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puttingfingerstokeys · 3 years ago

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A little something I whipped up for @heamatic with her Shinnok in mind.

No timeline alignment stuff here, just pure gift work based on a thread we’ve got on my RP account @bastardsunlight. Ft. Shinnok being creepy because that’s kind of his thing. Shinlao, because we haven’t come up with a ship name and I am appalled at our laxity.

Also like, I can’t believe I’m saying this but neither writer is in any way under some fucked up impression that this is a good, safe, or non-toxic ship. We use the term to describe people who are involved IN SOME WAY. That way is not necessarily healthy.

This story features no NSFW instances.

The dimly lit corridors of the Bone Temple are familiar passageways to Kung Lao as he moves effortlessly toward the audience chamber where he will soon be needed. Shinnok does not often offer his time, but today, he evidently feels generous. It is therefore his favorite creature’s duty to attend as well. Lao has long since stopped thinking of himself as a monk or even a former one, though his spiritual power is still formidable. That life is behind him. Netherrealm is—if not his home—his territory.

Emerging from a massive double door at one side of the infernal hall, he surveys the emptiness of it, the cavernous opulence of the mad god’s particular tastes. Deeper, under vents in the floor—Shinnok appreciates the screams of his captives—is the dungeon proper, though the audience hall very much resembles it. The high pillars are of dark reds, shining obsidian, and shot through with veins of other colors difficult to distinguish in the Stygian light of the realm of dishonored dead. Everything is bone and sinew and suffering here, fire and brimstone and ugly deception.

“You have kept me waiting, little one,” purrs the Elder God of Chaos from his throne. It is, naturally, constructed of bones—not all humanoid. He leans to one side and regards Kung Lao with those inscrutable eyes characteristic of his kind. “Do you wish to bring punishment down on yourself?”

“No, master,” responds Kung Lao, approaching the dais and then ascending to within reach of the massive entity’s long arms. If Shinnok wishes to pull his guts out and toss him back down like a used doll, he may do so from anywhere; why inconvenience him?

“Yet you offer no explanation…” The Elder God’s finger came out and lifted Kung Lao’s chin before sliding down his neck, over the pretty young man’s Adam’s apple, and down to collar bone and chest. He has left this one alive, appreciating the responsive heat and goose flesh of living skin. It bruises so prettily.

“I offer no excuse, my lord.” Kung Lao meets his eyes with an impertinence he loves and hates and oh he has made the right choice in this one. He had known the moment they met upon the field of kombat that Kung Lao would, indeed, make an excellent addition to his collection.

“You are wise beyond your years, it seems, if a bit pert.” Shinnok retracts his hand and waves it about. “Well, get on with it. I’ve better things to do.”

Quan-Chi materializes presently, late as well, though his arrival receives no acknowledgement whatsoever. His dark lord spares not a glance, instead watching the retreating back of the foolish monk who exchanged his own freedom for the life of his friend. Sentiment is worthless in Netherrealm and soon, the arrogant boy will learn this, if the old soul sorcerer must show him the way with his own two hands. His fists clench with the thought, imagining themselves about Kung Lao’s throat, squeezing until something breaks. The pleasure that arises from the thought sends a shudder down his spine.

Meanwhile, Kung Lao, unaware of this contemplation—or if he is aware, he cares so little, he doesn’t bother sparing the man, if a thing like Quan-Chi can be called a man, a single glance—turns to descend the dais. An oversized bone arm which has sprouted from the stone and bone floor of the mad god’s receiving hall offers itself, open-palmed, to the fallen monk. Kung Lao accepts it gracefully, laying his hand in the much larger one, knowing he has not displeased his lord on this day. The dry, brittle-feeling digits wrap gently about the young man’s hand as he makes his graceful retreat to discharge his duties.

Quan-Chi scowls at Kung Lao’s back until Shinnok actually turns his attention on his favored sorcerer—really the only sorcerer who will competently serve him with true, deep loyalty. It really is pathetic to watch, but sometimes a whipped dog is better than no dog. Shinnok has not even had to whip this one. He’s done it of his own accord.

A strange Netherrealm native (as native as anyone can be in a realm of dishonored souls and demonic constructs born of the mad god’s fits of rage), it had been he who had approached the Elder God of rot and chaos to serve him. If Lord Shinnok could be said to be grateful for anything, he might have chosen that moment when Quan-Chi’s power had drawn him to his lord and master’s prison and set about events which would eventually free and embody him. Of course they have greater plans, but for the time being, this will do.

This will do very nicely indeed, he considers, regarding his little pet’s taut backside as Kung Lao makes his way through the hall, the bone arm now sliding along with him, digging a furrow in the ground which seems to knit itself together just a few feet behind the abomination which now has its hand on the curve of Kung Lao’s lower back. Every sensation the bone arm feels, he also feels and the warmth of living flesh is delightful; he wants to grasp it hard, make the boy squeal with pain, make him bleed a little. Just a little.

Perhaps later.

“You have some… news?” Quan-Chi has been scheming—he is always scheming—to manifest his dark, mad god in Earthrealm and he clearly believes he has hit upon something. Shinnok can see it in the sparkle of the man’s eyes. Oh how he loves me, contemplates the Elder God with absolutely no reciprocity of that feeling.

“I do, my lord,” responds the sorcerer, bowing to one knee and standing to deliver his findings. Shinnok listens patiently, mind elsewhere as it must always be. He is chaos incarnate. There is little order to be had in Netherrealm beyond his absolute rule. Not much can hold the attention of an Elder God, in general, but Shinnok in particular has always allowed his mind to wander where it will. Aside from grand machinations of upset and overthrow which delight him endlessly, there is almost nothing of such magnitude in all of existence—no single object or concept which can so fascinate him. What could possibly be of such import that he, a deity, might need to focus his energies on it for any length of time? The boy, some part of his thoughts remind him sweetly. You’re quite captivated with your new toy, aren’t you? Ah but toys come and go. He will tire of this one… eventually.

That boy is now crossing the threshold of the temple’s audience hall, the doors gliding open before him. The dry heat of Netherrealm has ceased to move him and he walks out into it, ushering in the first petitioner, wondering if his lord and master will listen to this one, or slay it on sight. Any creature, demon, or lost soul who is bold enough to approach the Bone Temple and beg favors of the lord of the Realm is desperate, addled, or too cocksure for their own good. An obliteration by the death god is permanent, it is nothingness, non-existence. Somehow, that void is more terrifying by far than the screaming, burning, howling dimness of Netherrealm.

The first demon in line—he is first by virtue of having killed his way up the queue; the corpses of those before him are littered in pieces here and there as a testament to this, all still twitching and flailing as the death he grants is only pain—is a truly imposing figure, easily ten feet in height, with massive, twisted horns like a ram and a maw full of jagged teeth. His eyes ablaze with contempt. This expression does not soften when it lays its burning gaze (with all four eyes) upon the pretty, behatted monk—Kung Lao may not think of himself as a monk, but they do—but rather hardens to something bordering on obscene. The thing licks slavering lips with an exaggerated motion, clearly aiming to upset the small, soft-looking mortal, who does not respond, only gestures to the hall.

“The master will see you now,” he says in a neutral tone that betrays nothing. “Please, follow me.”

As they enter, the beast’s three-toed feet hit the ground much harder with each step than might actually be necessary, as if to emphasize his weight. Shinnok leans back upon his throne and assumes a semi-attentive posture. There is no real reason for him to pretend he cares; even the pretense is worthless, but for now, it entertains him. Some of the denizens of his realm wait the Netherrealm equivalent of months, even years, if Shinnok is indisposed and simply does not care. Lately, he has been taking more audiences, but then he has only lately had a… secretary. Kung Lao moves swiftly ahead of the demon, braid swinging tantalizingly behind his shapely back. The boy is an hourglass, upon close inspection, broad of shoulder, narrow of waist, and thick of hip and rear-end. The demon is inspecting.

“This is far enough,” instructs Kung Lao. “What are you called?”

The demon splutters with indignation. How could they not know him, the greatest general of the northern armies of Khadul, the god-king of the demons, the true creatures of Netherrealm! He has severely overestimated his importance, a grave error in the Bone Temple. The silent hall rings with its silence. An audience chamber ought necessarily to have an audience, but Shinnok prefers the cavernous immensity. It reiterates just how small his petitioners truly are. He eyes the demon, but has yet to speak. A bone arm sprouts near Kung Lao and it makes a twirling motion with its forefinger.

“Lord Shinnok bids you speak,” says the shapely boy through plump lips that look like they ought to be bruised and bloodied and used, in the creature’s foul opinion.

“I will speak,” he snarls, reaching out toward Kung Lao with the intent to brush past, “but with the lord of this Realm, he in whose temple we stand, not you, little slut. There are things I would do with you, yes, but speaking… it is not one of them.” The demon’s laughter rings out boldly into the hall, bouncing off the skulls and femurs and ribs and myriad other bones which make the walls, floor, and ceiling. Quan-Chi flinches minutely, though more at the brazenness of it than the sound. Shinnok is a statue. The bone arm has dissipated, crumbling like ash and ruin, leaving Lao alone. His lord is watching.

“No,” says Kung Lao, the syllable sharp and clear as a pretty bell rung in a mausoleum—and equally as incongruous next to the obscene, guttural speech of the demon. “No,” he repeats, “you do not speak. You bark like a mangy cur begging for scraps. Heel.”

He rushes the demon with lightning speed as it swings for him. There is a brief moment when it seems he might make a try for the beast’s sizeable testes, which swing visibly behind the scant loincloth one might say he is “wearing”. The idea occurs to him and a strange flash of melancholic amusement jolts Kung Lao’s spine before he disappears beneath his hat in a flash of red light and lotus petals. The creature, having never encountered this particular mortal, looks baffled and squats to examine the hat. Quan-Chi’s mouth opens to warn the beast of its insolence in his master’s presence, but a sharp gesture from said master silences him. His face heats with rage. How dare the boy show off this way? He will be punished—perhaps disemboweled or flayed. How delicious that would be!

As the as yet unnamed demon reaches toward the object to pick it up, the flash occurs once more and the deadly piece of headwear flips upward, turning vertically, its far edge held by the owner, the only man in any realm able to master such a strange weapon. The creature barely has time to cry out as Kung Lao draws the hat up its entirety, bisecting the thing and spilling its steaming insides along the floor. Midair, Kung Lao flings the hat, hard, toward Shinnok. Once more, Quan-Chi blanches, but the mad god catches it easily and holds it, bottom facing downward, toward his knees where he sits. This, he thinks, is the most fun I have had in millennia.

Kung Lao’s form plummets toward the gory mess he has made and for a brief, shining moment, Quan-Chi thinks perhaps he will fall and snap his neck and that will be that, one last escape attempt with the final spark of the monk’s spirit left to him. Lord Shinnok has no need of a broken doll. Of course this is a flight of pure fancy. Shinnok will find a use for that beautiful body, even broken.

Alas, rather than crashing to his death—or maiming, at least—Kung Lao’s body dives into a circle of blood, red light, once more accompanied by a flash and flurry of lotus petals. It takes only half a moment for him to repeat the trick, falling out of the hat and into his lord and master’s waiting lap. Shinnok allows the hat to settle upon Kung Lao’s head and once more tilts his chin upward so that their eyes meet.

“Far too impertinent,” he scolds, shaking his head, running his thumb over his little doll’s full, perfect, soft lower lip. Kung Lao is flushed with the pleasure of his accomplishment and hasn’t a spot of blood on his person. “Who are you to decide who I do and do not address, hmm? Is this not my domain?”

“His master would pretend it is not. One cannot serve two lords and you rule this Realm.” This is not a question, nor is it simpering. Kung Lao speaks cold, hard facts. “I merely saved you the trouble of hearing a dog bark.”

So bold, Shinnok thinks. I must curb this. But he does not punish his little favorite. The unpredictability delights him. Quan-Chi senses this misplaced delight and recedes from the receiving hall unseen, glowering over his shoulder and now hellbent on perfecting his machinations to bring his master to Earthrealm.

#violence #cc #cw #mortal kombat #kung lao #shinnok #shinlao #gift work

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reversecreek · 4 years ago

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clicks onto the dash wearing kitten heels n coyly holding my bang....... hi. me again. it took me so long to select a gif to use on cricket’s intro n i settled on this one bc he looks so unsure abt his smile n it’s rly his essence <3 u can find his pinterest board here n his (work in progress) spotify playlist here. hmu to plot!!!

* alex wolff, cis male + he/him | you know cricket donahue, right? they’re twenty-two, and they’ve lived in irving for, like, all of their life, on and off? well, their spotify wrapped says they listened to should have known better by sufjan stevens like, a million times this year, which slipping on wet leaves to photograph a tree struck alight by lightning, delivering a tedtalk to your own reflection to hype yourself up to buy groceries, hiding your hands inside of your sleeves in case you grew an impromptu megan fox thumb overnight thing going on. i just checked and their birthday is october 1st, so they’re a libra, which is unsurprising, all things considered. ( nai, 24, gmt, she/her )

HISTORY:

cricket ws born to a couple tht lived in lilac ridge. their trailer was tucked closest to the woods n always fell under the shade. it was like the leaves wanted to pretend they were a perpetual hanging cloud on the family n that was kind of fitting. their only reason fr having him in the first place was a kind of shrugged like........... we’re under the income bracket we’d get child benefits so why not! may as well try it to rake in some extra cash! needless to say they didn’t rly think it thru or anticipate all of the responsibilities tht came w children n wound up seeing him as an extremely large burden n boy didn’t he know it!

(child neglect & abuse tw) i’ll try to keep this part vague n brief but things were Not Good for cricket growing up. people in lilac ridge didn’t like his parents n it was for a gd reason. he remembers foggy things. being little n wandering around combing the grass with a stick to search for wrappers to suck on bc he was hungry. feeling uneasy when the front door opened. finding out his name was cricket bc the insects used to crawl into their trailer thru the vents n his parents liked to squish them into the carpet -- his mum told him as much once. i think this says a lot. to excessively trim the fat of the story he wound up entering the system at around 8 after his latest and most serious hospital visit. his parents hd to deal w the authorities n last he heard they bounced to evade charges.

(anxiety & violence & trauma tw) cricket sustained a few lifelong injuries from his time in lilac ridge. his knee didn’t heal right which meant he had (n still has to this day) a limp n he’s partially deaf in one ear. he’s always been an incredibly insecure n anxious person so this mde him rly self conscious going into a strange n new environment tht wld b difficult fr any kid to adjust to, nvm w these added worries. he jst felt like something weird to ogle at honestly. he probably wld have felt like that no matter where he was or what he looked like. he cld be in a huge hall of 200 people all wearing the same uniform n he’d still feel like the odd one out. needless to say this didn’t rly help him make friends

cricket’s coping mechanisms were romanticising the things tht other people found ugly or embarrassing or painfully ordinary. he liked it when the rain hit clunky drops against school windows n forbid everyone from playing outside bc he could feel the vibrations through the rubber soles of his shoes n it was a little bit like hearing all of the world at once fr just a moment. he liked medieval fantasy lore about stout gnomes w crumbs in their beards n cheeks red from ale. he liked fallen nests with the remnants of hatched eggs still dirty from the branches n soil they’d hit on the way down. he liked the way the sunlight leaked thru the leaves of the trees in the woods and how, when he sat very still, he could tune into the ringing that was always in his ear n pretend it was coming from the same place, that light thru the leaves, that the angels were trying to talk to him.

he spent a lot of time in the red room at his high skl (i’m begging u this is not a 50 shades reference) (after googling i jst realised it’s called a darkroom bt i’m leaving this fr the sake of sexy bimbo authenticity) n felt quite at home in there. he borrowed a camera whenever he cld (maybe he did yearbook) n photography became his way of immortalising the world as the romanticised version he wanted it to be. his memories were bad bt his photos were beautiful. maybe if he took enough they’d paste over n bleed into each other. maybe bad cld be replaced w beautiful if he tried his very best.

he got placed into fostering w a family once bt apparently didn’t meet the vibe check of their tastes so he wound up returning to the group home he’d initially been placed in. overall this is where he grew up n he aged out the system rather than getting adopted. there was a sense of floundering/isolation/not feeling gd enough in tht bt cricket made do the best he knew how.

that said there were some gd points! (shocking i kno bc his life hs been so fking bleak so far bt please it’s ok........) (is it?) (🤔). basically he interned as an assistant at this local photography studio during high skl working under this kind of whimsical yet endearing old man. suspected wizard possibly in cricket’s eyes, as an avid fantasy genre reader. for one of his bdays said old man / his boss bought him his very own film camera n cricket cried bc he’d never been bought a bday gift. this ws rly embarrassing bc this old man didn’t know how to emote n neither did cricket so he ws jst sort of sat wiping his eyes n sniffling saying he wasn’t crying as the old man pretended to suddenly clean his lenses. when cricket graduated he offered him a full time position there. they do like. wedding photographs n family portraits n all kinds of things...... pay isn’t huge bt it’s something n he Loves taking photos so it’s sexy <3

PERSONALITY:

