#and I have one that has seen better days (I got her from eBay and half her whiskers are gone her tail is gone and she’s missing patches) so
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11/13/2023: Everyone, please meet Camilla Hect!
Camilla here was originally Just Like You #62. I was absolutely dead-set on finding this exact doll for Cam because of the following logic: I personally use the actress Ariela Barer as a drawing reference for Cam. Ariela Barer, coincidentally, played Sonali in the American Girl movie Chrissa Stands Strong. While the Sonali mold is used by a variety of dolls, #62 is much closer to Ariela Barer's actual skin tone (and the skin tone a lot of fan art uses for Camilla) than the Sonali doll proper (and Sonali is extremely hard to find for prices I'd pay, especially for a doll I'm modding). #62 also has what are described as "amber-brown" eyes, but look passably grey-brown in person, so I'm not going to have to eye-swap her!
#62, however, came with some beautiful, glossy, very un-Camilla hair.
Lovely, right? But very not her.
(Also, look at her face, she is so cute. All of the dolls are cute, but I am particularly delighted by the Sonali mold dolls, I think because that was one of the molds that wasn't released until after my original childhood dolls phase so it's new to me.)
Luckily, this provided a very convenient solution for another problem here at Saint Alecto's: Abigail's poor coiffure.
As you can see, the hair our dear Lady Pent came to us with has seen better days. To say nothing of the frizziness (which we would gladly treat if that were the only problem!) there's that inconvenient case of back-of-head bangs she had going there.
So!
As I have done several times now, I set about removing the girls' wigs. (I get my advice, as I'm sure many of us do, from @desertdollranch's rewigging post.) This is a significantly more stressful process when you're trying to maintain the integrity of one of the wigs you're working with! (And okay, Gideon's wig actually came on Harrow's doll so I have reused before... but it didn't matter if Gideon's hair got a little messed up in the process. It adds character.)
My beloved wife and fellow... uh, guardian (I guess? God, we're not their moms, that would be so weird!) of the dolls @incomprehensiblelentils was, as often she is, ready with the Magic Eraser for sudden trouble spots; she also provided support (literally: holding the girls as I worked) and company.
And lo and behold!
Abigail Pent now has a beautiful new hairdo! (And I am more convinced than ever that she's going to need some lipstick. Nothing crazy, just a bit of color. That's for another day.)
More importantly, Camilla now has her trademark bob, as seen above. It's the Hoshi in chocolate brown by PurplePlumWigs (and yes, it is kind of gay* that Cam and Dulcie's wigs came from the same shop! This is part of why we can't be their moms: so many of these kids are in lesbians* with each other!) Her overalls are by StarBriteDoll on Etsy; the boots and tank top are harvested from eBay outfits.
(Abigail's outfit is also from eBay: glasses, sweater, skirt, shoes.)
#saint alecto's home for wayward girls#the locked tomb#camilla#abigail#american girl dolls#american girl#american girl doll customs#american girl ooak
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Here is my first "finished" rerooting adventure: Jazzie, the "Cool Teen" Cousin of Barbie!
... Eeeeugh, so late 80's/early 90's.
While Francie is my favorite member of the Barbie Extended Universe for a variety of reasons, I do have something of a soft spot for the lesser known of the cousins. Wanna say my sister and I did have a Jazzie doll at one point growing up; the body she came with originally did look very familiar but I'm not 100% sure.
Jazzie has a very sweet face mold, one that I'm honestly surprised they haven't reused since then.
(Side note, I headcanon that Kelley from the 1979 'Starr' line became the Heart Family's Mother character. Aside from having the same face mold, theoretically they *could* be the same character, but I digress)
I found a really cheap Jazzie on eBay a while back and after getting her, I immediately rebodied her onto a Spa Day Barbie from a couple years back. She looked quite nice, but something didn't gel with me. After I got the bug to learn how to reroot, Jazzie became one of my next guinea pigs; going from a very soft yet untameable bleached blonde to a short-haired strawberry blonde (Marzipan from ShimmerLocks, for those curious).
She had some pretty big holes in her head that, at the time, I couldn't readily fix with either glue or steam. Given what I was working against, she didn't lose clumps of hair or have major head splits (unlike Silkstone Midge... ooof) which was kinda surprising. Honestly thought there was going to be at least one big split with how Mattel at the time practically shoved more hair than necessary into the root holes. ._.
This was also my first time boil perming and while it could've turned out better, for a first time it turned out alright. This necessitated the purchase of some fabric scissors for some cleanup.
Thankfully, it didn't go totally off the rails and now Jazzie looks pretty classy if I do say so myself. Again, there was a lot that could be done better, but you gotta take the small, initial victories where you can. Have a good idea of what to do/what not to do for next time, because there will be a next time: I'm already eyeing some Glitter Beach/Sun Sensations I've seen on eBay with some fun hair colors (like blues... you gotta have blue hair!) or perhaps something darker. Maybe even try to salvage Chelsie with her hideous grin, idk.
(NOTE: I'm incredibly bad about getting "Before" pictures, so I used the one from the original eBay listing from vansa11)
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So it turns out I completely forgot to take any pictures of my last sewing project. Oops. In fairness, it's a gift for my mother, whose birthday is tomorrow, and I didn't want to post any pictures until after it had arrived at her house and been opened. But I still meant to take some pictures, if not of the process at least of the final product. It wasn't until I got home from mailing it that I realized I full on completely forgot to take any photos at all. Oh well. Maybe Mom can snap a picture or two for me since I flat out forgot. Pics of that if/when I actually have them, lol.
But I'm already into my next sewing project, and I've resolved not to make that same mistake again. Which, really, is nearly the same mistake as I made with my fleece dress last month, when I didn't take any pictures at all until all the major seams were sewn. After documenting so much of my sewing throughout 2023, I seem to have completely forgotten all about taking photos of my works-in-progress the last couple of months. I aim to get back on course with this project, though!
The project in question is a hooded wrap sort of thing, made from the black and gray brushed cotton herringbone that I got a bolt of on ebay a couple of weeks back. After washing the bolt, it looks to be about 43" wide and roughly eight and a half yards long. I want to make an overdress for my fleece dress out of it too, but I think this wrap project will only take up about a yard and a half, maybe two, so I should have plenty left for an overdress. And then I can wear the wrap and the overdress together, potentially.
But really the thing I'm sewing this for is my birthday, which is coming up in about seven weeks. I have somehow talked Jack into going to Disneyland and spending all day in the Star Wars Galaxy's Edge area so I can pilot the Millennium Falcon as many times as possible, and doing some original costuming "Batuu-bounding" while we're there, too. Because I am nothing if not a costume nerd, and my life-long love for Star Wars has recently been reignited, so what better way to spend my birthday than dressed up in one of the best examples of 360 degree set building that I've ever seen.
After combining a bunch of pieces from my closet and my costume boxes, I've come up with an outfit that I like the look of, for a general purpose Force-sensitive smuggler pilot: my every-day tall Doc Martens with wraps over them, leather-look leggings, the vest from my Moment cosplay, and various accessories from my pirate-core and Wasteland days. I may need a better shirt to go with it, but I'm hoping to hit up Goodwill at least once or twice between now and then and see what I can find. The final choice will depend on a bit on the weather that week, which in late February in southern California can be literally anything from the cusp of freezing to 80 degrees, sunny or rainy or windy or some combination of all of them. I won't really know until the weekend beforehand.
Besides a shirt, the last piece I really want to add is this hooded wrap, both for practicality -- warmth in the morning and the evening, and keeping the sun off my head at midday without messing up my hair too much -- and for just the drama of a big hood and drapey wrap. I based the hood pattern on the hooded Vuvalini jacket I made for Wasteland Weekend way back in 2016, but took it in a bit both in width and depth (since I'm not trying to catch the wind with this one, and won't be wearing a fluffy scarf with it).
Over the weekend I drafted a pattern and made a mock-up, but the mock-up is really kinda ugly, since I used left over fabric and made a part of it significantly smaller just to save on fabric, so it's one of those mock-ups where you have to squint and imagine what the final product will look like. Not going to bother taking pictures of that. But it did serve the purpose of clarifying some design elements and finalizing fit, so still worthwhile.
With the hood pattern drafted and tested, and measurements for the long wrap bits figured out, I went ahead and cut it out of the herringbone fabric. Here it is all cut out, three pieces for the hood and two pieces for the back:
I'm doing french seams on this project, both to combat the fabric's tendency to fray, and to keep all the inner seams looking pretty when the hood is down, etc. Tonight I sewed up the first set of seams on the center back of the wrap, and all three hood pieces (as modeled by my sewing ham):
Tomorrow I'll press those narrow seams flat, and then sew each of them again a bit further in to completely encase the raw edges (ie a classic french seam). Next step after that will be attaching the hood to the right angle formed by the wrap pieces coming together in the center back. I did this, with shorter and narrower pieces, in my mock-up, and it's a little bit fiddly but not too bad. I didn't french seam the mock-up though, so we'll see if that adds any headaches to this.
Once both stages of the neck seam are done and the hood is attached, the last step will be hemming! And it's a lot of hemming, lol. The shorter edges of the wrap (starting from the top of the center back, where it meets the hood) are each 48" long and 18" wide. I actually haven't measured the outer, longer edge, nor done the math to figure out what it must be given that the center back is cut on a 45 degree bias, but let's just say it's a lot of inches. And then there's the hood opening too, which was cut to have a generous drape. Many many inches of hemming, really probably better measured in yards.
