The McHanzo thing I had been talking about yesterday. It went a little different than I wanted it to be (… I wrote half the thing in my head before falling asleep and it was DA BOMB and the second I sit down I can’t bring out a well-formed sentence :’ ) ) but it is aight all in all.

McCree dreams vividly, but not thoughtlessly. He is always conscious of his dreamstate, even if is not exactly possible for him to actively influence what happens.

So when he opens his eyes and realizes he is in the middle of working over his father’s field, he only smirks quietly and keeps going, motions smooth and practiced even though he hasn’t done the work in was more than three decades.

He wonders who will visit him this time. Working with Overwatch has given him plenty of jerk-off fuel, what with working with people of all different shapes and sizes, and genders but all around gorgeous.

The land around him looks dull and strangely devastated. Almost post-apocalyptic as there is no bump in the burning, orange horizon. None of the green, juicy fields to be seen that Jesse had grown up with; only the certainty of a dream that this is, indeed, his father’s farm.

He eyes the stable every now and then; wonders if Mako will lumber out any second, huge and silent, glinting with sweat. His large gut – center piece of a lot of McCree’s idle fantasies when he sits around the base; thinking of how nice i would be to fuck his cock against the massive, firm expanse of it – heaving with his breaths of exertion.

However, this is not a Mako dream. It is, apparently, a Hanzo dream.

The archer is suddenly just there next to him, dressed in a fine suit that seems just a tad too tight; the see-through white dress shirt straining across his pecs, the two buttons there looking ready to pop off at any second.

He has his suit jacket across his shoulder, and even without a car to be seen anywhere, McCree knows with deep certainty that he’d broken down on the nonexistent road.

“Howdy,” Jesse drawls, righting himself up. In his dream, Hanzo is always a little different than in reality. A bit smaller, a bit kinder. A bit more amorous. Like now as he smiles up at Jesse, thin but there, letting his expensive suit jacket fall into the dust.

“Please,” he murmurs, stepping a little closer and into Jesse’s personal space; not shy of the grime and sweat Jesse is sporting; meticulously clean hand lifting to be placed across Jesse’s swarthy chest. “I need your assistance.”

“Do you now,” Jesse drawles, eyes travelling down, eying Hanzo’s chest. Watching just how see-through it is, his dark, small nipples looking obscene and swollen through the fabric.

“I am in need,” Hanzo continues, deep voice so cultivated and friendly – a cat purring for a treat.

He dreams of Hanzo more often than of the other Overwatch members. It is a little embarrassing. Not as embarrassing as what he will make Hanzo do and say in his dreams.

There, Hanzo is not constantly cool and crippled by his past. In his dreams, Hanzo will open his tight shirts and show him the plumpness of his pecs; hard and round with muscle. He’ll cup them and offer them to him, voice still a purring lilt as he asks him once more to help; tells him he needs the relieve.

In dreams, there is nothing weird about him just leaning down in the middle of the dusty, infertile field and moulding his lips around one of Hanzo’s plump nipples. There is nothing weird about suckling like a babe, and listening to Hanzo’s breathing growing deep and labored, one hand lovingly carding through Jesse’s hair.

The next day, Jesse will be awkward around Hanzo – taciturn and a little shy, the vivid dream still so prominent that he thinks he can taste the thick cream of Hanzo’s milk pouring across his tongue – but in the dream, feelings of humiliation and embarrassment are far away.

There is nobody there to judge him; nobody there to question the hayball suddenly there, perfect to bend Hanzo across – or how he can just sink into the snug fit of the archer’s body without preparation.

Hanzo is even warmer than the stifling, dry heat around them. He grunts and arches with Jesse’s thrusts, crooning at him; telling him how much he loves it. How he craves the unforgiving girth of Jesse’s cock to spread him open until tears shoot into his eyes.

He’ll tell him how he wants to worship his cock; go down on his knees and be smothered by the heavy sac of Jesse’s balls; the weight of his dick. How he wants to be down and warm his cock in the tight sleeve of his throat. How he’ll let Jesse hold him down; choke him on his dick until he gags.

All of that he tells him in his deep, cultivated voice; accent thick and mesmerizing and doing things with Jesse’s head.

In his dreams, Hanzo is the perfect fit on his cock; tight and warm and slick; always so ready to receive, that little pink hole opening up greedily, muscles buttery soft for Jesse’s thick, rude fingers, and his even thicker, ruder dick. He’ll ripple around him like a seasoned whore, clenching and suckling, body obviously well trained to play with a cock, and Jesse will find himself wondering about it in his waking hours; watching Hanzo surreptitiously from beneath the wide brim of his hat – trailing the muscles of his body and staring at the always-unhappy slant of his wide, sensual mouth.

Jesse dreams of everyone in Overwatch, but Hanzo visits him by far the most often.