#part 2 will happen whenever i'unno

[ofhedgehogsandpumpkins]

A bunch of ramblings about personal stuff with regards to my own identity as 'human' or not follows. Wanted to get in on paper somewhere and was like "Hey, I have a blog," so. It's personal, but it's my (our) blog I get to post rambling personal posts if I wanna.

Today marks my (Quinn) second run-in w/ Something hitting the rat choir of yearning (good post) (technically like the umpteenth but in this case second) that made me go "Hm, am I a therian," stuff. We're no strangers to non-/alter-humans as a system, there's a wolf, a pair of dragons, and a couple other 'unclassified' folks, but y'know.

I've always kinda been the "token human"? In the past I've (semi-jokingly) used the phrase 'species nonconforming', I've just kinda bounced around from 'sona to 'sona pretty regularly (with a rough base in puppyesque vibes for a lot of reasons), but it's always been a role to play or mask to wear for fun. Y'know, typical furry stuff.

Then I read Taxxon's HRT fic (some of the others had read it before, but I ran into it myself later) like 2 months ago and that slapped the aforementioned rat choir into singing their familiar tune, and uh. I got stuck as a dog for like, a week.

So that was fun.

By which I mean terrifying, actually! For a lot of reasons! I'm really bad at introspection actually! But I tried to settle in as best as I could and when it passed I kinda breathed a sigh of relief and moved on. Went back to the, y'know, "have fun with it" vibe and kept going. Canid-specific 'sona's and roles were kinda poisoned a little by the experience, unfortunately, but it happens. Kobolds are where it's at anyway.

And then Last Night. A very good piece of art by ayviearttv here on Tumblr was passed to me (it's a series, go to their blog it's REALLY good). And uh. Oh Boy the Rat Choir. The night soured for unrelated reasons but a solid amount of it was "Why won't these tiny cheesebrains stop singing for like 5 minutes."

Like, they sing a lot is the thing. Not like, constantly, but a lot, in response to a lot of things that I won't detail. A few include like, specific depictions of androids, or organics becoming androids, etc., messy TF (ie; semi-realistic like in the case of Taxxon and Ayvie's pieces) both organic and mechanical, and so on. We/I have also been into dragons since, like, a super young age (raised on Dragonology, fantasized about being one, raised on Animorphs which also explains a lot, never read Pern but did read Eragon, etc.) so, y'know.

...I'm saying this like I'm trying to justify it. I guess I have to, to myself, a little. Not..."have to" but...feel the need to? I woke up this morning (like 12 hours ago) feeling like I had phantom limbs, they're still around when I'm not otherwise distracted (ADHD makes a lot of things go away when I'm distracted) and have been...odd to deal with. I've never been more aware of how dirty floors can be when it feels like a part of me is dragging on them, ha.

It doesn't feel scary. I mean, I'm anxious, a little. Moreso earlier. I'm anxious in the same way, the imposter way, the faking for attention way, so on, the ways that are usually externally motivated (or at least pretend to be). But unlike before I'm not...bone-deep terrified of it. It feels nice. Wings at my back, tail balancing me out, the strange feeling of horns and crest above, it's...I'unno. It's nice.

On the other hand, I miss being able to lay on my back without feeling weird, hah. Also I was basically sprinting out of the car whenever we stopped for errands.

My proprioception's (the sense of where your body is in space) always been kinda fluid and easy to fool, even for a human who developed a fluid proprioception to handle tool use (that's why tools and/or vehicles often feel like a part of your body when you use them and you (generally) know where in space they are even without looking). Like, as a kid I found a tarot book in our grandmother's workspace that had advice for developing proprioceptive wings through meditation (not joking) and that worked pretty well for me, among other things. It's just how I am. So we'll see, uh, how long this sticks around, I guess.

If...it doesn't...no harm. Mm...maybe a little harm. I'll be sad. I think I'd miss it now that I know how it feels. If it does, work's gonna be awkward, hah. They don't make chairs for that. It'll be fine, just funny.

I don't need advice or anything, to be clear, just musing. I like hearing about the experiences of other therians in specific/alterhumans in general. It's neat. Plurality was neat too, and then turns out I was we. Regardless, it's neat, so I guess I'm just putting this out there to have on paper, and if anyone reads it and it makes them think a little about themselves or encourages anyone or whatever, that's an added bonus.

[kerfufflewatch]

Touch, pt. 1

let’s do a ficlet or two about Hanzo being absolutely touch-starved because I relate to that too much because I need more of this

–

Hanzo has never been the kind of person to seek out, or even particularly enjoy, touching or being touched. Even when he was young, though he was conditioned into seeking the approval of his family elders at all times, he had never particularly craved their physical affection. He roughhoused with Genji in the way siblings did, and occasionally received a pat on the head from his father when he was small enough for it, and that was, for the most part, satisfactory. His family approved of him being distant and untouchable.