I need to play around with a couple of options, see if I like the look of top stitching or if I want to do the whole thing by hand with invisible stitches, but right now my assumption is that I'll end up doing this by hand. I actually enjoy handsewing hems, so that's not the worst thing in the world, and I've got plenty of time to get this finished before I plan to wear it at the end of February. I do have at least one other sewing project I'd like to tackle for our Star Wars Batuu-bounding day, and I'd like to leave room for other things to come up at the last minute too, so I'm going to keep buzzing through this just as quickly as I can. More pictures tomorrow, in all likelihood.
After I call my mom of course, and wish her a happy birthday. And beg her for photos of that thing I made for her, lol.
#my sewing#hooded wrap#Batuu bounding#Star Wars bounding#Disneybounding#2024 mood#long post#I am stupidly excited about this whole thing#my outfit and Jack's outfit and going to Disneyland and piloting the Millennium Falcon again. all of it#we have reservations for some of the harder-to-get-into things too#but I'm hoping it'll be a pretty quiet day in the park when we go#mid-week at the end of February isn't really busy time#it was pleasantly quiet when my mom and I went in October. other than the rush for RotR right at opening#Jack hasn't been to Galaxy's Edge at all and this trip largely came out of my desire to share it all with him#and yes also my desire to pilot the Falcon again AND get to dress up a bit too#hopefully there'll be lots of photos of all of this ~7 weeks from now
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I can’t come up with literally anything for my writing assignment. I might have to bust out my sylvanian families and just write whatever fucked up story they tell me
#yes im an adult and I collect sylvanian family cats deal with it#I have one in my car as well she is called Juliet#and I have one on my desk that is sitting (wait for it) AT A SYLVANIAN DESK and she has a little black dress on and she is me#and I have one that has seen better days (I got her from eBay and half her whiskers are gone her tail is gone and she’s missing patches) so#I need to buy her a little dress but her name is Tess :)#also (to anyone who’s gotten through my sylvanian cat rambling) if we ever had discussions about plot that neither of us have written yet#PLS REMIND ME#IM DYING I NEED SOMETHING
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Day 3 - Original
So...About That Jacket...
MASTERLIST | PREVIOUS | NEXT
Marinette was going to kill him. She was going to murder Adrien "Radiant Carefree Dreamy" Agreste. Say goodbye, world, to the blond sunshine. He was not long for this world, and it was inevitable for it to be shortened because of his actions. She could handle the drama. She could handle the daddy and mommy issues. She could even handle the goddamn leather cat suit.
But this? This was where she drew the line.
"What," she growled, pinning her brother down with her glare and the mop she found in the kitchen, "did you do to the jacket?"
Adrien was cornered. He had nowhere to go. All possible exits were blocked by Marinette, Plagg was preoccupied with two whole wheels of Camembert, and Marinette had that look in her eye. The one promising pain and torture and his anime collection finding itself on eBay before he could even say "spaghetti". What's worse was that Marinette knew she had him on the ropes.
He gulped. "I can explain?"
"Start talking." She leveled the handle to his neck, and his eyes grew frantic. "If you talk fast enough, I might cancel the auction for your PreCure action figure in time."
"You don't mean..." He gasped, covering his mouth with his hands. "Not Cure Twinkle, Go! Princess Precure limited edition! Anyone but her! Take Cure Flora, or Scarlet, but not Twinkle!"
"Then, you better start talking, Agreste."
He cried like a baby after that.
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"You what?"
"I'm so sorry, Mari! I thought it was one of my jackets."
"It was on my bed. It was in my room. You don't just take stuff out of my room—"
"But we had movie night in your room, and I was in a rush! You know how my professor treats students who are late, even if it was just once!"
"That doesn't mean you get to give the jacket to a random stranger in the street who looked cute!"
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Marinette flopped on the couch, grabbing onto a discarded throw pillow. "What am I going to do?"
"Can't you just buy him a new jacket?" Adrien suggested, then held up a throw pillow in front of his face. The amount of times a heavy object was hurled at his head by a grumpy or catastrophizing Marinette was enough for him to be fearful of her moods.
She mumbled gibberish into the throw pillow. "I'm sorry, could you repeat that again for me, Mari?"
"I can't." She lifted her head off the pillow to give him a self-loathing glare. "His grandmother made it for him. He told me when we went on that study date."
"Oh." Adrien deflated, not even noticing she called it a date like he had been telling her it was. An idea hit him. "Well, why don't you make one for him? An MDC original, handmade by MDC herself, has got to be worth something, right?"
Marinette opened her mouth to refute it, and closed it, thinking. If she could make it exactly how it was when she got it...
She jumped up, rushing to her bedroom. She needed to research where the hell could she buy flannel from Kansas fast.
As soon as she left the room, Adrien collapsed on the couch. He congratulated himself. He wasn't going to die today. Maybe.
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Two days and one sleepless night later, she regretted all her decisions. Thank Kwami it was a weekend.
Somehow, she had convinced Kaalki to transport her to a small haberdashery in rural Kansas. The isolated town of Smallville was quaint with its little shops and smiling folks. Vintage cars and retro shops lined the streets, and they even had an old school general store near the center of town. It looked like a place she could imagine herself growing old in, and she would have loved to explore the place more, maybe get one of those famous apple pies Jon kept telling her about, if she hadn't seen the boy himself sitting in the back of an old blue pickup truck the moment she stepped out of the haberdashery.
So, you might ask, what did she do?
Simple. She ducked in between the haberdashery and the laundromat, summoned Kaalki, and portalled out of there in five seconds flat.
That wasn't even the least of her troubles. When she came back to class on Monday, Jon sat next to her like usual. It would have been fine until he mentioned her visit to Smallville. She didn't even realise that he'd seen her.
"Uh— yeah Smallville went— I mean, I went to your Smallville— wait, no that's not right, I wanted to jacket—" She lit up bright red and shoved the box she carried into class at him.
"Oomph!" Jon held the box and furrowed his eyebrows. "What's this?"
She took a deep breath. "So you remember that jacket you lent me when we first met? The flannel one that your grandma made you? Well, my roommate slash brother kinda took it without me knowing and somehow gave it to a stranger, so I made you a new one and it's made of the same materials that your grandma used, at least I think they're made of the same material and I couldn't find the correct buttons so I picked the closest one to it and I'm sosorryagainit'sallmyfault—"
She didn't even know her eyes were closed until she was shocked by a weight falling on her shoulders. The surprise made her jump, hitting Jon on the forehead.
"OUCH!"
They looked at each other, and they laughed at the red forming on their heads. They were a pair of blue-eyed clumsy idiots. But, they were a pair of blue-eyed clumsy idiots together in the same economics course.
Grinning, Jon opened the box, took out the jacket, and put it on, showing off the back to Marinette. "How do I look?"
The MDC original signature fluttered on the collar as he spun around.
"It's perfect." She beamed, clutching her hands close to her heart.
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Bloopers:
Adrien nudged her as she ran to the car waiting in front of the campus. "Hey, hey, hey—"
"What do you want?" She hissed, resisting the urge to yank him by the ear. Damn tall genes.
"You might want a stop staring at his neck like that." He wiggled his eyebrows. "He's gonna start thinking you're a vampire, or maybe you've got a neck kink—"
"START WALKING, AGRESTE!"
so i've rewritten this author note at least four times now, so I'm just gonna leave it at the regular greetings. like, reblog, and comment! thanks for @maribat-calendar-events for the wonderful prompts, and everyone have a good day
tag list: (OPEN TAG LIST)
@verymuchimmortalcat @wolfy-kat @jumpingjoy82 @couffeeine
#SuperMari May 2022#SuperMari May#maribat#romance#platonic#maribatmarinette#maribatmarinettedupaincheng#maribatjonkent#supermari#supermari may pre emptive#marijon#jonette#original
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I'm in a mood™ so i was wondering if you had any hcs of the batkids growing up together? (babydamibabydami)
I've done this before in this ask but I'm more than happy to add on!
(Also screw canon age gaps, I'm doing what feels right.)
