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drjackandmissjo · 3 years

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I don’t want to keep secrets just to keep you

(but I’ll do what I must for there’s no me without you)

*** Set throughout the course of their 7th and final year at Hogwarts, this story follows Slytherin's finest and one of the only sane members of the House, Blaise Zabini, as he navigates war-torn friendships, school under a dictatorial regime, Death Eaters and, most importantly, his secret relationship with none other than the new leader of the DA, known blood-traitor, Gryffindor, Neville Longbottom.

A sequel to my previous story: Firewhisky on ice, sunset and vine, you’ve ruined my life by not being mine

Chapter 1 --- next chapter

Harry Potter fic masterlist

29th of July 1997

“I have to admit: I enjoyed the film way more than I expected to,” he said once they had left the muggle theatre. The air had become chilly during the time they had spent inside, but neither of them was bothered by that: they were used to colder climates, after all, spending most of the year in Scotland. And for all its spells and constant fires, one thing always must be said about Hogwarts: certain rooms and corners had never seen the light of the sun and they surely behaved as such, even during warm days.

Like the Potions classrooms, while Snape was their Professor. Those dungeon rooms looked and smelled and felt every bit of humidity that came from being so close to the lake and that, even with the countless explosions that Theo and the Fire Kid from Gryffindor caused with each lesson, could never get anything warmed up. A Hungarian Horntail could breathe fire in there for 24 hours straight and it would still be humid and wet and cold.

It was a good thing Professor Slughorn had decided to move the classrooms up on the fourth floor, in rooms full of windows and light. Blaise could have easily gone without having to add to his ever-growing list of worries his skin getting dehydrated with the stained and stale air that circulated down there.

He watched from the corner of his eye Neville nod along to his statement in agreement, before casually running a hand through his hair and messing them up even further. No matter how hard he tried to keep them neat and proper, like his grandmother wanted them to be, the strands appeared to have a life on their own, especially when certain Slytherin hands had free reign in between them whenever they were alone.

Besides, it really wasn’t Blaise’s fault: Neville had decided he wanted to grow them out, instead of cutting them just as his grandmother suggested on the daily, and, much to Blaise’s happiness, now his bangs framed his face divinely, making for a perfect place to leave his hands whenever they were else occupied.

He also enjoyed the way Neville would scoff in pretended annoyance whenever he disarrayed them and then would shake his head in disbelief at his antics, aiding Blaise’s purpose even further.

And, really, who could blame him? If Blaise wasn’t as in love with the dorky plant-head Gryffindor as he already was, he’d fall even harder at the sight of him with his funky tousled hair and puffy lips as he took a bite out of Blaise’s food without asking first.

He had been so glad that day, having bought a muggle camera that worked similarly to a magical one but that was way easier to manage. He had taken dozens of stills of them, never seeming to get enough of Neville’s smiling face and of his own relaxed and happy one. For Salazar’s soul, he had even sent one of the two of them smiling to his mother, after she kept on asking to at least see the young man that had enchanted her son.

She had replied to his letter the following day, with a simple: “Rule number fifty-one: don’t let him go.”

Blaise had never once wanted to disappoint his mother and definitely wouldn’t start now.

“I don’t really like the way it ended, though. The part where J removed K’s memories was a nice touch, but I feel like we didn’t have enough time with neither,” Neville commented, shoving his hands inside his jeans’ pockets as they kept on walking further and further away from the theatre, undoubtedly to stop himself from doing something idiotic like holding Blaise’s hand when there were still people around.

Given the current political and non-political air that permeated both the Wizarding World and Britain, the two young men had decided that it would be best to limit their encounters only to muggle areas in London, although they would still have to maintain a rather low and inconspicuous profile. It had become incredibly easy to be together without raising suspicions, especially with almost an entire school year of experience sneaking around the castle, but they still preferred to be cautious, to hide from both dark wizards and close-minded muggles.

Neville still lived with his grandmother, but she had become less strict during the course of his first week back at home from school and didn’t really bother him with the amount of time he stayed out, as long as he spent the nights at home. Besides, in her own words, they all had ‘bigger problems than teenagers breaking curfew a little bit to meet with their friends.’ Blaise couldn’t believe that he could ever agree with Augusta Longbottom, but he had seen stranger things happen.

Still, when Neville told him, he had been so shocked he had choked on his drink, causing the Gryffindor to laugh at the spectacle he had created with his Cola.

Blaise himself had been invited to spend his vacation at either Malfoy Manor and the Nott’s, both families offering their hospitality and implicit protection, but he had declined immediately under the ruse of a simple: ‘I live with you the whole year, I need my space and I need to breathe proper air that isn’t tainted with your disgusting deodorant.’ While the sentiment itself was true, he did not want to risk being found out with Neville, a known ‘blood traitor’. Not to mention the part of him being a guy. And a Gryffindor.

Blaise wasn’t really certain about which part would get him into more trouble and wasn’t willing to find out anytime soon.

Therefore, he had chosen to stay at his father’s old bachelor apartment in London, while his mother moved back to France, not wanting to be anywhere near the War that was brewing.

He had asked Neville to stay with him as soon as he was done cleaning the place, making it welcoming and a cosy retreat for them, but his adorable boyfriend couldn’t leave his despotic grandmother alone the entire time, especially not now that the waters were rough.

Always the selfless Gryffindor.

They had retorted then in meeting for random dates almost daily, which had been heavenly. Neville would show up at his apartment with Floo Powder, since he hadn’t taken his Apparition Examination yet, and then they’d just walk around muggle London, as if they had no care in the world. They still kept their guards up, checking every corner for danger that could be avoided, but they tried to ignore the Damocles Sword that hung above their necks.

Which had led them to the muggle theatre on more than one occasion. It had been a perfect idea: in the darkened room nobody questioned why they were holding hands or sharing the popcorn; and they wouldn’t risk anyone from the Wizarding World discovering them, those who would cause them troubles too high on their brooms to even look down at something as mundane as a muggle theatre.

They had also gone to muggle museums and parks and bookstores and restaurants, but Blaise loved the privacy the theatres offered, he loved the way Neville would get engrossed in the stories, he loved the way their hands would link together as suspense built on the screen, he loved to discuss the film afterwards and to dissect every aspect that he found interesting.

And he loved Neville, so it was all an added bonus.

There was a small theatre nearby his place that was quiet and seldom fraught and that allowed them to spend their evenings together, with the walk towards it full of the most random topic the pair could come up with and the walk back usually occupied with their thoughts and opinions about the film they had just watched. Neither of them had been too well versed in muggle culture to begin with, but it was very easy to pick up, especially with the way the family-owned theatre would sometimes project well-known and older productions, instead of only showing the recent ones.

It made the muggle spectacle even more fascinating, in Blaise’s eyes.

“It was kind of poetic, like a rite of passage and everything, but I understand what you mean,” Blaise said as they kept on walking, itching to grab Neville’s hand but holding himself back for the time being: they were still under the scrutiny of the public eye, after all. He’d have to wait until they turned two corners and were finally alone in the streets to finally place his hands on his boyfriend’s. With moderation, of course. “I feel like the story isn’t finished, especially with the way they had the doctor become an Agent. I understand that she had had her memory wiped more times than Lockhart, but she seemed fine! I don’t know, that ending left me pretty unsatisfied as well.”

His boyfriend huffed out a laugh at that and began to silently shake his head: “Lockhart got obliviated only once, by his own spell bouncing back from Ron’s broken wand. Compared to him, that doctor got her brain scrambled on the daily. But you’re right, it would have been so much better if she kept her job and was on the loop with the alien stuff.”

“Speaking of Lockhart, I wonder how’s he doing…” Blaise inquired, scratching his neck. It had been over three years since anyone had heard of the famous wizard and pretty much everyone had seemed to have forgotten about him. It was such a mystery for some, his sudden disappearance after his year teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts.

Yet again, pretty much all the students at Hogwarts knew of the curse on that position, which made his absence plausible, but to have such a well renowned and celebrated man vanish into thin air after publishing a controversial book where he told the world he had no memory of who he had ever been, it was more than suspicious.

“At St. Mungo’s, giving out autographs Godric knows what for,” Neville answered his implicit question with nonchalance, “I see him sometimes when I go visit Mum and Dad.”

During the time they had been together, Neville had slowly begun to tell Blaise about what had happened to his family: how they were members of the original Order of the Phoenix, fighting the Dark Lord during the First War; how Dumbledore had suggested they hid as well as the Potters, because of some prophecy that would connect their children with the Dark Lord himself; how, after he was defeated and the Potters were killed, his parents were tracked down by four remaining Death Eaters and tortured to insanity; how they now stayed at St. Mungo’s, without a single memory of their son, completely out of their minds.

Blaise had always been cold and calculative and preferred to keep a rational outlook to the world, but when he saw, for the first time since that new information, Bellatrix Lestrange, at Malfoy Manor, free and enjoying life, his blood had begun to boil. He had never wanted to murder someone as much as he did in that moment, forcing himself to maintain a smile on his face and to pretend like he wasn’t ready to slaughter someone. When he came back home that night after dinner with Draco and his wretched family, he had spent an entire hour in the shower, scrubbing at his skin as if he could erase the memory of that wretched woman, drinking wine and telling them all about the Cruciatus Curse and how useful it could be to a dark wizard. He had kept that piece of information hidden from Neville, even though he had recounted pretty much the entire evening the following day, while his boyfriend attempted to calm him down from his homicidal plans, without truly knowing what had instigated them.

And he would never know, for Blaise would go to any lengths to avoid his sweet and loving boyfriend any pain. He had already suffered too much, in his short life.

“Really, he’s at St. Mungo’s?” Blaise asked, trying to distract himself from those dark thoughts. When he was with Neville, it almost felt as if Death Eaters didn’t exist, as if the Dark Lord hadn’t risen again, as if they weren’t on the verge of War. “I thought the whole ‘Who Am I?’ book was all a plan to disappear after he botched our second year without being bothered and now you tell me that Weasley sent him to the healers and basically deprived the Wizarding World of that perfectly blinding smile?” Neville playfully shoved him to the side with his shoulder, lingering a little in his touch as they kept on walking, just as restless as he was to be behind closed doors and to have their privacy and safety: “Ron didn’t send him anywhere and he got what he deserved,” he commented sheepishly, regarding Blaise with a blinding smile of his own.

And Blaise definitely preferred his boyfriend’s smile, so true and sincere and warm and just perfect, rather than anything their former fraud of a professor had ever shared.

“He spent the entire year pretending he could do shit and leaving me hanging from the ceiling, multiple times, and then, at the first sign that he needed to be a responsible adult, he tried to Obliviate Harry and Ron and leave Ginny down with the Basilisk. They got so lucky that Lockhart took Ron’s wand that still hadn’t been repaired, otherwise they’d all still be down there.” Then, as if in an afterthought, he added: “And don’t worry, he still got that smile,” his face reddened and visible even in the dimly lit street.

“No need being jealous of a man who isn’t even worth the mud under your shoes, Nev,” he teased, enjoying how his boyfriend would stammer embarrassed at being discovered.

“I’m not jealous!” he defended himself, but the crimson on his cheeks spoke of another story.

Blaise itched to cup his cheeks and to feel the warmth of his skin, but they were still in the middle of a street that was fairly illuminated and with people around. Therefore he did the next best thing: returned on a safer conversational path. “Oh, yeah, I remember about Weasley’s wand,” he said, laughing at the memory, “It bounced back that Slug-vomiting charm that was aimed at Draco. We had a blast that day, when he told us the story.” “Glad some of you enjoyed it, with your sick sense of humour,” Neville said, shuffling his hands inside of his pockets as they moved closer and closer to the corner that would lead them to the apartment, “poor Ron had to carry a bucket wherever he went for two days straight!”

Blaise couldn’t help himself: maybe it was the serious way he defended his friend, or maybe it was the image of a tiny second-year Weasley carrying around the entire castle a bucket to throw up slugs in, undoubtedly aided by an equally tiny Saint Potter with a bewildered tiny Grander following suit and reprimanding them both, but he just burst up laughing, his entire body shaking with it as he put his hands over his stomach, to try and regain his composure.

Yet, all thoughts of etiquette were damned as soon as he heard his boyfriend join in, his own laugh bright and pure and just perfect.

And the icing on their cake laid in the fact that they were alone, without anyone watching them, and they could just be themselves. Blaise didn’t hesitate a moment into grabbing Neville’s hand, enjoying the warmth that the Gryffindor radiated. They kept on laughing and holding hands as they walked back to the one place they could call theirs.

They all but ran the few meters that kept them vulnerable, staggering over the stairs as if they were drunk. It was a somehow good paragon, considering how inebriated they were with each other, and Blaise couldn’t stop thinking about how wonderful his life was in that moment. He could just be himself, around Neville, without having to worry about composure or secrets or manners.

When they closed the door behind their backs and stumbled inside of the apartment, they didn’t even open the electrical lights up, too engrossed in making up for the time they hadn’t been allowed to share, close and up in each other’s personal space.

Blaise would’ve been content in simply existing there, in the tiny apartment that once belonged to his late father, with his hands up on his boyfriend’s hair as he worked and worried over Neville’s exposed neck, slowly undoing the buttons of his shirt, watching him lean against a wall for support once his legs had given up completely. The outside world didn’t matter anymore, not to him, not when he had Neville’s hands on him. He’d be glad dying there, in his arms, unbothered by the imminent war, by his friends, by their duties.

But reality had to crash down on them at some point.

Neville removed his mouth from his, panting and with his eyes shut, savouring for one more moment their closeness. Blaise studied his face from the short distance, as he always loved doing, recognising his boyfriend’s reluctance to separate. Yet, his duty would win, as it always did, and he would take a step back, trying to recompose himself and running a hand through his hair.

It was long due a haircut, by now, but Blaise was an egoist and wanted the length to stay for a little longer. Besides, when September came, his grandmother would definitely cut it, even against Neville’s will. And Blaise would take whatever he could, when it came to going against Augusta Longbottom.

He hadn’t even met the woman yet and he had already accepted defeat, if it meant keeping Neville in his life. And, while he did not harbour any love for the witch, he was most certain he could keep an amicable front with her, at least, all for Neville’s sake.

That didn’t mean, though, that he didn’t try to stray her grandson into a different path than the one she wanted, at every corner: “Can’t you stay this once?” he asked in a low and sultry voice, fully conscious of what that tone did to his perfect Gryffindor boyfriend, refusing to take a step back and let a single centimetre separate the two of them.

He watched as Neville slowly opened his eyes in the dim light that was filtered by the window from the empty street below. He watched as his throat bobbed as he swallowed, trying to regain his breathing. He watched, powerless, as Neville slipped them over, switching their positions, effectively trapping him against the wall in his arms.

The Gryffindor bent down a little and placed the most chaste and sweet and anticlimactic kiss on Blaise’s lips, driving the Slytherin mad with want and desire, unable to do anything other than comply.

“You know I can’t, flower,” he murmured directly against Blaise’s lips, his own stretching in a wicked smile. Neville Longbottom knew exactly which buttons to press and when to use them all against him: Blaise couldn’t help the shiver that ran over his back at that simple word, still not used to the way the simple pet name made his toes curl and his heart beat out of his chest, nor could he help the sound of appreciation that came out of his throat, and that transformed immediately into one of disappointment as soon as his boyfriend untangled himself from him.