SUCH an anxious person it’s actually unreal. overthinks absolutely everything he’s ever said. one morning he might hv put green socks on n for the rest of the day he’s nervously looking around like omggggggg they’re all looking at my socks probably thinking im a little green sock boy thinking i’m a fool n a jester this is all everyone’s probably thinking about i hv to hide my green socks..... even tho literally no-one cares

once saw a girl eating a chicken wing n in his head was like ok she likes chicken good future gift idea..... n turned up at her house with an entire rotisserie chicken

probably thinks WAY too hard abt what to write in bday cards n googles like generic ideas that he can use.... u open a card from cricket n it always says smthn weird like “Warmest wishes and love on your birthday and always!” or “You deserve everything happy. Wishing you that all year long!” tht he got off google

nervously fiddles w things a lot. literally anything. his hair. the cuffs of his sleeves. a thread on his bag. u name it

struggles w eye contact sometimes............ it’s like. he wants to talk to ppl n make friends bt he’s honestly so bad at it. he’s fumbling thru life like a nervous headless chicken

ALWAYS has his camera on him. like always. will tke a photo of u bc he thinks u look nice then be like im so sorry im so sorry...... bowing his head shakily holding his camera bc he doesn’t even kno what possessed him he jst thought it’d be a nice photograph bt boundaries exist. probably breathes very heavily over this later in his room panicking thinking he nw seems like hannibal lecter

probably more confident online bc he has time to think abt what he says more.......... i can see him hving a group of online friends tht he’s more confident w. honestly he’s pretty witty at heart he jst has a hard time verbalising things so ppl overlook him sometimes bt once u get to know him more / he’s more comfy he can b a funny little man.....

loves photographs where he cuts something out of them. loves missing spaces n voids. thinks it’s a rly interesting concept when something that isn’t there becomes the focus of a photograph where everything else is. probably loses his mind fr a collage like a front row 1d stan. likes experimenting w light n perception. pretty artistic honestly hs probably made a stop motion film in the past bc that’s just an extended form of photography in his mind bt i doubt he showed anyone

ummm...... very sweet bt like. he reminds me a lot of this quote. “he had the awkward tenderness of someone who has never been loved and is forced to improvise.” feel like tht sums him up quite nicely

WANTED CONNECTIONS

someone he met at a wedding: cricket probably ws forced to photograph a wedding fr his boss one time n it cld b interesting as a place to meet from that....... like. i can imagine either it being rly awkward maybe he accidentally spilled a drink on ur muse n was stuttering rly apologetic n it ws just a train wreck. or mayb they took pity on him or even (in a shocking turn of events) a shine to him n invited him to drink n dance. omgggg the thought of cricket trying to dance makes me wna die n probably mkes cricket wna hyperventilate bt idk maybe he went wild n let loose. mayb they wound up damaging the camera somehow. mayb they had to scramble to get another one n ur muse covered the cost n it was a strange late night excursion tht cricket thought about a lot since. cricket probably vowed to pay them bk somehow no matter what. idk. we can work things out. lots of diff options here. doesn’t have to b a wedding either can b any event tht required a photographer

ppl he went to school w: pretty self explanatory i suppose...... maybe they were frm completely different worlds..... mayb ur muse was popular n cricket was definitely not but they got paired fr an assignment n had to work on a project together....... mayb cricket asked ur muse on a date one time n it was completely embarrassing bc he didn’t realise they had a bf n it haunts cricket at night still bc he’s rly dramatic.... mayb ur muse felt sry fr him n ate lunch w him n inducted him into their group like a lost puppy finding a home.... world’s our oyster

neighbours from his brief time at lilac ridge: not to reference taylor swift but i’m gna reference taylor swift n say we cld do a seven inspired plot here. sighs a little..... then sighs a lot. he was here ages 0-8 so idk. we cld work out childhood plots perhaps....

sickening simp: i mean.............. cricket probably gets crushes on ppl so easily like just. anyone who’s the slightest bit nice to him.................. he’s a disgrace. ok i take it back. bt also please get it together freak............... i didn’t say that. he’d probably b extra nice to this person n try n pay close attention to things they liked so he cld get them little gifts. just a bit embarrassing n lovestruck bless his heart. wldn’t expect anything back tho honestly that just isn’t something he tends to do.

let’s go gays: cricket’s bi but he probably was rly in his head abt liking boys n tried to sort of squash it internally during his younger yrs...... i think he’s more comfy w it now MAYBE idk bt back then i picture him having a friend tht ws kind of like. similarly loserish as him perhaps (no offence to ur muse potentially filling this plot or cricket bt let’s face the facts) n they’d hang out n play games a lot n one time it jst kind of happened n he was like............. *struts in looking around sharply* What going on here? except not. bc it’s cricket. more like *shambles in looking around anxiously* What’s, uh... What’s... the happenings? S--... I’m sorry. (immediate apology for saying what’s the happenings bc nobody talks like that n it was an impulsive panic bc he didn’t know what else to say)

those who grew up in the system w him: maybe at the group home or i’d also like the family that fostered him n said sayonara. honestly i imagine the parents just thought he ws a bit too much of a handful / had too much baggage which is rly quite merciless n terrible but. if u think that aligns w ur muses home situation hmu......

um. can’t think of more bt just anything honestly. jst go wild.......

#irvingintro #abuse tw #neglect tw #trauma tw #anxiety tw #violence tw #DOES A LITTLE JIG #admittedly i didnt include a formative moments section like my other intros bc idk what kind of superpowers i was inhaling the fumes of #for those intros but #i'm a mere mortal now.

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mcrmadness · 4 years ago

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Anxiety stuff. I just need to vent in order to calm down so don't mind about me here venting. (And just a draft doesn't feel the same, I need this OUT of my system, scream it into the void.)

I don't know what is it with my body/mind now but I'm extremely tired of whatever it is. I don't like it at all and it reminds me of the anxiety phases I have had in the past and that always gives me even more anxiety because those times have been some of the worst experiences of my life.

Currently I can't sleep. Because my heart keeps beating so hard? Like not really faster, just so hard that it feels like it's shaking my whole body. If I try to breathe long and deep, I feel like suffocating and my breathing is slightly broken(?) because the pulse feels like it punching me in the stomach meanwhile. Nothing hurts and I'm not out of breath, I'm just so sensitive to any sensation of my body that it makes me easily overwhelmed. I tried sleeping but the heart distracts me from that too much. I tried listening to a nature document meanwhile but nothing.

I'm also shaking a little. This is where the anxiety steps in. This heart beating and shaky feels happen sometimes when I eat and the blood sugar levels go up too high. I just ate about 1-2h ago so it maybe was just that. I'm currently sitting on my sofa and rocking myself back and forth which often also helps me to calm myself down and I'm already feeling better. Still I put some rye bread in the toaster, I'm not really even hungry but sometimes ALSO low blood sugar level does this same thing! In the past I have had very wild fear of low blood sugar and I have often eaten for anxiety because I cannot stand the psychosomatic symptoms of anxiety AT ALL so my first instinct was always: eat, in case it's low blood sugar and ice often had trouble telling those symptoms apart from each other.

However, I think the shaky feels are from migraine. I had quite a strong one yesterday. I had stayed up almost 24 hours, didn't drink any tea in that time and slept very weird hours and woke up at 10pm on Friday night. I already had a headache that later either turned or revealed itself to be migraine instead. I took painkillers at night but I still had mild headache but strong neck muscle pain all the way to the morning. I couldn't take another painkiller yet but went to sleep instead. I could fall asleep and slept pretty okay, on my sofa tho. The whole day after that I had this post-migraine zombie feel. Where anything physical feels bad in the neck and head and causes mild nausea. Certain posture in the neck still feels slightly painful. But I didn't have any proper headache anymore so I didn't take painkillers. It's nothing new that I feel this shaky the whole day after migraine, especially after such strong migraines. It's just my health anxiety and my tendency to become overwhelmed and overstimulated by such things that then make me to want to do nothing else but sleep, but I can't sleep because I'm so severely overstimulated. Both tire me out until I basically pass out from exhaustion.

Anxiety is not neat, especially not on worse days. I don't know what's causing this now. The days that are getting logger? Usually spring is my time and I become energetic. This year it apparently means I have so much energy I'm almost maniac and my brain doesn't care about time nor light but basically refuses to sleep more than every other night/day. And it's exhausting too. I haven't been out since last Sunday. And now is yet another Sunday morning. We're supposed to go to the supermarket today. I've been hyperfixating on creative stuff and haven't showered since Wednesday. I stink awful.

Last week I was stupid and decided to cook before doing the dishes - "I'll do them once I've eaten." WRONG. I never do the dishes after eating and cooking. Brain says "we don't need the sinks nor the dishes in next 2 weeks, no need to worry about them until that :)" Usually I do the dishes because I need SPACE. And utensils. That day I had enough of both. And this is always the result and I never learn. Now my sink is full of stuff, I have one clean plate in the cupboard and no clean utensils left. I'm too tired to take care of them and my brain is overjoyed when I can tell myself "I don't need to do them now because I've had migraine and I deserve rest." because it's a good excuse, no need to feel bad for procrastinating. Usually everything is "oh and I SHOULD do this and this and this"...

I think I feel physically awful also because migraine just affects the whole body. My neck muscles still feel awful. It's hard to explain. During migraine they basically feel like they'd suddenly start sinking in size but they're still attached to the rest of my body so it feels like the muscle would be pulled to every direction possible. And after that you feel liike you'd have spent a day in those torture machines where they stretch yours arms. Sometimes feeling sore, but usually just plain stiff. Like the whole body feels like it has turned into stone. No wonder why I feel like I can't get air from ny heart beating against my lungs if all my muscles are so stiff they're hard like stone and can't relax even that much that air could have enough space to move between my lungs and mouth/nose.

I think the heart beating was actually just high blood sugar. It's back to normal now aka I can barely feel it which is good. My neck still feels awful but I'll try to get some sleep soon. I'm starting to feel tired finally, too.

I have therapy on Monday. I hope I somehow get more sleep than just two hours before that.

#mcrmadness' deep thoughts

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overdrivels · 4 years ago

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The Way to a Heart (18)

<<Chapter 17

With you being escorted back by Zenyatta and Dr. Ziegler and the last of your smile lingering at the edges of his memory, he’s left alone with Genji.

The sun warms everything despite the lateness of the year, but it could not even touch the frost that has settled in Hanzo’s bones. Two bracing breaths later and he forces himself to look at Genji and is stricken with a bout of nausea that makes his blood rush and mouth water. He desperately hopes his discomfort isn’t showing on his face.

Maybe he’s tired from his trip with you or from the stress of the past few days (weeks, months, he can’t be sure—he’s never been good at determining when he’s stressed anyway). He finds he’s unable to string together a coherent thought amidst the building chaos in his mind.

The seas, the sky, the ground all cracks and begins to fall apart piece by piece with each step Genji takes. It leaves him in a void, the direction he thought he may have found, lost. A small hysterical rise of panic presses up against his stomach.

Genji wears a confusing mix of casual clothes and armor that Hanzo can’t be sure isn’t a necessary part of him. It’s not something Genji has ever worn in their youth before. There were expectations from those around them to dress a certain way, and Genji toed those boundaries constantly, but never so blatantly. In that way, Hanzo could separate the Genji before him and the Genji of his memories.

But the way he walks—quiet and light, ready to flee (or jump straight into the fray)—and how he keeps a careful distance that’s barely outside of Hanzo’s own range makes that separation that much more difficult.

Genji stretches out his hand. It looks and feels too much like an olive branch, a beacon in the right direction as he free falls through the dark. Hanzo fixates on it until it twists and bends, becoming flesh and human and covered in blood. Alarm bells ring in Hanzo’s head, self-preservation instincts screaming until he can hear nothing else.

“Here, let me take some of those bags—”

“No.”

Even to Hanzo’s ears, the response is too quick and too sharp, barbed with fears that he is not yet ready to face.

The word ‘coward’ echoes loudly between his ears.

Even louder are the words unspoken in the curling of Genji’s fingers as he very slowly withdraws his hand. Hanzo does not look directly at Genji’s blinding green gaze, but feels it searing his skin, reaching deep and attempting to set the ice inside him on fire. He swallows the slick lump in his throat, feeling it stick in his chest where it wouldn’t budge.

His brain scrambles desperately, seeking out the words that could fix this. Despite having all his time at Overwatch to think and practice what he would like to say, and despite everyone’s meddling insistence, he has nothing.

‘Say something.’

The silence drags on.

His brain digs and digs, finding nothing but dust until it reaches the wall around his heart which houses the memories of well-rehearsed words spoken to an empty grave and altar where no god or spirit sits.

Things were fine when he didn’t register the machine in front of him as the same boy who did as he pleased and left Hanzo dealing with the messy aftermath, who made Hanzo’s ascension so much harder by disobeying and rebelling against all that the clan stood for, who was untouched and unbothered by the scathing remarks from friends and clients alike.

Acknowledging now that they could be—are—the same person makes it hard to remember what he wanted to tell him.

He reluctantly hits upon ‘I’m sorry’; a phrase too simple and too flimsy to hold the weight of a lifetime’s worth of dues. But his mouth does not form the words.

“Fine.” Hanzo tries not to grimace at how resigned Genji sounds. “Fine. Be that way.”

It’s inane, but something cracks.

Everything Hanzo holds drops to the ground as ten years worth of resentment rises from the grave at the bottom of his heart. His brain, in searching for something worthwhile to say, found something else instead.

“And whose fault is it that I am this way?”

“What way do you mea—?”

“If you had just killed me, we would not be having this conversation.”

“And what would that have done? I am not like you.”

“Like me?” A hollow laugh escapes Hanzo’s throat. “No. Because if you were, you would have had the decency to do the proper thing.”

“I am trying—” Genji stops, realization dawning on him. Even with th evisor in place, it is clear Genji is squinting at him. Anger creeps into his voice with each word. “This isn’t about now, is it? This is about the past.”

“What difference does it make? You have never done the right things then, I should not have expected you to do the right thing now.”

“And what about you? Look where ‘right’ and ‘proper’ led you.”

Hanzo snarls. “I had to! I was protecting the clan—”

“It was always about the clan’s reputation, wasn’t it? No, you only ever thought of yourself and your own reputation. You are only here for your own self-fulfillment.”

And then something breaks.

Hanzo roars, the force of his voice barely managing to drown the noise in his head. “What could you possibly understand!? You spent your whole life running away from your responsibilities!”

“And what do you want me to understand, brother?”

“You—” Hanzo chokes on the many grievances that fight for life in the form of words he won't be able to take back.

They all well up rapidly to the forefront of his mouth, trapped together like a dam in their attempts to be given life first. The gaps where kinder, smaller words may escape are sealed with the dark, sticky emotions that have been suppressed these past ten-plus years. It undulates, twisting in on itself, gives itself shape and life and strength at an unyielding pace.

Hanzo clenches his fists so hard, they shake.

“You ungrateful brat. I paved a path of success and all you had to do was follow!”

Genji laughs, the sound harsh and tinny. “Success? You call this”—he gestures up and down at Hanzo with a hand—“success?”

“It would not have been this way if you just listened. We could have had an empire! We could have ruled over Japan.”

“And that was your dream, brother, not mine.”

“It should have been your dream! After we raised you so carefully, too—”

“You did not raise me. They tried to raise another puppet.”

“A puppet?!” Hanzo heaves, jaw aching from the tension. “If only you’d ever listen, you’d know what’s good for you.”

“‘Listen’? And be a ‘good little boy’ like you? Would they have given me my freedom then?”

“You could’ve had freedom if you only did what you were told! You don’t know the humiliation I went through because of you! You always did what you wanted without considering the consequences.”

“And you never gave a shit about me or what I wanted.”

“What could you have wanted? We had everything!”

“I wanted my own way. Away from outdated traditions and the roles the clan assigned us.”

Red hot anger forges Hanzos words into weapons. “And did you think trash like you had the right to defy the clan?”

All at once, Genji’s body tenses and sags as though exasperated. Circular vents on Genji pop out, steam hissing violently as it escapes. The brief lull allows Hanzo’s words to bite him full-force with the weight of his own sins.

“And did you think I enjoyed being called ‘trash’ and the embarrassment of the clan, Hanzo?”

The way he says it takes the wind entirely out of Hanzo’s sails. The anger and hate freezes over in an instant. Reason returns briefly. That he would have these feelings after so long just means that these years after leaving the clan have meant nothing.

He never changed.

“Look.” Genji’s tone turns placating, but still dry and weary. “I know what you wanted. I know what father wanted. I know our ‘face’ and our image was everything. But what does that mean now? You’re not a part of the clan anymore. You’re not in Japan anymore. You’re Overwatch, now. How long will you hold onto the past?”

“...”

“Think on it. Whatever ‘proper’ and ‘right’ is for you, what are you doing now?”

Hanzo says nothing, the floor taken out from under him as he realizes it’s almost the exact same words he imparted onto you.

Genji leaves him with those words and traces the path you and the others took, only taking a look back once. Nothing comes out of it and Hanzo’s left alone.

The entire argument was uncalled for and reminds Hanzo just how much of a brat Genji could be. If there was one thing he hasn’t outgrown and one thing that absolutely affirms the Genji here and the one from his memory are one and the same, it’s that audacious attitude that had made the younger man the target of the clan’s scorn—Hanzo’s especially.

He had no issues with the assassination order. He wholeheartedly welcomed it, in fact.

Elder siblings are supposed to guide their younger siblings. Those who saw Genji roaming around freely, disregarding the unspoken and spoken rules of conduct, framed it as an older brother’s incompetence. An accomplished role-model like himself watching over the shame of the clan with no results to show for it speaks volumes of Hanzo’s shortcomings. Regardless of his personal accomplishments—of which there were many—the fact that he could not clean up his family's image was seen as pitiful.

And Shimada Hanzo, newly installed head of the Shimada clan, should not have to take such an insult.