That mild aversion to touch followed him into adulthood. Other than the same romantic and sexual experimentations that nearly all teenagers gothrough, he has consistently been unbothered. (It doesn’t help that, nowadays, most of the people to get within touching distance are trying to murder him.)

He doesn’t think of himself as touch-starved in any manner–until he meets Jesse McCree. 

– 

The thing with Overwatch is this: almost everyone knows each other, and therefore they are all comfortable in being close to each other. 

Hanzo has never had the opportunity to work as part of a team. Any alliances he forged were entirely business, conducted with cold efficiency and ended as soon as they outlived their usefulness. He learns quickly that with Overwatch, that is not the case at all–every success or cause for celebration is met with a high-five, a slap on the shoulder, a friendly embrace.

They all learn just as quickly that he will not tolerate such behavior. 

Genji reprimands him for rebuffing the team. Hanzo feels a twinge of guilt; he is, after all, a barely-tolerated guest at the Watchpoint. But becoming friendly with the team does not necessarily mean allowing them to hug him every other minute, so he dismisses it entirely.

–

There is one, though, he doesn’t mind so much, and that is McCree.

He works with McCree frequently in the first few months of his stay, and they become fast friends despite Hanzo’s initial determination to avoid all such things. He likes McCree’s casual company, and is surprisingly relieved to find a kindred spirit amongst the diverse team: another man still hunted by his demons and seeking to redeem himself, someone who knows that there is no truly escaping the past. Through McCree, Hanzo becomes slightly more open to the rest of the team, and even finds himself enjoying their company, over time. 

And McCree is not an actively touchy person either, it seems–he accepts congratulatory pats on the back, hugs a friend when they initiate it, but doesn’t seem to seek it out. He doesn’t seem to care one way or another, but Hanzo nonetheless appreciates it. Their contact is limited to whatever brief touches are required of working together in the field and, occasionally, handing each other bottles of beer. It suits Hanzo just fine. 

–

Until it becomes a problem.

Hanzo will admit–privately, to himself, when he is certain nobody else can somehow divine his thoughts and Genji is nowhere nearby–that he has always considered McCree handsome. It’s an annoying fact, but a manageable one. He has no intention to pursue anyone, has not even thought of attempting it in over ten years, and there is little joy for him in short flings.

The problem arises on a perfectly average afternoon. McCree is cleaning his gun, and Hanzo has decided to perform some maintenance on his bow. They work angled across from each other at the same table in comfortable silence. McCree says, without looking up, “Hand me that bottle there?” and holds out his hand. 

Hanzo glances over. There is a small, half-empty bottle of cleaning fluid somehow closer to him than McCree. Hanzo presses it into McCree’s palm without thinking much of it. 

McCree, still not looking, absently closes his hand around Hanzo’s instead of the bottle.

The first thing Hanzo notices is that McCree is warm, surprisingly so. There is a strength to his grip, too, and rough calluses on his palm and fingers.

It lasts a fraction of a second at most. Hanzo quietly extracts his hand. McCree glances up, says, “Whoops,” and returns to what he was doing. 

Hanzo tries to do the same, but his hand feels clumsy on his bow now, as though he can still feel the press of McCree’s fingers around his own. He aches, suddenly and in a way he has never experienced, to reach over and grab McCree’s hand again, to find some reason for them to touch again. 

It is at that moment he recognizes the problem. 

–

It is a matter of self-control, he decides. He may have feelings for McCree, and he may have random urges to touch, but that does not mean he will give in to them. He will not allow foolish impulses and wants to dictate his behavior and jeopardize his place in Overwatch and his friendship with McCree.

Unfortunately, that means nothing to his stupid heart. 

Over the next weeks, Hanzo notices every bit of contact he and McCree make. Almost none of it is intentional, resulting instead from simple proximity and working together. But that doesn’t seem to matter. All it takes is a brush of their fingertips or an accidental bump of their shoulders for Hanzo to lose his focus. 

Tiny touches when they pass objects to each other. A pat on the shoulder, a couple of times. McCree grasping his arm when he trips. Nothing is too little; he remembers the touches for hours afterward, phantom warmth still on his skin. 

They have a mission, once, where they are discovered by Talon soldiers and forced to hide together, crammed into a tiny broom closet side-by-side. By the time they are free, twenty minutes later, Hanzo wishes he were dead just so he could forget that heady closeness, the warmth of McCree’s body and the softness of his serape and the cloying scent of his cigarillos.

