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too-scared-to-do-this · 3 years

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Insufferable

Chapter two - A king’s duty is a king’s duty

Sander’s sides fanfiction - ‘Off the Devil’s head’ spin-off (can be read as a stand-alone)

Wordcount: 1928

Ship: intrulogical

TW: cursing - a lot of cursing (still Remus, lovlies, get used to it), confusion, cute bickering (I think...?), forests at night, very obvious autistic tics (based on my own, so I know they are real and how they work, in case you’re not sure ^^ I wouldn’t write something that I haven’t checked at least twice with someone who has, or deals with or is deeply interested in this stuff). And I think that’s all. If anything pops up, do let me know :) <3

Summary of the whole story: This might have not been the brightest idea - steeling from a cart right in the fucking smack-dab-middle of the Square. But Remus never claimed his ideas were bright. Never said his words and actions were appropriate either. So how in all off goddamned hell did he find himself sprawled out on a giant comfortable throne instead of a cold and dark (and very drippy) prison cell - with guards actually guarding his safety instead of assuring his imprisonment - is completely beyond him.

Link to AO3 for those who prefer reading there ^^

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Chapter two - A king’s duty is a king’s duty

There’s not a lot of things Logan dislikes. There’s a total of fifteen so far. But disruption of order, change and tall grass is definitely in the top ten. And wouldn’t you look at that?

Green-haired hurricanes are tearing threw his peaceful kingdom, disrupting peace - thus creating an unnecessary change. Which caused his sleepless state, which lead him down a path where he has to hop from foot to foot like a dear, to eliminate any unnecessary contact with grass.

And the fact that all these things alone cause unnecessary stress, let alone combined, just makes it all worse. His movements are more jagged then usual, more frantic. Gestures all over the place in unorganized manors. And his eyebrows are stuck in a constant ‘thinking scowl’ as his advisors call it.

To any other person, his behavior would seem truly strange - Logan can’t say he doesn’t feel a little embarrassed by it, even now that he’s alone. But there are some things that just can’t be helped.

Besides, all of his kingdom know that their king is a ‘little weird’.

Since Logan first sat on the throne - at the mere age of thirteen - everybody’s been in love with their ruler. It sounds a little odd, that they let a thirteen-year-old kid on the throne, but Logan’s never really been a kid. Since when he can remember he read books far too difficult for the usual kid his age, listened in on conversations he probably had no business listening to, let alone understanding. Sat by his father’s side, while he made life-concerning decisions. Watched his mother as she took care of every problem with caution and care not everybody could offer. Although Logan never got around to fully understanding that care, he learned to act the same way. Same words, same gestures. Nobody was worried when the crown got passed down to him. All the people in the kingdom knew they were in good hands.

Logan’s very first mission was learning the name of every single person in town. It wasn’t an easy task, but it wasn’t as hard as someone would expect, since a surprisingly big amount of people shared the same name. And Logan had a really good memory when it came to association. A face to a name. A shape to a math formula. The smell, color, density and overall look to a chemical. And of course, the exact numeric measurement of a star’s whereabouts.

But there was no way of ‘associating’ his way out of this. He had no clue of the density, the weight, the pace, the name, nor the whereabouts of this mysterious disrupter of peace. All he knew was, that his hair was unnaturally green and he looked way too skinny for a wealthy towns-man - which just underlined the reason why he was steeling.

Oh, and let’s not forget he wanted to kiss Logan. Right there on the Square, apparently.

The young king scratched his arm, absentmindedly, trying not to think too much about it. Not that that’s helping. Questions keep popping up, tripping up his sane thought process.

It’s not like Logan liked the idea of the stranger kissing him. He didn’t like to be touched, let alone landing his lips to someone else. But the thoughts didn’t leave him alone.

Maybe that’s why he was here, stepping over unnecessarily high strands of grass in the middle of the night. He might not like the greenery touching him, and the jutting out branches and leaves of trees and bushes cause him immense panic (and make him scratch his exposed body parts like crazy), but he actually likes the forest. It is really calming (for the most part, anyways).