He tried to make some air reach his brain, when Neville stepped back from him once again, leaving him space to breathe and recollect himself while still being infuriatingly close, neither of them wanting to truly part despite their obligations.

“Yes, I unfortunately do…” he answered, still leaning against the wall. He ran his right thumb over his lips, enjoying the way the Gryffindor’s body stiffened at the sight as his eyes tracked the movement. He sometimes still couldn’t believe his luck, especially when Neville looked at him like that, as if he needed all of his strength just to hold back.

Most of the time, Blaise wished he didn’t, yet the knowledge that he was the one to make the apparently timid, placid Schlongbottom, as his friends still believed he was, lose his mind completely was intoxicating. And he lived for those moments and hours when Neville would let go of his composure fully, causing Blaise to follow suit without a single complaint. Because he couldn’t be the farthest from timid or placid, but only he saw that side of him, only he got to enjoy that part of his sweet and amazing boyfriend.

“What are you going to do tomorrow?” Blaise asked almost out of the blue, conscious already of the reply, but wanting to steal some more time alone with the Gryffindor.

He didn’t particularly care that he was abiding by the stereotype that Slytherins were manipulating and tempting, not when Neville would shoot him a blinding but cocky smile as he fired back: “Already missing me?”

“Always.”

“I told you, I’m going to help Luna find a dress for the wedding and Grandma’s organised that family gathering to celebrate my 17th…” he trailed off, scratching the back of his neck, to try to make his blushing less noticeable. Unfortunately for him, in doing so, he had involuntarily made his shirt rise a little, showing off the skin beneath, and Blaise was not going to let such an opportunity pass: he moved closer and snug his arms around his boyfriend’s midriff, planting his hands in the small of his back. “Remind me again why I can’t crash her party and steal you away?” he asked casually, next to his ear, before he began to worry the earlobe with his teeth.

Neville seemed to be at a loss for words under Blaise’s ministrations, which was entirely his goal, but he eventually did manage to speak again: “Because she doesn’t know about us, since if she did we’ll never hear the end of it ‘cause we were keeping this a secret, and you are a Slytherin and I am a Gryffindor, and because she is not allowing me to invite any friends,” he said, his voice firm and unfaltering, despite the way his hands were holding Blaise close to him, silently begging to keep up with his work.

Not that he was planning to stop anytime soon. Still, some words at the back of his throat itched to be said: “I have a few words I’d like to tell your grandmother and none of them are kind,” Blaise claimed, staring right into Neville’s eyes and wondering how such a stern woman could raise such a loving man. While it was true that she had laid off his back for the time being, she had doubled down on her questions about Neville’s private life: the poor Gryffindor had to retort to lying simply to avoid her finding out about their relationship. It was a good thing that he had quite a vast number of friends and that said friends didn’t interact with his grandmother, because, based on Blaise’s very own experience with pureblood families, everyone knew everything, especially when ‘keeping the lines pure’ was involved and everyone turned out to be related.

For instance, Neville’s white lie for that day’s activity was very simple: “I’m going to play Quidditch with my roommates and we’ll have dinner afterwards.”

When Neville had told him as much, Blaise had exploded into laughter and disbelief. Was it believable for his boyfriend to play Quidditch? Absolutely not, but he shared a dormitory with Weasley, Thomas and Saint Potter, therefore he played by proxy. It would have equally been absurd for his grandmother to and not to believe him, which was what made the lie incredibly clever.

Blaise shook his head as he silently snickered at the fresh memory, still hesitant to remove his hands from his boyfriend’s body: “Anyway, who’s getting married now that we’re almost on the brink of war?” he inquired, truly curious. A wedding in the Wizarding World was a very public event, especially when pureblood families were involved, which they must have been, if Lovegood was invited.

All of his friends still kept on calling her Loony, but he had stopped using that epithet, since he had begun to consider her a friend as well, thanks to their mutual connection to Neville. And she was an excellent friend, both to him and his boyfriend, kind and compassionate and considerate.

He had already begun to wonder about who the couple must have been, considering no one in his circles had mentioned anything, when Neville spoke, making him understand exactly why nobody amongst the purebloods he spent his time around had even known or cared about such a thing: “Bill Weasley, Ron’s eldest brother, and Fleur Delacour.”

“The Triwizard Champion? How did they even meet?” he inquired, now even more curious. He had seen the eldest Weasley only once, at Gringotts, and it was in that moment that he first began to question whether or not he was straight. And, to pair that with Beauxbatons’ champion, well… That must have been a hell of a good looking couple!

“I don’t know,” Neville said, leaning his head against Blaise’s shoulder and looking at him with a soft smile through his eyelashes, “but they’re super cute together, at least that’s what Ginny told me.” “And you haven’t been invited?” His boyfriend shrugged at that, Blaise knew he did not particularly care about mundane events and being into the public eye: “No, from what Ginny told me it’s not going to be that big of a ceremony. Only family, close friends of the couple, and neighbours. Which is why Luna’s going, as well as to spend time with Ginny.”

“That’s a shame you won’t be there,” he commented, running for the umpteenth time that eventing his hands through Neville’s hair, as the other wizard stayed there, merely enjoying his ministration while he tried not to fall asleep. It had happened already once, right before he had to leave, and that incident had prompted his grandmother into a speech about the right of an adolescent Gryffindor to a little bit of rule-breaking. “I bet you would’ve looked dashing in a suit.”

“Jealous, darling? You know you could always look at me in a suit, if you’d just let me borrow one…” “Not a chance, caro. Mine are all tailored to perfection for my body,” he said playfully, moving his head to the side to place a small kiss on Neville’s nose, causing the other wizard to blush and giggle, “Besides, I prefer seeing you without a single stitch.” “Blaise! You can’t just say shit like that!” his boyfriend spluttered, trying to get away from his words as if they had just tickled him. He loved the way Neville would get all cute and embarrassed. His usual tell was the blush that started on his cheeks and spread throughout his body, and that was incredibly adorable. Blaise had tried to see just how farther the colour could spread, but he had been distracted in his path, somehow. “Why not? No one is listening and it’s true!” he had begun to retort, only to be shut up quickly as two lips pressed against his own, soft yet insistent, gentle yet commanding. One thing had to be said about Neville Longbottom and that was how efficient he was at quieting him with a single gesture, whether with a kiss or by simply occupying his mind with the little things he always did, essentially being himself, unfiltered.

It took them less time than usual to resurface for once, mainly because Blaise still wanted to know more about the hot new wizarding couple that could definitely take over the world, if the Dark Lord wouldn’t win.

He desperately prayed he wouldn’t, for countless different reasons.

“When is this marvellous event?” he asked, still refusing to put a single millimetre of space in between them.

“In three days, on the first. Luna’s absolutely on her last chance, looking for the perfect dress that won’t attire Wrackspurts,” he commented, shaking his head. Something inside of Blaise told him that it wasn’t the first nor the second time they went out shopping and, if Lovegood was anything like Pansy, it must have not been an easy task chaperoning. Pansy Parkinson could try on an entire street of boutiques, buy every single item of her size, and still lament she had nothing to wear.

“Why? Wanna meet up? I thought we were going for lunch on the second,” Neville added, pulling him out of the horror of the memory of the first time that witch had discovered French Haute Couture: a tornado would’ve left behind less damage.

“Yeah, I’ve been invited to Draco’s for dinner on the first, with all the others…” he trailed off, remembering exactly what had been discussed the previous night amongst the Death Eaters. It wasn’t unusual for Draco and Theo to invite him over, especially since they both believed he was fully on the Dark Lord’s side but was merely acting precious, never truly giving in. And he couldn’t deny an invitation, otherwise it would have looked suspicious. After all, his friends knew that he was staying all alone in London, away from his family, and that he wasn’t fooling around with anyone, which, in their eyes, meant he had a lot of free time.

Free time that they tried to occupy, not wanting to leave him completely alone. Thankfully, they weren’t overbearing, having him over every couple of days or so, respecting his privacy, but whenever an invitation came, he had to follow through.

Now, he couldn’t exactly tell his friends: “No, I’ll pass on spending time with you, I’m going to go watch muggle entertainment with my Gryffindor boyfriend,” could he?

Luckily for his relationship, though, the invites were rather old fashioned, called days prior, and that left him and Neville plenty of time to organize. The only person in their friend group that liked to show up uninvited or unannounced by an owl was Pansy, but she would’ve stayed in Spain until the mid of August, which meant Blaise could breathe a little without having to worry about her finding out his secret. Draco and Theo were way too busy in their official Death Eater work to even want to hang out with him in the mornings and afternoons anyway.

“What is it, B?” Neville asked, undoubtedly feeling the way his shoulders had tensed from up close. His hold on Blaise became slightly tighter, grounding and real, while still remaining gentle, letting him know that they were alright and, no matter what happened, they’d be okay.

Closing his eyes and leaning against his boyfriend’s shoulder, he began to recount what he had eavesdropped: “When I was at Theo’s last night, his father and his uncle were talking about something that went bad for them the day before, so on the 27th, and how the Dark Lord was more than displeased. All I got were hushed words about a failed kidnapping, I believe, and how the Dark Lord had completely exploded against his followers in anger, even though he had no idea who to even blame and punish. But then his father moved onto a different topic and said that they’d have their victory in a couple of days anyway, that they needed to wait, that they couldn’t lose, that August would be their month of victory. But he didn’t explain what exactly he had meant, without a doubt to keep us ‘children’ in the dark. I couldn’t really understand much, Crabbe had gone off about some bullshit of his and they were speaking in a low voice on the opposite side of the table, but the intent was clear. Something big is about to happen.” “Blaise…”

“I’m sorry I can’t tell you more, but they don’t fully trust anyone who doesn’t have the Mark. Besides, they consider us children, even Draco doesn’t know much and he let the bloody Death Eaters into Hogwarts! They know he’s loyal, or at least think so, ‘cause he was at some meetings with the Dark Lord himself. Yet they still don’t tell us shit. Not even to Theo, who’s more of a fanatic than a follower. And I am not going to taint my arm with that disgusting thing anytime soon, even if that would help. But it’s so frustrating and…” he continued, still refusing to open his eyes: he knew he should’ve told that story to Neville earlier, but he had got distracted by their date; he knew he should’ve contacted Professor McGonagall, warning her about what was going on and whose side he was on, but he was terrified he’d be intercepted somehow; he knew he was a terrible spy and that his motive was entirely egotistical, fuelled only by his will to keep Neville safe, and he couldn’t do anything about any of that.

War was coming and Blaise Zabini was powerless against it, unable to do anything concrete.

It wasn’t until he felt warm lips on his forehead and felt warm hands on either side of his face, gently holding him together, that he stopped his rambling. He usually wasn’t like this, letting his mind wander and his mouth running to catch up, at least not in front of other people, because it could potentially be dangerous and could bring unwanted questions. “Rule number eighteen: do not blabber, unless you intend to become a thespian and need practice for monologues,” his mother always said and he preferred to maintain a decent amount of control over the words that came out of him, never going into a rampage, unlike Draco did whenever he messed up his hair, yet never appearing bothered by the simple act of speaking, unlike Theo, who favoured monosyllabic replies to everything. His was always a perfect balance, studied to the last detail to make his speeches and his sentences reach the point and the mind of those who lent him their ears.

Rule number nineteen was: “do not fall in love with a thespian unless they’re a muggle actor from Hollywood,” yet Blaise knew he wouldn’t use that rule. Not anymore and hopefully not ever.

Still, of course, as it had become a routine in his life, everything about him became erratic and unpredictable when he was with Neville. He had found himself digress many times and he was always quite shocked when he realised how far he had gone from his initial path, much to his boyfriend’s delight and amusement. “I like seeing you ruffled,” he had admitted once, earning a copy of ‘Advanced Potion Making’ chucked at his head as they both laughed, with Blaise trying to hide his blushing cheeks.

“Blaise, my love, calm down,” Neville whispered softly against his forehead, hugging him closer and managing to reassure him without wearing him down with his own emotions, “I’m sure everything will be fine. The Order probably knows already that something’s about to happen. Besides, McGonagall’s in there as well, she’s not going to let anything happen, bad or not. Everything will be alright and I’ll come here on the second just like we planned to. You gotta trust me.”

He took a deep, steadying breath as he tried to ground himself back again. Neville’s presence helped greatly, as he had already told the other wizard countless times. “I trust you, more than anyone else,” he admitted, staring straight into his brown eyes as if they could hold all of the Universe’s answers, “But promise you won’t jump headfirst if something happens.” “Of course, I’ll stay home with Grandma as much as I can, when I don’t have my powerful Slytherin around to protect me. Besides, I’m pretty sure You Know Who will stay out of her path, she’s almost as scary as McGonagall!” Neville joked, causing Blaise to shake his head: Gryffindor antics were hard to knock off, it seemed. And, even if he was already wildly intimidated by Augusta Longbottom and she might make the Dark Lord reconsider his career path with her umbrella and her hats, theirs was not a topic to take lightly. “Neville, I’m serious.” “I know.”

Blaise scoffed at that and removed himself from their embrace, allowing space in between their bodies to better convey his message: “I know I can’t make you promise me you’ll stay put, ‘cause you won’t. But can you swear to me that you won’t risk your life recklessly?” he asked, unbothered if some of his desperation seeped into his voice. He knew he could let his walls down around his boyfriend, after all. “You mean like a Gryffindor,” came immediately the reply as Neville crossed his arms over his chest, now that he had the space to do so. “Nev…” “Only if you swear on Slytherin himself that as soon as shit starts to go down, you’ll get to safety,” he intercepted him, stopping Blaise before he could go on another tangent about House Values, “I need to know you’ll be careful.” Blaise nodded at that, he could understand the sentiment: of course his boyfriend would want him safe. But times were darkening by the hour and soon neither of them would probably know what safety even meant.

“Let’s make a deal:” he suggested, already knowing that Neville would agree to his plans, even if they were half-assed ideas about sneaking inside of a muggle library just to study and recreate the ambience of Hogwarts’ own, “usually I’m back from Draco’s around midnight. If nothing happens, we’ll just see each other in the morning after, as we planned. But if the world ends, meet me here at midnight. Sneak past your grandmother or stun her, since you won’t have to worry about the Trace by then. But just, come here, please.”

“The world’s not going to end, my love. Not on my watch,” Neville said, holding once again both of his hands in his and placing a soft kiss on his thumbs.

With the Gryffindor, it was all about the soft and subtle touches, the small moments. Blaise had dived into their relationship wanting to keep it hidden to avoid uproar by the entire school, yet he had been surprised when Neville hadn’t complained about their subtlety; he had almost expected the dorky plant-head to be the most PDA-indulging being in their entire school and it had been unexpected, yet not unwelcomed, his quiet way of giving affection, even when they were all alone and safe.

