The Dragon's Curse (A Hanzo X Reader Fanfic)

The Wrong Teacup

His eyes were closed, waiting for you to settle in your designated spot. After taking a few steps forward, you stopped before his back, got on your knees, and took the comb from his grip. Shifting in place, you grabbed a lock of his hair and let the bristles run through the strands.

So far, so good.

Hanzo stilled like a stone statue and the sound of his uniformed breathing eased the tension that tightened in your chest. His bosom rose and fell, indicating his tranquility--another assurance for you. Soon enough, you barely paid attention to the awkward air and lack of communication, having focused entirely on the chore of brushing his hair. Lock after lock, your fingers cherished the soft, silky feel of the black rivulets, and a slow tune floated into the static air from your slightly parted lips.

He turned his head to the side for a moment before staring back pensively at the blank wall before him.

"What song are you humming?" His low voice startled you to say the least.

"I'm sorry." You bit your lip sheepishly, not answering his question in any way. "I must've ruined your meditation, Lord Hanzo."

"I like it. Continue."

"H-huh?"

"It's rather quiet here, don't you think so, (Y/N)?"

Pressing the bristles of the comb on his scalp, you nodded. "It is. You must feel so lonely in the morning." And you brought your hand down another set of locks.

"It does get lonely," Hanzo agreed, a peaceful look settling over his sharp countenance. "But I have a feeling that things will be different."

"How so?"

"You ask too many questions."

The brusque words would have soured your spirits if not for the little tint of playfulness present in them. It sounded how a father would respond to his inquisitive child. It was in no way harsh at all.

A sigh escaped the man as the comb gently scraped down his scalp, tingling the skin there. With the inactivity and poor lighting in the quarters, added your careful treatment and soothing refrain, everything made for a drowsy atmosphere that tempted the warrior to close his eyes and go back to slumber without a care in the world. It was like his mother's lullaby.

The only thing that kept him from the abyss was the feel of your fingers grazing against the skin of his sensitive nape whenever you'd grab a lock of his hair. It was a weak spot he hadn't divulged to anyone, and he planned on keeping that secret with him to his grave.

Especially from Genji.

Moments later, light crept onto the walls despite the obstruction of dark blue drapes, and the very light pierced through the curtains that were Hanzo's eyelids; what was once his dark, private world exploded into a bright, glaring mess as the sun rose high.

The man groaned, clearly displeased by the untimely interruption, and he, in turn, regarded you with a sharp glare over his shoulder, his good mood having been soiled and trampled on.

"That's enough," he ordered in a clipped tone. Hanzo didn't need to look around to know that you've stilled with dread.

The marksman caught his mistake, and with a sigh, he softened his tone to ease your turmoil. "You can stop now, (Y/N). Arigato."

Your shoulders then rolled in relief, and your chest swelled at the appreciation he endowed. It was a rare treat, and it was one you cherished and committed to memory every time opportunity allowed it. You bowed slightly, even if your superior would never see your respects.