The mockery, the poisonous whispers, the lofty attitudes of those around him were silenced the moment he killed Genji. It was peaceful.

No. Not peaceful. Oppressively silent.

The type of silence that kept him awake. While voices of the present did not speak to him, the voices of the past did. Just as his deeds granted him more power and more authority in the daytime, the voices gained it in spades behind closed doors.

Was it worth killing the last of his family?

No matter how much shit was thrown at his face, no matter what everyone said about him and his abilities, was it really enough to make himself the last of the Shimada bloodline?

At the time, yes.

After having done it, he didn’t have an answer and the doubt began to eat at him every night until it and the voices were too much. They chased after them for ten years. But never once did he think too deeply on what Genji may have wanted, only what Genji should have done to avoid being placed on the proverbial chopping block.

And after so long, did Hanzo really even know what Genji wanted back then and now? Does Hanzo even know what he himself wants?

Slowly gathering all the items, Hanzo makes his way back into the Watchpoint, weighed down by more than the bags he holds. Each step he takes echoes loudly in the empty hall like a death knell. What he wouldn’t give just to drop everything and run away from this awkwardness, from himself.

Athena’s voice is like cool water. “Welcome back, Agent Hanzo,” she says as he shoulders his way through the swinging doors of the kitchen. It’s strange to think that not too long ago, they would not budge for anyone other than you.

He drops everything off onto the nearest surface and unpacks. Miraculously, the eggs are intact and didn’t suffer any from having been unceremoniously dumped onto the ground during his outburst.

Everything you both bought covers half the length of the counter, and he can’t be sure if this is a lot or not enough. Every other item he pulls out is a mystery—ingredients that he’s sure he may have eaten before, but isn’t sure how to prepare. The sheer number of these unknown specimens is intimidating, a test for him, asking him if he knows how they should be kept.

The thought of asking you briefly crosses his mind, but he stamps that down hard. Instead, he separates the ingredients he needs, leaving yours in a neat deconstructed grid.

Heading to the nearest sink, Hanzo sets his mouth in a line, determined to throw his whole self into his new work. His own destructive thoughts and fight with Genji can take a backseat.

Breakfast is a disaster.

And it has nothing to do with his recent spat.

While the thoughts do not make a comeback, head buzzing with a droning static, he soon realizes he is woefully outside of his element and the kitchen is unkind to those unfamiliar with it.

No sooner had he finished washing his hands, the cafeteria comes to life with early risers who may as well be zombies. Very demanding and snappish zombies, some who can barely form a coherent sentence.

Hanzo can’t say he’s ever had to make coffee for anyone other than himself before, let alone use a commercial coffee machine. Under less pressing circumstances, it would be a novel experience to grind his own coffee beans and smell the aroma that comes out into his waiting bucket. Instead, he’s silently begging the machine to grind faster, leaving before it is completely finished and allowing leftover grinds to spill everywhere. (He promises himself to clean it once the coffee is made—he doesn’t.)

No one told him it takes about eight minutes—and those may as well be the longest eight minutes of his life—to make such an amount of coffee either.

It’s lucky that Torbjörn fixed the hot water dispenser, otherwise he might have had to make coffee by hand. Again, a novel experience he might’ve enjoyed under any other circumstance if the dispenser didn’t also spit boiling water at him. It’s also lucky that Fareeha did not barge into the kitchen herself to strangle him to death for making her wait for her caffeine (she does, however, abuse the service bell and manages to get it confiscated.)

The tilted screens sitting atop the service counter window blink incessantly at him, reminding him he’s dawdling. It’s there he learns of everyone’s beverage preferences.

(Half-caf coffee for Reinhardt—Athena tells him to give him full decaf because his stomach can’t handle it otherwise, and then he has to waste another few minutes making decaffeinated coffee—black coffee with four shots of espresso and one sugar for Fareeha, black coffee for Soldier: 76, etc. Hanzo grimaces and mentally apologizes to you for having criticized your commitment to their nutrition and for having to deal with them.)

With the agents briefly sedated, he moves into his next order of business. Actual breakfast. Food-wise, he had planned to make a less risky version of tamago kake gohan or just a soft-boiled egg over rice.

His first, unexpected hurdle is the lack of a rice cooker (or clay pots or microwaves—not that he planned on microwaving raw rice; it was an appliance he is more familiar with, at least more familiar with than this ‘pressure cooker’ that Athena suggests he use).

There are far too many things in this kitchen he doesn't know the uses for—differently shaped knives, pans of different materials and sizes, even the plates are oddly intimidating. Everything serves to remind him he should not be here.

Left with little choice (and a lot of choice words for the lack of a rice cooker), Hanzo settles on making rice in the largest pot he could find.

It’s filled with cup after cup of rice—a rough estimation of one cup of rice per person gives him sixteen cups—the sounds of cascading rice a small comfort, soothing in its rhythm. The grains seem to glitter and he pours it over his hand, the physical feel of it is as soothing as the sound.

For a moment, Hanzo thinks of you, thinks of the sparkle in your eyes as you impart your knowledge, the warmth of you so close, the feeling of your finger tracing shapes through the rice in his hand. The motion was tender. It may have been the gentlest touch he’s ever received from anyone in recent and not-so recent memory.

And it frightens him to think he would like more.

Violently, he shakes his head and hand. He doesn’t have time for this.

Hanzo rubs his hands vigorously to rid himself of the phantom touch that still sends molten syrup through his veins. Even running his hands through water doesn’t make the sensation fade. Instead, it just makes him all the more conscious of how warm his ears are.

Water goes into the pot, and Hanzo vaguely recalls the ratio of water to rice should be 2:1. It should be embarrassing that a man of his age doesn’t know how to prepare something he’s been eating all his life, but in his defense, Japan has no shortage of readymade foods and he’s never stayed anywhere long enough and far away from civilization to warrant learning how to cook rice from scratch.

While he lets that come to a boil, he prepares another pot of water and dumps in a dozen of the eggs you spent so long arguing with the shopkeep about.

Carefully, he keeps watch over both pots, leaving only to grab an overly large serving spoon to mix both with. The last thing he needs is burnt rice.

Genji used to like scorched rice, clamoring for a piece of it whenever they had the opportunity to eat rice from clay pots, often cutting the roof of his mouth on a particularly sharp piece of rice. He’d complain about it until it healed and then do it all over again the next time.

Briefly disgusted with his memories, he buries them along with the rice, willing himself to focus on the outcome and not the unnecessary things associated with it. But no matter how much he mixes it, it doesn’t become the fluffy grains he expects.

He’s left with a white, mushy slop; a mixture of overcooked and undercooked rice whose integrity is so compromised, he cannot even in good faith call it rice porridge.

The rice serves as a fresh reminder that he is a failure. Even the eggs do not come out unscathed. Instead of the soft, jiggly whites and golden lava of yolk, the whites are tough and rubbery, and the yolks are ashen green and smell distinctly of death and sulfur.

All twelve eggs go into the furthest trash can and the rice follows painfully after.

You were right. Two dozen eggs would hardly be enough. At least a quarter of the rice you’ve bought is gone with nothing to show for it.

There’s no time to mourn or for self-flagellation. The other agents, no longer pacified with coffee or warm beverages, are irritatingly loud in their demand for food.

Hanzo hastily puts together charred, buttered toast with overdone slices of pork and watery miso soup sans tofu or seaweed topped with crudely chopped green onions. (He nearly slips while entering the walk-in freezer for his troubles.) It’s barely passable, but it seems other people feel otherwise.

“Would you like me to have a go at it?”

“Could you kindly get th’ hot sauce over there?”

“I regret to inform you that I do not eat meat.”

“Sooo…this your first time cooking or…?”

The comments he gets range from superficial thanks to outright criticism. The worst, though, are those who say nothing. He can feel their pity radiating toward him, and he’s never been more glad the service window isn’t high enough to show his face or theirs.

Hanzo did not expect words of overflowing praise or for people to drop at his feet. Criticism and scorn is familiar to Hanzo. It is the building blocks of his foundation, it props him up and drives him to be better, to be stronger. This quiet sort of feedback where people just resignedly accept what is given strikes a sour chord in him.

He doesn’t have much time to dwell on it as the agents come in a continuous wave, some begrudgingly returning for more only because they need whatever calories they can get regardless of taste. Breakfast would have spilled into lunchtime had Athena not said anything to him.

Lunch is no better.

After his failed attempt at making rice, he scraps his plan for riceballs. There are very few things in his repertoire that would be universally accepted. He didn’t want to chance the issue with Satya again.

“Athena. What are the other agents allergic to or are unable to eat?”

She pauses and Hanzo could hear the reluctance that accompanies her answer. “Please turn your attention to the screens.”

On them, a flood of information takes over where the orders would be.

Disgust and a dose of paranoia crawls up Hanzo’s skin as he realizes he’s now privy to information that some of their enemies would pay an obscene amount for. A person’s likes or dislikes has always given Hanzo an edge in either negotiations or threats. Allergens even more so. It wouldn’t be difficult to use this to his advantage should he have been in any position to do so.

Not for the first time, he realizes the disturbing and tremendous power chefs have at their disposal. An incredible amount of trust is placed in your hands, money-laundering aside. One mistake or one slight from you could easily take out an agent or a whole Watchpoint. You played your part in keeping everyone healthy and fed. Everyone trusted you to do so.

It’s only a minor consolation that he does not find his name up there. Or Genji’s. Genji was known for eating anything. But now he’s not sure if his name was not there because he does not eat or simply because he has not developed any allergies in his later years.

“Would you like a list of preferences as well, Agent Hanzo?”

“...no. This is enough.” He tacks on a “thank you”.

Eventually, he settles on sandwiches for their versatility. Katsu sandos, egg sandwiches, croquettes, and succulent, sweet fruit sandwiches come to mind, but having not anticipated making any, he doesn’t have the ingredients or the know-how to improvise.

There were the ingredients you bought, but he doesn’t want to impose lest you need them. But when he looks at the ingredients he’s picked—all with specific purposes and none too forgiving with his menu change, he inevitably pilfers from your stash, a silent promise that he’ll replenish it when he has the time.

Shredded cabbage, tomato, and cucumber go between two pieces of chunky buttered bread. The least controversial meal he could think of while respecting everyone’s dietary restrictions.

The reception toward his new creation is only marginally better, and that’s not saying much. (Reinhardt in particular expresses his disappointment in a manner unbecoming of his stature.)

It only serves to remind him that he is out of his element. He is not Lúcio who makes home-style meals for crowds like it's second nature. He's not you who does this for a living (though how much you're actually living is debatable). He's Shimada Hanzo. An assassin, a brother-killer, and most definitely not someone who caters to others or seeks their approval. He has a job to do and he must do it well even if it is outside his expertise.

Luckily, there are markedly fewer people in the afternoon. Either because people are engrossed in their work and are forgetting to eat or they have decided to follow Soldier: 76’s original lead of eating only MREs. Even with fewer people to cater to, he still finds himself without any time.

It’s only when it gets too late for lunch but too early for dinner does he have a moment to himself.

In his mind, Hanzo heaves a heavy sigh that deflates everything holding him up, and he gradually drops himself to the ground. His skin buzzes with a strange mix of emotions he can’t put a name to, accompanied by a fog in his mind.

Gravity holds him down with little effort and he can’t remember the last time he was this tired. The lull makes him more aware of how much his ankles, knees, and lower back hurts. It’s a deep exhaustion, not only physically, but one that wears down his mind and soul.

He casts a weary eye around the kitchen.

At all angles, all he can see is a mess.

Coffee grounds on the floor near the drinks station; shreds of cabbage around him that he’s nearly slipped on; stacks of trays, plates, and utensils that have sneakily turned the dishwashing station into a garbage heap with the guts of half-eaten food spattered. He doesn't even have the energy to get angry at having his hard work wasted.

Where there isn’t clutter, there are the mismatched metals and surfaces that Torbjörn and Brigitte replaced and repaired, turning the once monochrome equipment into a strange jigsaw of colors and mismatched equipment that he’s glad you didn’t have enough time to scrutinize this morning. Wires spill out of the Cellar, the once immovable door now nowhere to be seen. At the corner rests one of Satya’s turrets, respectfully gazing away from him. A gaping maw sits in the door’s place, somehow less inviting than when the door existed. Still, they are no closer to figuring out what the treasure is.

But Hanzo thinks he knows, whatever in the vault guarded by the Junkers be damned. If his answer is right, then he hates to think of the implication that has for you and your views on this kitchen. If he’s right, then everyone is a fool and a mess.

Not that he is admitting he is not a ‘mess’; there are just some things that are undeniable and useless to argue. Outwardly, he's covered in sweat and dirty water. Inwardly, there’s everything that makes him detestable and unworthy—but not worthless—compounded by the excavation of fossilized feelings and thoughts he thought were ten years buried.

Even the kitchen itself seems to be unkind toward him, trapping him as they echo his shortcomings.

He squeezes his eyes shut and drops his head back barely missing the edge of the counter.

What would you say if you saw your normally pristine kitchen in such a sorry state?

What would you say if you saw him now?

“Agent Hanzo?”

His head shoots up toward the door, and time stops as you both look at each other. A strange cocktail of hope, relief, shame, and fear spills inside his chest, floods his body.

"Chef." It’s almost embarrassing how breathless he sounds. "What are you doing here?" he demands as though he isn't the one trespassing.

“What are you doing on the floor? It’s unsanitary. Here—”

You reach out a hand.

Genji’s tentative olive branch from this morning overlaps with yours.

Hanzo instinctively slaps it away. The sound echoes loud and slow in his ears like a sonic boom, and time itself slows as he processes the shock on your face and then the flinch of pain before you take a step back. Time sucks itself forward. Guilt floods in, sour bile rushing up into his throat.

He scrambles to get up, already cursing himself.

“My apologies, I—”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it is not!”

The brief flash of anger is just that, brief. Against all sense, you still approach him with a gentle, but cautious look.

“Did you eat yet?”

He squints at you, trying to untangle the innocuous but unexpected question. When was the last time he ate? “No. No, not yet.”

You smile and then make a complicated face as you look around the kitchen, eyes bouncing from area to area. Eventually, everything about your body language changes. You hold yourself a little taller, a little more authoritative.

“Why don’t you grab a chair from the front and bring it in here?”

“A chair?”

“It’s a special exception.”

He doesn’t understand what is exceptional about bringing in a chair of all things, but he’s in no mood to argue. He’s had his fill this morning.

By the time he returns with one of the bar stools in the cafeteria, the kitchen has transformed.

In appearance, nothing much has changed except for your presence near a stove. However, the previously oppressive and stale air is banished and replaced with life and sound.

You’ve donned an apron and neatened yourself, making swift work of a fruit on a cutting board. <>Thack-a-thackathackathack. The sounds skitters up his neck, buzzing around his head. Around you are the tools of your trade and several ingredients, some he recognizes as things you bought this morning.

“Put it over there and sit down for a bit. I’ll be done in about ten minutes.”

Hanzo sets down the chair and slowly drops himself onto the seat, hands fisted on his knees as he waits. It’s easy to lose himself in his observations when he does not have to entertain or do anything.

Finally being able to see you at work up close is different than sitting outside the service window. He can listen to the most minute sounds, smell new flavors before and after they get blended, but most importantly, he can feel and see performance.

Your hands don’t stop, one step connected to the next. From knife to pan to ingredient. There’s something cathartic about watching you slip back into your own world. It’s not until this moment he realizes how right it feels to see you like this: assured and confident in your next steps, how much he misses watching you cook. It’s a far cry from your bedridden self who could only lament the lack of power and control you had over your situation. It’s much more than he had when he was cooking, that’s for certain.

It’s over all too soon when the ring of a familiar bell rips through him; a strange feeling of calm drags the exhaustion out from the marrows of his bones.

You bring over a tray and set it down in front of him.

Slices of pear are fanned out on top of a bed of milky white something with a thin drizzle of honey on top of a long slice of bread cut up into little triangles. On the side, a steaming mug of what smells like milk tea.

“This is…?”

“Your lunch,” you announce with a smile. “Ricotta and pear tartine with teh tarik. I thought something light would be good for your stomach right now.”

“I didn’t know pears were in season.” It’s not what he wants to say, but steering you into a conversation about why you’re doing this seems inappropriate for the time being.

“They’re not. The person I got these from runs a greenhouse for fruit trees.”

“You can grow trees in a greenhouse?”

“Sure. You can grow almost anything as long as the conditions are right. We actually hav—” You clear your throat. “We actually used to have a contract with some of these greenhouses. Back when, you know, we had more people.”

Hanzo raises an eyebrow at your suspiciously awkward smile but says nothing, the food in front of him too enticing to ignore.

He picks up one of the warm triangles, watching as a drop of honey drips tantalizingly slow onto the heated plate. An audible crunch resounds when he sinks his teeth into the open-faced sandwich, and a noise unconscious escapes his throat. The pear is refreshingly cool, and the cheese smoothes over the combined sweetness of pear and honey. There’s an underlying tangy flavor he does not have a name for that occasionally cuts through the veil of cheese.

The drink is also warm, rich in direct contrast to the sandwich. It settles comfortably in his stomach, loosening every tense nerve in his body and softens every muscle, and he allows himself to sit heavier in his seat.

It takes him no time at all to finish, and he licks a droplet of honey from a thumb, wondering if there might be seconds.

“Why did you do this?”

His question seems to have caught you by surprise and you scramble for words, a reddish tint to your cheeks and neck. You hastily gesture at him with a wave of your hand. “Your hands were shaking.”