Another time, he simply lies saying he can’t bandage a couple of superficial wounds on his arm after taking a tumble and bruising his shoulder. He could do it, and has taken care of himself after worse, but he doesn’t even have to finish making his excuses before McCree’s hands are on him with bandages and antiseptic, gentle and tender and sure. 

He hates himself for becoming such a touch-starved creature, mooning over someone he can’t have. He hates McCree for doing this to him.

–

“You realize he thinks you are just being friendly,” Genji says.

Hanzo grits his teeth, staring out at the sea instead of acknowledging that Genji spoke.

“Or, at least, I think he thinks that. He’s very good at reading people, so I suppose I could be wrong. But not everyone knows what your version of ‘throwing yourself at someone’ looks like.”

“I am not throwing myself at anyone.”

“Well, perhaps not in the traditional sense. But you let him much closer than you do anyone else. It’s rather obvious to me.”

Hanzo does not answer. Genji is silent for a long moment. The gentle whistle of the sea breeze fills the silence. 

“You deserve to be happy, brother,” Genji says softly. 

“That is not the issue.”

“Is it not?”

This time, Hanzo simply can’t find an answer at all. 

–

It only gets worse. 

Hanzo’s imagination starts to run wild. Casual touches aren’t enough. He lies in bed at night alone and thinks of what it might be like to have McCree beside him, McCree’s arms around him, McCree’s hands on his body and his mouth on his. He fantasizes so much that he can imagine the scrape of McCree’s beard on his skin, the chap of his lips, the weight of his body draped over his own. Something clenches in his gut, a heat and an ache, painful and pleasant in equal measure every time he allows himself one of these fantasies.

He wants everything. He can have nothing.

He will never have McCree. He reminds himself of this every day, more than once. It doesn’t help.

–

Finally, Hanzo snaps. Angry and ashamed of himself, he endeavors to avoid McCree entirely. Outside of mission-related meetings, he does not speak to McCree. He certainly does not manufacture excuses for them to be close. He must get himself under control, and if isolation is the way to do it, so be it. 

McCree catches on in six days.

He corners Hanzo after a mission debriefing, relentlessly following him through the Watchpoint until he stops. “What’s been going on?” McCree asks. “You’ve been avoiding me for days.”

“I’ve been doing no such thing.”

“Bullshit. You practically run screaming out of the room every time you see me.” McCree softens, agitation bleeding into hurt. “I don’t get it, did I do something?”

“It is nothing.”

“Hanzo, I ain’t stupid.”

“Are you certain? You seem incapable of leaving something be when I tell you to.”

McCree clenches his jaw. He looks off to the side somewhere, seeming to deliberate on his next words. Then he says, “Genji told me.”

Hanzo’s stomach drops, but he forces himself to maintain a neutral expression. “Told you what?”

“What this is. Why you’re avoiding me.”

“I cannot imagine what he could have told you that is different from what I–”

The words die in Hanzo’s throat as McCree leans in close. Too close. Hanzo can smell the scent of cigarillo smoke clinging to McCree’s clothing. His breath leaves him all at once. 

McCree meets Hanzo’s gaze. “It ain’t his fault,” he says. “I bugged him about it because I knew he’d know. I wanted to see if you’d tell me yourself, but you just. Kept avoidin’ me. And this is why, isn’t it?” His right hand finds Hanzo’s wrist, callused fingertips settling lightly over Hanzo’s racing pulse. 

Hanzo swallows hard. “You are mistaken.”

“Am I? Because I really hope I’m not, for both our sakes.” 

Hanzo can’t breathe. He fears if he moves at all, his self-control will break. 

“Hanzo,” McCree says, “If I’m wrong, you gotta tell me. ‘Cause if you don’t …” 

There is nearly no space between them now. McCree dips his head just slightly, gaze dropping to Hanzo’s mouth, wordlessly signaling his intent. Hanzo feels faint with a mix of anticipation and terror. He doesn’t know which will win.

He sucks in a breath. “You are not wrong,” he whispers, and McCree’s mouth meets his.

If he had thought he wanted this before, it is nothing to now, as he realizes just how much he needs it and how completely, utterly wrong his imagination was. Fantasies can’t replicate the softness of McCree’s lips, or the weight of his hands settling at Hanzo’s hips, or the tickle of his hair falling forward and brushing against Hanzo’s face. The last lingering thread of Hanzo’s restraint breaks under McCree’s touch; he throws his arms around McCree’s neck, pulls him close until their bodies are pressed together from chest to knee, and takes every last bit of contact that he can get.

And McCree gives it all to him without a hint of hesitation.