He hoped that this almost-calming surrounding would help him clear his head. But it just seemed to stress him out even more.

The thoughts kept on swiveling in his head - swirling and twirling, not letting the unknown thief out of their claw-clad grasp.

Logan needed to find out the thief’s name. He knows everybody’s name. And if this thief stays close to town, he’s considered a citizen. He needs to learn his name.

Not far from the obsessing king, Remus was lounging out in the hammock he hung outside Matilde’s old run-down cottage. One leg swung over the edge, he swayed from side to side, twisting the silver ring on his slender finger.

Bored out of his mind.

There wasn’t many days, when Remus’s screwed-up brain didn’t come up with things to entertain him; but some days even that head needed some rest, it seemed. Apparently today was one of those days.

Not a single fun thought. Even the inner monologue he never seemed to be able to end, somehow bored him to death. The only thing peeking even the slightest of interest in him, was the constant image of those scarily-blue eyes the king-dude possessed.

Seriously. In all his life, he has never once seen such ocean-blue eyes. Dark and deep, holding many a secret. It made Remus desperate to know each and every single one.

But that was not happening. No matter how much the eyes mesmerized him. How much he couldn’t get them out of his head. (Agh, Jesus fucking Christ those eyes…) There was just no way he could go back to that town.

The king has let him go once (he chalked it up to his good looks, charm and smooth words) and the second time is as likely as Matilde coming back from wherever she fled to.

So here he was. Bored as all hell.

He sighed heavily, wondering what kingdom was next on his agenda tomorrow. When suddenly he heard a scrunch. Then another. And another. This was no squirrel. Remus sat up immediately, eyes darting along the dark forest.

It was so late. What the hell would anybody be doing up at this hour of the night?

He darted out of the hammock - almost falling face first when his foot got caught in the fabric - hiding in the near-by bushes. Thank the lords that he didn’t forget to turn the fucking lights off again.

The scrunching got louder by the second, and Remus crouched lower.

Low muttering drafted into his ears. “…nice of you good sir, but I’ll have to decline. I am not sure that would be appropriate considering we just met…” A dark figure, drafted in shadow came into view. “And besides, you haven’t even introduced yourself. I know the name of every citizen in this kingdom. For the sake of consistency, I would also like to find out yours…” Jesus Christ, who were they talking to? And what were they doing?!

One leg up in the air, like soldiers marching, then quickly stamped down, hopping to the other. Weird movements all over the place, not even in a straight line, like a sane person. Was this person drunk? They looked like a fucking goat, jumping from one small jutting out pebble on the mountain-side to the other.

The site alone would make Remus want to piss himself, but together with the inconsistent murmuring? He couldn’t hold back the snort.

The figure immediately froze in place. All movement and words falling into still silence. “Who’s there?” They called out cautiously.

Remus bit his tugging lip hard. Fuck.

Well, there was no backtracking now. Besides, it’s not like he was scared. It was more likely he’d scare the crazy-pants over there. So slowly, he razed from his hiding spot with hands in the air and a huge grin on his face. “What are you doing dude? You look like a fucking crazy person.”

“I’m sorry, who are you?” came the person’s answer. Voice laced with nerves.

“Just a random dude in a forest.” Rem shrugged.

“That’s not a very satisfying answer.”

Roman bit back a laugh. Seriously, what the hell? “Don’t worry I won’t hurt you.” he snickered. Then this thought blinked into his head, and as you know, thought’s bring words. Stupid, embarrassing and unnecessary words. “Unless you want me to.” he winked seductively. Then realized the person probably couldn’t even see his face, let alone the wink he just threw at them. Ah well, at least it saved him some embarrassment, when his tongue betrayed him.

Swear to god, the person ‘Eep’-ed at this. He made this strangled sound that sounded like a nervous whine mixed with surprise cut in half and that just made Remus want to laugh even more. “That’s really unnecessary, thank you.” And they’re still being polite! How even…?