As if to confirm your observations, he looks down at them. They were indeed trembling ever so slightly, but it shouldn’t have been noticeable.

“When people are hungry, or low on blood sugar, their hands shake,” you explain as you take away his tray. “So when people are hungry, it’s my job to feed you.”

A job. Somehow those words sting a little more than they should given it's the truth. But there is some part of him that had begun hoping that it was more than just a job to you.

“Thank you for the meal, Chef. I should get back to...work.” It’s embarrassing to call what he’s been doing so far ‘work’ when he sees what you can do with only a few ingredients.

“Would you like some help?”

“You’ve already done too much.” He adds, “You’re supposed to be resting.”

It would be terrible if Dr. Ziegler came by and found you working when you shouldn’t be. She’s already a menace in the mornings—he swears she slipped a small bottle of whiskey into her coffee when he gave it to her, but he couldn’t be sure with McCree bumbling into her for his drink. He doesn’t think he can handle her when she’s angry.

“I feel fine.” As if to prove your point, you drop everything in the washing area and turn around, opening your arms for him to see.

Appearances is often deceiving, and the memory of you approaching him with your face screwed up in pain and the floor-pulling feeling of knowing that he is the reason you’re like this and if he didn’t agree to bring you outside, you wouldn’t be collapsed against him without your wits about you or suffering.

He scowls, stamping down the rise of concern that threatens to make him sick again. “Get out.”

The irony of those words could not have been lost on you when you take a defiant stance, crossing your arms.

“Make me.”

The sheer audacity should not be so amusing. Perhaps it’s because you’re so brave even though you both know he could carry you back to the medbay where the careful eye and quiet wrath of the good doctor will confine you. Or perhaps it’s simply because it’s you.

Pride and concern weigh themselves against the other, the common denominator of ‘responsibility’ sits firmly between them, screwing the scale tight and disallowing it from tipping toward either side. If he wanted dinner to be a success, having you here would be beneficial to him, but if you were to fall ill again, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to look you in the eye no matter how much you wanted this.

Hanzo makes the mistake of meeting your eyes—earnest and determined—and sighs internally, cursing himself for being soft.

“Our conditions from this morning still stand, and you must return to the medical ward as soon as the cooking is completed.”

The conditions have you beaming, and a little bit of Hanzo’s resistance crumbles in the face of it. “Thank you.” Almost immediately, you turn back around to spray down the dishes.

A noise of acknowledgement comes out of his throat but nothing more as he tries to silence the rise of elation that tries to make itself known on his face, tempering it with realistic expectations. If something happens to you, one of the greatest doctors in the world is just several halls away. He should get your help where he can so that if anything does happen, he would not be at a loss.

Gathering his courage, and bracing himself for the sting of ridicule, he calls out, “Chef. I require your assistance with making rice.”

“With the pressure cooker?”

“Yes.”

Rather than the mockery he half-expected for not knowing how to make rice despite having eaten for over thirty years, your face turns professionally authoritative.

“Use the electric one over there. Go for eleven cups of dry rice. Rinse it with cold water until it runs clear, and put it into the pressure cooker with eleven and a quarter cups of cold water. Add a few pinches of salt, if you want. Set it to ‘rice’ and it will take care of itself.”

He’s about to argue the amount of rice and water, but he stops himself. He has no right to be arguing with an expert who has been cooking for them long before he’s even set foot in the Watchpoint.

Obediently, he follows the steps you’ve laid out, measuring out the exact amounts of rice and water. With a container of salt in his hands, he has to stop and ask.

“How many pinches of salt?”

“A few.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Four or five.”

“Four or five?” he asks impatiently.

“...four.”

He doesn’t understand why you can’t say that in the first place, tossing in the required amount. Closing the lid, he presses the button and sets the lid with minor trouble, and waits, staring at the machine. As expected, it doesn’t do anything spectacular. It’s just a pot with extra knobs on its lid. Will it really make proper rice?

Barely a minute passes before you ask, “What are you doing?”

“Waiting for the rice.”

Your eyebrow goes up. It’s funny to see your inquisitive look directed at the behemoth of a dishwashing machine instead of him.

“You’re not here to look pretty. What are the ingredients for your curry?”

The unexpected compliment sets his ears on fire and takes the floor out from beneath his feet. Something sensitively warm blossoms in his chest and he has to fight to keep a straight face. Hanzo had been called many things (and he had his preferences), but ‘pretty’ was not one he associates with himself. It’s equal parts embarrassing, flattering, and awkward.

He's sure you don't mean it in any deep way, not with the ease in which those words leave your mouth, but it lingers in the back of his mind, and makes his fingers shake when he produces some folded papers from a hidden pocket in the depths of his clothes where he kept his recipes. They are few, but they’re the closest things he has to the tastes of his childhood. Hanamura does not change often, but he can’t say that he’s had much opportunity to stick around and eat his childhood dishes.

He clears his throat in a vain attempt to brush off your comment and pretends he doesn't feel a little lighter because of it.

“Pork curry; white pepper, garam masala…”

The list is long and full of spices that he has some minor issues translating. You seem to understand it well enough, making noises of acknowledgment above the sounds of splashing water where appropriate.

“The recipe calls for pork bone broth and actual pork, and some of the agents can’t have that,” you point out at the end.

“I am aware,” he says regretfully. “However, pork is essential to the recipe.”

Each spoonful of curry is supposed to have chunks of succulent cubes of pork that barely holds itself together when one presses a spoon against it. It makes the curry so much more hearty, and he’s sure the added meat only enhances the robust flavor of his childhood curry.

“You can create a version without pork.”

“And not compromise the integrity of the recipe?”

“No,” you admit as you shutter the walls of the machine closed. The dishwasher is jarringly loud when it gets to work, and you have to raise your voice over it. “We can make do, but we’re running out of time.”

“...if we must,” he grumbles. He didn’t truly expect to be able to taste his childhood here today, but something close would have been nice.

“How many does that recipe serve?”

“Serve?” This is the first time he’d be making it. There was never any time to leisurely experiment. He had always assumed it was a recipe for one person, but now he’s not so sure. “I do not know.”

“If you read out the whole recipe, I can make a rough guess.”

Slowly, he translates and reads out the instructions to you. Objectively, he understands the words, but none of the measurements or steps actually mean anything to him. Luckily for him, you’re not the same.

“That sounds like eight to ten servings,” you mutter to yourself, abandoning your work to check the pile of goods Hanzo had picked out. Bag after bag of spices pass through your hands before you return to your original task. “I think we have just enough to double the recipe.”

“You can tell from holding them?”

“Sort of? I weighed them with my hand. We should have a scale over there.” You point at a stack of plastic drawers off to the side. “Use that to measure everything out first, doubling everything. Sort out your mise first and then we can start cooking.”

“Meez?”

“Mise en place. Cooking is about preparation. Measure out your ingredients and have them ready. You can use the prep bowls over there. Measuring cups should be over there if you need them. Don’t forget to wash your hands.”

It makes sense. Those cooking shows he used to catch glimpses of would always have all the ingredients lined up in neat little bowls for the host to use. For some reason, Hanzo could never picture that happening in a real kitchen. Maybe it’s because he’s never actually seen anyone prepare the ingredients in such a way, hidden behind curtains and doors.

As Hanzo gets to work, you occasionally give out pointers even if you’re on the other side of the kitchen, reorganizing and cleaning.

“Turn down the heat and jiggle the spices, we just want them lightly toasted to bring out the aromas.”

“Speed up your stirring a little; the roux is starting to burn.”

“If you don't want to use a knife, use the mandolin. Make sure the guard is on properly.”

“Make sure the grated apples are cleaned up, Jesse is allergic to uncooked apples.”

It’s an unnerving skill that makes him think that if you had chosen a different path in life, he may have met you sooner (and perhaps under better or worse circumstances).

Strangely enough, he finds he doesn’t mind your interjections. There was a time he did not take orders from anyone. No one dared give orders to the head of the Shimada clan, but he also remembered the brief feeling of being in freefall without anything to guide him other than a singular mission of ensuring the clan’s prosperity.

With this, he only has to focus on doing the job you’ve given. He doesn’t have the luxury of thinking of anything else, not when you give him direction after direction. Eventually, he eases into a vague rhythm of listening and letting his hands move clumsily. Occasionally, he poses questions to you that you answer in detail befitting of an expert.

Before he knows it, the kitchen feels less like hostile territory. Perhaps it's because the master of the space is back, or perhaps because he has an instructor, or maybe it’s because he’s working in the capacity of a chef.

Eventually, the curry takes on its signature aromas and color. A quick taste test confirms that it is not the same thing—not enough body, not enough texture, just a little too watery, and not salty enough—but nonetheless tasty. It’s the best thing he’s made all day.

“Do you plan on having anything else with the curry?” you ask as you wipe down another counter nearby.

“Tonkatsu.” He’s quick to add, “It’s a fried pork. However, I was considering vegetable tempura instead.”

“Oh, that sounds good. Sous Chef Mori used to make really good tempura back in the day. He used to lecture people whenever they made tempura wrong.”

At that, an idea strikes him so hard, it makes him giddy. “Shall we compete?”

“Agent Hanzo—”

“—Hanzo.”

“Hanzo. We have limited time until dinner. Maybe another time.”

He crosses his arms. Now that the idea has entered his head, he does not have much intention of backing down, especially when the potential payout is great. “Are you afraid?”

A funny noise escapes from your lips, and a cascade of water hits the bucket as you wring your rag over it. “Afraid? In my own kitchen?” The words ‘my own’ are not lost on him. “I don’t approve of wasting ingredients.”

It’s not a no.

“They’ll be used for dinner. It will not be a waste,” he reasons.

“Hm…” You pretend to think about it even as you wash your hands. “All right,” you answer reluctantly, but there’s a gleam in your eyes that tells him you don’t intend on losing. “You can be the judge.”

Hanzo huffs out a laugh. Victory of a different sort is already in sight. “Your confidence will be your undoing.”

“We’ll see about that.” Then you ask: “What sort of tempura do you like, Ag—Hanzo?”

A number of types come to mind. Poached egg tempura, pumpkin, a medley of vegetable slices—kakiage. He could appreciate a good fish tempura or perilla leaves, but nothing beats a proper shrimp tempura, succulent and juicy on the inside, crunchy on the outside with a sprinkle of salt.

Cheekily, he replies with a sly smile, “I thought you already knew all our preferences.”

You roll your eyes; a delightful new expression he hasn’t seen before. “We’re not mind readers. Should I make some pepper tempura then?”

“Your bluffs would be more effective if you actually had the means.” He gestures to the island counter where he left all your ingredients, not a single accursed pepper in sight.

You laugh lightly, making your way to the counter. “You got me. I didn't have any plans to make anything with peppers." Picking up a few ingredients, you are again serious. “We have sweet potatoes, green beans, asparagus, carrots...onions.”

"We will do whatever you deem fit.” He’s sure you wouldn’t serve anything he wouldn’t like anyway.

“Could you start the batter then? I’ll get these ready.”

You have all the ingredients prepared in half the time it takes him to make the batter, half of which he gives to you. An arrangement of vegetables, perfectly sliced and prepared, is ready for each of you. A pot of hot oil with a thermometer clipped to the side awaits you both.

"You can go first," you offer as you put your ingredients and batter into the refrigerator below the counter.

"Hmph."

You may have the experience, but he knows the recipe. He has no intention of losing without having put in some effort.

With the oil heated at a perfect 175 degrees celsius, he throws half of his ingredients into the batter and drops them into the pot. The effect is near immediate, bubbles angrily swarming the surface like a school of sharks. With his tongs, he shuffles them around the oil when they look like they’re beginning to stick together. At a respectable distance beside him, you work quietly with a gentle smile.

The feeling of cooking like this is different than before. Strangely enough, it could even be thought of as enjoyable.

When the battered casing turns a tannish-color, he picks several pieces out. Immediately, you have a plate with a circular rack and a pair of chopsticks for him. It should surprise him, but at the same time, he didn’t expect anything less. Gratefully, he accepts it and lays out his finished products.

Disappointment does not even describe the feeling in his stomach when he looks at them. The ingredients are wrapped in the tempura like a person bundled in winter; the skins too puffy and obscuring the entirety of ingredients like it has something to hide.

The deciding factor for food, however, is always taste. He picks up a sweet potato slice, bites into it, and his mouth is filled with oil and instant regret. The tempura batter is simultaneously crunchy and soggy, coating his mouth in an oily sheen that feels like it’s trying to suffocate him. The next bite extracts the chewy potato entirely from its tempura shell, and he resists gagging.

As he mulls it over, you pass him a cup of tea. He doesn’t know when you could’ve found time to make this. “Have some pu-erh tea; it’ll help.”

“Thank you.”

The smile he gets in response is too disproportionate to his thanks. He gulps it down faster than appropriate and almost burns his throat in the process, but it’s worth it for the way it refreshes his taste buds. His empty cup is instantly refilled, and this time, he takes his time sipping the astringent tea. You probably knew it was going to turn out this way.

“I believe it is your turn.”

This is a good chance to see how differently a professional would handle it.

He is not disappointed when your shoulders drop and a shroud of calm envelops your expression.

There’s a pause and you take a breath before you begin. Hanzo follows the rhythmic bounce of your arm as you scoop out the stray tempura curds and discard them, then another bounce as you lean down to turn down the fire to the refrigerator below. The plates and bowls come out all at once, a quick whisk of the batter with your hands as your foot firmly shuts the door below. You jump from strainer to tongs to ingredient to powder to batter, and then the shining oil sings softly as you gently lay your ingredient—a slice of sweet potato—to rest.

There’s a split-second look of satisfaction in your eyes that Hanzo nearly misses before it’s hardened back into focus.

Even a chef has pride in their work, he realizes. As they should, but that pride is no different than him when he bests an opponent or accomplishes a difficult feat. Truly, he is watching a master at work. Even as you wipe down your counter, you're no less attentive to the pot, fishing out your piece at just the right time

And what comes out is very different from his. You lay your offering next to his own tempura as if to rub in the absolute differences in skill.

Crystalline batter encases the sweet potato slice sparingly, allowing the vibrant orange to show through. The quiet crackling sounds of oil on the surface hint at just how hot it still is. As cliche and stupid as it may sound, the tempura seems to sparkle.

You gesture toward the plate, face carefully neutral.

“Go ahead.”

Quietly muttering his thanks, he picks it up with his chopsticks.

When he takes a bite, it is soundly crisp. The delicate, lacy batter is clear and light on his tongue, bereft of excess oil and weight. Stream rises and swirls around him, saliva filling his mouth. It gives way easily like shattering glass to the dense, but soft interior. The sweet potato truly lives up to its name—it may not be the same white versions of the same name in Japan, but it is delicious, nonetheless, accented by a faint touch of salt.

Tempura is almost always synonymous with spring when he’d be able to get his fill of fresh vegetables, when everything starts anew, when the most serious argument he’d have with Genji is what condiments should go with tempura.

(Genji, for some reason, favored it with tonkatsu sauce—they’re not even for the same meals, damn it—which masks the taste of the ingredient and cheapens the experience. Hanzo was of the more sensible ‘salt’ camp.)

If only he had sake or a dry beer to pair with this, it would be bliss.

It’s not his intention to be shown up by you, but the way you take his ingredients and transform them into something else entirely is deeply impressive and makes him laugh a little at himself. He never stood a chance.

Losing like this doesn’t feel so bad.

Finishing off the rest and raising his hands in surrender, he declares, “I concede.”

Nothing could have prepared him for the triumphant grin that spreads across your face. It’s so bright and warm, his breath stalls.

“Do I win a prize?”

He quickly gathers his wits about him, hoping his voice is casual. “Do you have something in mind?”

Your grin turns mischievous. “I’ll think about it.”

A normally dangerous answer that’s rendered harmless by your flippant attitude. He’s sure you have no intention of cashing in on it. Even if you did, Hanzo highly doubts he’ll mind doing what you ask.

Despite the actual outcome, he was the true victor.

“What did you do differently?”

“I made some adjustments,” you admit excitedly like a child. “I added cornstarch to the batter and thinned it out with more water. For the vegetables, I salted them to draw out excess moisture, patted them down, and threw them into the fridge to get them ice cold. After that, I turned down the heat a little bit so nothing would burn, coated it in cornstarch, and then put it in the oil.”

He hums thoughtfully. “I’m afraid I don’t follow. Could you demonstrate again?”

The smile you give him is brilliant. “Of course.”

One demonstration turns into two, into three, and so on, Hanzo having snatched several more pieces of tempura which disappear almost as soon as they hit the plate, the burning of his mouth be damned. If his behavior displeases you, you say nothing. As a matter of fact, that you haven’t stopped him or scolded him shows you do not mind much.

All good things must come to an end when you decide there won’t be enough for the other agents (but not before he sneaks in another carrot stick for himself behind your back).

“You should check in on your curry sauce,” you say as a way to get him to stop pilfering the delectable treats. You even have the audacity to whack his hand, albeit lightly, with a ladle when he attempts to grab another. He grabs your ladle instead—something he should have done the first time you brandished it at his as a weapon, and tends to his curry.

The dark amber sauce is still bubbling at the sides, a skin having formed from being left alone for so long. He gives it a few stirs and a taste.