“Thank you, my mighty Gryffindor,” he replied with a flourish, pondering the pros and cons of bowing. On one hand, he’d keep up his theatrics that seemed to amuse Neville to no end, but on the other, he’d have to let go of his boyfriend’s hands, which was something he wasn’t willing to do. Neville, as always, resolved his qualm without a second thought: he playfully shoved Blaise away with a push from his hands, before pulling him back closer and making him crash against his torso. “Besides, it’s not like we’re not going to see each other before then! What did you say we would do again…?” Blaise saw right through his feeble attempt at distraction immediately: “Nope, I’m not going to tell you, it’s a surprise!” he exclaimed, placing a placating kiss on his boyfriend’s cheek. He had already planned the entirety of their date since he found out the plant-head wouldn’t be free on his birthday: they’d start the day by having lunch at a Chinese restaurant Neville had particularly enjoyed and then they’d move to visit the Royal Botanic Gardens, allowing for them to spend the entire afternoon and evening there, since he already knew very well that his boyfriend would get distracted with every single leaf. And Blaise loved when Neville got side-tracked to talk about plants, even if he didn’t care about the ‘green things’ himself, so it would be a win-win. “Please, B, you know I don’t really like surprises!” he lamented, but Blaise was adamant on his position. “Mio caro, you’ll have to suffer then.” “You’re so mean to me.” Blaise kissed the tip of his nose once more, giggling at the way it involuntarily twitched under his lips: “Yeah, but you love me nevertheless.” What followed was a bad series of sloppy kisses and giggles shared between them as they walked in tandem next to the fireplace, miraculously avoiding tripping over furniture. They knew it was time for Neville to leave, but they were both incredibly reluctant to let go.

“Goodnight, then,” Blaise said, attempting without any real intent to put some space in between them, and he was almost immediately followed by Neville’s own: “Goodnight,” spoken directly against his lips as he removed his hands from around the Gryffindor’s torso, giving a little push to create some distance in between them. “I love you,” Neville sing-sang as he grabbed a handful of Floo Powder, waiting for Blaise’s reply before disappearing into the Network. “I love you too, but go before your grandmother decides to murder me for keeping her grandson away from home all the time!”

And with that, Neville Longbottom had gone back home, leaving Blaise alone in the quiet apartment, his laugh still ringing clearly in his ears against the deafening silence. The place always seemed to lose its warmth as soon as his boyfriend left and so he shrugged on a jumper he had ‘borrowed’ from the Gryffindor, without his knowledge and without any real intent on giving it back.

He was not as naïve as Neville was sometimes, still believing that everything would be alright in spite of all the signs pointing to Hell, but he knew that they would be together even if the world did fall off its axis, and that thought warmed him more than any fire could.

And with that, plus the jumper, he tried to fall asleep, ignoring the way his heart pounded at the uncertainty of his future.

But, of one thing only he was certain: he’d stay by Neville’s side and he’d stay at his, no matter what.

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boxoftheskyking · 3 years

Text

Pick Up Every Piece - Part One

Ok things to know: -this does not take place in China. It does not take place in the US. It is the year 2000 in a fictional country that I control (this project is a challenge called Let’s Do Exposition). Just go with it. -It’s all talking. That’s what I do, you know this. -Warnings for stuff, I dunno I haven’t written it all yet. When it’s shiny it’ll go on AO3 but for now here’s what I got so far. -There is a lot of alcohol in this fic -Like all fic writers I live on positive reinforcement and this shit is a lot of work. -The title may change, yes it is from NMH

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There are bodies in the creek bed. Enough bodies to stop the flow of the water. Thirty at least, a dam of them. An old woman and a child. Clothes and hair sodden, darkened and wet. Clouds of darkness hovering in the air around them, seeping into dead flesh. An old woman and a child and others. Others in that middle age, the age that passes comment. Is it wrong that these two bodies stand out to him? After all, if he were among the bodies, if he was lying in this creek bed, thirty, skinny, and unremarkable, he would hardly notice himself. He’d blend into the pile, only serving to make the word a plural. Body becomes Bodies. Alters the language. Murder becomes Massacre. There are thirty bodies and hundreds, thousands of flies. Crawling on the back of the little boy’s hand. A smell like—not burning, not quite. Death. Not rot, fresh death. The sand under his feet is nearly dry. The creek bed is dry.

Wei Ying blinks. The creek burbles on alongside him, one duck lazily riding the current under a fallen branch and along to somewhere more interesting. It’s October, and beautiful, and there’s the smallest twilight bite in the air pricking at his nostrils on every inhale. He blows out a long breath and finds himself scratching at his arms, the backs of his hands, where the old scars are. They’re ugly, blotchy and dark like land masses on a faded old map, and they still itch sometimes. He rubs at them hard with the heel of his palm—it’s a weird half-feeling, the layers of dead tissue. It’s not dead, Wen Qing would correct him. It’s not necrotic, it’s just scarring.

He steps around the gnarled roots that reach up from the banks, trying to get to the road but not ever making it. There’s a few muddy stuffed bears tucked among them, plastic wrap snagged on the bark from cheap drugstore bunches of flowers that have rotted away. A couple of carefully hand-painted wooden signs nailed to the trunks, trying to convince the place that people still remember.

He shakes himself and turns away from the woods, hopping the fence onto the road that leads to the bar. He’s late, but Li Chen is always late in the mornings so he deserves to work an extra fifteen minutes. It’s not like there’s a manager to yell at him.

The bar is across the street from an old gas station, one that got firebombed during the war and then left. That’s the thing about Yiling. Everywhere else, even up in Gusu, the cities have gotten rid of as much evidence as possible. Well, they’ve gotten rid of most and turned the rest into memorials to the victorious dead, nice and shiny and flying the Sunshot flag. Nobody really cares about appearances around Yiling—maybe the city council does, but they don’t have anywhere near the budget to run cleanup. Too much actual infrastructure got hit during the worst of the fighting, and they’ll be years behind the rest of the country for the next decade or so. Memorials here are all handmade, and none of them last long.

There’s a flag, though, spray painted on what’s left of the concrete wall of the gas station. A golden hand covering most of a red sun, partly covered by black—one finger for each of the four leading clans and a thumb for everyone else. Typical. He’s not sure who’d have painted a Sunshot here. No one local, he’d put money on it. He supposes they know about spray paint in Lanling—governments must adapt.

It’s probably intentional, anyway, the lack of cleanup. The lack of progress. Nightless City can be repurposed by the Jin government, but the site of the Massacre should stay ugly and busted for a few more years. So no one forgets what it looks like to lose.

Wei Ying likes it in Yiling. “It’s my kind of town,” he always tells Jiang Cheng, who usually throws something at his head. “You want to be a bartender in a town like this. In a town like this, people need a bartender. It’s nice to be needed, you know.”

It’s a shitty bar by any other place’s standards, but for Yiling it’s cozy. The owner, who everyone just calls Granny, still orders sawdust for the floors like it’s 1860 or something, to soak up spills and puke and, occasionally, blood.

Jiang Cheng always says it’s only a matter of time before they have murder in the bar. “Manslaughter, at least,” he’ll say. “It’s just got that look.” Wei Ying says everyone in Yiling’s too tired. Mostly he and Wen Ning just roll drunks out onto the sidewalk and into a cab if someone can afford it.

Jiang Cheng himself comes in around eight. It’s as much of a rush as they ever get, so he has to wait for a few old men to get their cheap lager and gin before sliding up to the bar on his usual stool. Wen Ning gives him a cheerful salute as he comes in, and Jiang Cheng nods awkwardly back at him.

“You’re back early,” Wei Ying says, drawing him a pint of something bitter. Jiang Cheng still lives in Yunmeng, in the old family home, but he has a sublet in Yiling now that he’s working for the intelligence department. Jin Zixuan calls it “cutting his teeth” monitoring old Wen strongholds. Jiang Cheng calls it “shoveling shit.”

It turns out cleaning up a civil war is a pain in the ass, even five years later.

“We should do lunch with Wen Qing on Saturday. She’ll want to see you.”

Jiang Cheng pulls out his annoying little planner, full of his cramped handwriting and meetings with this informant and that police sergeant. “Have to be brunch, I’ve got a twelve-thirty on Saturday.”

Wei Ying snorts at him. “Brunch, in Yiling. Good luck.”

“Hangover breakfast, then.”

“That we can do.”

Jiang Cheng takes a long pull of his beer and Wei Ying can see the relief run down him from the crown of his head down over his shoulders like something hot and slippery. Oil maybe, or homemade noodles. He groans and drops his head down behind his glass.

“Hey, Wei Ying!” An arthritic hand waves at him from the other end of the bar.

“Gotcha, Riseung,” he calls and starts fishing for the kahlua and cream. It’s always at the back of the cooler; no one else ever orders it. “You’re gonna work yourself into an early grave,” he tosses back at Jiang Cheng.

“Not if you keep giving me beer.”

“Hey, Wei Ying, I saw that story last week. Hell of a thing.” Li Riseung has a little cream mustache, but Wei Ying’s not going to mention it.

“The gas thing?” Wei Ying grins at him. “Yeah, I’m telling you, it’s all connected. You watch the prices when Lanling tries to pass another referendum. It’s all supposed to soften you up. You got something for me today?”

“Still writing your conspiracy theories?” Jiang Cheng calls to him. “Some guys just don’t know when to quit.”

(Someone else comes up, he pulls a pint of stout.)

Riseung bristles. “Wei Ying is the only real journalist left in this country. You’ll see.”

Wei Ying props his chin on his folded hands and waits. Riseung takes another long sip. “Yu Xiuying’s got her popcorn maker up and running. She’s starting to sell what she can, make enough to get the theater back in order.”

“Really? That would be something. I’m sick of taking the train every time I want to see a movie.”

“You should report on that, get her some customers.”

Wei Ying drums his fingers on his chin. “Maybe we can work out an ad situation. I need more ads, you know. Papers ain’t cheap.”

Riseung finishes his drink, sets the glass down on the bar. He half-reaches for his pocket. “So, do I owe you, or . . .”

Wei Ying stifles a sigh. Technically it’s nothing he can use. He’s not about to publish an expose on popcorn. Still, he waves a hand. “Your money’s no good here. Go on, keep up the good work.”

The man grins up at him, flashing a row of silver fillings, and heads over to bother someone else.

(Another customer—rum and Coke.)

“You’re just letting people drink for free, huh?” Jiang Cheng says. Wei Ying wanders back over to him, taking a sip of his own drink (coffee, plus whiskey, just enough to get through the shift).

“Reporting is all about cultivating sources, Jiang Cheng, even you should know that. Li Riseung is a source.”

“A source,” Jiang Cheng mutters. “He’s a drunk.”

“So’s everyone. This whole country’s full of drunks. Drunks make the world go around.”

Jiang Cheng rolls his eyes. “This city is fucking depressing.”

“Oh, and all of Lanling’s sober, is it? Yunmeng? Everybody’s living like Lans? You’d be much more pleasant with a few more of these in you.” Wei Ying grabs his pint glass and dumps the end of it out, refilling in the same smooth movement. It’s just out of spite. He shouldn’t be wasting a good few ounces of genuinely nice beer. But he can’t help it; Jiang Cheng brings it out in him. He spins and shimmies a bit to the bad pop song coming from the busted speaker above him and grabs a bin of limes to chop.

“When are you going to come home?”

Wei Ying doesn’t slip and cut himself, but it’s close.

“I live in Yiling, Jiang Cheng.”

“Yeah, for now.”

Wei Ying sighs. “I like it here, okay? You think they’d let me back in Yunmeng, after everything?”

“I’ve got influence now. They wouldn’t say anything.”

(Two lagers, shot of tequila.)

He hasn’t lived in Yunmeng in years. Almost a decade now. He was in Yunmeng at the start of everything, when Wen Ruohan was forced out of office and half the military went with him. He visits now, but there’s still that sense of before when he’s there, like the majority of his life hasn’t happened yet. But Jiang Cheng is never going to get that, he’s a linear person.

“Not saying anything isn’t the same as allowing. I’m not going to make you fight all day just so I can work at some bougie wine bar somewhere.”

“You wouldn’t have to work at a bar. You could—”

“What? Write? You think anyone anywhere is going to hire me at a paper again? Despite all the rumors, you’re not that dumb.”

“Fuck off. You could work with me.”

“Intelligence. Really? How do you think that would work out? ‘Yes, Jin Zixuan, whatever you say, Jin Zixuan—’”

“Fuck off.”

Wei Ying shakes his head and scrapes a pile of lime wedges back in the bin. “I like where I am. I’ve got the paper—”

“It’s not a paper.”

Wei Ying doesn’t slam the knife down, but it’s a close thing. “Jiang Cheng—”

“You’re such a fucking martyr. What, you lose your dream job so you go to the ass crack of the world and set yourself up as king of nowhere?”

“I’m not king of anything, I’m just writing.”

(Three glasses of white wine.)

“Yiling Laozu.” Jiang Cheng clicks his tongue. “I know you can’t use your real name, but that’s embarrassing. Laozu. You and your sources.”

Wei Ying takes a breath and unclenches his jaw. “If Wen Qing were here you wouldn’t be calling us embarrassing.”

“You’re embarrassing. She’s not embarrassing.”

“It’s our paper.”

“Wen Qing has dignity. You have none.”

Wei Ying gathers up his knife and cutting board to run them back to the dish pit. “Ah, Jiang Cheng, you love me. I know you do.”

It’s always a good way to end a conversation, their own private code. If you keep pushing here you’re going to break something. A warning. You love me. I know you do. Jiang Cheng doesn't ever deny it, but he never agrees either. He doesn't need to. Wei Ying has proof. The scars on the back of his hands, curling around his wrists and up his arms—burn scars, chemical burns—are proof. Jiang Cheng doesn't like to look at his hands. That's proof too.

When he comes back out, Jiang Cheng isn’t alone. The general noise of the bar has fallen to a murmur, and the rowdy game of dominoes is paused in the corner.

Xue Yang is sprawled over two stools, dressed in shiny black leather and grinning a few inches away from Jiang Cheng’s face.

“How’s it going, Captain Jiang?”

Jiang Cheng leans away. “I don’t see you. You are not here.”

“Course not. Good boy.”

Jiang Cheng’s hand tightens around his glass, and Wei Ying picks up the pace slightly.

“Leave him alone, Xue Yang,” he says, carefully mild.

The grin turns on him, and Xue Yang waves, his weird little black prosthesis sticking out like a lighting-struck tree. “You telling me what to do, Wei Ying?”

“I would never. Here, have a drink. If you want.” He pours him a double from his own secret bottle, the one Granny gave him on a good night in the summer. It’s painfully ironic—Xue Yang would be the only person in Yiling who could afford it if he ever actually paid for it.

Wei Ying nods to him and slides the glass across the bar, along with the usual brown envelope. Jiang Cheng sighs and spins around on his stool, looking away.

“Feels light,” Xue Yang says, like always.

“It’s not,” Wei Ying says, also like always.

Xue Yang grins around the little white stick hanging out of his mouth, and Wei Ying grins back. “Eight percent extra on anything you’re short next time.”

“It’s not short. And it’s five percent, don’t try to fuck with me.” Wei Ying smiles wider and does not blink.

“Maybe it’s changed.”

“Granny would tell me, and she wouldn’t hear it from you.”

“Maybe it’s changing today.” Xue Yang leans across the bar, not quite getting in his face, but close enough. Wei Ying meets Wen Ning’s eye over his shoulder. Wen Ning takes a few steps away from the door, but Wei Ying shakes his head just a fraction and he goes still.

“You don’t have the authority.” Wei Ying lets his grin go a little unnatural at the corners, a little bit of a snarl. “And it’s not short, so it doesn’t matter.”

Xue Yang laughs and tucks the envelope into his jacket, then takes a long swig. Wei Ying breathes, finally, quiet and careful.