Rem couldn’t help it at this point. It was too much. He burst out cackling like to crazy idiot he is. Probably scaring the poor person to death. (But then again, the ‘poor person’ did come wondering into a forest in the middle of the night, muttering to themselves and jumping around like an idiot.)

“Am… You still haven’t answered my question.”

“Oh that’s right…“ Rem’s forhead creased in thought. “…what was the question again?”

“Who are you.”

“I’m Remus.”

If Logan could allow himself to curse, he would. But he couldn’t so instead he just gave a long exasperate sigh. “And who might that be?”

The stranger stepped closer, allowing the fleeting moon-light to reach his features and gave a big bow. Hand gesture and all. “Me, obviously.” No matter how much he disliked to admit it, Remus was every bit as dramatic as his brother. If not more…

The king’s eyes lit up with recognition (not that Rem could see). Well, guess his duty’s done then - the thief’s name is Remus. Huh…Very interesting.

“Well, now that you know my name, it’d be nice to get yours, pretty.” Rem grinned, daring to get a few more steps in. Bringing him closer to the still standing-frozen person.

From here he could finally see more of them. Well, him. Because apparently the smooth deep voice he was conversing with was the royal-head himself.

And his royal head slanted to the left slightly, eyebrows drawing together. “Why should I give my name to unknown man in the forest?”

“Why should I give my name to some random bloke, then?”

“Because I asked you to?”

Remus wondered what this dude’s problem was. Logan wondered why even wanted to get out of the safety of his chamber in the first place.

“Alright then, weirdo, tell me one good reason why I should answer and you shouldn’t.” Rem crossed his arms over his chest. Yes, he was aware he was talking to the king. But that doesn’t mean he had to play nice.

Rem treats everybody the same way, because that’s how it should be. (Maybe that’s what landed his ass behind bars twice already…)

Logan jutted out his chin. He could use the ‘King-card’ - as his advisor calls it. Could easily force the thief to answer without any objections (that is if he abbeys rules; which he should.) But honestly, Logan felt like doing neither. It was late, and he was supposed to stop obsessing about this whole thing. Which he did. The thief’s name was Remus.

So, as gracefully as a king can, he shrugged. “I don’t have one.”

“Well, shit. Then you ain’t getting my name, darling.”

The royal couldn’t decide whether the thief was that simple-minded or just easily distracted. “You’ve already said your name.”

Our beloved idiot’s expression froze, grin falling. “Ah, fuck.” his shoulders did the same. (In a very overdramatic - and admittedly, impressively flexible - way)

Well, if he wasn’t screwed before, now he certainly was.

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Jesus Christ, I’ve never cursed more in my life and I hate it so much! I don’t curse in real life, not even while texting with friends (I use shit, hell and damn, but that’s about it) and this is killing me on a whole other level! But this is Remus, and I feel like a good Remus requires a hella lot of curses.

So here we are. Me actually cursing more then my brain can accept it. But at least I get to project on Logan, right? I love autistic Logan, too damn much. He’s too precious. And the greenery thing? Believe me, my mum constantly makes fun of it XD But I don’t mind, I know I look ridiculous.

Anyways! I hope you liked this chap! ^^ I still have no idea where the hell I’m going with this, but I guess we’ll see where we end up.

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vanhelsingenthusiast · 3 years

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Van Helsing has stims in the book?? May I... may I ask what it is????? can you share please?

YES he does!!

Ok so I’m gonna just state the standard def of “stim” to start off with for clarification of where I’m coming from. (and also for ppl who have never heard the term before)

Stim: self stimulatory behavior. Basically, repetitive actions that serve some emotional purpose (that can be to calm yourself down, or entertain yourself, or anything). Bouncing your leg, flapping your hands, rocking, etc. It is something that every single person does, however autistics and adhders tend to need to stim more.

Ok. Now onto Van Helsing’s stims.

The most obvious one I would say is his little hissing sound he makes when he’s frustrated. Since this is a repetitive action he repeats to calm himself down when he’s stressed (at least according to Seward), it can be classified as a stim. Specifically, a verbal stim.