Tempered by time and slow flames, the flavors have taken on a new form. The saltiness he thought the curry lacked returned, pulling in other more subtle flavors to the forefront that is accented by a hint of spiciness that lingered pleasantly on his tongue. It’s not as heavy as the curry from his memories, lacking the meat component, but he can’t say this is bad either. It is likely leagues better than what he might have been able to accomplish alone.

Determined to repay you for your patience and instruction, Hanzo grabs a small scoop of rice, almost blasting himself in the face with steam when he depressurized the vessel. The aroma of rice mingles with the spices in the air. Already, he can tell the rice is leagues better than his earlier attempt. Sneaking a burning pinch to confirm his suspicions, he finds he’s correct—each grain bounces as though to assert their presence against his teeth, rolling against his tongue with a subtle sweetness only found in rice.

He quickly prepares a plate of rice, pouring a careful river of dark amber sauce onto it. It’s unfortunate he’s eaten all of your tempura, but he takes your batter and instructions and makes a new batch to add to your plate. They’re leagues better than his first attempt, but still nothing compared to yours.

And that comparison holds him captive. You’re a chef who cooks better and has likely tasted far superior foods than his meager attempt. Any compliments you give would only be superficial, borne from politeness and a misplaced respect for the heroes you work for—work with.

Before he could allow his doubts to overcome him and chide him for such an audacious idea, Hanzo calls out, “Chef, I have something for you.” There’s no time for him to regret or take back his words.

“Two seconds.” You set aside the broom you’re using, wiping your hands on a rag hanging from your apron, and approach him curiously. “Yes?”

“This is for you.”

Pushing down his unease, he forces himself to slide the plate in front of you.

“Oh.” You look between him and the plate. “That’s...a lot for a tasting. You didn’t have to give me this much.”

“Tasting? No. This is for you to eat.”

“For me? To...eat?” The words come out haltingly like they’re foreign in your mouth. “Are you sure?”

He doesn’t understand your hesitation. The presentation isn’t pristine or worthy of being in a Michelin Star restaurant, but you didn’t have to insult it in such a manner. He begins to draw the plate back. He should have never offered.

“If you prefer I throw it out…”

“No! Wait, I’ll eat it!”

The dish is snatched instantly and held close, partially shielded with your body as though it were something precious.

“It’s for me to eat, right?”

“...yes. It is yours.”

An expression of wonder falls on your face and you look at the curry rice like it’s the first meal you’ve ever seen in your life, a slow smile forming on your face, one fundamentally different than all the ones he’s seen thus far. If Hanzo was confused before, he's even more so now.

You take your first spoonful, carefully scooping up an even amount of rice and curry sauce.

Nervously, he awaits your verdict, his stomach dancing and rolling around. Perhaps this is how you feel whenever you serve someone, watching their face cycle through different emotions upon first bite. Unbidden, a much older memory of a younger Genji gagging and telling him his curry is ‘shitty’ presses incessantly against the back of his mind.

Slowly you raise a hand to your mouth, eyes wide. A jolt of fear runs through his body. You’re going to be sick. His cooking has poisoned you and he’ll need to call Dr. Ziegler and explain. He’ll be known as a failure who could not put together an edible dish even with the help of a professional. He’s going to—

“This is delicious.”

Your voice is watery, almost reverent. Hanzo can’t fathom why, breath caught in his throat, all of his damning thoughts grinding to an abrupt halt.

“You exaggerate.”

You wave your hands in denial. “I’m not exaggerating! It’s the best thing I’ve eaten in a long time.”

It still pleases him to hear you say it, empty flattery as it may be. His teachers never praised him for anything—every success was met with indifference (“The heir to the Shimada clan should be able to do at least this much.”) and every failure was reviled (“How do you expect to lead the clan with this level of skill?”) .

“Your enthusiasm is appreciated, but if it’s not palatable—”

“No, it’s great. It’s—”

As if you prove him wrong, you proceed to clear the entire plate with a vicious gusto that could not be faked. He could only watch, frozen, as bite after bite disappears.

It can’t be as good as you’re saying it is. The recipe isn’t complete, lacking in the meat component and the proper stock, not to mention it doesn’t have the all-important pork katsu or any fukujinzuke on the side. If it is any good, it would be because of your instruction. But he has to believe.

Not a speck of rice remains when you’re done.

You lick your lips slowly as if to savor what remains and Hanzo finds his eyes following the motion. He snaps his gaze away, mortified such a reaction was automatic.

“That was so good.”

The swell of pride expands so quickly in his chest, he has trouble breathing.

“That’s because of you.”

“Nothing I’ve ever made for myself tastes half as good as that.”

The revelation is so absurd, Hanzo blurts out, “Lies.”

“It’s true. Food never tastes as good when I make it for myself.”

There is no trace of dishonesty in your eyes. Earnest and pure, a trait he has seen so few times he would have forgotten it had he not come to Overwatch where people like Winston and Mei exude it in spades.

“I suppose if you find it so agreeable, I could cook for you again," he mumbles casually. “If you do not mind, of course.”

“I’d love to have your cooking again.” Struck by a thought, you look up. “Oh! Agent Genji would like this, too. He used to complain about not having enough Japanese food.”

At the mention of Genji’s name, he stiffens, his good mood plummeting back to depths unknown to you.

“Sometimes Agent Genji is difficult to pin down especially if he’s somewhere Athena can’t see him.” Your voice drops to a whisper, edged with mock spite. “He used to turn off his communicator so no one could find him and then complain that no one told him dinner’s ready. Why don’t you go find him and let him know?”

His knee jerk reaction is to be defensive and suspicious of your intentions. Seeing your face, however, he knows it’s not the case. Sighing mentally, he tries to think of a way out. It’d be beyond embarrassing to let you know that he doesn’t want to because of a fight.

“He can eat this?”

Innocently, you reply, “Of course. He can’t eat a lot, but he eats sometimes. I’m sure he’ll love what you’ve made.”

“It’s not professional.”

“Professional or not, it’s the taste of home and no one can resist that. Besides, it’s great.”

“I still need to make the dishes for the others.”

“If it’s serving, I can do it since you’ve made most of it already.”

“I believe our deal is over the moment you finish cooking.”

“Cleaning is a part of the cooking process,” you answer, pointing to your dish and the dishwasher.

“I will handle it.”

“And serve at the same time?”

“I’ll manage.”

“It’ll be easier if you have someone who is used to doing both at the same time here.” It’s a very roundabout way of telling him that he was not able to manage such a thing, but he cannot argue such logic. His arguments are running thin, and he has to confront the possibility that he may have to meet with Genji, if briefly.

Doubt and the branching paths of an uncertain future weave a suffocating web around him. There’s little telling what would happen if Hanzo were to face Genji now. What if he’s with that master of his? What if he is with Dr. Ziegler? What if he wants to be alone and is waiting for an apology that Hanzo is not yet poised to give?

He’s saved when Lúcio appears at the service window.

“Hey, Chef, you in here?” he calls.

“Agent Lúcio?”

“There you are. The doc told me to get you.”

You pause, a pout slowly forming on your face. Hanzo has to clench his jaw tight to stop himself from smiling or laughing. “I’m still working, though.”

Lúcio’s voice goes stern. “And I don’t remember giving you the all clear to work.”

“Are you kiddi—” A garble of noises pour out of your mouth as you look for some rebuttal. Finding none, your whole body slumps down in defeat as you grab your empty dish and place it on a spiky grey rack before you shuffle your feet to the doors. You take one forlorn look at the kitchen and meet Hanzo’s eyes. A slight jolt goes through his stomach when your eyes connect.

“Take care of the kitchen, okay? I’ll be right back.”

You wait for him to nod and then you're gone.

A few moments pass and Hanzo breathes a silent sigh of relief, believing himself the winner of what would be an uncomfortable task. He returns to his curry, but something is off. The kitchen feels colder and a little more foreboding as though it just remembered Hanzo is a stranger to this place and should not be here. In part, it may be because Lúcio remains at the service window, leaning a cheek against his palm as he stares right at him.

He can’t imagine Dr. Ziegler asking Lúcio of all people to find you when Athena has eyes on everyone. Hanzo can only deduce that he is here for a different reason.

“Can I help you?” Hanzo doesn’t really mean it, keeping busy and making sure he strikes the sides of the pot extra loud as he stirs, hoping the man would get the hint.

“I was just thinking the chef’s a real workaholic.” Lúcio’s grin and tone is fond.

Hanzo’s inclined to agree especially since Lúcio hasn’t known you for any notable length of time, but he says nothing, stirring just as loud as before. It doesn’t seem to bother Lúcio or deter him in the least.

“You guys ever tell Chef it’s okay to take a break? Maybe let everyone else cook every once in a while?”

“The kitchen is normally off-limits to agents.” Even though it shouldn't be. “This happens to be an exception due to the...current situation.”

“But every day at any hour? And while injured? Man, that’s gotta violate labor laws in every other country.”

It’s an issue that Hanzo himself is all too familiar with. “It is not uncommon in Japan. That is why there is an issue with karoshi.”

“‘Boyfriends?’”

Hanzo looks incredulously at Lúcio who only blinks at him, unaware of his blunder. “That’s kareshi. How did you even—no, karoshi. Death from overwork.”

“Oh, yikes. Well, that’s what I’m here for. At least until tomorrow’s mission. Gotta make sure Chef is taking it easy and not feel so responsible and learn how to enjoy freedom.”

“Freedom?”

There it is again. The idea of freedom. Since coming to Overwatch, he’s finding himself contemplating simple words and concepts. At first, love, and now freedom.

Hanzo half-expects some flippant answer from the DJ, something about free love or going on adventures or something grandiose yet unobtainable except in the imaginations of children. However, his lower lip purses, and he looks genuinely pensive.

“I guess freedom isn’t the right word. It’s…” He waves his other hand in the air as though an answer will materialize. “Liber—lib...liberdade e responsabilidade. Liberty and responsibility. That’s it.”

“Liberty.”

“The freedom to do what you want. Chase your dreams, having the ability to just choose instead of having someone tell you what you should do.”

The answer is unexpected, but he often forgets that Lúcio was a freedom fighter before becoming an international entertainer.

Hanzo could not truly relate to this idea of ‘liberty’. Genji would have. If Hanzo were still the leader of the Shimada clan he may have found Lúcio’s actions and ideology repulsive and disruptive to the status quo. His dreams and wants were determined the moment he was born. Sit above all others and lead the Shimada clan to prosperity. Expand and build upon the current empire. Be better than everyone so no one is able to look down upon you. Chasing after all that was all he ever wanted, and now he might never be able to have it.

And Genji, who chased after this vague idea of ‘freedom’—not knowing the word to express ‘liberty’—at reckless speeds, achieved nothing but a near-death experience.

He laughs bitterly under his breath. “Freedom is never so simple. Or desirable.”

Lúcio rolls his eyes. “Pfft. That’s why it’s liberdade e responsabilidade. You can’t have one without the other. Liberty without respecting your responsibilities and boundaries is chaos. It’s also disrespectful and asking for an ass-whooping. But having responsibilities without enjoying yourself isn’t liberty at all; that’s self-oppression.”

Yes. Genji yearned for this freedom, this sort of ‘liberty’, but never respected any of the responsibilities that came with it, doing things without regard for consequences or the people it would inconvenience. Maybe if Genji understood what Lúcio did at that age, Hanzo wouldn’t have had to cut him down.

But maybe he didn’t listen hard enough or understand well enough, this foreign concept of ‘liberty’. He had always framed it as Genji’s fault—Genji was the reason for his own demise, everything he had done was wrong—but never once had he ever thought that he himself might have faults that led to the incident.

He stops stirring the pot, no longer willing to keep up any pretenses.

Now, there is no collective named the Shimada clan that he or Genji is beholden to. Instead, they are both working for Overwatch. Whatever issues and differences they had—have—they must resolve them if they are able to work together here. Genji has already tried. Now it’s Hanzo’s turn. No matter how painful or embarrassing or awkward it may be, Hanzo must now make the next move.

“Did you come up with these ideas yourself?” Hanzo asks.

Lúcio raises his arms above his head, stretching. “Psh. Nah. I blame my mestra. She beat a lot of it into me. Literally.” He drops his voice to a whisper conspiratorially, making a show of looking around. “Might’ve been a little bad in the roda, so she taught the lesson early.”

Hanzo chuckles. “She must be a wise person.”

Lúcio grins proudly. “That’s ‘cause she carries the lineage of Palmares.” He says it like it means anything to Hanzo. He humors Lúcio anyway, nodding as though he understands.

“I’m back,” you announce breathlessly as you appear beside Lúcio.

“Did the doc let you out that quick?”

You put a finger to your lips, smiling sheepishly. “She was busy with Capt—Agent Ana, so I came back.”

Lúcio tsks. “You should’ve just waited. Or interrupted her.”

“I have to put away the dishes.” You point at the dishwashing machine which at some point had stopped running. Turning to him, you say with a purposeful edge to your voice, “I can handle it from here for a little while. You should go, Hanzo.”

Hanzo sighs deep through his nose, nerves rattling in his chest. He is not ready. He cannot do this. He shouldn’t have to do this. Sweat forms in his palms as his mind begins to again map out scenarios of a future that has not yet happened and how he may save face at every point.

No.

That’s what landed him in this problem in the first place. If he continues to think in the same way as his past self, he will only be repeating the same mistakes. He is not his past self. This should have been taken care of ten years ago, and should not be delayed a moment longer. This would be the ‘right’ thing to do.

Against all his misgivings and the wall of reluctance that has been protecting the status of ‘coward’ in his heart, Hanzo flicks off the fire and waits for you to enter the kitchen before he makes his way out.

As you suspected, it does not take Hanzo long to find Genji sitting atop the highest point of the Watchpoint. While they both developed the love for high places at a young age, Hanzo thinks his reasons for enjoying the height may now be very different from the reasons Genji did.

His jaw is tight and throat dry. There’s a chilly strumming alongside his heartbeat, and his nerves feel too raw. But this is necessary.

“Genji.” He swallows down whatever hesitations and pride he has, throat clicking. The buzzing in his chest consumes his hands. His breaths come quicker, more shallow. “Dinner’s ready.”

It’s not anything. It’s not the right thing to say, but it’s something.

For a while, Genji does not move. Silence holds them both captive, daring one of them to break it first. Hanzo flexes a hand. Then, the lights to his visor flicker on, the glare softer than before. Genji turns his head, watching Hanzo from the corner of his vision.

“Thanks. What is it?”

“...curry rice. With tempura.”

“I’ll be there in a bit.”

Hanzo nods numbly and Genji turns back to look out across the city. Taking that as his cue, Hanzo takes a step back, turns and jumps off the point, hoping the feeling of free-falling will let him outrun the terrifying feeling of moving forward toward an unseen destination.

Chapter 19>>

#my writing #the way to a heart #oh boy this one took forever #this thing went through so many different iterations #my writing process consists of nuking multiple WIPs no matter how many words they have #i have such strong feelings about the tempura pictured in the Overwatch cookbook #I think several thousand words were nuked in the making of this thing #this whole thing has just become a personal contest with myself to see how much shit i can fit into a fic

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aroworlds · 5 years ago

Text

The Vampire Conundrum, Part Two

When Rowan Ross is pressured into placing an aromantic pride mug on his desk, he doesn't know how to react when his co-workers don't notice it. Don't they realise he spent a weekend rehearsing answers for questions unasked? Then again, if nobody knows what aromanticism is, can't he display a growing collection of pride merch without a repeat of his coming out as trans? Be visible with impunity through their ignorance?

He can endure their thinking him a fan of archery, comic-book superheroes and glittery vampire movies. It's not like anyone in the office is an archer. (Are they?) But when a patch on his bag results in a massive misconception, correcting it means doing the one thing he most fears: making a scene.

After all, his name isn't Aro.

Contains: One trans, bisexual frayromantic alongside an office of well-meaning cis co-workers who think they're being supportive and inclusive.

Content Advisory: This story hinges on the way most cishet alloromantic people know nothing about aromanticism and the ways many trans-accepting cis people fail to best communicate their acceptance. In other words, expect a series of queer, trans and aro microaggressions. There are no depictions or mentions of sexual attraction beyond the words "allosexual" and "bisexual", but there are non-detailed references to Rowan's previous experiences with romance.

Length: 3, 737 words (part two of two).

Note: Posted for @aggressivelyarospec‘s AggressivelyArospectacular 2019.

Romance, too, feels like one of the mechanisms by which a dangerous trans body can be rendered more acceptable to cis folks.

“His name’s Aro,” Melanie says after lunch, showing a new volunteer around the office. She pats Rowan on the shoulder as she walks behind his chair, startling him enough that the clipping path he’s making around a photo of Damien’s head goes veering off to the side. “He does our website, our flyers and the information guides we send out. Aro like from the Twilight movies!”

Introductions once only encompassed Melanie’s habit of overly-stressing pronouns when referencing him—a dysphoria-triggering reminder that she doesn’t think him masculine enough for people to assume it. Isn’t that bad enough without her also getting his name wrong?

He sighs, frustrated. Complaining about this, when trans people are in desperate want of a working environment free of outright antagonism and discrimination, feels unreasonable. Hell, Rowan knows aromantics who’ll revel in being named “Aro”, so isn’t his hurt just pettiness? Isn’t this why he’s no longer welcome at home, a man too intolerant of his family’s mistakes? How many times did they tell him that his harping on about little things demonstrates a concerning lack of gratitude for their acceptance?

His co-workers do seem to believe in Rowan’s masculinity; he shouldn’t take that for granted.

Instead, he feels like he’s failing at being both transgender and aromantic.