Bruce, Talia, and Selina are all co-parents in a poly relationship
Duke likes to finger paint
Babs got a used accordion for fifteen bucks at a garage sale
Damian's first "real" food was Talia's rice pudding
Wayne Enterprises has an entire floor dedicated to looking after not just Bruce's, but all the employees' children. Carrie declared herself the "Queen of the Fourth Floor"
At one point Tim was getting bullied so Dick drove Cass, Jason, Harper, and Cullen to the bully's house in the middle of the night and the five of them stood outside their window with plague doctor masks chanting in Latin until the bully swore to lay off
Just like how Damian's first word was Jason's name, Damian's first steps were toward Jason after a bad day at school
Dick is lowkey jealous knowing he's not Damian's favorite sibling
Steph and Duke made a go-kart out of a red wagon, and that's how there's a Duke-shaped hole in the fence
Cass owns fifty water bottles but uses the same one every day
Bruce chaperoned Dick's junior prom
Selina gets each kid a cat on their birthday
Babs came to class late with coffee one time and the entire class now calls her the "Starbucks white girl"
There's an under-the-table vegetable swapping system at dinner, where the kids trade out the ones they don't like for the ones they do. The ones nobody wants are mashed up and given to Damian
Carrie is the champion nose-picker
Steph and Duke were born just a few hours apart at different hospitals, and are therefore known as the twins
Tim is not allowed to use chopsticks. Not even the little kiddie ones
Cullen once brought an entire head of lettuce to school as lunch
Bruce plays classical music around Damian, but Jason counteracts it with trashy punk rock
Bruce: "Studies say it helps babies grow intellectually"
Jason: "He's not supposed to grow, he's supposed to be our baby brother"
Duke likes cherry tomatoes over regular tomatoes because they're colorful
Harper got her motorcycle license before her driver's license (thanks to Kate)
Dick slices his string cheese. Wally bites into his. Babs is horrified by both
Nobody remembers the last time Bruce Wayne was seen not wearing a baby carrier
When Duke eats salads, he imagines he's a giant consuming an entire land (and the olives are people)
There's a five-year gap between Jason (age 12) and Tim (age 7). The reason is since Bruce adopted them in birth order when they were babies, he planned to stop at five kids, but then Jason got irrationally angry about being the youngest so Bruce got Tim and it all spiraled from there
Harper once melted an entire stick of butter and convinced Cullen to drink it
Dick once tried to sell Jason on eBay
Damian is very territorial. Nobody can touch his stuffed animals—even for washing—unless he gives them explicit permission
Tim once tried a cheese taste test with Damian, and that's how they learn Damian is lactose intolerant
Harper once bought thirty pounds of beef jerky online (she accidentally typed a 0 after the 3)
Talia helps Jason with Arabic homework
Damian produces the stinkiest farts
All WE employees get six months paid maternity/paternity leave
Tim and Kon got "married" on the playground with Jason as the officiant, Steph as the flower girl, and Duke as a ring bear (he dressed up as a bear and brought Ring Pops)
Steph and Duke are kept on child leashes when they go to the amusement park because they keep trying to get on rollercoasters they're too short for
Jason's also kept on a child leash, but that's because he tried to take the head off every costumed mascot at Disneyland
Even though the ingredients are the same, Dick inexplicably makes PB&Js better than everyone else
Kate can clear ten hot wings in sixty seconds
Bruce has appeared on the cover of more parenting and family magazines than celebrity and business ones combined
Instead of using her skills to hurt people, Talia uses them to protect her newfound family
Alfred secretly joined a senior citizens book club to brag about his grandchildren
Someone once said to Selina, "You know he's always gonna pay attention to kid kids first, right?" To which she replied, "I wouldn't have picked him if he didn't"
#ask#anonymous#batfamily#batfam#batclan#batman family#batkids#batsibings#dc comics#headcanon#tw food mention
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Cox: I bought a giant octopus
Metro UK ~ Thursday 21 Feb 2008 9:38 am
Actor Charlie Cox, 25, is doing quite well for himself. He played the lead role, Tristan, in recent fairytale flick Stardust and finds himself treading the West End boards in a Harold Pinter double bill of The Lover and The Collection, not bad considering it’s only his second stage performance. Stardust is out now on DVD.
What is the secret of your success?
I’ve been lucky but I take my job seriously. I work hard and do a lot of text work. You hear some actors say you either can or can’t act but I sit down with the text and write a lot of notes. I don’t just rock up to the audition and blag it. My career has been about being in the right place at the right time. I got an agent because I met someone when I went bowling.
When did you realise you were good enough to act for a living?
I thought I was terrible at drama school. There were a lot of times I wanted the teachers to put me out of my misery and tell me to leave because the other 12 people in my class were so much better than me. I’ve now done work which I’m proud of but I find it hard to watch my own work critically. It’s cringe-making and, of course, you never believe your own performance. I know I’ve got a lot better and learnt a lot. I can see how far I’ve come.
What other careers did you consider?
I wanted to be a football player. I was the top goal-scorer at my school. Maybe I’d have liked to have been a gardener, I like the idea of it. I’ve never grown a plant but you get to work outside and you can travel all over the world. It’s very creative. It seems like a very peaceful job, the opposite of being in a celebrity-type job.
When are you moving to LA?
Never. I really struggle there. I love London, I love the weather. I’ve never got a job from auditioning in Los Angeles. I don’t think my American accent is very good. I don’t like living out of a suitcase and not knowing anyone. It’s like living in the office. Everyone’s an actor in LA and everyone talks about films. It consumes everything. In London I’ve got friends from school and they’re bored of me talking about acting. We talk about football.
Do you like being recognised?
It’s mainly children who recognise me from Stardust and that’s nice. When a little boy or girl comes up to me they think they’re talking to the character in the film. That’s sweet. It’s nice to be able to say hello. When someone approaches me like that I know that I’ll be polite and kind and sign something. I’ve seen some celebrities be rude to fans and it’s not nice.
You’ve got five tattoos. What are they of?
They’re just random thoughts. I’ve only got them because my best friend, Scott Campbell, is a well-known tattoo artist. My last one was a funny-shaped pattern on my arm. It’s quite intricate. Scott did one for my mum. It was her 61st birthday and she had her first tattoo; it was of a sweet pea flower.
You’re pals with Sienna Miller. Is she misunderstood?
Yes, she’s a lovely person and a terrific actress. Maybe she’s made some bad decisions, it’s not my place to say, but she does get a hard time. She’s a nice girl and does a lot of work for charity.
Has she made you wary of the pitfalls of fame? What won’t you be doing?
I’ll try not to fall out of clubs naked and drunk. I’m not suggesting she does that but I’ll try to behave myself.
Do you have to be posh to go to Sherborne School [in Dorset], as you did?
Yes, relatively posh, or your folks have got to have enough money. I was at a day school in London and asked to go to boarding school. I had friends who went and heard stories about them pillow fighting and all the sport seemed better. I went and never had a bad experience at school.
What was the last thing you bought on eBay?
It was by mistake, I accidentally clicked on it. It’s a big octopus that hangs on the wall and it’s got “head” written on it. Apparently it’s something to do with boats. It looks awful but it’s quite funny.
~*~
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Sorry to ask but is it ok to give a full summary on what is wrong with the BATB live action remake? I only heard a handful of them from disneyfan50 so I want to hear from you if there’s anything wrong with the BATB remake.
The Beast gave it his all but Emma Watson was a bad choice she was just basically Hermoine but bland and the autotune sucked. They had no chemistry, Belle comes off as a snooty brat and somehow they made her an inventor bc gal powah apparently. Also the Beast is kinda lacking too but eh. Somehow they gave Gaston a sympathetic backstory bc that's what cool these days. They made Lefou gay because I guess being a sycophant equates to sexuality when cogsworth was right there like you could TELL he movie was made solely to appease to critics who get their information from Buzzfeed and Cracked. Like when Belle comments about talking furniture or having to explain how she and Maurice moved or the enchantress all that stuff like no one wants that extra shit! They try to make it where it doesn't come off as Stockholm but again the chemistry between Belle and Beast here severely lacks in genuine heart.
But the biggest thing i hate about the movie was Belle's ball gown Now in DP movies the "fancy" gown is often the biggest iconic part of the movie
Look what they got Hermoine to wear
Whoops!
It's so plain and boring! Sticks out like a sore thumb among the other costumes; which are actually close to historically accurate the film was aiming for. There's detailing on the skirt but you barely see it! I've seen prom dresses on ebay look better than that!
Once Upon A Time has a tv budget but YET managed to design a better dress than a multi-million dollah movie!
It's different yes But still harkens back to the original. You can actually see the gold details! The fabric is very shiny and gold not that banana colored shit! Even her hair is reminiscent of the cartoon vs that flat ass ponytail.
Now look at this multimillion dollah celeb infested monstrosity:
No pomp. No floof. No whimsy. Just a bunch of flimsy slices of homogenized cheese!
Hate hate HAAAAAAAATE!!!
But for all intents and purposes it's just one of the most obvious examples of why Disney shouldn't fix what isn't broken!
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Just wanna catch people up and thank the kind few people who have noticed my absence and checked in.
So, a few days before Christmas I got Covid. Yes I'm very pissed off about it, I've done everything right, worn my mask, social distanced, avoided really crowded venues, never broke the lockdown rules, had my jabs and still caught it because there are shitty people out there that aren't doing any of the good stuff I had and kept spreading it around so much that nothing was keeping it away from me.
I've spent the last week or so just collapsed on the couch, not doing much of anything.
I felt awful, like a bad flu. I'm talking shivers, aches, headaches, cough, snotty nose, light sensitive eyes, chronic tiredness, dizziness and loss of appetite (this bitch had better be super fucking skinny by the time this is over) and I'm finally starting to feel a bit human again.
This sucks because my Crimbo Limbo rest time has been spent resting because I've had to, not because I wanted to. I missed out on dinner out with my family boxing day, and seeing my aunt who I haven't seen in two years because of the pandemic and her having been in France. It's been shitty.
I really wanted to get some writing done, to get my house tidied up after Christmas, to remove the tank because I lost my snake a few weeks before Christmas, and all I've done is lie on the couch trying to decide if it's too much effort to die or not and put myself out of my misery.
Thanks to @myladykayo for checking in daily, @soniabigcheese for the messages ive only just seen @the-original-sineater for messaging to make sure I was still alive @olliepig and @misssquidtracy for checking in daily too.
I think I've got a tag from @jbarkerstargazer too, glad the secret Santa story is liked.
Hopefully I'll be back on here soon once I can stand to look at a screen for more than a few minutes. I did say on the discord that I had covid and wasn't well but I don't know if anyone saw it as no one said anything so I thought I'd post here too.
My Anderson friends knew I was alive only because a Robert Harrop collectable John figurine vanished from eBay at 2am (he's gorgeous) because I decided I needed John to make me feel better.