Next would be his little German expressions. Since he exclaims them when he is surprised, and they seem to help him calm down, they can be classified as a verbal stim.

The next would be when he almost stamps his foot in anger. This happens after Seward and Van Helsing finds Lucy in a swoon on the bed needing another blood transfusion. This was intended to channel his anger, it seems, and if so that would make it a stim. However, it is worth noting he does not go through with it at the last minute (if we’re reading him as autistic it could be an example of masking, but that’s separate).

The last example I have marked in my copy of Dracula is after Mrs Westenra told him and Seward that she removed the garlic flowers out of Lucy’s room. He and Seward walk into a separate room and Van Helsing beats the palms of his hands together. Since this is a repetitive movement to control his emotions, it’s a stim.

There are probably more examples if you look for it, but those are the only ones I have marked in my copy lol. I hope this helped!

#ask #lol the only one i havent rlly picked up is the german expressions #which is good bc how would i explain to ppl that i have verbal stims in a different language that i do not speak bc of a 100+ yr old book

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thedreadvampy · 3 years

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Ok so like I don't really want to kick off another round of Mondays argument but

having had a bit of time to step back I feel pretty confident in saying that there's a real struggle in a lot of communities to understand and accept the concept of conflicting access needs

Like it isn't fundamentally an act of bigotry against Person A when Person B says 'this thing that helps you harms others', nor is it implying that A or B is 'less oppressed' or that their oppression doesn't matter. But these kinds of access conflicts need to be talked about in order to be addressed.

Like in a sphere I spend more time taking about, disability and neurodivergence, where this comes up a Lot - say wheelchair users need the entrance to be a ramp, but somebody with balance issues finds walking up a ramp difficult and often fall. Saying 'it's a problem for me that there are only ramps in this building' doesn't mean you think that it's unimportant that wheelchair users can get in, or that your needs matter more.

Or like, here's an example that's come up a lot for me lately - automated subtitles. Some people find automated subtitles on Zoom calls make meetings possible (people with hearing or audio processing issues particularly) but others find them distracting and find it impossible to focus. Those two things are incompatible needs - you can't both have subtitles and not have subtitles in this context - but that doesn't mean one of them is Real and Important and the other is Fake and Irrelevant just because that would make it easier.

One last example of this in material terms - I am autistic and have real problems with audio processing when I'm tired. I went to a workshop in a smallish space, so the workshop was quite near the crèche. Having a crèche is a vital access need for a lot of people; lone parents and working class mothers in general are often very left out of activist and social spaces because of a lack of childcare. But for me, it created an insurmountable problem - the noise from the crèche meant I couldn't take in any information, I was exhausted and stressed and in pain the whole time, you know? It wouldn't be fair to ask the crèche to shut or to silence the children, who need and deserve the right to play, but equally it wouldn't be fair to tell me I'm selfish or lying for having trouble following the session.

Anyway so that's access clash. Different people have different needs that may be fundamentally incompatible, but they're equally valid needs.

But access clash isn't just personal, it's also political, social and linguistic. And this kind of feeds into a recurrent issue in groups of marginalised people where there's a persistent desire to decide in any given argument Whose Marginalisation Matters More and to accuse the other of lying/arguing in bad faith/ignoring erasing The Struggle.

Some recent examples of that phenomenon in the TMA fandom (pokes bear pokes bear) might be:

1. It's aphobic to say that there's any problem at all with framing fat, traumatised MLM as virginal or naive or inexperienced or non-sexual, because he could be ace and that's important to ace people. But fat, traumatised and gay people have a history of being desexualised, given less sexual and romantic agency, and infantilised or objectified as cute and pure in a way that thin, non-survivor or straight people don't. One way to approach this is to say One Of These Issues Is Important And Valid And That Means The Other Is Being Homophobic/Fatphobic/Ableist/Aphobic and Targeting Marginalised People With Invalid Criticism. That's a very easy task to fall into but it's important imo to make space for the access clash.