After a fair amount of editing, he places Damien’s image in the brochure mock-up and exports to PDF. The office will make suggestions, some useful, some ignorant and some so absurd that Rowan will laugh with his friends later on, but that’s fine. He can’t expect otherwise in a workplace where everyone considers him possessed of unknowable ability with computers. They’re good people, in the main, and they care about their work.

It’s just complicated, and Rowan hates the feeling that complicated is the best cis people will let him get to a normalised acceptance.

“Aro? An Arrow fan called Aro? Really? Do you like comics or are you one of those people only into DC TV?”

Rowan looks up from attaching his PDF to an email to find the volunteer sitting on a creaking office chair and crab-walking it over to Rowan’s desk. “Comics?”

“Oh, good.” The volunteer sighs as if in relief. “I mean, the TV show? It isn’t terrible—better than most of DC’s movies, at least—but I’m so tired of people who call themselves fans but have never touched a comic book.”

Rowan glances at his journal cover, ponders its possible similarity to the show’s motif and nearly bursts out laughing. He’s never read a comic and doesn’t plan on doing so. He prefers indie podcasts and audiobooks on account of increased representation and greater ability to sew and cook while listening. “I’m not an Arrow fan. Sorry.”

Another show about cis people possessed of everyone-should-pair-up amatonormativity?

Hard pass.

“You’re not?” The volunteer gapes, waving his hand towards Rowan’s cluster of pride mugs. Three, now. Only one contains coffee, which feels like a terrible oversight. “Is this a joke, then? Are they getting you arrow stuff because of your name? Like some office thing?”

Aro.

His name is not Aro.

Rowan once thought the concept of snapping a mere storytelling device, something as ludicrous or impossible as “glittering eyes” or “romantic interest that lasts after getting to know someone”. At best an experience had by people without a brain that doesn’t devote most of its time to screaming alerts at the prospect of anything dangerous. Absurd, irrational, void of any real-life relevance.

Not even with his family has he felt this chilling, all-encompassing moment of enough.

He looks back at his computer, attaches a second PDF file to his email and, before he considers pesky things like consequences, clicks send. Then Rowan climbs up on his office chair, steps up onto the desk and whistles like a country boy who owned a border collie prone to sneaking off the property and rounding up the neighbour’s sheep.

Everyone in the office gapes up at him with a motley assortment of parted lips, unblinking eyes and, in Melanie’s case, the pointing of a long, vermillion-polished fingernail.

Up high, the room reeks of nesting rodents and the popcorn ceiling desperately wants refinishing.

Now Rowan’s brain tells his limbs to shake and his chest to heave; of course, he thinks as he shoves his hands behind his back, anxiety kicks in after he’s neck-deep in it! “My … my name is Rowan. I chose it.” He looks at the vent on the opposite wall, fighting to sound collected. Is that black mould? “Dad told me if I rejected my deadname, I was rejecting them. That I was being cruel and selfish. I earnt my name!” He stops, gasping for breath like a hooked fish—which, given his terror, feels far too appropriate a simile. “My identity is aro, short for aromantic, like being queer—one way of my being queer. So ... there’s a PDF booklet in your inbox about aromanticism. Read it! I’m proud of being aro, but you need to call me by the name I chose! It’s Rowan!”

He jumps down off the desk. The creaking laminate and the thud of his dress shoes, a little too large for Rowan’s feet, sound abominably loud in the sepulchrally-quiet room. Heading past giddy into faint, but pushed on by a heedlessness of the “this can’t possibly get worse because I’m going to be fired” variety, Rowan snatches up his satchel and reaches into the side pocket to pull out his handful of print leaflets. He drops one in the lap of the gaping volunteer, tosses the rest on an empty desk for luddites who prefer paper, and returns to his chair.

Seven sets of speechless eyes bore holes through his skull, shoulders and spine.

Rowan jams on his headphones, opens his no-romance metal playlist and turns his music up to a volume just short of deafening before queuing new posts to the project’s website.

When he invented the God of Trans Men as flippant rhetoric to cope with Melanie’s questions, is it right to pray to him?

***

Two hours later, doing his best to radiate an aura of do not disturb on pain of your bloody death, Rowan fights to pay attention to the last event write-up. Leaving early means asking permission and walking down the row of desks, risking stares and comments; he instead corrects Melanie’s idiosyncratic punctuation. Didn’t Melanie go to school at a time when they taught more than English comprehension? How doesn’t she know when not to use an apostrophe?

There’ll be consequences. Warnings? A formal discussion in the private office the supervisors only use for interviews? A request that he undergo counselling? A strong recommendation for psychiatric assessment? Firing? It isn’t like they can’t throw a rock and hit thousands of people under the age of forty with general computer skills and design ability who aren’t prone to standing on desks to make unwanted announcements.

No. Focus on the damn comma splices.

Should he ask his psychiatrist for the soonest possible appointment? New meds?

A tap on the shoulder makes Rowan’s head threaten to brush the probably-asbestos-riddled ceiling; he gasps and yanks off his headphones, trembling.

Melanie stands beside his chair, holding out her phone in its glossy pink case. “Those words that are underlined? Can I click on them to find out what they mean, like on a website? Like ... al-lo-sexual?”

“Hyperlinks in an interactive PDF—the file on your phone—work the same way as on a website,” Rowan says without thinking: in the last three months, he’s been asked this ten times. “If you click on those links, they’ll take you to a glossary at the end of the document with definitions.”

Damien sits facing his usual computer, his head tilted as if watching out the corner of his eye.

Melanie smiles the expression of a woman in an alternate dimension where Rowan doesn’t engage in embarrassing outbursts. “You’re so good at all this stuff, Rowan.” She stresses his name just enough that he can pretend she didn’t. “Where did you learn it all?”

He once tried to explain his philosophy of clicking on things only to realise that while the concept of generational divides requires excessive generalisation, a difference exists in terms of his willingness to fearless experimentation with electronic devices and programs. “School. Uni.”

“You’re so lucky. School was nothing like that when I was a girl. You have so many more opportunities now. And identities.” Melanie sighs and pushes a wisp of grey hair back from her eyebrows. “It’s good, it really is.”

Rowan blinks, startled into silence by a rare glimpse of validation stripped of performance and demonstration.

He hadn’t thought anyone here capable of it.

“It says that some people feel repulsed by romance? Are you like that? Should we do something? Do we need to not talk about romance in the office? Like, if I describe my daughter dating her boyfriend, not that I want to, is that bad? Do we need to hold a meeting? Damien—Damien—”

Damien turns, wearing the blinded look of a rabbit frozen in a spotlight. “Yes...?”

For how long has Damien worked with Melanie? For how long has the office rolled with Melanie’s interruptions and proclamations, her meetings called about the slightest of issues? For how long has the office accepted Shelby’s incessant reminding and Damien’s inability to surrender event photography to someone who knows how to modify their flash settings? Isn’t there a chance that they’ll tolerate Rowan’s occasional moments of desk-blathering?

A trans aro should be able to sew a patch on his bag reading “aro” without provoking cis weirdness. Since when does someone read a new word on his bag and assume that’s now his name? Isn’t that another over-the-top demonstration made by awkward cis people trying to prove their acceptance, something that’s never made Rowan feel safe?

Even when he’s aromantic, he never gets to avoid cissexism.

He slides his hands between the seat and his legs, aware of Melanie’s once again drawing the office’s unbroken attention. “I, personally, don’t care if people talk about their romances,” he says, certain that Damien needn’t answer Melanie about meetings, “but I do care when people assume I must want one. I do care when Sh … some of you just keep asking if I’m dating anyone.”

Rowan long set aside the need to bother with romance. He isn’t aromantic in the way most people first think of the word, as he does fall in love, but it describes his frayromanticism nonetheless. Why put himself through the inevitable messy, angry break-up when his partners don’t understand why what started as romance ends up to him as a friendship? When dating isn’t without trans-related challenges, why force himself into a type of relationship that he knows won’t last?

Romance, too, feels like one of the mechanisms by which a dangerous trans body can be rendered more acceptable to cis folks, in the same way it sanitises his equally-threatening bisexuality. If queers are holding hands and exchanging rings, just like cis and heterosexual couples, they’re safe.

He wants to be normal, but not that normal.

Melanie surprises him again by nodding. Opaque red only colours the corners of her lips; the worn centres reveal the brownish-pink beneath. “Like how we now don’t assume everyone’s—what’s the fancy word you use for not being you?”

“Cis. Yeah.”

“At my first job, I never dared yeah my elders. Can I ask what’s this a-sexual thing? Not-sexual? That’s a thing that can go with your a-ro-manti-cism? Am I saying it right? Is that something people can be?” Melanie grabs the volunteer’s vacated chair and wheels herself up to Rowan’s desk. “Tell me about this. Please.”

Damien gives a theatrically deep sigh, winks at Rowan and turns back to his keyboard.

Rowan’s tangle of feelings bewilders him too much to be simple relief, but he doesn’t appear to be at immediate risk of losing his job.

***

“We need to have a meeting!” Melanie announces ten days later, striding up to where Damien peers over Rowan’s shoulder to approve the touch-ups on a series of scanned photos. Rowan grasps the want to have a section on the website showcasing past events, but surely Damien’s film-camera predecessors weren’t all unable to take decent pictures? “Today. Perhaps before lunch?”

“Do we?” Damien doesn’t bother to turn his head. “What’s the number on the urgency scale, remembering that whiteboard markers aren’t a five?”

“I’m aro-ace.” Melanie stresses the words, beaming with the confidence of a child presenting a new finger-painted masterpiece. “I didn’t know, but I definitely am. I’m aromantic and asexual.”

“I’m glad for you.” Now Damien faces her, scratching his shock of unruly brown hair. “I don’t know why this needs a meeting? Do you want something addressed?”

Rowan leans back in his chair, too startled to do anything but watch. Melanie’s interrogation of him about all things a-spec over the last few days left him certain that she was questioning, but he didn’t expect this announcement—or Damien’s reaction to it.

“I’ve been reading, and I sent around a list of links everyone else should read, too. We must do something about our website. And, of course, everyone should know I’m aro-ace, and then let people ask any questions. Then we should consider changes to our submission forms, and then...”

Already, Melanie has done more to integrate her identity into the office and its projects than Rowan ever dared risk. Why, then, does he feel as though he’s being pressed inside a metal suit three sizes too small? Shouldn’t the end result be worth enduring a staff meeting in which she announces she’s aro-ace? Melanie being Melanie, she’ll gladly answer questions about aromanticism. Doesn’t that give Rowan everything he wanted—ability to be out as aromantic but someone else’s dealing with allo nonsense?

Matt’s right.

Rowan’s just a coward.

Damien nods at Rowan. “What do you think about that?”

“Uh...” Rowan draws a delaying breath, fighting against a brain too bewildered to be useful in forming comprehensible speech. “Uh … you’d have to run form changes past someone higher up, wouldn’t you? We have to ask about everything else? But...”

He doesn’t name Melanie a friend, but fellow aromantics aren’t common enough that Rowan will reject a companion—even if they’re cis and have subjected him to half a year’s discomfort, anxiety and alienation. He slides his restless hands under his legs, biting his lip against the sickening realisation. Melanie’s enthusiastic fearlessness may make this office and program better for him as an aro, but how can it answer all the attitudes that made Rowan fear coming out in the first place?

If he’s a coward, doesn’t he have reason?

“We do need a meeting,” he says slowly, his heart pounding in his chest like blast beats in death metal. “On better integrating marginalised people into our office. Because the way you emphasise my pronouns, Melanie, or the way Shelby reassures me five times that I can correct her … that doesn’t make me feel safe. It makes me feel reminded. Different. Too visible. And that’s why...”

“You ended up standing on a desk?” Damien asks with the gruffness of a middle-aged cis man trying to sound gentle.

“Yeah,” Rowan mutters. “That.”

Melanie clasps her fingers to her lips. “Oh! I didn’t mean anything by it! I just wanted people to get it right!”

How many times has he suffered through well-meaning people explaining that in response to his saying that they made him uncomfortable? How many times has he heard people justify their actions as though good intent always mitigates bad impact?

“You’re … you’re still making this about you! The only answer I want or need from you is thanks for telling me, Rowan, I won’t do it again! That’s all! Not your reasoning, not this effort to justify! I want to know that you hear me, that you’ll acknowledge that your intent however good still made me come home crying from dysphoria, and that you’ll stop because I don’t want to put up with it anymore! That’s all!”

For the second time in less than a fortnight, a chilling silence envelops the office.

“We need a meeting,” Rowan says breathlessly, reminding himself that at least this time he isn’t standing on his desk, “discussing how to include marginalised people in our office. Discussing all the microaggressions. Maybe you need to find … educators, trainers who come in and do this. I don’t know. I’m just so tired of never feeling safe or normal, never feeling like I can say anything because this isn’t hate and at least you’re not my parents! Like I don’t ever get to have anything better!”

He stands up, unsure what to do past fetching himself a distracting cup of coffee.

Maybe, then, he’ll be able to survive the way Melanie looks at him—as though he just ran over her puppy.

She just came out, and he did run right over it.

“I’m sorry.” Rowan sags onto his chair, leaning forwards to grab his satchel despite the unpleasant giddiness. “I’m sorry. It’s wonderful, Melanie, that you now know who you are and that you can come out. And it’s amazing that you’re doing things already, when I needed like six months just to get used to my knowing I’m aro. I just...” He reaches inside the satchel and pulls out a rough oblong shape wrapped in white tissue paper. “Here. I’m sorry.”

He, an allo-aro man, screwed up an aro-ace woman’s coming out. Shouldn’t he know better? He wants to laugh, wants to cry, wants to curl up in a ball and hide under his desk. Even now, when he’s trying to get what he needs as a trans man, he’s being the worst kind of aromantic!

Her lips pinched, Melanie takes the present in her hands, worrying at the top piece of tape with her long, pink nails.

“We’ll have a meeting.” Damien runs his hand through his hair as though he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. “I’ll talk to the heads about … sensitivity training, I suppose this also is. Would you be willing to write me an email outlining some of these behaviours and any ways we can make this office safer for you? Is that an appropriate thing to ask of you?”

“I don’t mind,” Rowan says. As long as he doesn’t go ignored, he’ll send a few emails—and he already has a few blog posts on which to draw. “Thank you.”

“Do you … want anything, now? To talk privately to me or anyone else? Or to a senior supervisor? Or someone with the government body? Can I do or arrange anything else?”

“Coffee. Please. And … and then to go back to fixing photos as though absolutely nothing happened because I don’t … do this sort of thing.” Rowan heaves a shaking sigh, pushing aside the thought that nobody can have failed to observe this. “Thank—thank you. I’m sorry. Thank you.”

He notices Damien gesturing at Melanie, notices that Rowan’s aro flag mug leaves with both and returns a few minutes later—now distracting from the office’s musty odour with its rich bitterness. He takes a few sips, but only by throwing himself into his work can he survive the gibbering, chattering thoughts building into a crushing tsunami of what the hell. Why did he do that? Why—no. Photos.

The soft clunk of crockery hitting laminate makes him look up.

Melanie leans against the edge of Rowan’s desk, her hand resting atop her new orange, yellow, white and blue aro-ace flag mug. “I’m sorry. Thanks for telling me.” She draws a deep breath, tapping her nails against the rim. “I didn’t know I could … that there’s an explanation, until I read your booklet. It described me. Things I didn’t realise about me! Things I’d been feeling! But … I’ve been learning about things like micro-aggressions. I didn’t know I’d been doing them myself. I’m sorry. I’ll keep learning. And thank you for my cup.”

“I know,” Rowan says softly, thinking back to the day when he realised the words “aromantic” and “frayromantic” describe him. A belated voicing of confusion and alienation; the naming of a constant sense of difference from the world. Revelation, understanding, explanation. “I know. I’m sorry, too. I don’t like … scenes. Or asking people things. I’m an anxious coward. So it just...”

He waves his hands, trying to mime an explosion.

Melanie, wide-eyed, jerks her head. “I couldn’t have said anything if you hadn’t done it first—and I wouldn’t have known to say anything if you hadn’t! And you’re asking us to do things knowing that we don’t understand, which must be frightening at least. You’re brave. And you shouldn’t be sorry.”

Rowan stares at her, unsure what to say in response. Never has anyone in his life freely offered such a sentiment. Never has anyone offered him something so generous without subsequent critique of Rowan’s intolerance for and impatience with their struggles to deal with him, praise softening the following reproval.

Brave.

His throat tightens and his eyes blur.

“Would you work with me on a proposal to put together for the submission forms? Damien insisted that I work with you, if you want to.”

“Uh … yeah?”

Melanie grabs a stack of papers from her desk and a chair. “I’ve gone through the old forms and highlighted passages. Do you want to read through and see if there’s anything I’ve missed or anything that should be left?”

He nods and takes the papers. Is this an alternate universe, the world flung upside down? Or, if people possess a minimum of decency, can he make needed change by addressing his problems instead of letting everyone talk over him? Can he build a world where he doesn’t endure cis or allo microaggressions by believing that their inconveniences aren’t worth more than his discomfort?

If his co-workers doesn’t object to correction, if they’re willing to make changes and investigate training, is the problem one of Rowan’s overreaction?

Does that mean he can talk to Matt the way he spoke to Melanie and Damien?

“Is something wrong?” Melanie asks, frowning.

Rowan shakes his head and plucks a pen from his frayro mug. “No.”

For the first time in a long time, that’s mostly true.

