overdrivels:

imagine-this-overwatch:

Hybrid!Hanzo is a biter, even when he bonds with you. He likes it when you pet him, but when the pleasure gets too intense he just bites your hand. Not too hard though. Just a love bite, a bit play fighting even. 

When he’s feeling particularly playful, he’ll nip at you if you so much as bring your hand close to pet him.

Hanzo never found any issue with biting you. Not when he was first brought into your home, not now after so long.

It’s a code of sorts. It’s a sort of trust, one unspoken and almost intrinsically given now. He could tear the flesh off your hand, make you bleed, or force you away like he did when he was first adopted by you, but now it serves as a lukewarm warning, mellowed by time and patience. It’s almost a jest, a game, a secret between you both–he’d never hurt you. He could, but why would he?

Laying down beside you on the couch as you both watched some holiday special, he scoffs at his past self: foolish for having doubted you, for having bared his fangs and claws. He stifles a yawn and flicks his ears back, trying to enjoy the moment.

The constant, absent-minded petting at his scalp, however, pulls at something inside him. What was once comfortable is now becoming irritating, overly stimulating.  

Maybe he is more tired than he expected or he lost control–not that he would ever admit that–but when he turns to bite at your hand as usual, he’s surprised to hear you gasp. The hand in his mouth is yanked away and in his mouth, the taste of copper floods his senses like a raging river.

Adrenaline rushes through him.

Fight.

There is prey to be had.

The is blood to be spilled.

But he shakes his head violently, his ears laying flat as he eyes the wounds–barely there–on your hand. The syrupy warm yet sharp sensation of guilt floods his gut and he tries not to wince. He almost doesn’t want to look up at your face, but his eyes flick up anyway. Just in case.

You’re pouting, holding your hand against your chest.

“Hanzo.”

His ears flatten more against his head as he sits up. You sound so disappointed. So much for trust. “Apologies. I–”

You hold out your hand, a determined look on your face. Whether it’s relief that replaces the grimy feeling inside or something else, he doesn’t quite know, but he does understand that you’re not mad. At least, not quite.

Begrudgingly, he licks your hand. Once.

And you smile at him, giving his head a pat and he clenches his jaws. “Keep the couch warm, I’m going to get a bandage, okay?”

He nips at the air in affirmation, careful to do it away from the offending appendage and lies down in your spot when you get up. He rubs his hands over his face, a little exhausted from the brief exchange. 

Yes, foolish, indeed.