“Xue Yang,” he says as he starts to wipe down the bar again. “You know you wound me.”

Xue Yang wipes his mouth on his sleeve. “Oh do I?”

“You know it hurts me, deep down in the soul parts of my body, to see you drink top shelf scotch with a fucking sucker in your mouth.”

Xue Yang sticks out his tongue so Wei Ying can see the little yellow nub of it. “It’s pineapple.”

“Great. Thank you. I’m going to go drink bleach now.”

Jiang Cheng half turns to glare at him. “That’s not fucking funny.”

Xue Yang chugs the rest of the scotch and tosses the empty glass at Wei Ying. He hates that it makes him flinch before he catches it. “Tell Granny I say hi.”

“Fuck off.”

“Hey, where’s the little one? Haven’t seen her in a minute.”

Wei Ying stiffens. “You’ll stay away from her if you cherish the rest of those fingers.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Xue Yang gives him a mocking salute and saunters back out towards the door. He’s nearly out when he knocks into an empty chair, sending it to the floor with a crack like a gunshot. No one hits the deck completely, but the held-breath silence turns into a gasp as all eyes snap to the sound, shoulders up and hands braced on tabletops, thighs tensed and ready to run.

Even Xue Yang is frozen at the door for a second. He laughs, though his jaw is tight. “Just a chair, ladies and gentlemen. Clean this shit up, Wen Ning.” And he’s gone.

Wei Ying deflates, adding some of the good scotch to his own cup. Jiang Cheng makes a face.

“How’s that coffee?”

“Shut up.”

“You should let me talk to Zixuan.”

“You talk to him every day.”

“You know what I mean. How long have you been paying—”

Wei Ying sighs and flicks his rag at his brother. “Thing one: I don’t pay, Granny pays. Thing two: Xue Yang is just a low level street thug with connections, he’s as in charge of the operation as I am in charge of Yiling. Thing three: it all kicks up to the Jins at the end of the day, so what are they gonna do about it?”

“Zixuan isn’t—”

“Yeah, I know your best pal is the paragon of morality.”

(Scotch and soda, root beer, gin and tonic, and three pints.)

“He’s our brother-in-law.”

“And your brother-in-arms, I know, I’d never dare disparage the mighty—”

“He’s a nicer brother than you are.”

Wei Ying mimes a faint. “I’m going to call Shijie, tell her you’re being mean to me.”

Jiang Cheng goes quiet, looks down at his beer. Wei Ying reaches out for it, an offering.

“Another?”

Jiang Cheng shakes his head. “I shouldn’t.” A chunk of his hair comes loose from its tie, feathers across his forehead.

“When are you gonna cut that hair, huh?” Wei Ying flicks it back over his ear. Jiang Cheng swipes at his hand lazily.

“I like it like this.”

“You and Zixuan are twins now, huh? You cultivators. Does Lan Zhan still keep his long, do you think?”

“Dunno. Haven’t seen him in a long time. Stop it, leave it, I have it how I want it.”

Wei Ying laughs at him. “Looks good. Dignified. Hey, did you ever ask for Zidian back?”

Jiang Cheng’s face does something complicated, a little bitter. “Not gonna happen. No spiritual weapons are gonna be authorized any time soon.”

“Yeah, but it’s yours.”

“It’s not mine. It’s the government’s.”

“But it responds to you. What good does it do locked away in—”

“Leave it, Wei Ying. I know you’ve got opinions about cultivation, but I’m fucking tired and it’s not going to change anything.”

“Well, when you’re in charge. Then you’ll show ‘em.”

That does make Jiang Cheng laugh, which is satisfying.

(Two gin and tonics.)

“Hey, you’re not allowed—” Wen Ning calls from the door, followed by the tap-tap of a metal cane. Wei Ying sighs and reaches for the grenadine.

“Wei Ying, you son of a bitch.” The voice is high, reedy, and cackling. “How the hell are ya?”

“A-Qing,” Wei Ying calls mildly. “You can’t be here.”

“Where is here?” she yells, as always. “How am I supposed to know that? Can’t you tell I’m blind?”

“Get out of my bar.”

“Discrimination!” She makes her way across the room, purposely bumping into every occupied table on her way over, just to slosh beer onto the floor.

“You’re fourteen.” He has her cherry soda on the bar by the time she hops up on the stool next to Jiang Cheng, ignoring him entirely.

“And how do you know that, creepy old man?”

“You made me get you a cake for your birthday, you goblin.”

“Who’s this guy?” She takes a long slurping suck from her straw.

“My didi.”

“You—!” Jiang Cheng hates it, which is the only reason Wei Ying says it.

“Ooh, the famous Jiang Cheng. I bet he looks real grumpy.”

“Yep.”

Jiang Cheng flips him off. He grins and goes back to wiping down the drain.

“He just flipped you off, didn’t he?”

“Yep.”

“Nice.” She finishes her drink and slams the glass down. “Double vodka please.”

“Nope.”

“I drink vodka all the time.”

“Don’t care. I’m not getting fired over your sorry ass. Go drink at home.”

“I’m not allowed vodka at the home.”

“And you’re not allowed here either.” He drops the rag back into the sanitizer and leans his elbows on the bar. “Now, are you here with something interesting or just to pester me?”

Jiang Cheng looks like he’s about to interject, but Wei Ying waves him off.

“I can multitask,” A-Qing says before pushing her glass back across the bar. “More sugar first.”

“Diabetes on the rocks, yes madam.”

She takes a long slurping pull, and he folds his arms, waiting.

“Got a new TV at the home. Real big one.”

“A-Qing, I’m waiting.”

Jiang Cheng squints at her. “How do you know how big the TV is?”

“I just know, okay. Anyway. One of the older kids got it. Bought it himself.”

“Yeah, right,” Wei Ying says. He needs to challenge her if she’s going to give him the whole story. If he seems too interested she’ll draw it out just to fuck with him.

“He did. Wen Changming.”

“A Wen?” Jiang Cheng asks.

Wei Ying rolls his eyes. “Lots of Wens in the children’s home. I wonder why.”

Jiang Cheng makes a sour face at him.

“He’s got cash to burn, suddenly. Pockets full.”

“Gee, I wonder how you found that out.”

A-Qing grins at him. “He’s not gonna miss it. He’s in the club now.”

“The club?”

“You know, the club. What do you call it? Do crimes, get money.”

“Mob? Syndicate? Criminal organization?” Jiang Cheng offers.

“So they’re recruiting at the home, that’s what you’re telling me? Is it Xue Yang?”

A-Qing blows bubbles in her soda. “I don’t know, maybe.”

“Must be desperate.”

“You do the same thing.”

“I do not.”

She holds out a hand. He sighs and passes over a couple of bills.

“You staying there tonight?” he asks, all casual.

“Maybe. The girls are annoying. Should be nice outside.”

“Starting to get cold.”

“Not really. Only if you’re a pussy.”

“You call me if you need to crash. Here.” He drops a couple of coins in front of her. “I’ll be home after midnight.”

“Sure thing, boss,” she says, pocketing the change. She gives a little salute and hops off her stool. “So long, Wen Ning!” she shouts, walking right at him and making him hop out of the way.

She’s not really blind, of course. Wei Ying’s never brought it up—he knows, but he’s not sure she knows that he knows. One of the nights she crashed at his apartment, months ago, he caught her reading through one of his binders of old clippings—‘91, back before the start of the war, when he was still in Gusu. It kind of kills him, because he wants to ask her what she thought of them. What she remembers from back then, if there’s anything. But they don’t talk about anything serious, not if they can help it.

“Please tell me you don’t have a teenage girl staying at your place,” Jiang Cheng says. Wei Ying gives him a great sigh and grabs his rag again.

“Only when she's got no other place to go. Oh, I have a futon now! You’d see it if you ever came over.”

“Wow, great, you're thirty years old and you have a secondhand futon. Mother would be so proud.”

“I didn't say it was secondhand.”

“Wei Ying, trust me, you do not need to.”

(Four pints.)

Wei Ying makes a face at him. “So mean.”

“It’s weird that she stays with you.”

Wei Wuxian sighs again. “Jiang Cheng.”

“It is. It’s weird.”

“If it’s a bad night at the home then she sleeps outside. I don’t like her sleeping outside, so she stays with me. When she’s not being ornery.”

“She’s a teenage girl.”

“She’s a baby.”

“Not your baby. Why would she sleep outside anyway? Yiling sucks.”

“The home sucks. Look, it’s an orphan thing. You wouldn’t understand.”

Jiang Cheng pouts. “Hey, I’m an orphan.”

“No you’re not, you’re a grown up.”

(Whiskey, neat.)

“You’re a grownup. My parents are dead; I’m an orphan.”

“Then everyone’s a fucking orphan in this country. The word’s lost all meaning. From now on, if your parents were alive when you were ten, you’re not an orphan. Find a new word, leave ours alone.”

“You’re such a jackass.”

“Jackass! Yes, that’s a good word.”

Jiang Cheng sighs and gets off his stool. He tosses cash down on the bar, though Wei Ying tries to wave him off.

“Oh, you’re going to want to get a flag up in here,” he says, off-hand as he turns to go.

Wei Ying freezes. “Excuse me?”

“Coming down from on high, it’s going to be a new ordinance. To keep the liquor license.”

“The fuck does a flag have to do with our liquor license?”

Jiang Cheng holds up his hands. “I’m just the messenger.”

“I’m not letting the Sunshot flag through these doors.”

Jiang Cheng turns back to him, serious. “Look, I know you have your own . . . feelings—”

“Feelings?” he almost spits, spreading his hands out on the bar.

Jiang Cheng winces and does not look at them. “You have your reasons, I’m not arguing that. But Yiling’s a part of the Republic and people need to get used to it. You don’t have to like it, but your district rep is going to announce the policy in the next week, and I don’t want to see you— Don’t go out of your way to make life difficult, all right? It’s hard enough already.”

Wei Ying says nothing, just leans back and watches the rag twist and untwist between his hands.

“See you Saturday,” Jiang Cheng offers, hesitates, then leaves.

Wei Ying will close up. They close early, still, kick everyone out before midnight. Old habits. He’ll go home and work on his column, the one corner of the paper Wen Qing leaves for whatever he wants. (Literally, the column is called “Whatever.”) Maybe A-Qing will find a pay phone and call him, if she hasn’t spent or hidden the change, or maybe she’ll just show up and lean on the buzzer until he lets her in. He’ll sleep better, if she’s there. He was never meant to live alone.

And he’ll wake up tomorrow, and try to do it all again.

Part Two

#the untamed #cql #assorted writings #pick up every piece

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finnlongman · 3 years

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If you don't mind me asking, as a writer, is there anything you do to motivate yourself/stay focused on one particular idea/project? Like, keeping yourself from having another idea mid-work and having an "ooo shiny" moment, and leaving the old work to be an Emer to the new idea's Fand (to make a clumsy Ulstsr Cycle joke)? I've been trying to get a bit more serious about writing recently and this is an issue I've been running into. Thank you in advance if you do answer this ask.

I always have multiple projects in my brain, but I generally have a one-track mind when I'm actually working on things. It's why I'll obsessively edit a novel in three weeks and then go back to doing academic work -- my brain won't let me do both at once, so I have to give them all my focus for a short period of time and then switch.

I'm trying to get better at juggling multiple things, but it's still my weak point. This summer, I had to split focus between two novels, a thesis, and an article, all in the space of about 2.5 months. The result? I completely abandoned my thesis, and indeed, any academic work, for the whole of August, in order to focus on fiction, because the deadline was more urgent. Sometimes you have to prioritise, and knowing you have to switch tasks at a certain time and that this one has to be finished first does wonders for making you focus.

However, if you don't have deadlines and if nobody is expecting you to hand anything in, it can be a lot harder to do the finishing part, and it's easy to go off chasing new ideas. I think we've all done it. For the first 10 years of writing fiction, I didn't have any deadlines either except those I gave myself, and I definitely abandoned projects and hopped around. Even since I signed with my agent, there's been at least one project I had to put aside unfinished and I don't know when or if I'll come back to it, though that was less a case of being distracted by something else and more a case of being too depressed to write. If it had been under contract, though, that would have been more difficult! So I'm glad that it wasn't.

Part of the way I avoid it is by writing fast. This is unhelpful advice, because either you write fast or you don't, and if you're not a speedy writer, it's probably not very useful as a tactic. But if I write fast enough, not only do I not give myself time to get bored, I also have the drive of knowing the sooner I finish something, the sooner I can move on to something else. If it's only another 3 weeks of work, there's less a sense of the new idea being impossibly distant. I always leave first drafts to stew for at least a few months before I edit them, so once they're done, hopping between projects is a good thing -- as long as I got to the end first. But not getting to the end can be a killer.

I also try not to take breaks while writing first drafts. Again, doesn't work for everyone, hasn't always worked for me. But the books where I take days/weeks off while drafting are the ones that are hardest to finish, and every time I've stopped long-term and said I'll come back to it later to finish it ... I never have. If I ever do, I'll have to rewrite the whole first half before I can continue. This is partly because I'm not an outliner, so first drafts are precariously balanced in my head and setting them down can mean losing sight of something crucial. If I had a set outline to follow, it might be easier to dip in and out.

Having said that, I do have some books that have been written far more intermittently with lots of days off... but they were definitely harder. The continuity and speed is a fairly crucial part of maintaining my train of thought. Like I said -- one-track mind. That's why it's so hard for me to balance multiple projects.

Over time, I've learned that ideas are really the easiest part of writing, but they often don't go anywhere. I keep note of them, often in my phone, but an idea is not a plot, and it takes time for them to turn into a book. I like to let them mature on their own for a while. I knew I wanted to write TRWTH from about 2015, but I didn't draft it until late 2018; I knew I wanted to write a Bisclavret retelling since about 2016, but didn't draft it until late 2019. I gave them time to figure out what shape they wanted to be in before I started actually working with those premises directly. So that can help me resist the temptation to jump on something new -- it's not necessarily ready yet. Writing it down feels like scratching the itch ("I'm not ignoring it, I'm just setting it aside") and means you won't forget it, but also means by the time you come to look at it again, you have a better sense of whether it's worth writing.

Having said that, I'm easily distracted by the temptation to *edit* something other than the book I'm currently working on; I'll reread an older project and see how to fix it and since editing doesn't require the same single-minded focus (for me) as first drafts, I can be lured away quite easily. Deadlines are usually the main thing that helps there.

If I'm honest... deadlines in general are the only things that keep me on track. Otherwise I'm always hopping between things and never focusing on anything long enough to get it "finished". It's where things like NaNoWriMo can help: setting yourself a goal of writing a certain amount of a book within a window of time can often keep you on target long enough to pass the point of no return (i.e. the point at which you're more invested in finishing the book than in starting a different one). I never finished anything until I did NaNo for the first time; it turned out what I needed was a deadline and an excuse to write quickly.

Two final things. One is that I try to only write things I really care about. If I'm ready to abandon a project and never come back, I probably wasn't invested in it in the first place. Two, if an idea is constantly popping up while writing something else, it might be related. It might explore the same themes, or develop on one of the ideas. It can be worth poking at it for a minute to check if that's the case, and if it is... it's not a new story. It's a new part of the story you were already writing, and can be woven in.