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spooky-fit · 5 years ago

Text

Gonna be real with y'all, I binged.

Tw: self harm, ED mention.

I'm struggling with this right now. I just ate half a fucking pizza at work.

I didn't want to post about it, but I'm going to, because I want this blog to be as real and transparent as possible.

I don't usually post too much non fitness related stuff on here, but I need to vent.

I was diagnosed with Bipolar two years ago, and while I am medicated, and generally keep my symptoms under control, this time of year always activates my mental illness. Not an excuse, just a struggle right now.

I was hospitalized two years ago because of self harm. I had cuts everywhere, there was no hiding it. Everyone knew.

But there were parts of my self harm that no one knew about at the time.

What almost no one knew besides me and my doctors was that I was self harming in more than one way. I was starving myself, eating less than 800 calories a day because I wanted to disappear. Before that I self harmed by binging until I was in pain. For years I binged just to feel something and never realized how bad I was hurting myself until recently. When I look at my fat, I only see self harm.

I didn't make progress with my wieght until 2019 when I took health seriously and ate nutritionally dense food in a safe caloric deficit. For the first time in my life I'm building a good relationship with food and I don't want that to end here.

I'm just scared.

I've never stayed on track this long before. I've had attempts that ended in failures a week later..... But this year I've been making real changes and I don't want to lose that because of depression/mental illness.

I just need to get these thoughts out of my head, and send them off into the internet void I guess. I'm deep in my emotional low, and need to remind myself how far I've come.

Tomorrow is a new day, I'm ready to start over again. I won't give up. This time is different. I will not give up, no matter how many times I have to go back to square one.

🖤🖤🖤

#mental disorder #bipolor #self care #self improvement #self love #self healing #health goth #health #vent tag #ed trigger #self harm trigger

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1-1snailxd-art · 5 years ago

Text

Working too hard

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Relationships: platonic LAMP

Warning: minor injury, illness, anxiety, eating disorder implied, death mentioned.

Summary: Something is wrong with Patton, but he won’t admit it.

Note: This is how I vent now...writing very random fanfics based on real experiences. Not a continuing story, really. Just a way to cope with stuff and sending it out into the void is therapeutic.

*************

It was over.

Finally.

Patton stepped into his classroom, shutting the door behind him, and looked at the freshly cleaned room. He barely made it to his desk as his hands shook and his legs gave out, forcing him to lower himself to the floor. Hot tears streamed from his eyes, though he felt emotionally numb as his body reacted to the work day ending.

It had been a rough two weeks for the energetic teacher, with reports due on all 28 of his students across 5 different learning areas. As if that wasn’t already hard enough, something was wrong with Patton.

It started when he and Virgil had gone for a walk around the park and come across Roman and Logan jogging.

*****

“Let’s race to the café!” Roman was bouncing on his toes; full of energy and a smile spread across his face.

“Why?” Virgil may have sounded disinterested but he was subtly zipping his jacket up in preparation.

“Just for fun.” Glancing to the side, Roman saw Logan and Patton were also adjusting themselves, preparing to run. “Last one there buys afternoon tea.”

Patton quickly analysed the path he would need to take; sticking to the concrete walk way around the pond before veering right, across the grass, to reach the café. The group needed no further acknowledgement as they exchanged competitive grins.

“Ready?” Roman watched as each nodded, “se-”

“GO!”

Patton yelled and quickly started running, knowing the others would pass him easily despite his mischievous false start. Feeling the hard pavement beneath his feet, Patton couldn’t help but worry about falling on the hard surface. Breathing from behind caught his attention as Roman passed on his left and pulled ahead. Pounding feet indicated Virgil and Logan were close behind, Virgil keeping pace with Patton briefly before pulling ahead and was replaced with Logan. As Roman left the concrete path, Virgil surged ahead with increased confidence on the alternative surface. Logan also took the opportunity to pull ahead and close the gap between himself and Roman, as the dramatic man lost steam.

Patton wasn’t concerned with winning. He knew they wouldn’t honestly make him pay for everything and this was more for bragging rights later. Regardless, he did give the race all he had, spotting Virgil grab a support beam of the café’s verandah to cement his victory. Roman’s cry of frustration as Logan passed him in the final moments was the last thing Patton heard. His vision suddenly went dark as he felt himself fall forward.

Time slowed. He knew he was falling. The sensation overwhelming. His arm hit the ground first, body still moving forward as the side of his head bounced on the ground. Hitting his head reactivated his vision. Patton blinked at the grass that was now so close to his face as he lay on his side.

“Patton!”

Time started up again as Virgil raced over and rolled Patton onto his back, face full of worry as he took in the others pale face.

“I. Hit. My. Head.” Patton struggled to get the words out as his chest heaved.

As more faces appeared over him, Patton raised his arm over his eyes, trying to block out their gaze.

“Keep your eyes open for us, Patton.” Logan instructed, leaning down with Virgil to inspect their fallen friend.

“Deep slow breaths, Pat.” Virgil comforted, noticing his breathing wasn’t slowing.

Patton felt confused and embarrassed. He couldn’t work out why he was struggling to breath, and it took him a moment to remember that he had just been sprinting with the others.

“Eyes open, Patton.”

Logan repeated as he moved Patton’s arm onto his forehead as he tried to cover his eyes again. Patton just wanted to disappear. The gazes of concern and worry were overwhelming and he couldn’t explain why.

“I’m ok. I’m ok.” Patton repeated it more for himself than the others and smiled despite his chest still heaving.

“Don’t move. Just calm down.”

Virgil looked at Patton’s arm, noticing the grass burn running up his forearm and the shake in his hands. Gently he brushed grass off Patton’s hair and checked the side of his face; which was clear of any marks.

“Does it hurt anywhere?” Logan questioned, following Virgil’s inspections and considering the possibility of concussion.

“My, my arm hurts a bit.” Patton thought hard about how he was actually feeling. It was odd to have to consciously consider his feelings. “My head feels funny, but I’m ok.”

Logan and Virgil nodded, though they weren’t quite convinced. Roman watched on from the side, not wanting to crowd Patton too much. It felt like an eternity to Patton, but it was only a minute before he was sitting up.

“Take your time.” Virgil cooed, “you don’t need to rush.”

“I want to get off this grass.” Patton kept his gaze low and focused on squeezing his hands into fists to stop them from shaking.

No one argued as Patton stood, using Virgil for support, and they made their way up to the café. Roman strode ahead and pulled a chair out for Patton to gratefully lower himself on to.

“Have you eaten today?” Logan questioned, knowing Patton had a history of neglecting meals. Patton nodded but avoided all eye contact, cementing Logan’s assessment that the man probably had eaten the bare minimum that day. “I’ll get you something to eat.”

“I’ll help.” Roman offered, feeling a little useless and already blaming himself for Patton’s state.

As the others disappeared into the café, Virgil moved to sit close to Patton and placed a supportive arm around his friends shoulders.

“How are you feeling?” Seeing Patton’s face stretch into a smile, Virgil made his tone even more serious. “Really, I want the truth. How are you feeling?”

The fake smile remained as Patton looked down and flexed his still trembling hands.

“I’m embarrassed more than anything. But I’ll be ok.” He chanced a glance to the side, and saw just how unconvinced Virgil appeared. “I promise, Virgil. I’ll be fine.”

Logan and Roman returned with a table number, waters and a brown paper bag.

“Ordered some fries to share.” Roman sat across from Patton and was glad to see some colour was returning to his friends face.

Logan twisted the top off a bottle of water and handed it to Patton. “Drink. I got you a blueberry muffin too. They don’t have a wide range of options today, but you should at least eat something while we wait for more food.”

Patton smiled at Logan, though it didn’t reach his eyes; accepting the water and taking small sips of the cool liquid. “Thank you, Logan.”

Virgil opened the brown paper bag and tore the muffin into chunks, knowing it was highly unlikely Patton would eat alone, if at all. He may have been the one that came across as outwardly anxious, but Patton suffered just as much. Though he had denied it, a recent doctors trip had confirmed what Virgil had always assumed about his friend. He was stressed, anxious and on a dangerous path with his eating habits. He had only known Patton for a little over a year, but he knew he was the sort to put everyone else’s needs above his own and hide his true feelings.

Grabbing a piece of muffin, Virgil shoved it in his mouth. “That’s really good. You should try a bit, Pat.”

“Thanks.” Patton repeated, carefully setting his water down and reaching for the smallest piece. Despite its small size, he still nibbled on it slowly, mind racing over what had occurred.

Roman, Logan and Virgil did their best to chat normally; taking careful glances at their friend as he nibbled on his muffin or took a sip of water. When their fries arrived, Patton was smiling and joining the conversation in small spurts. Though he acted fine, his eyes were tired and his face still lacked much of its normal colour. A visit to the hospital had already been turned down, as Patton assured them it was nothing.

“I just tripped, guys.” He said, finally finishing a chip he had been holding onto for most of the meal. “People trip all the time. It really is nothing to worry about.”

“You would tell us, though,” Roman looked deep into Patton’s eyes, “if something was wrong, you would tell us, right?”

Patton nodded. “If something was really wrong, I would tell you. I promise.”

Patton allowed the group to call a taxi to take them all their separate ways, even though he was adamant he could still walk if needed. The taxi dropped Roman and Logan at their place first, where they reminded Patton again to message if he needed anything.

As the taxi pulled up to Patton’s apartment complex, Virgil reached over and touched his friend’s shoulder.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay over? The kids will be fine without me for one night.”

Patton shook his head, “it’s fine, Virge. You’re siblings need you and I promise you, I’m fine. I will message you if I’m not.”

Though unconvinced, Virgil accepted and let Patton slide out of the car. He watched the other walk slowly to his door and waited until he saw him enter before signalling for the taxi to move on.

****

Patton kept his promises. He made sure to eat a full dinner that night, despite not feeling hungry. The next day he woke up in pain. Everything ached. His neck, his back, his arm, and his head felt like someone had placed a filter over his thoughts and he struggled to concentrate.

Not wanting to worry the others, he sent them funny GIFs in their group chat and did everything he could to appear normal. They all had their own lives to worry about and didn’t need to worry about him. He was fine. He only fell over. It’s just something that happens. Nothing to worry about at all.

*****

“Are you ok, Mr Sanders?”

Kids are incredibly clever, and the kids in Patton’s class were quick to sense there was something wrong with their teacher.

“I’m fine, Kiddo.” He lied, “I’m just a little bit tired.”

The tiredness and ‘off feeling’ wasn’t going away. Staring at a request for bloods that his doctor had given him last week, Patton swallowed his fear and took himself to the pathology clinic after the 4th day of feeling under the weather. He had been playing it off in and outside of work. He caught glimpses of Virgil, Logan and Roman cautiously eyeing him as they met in the staff room or crossed paths in the playgrounds. Every opportunity he could get, Patton assured them that he was feeling fine and life went on. The four didn’t get another chance to meet as the deadline for Patton, Logan and Roman’s reports loomed, and new books arrived for Virgil to enter into the library. Perhaps if they had met up again, they would have noticed Patton slipping.

****

It had been over a week since the incident and they had all started to believe Patton was indeed ok. Even Patton had thought he was going fine, until he suddenly felt faint. The sensation came out of nowhere. He was just standing during assembly when he started struggling to focus his vision. Thinking it was nothing, Patton sat on the ground with his students and the feeling passed.

He quickly checked the time, noting that it had only been an hour since breakfast and he had eaten a larger meal than normal. Shoving thoughts of concern aside, Patton returned his attention to his class. His students needed him.

As the assembly ended, Patton walked his crew back to the classroom. The walk was short, but it felt like Patton was running a marathon. His legs felt heavy, his head swam and his heart started to race.

‘I need to set the kids up. Then I can deal with this.’

Teacher aides entered the classroom to take the kids off in small reading groups. Patton started calling for groups to go to different adults and areas; grabbing onto a cupboard door and gesturing for one of the aides to come over.

“Can you call the office for me. Something is wrong.”

Patton remained focused on his students, trying to appear as normal as possible as the room spun for a moment. Lowering himself onto a chair, shoving his trembling hands between his legs and calling out instructions to his group. Despite his best efforts to sound normal, his voice cracked and his students eyes instantly filled with worry.

“I wanted to avoid worrying them. Now I’ve made it worse. Get it together, Patton.”

Angry with himself, Patton took a deep breath and repeated his instructions in a stronger voice. Many accepted and started to work as Patton carefully collected his things and turned to find one of his students in front of him.

“Do you need help, Mr Sanders?”

“Thanks, my dear, but I’ll be ok. Can you go do some awesome reading for me?”

The little girl seemed unconvinced but nodded and returned to her table, directing the others to continue to work to help Mr Sanders. Despite the dizziness in his head, Patton was proud that he had such a good group of kids to work with.

It was moments later that the school Principal and Deputy entered the room, with the Deputy going straight to the table of students that Patton should have been working with.

“Are you going to be ok to walk?” The principal questioned, taking in Patton’s shaking hands.

“I should be. Thanks, Brit.”

Brit nodded, and picked up Patton’s satchel, watching the other rise to their feet. She smiled at the kids working with the Deputy, before following Patton down to the staff room, eyeing his shaking movements carefully.

She had worked with many people during her years as a principal and had watched many teachers work themselves into the ground. Though Patton was still young, there was no age limit on overworking.

“Do you need me to call your GP?” Brit asked, watching Patton’s shaking hands try and use his phone.

“I’ll be fine, thank you Brit.”

Brit nodded and left the room to go and organise a replacement for the day. Though she wouldn’t let it show, she worried about the health of her young staff members. Particularly Patton, as he had no family nearby to turn to and a personality that meant he never asked for support outside of work hours.

By the time Brit returned to the staff room, Patton was massaging his temples with his eyes closed.

“I’ll drive you home and to your appointment.” Patton’s eyes shot open and he opened his mouth to protest before Brit stopped him with a raised hand. “No arguments. My daughter is coming into town to swap cars with me anyway. I’ll have her follow me as I drive you. What time is your appointment.”

“You don’t have to do tha-”

“Patton. What time is your appointment.”

Despite the fact that he was an adult, Patton found himself crumbling at her commanding teacher tone. He knew to not underestimate the power of the ‘teacher voice’.

“It’s not until 2:45.”

“Very well. I’ll clear my afternoon.”

With that, Brit exited the room again. Patton knew she was right, he was in no state to drive, but he still hated to be such an inconvenience.

********

Virgil: what happened today!

Logan: you weren’t in the staff room at morning break. It everything ok, Patton?

Virgil: the rumour is he fainted in his classroom.

Roman: Patton. What is going on?

The group chat was making Patton’s phone vibrate as he sat in the doctors office. His hands still trembled slightly, though his head felt a lot better after laying at home for the day. His doctor was unimpressed as he reminded Patton of the importance of improving his eating habits and not coming in sooner after he fell over.

He left the office with more requests for expensive tests and a prescription for anxiety medication and iron supplements. All the information had blurred together. Possible heart problems. High blood pressure. Lack of sleep. Need to reduce stress. He had laughed when the doctor told him to reduce stress and get more sleep. With reports due the following week it was going to be impossible to do those things.

Hours later, Patton finally opened his phone to check the multiple messages the others had sent. Explaining the situation to the others in the group chat was tough. He could feel their concerned gazes through the glass screen. They were all stressed and busy with work, and now Patton was adding his health to their list of concerns. Guilt squeezed his gut, making eating harder, but he strived to keep on track.

****

The next week was tough. Patton ignored the dizzy spells that plagued his work day; simply sitting and waiting for them to pass. He was already behind with his lessons and didn’t want any time away from his students that wasn’t necessary. Though it hurt, he avoided his friends as much as possible and made sure to smile when they looked his way. He didn’t want to worry them anymore.

Now, sitting on the floor of his classroom, Patton cried. This was how Virgil found him. The librarian simply sat down and put his arm around his friend’s shoulders. Logan and Roman came later and the four sat together in supportive silence. All four tired from the past few weeks.

Patton sniffed and Logan pushed a box of tissues closer to his hands. They watched as Patton shakily took a tissue and blew his nose.

“I’m not ok, guys.” He sniffed.

“We know.” said Roman, placing a supportive hand on Patton’s knee.

“It’s ok, Patton.” Logan mimicked Roman’s action. “We are here to support you.”

“We’re not going anywhere.” Virgil pulled Patton closer and he felt the others shoulders relax slightly.

They each had their own backpack of issues. Virgil was the sole guardian of his 3 underage siblings and money was tight thanks to family disagreements over his parents wills. Roman had been struggling to keep up with delivering content to his students and had a family member losing a cancer battle. Logan had recently lost two family members and had a new student that was throwing chairs and other objects at him in anger.

Patton had been helping them every step of the way. Now it was their turn to support him. As much as he felt guilty for making them worry, Patton knew he needed them. If he was going to get through this unhealthy patch, he was going to need them.

#sanders sides #sanders sides fanfiction #fanfiction #fanfic #writing to vent feelings #my writing #ts virgil #ts patton #ts logan #ts roman #food #eating disorder #blood mentioned #human au

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aliteralgrizzlybear · 5 years ago

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I could.

I could vent about my depression other places, but at least here I know I'm speaking to an empty void 90% of the time.

Like, nobody's gonna respond because my shit isn't actually gonna show up for at least an hour on anyone's dash.

If I try and vent to friends on Discord, which everyone checks regularly? Crickets, or I'll get talked over as quickly as possible.

Snapchat, same situation? Crickets.

