her picturing you: tight-lipped, red-eyed, silent to keep your resolve from cracking.
Finally, McCree slams down his glass and speaks up again. “…In my humble opinion, whether or not that’s true? Don’t mean she’s got the right to string ya along, woulda hurt a whole lot less just teh let you go.”
“Man, I love her; I just thought… I dunno– I thought we had somethin’ good.”
Mercy’s not quite sure what possesses her. Is it bravery? Is she doing the right thing? Or is she simply being selfish because she’s realized she’d rather get this over with? She stands back and asks with shaky breath for Anthena to, please, open the door.
She has the attention of the both of you immediately. Your cheeks are dewy, eyes glassy. You’re not happy to see her. Glass already empty, though she has no idea how much was in it in the first place. She’ll probably take it upon herself to pour you some more, get herself a drink while she’s at it. It’s going to be taxing, trying to save this relationship. She can’t heal everything.
Before she can take even one step into the room McCree’s already getting up to his feet.
“Doctor.” McCree tips his hat to her. At first, she doesn’t understand what she’s seeing on his face as she’s never seen it before. But then she understands that it’s judgment. “I do believe the twoa you have got somethin’ teh discuss… ‘m no relationship counselor, I’ll take my leave.”
i honestly need some hc's for hanzo shimada or gabriel reyes cuddling before bed bc yes. thank you
Have both! ^_^
Hanzo Shimada
Hanzo feels at peace when cuddling with you. It’s a way for him to be intimate and vulnerable with you without feeling as if he’s being judged.
You lay with your head on his chest while Hanzo reads, he pets your head and depending on his mood he may or may not be shirtless.
Lots of lazy tattoo traces, if you trace them for long enough his tattoo will start to shimmer and glow. It doesn’t always happen but it’s just as nice when he gets simple goosebumps.
One night when you couldn't sleep, his arm got extra special attention and really started to light up, you could hear the dragons softly grumble, roar, and the art came to life from your attentive touch.
When you pointed it out Hanzo huffed, insisted you were delirious and must have been inordinately exhausted.
He had such a good poker face and serious tone of voice that you didn’t realize he was messing with you for a good five minutes.
Gabriel Reyes
Cuddling with you in one of the biggest things Gabriel looks forward to coming home to. It makes him feel as if he’s protecting you without you being in any danger.
He likes to cuddle you on the couch, cradles you in his lap until the both of you are ready to turn off the gameshows and go to sleep.
Gabriel may be a super soldier, capable of having outstanding amounts of stamina, but that doesn’t mean that missions aren't extremely taxing from time to time.
Sometimes he’ll end up falling asleep in that position, so you’ll readjust his head and put a pillow under his neck. Making sure that he doesn’t get a kink in his neck.
If you fall asleep first (which is usually what happens), he’ll pick you up bridal style, carry you to bed, and tuck you in.
Gabe’s a sucker for the “leg hug.” You’re sure to wake up in the morning with his leg thrown over your own. So you can both sleep comfortably but still keep physical contact.
May I request something? Mccree meets his female s/o in a bar because she sings country on open mic night and he’s head over heels
“McCree; sit your ass back down,” the commander demands of him.
His butt is already up off the barstool. He’s experiencing fierce tunnel vision. All he can see is you. An angel chatting with her band all the way on the other side of the room, a classic country darling reincarnated who just sang her heart out on stage, and gave him some of the best kind of chills he’s ever had.
“Sorry, boss. I gotta have her autograph.”
“McCree!” Gabe snaps. McCree’s in for a lecture later. They’re supposed to be spying on the owner of the bar. Who is suspected of being overtly anti-omnic. To the point that omnics seem to be disappearing in alarming numbers within his area. They should be getting ready to case the basement, using the next act, the closing one as a distraction. But there McCree goes, readjusting his hat, putting on his best cheese-filled grin.
“Howdy,” McCree drawls as he finally reaches you. He waits for you to turn around, acknowledge him with a hello back, and a quick and what he loves to see is a not-so-subtle look over. “You in the mood for a compliment?”
You gift him with a small chuckle. “Ya, sure. Lay it on me.”
“Fer a girl who sings so sweetly, ya sure did blow my hat clean off.”
“Happy to see you got it back.” You point to his hat and grin.
McCree removes it and holds it against his chest. “You had genuine emotion in your voice, these days ya hardly hear that anymore… ’m… ’m…” McCree shakes his head, at a loss. “I’m a big fan.”
From the other side of the room, still sitting at the bar, nursing his drink Gabe remains unamused watching McCree work his magic on you. Every animated thing that he says to you has your smile growing wider and wider. Just as the next band is about to take the stage McCree steals someone’s napkin from off their table, much to their bewilderment, hands it to you and gets what Gabe is assuming is your autograph.
McCree tears himself away from you. Making a fool of himself as he refuses to take his eyes off of you. He bumps into people, spills drinks. Only adverting his eyes so he can smuggle look Gabe in the eyes while he gently lays the napkin down on the bar for him to observe. A dirty, torn, and wrinkled napkin, with your signature… and your phone number.