#christmas covid#covid for Christmas#dont ignore it it sucks#not just a cold#thunderbirds are go#thunderbirds#thunderbirds 2015#thunderbirds fanfiction#john tracy
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fic: at certain times
word count: 12k
tags: year 2 canon-divergence, getting together, first kiss
summary: The Swallow's Samwell Awards issue of '15 crowns Jack and Bitty as Samwell's cutest couple. It is somewhat unfortunate, then, that they're not actually a couple at all.
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The kitchen smells like something burnt, a smoky tang that clings to the walls and floors, stings inside Bitty’s nose. April should smell like hot cross buns and zucchini bread, he thinks wistfully, but it turns out that some Aprils poor ovens are pushed to their last legs prematurely, leaving his kitchen smelling like Ransom forgot his frozen pizza in the microwave again.
Dex has been tending to Betsy on her deathbed all month, spending most of his free hours at the Haus. Bitty called him again after class, while he was standing in Superberry with Jack, and promised to pay for his services with froyo. Said froyo -- which Jack insisted on paying for, bless him -- is still on the table, untouched, yogurt melting over the rim of the paper cup and dripping onto the wood. Dex has been kneeling in the same strip of sunlight on the floor since he arrived with his toolbox. Bitty isn’t sure what exactly he’s been doing, but he seems to be too busy waving a screwdriver in the air and ranting to remember his abandoned bribe.
“So we finally got over the fucking Samwell Republican sticker thing,” Dex says, his face red and his brow furrowed. He’s been disgruntled all day because of an email he’d received, which he claims Nursey will never let him live down. "And Bitty, I know this is Massachusetts, okay? But I haven’t even actually voted yet! Fucking Swallow. How can I be Best Republican?"
Bitty hunches over in his chair, palms clasped together on his knees like a prayer. He’s anxiously following the motions of Dex’s screwdriver with his eyes while listening with only half an ear, deeply confused by the conversation subject. “The Swallow does pieces on politics? I can’t even imagine what an article like that’d look like, honestly.”
Dex grumbles quietly, shoving a hand under his backwards snapback to scratch at his hair. “No, it’s like -- their Samwell Awards thing? I don’t know, I just got an email about it this morning. I guess it’s like that 50 Most Beautiful shit they do.”
Bitty’s never heard of it, but then again, Bitty carefully sidesteps most articles of The Swallow whenever he comes across them. Those guys write about their team an uncomfortable amount for a university with almost ten thousand students. As long as Holster or Ransom aren’t reading it aloud at team breakfast, Bitty’s not eager to find out what The Swallow has to say.
He asks, though, because Dex seems to be upset about this and his frogs need to be handled with care. “Like in high school yearbooks?” Heather Barron was his class’ Best Laugh back home, and she made everyone who signed her yearbook tell her a joke so she could laugh for them.
“I guess,” Dex says distractedly. He bends down low to reach something close to the floor. “This girl from my Intro to CompSci class got the same email about it -- she won Best Dressed. I mean, who even judges these things? That’s a matter of taste.”
Dex wipes a dusty hand across his forehead and Bitty momentarily forgets to care about The Swallow in favor of looking on worriedly. Betsy is unplugged from the wall with her back side facing the room, surrounded by loose cables and scattered bolts. She looks old and frail. Bitty kind of feels like he’s watching an open-heart surgery occurring right in front of him.
“Can you save her?” Bitty presses a hand over his heart, dreading the reply. Dex wrinkles his forehead even further and doesn’t meet Bitty’s eyes.
It is then that their ordinary afternoon is interrupted by three emphatic knocks on the front door of the Haus.
"Did someone just knock on our door?" Shitty yells from somewhere down the hall. Bitty assumes he’s still curled up on the couch of sins in a t-shirt and flimsy underwear, mourning his grandparents’ affirmative RSVP response to graduation.
His tone sounds downright shocked at the sound, but that’s probably reasonable. Bitty’s been living in the Haus for over nine months now and he’s never once heard anyone knock on that door. It’s always unlocked, anyway; it’s actually nothing short of a miracle that they’ve never been burglarized. Not that there’d be anything to steal, of course, other than Holster’s collector's edition Simpsons DVD box set, or maybe one of Jack’s used jerseys to be sold to the highest bidder on ebay.
"Well, whaddaya know,” Ransom appears in the hallway outside the kitchen doorframe, likely summoned downstairs by the abnormal noise. His eyebrows are high on his forehead as he stares down the hall at the door. “It didn't collapse. I told you it’s sturdier than it looks."
Neither of the boys makes a move to actually open the door. There’s a second set of knocks, this one slightly louder than the first, and Bitty huffs as he gets off his chair. He casts one last hopeful look over his shoulder. Maybe, he wishes silently, Betsy has performance issues and would be magically fixed once she’s not under his constant scrutiny. Or maybe Dex does, and would magically fix her. “Y’all, when someone knocks on a door, they generally expect you to open it for them.”
He shoulder-checks Ransom on the way to yanking the door open, and is presented with some guy Bitty’s never seen before standing on their front steps. He’s wearing an atrociously ugly plaid vest and an awfully wide smile, which only grows wider when he sees that it’s Bitty who’s opening the door.
“Eric Bittle!”
“Yes?” Bitty agrees, eyebrows drawing together. He’s usually pretty good with faces, but he doesn’t think he’s seen this guy in any of his classes. Maybe a hockey fan. Still -- Bitty’s mother brought him up right, and he’s resolved to stick to his manners even if he now lives in a frat house. Someone with malicious intentions, he rationalizes to himself, wouldn't knock before entering. “Hi. Wouldya like to come in? I’m afraid our oven’s down, so I don’t have much to offer in terms of baked goods --”
“Oh, no, that won’t be necessary!” The man dismisses quickly, his smile not waning any; it’s hard not to eye it suspiciously. Absently, Bitty can make out the sound of feet shuffling, which presumably means the boys are crowding together behind him to peer curiously at the stranger on their doorstep. “I’m from The Swallow, I’m here to deliver a message for you. And Jack Zimmermann, but I’m sure you can pass it on. Our annual Samwell Awards issue is coming out early next month, as you know --”
“Sure,” Bitty confirms politely, although he’s never heard of the thing until about two minutes ago. There’s no sense in getting the man down.
“-- and we wanted your response on the win. We do that for the real popular categories. If you want to draft a short statement, you can reply to the email we sent you two --”
“I’m sorry,” Bitty cuts him off, maintaining a carefully polite tone. He hasn’t checked his email since the previous night, too preoccupied with avoiding his American Publics essay and fretting over Betsy. Somewhere behind him there are more heavy footsteps coming down the stairs and one of the boys whispers excitedly, Bitty won a Samwell Award!, though he’s not sure which. “What win? Who’s you two?”
“Oh,” the Swallow guy blinks, obviously taken aback. His smile doesn’t completely disappear but thankfully thins a little bit, at last stretching over less than two thirds of his face. He looks marginally less maniacal like this, Bitty thinks uncharitably. “You and Jack Zimmermann?”
There’s another shuffle of feet. Bitty turns his head to catch Jack pushing Shitty aside, coming to stand a step behind Bitty’s right shoulder. Bitty hasn’t seen him since they got back from Superberry and Jack headed upstairs to study, chirping Bitty for not doing the same all the while. He’s taken his thin fleece jacket off since, and the soft V-neck he’s had underneath clings to his biceps, to the shape of his pecs. His hair is messy, the smell of his aftershave hasn’t faded yet, and his palm rests lightly between Bitty’s shoulder blades to keep his balance in the narrow, crammed doorway. Bitty’s stomach jumps at the sight of him and he can feel a reflexive smile tugging at his lips. It’s an uncontrollable reaction to Jack’s presence, no matter how many times Bitty’s seen him that day. Good gracious, but it’s plumb pathetic.
Jack is oblivious to Bitty’s eyes on him, too busy frowning at the Swallow guy from above Bitty’s head. “What is this about?”
The guy’s expression is clearly confused, despite the upturned mouth in his creasing face. His eyes survey the huddled group in front of him searchingly, as if waiting for them to catch up. When no one adds anything his smile drops entirely and he says: “You guys won Cutest Couple!”
Time seems to slow down while Bitty’s mind stomps on an emergency break and short-circuits completely. He knows things are happening in the backdrop, can hear someone behind him, probably Holster, choking really loudly on their spit, but none of it truly registers.
The Swallow guy is frowning now, looking completely baffled as to why they’re not enthused at the news. “Seriously, did you not get the email?”
“We. What?” is the only thing Bitty manages weakly. Whatever smile was on his face is thoroughly wiped off now. His heartbeat begins pounding in his ears, drowning out any further background noise under its heavy thrumming. From the brief glance he braves, Jack is not coping much better. His mouth is opening and closing silently.
"Yeah!” The guy recovers, apparently blind to the catastrophe he’s inadvertently causing. “I mean, I’ll be honest, some of the staff was like, ‘enough with the fucking hockey team’, and Khalil and Sara who did that awesome Halloween costume, they came really close -- but I was totally on your side. Anyway, the draft should be in your inboxes. We’d like to have your response in the next couple of days so we can start running it. The more romantic and gooey the better, of course. Thank you!"
He smiles and then skips down the stairs before Bitty’s brain fully catches up with what has just occurred on his front porch. He can barely grasp at tail ends of thoughts before they slip away from him, disappearing in a cloudy daze of absolute horror. His pulse is still racing and his fingers, wrapped around the door handle, are trembling.
Behind him, Ransom makes a slow wheezy sound and then descends into hysterical laughter. Bitty’s feeling rather hysterical himself, actually, but he’s not in the mood for laughing at all.