2. Bisexual people want an event that focuses on bisexuality. Non-bisexual people want an event that focuses on their own sexuality. Everyone's desire in this situation is to see their own experience reflected.

There's this kind of hierarchy of truth idea where anything that conflicts with what you know to be true must necessarily be false, but the fact is that human experience is infinitely complex and variable so actually something that's undeniably true for some people will always run into some friction with what's undeniably true for others.

And there's such a strong impulse towards assuming that the other is lying or arguing in bad faith, because you KNOW your need is real and important and it conflicts with their needs and that MUST mean they're doing it At You, or in the extreme that they're actively lying to hurt and belittle you. And that's a really natural and understandable impulse, especially among marginalised people who ARE often hurt, manipulated and belittled in bad faith. But I really think that as a community we need to actively work to undercut the idea that oppression is a zero sum game; that if you having the space you need treads on my toes, I can say "you're on my foot and it hurts" without Secretly Meaning "you don't deserve space and shouldn't be given it." Like I do authentically need an untrodden-on foot and you do authentically need enough space to stand in and it's not undermining the truth of either of those statements to acknowledge the other.

idk I just think. Understanding that the other person may have an authentic need being intent/overridden (even though the need may not be what they think it is!) is a pretty important part of conflict management. and believing that if I say "ow you trod on my foot" means I'm actively trying to undermine your need for space is a pretty important part of how conflict escalates into oblivion until I'm yelling YOU DON'T DESERVE STANDING SPACE GO GET CRUSHED and you're yelling I'M GOING TO STAMP ON YOUR FOOT UNTIL IT BREAKS

idk if that makes sense but 🤷‍♀️

#thedreadvampy adiscourse #IT'S DISCOURSE THURSDAY LADIES AND GERMS

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qupritsuvwix · 4 years

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As I was pretending to “grow up”, I was not guided through puberty by the Bible ( and the human philosophical wreckage who were pretending to represent it), Bob Guccione, Larry Flynt, Hugh Hefner, Xaviera Hollander, and the mundane mutterings of other children. My mother was mentally incapable of coherently dealing with the fact that her twelve year old had become a six foot tall skinny man with muscles, wet dreams, and primary sexual characteristics. I didn’t accomplish masturbation until I was fifteen. I was an awkward teen and I had no girlfriend. I was accused of being a faggot because I was fascinated by firearms and shoes, guitars and art, the history of fashion and science fiction... and I sucked at sports. Didn’t care about them. I was not taught anything about being a human by my fat alcoholic stepfather.

There is no charitable way to put this: while I was being put upon by the sanctimonious wannabe straights, I was also besieged by pedophiles and perverts who found something useful in my full lips, beardless peach fuzz, awkward gait and general cluelessness. I was physically molested by a church elder and an older cousin. I was mentally molested by a mother and her husband who were...

I walked out of that house one October night when I was 16. I was a virgin until I was 22. It wasn’t for lack of trying, but as with many things in life and my mind, I had to learn the hard way what worked and what didn’t. I stand on the edge of this life forty years later and have no idea what I would say to my younger self. I’ve never liked racists, brown, black or white. I feel like they’ve bricked up a part of their brain and left it to die. I can’t stand sanctimonious adolts who assume I am a redneck because I’m one generation away from the farm on one side and two away on the other. I’m a cartoonist and a guitar-player, not a redneck.

One of my first real friends, who happened to be female, but ambiguously so (she spent her adolescence as chubby, wearing glasses, and speaking with the voice of a boy and the hand gestures of her grandma), was also of mixed race. Her mother was Polish and her father wasn’t. She was called all kinds of things, from the n word to whatever the combined communities of adult and adolescent bigots could come up with. She was threatened with rape, mutilation by gym class social monsters, death by people in pointy hats... And survived mainly through attitude and family connections. Neither of her parents were shrinking violets. They were intelligent, resourceful, and prominent. She had cousins who were capable of anonymous discouragement. My other friend was the son of a police sergeant. He was strange-looking, strange-talking, and generally considered a prime candidate for faggothood because he associated with me. His father had been a shotgun-wielding chain gang guard in his late teens in Mississippi.