It's possible absolutely none of this is applicable to those with a different writing style to me, and it's also incredibly rambly, but quick summary:

deadlines help. knowing someone is expecting something from you helps.

writing fast enough not to get bored gives you less time to get distracted.

ideas need time. write them down and let them stew instead of rashly chasing them; they may not be able to carry a whole story on their own

they may not BE a whole story; consider whether they're part of what you're already writing

Did this make any sense at all? I have no idea. I've actually been switching between three projects (two fiction, one academic) this week, so my brain is utterly melted because, as I said, I suck at doing that.

#writing #answered #oddnub-eye

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pigeontheoneandonly · 3 years

Note

For your WIP list: Childhood Friends AU and Collateral Damage?

Thank you!!

Childhood Friends AU answered here.

Collateral Damage is a one-shot fic about Nathaly’s first real deployment after training, on a planet called Aonia, which was mutually claimed by both the Alliance and the Hegemony. Their two colonies were separated by an open battlefield, and locked in a stalemate. (Laine is her C.O., which is how they got to know each other well, though they met in N1.)

Shepard, who is still enlisted at this point, but working her way towards being admitted to OCS, eventually comes up with an idea to break the stalemate, based on exploiting a tactic the batarians have used to great effect on other battlefronts. The Alliance is victorious, and are in the process of mopping up batarians, when the batarians learn who orchestrated their demise-- and that it was a lowly corporal. Furious, they decide to take revenge.

The story is told after the fact, as Shepard relays it to Anderson. It came out of a challenge to write a story backwards, and became a key part of her backstory.

(It’s also how Nathaly caused Laine to lose his leg, if you remember that little anecdote from one of the early flashbacks in Labyrinth-- he got hit by a grenade during the action, and he playfully blames her because it was her idea.)

Excerpt:

Shepard plunked the cigarette between her lips. Her lighter flared against the twilight. She inhaled, to convince the flame to catch, and blew out smoke. “Where the hell is Cheng?”

Private Brill scratched under the neck of his hardsuit. “Only thing less likely than us getting daylight patrols again is Cheng strutting out on schedule.”

The fourth member of their squad, Kozlow, snorted a laugh and stubbed out his own cigarette, grinding it into the Aonian dust. The trees carpeting the Relagris river valley undulated in the light breeze. The wind was welcome; local high summer at this latitude usually meant steaming flat days that left even the water too hot to offer any relief. Body armor only made it worse.

Shepard took another drag. “Last time we had a daylight, three guys got shipped back to Arcturus with missing bits. The colony brass may be thick but they’d never be that stupid.”

“Never say never. You are talking about the guys who backed the L.T.’s crazy-ass plan to get at the batarian base.” Brill paused. “I’ll grant you it worked, though I don’t know that Lieutenant Laine’s too happy about sitting tight for a few months growing out the new leg.”

Shepard buried the flinch of guilt, and tapped off the cigarette. “Cheng had better get her ass in gear. Bravo Squad left more than ten minutes ago. If I have to order a hold there’ll be hell to pay.”

Private Cheng emerged breathless from the barracks, slapping together the last pieces of her grenade launcher. Shepard rolled her eyes. “If you bothered to oil that thing once in a while, it might not take eons to assemble.”

“Fuck off.”

“I wouldn’t want to encroach on your specialization.”

“At least I’m not some bitch who thinks she’s an officer ‘cause she got some kind of probationary MOS change to N. They give you little spec ops training wheels with that?”

Shepard regarded her evenly. “Keep talking, and I’ll show you just how much of an officer I’m not.”

Cheng held her eyes a brief moment, and glanced off. Shepard drew her rifle. “This patrol won’t walk itself. We’re due for rendezvous at Checkpoint Delta by 2100, so let’s move it.”

At approximately 2015, Shepard ordered a halt. Two months after putting boots on the ground, the navy built a bridge over the river. Since then, the batarians had blown it up three times. The bridge was currently in its “intact” phase, and after the beating their main base recently took, Shepard doubted the batarians had the appetite to try again. But it remained a choke point, albeit one she’d traversed a hundred times, and tonight something about it made her uneasy.

Kozlow’s brow furrowed. “Shepard, what—”

“Shut up.” She took a few steps forward and raised her gun. The wrongness was an itch at the back of her neck. The bridge wasn’t much to look at— a cheap composite span three marines wide, no railing, maybe thirty meters long. Thick shrubs clustered near the riverbank. Further back, where they stood, trees rose up, their roots nibbling at the path and the thick march of trunks obscuring line-of-sight.

Cheng hiked her pack up higher on her shoulders and made a sound of exasperation. “The longer we stand here the more my boots hurt.”

A puddle sat near the edge of the span. This time of year, the river ran low and sluggish. She could smell the algae bloom from here. “Why is the bridge wet?”

Shots exploded out of the bushes on the far bank. There was a pop as her shields collapsed. She dove for the trees and plastered her back to a trunk. A quick scan showed her team likewise positioned, all still standing, returning fire. Her hand pressed to her ear, activating her comm. “Alpha squad taking fire by the bridge! Requesting backup!”

She knew full well this would be over before help arrived. Shepard snuck a look over her shoulder. Batarians pounded across the span. It shook with every step, drumming the water up around their knees. One slipped. His comrades leapt over him and kept charging.

She angled her rifle low and let off a stream of shots at knee-height. There was no aiming, just as many bullets as her weapon could supply, enough to overwhelm their shields and do some damage. They were outnumbered two-to-one. “Cheng!”

“Working on it!” The private couldn’t leave cover for even the few seconds it took to set the grenade launcher and light them up.

Another batarian collapsed, a victim of Shepard’s kneecapping. Her cooling indicator slid towards the red. She cursed, and switched to targeted shots, quick bursts to avoid overheating and losing the weapon entirely. A lucky shot to the head took out a third. Almost at even odds.

Cheng took a breath, swung out of cover, and sunk to one knee to brace herself, bringing the launcher up to her shoulder as she moved. Even this economy of motion was too slow. She fell back with a scream, her grenade launching high into the air.

Shepard never saw it explode. A bag dropped over her head. She whirled in place, wielding the rifle like a club at anything in range, felt it connect and heard a grunt. But then other hands had her arms. Something wet and foul pressed against the bag, over her face. The fight disappeared, and though she started to fall, she never felt the impact of the ground.

Velvet black. Fuzzy pinpricks of white light. Blink. Stars. Sour stench— slime on her face, vomit— and the acrid tang of scorched grass. Murmuring voices. Alien. Batarian.

The urgent realization was a shot of adrenaline. She blinked again, trying to clear her head, trying to ascertain even a little of what was going on.

She came back to herself flat on her back, in a small clearing she didn’t recognize, with no sense of time at all beyond “later”. Much later, judging by the darkness. The bag was gone. Someone had zip-tied her hands and feet. Shadows moved in the meager moonlight, none of them paying her any mind at all. Her translator was useless at these volumes. After eighteen months on this rock, she’d picked up a decent amount Dherak— the Hegemony state language— but not enough to catch much meaning from whispers.

Somewhere to her left, she heard the low hum of a shuttle. Her heart’s pounding accelerated. She wriggled her hands, but found no slack in her bonds. Shepard could get her feet under her and stand, she was certain of it, but hopping away would never work. If she could reach her knife…

She rolled onto her side, ignored the nauseous lurch in her stomach, and curled into a ball so her hands could reach her boot. She could have died of relief when her fingers brushed the haft. But the position was awkward, trying to grip it with her arms lashed behind her, and she fumbled it into the grass. Shepard sucked in a breath and wriggled in a circle, searching.

“Stupid bitch,” said a voice from across the clearing, loud enough for her translator to pick up. Not that she needed it for curses. Everyone learned those first.

She scrabbled at the ground. If she could just get her legs free before he reached her—

Her fingers closed around the handle. She bent backwards, slashing at her bonds, not caring whether she stabbed herself, because that was better than staying here and much better than being packed onto that shuttle. Footsteps stomping towards her. The blade stuck in the dirt. She tried again—

A hand grabbed her wrist, none too gently, and jerked the knife away. Shepard stared up at him with eyes that could burn holes through steel. He turned the knife over in his hands. “Clever. I won’t ask where you hid it.”

She spat at him, but lacked the necessary projection. It fell on her shoulder. He chuckled. “You won’t make a fool of me twice, little girl. You’ll get what’s coming to you.”

“Moon’s just about set,” said a second batarian. “We need to move.”

“First things first.” He shoved her shoulder, hard and without warning, pushing her onto her stomach. Before she could roll any further, his knee crushed into her spine with all his weight behind it. The air went out of her. She couldn’t move.

“Fuck you,” she wheezed.

That he ignored. His burly hand gripped the back of her head, holding it still. “Can’t have your pesky Alliance tracking you.”

She felt cold steel press against her ear and had barely a moment to comprehend what was about to happen before he began to cut. Her body bucked with all its might, as much a reaction to the searing fire engulfing the right side of her head as a fight for survival. He grunted his irritation and increased his grip. “Blame your navy for wiring you with an internal comm.”

Blood spilled down her face, filling her mouth with hot iron. She made a second, feebler attempt to throw him off.

This time, he lifted her head by her scalp and slammed it full force into the ground. Her nose splattered. An odd ringing filled her head, and she found she couldn’t focus her eyes, or string even half a thought together.

“Stop squirming,” he said.

She lay still, too dazed to offer even a curse, as he resumed his work. At some point she blacked out, and the second time she came around, she was bundled on the floor of the shuttle, staring at batarian legs.

They’d wrapped wire about her, an improvised rope to prevent all but the smallest movements. She took some grudging pride in that. Her ear and nose still hurt terribly, but that had gone on awhile now, and she found she could think past it. A similar, less urgent pain in her forearm suggested they took her omni-tool as well. And she was dressed in only her thin undersuit. Her hardsuit, and its biomonitoring suite that was perhaps her last hope of being quickly located, was nowhere to be seen.

The same batarian spoke a few sentences, to general laughter. She caught maybe a third of it, her translator gone with the rest— something about a woman, her, and something about not being dead.

Shepard concentrated on counting her breaths. Once they got wherever they were going, when they had to move her again, she’d find an opportunity. She just had to hold together until then.

#ask me anything #nathaly shepard #wip meme #torture tw #whump #ljandersen

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igirisuhito · 4 years

Text

Title: Collar Relationship: Hinata Hajime/Komaeda Nagito Rating: Mature Summary: Komaeda and Hinata decide to go through some of their old possessions. Hinata has a burning curiosity. Trigger Warnings: PTSD, Flashbacks, Triggers

[Ao3 Link]

‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊ ♡ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ♡ ‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊

"Oh! I… I didn't realise I even kept this."

Komaeda mused to himself as he reached into the cardboard box in front of him, struggling to pull out the object he was so intrigued by. He jiggled it slightly, shifting it out from beneath the things weighing it down, before finally yanking it out with a triumphant grin.

They had been encouraged by Kirigiri to sort through some of their things as a form of 'spring cleaning.' Hanamura had experienced a panic attack upon finding a familiar electric knife which led to the remnants realising just how much stuff they still owned from their despair days. So Togami, the good one, took charge and paired them up to go through their things together.

Hinata knew all he owned was his reserve course suit and the barrette he had taken from Nanami. They were what he had awoken with, after all, since he had brought nothing else to the island. So he was just here to help Komaeda sort out his things.

Hinata returned the smile before gazing down, curious as to what had gotten Komaeda so intrigued. The other boy's fingers were now wrapped around a heavy steel collar. From the front, a long metal chain dangled, dragging across the wooden floor noisily as he brought it closer to examine.

"That's from your time in Towa city, right?" Hinata watched him closely, anxious that Komaeda may be set off by the object.

A small sound escaped him, an involuntary noise that was rather croaky and high pitched. It only further deepened Hinata's fears, the seconds feeling as though they had been dragging on forever since Komaeda last spoke.

Cautiously reaching out, Hinata gently placed his hand on the small of the boy's back. "H-hey…it's alright…"

It was an understandable reaction, one that didn't surprise Hinata in the slightest. Komaeda was still rather prone to despair spirals even after all these years of being isolated on Jabberwock. But that's why they were doing this, why Hinata was here; to make sure he wouldn't hurt himself when something brought back memories of the atrocities they'd committed and horrors they'd lived through.

Komaeda made the noise again, and again. And before he knew it, he was giggling. It was a happy giggle, not like the ones that cracked through the depths of his soul and spewed from his mouth like toxins during a breakdown. The light-hearted and wholesome sound left Hinata finding himself confused, but pleased Komaeda seemed okay.

"I'm sorry, it's just…I really let myself wear just whatever huh? Despair does awful things to people." A bright smile had stretched across Komaeda's face, one of genuine warmth. He wiped at the tears in his eyes, seemingly unaware that Hinata was currently skating right off the side of his emotional half-pipe.

You literally sawed off your own hand but you're more upset about how you wore a collar…?

Deciding to keep that thought private, Hinata asked something else instead. "So uh... was it more of an edgy thing or a kinky thing?"

Komaeda's head snapped around to playfully glare at Hinata. "It wasn't kinky! Do you really think so lowly of me, Hinata-kun? Even in throes of despair I could never be so depraved as to force my sexual desires onto those around me, especially not the Warriors of Hope." He paused, a couple of breathless laughs escaping his lips. "I couldn't have done something like that, they would have bullied me for it in an instant. Children are merciless…"

"No no, you know I don't think of you like that, Komaeda." A small chuckle left Hinata as he thread his fingers through the front of his hair. "They were really awful kids, huh?"

"Victims of circumstance."

"I mean, they did kill thousands of people."

"So did you!"

"Yeah but I--!" Hinata sighed loudly in defeat as he realized the worthlessness of arguing about such a thing. "No...You're right."

Seeming pleased with his victory, Komaeda smirked cheekily as he set the collar down on the floor beside him. With that over with, he returned to rummaging through the box.

Hinata, however, didn't seem to be able to let it go. His eyes were still fixated on the shiny metal, poring over every detail and slight scratch. "Does it…hurt to wear?"

"Hmmm," As Komaeda spoke he continued sorting through his items, not stopping to look up at the other. "Not really, but if you have children yanking at the chain all day it's likely to cut into your skin a little."

"I see…" Even as Hinata gave a gentle nod of acceptance, he didn't seem to be able to peel his eyes away.

Something about that collar intrigued him, something he couldn't put into words. Perhaps it was purely just because of how odd the garment truly was. It weighed on his mind with a strange familiarity he couldn't place, one that he could only guess was due to his merge with Kamukura. A past memory?

"Do you want to try it on?"

The offer was enough to snap Hinata from his daze, heat rising in his cheeks as he shook his head wildly. "N-no…that's weird…"

Komaeda picked up the collar again, the metal making a soft tink against his fibreglass fingers. He unclasped the collar, allowing it to bend into its two halves before holding it out towards Hinata's neck. "I'll help you put it on."

Swallowing hard, Hinata stared at the metal nervously. Looking at it made him feel strange. Fuzzy, almost as though a static was settling over his brain. Was he getting…close to remembering something? Or was he… turned on by it? After all, a human on a collar and leash was unnatural, yet a popular fetish. And Komaeda was someone he was sexually attracted to...

He could sit and ponder the possibilities for hours, but it would be an unproductive use of time. Hinata expelled all the thoughts swirling around in his head, instead focusing on the situation right now. This strange feeling intrigued him, despite the fact it made him anxious as hell for no discernable reason.