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“Can’t believe it’s another year we didn’t win Best Party,” Holster mopes back in the kitchen, sprawled out spread-legged in a chair with his arms crossed over his chest. “It’s because of Alpha Sigma Phi and their fucking tropical Christmas party, I know it, Rans, I can feel it in my booze bones. Like, okay, they served drinks in real coconuts while bare-ass naked in twenty degrees, so what."
Ransom reaches out to give him a consolatory clap on the back. "We've always got next year, bro. Our names will appear on the holy Swallow pages, I promise."
“You’re right,” Holster sighs rather dramatically, sagging down a few extra inches in the chair. “We mustn’t despair. I’ve already bookmarked some ideas -- think we can keep live parrots in the Haus? Only for a few hours!”
“What I would like to know,” Shitty muses, stroking his mustache between two fingers while looking from Jack to Bitty’s flaming face and back again, “is who the fuck is their source. I mean, no offence, Bits, but if anybody is going to be Jackie’s fake-ass boytoy I call double fucking dibs and I’m willing to fight you on it.” He then considers it for a split second longer and says, “Or negotiate with food, honestly, I’m amendable.”
“Cooking is a touchy subject right now,” Dex mumbles from his perch by the counter, away from the cluster of boys that’s spread out at the table.
Dex looks like Bitty feels, actually: like he’s seriously regretting being present in this instance, and is looking for any excuse to make a quick escape. Or -- maybe only partially how Bitty feels, anyway. There’s another whole side of Bitty that’s feeling like there’s a vacuum in his chest, a ringing in his ears, a voice in his mind whispering, they know, they all know, Jack knows and he hates you for it.
Bitty has been studiously avoiding Jack’s face since they all withdrew from the door. He’s convinced that his feelings are written all over his face, pining daydreams altering his features and sappy midnight fantasies painting his cheeks bright red. He’s sure that one look in his eyes would give away every guilty thought he’s had since November, so he determinedly keeps his head down. Only, then Jack clears his throat and Bitty can’t help but spring his eyes up to look at him -- like a moth drawn to the flame that’d inevitably scorch it.
"Well, whatever is the misunderstanding, obviously they can't actually run that, Bittle. I mean, because. Hockey, and." His eyebrows do something complicated that Bitty cannot bring himself to study too closely.
The words hit like a two-hundred pound flour bag dropped on Bitty’s chest, weighing him down into the floor. Bitty tries to swallow, fails, tries again. His throat still grates like it’s made of raw sandpaper when he speaks.
"Right, no, of course," there’s this horrible sinking in his gut, a phantom sensation of freefalling that tastes like acid when it reaches the back of his tongue. "Of course, Jack. I know that. The last thing you need right now is --" he finally swallows past the lump in his throat, drops his eyes to watch his toes curl inside his shoes and dent the fabric upwards. “-- rumors about the gay kid on your team.”
Shitty says, “Bitty,” with a sharp edge in his tone, and when Bitty looks up Jack looks like he’s been struck.
"Hold on, Bittle, that's --"
“It’s okay, Jack!” Bitty makes a valiant effort to smile reassuringly. His chest is growing tighter and tighter, and he really can’t handle hearing Jack’s explanation right now. He feels like he’s shaking all over, like more and more words are being rattled out of his mouth without his permission. “I mean, it’s utterly ridiculous, but that’s The Swallow for you, I ‘spose. We’ll tell them it’s nonsense before anyone in the league catches wind of it. I’m sorry I even put your career at risk like that, honestly.”
“Bittle,” Jack says again, more firmly. He looks almost angry.
Holster’s stunned look is flickering between the two of them, and Bitty can feel the humiliation crawling up the back of his neck. He thinks that if he stays sitting in the kitchen any longer the boys might actually hear the splintering sounds his heart is making in his chest. Or he might start crying, whichever comes first.
“Don’t worry about it, really,” Bitty forces himself out of his chair, squeezes Jack’s elbow in passing for good measure, even though bringing his hands anywhere near Jack feels like torture. He doesn’t want Jack to feel guilty about this -- it’s not his fault. “It’s fine. I gotta go, I’m meeting Prof. Atley, but we’ll talk about it later, okay?”
He bolts out of the kitchen and rushes down the hall. The last thing he hears is Ransom saying, “Dude, I’m pretty sure his meeting with her was like, four hours ago,” before the Haus door slams shut behind him.
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The worst part is, Bitty knows Jack is straight.
Jack dates 50 Most girls from the tennis team, he takes ladies in tall heels to Screw, he brings puck bunnies to his room during kegsters. Or -- that turned out, actually, to be not all that true after all -- but.
Jack is straight. Bitty knew this all along. Bitty knew this and still let his foolish, stubborn heart say, maybe. Bitty saw Jack laughing at his weak chirps, and looking at him sometimes when Bitty was turned away, and there was that party, with Parse, and Bitty’s blood was rushing in his ears and he tried so hard not to listen, but they almost looked like they -- and Bitty thought, maybe --
But Jack wasn’t. Of course not. And Bitty knows it’s so unfair and so unjustified that he’s allowing himself to be mad about Jack’s words. Because these boys accept Bitty for who he is, have never shied away from him, have always been comfortable with his presence in their lives and their house and their locker room, and that’s not something to be taken for granted. It’s not their fault that they’re straight and that’s easier, not their fault that Jack’s straight and Bitty can’t bring himself to let go. Besides, something like this, it could wreck Jack's career even if it were true, and it isn't, so of course Jack would want it gone. It's not personal, Bitty knows. He has no reason to be so hurt.
Except maybe it stings a little, how untrue it really is. Maybe it burns a little inside to know that other people see what he sees, what he wishes were true, and still know that he can never have that for real. And maybe it hurts, that Jack can so easily make the article go away and never deal with those rumors again, because it's simply not true about him, but it will always be true about Bitty. Maybe he’s tired of how he will always have to fight for his place while people like Jack Zimmermann can walk right in.
Maybe.
But none of it is Jack's fault. Because Jack is straight, and Bitty isn’t, and he’s gone and fallen in love with him anyway.
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Breakfast with only Lardo and Jack is a quiet affair the next morning. Habit has them settled down at the team’s usual long table, but they take up significantly less space just the three of them. Bitty is surprised by the two empty seats remaining to each side of them despite the crowded dining hall, but considers that maybe the Samwell population knows whose seats are available and aren't willing to risk it.
Lardo is chewing her toast silently by Bitty's side, oversized hoodie draped over most of her face. Jack is sitting across from them, peeling the shells off a pile of hard-boiled eggs. His body is curved in a stiff line over his plate and his elbows are tucked in close to his sides. He keeps sneaking glances at Bitty every few minutes, looking torn; Bitty busies himself with spooning exactly three banana slices in every dip into his oatmeal bowl, keeps hurriedly shoving them into his mouth every time Jack looks like maybe he’s going to actually say something.
Bitty spent the majority of the previous night hiding out in a quiet corner of Norris library, binging episodes of The Great British Bake Off on his phone. When he ultimately found the courage to come back to the Haus, he power-walked straight into his room and didn’t venture out for anything more than brushing his teeth. The walls in the Haus are thin, however, and he could still hear Jack in his own room through the closed doors, speaking on the phone with his father in brisk French. They didn't exactly sound angry, but Bitty had unintentionally overheard enough of Jack’s phone conversations to recognize Jack’s business tone easily.
Jack’s lawyer had sent The Swallow a sternly phrased email first thing that morning -- for formality, Jack informed Bitty when the two of them left the Haus for breakfast with Lardo. His hands were tucked deep in his pockets and his eyes were hidden beneath the bill of his Habs cap. He kept his body angled away from Bitty, maintaining a careful six feet between them, and Bitty’s whole body ached like he’d spent the night playing consecutive shifts instead of tossing and turning in his bed. It was the only time they’ve acknowledged the Swallow article since the previous afternoon. Bitty changed the subject immediately after, and prattled meaninglessly the whole way to Commons.
The three of them separate after breakfast, Lardo heading for the studio and Jack and Bitty for their respective classes. Bitty spends most of his spare noon hours trying to do work in the kitchen, but he steals longing glimpses at Betsy more often than he does the reading for US Intellectual HIST or the darn American Publics essay he still hasn’t started.
This day needs an assist, he justifies when he eventually deserts his open notes on the table in favor of hunting down a clean towel. Polishing dishes is a more effective way to escape his blues. Maybe he’ll make some jam -- that doesn’t require a working oven, and it’d be a longer-term distraction from the mess he’s landed in.
Jack’s lawyer's actions in mind, the knock on the Haus door doesn’t really surprise Bitty. He can’t help the way his body tenses at the sound, though; the blood rushing through his body is too much like the terrible lightheadedness he experiences when checked.
Jack comes down the stairs, taking them two at a time, and grinds to a halt when he sees Bitty leaning against the wall at the entrance to the kitchen and staring at the door.
“It’s probably the Swallow rep,” Jack states the obvious, voice completely monotonous and face blank.
Bitty's gut lurches. He tries his very best, but he’s certain that his smile looks even more put-on than it was the day before.
“We should probably go get it, then,” he says. He keeps his hands wrapped in the dish towel as they move to open the door, to have something to do with them and to cover up the way they’re shaking.
The guy standing on the bottom of their stairs is the same one from yesterday. His loose printed shirt is somehow even uglier than the plaid vest, but this time no smile is taking up the majority of his face. In fact, he isn’t smiling at all; he kind of looks like he’s been sent to the gallows and couldn't beg out of his sentence.
