and a poop

I see your “David adopts Max after Camp Campbell lets out” aus and raise you: David adopts a tiny baby named Max and loves him very much even though he’s a tiny baby asshole from like day one

um wow so I sent u an ask @bananahut but I wanted to make a post lol

HAPPY DAY OF BIRTH!! *showers u in glitter that will be v hard to clean up, sorry*

Okaayyyy so I know I’m not really part of your squad or anything but we have messaged before and you’re super awesome and cool and woweezowee. I remember finding your blog a lonnnnnnnggggggg time ago and I mean, ur editing was gr8 then but now it’s tear-jerkingly (it’s not a word, roll with it) beautiful. You seem so nice and humble without being self-depreciating. You’re so nice and talented and funny and yeah.

Anyways, i hope this doesn’t come across as like, weird because I’m not really a Certified Cool Kid Squad member but that’s okay because I love admiring you guys from a far!!

Have a real gr8 day pls 

Lot’s of love from moi

pet names.

“Honey,” McCree says, advancing on Hanzo. “Please?”

Hanzo is turned away from the gunslinger, Stormbow clutched in one hand and a velvet cloth in the other, sitting cross-legged on the floor in their shared quarters. He doesn’t acknowledge McCree.

“I’m sorry,” McCree says desperately, kneeling next to his archer and holding his hat to his chest shamefully. “Let me make it up to ya!”

Hanzo stoically continues to polish Stormbow, not even sparing McCree a sideways glance. The cowboy crumbles, his hands going to Hanzo’s tense shoulders, thumbs rubbing in slow circles.

“Baby,” he says, tone imploring. “Darlin’, love a’ my life, pumpkin.” Hanzo doesn’t push McCree away, emboldening him enough to cause the hands at his shoulders to find a place at his waist. A jingling of spurs indicates movement as McCree sits back and brings his knees to rest on either side of Hanzo.

He rests his forehead against the archer’s nape, his breath ghosting over Hanzo’s shoulder. McCree hesitates, as if unsure of how to proceed, and settles on a drawn out groan, “Haaaan, sugar, please don’ be mad.”

In fact, Hanzo isn’t particularly angry at all. He was planning on forgiving McCree’s indiscretion (aka, saying “ya know I did!” and highfiving Genji when the cyborg asked if he “got any” last night) fairly easily but now Hanzo has discovered a new game. A game in which he continues to play at being upset so McCree will think that “getting any” tonight is out of the question.

Except, McCree is making the pretense very difficult.

Whining like a puppy, he rubs his forehead against Hanzo’s nape, his hair tickling the archer’s neck, “Honeybee, sweetiepie, starshine, please.” A smile tugs at Hanzo’s lips but he stubbornly bites the inside of his cheek. It’s Hanzo’s favorite thing when McCree calls him sweet names like this– it makes his heart sing, and when McCree does it in a hoarse voice lost in the throes of passion, it makes Hanzo’s toes curl.

McCree scatters butterfly kisses across Hanzo’s exposed shoulder and ghosts his hands gently down his sides, “Baaaabydoll….” Hanzo’s face breaks into a smile and he turns his head away swiftly.

But not swiftly enough.

“Han!” McCree shouts, scrambling to shove his hat back on his head. “Ya little devil! Y'can’t scare me like that, I thought you were really mad this time!”

Hanzo wheezes with laughter as McCree wraps him in a vice-like embrace and peppers kisses all over the side of his face. Shoving Stormbow to the side, he turns as best he can in McCree’s arms and faces the pouting cowboy, “It was punishment! I do not want my little brother to know when I am….” He drifts off and waves his hand to complete the sentence, shyly avoiding McCree’s gaze.

“When yer….what?” McCree asks slyly, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. This is another game Hanzo plays, one McCree (the darling fool) falls for every time.

Hanzo purses his lips, as if he’d rather not say, but leans forward any way, whispering lowly into the space between them, “When I am making love to you.

“O-Oh, w-well….” McCree’s voice cracks on the words, color rising high in his cheeks. It’s Hanzo’s other favorite thing: the cowboy is a smooth talker, but can’t handle the same treatment. The archer laughs wildly and throws his arms around the gunslinger’s neck. Hanzo squishes him violently in a hug, his heels digging into McCree’s back while the cowboy wheezes around extra words that sound vaguely like “yer too much.”