McCreeissohairybecausehe’aawerewolfandheKNOTSandiscuteIdon’tmaketherulesbye

Hanzo is contemplating the full moon when he hears the crunching of soft footsteps on the rooftop behind. The cadence of their steady fall is familiar – almost comforting.

McCree’s scent curls around his nose even before the man slowly sits down next to him, legs easily dangling above what would be a certain deadly drop. He always smells warm and of clean sweat, but on these nights, the scent is even deeper; a note of damp dog hair that Hanzo is helpless but to react to – nipples hardening and the hairs on his arms standing at attention.

He watches McCree out of the corner of his eyes. He seems calm. Happy. The wild scruff of his beard has crawled up a little higher on his gaunt cheeks; a hint of fang glints between his lips when he opens them and breathes in deep – scenting the air.

McCree suddenly tilts his head, sick yellow eyes throwing Hanzo a cheeky wink. The archer pretends like he isn’t flustered; like his perusal of the man next to him had been purely coincidental. He turns back to the moon and huffs.

McCree snickers – a deep, rumbling sound somewhere from the back of his throat – and leans in closer to press his nose right beneath Hanzo’s ear and sniff at him. Goosebumps prickles down his body and he pulls in a sharp breath.

The tip of McCree’s nose nudges against the point of Hanzo’s jaw.

“Have you finished your stargazing? Hunting you down has made me… hungry.”

Hanzo’s eyes flutter close, fingers curling tight into his loose hakama. When he feels the quick dip of McCree’s tongue cheekily taking a taste of his salty skin, he can’t help but groan softly.

McCree’s hand is on his; untangling his fingers and guiding his arm over – letting him feel the big, living bulge in his crotch. A knowing push of fingers lets him feel the tender swell at the base of the fat shaft even through the thick material of the jeans.

They both groan in tandem.

“Ah wanna breed,” McCree drawls right against the shell of Hanzo’s ear, and the archer is shamed to admit how the crude demand fans his shy need into an acute want.

He gingerly squeezes his fingers around the swell he can feel, and has trouble swallowing when he imagines how it’ll feel inside him. Heavy. warm. Filling him up and binding him to the spot without any hope of escape in the near future.

“Come,” he rasps. “Quick.”

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