“We've been informed that a mistake was made,” the guy says promptly, glancing between the two of them. Everything about his face and his body language appears cautious.
“Yes,” Jack confirms firmly. The guy blinks in sync with Bitty, both of them waiting to see if Jack has any intention to follow that statement with an explanation, but none seems imminent.
“We understand that it’s an honest mistake and we just want it scrapped," Bitty says instead, trying to keep his voice from betraying any emotion, even when his vocal cords are wound tight. "We can't be the cutest couple if we're not -- if we're not."
“You talked to your lawyer,” the guy says faintly. Bitty's not sure that he actually heard a word of what was said. He keeps eyeing Jack’s rigid posture and bulging muscles like he’s afraid that he’s going to be dragged into a fist fight right there on the lawn.
“It’s a legal matter,” Jack replies curtly, frowning.
“No one ever sent his lawyer after us,” the guy says, fainter still. “It’s just The Swallow, man.”
Jack's frown deepens. He’s wearing his hockey face, mouth pinched and eye narrowed, every angle of his face turning sharper. He looks serious, assertive, like he’s getting ready to step out on the ice for the puck drop. Bitty’s heart hurts so badly looking at him that he has to turn away. His eyes, mid-movement, catch on three faces eavesdropping from behind the living room’s doorway. He just barely suppresses a heavy sigh.
"-- you’d be spreading misinformation with unwelcome consequences,” Jack is talking, apparently, and Bitty tuned out most of it. “So you understand why we need you to retract that immediately and delete all further copies."
"Yes," the guy nods tentatively, eyes jerking in Bitty’s direction and then immediately back to Jack. "I'm -- sorry? We really thought you were --"
"Well we ain't," Bitty says, wringing the towel in his hands to hinder an uncommon urge to break something with them.
"Yes, I -- I understand," the guy seems as spooked by Bitty now, contemplating him and the towel as warily as he did Jack. "But we --"
"And I've got a date!" Bitty blurts, before he can hold his tongue from making his situation worse. Shitty whispers, the fuck, brah?, loud enough to carry all the way to the front door. "A date! With. Someone else, obviously, who is very much not Jack Zimmermann, so if you could -- make it go away -- good heavens this could be embarrassing for my date --"
"Of course,” the guy is nodding more vigorously now, head bouncing much like a dashboard bobblehead. He takes a cautious step back. “We're, uh, sorry. We’ll take care of it."
The guy retreats from the porch, glancing back every few steps as he hastens down the sidewalk.
Jack shuts the door behind them when they step back inside, and has to move closer to Bitty to allow the door to close. It brings his arm flush with Bitty’s back, solid and warm through the thin fabric of his shirt.
Bitty’s breath catches. His look flits sideways to watch Jack’s face twist into something Bitty hasn’t seen since the playoffs last year. He really felt like Jack and him were getting steadily closer throughout the year, considers Jack one of his closest friends, but he doesn’t think he’s imagining the distance between them in the last twenty-four hours. It’s more painful than the verbal confirmation that Jack will never like him back was. It’s painful that Bitty’s been shoving his feelings so far down to avoid this very outcome, only to have it blow up in his face through no fault of his own.
"What's that now!” Holster’s booming voice snaps Bitty out of his brooding, and he jerks his eyes up to see that Ransom, Shitty and Holster have crawled out of their eavesdropping spot and are blocking the hallway. “You've got a what and didn't tell us!"
“It’s not a big deal, y’all,” Bitty mumbles, mortified at how much he’s really not lying at all. He slinks away from Jack’s touch, tries to at least be subtle about it. Jack's expression is shuttering further with every moment that passes and Bitty is feeling irrationally miserable about it.
“Is too, Bits!” Ransom claps him on the shoulder excitedly, shaking his entire frame. "You know you gotta tell us all about it, we get veto rights! Is he hot? What's his name? Is he going to be your shoulders for Spring C?"
Bitty’s lousy day has only been getting progressively worse, which he thinks validates the way he bristles and knocks Ransom's hand off his shoulder. "I am average height, Justin Oluransi!"
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So it's not -- really a date.
Anthony from his Eating Practices Since the 19th Century course, who sits two seats away from Bitty and always forgets to bring a pen, caught up with him after class and offered to study together. Bitty’s doing alright in that course, but Anthony is smart and friendly and it’s a good incentive to actually get some work done before finals, so Bitty smiled and said yes. He didn’t think a few days later he’d be lying about it to his friends.
They meet outside Annie’s because Anthony preferred it to Founder’s, which Bitty didn’t mind. He was a little embarrassed about how the librarians might react to the sight of his face. They, unlike some others, don’t have a problem believing he’s a member of the Men’s Hockey Team, and the treatment earned by his teammates’ behavior extends to him.
Ransom wouldn’t let him leave the Haus until his outfit has been appraised, which means he’s maybe a little overdressed for a platonic study date -- but Anthony is in nice jeans and wearing neither a team logo shirt nor a marijuana crop top, so he’s already setting the bar higher than Bitty’s usual company.
"After you," Anthony beams, opening the door for Bitty. It’s awfully nice of him. Maybe Bitty should consider running cotillion classes for his boys before graduation.
It’s easier to revert to his sunny nature in the company of someone new. Anthony keeps up chatter about the last subjects they covered in class, relates to Bitty’s chronic procrastination tendencies, and even insists on paying for both of their drinks. Bitty tries to refuse, instantly dejected by the stark reminder of coffee runs with Jack, but Anthony argues that they’d probably refill several times and Bitty can get the next one. His winning smile is so convincing that Bitty can’t find it in himself to say no.
It happens again when Bitty begins leading them to a larger table in the middle of the café where they’ll have more room to spread out. Anthony points at a table by the windows instead, says, “There, it’ll be quieter,” and Bitty instinctively thinks, those are the windows Jack and I always sit by. He then thinks, good Lord, ERB, get a hold of yourself, and agrees. There’s not much point in attending a study date if he’ll be constantly thinking about Jack Zimmermann.
They spread out all their notes and laptops and books, settling on both sides of the small, round table. Anthony drinks his coffee extra hot and the steam fogs up his glasses, which causes Bitty to laugh and Anthony to grin sheepishly. It sets a good mood for their joint studying.
They work decently well together. Anthony's been more diligent with his schoolwork but Bitty is a faster reader than him, so they catch up with each other fairly quickly and proceed from there. Bitty finds it fun, partnering with someone who doesn’t consider violent food breaks an essential part of studying, and enjoys having somebody to complain about the professor with. The two of them are just starting on technological advances at the end of the century when Bitty’s shoulders fully loosen for the first time in three days and he thinks: this is going well, this is nice, maybe we can do this more often.
This is also the exact point he looks up to tell Anthony about Louis Pasteur and catches Holster and Ransom spying on him from outside Annie’s front window.
His knee-jerk response is uncontainable: he groans out loud. Anthony seems alarmed, twisting in his chair to look over his shoulder and detect what Bitty’s glaring at. Ransom, who clearly knows they’ve been caught, looks directly at Anthony with a deliberately threatening face, pointing two fingers at his eyes, then at Anthony, and back at his eyes.
Anthony makes a confused face into his mug and says, "Um."
"Gosh, I am so sorry," Bitty drops his face into his palms, trying to smother the waves of heat rushing to his cheeks. "It's my teammates -- they have no boundaries and they -- gracious, they think this is a date --"
Anthony swallows a mouthful of coffee too quickly before he sets his mug on the table. "Oh, uh. Do you… not think this is a date?"
Bitty lets his hands fall into his lap. His eyes dart to where Holster and Ransom are waving their thumbs up in the air as they mercifully walk away from the window and then back to Anthony, whose face is unmoving. "...What?"
The top of Anthony's cheeks pink, and he adjusts the glasses on his nose with a knuckle. "I... totally asked you meaning this to be a date."
"Oh," Bitty exhales numbly. Oh, butter my butt and call me a biscuit, he thinks, and then opens his mouth to say something to Anthony -- anything at all, because the poor boy is starting to squirm in his chair -- but all his words seem to get stubbornly stuck behind his teeth.
Because Anthony is perfectly nice. He’s mild-mannered, has a pleasant smile, and he's made Bitty laugh in class a few times when the professor wasn't looking. He's sitting across from Bitty with his hands twitching on top of the table, like Bitty's answer on the matter of their date is important to him. Like he would actually really like it to be one, so he found the courage to ask.
"Oh boy, I really didn't realize," Bitty confesses, finally, clutching his coffee tightly between his fingers. He's never thought he'd be this bad at this, but apparently he's just completely and entirely blind to anyone's affections as long as anyone isn't Jack Zimmermann. And now he made this difficult for both Anthony and himself.
"That's okay," Anthony says, clearing his throat. His lips quirk up in some intimation of a smile, which is, while still very pleasant to look at, much less genuine than his usual smile. "No, really, it's cool. My fault for not being clearer. We can -- I can go and order a refill for this coffee, and when I'm back we'll forget about it? We still have work left to do." He drags his legs out from beneath the table, turning sideways in his seat, before he risks another look at Bitty. "Unless you --? I mean, now that you -- realize -- would you want it to be…?"
The answer to that, Bitty thinks regretfully, is too complex for an acquaintance. Because how does one say, you're very nice and I imagine liking you could be very easy, but I've never dated in my life and right as I thought maybe I'd give it a try, I went and fell head over heels for a grumpy, kind-hearted, heterosexual Canadian?
One doesn't, Bitty reckons, but one also cannot keep waiting forever for something that will never, ever come. So he straightens his back and says, with his best Georgia smile, "Well, how about we carry on studyin’, and maybe we'll see how things go?"