The church was ever-present. My father had grown up and been Timothied out of the church I spent most of my young life in. Actually, there were two congregations, Pepsi and Mt. Dew, that I was associated with... it’s complicated. I was raised as a non-denominational “churches of christ, millenial harbingers, instrumental” protestant. They believed in football, God, and indoor carpeting. My friends were Catholic. My father went to a bible college and practiced as a pastor for many years before becoming a laborer in a railroad maintenance facility, stamping out doors for vending machines, pouring steel at a stove foundry, and finally, working for the state and county in sex offender counseling and mental health assessment for twenty odd years. He walked out of my life when I was nine and bumped into me about twice a year thereafter.

I had no mentors,and effectively no parents. I learned about politics, history, art, and literature from National Geographic, Playboy, Penthouse, MAD, Reader’s Digest, and National Lampoon. I dropped out of junior college, the army, and a university.

I live with a mixed race lesbian who dresses like an out of work referee. She’s never met her father. She has issues from being serially sexually assaulted as a young teen by her mother’s husband and other soldiers. She has been diagnosed with PTSD.

So, as Jenny put it in “The World According to Garp”, I am still a “sexual suspect”. I really don’t know what it’s like in anybody else’s mind or life, but on this side of the autistic glass, where I can almost hear and almost see what is happening in RL, I think ya’ll are not having much fun and need to realize that while my bubble is probably off center, your level was run over years ago and lies smashed and leaking...

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brightlotusmoon · 6 years

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I admit, sometimes I just don't check my phone.

Usually when I'm not in the kitchen or bathroom, I've been writing my fiction and got pulled into my writerbrain and whoops it's five hours later, even with phone noises and alarms.

Several times a week I take walks around the neighborhood and sometimes I just don't take my phone. Sometimes I just want to walk silently around the block, because because having two dozen disabilities (including cerebral palsy, Fibromyalgia, autistic dyspraxia, hip pain, sciatic and sacroiliac pain, tendinitis, chondromalacia patella plus arthritis) means that my body wants to move and specifically walk despite being in constant agony, and this also means that I will do an ADHD hyperfocus on my environment and plus I do that autistic thing where I count all my steps, and I daydream in a lightly Maladaptive way even as my brain cleverly keeps tabs on my surroundings and foot placement because of the shaky palsy limp and the shorter lame left leg so I don't hurt myself, and sometimes that spastic ataxic hemiplegic leg knocks into my right leg and I trip over my feet but usually I catch myself, especially with my cane - unless the cane gets in the way, then it's just fuckin hilarious when I fall and crash.

(That happened last autumn, in the street near my bus stop, I cracked two ribs and bruised my arm with nerve damage and caused a traffic jam when three people ran to help me stand up and one person helped me start walking home; it took a week for me to reluctantly see the doctor. And a few months later, it happened around the corner from my townhouse on the pebbled sidewalk, where I tore up both knees, my left hand, and the side of my face, plus bruised I my left temple with bruising under my left eye along with my plastic glasses frame being broken, but that time I was carrying mail, not a cane, and I was not watching my foot placement, which is a vital thing that I need to do when I'm walking without a cane. If I don't have a cane my gait is like drunken shuffling or horse stomp. People have complained that I sound like a baby elephant because how could such a tiny person make so much noise when walk down stairs etc. Cerebral Palsy is weird. One spastic diplegic friend is more like a kangaroo rat with her hopping shuffle and another friend with spastic diplegia has a more gentle shuffle. I always made noise because I'm really short and until a few years ago I was very skinny and some of my tallest friends couldn't see me. And now I'm criticized for making noise. It's odd: my husband is six feet and due to his ninja style MMA training through his life he is cat-like and silent, and due to chronic back pains and slipped discs and spine injuries, he imagines balancing tea cups along his spine and he applies meditation techniques that Master Splinter would envy to soothe pain, heal his own wounds faster, and relieve muscle and nerve pain in ways that make me envious. He's teaching me. It's like a kind of magic as its own branch of physics, thus its own branch of biophysiology and neurophysiology Clarke's law applies since magic is a science, art, and craft).