As per usual, Hinata's curiosity outweighed his anxiety. "O-okay…"

With a small smile, Komaeda shuffled a little closer. He pressed the cool metal to the front of Hinata's neck, watching as the chain pooled in his lap. He then closed the collar before doing up the clasp with a loud click.

Hinata seized, every muscle in his body suddenly tensing with an intense sensation of panic. The kind of panic that made you think "This is it, I'm going to die."

The world seemed to fall out from beneath him, quickly being replaced by a vibrant green room, filled with the noisy hum of electronic equipment running and observational monitors beeping.

Strange men in white coats were looking down at him, faces going unrecognised.

"N-no…"

This will be the final part of the procedure. Are you ready, "Hinata-kun?"

"N-no!! Don't touch me!"

He furiously attempted to swat away the arm reaching for him, but he couldn't. After all, they'd strapped down any part of his body that was capable of movement. His left cheek itched immensely from the electrode stuck to his skin.

"It's okay, Hinata-kun." The procedure will be mostly painless, it's likely you won't remember a thing. This the final stage, after this you will be released and reborn as the Ultimate Hope.

I'm barely hanging on as is. I-If you take away any more I'm going to die. I'm going to forget who I am…

I don't want to forget her!

Hinata desperately tried to grab at the restraint around his neck. He could feel his knuckles against his skin as his fingers gripped onto the metal, but he knew his arms had been restrained.

It didn't make sense. None of this is making sense. What is going on?

Somebody pulled his hands away, probably angry at his lack of cooperation. Fingers dug sharply into his chin and lips, forcing his mouth open as they pressed hard against his teeth.

Why were they doing this? This wasn't part of the plan.

He let out a loud noise of discomfort, struggling to shake himself free of whatever held him. But before Hinata could push free of their grip, something hard was forced into his mouth.

Huh?

His mouth was suddenly so...cold. Ice cold. Stinging and burning into his tongue. He thrashed and whined, attempting to remove the object from his mouth, but instead his jaw was forced shut.

"Hinata-kun!!"

Who is that? The voice sounded too young to be one of the surgeons.

"It's not real! Whatever's going on right now is just an illusion!"

He could almost laugh. He must be in denial, hoping that this nightmare wasn't turning out exactly the way it was meant to. After all, it was him who wanted this

badly.

"The Kamukura project ended a long time ago! You're safe now, Hinata-kun!"

The… Kamukura project?

Ah, that's right. I've already become Kamukura Izuru. I've been Kamukura Izuru. There's no reason for this to be happening.

Then that means…

This isn't reality.

Click. The soft sound of the collar's clasp being undone was what finally pulled Hinata back.

He could feel the ice melting against his tongue. The restraint had been removed from around his neck, yet the sensation of pressure and cool touch of the metal still lingered.

He should… try to open his eyes.

Cracking one open, Hinata found himself surprised by the flood of bright warm sunlight. The sharp contrast between that and the harsh neon green of the neuroscience institute surprised him.

It was almost as if the warmth of the world was welcoming him with open arms.

He could hear seagulls, the rhythmic thud of the washing machine, the sound of metal chain clattering against the wood floor and heavy breathing.

Ah, that was his own breathing.

A mess of fluffy, white hair was above him, knelt down and leaning over him with a look of panic on his face. It was a familiar scene, one that reminded him of the time when he woke up on the beach within the simulation.

"Komae-dah…"

The boy moved the instant he heard his own name, practically throwing himself at Hinata in a tight hug and pulling him upright off the floor. As Komaeda pressed his chest as close to Hinata's as possible, he whispered apologies quickly and harshly, fast enough to barely sound like coherent words.

"I'msosorryI'msosorryI'msosorry!!"

Despite his best efforts to speak, Hinata's voice was barely above a whisper. "I-it's alright…not your fault…"

He was still shaking and his hands were grossly clammy from all the sweat. He wiped them on the back of Komaeda's shirt and hugged the boy in return.

"I-I should have known…" Komaeda mumbled, squeezing tighter.

Hinata wasn't sure of what to say to reassure him, he really didn't want Komaeda to fall into one of his deprecation spirals, not right now. His head was pounding and he could still feel the electrodes attached to various places on his head and chest.

"Ko-maeda...I think I'm still…"

Komaeda leapt out of his arms, shuffling back a little before grabbing Hinata's right hand. "Ah sorry, I was…scared. But please don't worry about me right now Hinata-kun. Focus on getting yourself back down."

After nodding in response, Hinata took a deep breath and glanced around the room. He idly scratched at his left cheek as he took note of the objects around him.

Bed. Bookshelf. Messy stack of books. More fucking books. There's a gas mask under the- breathe. There is no gas mask under the bed. It doesn't matter. There's a coffee table. A desk that we added more recently.

Hinata swiveled around on his butt

The obnoxiously see-through bathroom. The toilet, bath, shower, towels. I think…I think I'm okay.

He let out a long sigh, relaxing his body enough to let himself fall back and lay down on the floor. Letting go of his hand, Komaeda continued to watch him cautiously. "Are you okay, Hinata-kun?"

He nodded. Still feeling a little uncomfortable with using his words, he opted to idly suck at the ice cube, reveling in the cool water dribbling down his throat.

Komaeda simply laid down next to him, wearing a gentle smile on that pale face. "We can stay here as long as you like, this was my last box of stuff anyway. If you wanna talk about it, you can. If you don't, that's fine too."

"I…" Despite the ice cube in his mouth, Hinata's throat felt unbearably dry and tight. "You were right. In your assumption…"

"Ah, so it was about the Kamukura project then." A soft sigh escaped Komaeda, one of dismay rather than frustration. "I couldn't think of anything else that would cause that kind of reaction. And I don't believe Kamukura did much during his time as a remnant."

Nodding again, Hinata found himself bringing his fingers to his neck. The skin was irritated, sore. He could still feel the collar sitting heavy on his Adam's apple, slowly crushing his esophagus…

"Hinata-kun."

Right. He took a deep gulp of air, having not realised until that moment he'd even been holding his breath. He was so grateful for Komaeda's attentiveness to detail that seemed to continue to save him time and time again.

"Do you like the weather here on Jabberwock Island?" The question came completely unprompted, out of the blue.

Hinata recognised this from one of their therapy sessions with Naegi, where he helped them learn methods on how to cope with these kinds of incidents. A subtle reminder of where the person was wrapped in a question designed to distract oneself. It seemed Komaeda had finally bitten back his curiosity in order to prioritise Hinata's fragile mental state.

"It's a lot like Japan's weather during the summer. Humid. I've never liked humid weather, it makes me sweat too much." He decided it best to answer the question, actually giving it a solid amount of thought. "Though it can be really nice when it rains and there's a humid heat, the atmosphere feels so strange."

Komaeda found himself smiling a little as he analysed Hinata's reaction. "Ah, I can understand that. The tropical thunderstorms we get here are quite interesting."

"It'd be nicer if they didn't trigger Saionji's panic attacks." Finding his mood suddenly souring again, Hinata muttered to himself.

"Trauma has unusual effects on people." Komaeda let out another one of those dry laughs, the kind he did when remembering something less than pleasant. "You and I both know this well."

There was a moment of silence in the room as Hinata blinked a few times, attempting to fully process the words as they were spoken.

"Yeah… I uh, I shouldn't have said that. It's not her fault, after all."

"You're allowed to have these kinds of feelings, you know? You're allowed to be angry that these things happened to us." Speaking in a tone of full yet agonisingly painful sincerity, Komaeda gently placed his right hand over the stump on his arm. "You're only human. You've always been human. It's better for you to express these emotions, especially after what just happened."

"I know… I just…" Gesturing vaguely, Hinata trailed off for a moment, unable to find the right words to describe his thoughts. "I just feel bad about everything that's happened. I'm kind of responsible for all of this. There's so many things that I wish I could change, wish I could have… done differently, I guess."

The other boy paused for a moment before speaking again, an expression unreadable to even Hinata painted onto his delicate features. "Hinata-kun…may I touch you?"

Hinata nodded in consent, and Komaeda wiggled himself closer. He wrapped an arm around Hinata's waist, humming softly as he snuggled up against the other.

"In all honesty, I just wish… I wish I didn't stop you at Hope's Peak. I should have let you shoot her. We wouldn't be in this stupid fucking mess if I just let you." Hinata's rage surged suddenly and he dug his fingers tightly into the fabric of Komaeda’s loose green jacket.

The anger within him eased as he clung to the other. Taking a moment before he groaned and buried his face in the other's chest, reciprocating the hug Komaeda had graciously offered him.

Once Hinata had noticeably cooled down, Komaeda spoke up again. "I don't think I was ever capable of killing her, even if you hadn't stopped me. My luck never planned for me to have an easy ride."

"Still, if I hadn't helped her at all-"

"Nothing would be different." The sudden stern tone made Hinata flinch. "You played less of a role in the whole thing than you care to admit, Hinata-kun."

Ah, he wasn't wrong.

All he had been used for was to manipulate the Reserve Course and put pressure on the faculty. She had other means of doing it and his denial to get involved would have just brought Enoshima more despair.

Hinata sighed loudly, moving his face up to Komaeda's neck and nestling his face into his untamed ivory hair.

"You're right…I'm sorry."

"It's fine, we all feel that way sometimes." Komaeda whispered, looping his other arm around Hinata.

As compelled as Hinata felt to object, he decided to accept it. Enoshima would have found other pawns to play her sick game with. They were lucky enough to just be alive.

They laid there in comfortable silence for a short while, basking in the warm rays of sunshine streaming through the window. All that could be heard was the sound of one another breathing and the ocean waves rolling into shore.

Fingers were threaded into the back of Hinata's hair, stroking through the strands soothingly as he succumbed to Komaeda's familiar touch and allowed himself to calm down. The gentle hold put him more at ease, pulled him back into reality, back into a world where everything was okay. Where there were no doctors here to hurt him, no anti-social scientists ready to break into his head, no creepy girls giggling as they tried to bludgeon him with a baseball bat.

It seemed as though Hinata's breathing had begun to slow down, his grip loosening as he was no longer desperately attempting to ground himself against Komaeda. It seemed he had calmed down enough to maybe talk about it, so Komaeda decided to pop the question.

"So, it was the collar that triggered it? Or a coincidentally timed flashback?"

"The collar. They used something similar to strap me down when they imbued me with my talents." As Hinata began to speak, his voice took on a dull and logical tone. "I believe any kind of restraint would likely elicit a similar reaction."

It wasn't unusual for Hinata to speak differently when recalling the operation or any of the events during the Hope Cultivation Project. It was as if he were trying to distance himself from the memories, to put up an emotionless front in order to make it hurt less. But at the end of the day it was more likely that he just saw things from an impersonal perspective.

Kamukura was always like that.

He never truly believed himself to be a part of society, a person of talent, a human. He was simply an outcast. Everything that he did or that had happened to him were just things that took place, nothing more, nothing less. Whoever's hands it were that dealt these actions meant little to him. The fact Hinata still tended to do this was likely just another side effect of the merge. Komaeda was just grateful that the tone of Kamukura's voice didn't frighten him anymore.

Before Komaeda's thoughts could spiral too much further into the contemplation of Hinata's actions, he spoke again.

"I'll keep that in mind. We'll make sure to add it to your profile's information, okay? That way this shouldn't happen again."

"Flashbacks are an inevitable part of having PTSD." Hinata mumbled the words into Komaeda's neck, seeming deflated.

"I know, but figuring out what triggers them helps." He ruffled Hinata's hair in an attempt to comfort him. "Once everyone knew not to use a hand saw around me, my stress went down immensely! I'm still so grateful everyone would do something like that just to ensure the comfort of somebody as worthless as me!"

There was another grumble from Hinata, who seemed unamused by Komaeda's comments. "You're not supposed to say stuff like that about yourself anymore…"

"And thus proves therapy isn't a perfect science either. At least it improves things bit by bit with time, like your triggers will." Knowing Hinata wouldn't be able to object to the argument, Komaeda found himself smirking a little.

He was right.

Hinata sighed loudly and snuggled closer into Komaeda's arms, groaning softly all the while.

"I know you think it's your job to protect all of us, Hinata, but having these issues doesn't make you weak. You're an Ultimate!" Upon seeing the other wince, Komaeda chuckled softly before directing his reassurance down a different path. "You do so much for our class, and we all love you dearly. Everyone wants to help you the best they can, Hinata-kun."

"Hm… do you think they would want to help me out with how cold my mouth is now?" Hinata squeezed the other boy tightly, keeping him firm in his grip.

"I can think of at least one who might-- Ah! Hinata-kun!!"

A cold tongue laved across the skin of Komaeda's neck, causing him to yelp and squirm. He attempted to push Hinata away, but was unsuccessful when the other boy suddenly rolled on top of him, straddling and pinning him in place. Leaning in close, Hinata eyed Komaeda's lips.

"May I?"

There was a soft huff of defeat from the boy beneath him, followed by a breathless laugh and that ever familiar smile.

"Of course."

Hinata pressed a light kiss to Komaeda's lips, causing the other boy to grin even wider as his cheeks flushed pink. "I love you."

"I love you too."

There was a moment of peace, perhaps the first true peace the two had felt all morning. Hinata felt hyper-aware of everything in the silence; the now lack of gentle thudding and swishing from the washing machine, which must have finished without them noticing. Dust particles danced in the golden rays of sunlight that always seemed to cut through any curtains they hung up. The gentle grey of Komaeda's eyes as they glistened slightly with tears after being the victim of a tickle assault, the slight red flush of his cheeks, the way his messy hair looked so nice with his bangs pinned back in order to keep the hair from his face and show off more of his forehead.

A warm sensation bubbled in Hinata's chest as he leaned his weight further onto Komaeda, allowing himself to relax with a soft sigh as he nuzzled further into the other boy. It felt as though he could fall asleep right there, completely calm in this perfect little world of theirs. Of course it couldn't last forever, but even so, it felt as though things were gonna be okay.

As long as Hinata and Komaeda were together, things would turn out okay.

It was no surprise that Komaeda was thinking the same thing, staring into those gorgeous mismatched eyes of his. There were scars on Hinata's face, scars that would continue to serve as painful reminders to both him and everyone around him. But Komaeda loved those scars, he loved every part of Hinata Hajime and Kamukura Izuru. No matter how many times they disagreed, fought, or got hurt, they always found solace in one another.

Komaeda had to pause to piece his train of thought back together. "Now, how about you get off me and let's pack everything back away, okay?"

With a gentle nod, Hinata shifted off the other's torso. Despite his mixed feelings on the loss of comforting heat and weight from Hinata's body, Komaeda sat himself up before rising to his feet and extending his hand towards the other. Hinata took another moment to recollect himself, before taking his hand and carefully rising to his feet.

Together they packed away all those memories, memories that would haunt them for a lifetime.

Your Handbook has been updated!

#Danganronpa #Komahina #komaeda nagito #Hinata Hajime #Ficgiri #Hinakoma

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thereluctantinquisitor · 4 years

Text

Quarantine questionnaire

Tagged by @lavellanlove. I’ll just throw a general tag out there for anyone who might want to share their situation (and especially their self-care strategies, because I feel like that’s an important aspect of all of this that largely gets overlooked)

Are you staying home from work or school? Yes. I had the strange foresight to quit my teaching job a few weeks ago before everything went to shit and pursue online university so... that worked out well. Especially given schools are still open where I am despite the risk.