It's a little more strained after that, but that's more Bitty's fault than anything. Anthony is still as perfectly polite as he was before, as focused on the reading. It's just that now every time Anthony smiles at him Bitty freezes, and then feels guilty for freezing, and gets mad at himself for not giving this a fighting chance, and by then he's not smiling back for so long that Anthony's smile shrinks, and Bitty feels even guiltier --
"Look," Anthony tells him after they packed everything back into their bags and walked companionably outside. "This hasn't been ideal, but I still had a good time. I'd like to maybe -- do it again?" Anthony smiles genuinely this time, and his smile is so pleasant, and he tilts his head the slightest bit closer to say, "As an official date this time?", and --
This is the second time Bitty freaks out about a very nice boy leaning in to possibly kiss him at Annie's, and it's exactly as mortifying as the first.
Bitty jumps back painfully obviously, as startled himself by his physical reaction as Anthony clearly is. He's blushing fiercely when he stammers, "Oh -- I -- I don't think it'll work out, I'm so -- I'm so sorry --" turns around, almost breaking into a run, and calls out, "I'll bake you a pie!"
The corners of Bitty’s eyes begin to burn, indicating the impending shameful tears. He’s terribly upset with himself for his reaction, but he’d be even more upset if he allowed himself to cry over it, so he makes the effort to blink furiously the entire way home.
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The team gathers to eat dinner together that night. Bitty’s still a little vulnerable in the aftermath of his failed study date, but he does his best to hide it, pushing himself to be cheerful and revel in quality time with his boys. It’s easier when Ransom spends most of the walk to the dining hall engaging him in a conversation about wild alien conspiracies. It’s harder when Shitty and Holster join forces to cajole him into giving deets, and don’t take his, “Oh good Lord, there’s nothing to talk about!” as an acceptable answer. Telling them the truth is not an option -- they’re his best friends, but they would absolutely, no question about it, chirp him to death, and he’s really not in the right mood to take it good-naturedly.
Bitty’s surprised when it’s Jack who eventually tells them to knock it off, shoving Holster’s shoulder to force his way into sitting between him and Bitty at the table. Holster topples sideways into Nursey, and Jack seizes the vacated space and grants Bitty a miniature triumphant smile.
Jack’s dour mood had persisted through yesterday and during their walk over, but Bitty’s been watching him gradually thaw ever since they arrived at Commons; this smile is the first true, earnest one in days, and it melts Bitty on the inside. He’s immensely relieved that at least their friendship isn’t ruined, that the past few days have only been an unfortunate bump in an otherwise smooth road. Bitty tries to cling on to that, use it to move forward from the raincloud lingering over him since his afternoon with Anthony.
A baby-faced freshman approaches their table while Chowder is telling them about a text conversation with his sister. Bitty has his phone out before anyone else even reacts -- the nervous look in the kid’s face is enough warning, and he’s not disappointed; the kid zeroes in on Jack and asks for a signature on his Samwell jersey. There is absolute silence at the table while Jack surrenders to his inescapable fate and pulls out a pen. He then ducks his head and hangs on to that pen once the kid is out of earshot and the boys begin chirping him ruthlessly, yelling loudly enough to rattle the cutlery.
Bitty’s hiccupping laughter comes as a surprise to himself, but it’s the welcome sort. He directs his smile at his phone while he tweets -- true friends don't care that you're a professional hockey player; true friends ask you to sign their mashed potatoes during dinner -- and when he raises his head Jack is peeking at his screen and grinning at him.
“Not a professional player yet, eh? You can’t go lying to the Twitter.”
Jack is so obviously pleased with himself, white teeth gleaming in his mischievous grin. Bitty's heart soars and then swiftly sinks to the bottom of his stomach. He tries to hang on to the gratitude for what he has, but something in Jack’s voice triggers the memory of it stating, obviously they can't actually run that, and then, consecutively, the memory of Anthony's dumbfounded look when Bitty fled away from him.
Not even Jack's benign chirps or his concerned glances can restore Bitty's uplifted mood after that.
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Can’t make it to Founder’s tonight. Sorry! :( :( Raincheck?
The reading room is quieter than the rest of the Haus at night. It's dark out, gray shingles lit only by the lamp inside Bitty's bedroom and the faint glow of the streetlights down the road. Bitty lets his legs dangle from the edge of the roof, cradling a can of Twisted Tea and watching his shoes swing twelve feet above the shadowy green of the lawn.
There's the sound of a creaky window sash sliding up behind him. “Hey, Bittle.”
Bitty turns around. Jack is sitting on the ledge of his windowsill, holding a folded blanket in his lap. It takes a few seconds to blink away the disorientation caused by rumination and beer. “Jack! What’re you doing?”
Jack shrugs. “You said you’re not coming with me to Founder’s, and then you didn’t answer your phone. I wanted to check in.” He holds out the blanket with a modest smile. “Here -- so you won't get cold. Spring is pretty rough on you Southerners, eh?”
Bitty snorts inelegantly at the chirp, but stretches his arm to accept the blanket. He twists back to watch the twinkling Christmas lights on the LAX frat house across the road. They never take those down, and never add any new ones during the holidays. It’s as good a reason as any to hate the lacrosse team.
Jack clears his throat, an obtrusive sound in the relative silence. “Can I -- do you want me to stay? I mean, I can leave if you need some quiet.”
Bitty looks at him from over his shoulder, chin digging into his collarbone. Jack’s face is gentler than Bitty’s seen it in a while, mellowed out by the orange tint of the streetlights, and it’s so unfair. Even when Bitty’s upset about Jack he wants Jack near him, wants to hear Jack’s opinion, wants his straightforward, pragmatic type of advice. He wonders what Jack’s face would look like if Bitty was brave enough to tell him the truth about what’s bothering him. A sardonic laugh almost escapes him at that visual.
“No, you can stay,” Bitty says instead, and then makes a herculean effort to brighten up. “As long as you promise not to prattle on, you chatterbox, you know I like silences.”
The chirp falls flat when Bitty’s cheery façade cracks. Jack swings both legs out the window and slides down to sit by Bitty while Bitty takes another swig out of the can. There’s a lot of space on the roof, two empty lawn chairs on Bitty’s end, but Jack sits right next to him. Bitty’s shoulder knocks into Jack’s bicep and Jack’s thick thigh brushes against his, but Jack doesn’t take any action to inch away.
Bitty collects his knees close to his chest, leans his chin on top of them and continues watching the span of street visible from their roof. Beneath their feet, some couple probably returning from the bars by the river stumble together on the sidewalk, the echo of their giggles drifting up to the reading room. Bitty can’t quite cover his grimace in time to hide it from Jack.
"You're upset," Jack jabs Bitty’s elbow with his own, brow furrowing.
"No!" Bitty objects quickly, hoping his voice is only a lick squeaky. He's not drunk by any means, but the Twisted Tea makes everything a bit fuzzy, softens the world at its fringes. "I'm not upset. It's -- finals are coming up in two weeks, and I've got this essay I haven’t started, and -- you know, Betsy hasn’t been well and what am I gonna do, if I can’t bake to distract myself before the tests --"
"Bittle," Jack cuts him off quietly. Bitty lifts his head off his knees just enough to enable a quick glance; Jack is looking at him, those intense eyes trained on Bitty’s face, making his cheeks flush self-consciously. Jack’s expression is his distinct blend of uncomfortable but determined. "You're upset. Are you -- is it -- your date was this afternoon…?"
Bitty’s blush deepens, and he lays his cheek down to avoid eye contact. "So?"
"So," Jack begins, clumsily, and then shifts his arm so it nudges Bitty’s, fingers curled loosely into his palm. "Did he -- I mean."
It takes Bitty a moment to decipher Jack’s faltering sentence, but -- "Gosh, no," Bitty denies with profound embarrassment once he follows Jack's train of thought. Jack, unable to shake off the role of captain, is assuming some boy hurt him. Bitty doesn’t know how to tell him that he couldn't even get through the date to get hurt how normal people do. "He was a gentleman. If anything, it was me who was on my worst behavior."
Jack doesn’t look convinced. He bumps the back of his curled fingers against Bitty’s thigh. "But you're upset."
Bitty loosens his grip on his knees, keeps the hand not holding the can busy by fiddling with the hem of Jack’s blanket. Jack is both the last and the only person he wants to talk to about this. Bitty’s original plan was to get tipsy enough to fall asleep without thinking his emotions through, and then spend the next day compartmentalizing it away -- but Jack’s presence brings everything to the forefront of his mind, plucks at the tangle in his chest until it unravels.
"Well, because --” he sighs, and the expansion of his lungs must fracture some dam, because the words begin spilling out in long strings of nonsense. “I just -- I came here from Georgia because I thought it’d be different, y’know? I couldn't fit in there, and I know -- you said yourself -- I know it’s not any different here, not really, not in hockey, but outside of hockey it’s Samwell, so at least I could be me, right? But apparently I can't even be that, because I can't manage a simple thing like a date with a cute boy," he stops to take a deep breath, buries his face in the nook between his knees. "And, goodness, I can't believe I'm -- none of this is on you, I'm sorry --"
"Bittle," Jack touches his knee, inches away from his cheek, causing Bitty to look up. Jack doesn’t move his fingers from Bitty’s bare leg after Bitty lifts his head. "Don’t be sorry. It's okay."
Bitty searches Jack’s face. He doesn’t know how to read it, what the tiny microexpressions currently mean, but Jack’s fingers are splayed in the valleys of his joints and there’s something grounding in it. He takes another big breath in an attempt to calm himself down.