I think my point is that almost all of my friends are online and can check my social media, which I update regularly, and I always mention when I have even a minor injury whether or not it's related to one of the two dozen plus medical conditions. Every epileptic seizure, every fall down bruise, every time I bang against a wall corner or cabinet, because I need time stamps and records since I now officially have Dysautochromia (and hey speaking of Dysautochromia, that Sci Fi show about the woman with Dysautochromia really needs to change "temporal dysplasia" to Temporal Agnosia or Time Agnosia, the layman term for Dysautochromia, because dysplasia is uhh totally not what they think it is LOL, I cannot take that show seriously) and I need to take notes on my own every day life since I no longer have an internal sense of time.

The other point is that if I don't return a call or text or email within a day it means that I've been busy and I'm still alive and despite the fact that I am not working out of the house it doesn't mean that I'm not busy. I've been writing. I've also been doing house chores poorly but I'm doing chords every day, it's how I am keeping track of time in a weird way.

My favorite franchise and biggest autistic special interest is launching its newest television iteration on Monday the 17th and I pasted a note on the wall with the date and time and channel because I know that no matter the fact that the Tumblr fandom will be yelling joyfully about it all day I will forget because ADHD plus Time Agnosia plus autistic memory glitches plus fibro fog will guarantee that I will forget and be on Cartoon Network or FFX like always, and I will need physical reminders to remember that Rise Of The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles will air on Nickelodeon on Monday evening.

#tmnt 2018 #executive dysfunction #canon adhd #headcanon autistic #dysautochromia #time agnosia #hi i'm weird #welp #pass the salt #i am salty #sorry for the rant #i am married to a donnie and mikey type anyway #oops i am going to torment mikey again #my fanfic

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cardinalbones · 6 years

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Soft

here have a short piece about hanzo and satya being autistic and gay and friends

It probably said something about Hanzo that Satya didn’t bother to text him before coming to his room at three in the morning, after her date.

He was laying on top of his sheets, staring at the ceiling and debating the benefits of going for a walk against the risk of running into another nocturnal inhabitant of the base when his thoughts were interrupted by a quick, smart rapping at his door. He closed his eyes and let a long breath out through his nose before asking the empty room, “Athena? Who is that?”

“Doctor Vaswani,” the AI replied in her usual bright tone.

Hanzo cast his eyes to his prosthetic legs, propped against his side table, and grunted in acknowledgment. He slipped off the bed and walked himself over to the door on his hands. It opened with a soft whoosh when he palmed the controls, revealing Satya, her arms overladen with softs toys and a cheek-splitting grin on her face, standing before him.

“Please tell me you said goodbye to Fareeha before coming here,” he deadpanned.

It takes her a moment to readjust her focus from where she had anticipated Hanzo’s eyes being, but once she does the look she gives him is warm and lovestruck, her cheeks dimpling with her smile, “She walked me to my door and kissed my cheek goodnight.”

Hanzo quirked an eyebrow, “Only your cheek?” Despite his attempts to control his expression, he could feel his lips pulling into a smirk.

Satya tsked in response and motioned – as well as she could, overburdened as she was – behind him, “May I come in?”

Hanzo slid to the side and Satya breezed past him, toeing her shoes off next to the wardrobe and flinging herself onto his bed with a giggle sight. “It was so wonderful,” she began as Hanzo made his way over to the side table where his legs stood, “She took me to Adults Night Out at the Zoo so I wouldn’t have to worry about overstimulation, and she got us an extended, private viewing of the reptile room…”

Hanzo hummed in response as he checked the charge indicator his legs – only four fifths full. Usually he preferred to charge them completely to keep up a routine, but if he wasn’t sleeping tonight… the kinetic chargers could kill the difference. “Yes, Fareeha mentioned something like that.”