If you’re staying home, who’s with you? My parents, my older brother and my goober dog.

Are you a homebody? Honestly, yes. I think I always have been, even if I really tried to force myself out of the habit in the past couple of years. Staying in doesn’t really bother me, although I will admit a bit of a strange, primal itch to go outside simply because I’ve been told I can’t (but don’t worry - I won’t!).

An event that you were looking forward to that got cancelled. The wedding of two of my closest friends. They’ve had to move everything (tentatively) to next year. I feel terrible for them, but they’re taking it really well and so far everyone they have deposits with have been very chill about it. My bonsai classes have been cancelled as well, which is sad. The community painting class I was planning to take with an old work friend (from back when I was in retail) also closed, so that plan is going to have to go on hold.

What movies have you watched recently? What shows are you watching? I recently watched Howl’s Moving Castle and Spirited Away with my mum and brother. I also re-watched The Hunchback of Notre Dame for the 10000th time. I am currently dreading looking forward to Cats with @lavellanlove whenever her schedule allows because apparently we like to suffer.

For shows, I binge-watched Season 3 of Castlevania (which was... interesting) and The Untamed and now I’m in TV series limbo.

What music are you listening to? Weirdly, none. I don’t really listen to music much anymore. It was something I only really did when I was driving, and even then, I ended up on podcasts like MBMBAM and Critical Role.

What are you doing for self care?

Online study has helped keep me grounded, because I generally do very poorly when I don’t have something to occupy me (semester breaks used to really impact me and my mental health, especially the long one at the end of the year).

Outside of work/study, I’ve been trying to get myself to write more, with mixed success. I feel over the past couple of years I’ve lost interest in a lot of my fandom OCs, and my attempts to rekindle that haven’t really worked out. I’m more interested in working on my original projects, but actually sitting down and writing a novel from scratch is definitely a skill I need to practice and refine. STOP REWRITING CHAPTER ONE, YOU FOOL.

Looking after my bonsai trees is very relaxing and grounding. I have them out by the pool, so I’ll bring a chair out and just work away for a couple of hours in the sunshine, trimming and wiring/re-wiring to the sound of water and birds and sometimes music.

Doing a bit more drawing. I bought a tablet a few years ago with the intention of working on it, but life got busy and it never really happened. So messing around and drawing stuff for my DnD campaign is a fun thing I do when I’m feeling a bit over it all.

After an archaeological stint, I have unearthed the ancient home gym that my dad bought before I was born. I’d like to get back into lifting weights and just getting stronger in general. Not gonna lie, it’s largely because I want to be able to give my dog standing cuddles for longer, but that feels like as good a reason as any.

I see my therapist every 2-3 weeks (depending on availability). I started around October last year and it’s definitely helped me get an idea of the feedback looks and criticisms I constantly level at myself and put them into perspective. I’ve got a long way to go, but I finally feel like I’m at least moving forward. They’ve moved to online therapy, so that’s good too.

Still keeping in contact with friends via discord (etc.), so that we can check in with each other. I think it’s easy to feel very isolated, so taking some time to talk with people outside your house can help.

I treated myself and bought myself a new knife, so I’m hoping to do more cooking as well!

#quarantine questionnaire #reluctant rambles #stay safe out there <3

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a-splash-of-stucky · 6 years

Text

no one left behind

Pairings: None

Summary: Steve becomes a cat-dad.

Warnings: None! (ok,,,maybe a bit of language)

WC: 2.6k

Notes: I love Steve and I love cats, so this fic was kinda meant-to-be. The kittens and their names are all based off cats that I’ve had at some point in my life. Written for @happystevebingo, for the fill “Kittens”

My Masterlist | Happy Steve Bingo Masterlist

Steve expertly guides his bike into his garage before putting down the kickstand and killing the engine. He pulls off his helmet and gloves, then rakes his fingers through his sweaty hair as he sighs in relief, grateful to finally be home.

‘Home’ for Steve refers to a refurbished warehouse about forty minutes away from Avengers Tower. It’s in a derelict industrial area, complete with sagging chain-link fences and crude graffiti adorning nearly every surface. There’re a lot of immigrants in the place, which makes for some pretty delicious takeout shops.

The Tower’s nice enough, and his floor has all the gadgets and gizmos that he could ever need (and then some), but there’s just something about this place that fills him with a sense of peace.

Steve’s spent the better part of the last three years working on this warehouse, tearing the walls down, only to build them back up. It had been his project, something that he worked on in between missions.

The warehouse is large and spacious, as warehouses tend to be. It’s got two floors and all the conveniences of the modern world, without any of the frivolous stuff. He’s opted for an open floor-plan, so all the rooms are connected to basically everything else, which makes the place seem even bigger than it is.

His garage is in a small outhouse located to the east of the warehouse itself. Once he’s stowed his helmet and gloves, Steve locks the garage, then heads out onto the short gravel path that takes him from his garage to his front door.

He’s itching to get inside and soak in a nice long bath, preferably with some Netflix and a tub of ice cream. This week’s mission had been particularly gruelling, and though he doesn’t have any severe injuries, his muscles are still sore from making the arduous trek across the Swiss Alps.

The Alps are just as bad now as they were back in the war.

Steve fishes his keys out of his back pocket as he comes up to his door. He pauses abruptly, immediately on edge when he notices that the shoe cupboard beside his front door is slightly ajar.

He’s sure that he closed it up properly when he left.

Tentatively, he wedges the toe of his boot into the gap and, after a deep breath, whips the door open, internally bracing himself to see a bomb or something.

What he sees instead is quite the opposite.

There, nestled amongst his Uggs and loafers, is a grey tabby, curled protectively around four tiny balls of fur. She blinks up at him, mildly dazed by the sudden burst of sunlight. Her mouth opens on a little meow.

Steve blinks, stunned.

Well then. This isn’t what he was expecting.

“Hey there,” he says quietly, as he slowly sinks into a squat, resting his elbows on his thighs. The mama tracks him with her intelligent green eyes, but makes no move to attack him. This close, he realises that the kittens are suckling on her.

“Wow,” Steve breathes, as he gets a proper look at them.

He’d thought there were four kittens, but as it turns out, there are five; one of the kittens is currently being squashed by all their siblings. One kitten is an orange tabby and one kitten looks like a miniature replica of its mother. The biggest kitten has fur as white as snow and is currently trampling a kitten that’s black all over, except for its paws, which are white — it looks like it’s got socks on. The kitten that’s being squashed by its siblings is white with black spots on it.

Steve watches them for a few seconds, a smile on his face; there’s something so serene about the scene.

It’s clear that they’ve been here for some time — maybe the mama even gave birth in his shoe cupboard. The strong odour of cat piss fills Steve’s nostrils, and a couple of bones on the floor indicate that mama has been out hunting for food at least once. Steve doesn’t know a lot about kittens, but judging by their size, these ones look to be a few weeks old, possibly.

Hesitantly, Steve stretches out his right hand, offering his fingers to the mama, for her to sniff. She recoils in suspicion at first, but after regarding him with baleful eyes for a few seconds, she leans forward and gives him a curious sniff. Mama cat doesn’t flinch away when Steve brushes his fingers over her head, so he takes that as a good sign.

Her fur is softer than he expected it to be — it’s silky, like the fur throws he’s got on his couch. When she tips her head up and back, he notices for the first time a dark grey collar wrapped around her neck. The fabric is dirty and fraying at the edges, and it’s digging into her fur like it’s uncomfortably tight. The place where a tag should be hanging is empty and the metal slightly deformed, as if the tag has been ripped off.

Steve presumes that this cat has been abandoned, possibly because she got pregnant.

People can be pretty damn cruel, sometimes.

He can’t leave her to be choking on her own collar, so Steve snaps into action. Hastily, he unlocks his front door, keys in his passcodes to turn off the alarm systems, then dashes into the kitchen, in search of a box. He finds a large delivery box in his recycling pile which he opts to use.

Steve stops by his laundry room to retrieve some old clothes that he’d been planning to donate at the local charity store. A few of t-shirts will make for some nice, soft bedding.

Once he’s back outside, Steve sets the box down by the shoe cupboard. Mama cat blinks her green eyes at him curiously.

“I’m gonna move you guys in here,” Steve tells her, as if she’s intelligent enough to talk back to him.

Then again, who knows. Cats are strange creatures — perhaps she does understand English.

Steve hopes that mama cat doesn’t mind being picked up. Gingerly, he reaches into the shoe cupboard and gets his hands around her; luckily, she doesn’t twist away or try to scratch him. Steve winces when the kittens begin mewling in distress as soon as he lifts her up, their sharp, pitiful cries piercing the air.

Mama cat wriggles in his grip and tries to get away, so Steve quickly dumps her into the box, then hastily scoops the kittens up in his big hands and places them inside, next to her.

Steve takes a step back and gives them all a minute to settle down. He watches as the mama licks at her kittens to make sure that they’re safe, purring loudly all the while to soothe them. The orange and white kittens are nuzzling insistently at her tummy, so she plops back down onto her side, allowing all five kittens to latch on again. Once they’re suckling happily, mama cat glances up at Steve and flicks her tail lazily, as if to say we’re in here — what’s next?

“I’m gonna carry you inside, okay?” he says, in response to her silent question. Whether by coincidental timing or because she understands and actually agrees to his suggestion, at that moment, she flops her head down and closes her eyes.

Confident that they’re not going to put up too much of a fuss, Steve gets to his feet and picks up the box, taking care not to jostle the inhabitants around too much. He sees mama cat tense up in alarm, but she makes no move to leap out of the box, which he is thankful for. Steve carries them into his house, kicking the front door shut with his foot. For lack of a better place to put the box, he sets it down on the kitchen floor, beside the island, before hunting through his drawers for a pair of kitchen shears to cut off that collar.

“Aha!” he says triumphantly, when he finds them in his cutlery drawer.

(Why they were in his cutlery drawer he’s not entirely sure. He thinks Sam might’ve had something to do with that.)

Shears in hand, Steve kneels beside the box and waves them at the mama.

“I’m gonna cut that off you,” he says, gesturing towards the collar. “You’re gonna feel better after that.”

For a brief moment, Steve wonders why he’s narrating everything that he’s doing to the cat. He finds that he’s got no answer for himself other than ‘it feels appropriate’.

After adjusting his grip on the handle, Steve reaches into the box, moving slowly so as to not startle anyone. Mama cat tenses like she’s going to scurry away when he grabs her collar between his finger and thumb, but relaxes again when she realises that he means her no harm. Her tail is curled protectively over her kittens — and isn’t that just the sweetest thing he’s ever seen?

With one quick snip, the fabric collar has been cut. Steve backs away fast, so that he doesn’t stress the mama out any further. She shakes her head and moves it around, like she’s relieved to have finally regained full range of movement in her neck. He fishes the offending collar out of the box and dumps it into the trash, before heading to the sink to wash his hands.

Steve leans against the island as he observes the mama and her kittens, who have now had their fill of milk and are eagerly exploring the box that Steve’s put them in. Since she’s no longer being crushed by her offspring, mama cat pushes herself up onto her legs, eyes the edge of the box, before elegantly leaping out of it. Once outside, she sits down beside it, then turns to look up at Steve.

They stare each other down for a few long seconds, before she finally lets out a quiet meow.

Steve tilts his head to the side. “What?”

In response, she gets up and starts sniffing the corners of the box. Her kittens are still playing inside it, curiously examining his old t-shirts.

“You want me to take ‘em out?” he asks her.

She turns to him and lets out another meow — somehow, she sounds more insistent this time.

“Okay, sure — I can do that,” Steve says easily.

He picks the kittens up one by one, depositing them on the kitchen floor, beside their mama. They’re so — tiny. He can feel the rapid flutter of their heartbeats against his fingers when he picks them up. They wriggle and mewl, unaccustomed to being lifted so high, but once he’s put them back on solid ground, they calm down again.

Upon further inspection, Steve realises that these kittens must be a couple of months’ old, at least. They’ve moved past the ‘drowned-rat’ stage of their life, and now resemble fluffy balls of fur with legs. They’re toddling around, barely able to stay on their feet as they pad across the kitchen tiles, still not quite able to properly coordinate their limbs. It’s clear that they have a while to go before they develop the quiet grace that is so typical of felines.

Mama cat is busy licking herself clean, but from the way her ears are constantly twitching, Steve knows that she’s keeping an eye on her little ones.

Slowly, Steve sinks to the floor and folds his legs underneath himself, so that he can watch the kittens better. They’re extremely alert, looking around his place with their wide, inquisitive eyes. He watches as the white one with black spots playfully leaps onto a couple of its siblings, which results in a brief tussle amongst all three of them.

The black one with white paws toddles over to him. Steve watches with bated breath as it sniffs curiously at his kneecap.

Apparently, he smells okay, because a second later, the kitten digs its claws into his trousers and clumsily climbs onto his thigh. It sits down and looks up at Steve with its big blue eyes, before letting out the tiniest of squeaks.

A funny feeling blooms in Steve’s chest. It’s as if his heart is rapidly expanding, growing so large that it’s pressing up against his ribcage and squashing his lungs, making it harder to breathe.

He realises that the kitten looks like a cat that he had back when he was a kid.

Or, well.

He didn’t have a cat, so much as the cat had a human. He and Bucky had called her Misty, and she used to come to his fire-escape every now and then. She’d been a scrap of a thing, always peering at the world through suspicious, beady eyes, but for whatever strange reason, she had a soft spot for Steve. He used to leave bits of food out for her, if ever he had any to spare.

Steve takes one look at mama cat, gives a cursory glance over her balls of fluff and decides then and there that there is no way he’s kicking any of them out.

“We need to give you all names,” he decides.

“I’m calling you Stripey,” says Steve, addressing the mama cat. Yeah, maybe it’s a tad unoriginal, but she’s got black stripes on the bottom half of her long tail — it’s a sensible name for a cat.

Steve settles on Snowball for the white kitten and Junior for the kitten who looks like a miniature version of Stripey. The white one with black spots is called Spotty (again: super original) and the orange tabby he names Sam, because Sam’s more of a dog person, and Steve’s got a twisted sense of humour.

“And you,” he says, talking to the kitten still perched on his thigh. He boops its nose with the tip of his finger. “I’m calling you Mittens.”

The kitten meows in response. Steve takes that as a seal of approval.

It is at this moment that Steve realises that his house is sorely under-equipped to take care of a cat and five kittens; he hasn’t even got any milk in the fridge, for fuck's sake.

“JARVIS?” he calls.

“Yes, Captain Rogers?” JARVIS replies.

Tony had insisted that he integrated the AI’s system into his warehouse, so that Steve would still be able to receive news from the Tower (in case of emergencies). JARVIS also handles his state-of-the-art security system, which is an added bonus.

“I’m gonna need everything you’d need to look after a cat,” says Steve. “Uh — cat food, kitty litter, a litter box. Maybe some catnip — is that even a thing? Oh, and a cat tree.”

Stripey perks up at the words ‘cat tree’ and turns to look at him, her eyes narrowed accusingly.

“Make that two cat trees.”

“That’s all been ordered, Captain, as well as some cat treats and nutritional supplements you might consider useful,” JARVIS says smoothly, “They’re due to arrive at your warehouse by the end of the day.”

———

Sam pays Steve a visit two weeks later.