Instagram, same situation but also has my exes on it? Crickets, or shamed for being open about my depression by people who hate hearing about my depression because it reminds them of the fact that they're mentally ill OR because they've caused the problems that send me on these constant depressive spirals.

Twitter? Crickets.

And with all those other places, I'll either have people passively complain at me later. But here?

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trashcats-for-trashwriting · 5 years ago

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you made this bed. lay in it.

Forgive and forget, they say. Forgiveness I was ready to give, until my forgiveness was blatantly disregarded. So forgiveness, well, it’s been crushed under the boot heel of a server trying to cover up for their mistakes. I’ve done this before. I suppose it’s time to do it again.

TL;DR @ardegiwc WAS A TOXIC ENVIRONMENT THAT PROTECTED THEIR ELITE FAVORITES AND CAST ASIDE THOSE OUTSIDE OF THE MODS’ FAVOR. THEY CLAIM TO BE WILLING TO LISTEN BUT ARE NOT, AND I HIGHLY RECOMMEND ANYONE SEARCHING FOR A WCRP STAY AWAY.

i apologize for any typos I can’t find my glasses

In February of 2019, I was forced to leave the Ardegi server after spending a few months within the server. I enjoyed helping forward plots, drew the map of the territories (that was in use at the time, for all I know they no longer use it), and aided in organization as needed by staff. I was not staff, but I was happy to help, and they knew it and would ask from time to time.

When I was removed from the server, it was sudden, abrupt, and, in my opinion, unfair. I had posted a vent on my personal tumblr blog that was, admittedly, possibly triggering. I never forced anyone to follow me, nor, to my knowledge, did I often post things directly from my personal blog. Most, if not all, WCRP related reblogs and content fall under THIS blog.

My removal was deeply upsetting because, up until then, I had thought I was friends with the staff.

In late May of 2019, allegations against Ardegi sprung up on a popular WC artist blog that I follow. Seeing that others had suffered similar negative interactions with Ardegi staff prompted me to make this: https://trashcats-for-trashwriting.tumblr.com/post/185196147048/in-light-of-ardegi-allegations

The long and short boiled down to me posting a screenshot of the message I received informing me of my options: leave, or we will likely force you out. (The screenshot is contained in the above link.) Shortly after posting, one of the admins reached out and apologized to me on their own behalf, an apology I was quite willing to accept and felt was genuine.

Later (either that same day or a few days later), I was told that Ardegi had posted something in regards to this apology: they said, quite clearly, that the apology was NOT reflective of the whole staff and they would not be apologizing. (https://ardegiwc.tumblr.com/post/185216526799/hello-recently-it-has-come-to-our-attention-that)

Ardegi had a channel expressly dedicated to venting at the time of my membership. A channel that was known for containing triggering content and appropriately labeled as such. In my frustration over an unrelated event, I went to the proper channel and vented my frustrations. I did not link my personal blog during this vent. I did not direct anyone to this blog. I yelled into the void Ardegi provided and retreated to my personal blog from there. I never sought professional mental health guidance from anyone in Ardegi, nor did I “ seek extensive relief for mental health “ I used a vent channel to vent and left it at that.

If you’ve followed me for a while, you know my dispute with Ardegi is not new. Recently, however, I found a new page on their blog regarding these incidences: https://ardegiwc.tumblr.com/al

I’m a bit perturbed, Ardegi. You make no attempt to admit that you revoked the apology of an administrator of your server in this new page. You make no attempt to address the concerns I brought up here: https://trashcats-for-trashwriting.tumblr.com/post/185230568023/keep-in-mind-that-ardegiwc-is-highly-biased-as-to

Not to mention I did receive screenshots of other members’ less than ideal interactions with your staff: https://trashcats-for-trashwriting.tumblr.com/post/185242009973/an-anonymous-user-has-come-to-me-regarding-ardegi

Neither did you address the accusations made here in regards to members being afraid to come off anonymous for their own safety because of fear of attack from Ardegi members: https://ardegi-callout.tumblr.com/post/185267613993/the-dance-is-up-ardegi-knows-i-exist-now-their (I have read you have told applicants and members not to reach out in these matters, but really, why would you have to warn them if there wasn’t a problem as you so insist?)

It’s not like you are unaware of these accusations. Most of my posts @ you directly. In June, I asked for answers to accusations made: https://trashcats-for-trashwriting.tumblr.com/post/185671384773/reminder-that-ardegiwc-still-has-not-stepped-up

In July, I again mentioned there had been no attempt to acknowledge the withdrawl of apology beyond stating the administrator that had sent it to me was more or less not able to make such a statement: https://trashcats-for-trashwriting.tumblr.com/post/186130923538/casual-reminder-that-ardegiwc-still-refuses-to

And now, in August, it seems to be coming back to haunt you: https://trashcats-for-trashwriting.tumblr.com/post/187228142778/i-was-one-of-the-first-members-and-a-former-ardegi

As a former member of Ardegi, I personally stand behind the claims of the anonymous message sent to @ardegi-callout this month. And again, I say: why would they be afraid to reveal their face, if not for the backlash they expect to receive?

After all, we know you talk behind our backs. We know you say cruel things about us - the members you have cast aside and shunned - to appease your own feelings.

Ardegi doesn’t want to be painted as bad people taken out of context. Unfortunately, all I’m doing is painting them as bad people with context.

#text #warriors #warrior cat #warrior cats #wc oc #warrior cat oc #original character #wc #erin hunter #wcrp #ardegiwc #ardegi #yes i am back on that bullshit #it's worth it to me to defend those who are afraid to defend themselves

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weabbynormalblog · 3 years ago

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Childhood trauma=Adult Survivor

The things we tell ourselves. Be careful for what you wish for. Its really important to stop crying over shit you can't change or control.

I know its hard. Don't do this don't do that etc. Suffering is necessary especially if your a Buddhist and certainly if your human.

The Sercret, The law of attraction, the latest buzz words, you'll catch more bees with honey, that's a fact. Act now! Try this! Find the easy way out? Is there an easy way? No decision is still a decision. Stay, go, turn in circles, pondering the all of its entirety. All vying as your solution. Yes like attracts Like. FACT Belief overules like. Thats why "This shit of attracting is all wrong!". " Hello? Belief is everything!" Its our level of personal experience that is my "now" domain. I'm the God here in my life in this body today. I believe what I believe till I believe otherwise...I say the human experience should be all-inclusive, empathetic, understanding and supportive. Most people and humanitarians would agree. That's not how nature works. Survival of the fitess. Do or die. Like attracts like and I get tackled and body slammed to the ground. Why? Am I a bad person because of "xyz"? Nope. Did I do something to someone else? No. This time it was all because I was mad, triggered and I exploded; had a verbal melt down. The neighbor was disturbed by my authentic emotions. No nukes were sent, no one is getting hurt here. Just venting and trying to work out my anger. Not to hold shit in and to stop the rings of abuse. Clearly the other person in the room was overwhelmed too. Im trying to solve some issues instead I get yelling and fuck yous. I know this is not my fault!!!??? I know the whatever happened to me. "Insert major life changing event here" I am changed there is no doubt...nothing worked out as I hopped or wished it. Even so I took all steps necessary and just the same outcome. Still void, suffering and unremarkable. Yet I am where I am. No further along or better or worst off. Cha cha cha! And I must do without and put up with injustice. Denied!!! All my emotions are tied up in a neat, tight, the most perfect, best ball of raw ugly emotions on a kitchen timer ever ...I can't talk to anyone about anything, thier shackles get up and they go on the defensive, then arguing and me walking away because again I am unable to communicate what I need and overwhelmed again by my situation. Unable to communicate what is necessary for us solve our issues to move on together or apart. Grrrrr This is so common for us with brain injury, PTSD and many other host of mental health issues. There is so much that needs to be said that it gets left unsaid. Often its too late for those in need. Its very difficult to relate and communicate effectively beyond our frustration with others. We don't have the copping tools or vocabulary to express it in times of great frustration or in dire situations specifically. Am I doing something wrong? How do I change it? I must also learn to protect myself as well. So I try to diffuse with humor. So hey dial it back a thousand buddy, calm down~ me im doing my breathing exercise "listen I got high blood pressure" in hopes they back down and talk calmly and nope. Another deep breath counting on the in to 5 hippopotamus hold 6 out 7 or 9 hippopotamus depending on my stress level at the time. Look I got a Brain injury, cant we get along? Meet half way? Can we talk later? When were not angry? No? Then just leave me alone and finally I get to walk away having dealt with someone within conflict as effective as possible. Progress for me even though nothing was resolved ~ yes theres more pain and more frustration. Live and try again tomorrow or move on. When being in a place of anger thats all you can relate to, you are not able to understand anything else? Some can some can't. Im working on my flexibility, trust, bettering my health, down to my now moment. They want some kind of resolution and they end up dragging me back under again with things that aren't helpful for me, no truth, no resolution and just more critism and blaming. Not productive. Toxic people thrive in thier emotional power. Next step then. If they can not find the same patience you need to work on "issues" then work on improving your boundaries. Refuse to discuss issues when angry, make time to talk to suit

everyone. Agree to listen and then be heard. Set a timer. Be open, be reserved to be more distant from other people emotions and be more grounded with your own. Recognize and hone in on your own emotions. Practicing mindfulness, meditation, a healthful regime, socializing that benefits you too is necessary to being a good human. Im so tired of the fucking ripples that keep all my family apart already...All of it stems from the abuse and damage to the core of my soul that left rings on my childrens' lives as well. My Maternal Grandmother was in the Holocaust that tends to mare your parenting skills and the ripples expand. 3 to 4 generations of children no longer speaking to thier mothers. Im sure thier mothers were not to blame. No one protected me either. I was given up for adoption. I was abused. It happens.Thats ok I'll work with what I got. It can end there. No need to add to a bad situation. Maybe the 1person I sent off had my back. All because I promised Daddy Warbucks to make sure my best friend got on that plane. I understand I haven't been as good a friend to myself than I have to others. I was very self sacrificing like everything was my fault. Ive turned that bus around. At the end of the day you may think nothing matters. You matter! This world is nothing without your unique personality in it. Yet here you sit alone in fears with tears streaming down into rivers...I don't know about you but Im tired of wet feet. A lifetime of abuse and suffering very often at the hand of others. I over compensated for everything. Even my language supported it. It did surprised me on the face of Oliver that day. It was painful and it revealed more of the abuse of self to me often forgotten in the past similar moments of thier upbringings. Aha! PTSD, ADHT, me with Dyslexia no doubt I suffered along with my children. 11 years later we are finally starting to do the work that should of been done back then. No one was ready. I would of made my son sit at the table during dinner. Pressured my husband to enforce our agreed rules. Took time to feel and deal with the loss of Pearl, our marriage and business ...trying to understand our feelings, deal with our mental health issues Before seemed impossible, I never gave up on my family. i gave them the space they needed. Now theres Covid restrictions and passports. This stupid ass greedy human world. And now geography is still in our way. Its a lot and still only a fraction of what some humans suffer from the hands of other humans. Very sad. Friends will come and go. I know its what needs to happen. The toxic people have to learn thier lessons too. Next step is slow down give yourself some space and peace. Deep breathing till you feel you can respond when dealing with conflict. Or make another time to work on it. Do things at your own pace, no excuse needed they will wait, they feed off of it. Practice beneficial things. Like being self sufficient, its a struggle worthy of the time and effort. Im working to overcome my issues. I now know that's not the way that love or friendship should work. I ask why me what did I do to deserve such torture? I remind myself, it's only 1 part of the journey. Everyone hurts, cries and dies. Love should bring out the best. Not the worst. They are a lousy mirror right now. Thats ok we can still move forward. I can forgive them for what they were not capable of. I love them inspite of it all. As is, as it always has been. They were only capable of showing the negative even when I worked so hard to stay positive and be a good example. If not me then who? Critisim everywhere. No solutions only problems. They beat me down at every turn...I'm still breathing. Everything's a contest and no one ever wins. If you can't do this, then how are you going to do that? Why are you judging me and why do I care so much? I care not to be in conflict and this is what is driving or rather coloring my reality. I avoid conflict like Covid. My childhood trauma that I thought I dealt with years of therapy and moved on from was rearing its ugly head yet again. How

do I slay the beast for all time? My limiting behavior needed more help. So I needed to build a better foundation for myself. One built on everthing in its own time with practice, patience,acceptance, learning and more growth. So I won't have to walk away from conflict ever again. I can lean in and help us grow together as a couple or as a family or be what the other human needs positively in thier now moment. Sometimes its not about us, its about giving back with what we have learnt. I know it sucks that we have been thrown to the odds of fate to do better apart. Its not thier fault, or mine either. Yet heres me litterally paying for all of it. With my resources, energy, health and sanity. History has a way of slapping you in the face. Yes Im woke as fuck! Your opposition yes they too pay with thier blood, sweat and tears. Perhaps never on the same page or kiss or moment. At times my heart is so broken. Doubting thoughts need correcting. Like I want nothing much to do with the whole entire human race right now, I mean you no ill will. The Talliban kill with impunity, chaos and destruction in thier wake. Do they have no wants or desires but only destruction for what they can't have? Cant we teach them how to live, love and listen? Do they not want the same as others? A healthy family, a roof over ones head and food in our bellies? Are we not all from this world? I was told this duality is healthy. The human condition needs to see destruction to appreciate growth. I still don't know how this all will help that woman with the gun pointed at her head or to watch your family be slautered in front of your eyes. No human should know this. Violence has always been a part of being human. We are a human animal. I protect my life and those that I love. Life and death I choose to fight for my life and thiers. I also choose to fight for others ...when in reality we are just fighting ourselves. I appreciate everything I lost and have. So I sit in what will be my art studio and den...I know my worth and how lucky I am. I look about all the things that are still here. Stuff holds space. Illusions fade. Love can hold space for others. Did they loved me enough to say your beautiful or even I love you? Or cared enough to be by your side during your worst moments. Perhaps a we'll get through this together? Good thing I never needed any of that. I was always able alone. I did need kindness, empathy, support and understanding. It was devastating to be met with violence. Everthing was a fight in my life. But isn't that the nature of living? Personally Im tired of the abuse. They throw it back in your face every chance they get. So it seems the lesson is to look at who Iam or are. After reflection its our belief of who they are and who we are in conflict that decides the winner. Can they learn to look beyond winners and loosers? Meet us half way? Walk a mile in my shoes. I know I can. Its going to take lots of patience, proactive support and some serious housework and cleaning to shape up humanity on this world. I'm doing my work. Im not on this rock to police or please others. What about these toxic people? Where are thier lessons? They need help too, no? Society and my answer to that, is you have to go! Then the police say no. Due to Pandemic Conditions; I am in utter disbelief but I do understand. Past abuse that was not legally recorded. Yadda, Yadda shwing shwing. What about my rights and issues? Legal up Baby! Money and the boys club is still king. Harsh as it was, there are many other moments in my life that hurt me way more. I will survive this and move well beyond. I will not let others narrow mindedness change who I am. Openess, understanding, no judgements here. Yet my generousity was used against me and in the worst way by people I love like no others. Betrayed again. 》Tip off here. Recurring themes. Betrayal can be healed. At the time you could have punched me in the stomach, I wouldn't, couldn't even feel it. There was nothing but numb and delayed reactions. "Let's face it, the best is never good enough when you

have suffered abuse and neglect." Its a deep riff and or trauma that someone else may be responsible for in your psychological makeup that makes and moulds us too. It happens a lot. Unfortunatly its more common than not. Childhood trauma. I get that. As an adult I know it's my cup to fill. Unknowingly I may have inflicted it onto others, for that I apologize. I'm still a work in progress, working on myself here. I'm the one falling, stumbling and then I get back up. The damage has been done. Please walk away, I got this now. They had affected everything I did. At the sink, the powder room, the work, the garage.....mess here and there, important things left undone...here's me trying to get them all done and save the world too in one breath. No wonder its too big, too heavy and we all need to lift. The first step is admiting ill be ok, I've got my back. I'll get through this like everything else with tears, journaling and a hot beverage. I send strength and courage to those in need. You will find a way to cope, help and move on. Believe! I'll leave that guitar right there as a reminder of my shit and thiers. Along with the 7k check and your ego at the door. Let go of all expectations, broken words and promises. The stuff they said they would do...that they never did. You want something done? Do it yourself. Can't do it all then get the professional that you need.

I understand you are broken, we all are. The catch is you have to fix it and fill it. Talk to someone you trust or write it down, talk it into a recording app...whatever help you need you deal with it in a positive way 7f you can't then look that shit up. Own your shit and get on with living! You can do this! If you live in fear find a way to empower and protect yourself. Just remember we are just human here, right now. No super powers, no agents for the world or our times. Be humble, be open, heal yourselves and then help heal others. 1 person and 1 step at a time. Like the green grass that's brown in the spring, with water, care and nutrients in the fall it will be a sea of green. Small steps add up to big changes over time. Break it down. Carve out time for happiness practice. 15 minutes a day just you sitting in peace and quiet. Every step you take from here on will go in a positive, proactive solution oriented manor or not at all. It's what you choose to do《Tip. Choose better thoughts and food choices. Work on 1 thing at a time. This is what micromanagement is good for; on yourself. Yes we can be success and happy in life without anyone, that doesn't mean we should. We need to trust eachother and work together. We learn so much from conflict so don't fear it. Its what helps us grow and learn when we become stagnant.

#Rising above abuse #Mental illness healthy choices #Be the master in your life #Embrassing Conflict #Conflict resolution #Living with childhood trauma

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