Something soft hit the back of his head and dropped to the floor. “Hey!”

He whipped around to see Satya glaring at him over the top of her plushie collection. “Let. Me. Gush.” She took a moment to bask in Hanzo’s taken aback expression before gesturing at the item on the floor. “That’s for you.”

A mottled grey and grey lizard plush lay on the floor, a pink felt tongue sticking out of its mouth, and it rustled with pellets when Hanzo picked it up to inspect it. When he didn’t respond, Satya added. “It’s a komodo dragon.” He could practically here her saying Get it?.

“You got me a present while you were on a date?”

Satya shrugged and turned her attention to sorting her pile of toys, “I have never had friends before, but I read online that a common expression of affection is through gifts.”

The thought that Hanzo didn’t deserve a friendship with Satya washed through him and did his best to stamp it down and shove it away before it could drag him into a downwards spiral. He could deal with that the next time he was lying awake at night in the empty silence of his room. “Thank you.”

The bed creaked as Hanzo hefted himself up onto it.

“Fareeha told you where she was taking me?”

Hanzo briefly looked at Satya, and then had to do a double take as he settled himself on the edge of the bed. She had wrapped herself in what looked to be a ten-foot-long snake plush, its teal fabric decorated with a shimmering scale pattern. “It’s full of beans,” was her only response to his raised brow, and she kicked her legs joyfully where they hung off the bed.

“She wanted Amelie’s and my opinions on whether or not you would enjoy it.”

“Oh,” was all Satya said, and Hanzo began the process of reconnecting his legs, hissing at the uncomfortable sensation of plugging additional nerves into his system.

“You do not have to – I did not mean to disturb you,” Satya protested, sitting up to watch him, but he shook his head.

“I was intending to go for a walk before you arrived.”

Satya pursed her lips, but said nothing else, and a silence fell over the two as Hanzo collected his music player, clothes, and bow and quiver.

The silence was broken after a few minutes by Satya’s soft voice, “Do you think I’m a good person?”

Hanzo started and turned to Satya with confusion written clearly on his face, “Pardon?”

“Fareeha is such a good person,” she explained, staring down at the plush snake head resting against her clavicle, “Fighting for just and – and defending humanity. But I-“.

“Have spent your entire life working towards making the world a better place for its people,” Hanzo interrupted, probably a bit too meanly if Satya’s flinch was anything to go by. He lowered himself onto the edge of his bed and picked up the komodo dragon to fiddle with, knowing that neither of them particularly liked eye contact. Softening his voice, he continued, “The people who raised you lied to you about their intentions but that doesn’t change that what you hoped to achieve was good. And look where you are now. You are a good person Satya. Just because you were lied to does not change that.”

He let her absorb his words for a moment, rolling the stuffing of the plush between his fingers, only to be startled by her voice again seconds later, “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“The people who raised you also li-“.

“I never believed that what I was doing was ‘good’ or ‘right’. I have never been so blinded by my family as to think that we were good people,” he interrupted sharply. Satya’s eyes widened and Hanzo found himself once again swallowing down the bile of his thoughts telling him that Satya was too good to be his friend and look at how he treated her. “Do yourself a favour and don’t compare yourself to me.”

Satya pursed her lips, looked like she wanted to say more, but then thought the better of it. Hanzo turned away closing his eyes and breathing deeply through his nose.

“What if I’m bad at this? Dating someone.”

At least that was something Hanzo could laugh at. “I do not think I am the right person to talk to about that. I don’t suppose Amelie is still awake?”

Satya laughed, too, and something tightened in Hanzo’s chest. “Perhaps you are right.” She sighed, and then sat up, untangling herself from her nest of plushies, “I suppose I should get some sleep – and leave you to your walk. Will you be alright tonight?”

“Yes, Satya, I’ll be fine. Thank you.”

#overwatch #overwatch fanfic #satya vaswani #symmetra #hanzo shimada #my writing #idk what else to tag this as hopefully people actually see it haha

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