He opens the front door using his spare key, only to trip over a cat toy that had been left on the floor. Just as he opens his mouth to ask Steve why the hell he has a cat toy, a ball of orange fur skitters across the floor, towards the kitchen.

Two seconds later, four other balls of fluff appear out of nowhere, racing off in the same direction.

“You got kittens?” he asks incredulously.

“Yeah!” Steve calls, from the kitchen. “The orange one’s named Sam.”

“Aw, you named your cat after me?” says Sam, sounding pleased. He pauses for a moment, a slight furrow developing between his brows.

“Steve, you know I hate cats.”

“I know you do. That’s why I called him Sam.”

“Goddammit Rogers,” Sam mutters.

#happy steve bingo #happystevebingo #steve rogers #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers fanfic #captain america #captain america fanfic #captain america fanfiction #my writing

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owlyteas · 3 years

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One more game project I got an idea for but haven’t done much with (yet).

But here’s some concept art anyway because why not? :D

So one of my favorite games ever is Monster Rancher 4, I got it when I was a kid in middle school and wasn’t sure if I was going to like it because I only knew about the Monster Rancher TV show, but oh my how I fell in love with this game. I obsessed over it.

I tried and looked at a couple more games in the series but none of them really scratched that itch I had so fast forward to now and I go “well if nobody’s going to make anymore Monster Rancher games anytime soon...why don’t I just make my own??”

Easier said than done though lmao

So I don’t have anything programmed but I did want to create a bunch of monster species to be in the game. I really liked what MR4 did where it gave you a whole bunch of monster species but then you could combine them to get even MORE diverse species and there were so many cool ones I never got to raise.

Right now I’ve got two species representing one of the elements (which are currently fire, earth, wind, water, ice, nature, light, dark, and magic). That makes 18 species right now but there might be more if I think of more designs. The fun part is going to be designing combinations between the different monsters, so maybe I won’t need to introduce anymore base monsters if I’m creative enough haha. I’ve only come up names for a couple of them and some of the designs will probably change as I get further into the project, but these rough sketches should do for now.

I’ll try to actually start working on the game itself before I talk about what I want to do with it. But basically I wanna keep a lot of the stuff from MR4 but it also has some VERY deep and complicated mechanics that I don’t think I’d be able to handle all the coding for but the basics of raising monsters and fighting would be about the same.

#monsters #video game #indie game #concept art #game dev #my art

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roarbeast · 7 years

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I’m back!

I would like to share with you the story of a health issue I have recently overcome, and of which I am currently coming out the other side.

Over the past several years, I've fallen into depression. The whole thing started in 2012 or somewhere near. I have never been very in touch with my emotions, and depression is described as more of a numbness than sadness -- so it was not something that was remotely apparent to me.

What I did notice is that I was unable to focus or get things done. I would rearrange my task list, I would try to make tasks more fun, I would deliberately take some time off and try to relax -- but none of it seemed to have any sort of positive affect.

Eventually it reached the point where instead of managing to scrape a couple hours of work out of a week, any time I sat down I would be have to push through this nebulous black wall of … something. It wasn't apathy, disinterest, hate, paranoia, or even anxiety. I was paying attention at this point, and I don't have a word to describe it. It was just some kind of wall of black mist that would push back at me harder than I pushed at it.

It reached the point where no matter how hard I forced my will against it, I would get surrounded and overwhelmed by it and have to call a retreat. By this point I had set a deadline for myself. If I was unable to complete the project I was working on, I would see a doctor and figure out what was going on. It was a month before the deadline still when I realized that this simply wasn't going to work, and was not something I could solve myself through force of will.

While I may not have known exactly what was going on, based on the symptoms it seemed like depression was the culprit. The doctor agreed, and while it took me about six months to admit it really was depression to myself, we started up some antidepressants.

I am not a fan of mind-altering drugs in any form. I don't even like painkillers because they can make me cloudy. But I was at the point where I needed a way out, and while SSRIs have a laundry list of side effects and are questionable in their efficacy, it was something, and I had to try something.

The side effects were awful.

When I first read the list, I laughed at the "yawning" side effect. Then I got it, and it was not funny anymore. It was like an itch you couldn't scratch. My jaw almost ached, like just before you yawn, but yawning gained no relief. Fortunately that one subsided after a couple weeks.

For any SSRI, there's a 20% chance of causing insomnia. I had always thought that insomnia meant you just couldn't fall asleep. I didn't realize it meant you could sleep 12 hours, and then wake up tired because the sleep wasn't effective.

Normally when you sleep your body paralyzes itself. The SSRI broke some of that, and when I would dream of some actions, my body would take that action. Sometimes they were big things, like trying to leap over a pit, and I'd be snapped awake as my legs shot straight and tore my covers off. Most of the time it was small things. Gestures, pivots, whatever, that wouldn't fully wake me up, but would knock me out of deep sleep. I assume that's the case, since if I wasn't deeply sleeping, they would wake me up.

Worst of all, since I was tired all the time, my safeguards kept failing. A lot of people seem to have it easy socially. If they want to talk to people, they do. There are only a few people I can honestly just sit down and talk to. Normally to engage others I have to filter everything I say through an emotion translator, or have several layers of checks on whether this is something that's appropriate or not to say.

Here is a relatable example, so people don't think I'm a terrible person. Say someone is complaining about difficulties in their life. Being me, I might notice that there's a single point of failure going on -- the cause of all of these problems. "Solving their problem," while it's what I would want people to do for me, generally doesn't help them at all. Generally a sob story is about emotional venting or receiving pity, not about solving problems. Because people are weird. But I'll play their game.

My filters also help me logically eliminate a lot of talking points. I tend to look at the big picture, and work in a top-down way through a logical pyramid. But if their education, experience, history, and interests can eliminate the top 10 levels of the pyramid, and all of the topic's cousins except for a few, I can jump in and participate in the conversation without asking 20 clarification questions.

With those bits broken, I can say some stupid stuff, confuse others, and even horribly offend them. Which I did. Which really sucks.

I started on the antidepressants about a year ago. I also started seeing a counselor. I was able to trace the source of the depression, realize what was wrong with those ideas, and reclassify some events in my personal history.

While the full story of what caused the depression and what I fixed has several personal elements I'm not willing to share, I'm happy to share the big picture.

I found a "dream job" relatively early in life that promised to be at least moderately lucrative. I pursued it, but failed to produce enough lucre over the long term to sustain myself. I interpreted this financial failure to mean that my dream was dead.

The whole timeline was slow enough that it wasn't obvious without stepping back and looking at the big picture. However, after I got towards the end of it, I was stuck in a pit and could not see the big picture anymore.

In reality, the financial issue was primarily a marketing problem. The projects were as innovative and well crafted as I planned them to be. The customers loved them, and sales were high. The primary difference, extremely obvious in hindsight, is that the initial product consisted of three items that could be bought, while following products consisted of only one. The sales of the single products were comparable to the sales of one of the original three, illustrating their success.

So here I am on the other side, currently weaning off the antidepressants. Apparently they have another set of gnarly side effects when you get off them. But it's been a year since I've actually slept and woken up rested, so if I can get that, things will be much better.

Interestingly enough, the thing that really motivated me to move forward was revisiting my dream job. I feel the most important thing regarding revisiting failures is to make something new, rather than try to recreate the past. So this is a sequel, not a reboot.

Life is hard, but I'm doing ok now. I'm ok.

#depression #health #life #dream

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mrsteveecook · 5 years

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my coworkers won’t come to my meetings, ankle-length hair at work, and more

It’s five answers to five questions. Here we go…

1. I can’t get my coworkers to read my updates or come to my meetings

I am interning in an office for the next three months, and have been tasked with leading a project. The result of this project will be launched several months after my internship has concluded, so my fellow project team members will take it over once I leave.

My issue is that I don’t think my coworkers are as concerned about this project as I am. To give a few examples, I send weekly updates via email that no one reads and I schedule meetings that team members skip without notice beforehand or acknowledgement after. When we have work to be completed, I’ll ask my team members to choose which portions they want to work on, and one particular team member just doesn’t follow through, even after I get our shared supervisor involved.

I don’t know how to address these issues. I’m an intern and have little clout in this organization. The only method I have of holding team members accountable is reminding them repeatedly of deadlines, letting them miss the deadline, and notifying the supervisor if the missed deadline seriously impacts our work. I feel like I want to stop working so hard to keep them up-to-date if they don’t care about this launch as much as I do. I have a sneaking suspicion that once I leave, they’re going to let this project fall through the cracks, but that will not be my problem. How should I continue to address these issues until my internship ends in the next few months?

Well, it’s possible that they’re actually prioritizing correctly — they may have work that takes precedence over this project, and that’s why they’re not invested. And they might not actually need the weekly updates or the meetings. Or maybe they really are supposed to be more involved, and they’re shirking their responsibilities. If that’s the case, that’s not something you have the power to change on your own; you’d need your boss to handle that.

Either way, the best thing to do here is to talk to your boss. Explain what’s going on and ask her if you’re expecting more involvement from people than you should, or whether you do actually need them reading updates/attending meetings/doing pieces of the work. If it’s the latter, then say this: “I’ve tried talking with people about this quite a bit, and I think it’s at the point where they’ll need to hear it from you, since I don’t have the authority on my own. Could you talk with people about how you need them to be involved?” And if that doesn’t solve it, then go back to your boss and just loop her in — as in, “I wanted to let you know that I’m having trouble getting ___ from people. So I’m doing X, Y, and Z, but I want to make sure you know those other pieces may not be finished by the time I leave unless Jane and Fergus have time for them.”

Beyond that, though, I’d definitely look at ways to streamline what you’re expecting from people. Unless your boss says otherwise, it might be that weekly updates aren’t necessary, and maybe the meetings aren’t either. When people are busy, it’s often the case that if you ask for less of their time, you’ll get it more reliably. (And if this is your one big project while they’re juggling a bunch of things, it’s understandable that you’re more focused on it than they are.)

2. Will almost-floor-length hair hold me back professionally?

I have very long hair (almost floor-length when it’s down, and I keep it that length just because I like it, not out of any religious or cultural obligation). I always wear it in a conservative updo that hides the length during interviews and for the first few weeks of job-related situations because I don’t want it to be the first thing people notice when they meet me in a professional context, but it’s much easier and more comfortable for me to wear it in a braid.

Do you think letting on that I have this unusual hairstyle is something that’s going to hold me back career-wise? I love it, but it’s pretty far outside of the norm and tends to provoke a lot of questions and comments, and I would hate to have people make assumptions about me or be distracted from the quality of my work. So should I suck it up and wear it in updos at work forever, or can I sometimes go full-on Tangled at work and wear it in ways where it’s visible?

If you’re awesome at what you do, almost-floor-length hair isn’t going to hold you back. But it’s definitely unusual enough that you’re likely to become known as The Person with the Floor-Length Hair and some people will find it odd. You might be totally fine with that, but there’s also an argument for not wanting people at work to be thinking about your hair at all. It’s up to you where you come down on that.

3. Using sick days for vacation time

I started at a company in July that has a fairly generous PTO program (three weeks vacation, four employee-designated holidays, 10 sick days). I am of the mindset that sick days are for when you are too ill to come to work and/or need a mental health day. The only time I’ve ever pre-scheduled sick time is when I’ve had a medical appointment or a medical procedure scheduled in advance.

I was approached by a new hire who is fresh out of college, whose mother works in HR at another company. She advised him that when taking time off, in general, to use sick days and employee-designated holidays first, since they don’t carry over from year to year, then dip into vacation. He mentioned that he plans on taking the one employee designated holiday and the two sick days he has for this year at Christmas since he has to travel to see his family.

I encouraged him to talk to his manager and get his input, but I’m wondering how I should have advised him as a colleague with slightly more time with the company and more life experience (I suspect I’m old enough to be his mother – eek!). Am I being too strict in how I think of using sick days? We have the ability to work from home, so I typically use them when I am at death’s door or just mentally exhausted (I’m bipolar II with generalized anxiety disorder, so I consider it a public service taking a day off when I feel a depressive cycle coming on).

Nope, the way you described this working is how it works at most companies. Sick days and vacation days aren’t interchangeable; that’s why they’re not in one pot. They’re a safety net to be used for when you really need them, which is part of why they don’t roll over.

Your company almost definitely doesn’t intend for sick days to be used for pre-scheduled vacation, so you were absolutely right to encourage him to talk to his manager about it. If you’d wanted, it also would have been fine to just say bluntly, “That’s never been the case anywhere I’ve worked, and in some companies you’d get in trouble for using sick days that way so you should definitely talk to your boss before you do it.”

4. My manager scratches his butt before high-fiving us

I am a supervisor for a retail store and work with a sales manager who is very big on high-fives as motivation. However, I have seen him many times scratch his butt and then go to high-five someone. If it was a one-off scratching a small itch, that would be one thing but it’s happened many times and it’s a full-on scratch (leg straight and into the crack scratch). The first time he tried to high-five me after I saw this, I hugged my hands to my chest and said I have a germaphobia about high-fives and getting sick. I do have a slight germaphobia (12 years in retail will do that) so it’s not a full-on lie, but the issue is now when my staff do something I can’t high-five them without him noticing. Is there another way to deal with this?

Do you have the kind of relationship where you could just be straightforward? As in, “I saw where your hand just was! No thanks.”

If not, then you’re going to have to stick with the germaphobia story, which you’ve already put out there anywhere. And yeah, that means you can’t high-five others.

But also, why is he prefacing all his high-fives with a butt scratch? This is weird indeed.

5. My boss wants two months notice

I work in a very small office where I am the office manager, in-house biller/accounts receivable manager, technical producer for our in-house podcast, head of volunteers and interns, HR manager, etc. As you can tell, I wear almost every hat in my current company. Because of this, I am worried about pulling away from this role, leaving such a large gap to fill. My boss and I have discussed it briefly when we had our yearly review meeting where I requested a raise (as I was originally hired on as an office manager only several years ago) on the basis of maintaining at least six different positions, more than enough for just one person. My boss explained that he was fine with me looking for another job if I was unhappy with what I was being paid, but I would have to give two months notice to find someone as “specialized” as myself. I know he is worried that no one will agree to six different people’s jobs with the mediocre pay, and he’ll end up needing to hire more than one person to fill my position, which I get the feeling he is trying to avoid. And while he said he was fine with me looking, it was delivered very passive aggressively and ended with, “Good luck finding a job that pays you as much as me,” along with a whole slew of other rude remarks.

If I manage to get a job offer, how do I (1) tell my boss that two months notice is too long for a job to hold a position for me and (2) either convince someone to take on six different roles with very little pay, or convince my boss to break up my role into several roles?

You can certainly suggest to your boss that he break the job up into several roles, but you don’t need to convince him, and you don’t need to convince someone to take on the job for little pay. None of this will be your problem; it’s your boss’s, and you don’t need to solve it for him because it’s not your responsibility to that and it won’t affect you any longer.

As for the amount of notice you give: It’s ridiculous for him to expect two months notice. When you resign, give the standard two weeks and if he objects you can say, “They need me to start in two weeks and don’t have any flexibility.” If he reminds you that he asked for two months, you can say, “I didn’t think you were serious about that, since two weeks is standard and there’s no way they’d hold the job for me that long.” And if he’s really obnoxious about it, remind him that he suggested you look for another job if you wanted to be paid more.