"I guess," Bitty whispers, but the turmoil in his chest doesn’t settle, not after he started letting it all out. He can almost picture it surging in him, clawing its way up to his mouth. "But -- is it? Okay? I'm just." He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated with himself, both for feeling so much and for being unable to articulate feelings with the proper words. "I feel like I can't just be me. Because who I am isn't good enough at home, and isn't good enough for hockey, and who I am likes boys but apparently I'm no good at liking them right, or -- the right ones --"
He restrains himself from saying anything incriminating, biting his lip hard enough to taste the metallic flavor of blood.
"You are good enough for hockey," Jack says, stilted. His hand tightens on Bitty’s knee and belatedly pulls away. "You're a strong player, and you did a great job this season. I know we lost, but you still did good. You'll be even better next year."
Bitty exhales sharply, rubs his eyes. He knows Jack; he knows he chose to latch onto hockey because that's something he’s capable of expressing. Telling Bitty he's a good player is something Jack can find words for. Bitty didn’t expect Jack to be the right person to talk through an identity crisis, but it’d be an easier evasion to accept if he wasn’t wrong.
"Jack, no offense, but that's a load of horseshit." Jack is clearly caught off guard, seems to be gearing himself up for retaliation, but Bitty talks right over him. "It is! It is, because I might do alright now -- here -- but if I wanted to go into real hockey, into the league, you think they'd be alright with who I am? You've heard what some guys’ve got to say on the ice, and this isn’t even professional hockey."
"You want to play professionally?" The familiar glint in Jack’s eyes indicates that he’s losing track of the grand scheme of the conversation.
"No! But that's not the point!" Bitty swallows, because it isn't, but getting to the point might as well be impossible with Jack. He can't exactly tell him that he's heartbroken and disappointed in himself and everything looks more bleak from this perspective. He's no better than Jack right now; they’re both afraid to dip their toes into the murky waters of everything Bitty said that isn’t about the game. "I couldn't if I wanted to because of who I am."
"You could," Jack says, looking away, his shoulders tight. The conviction in his voice gets Bitty's attention. Jack really isn’t the most emotive of guys, and it takes a lot to get his voice to change pitch. "The league isn't a very welcoming place, but it's hockey. The whole point is hockey. And if you're good at hockey, they'll just have to accept that -- at some point. It might be hard, but if hockey is what you want, then --" he looks up, catches Bitty's eyes. Jack’s are unfocused, like somehow he forgot Bitty was even there. "I mean -- you said it isn't, but if it was -- all I'm saying is --"
"Sure," Bitty brings the can up to his mouth for another swig, skeptical even in the face of Jack’s unanticipated speech. "I get it. You can play, and all."
"Yes,” Jack insists, turning his upper body towards Bitty. Their knees press together and Jack’s face is suddenly a lot closer than it was before. Bitty has to blink a few times until he can get his pulse under control. “You can. Because you are good enough, Bittle."
They stare at each other, time stretching between them, caught up in the unforeseen gravity of the situation. Bitty can’t really wrap his head around hearing Jack defending him with such vigor, but he knows there’s nothing he can say to argue. That’s Jack’s opinion. He’s never been guilty of handing out compliments he doesn’t believe in.
"Thanks, Jack." Bitty whispers. "'m sorry. It's been a rough day. Sometimes --” He sighs again, bows his head, and musters the last shreds of his courage to be at least a little honest. “I guess sometimes it can get lonely. And it sucked to realize that it's my own fault I'm alone in the first place."
Jack subdues gradually, his shoulders folding inward and the fire in his eyes dying out, leaving room for something much more empathetic than Bitty expected.
"I'm sorry, Bittle." He reaches out to grasp the ball of Bity’s shoulder in his large palm, squeezing it tightly. It’s a friendly gesture of comfort, one the boys in the team offer each other all the time, but Jack’s thumb is absently rubbing small circles on the base of Bitty’s neck and it spreads tingles through his skin.
“It’s alright,” Bitty moves away, smiling, but the words are like dust in his mouth and it isn’t really alright at all. They settle back into sitting side by side, and Bitty notices Jack's fixed eyes on the side of his face, but he doesn’t turn to look.
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Friday evening finds Bitty scrambling to complete last-minute assignments before Spring C the next day. He shuts himself away in his room and turns off his phone, tries to make his eyes focus on long lines of text instead of on any creaking noises in the Haus that might provide a distraction. This tactic has failed him more often than not, but for once the Haus is completely empty and any creaking Bitty might hear could only be chalked up to Ransom’s ghosts. Lardo and Shitty are out buying booze for Spring C, Holster is with the frogs, Ransom is at his weekend study group, and Jack has been in Providence with his mother all day, looking at potential apartments, and will be returning later to have dinner with her and her former Department Chair.
Studying is easier when Bitty’s using it to avoid thinking about other things. Lately, since his oven has been acting up, it’s been easy using studying as a distraction from thinking about Jack -- about Jack moving to Providence, about Jack taking the first steps in his adult life away from Bitty and the team. It isn’t a better distraction than watching Say Yes To The Dress with Holster or listening to music with Lardo, but in the absence of all other options, it’s good enough to push Bitty to make his deadlines, even if it’s at the last minute.
Bitty’s laptop emits a sharp ping that alerts him to a new incoming email, and Bitty scrambles up from the floor, almost tripping over two piles of reading material on his way. His room is an absolute mess; papers covering the bedspread and the desk, textbooks spilling from inside his bag onto the floor, pens scattered haphazardly. He’s been reviewing for the HIST test while emailing back and forth with the TA for his American Publics course -- the last three lectures of which he honestly cannot remember, but is somehow expected to write two thousand words for anyway.
The new email in his inbox isn’t from his TA, however. It reads, RE: RE: Your Nomination in the 2015 Samwell Awards, and only contains one line of text, visible in the thread’s preview without Bitty clicking it open. Attached is a confirmation for the removal and termination of the aforementioned article.
Bitty pauses, his essay forgotten, and goes over the subject lines four more times.
Bitty hasn’t read the article. Bitty didn't want to read the article, had convinced himself that he was indifferent and was more interested in putting the whole ludicrous affair behind them. But now he’s incapable of dragging his cursor away from the email’s subject line. He can’t help but want to know what they have to say -- want to know why anyone would mirror his misguided feelings for a close friend.
It can lead to nothing but trouble. Bitty still opens the article file for the first time since the whole mess began on Monday, because he won't have the guts otherwise, but for some masochistic reason he just has to know.
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The Samwell Swallow
Vol. 26, Issue 31 | May 2015 | Special Edition | The Samwell Awards
CUTEST COUPLE AWARD: ICE HOCKEY AS A LOVE LANGUAGE
Our most dedicated readers will know that the title of Samwell’s Cutest Couple is highly coveted. Perhaps only second to Dream Date or Biggest Gossip in prestige, this award is one of the greatest honors young Wellie lovebirds can strive for. This year, we’re proud to elect JACK ZIMMERMANN ‘15 and ERIC BITTLE ‘17. We know: enough with the fucking hockey bros. But hear us out.
These unlikely candidates were initially nominated by Zimmermann’s fellow photography class students with an exclusive scoop. Bittle was the subject of Zimmermann’s midterm project! (Awe.) Such a grand romantic gesture could not go overlooked, and we set out to investigate. Copies of Zimmermann’s photos are brought to you here, courtesy of the Department of Visual Art.
[Images: a collage containing a dozen semi-professional photographs, all depicting BITTLE. His character is consistently linked to themes of warmth and light, and is obviously portrayed with great affection.]
We were delighted by what we learned. Observant Wellies report that the two are often seen taking long romantic walks around campus, with Zimmermann’s lens sometimes pointed at the scenery, but more often at his boyfriend. Sources at Annie’s, the local café, tell The Swallow that, “Yeah, they’ve been like, coming here at least two or three times a week this year? There’s their table [points at a secluded window table in the corner]. The tall guy always pays -- what? No, they’re almost always alone. Except this one time that they were here with this other couple? I don’t know, man, I see lots of people on dates, but these guys kinda stand out. They’re always giggling with each other, it’s ridiculous. And loud.”
Our research yielded clear results: service staff at Samwell’s Jerry’s, Superberry and Stop&Shop have gone on record with similar statements; students who shared a class with the two disclose that their constant whispering and flirting have been impossible to ignore; even the janitor at Faber Memorial Rink reports that current team captain and fellow liney spend every weekend skating alone as they watch the sun rise, while no practice is scheduled! It’s official - Bittle and Zimmermann are, indeed, 2015’s Cutest Couple.
[Image: BITTLE and ZIMMERMANN at the Samwell Men’s Hockey Team’s #Epickegster this winter. The two are standing very close in the midst of what appears to be an intimate conversation, leaning towards each other under a bag of free condoms. Text under image reads: Our staffers report that the two then disappeared upstairs while the party was still in full swing. Get it, boys!]
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Bitty spends a long, breathless moment staring at the screen with unseeing eyes.
It’s like an out of body experience. Bitty can’t feel the tips of his fingers, can’t feel his toes. He can’t lift his hand to ram the laptop lid shut so his eyes are still glued to the block of text, words blurring together into a solid sheet of gray. His mind keeps losing footing, coherent thoughts cutting off before they can run their course, parts of sentences jamming into one long sequence -- grand romantic gesture, long walks, whispering and flirting -- that plays over and over. Distantly, he’s aware that there are stray tears in the corner of his eyes, but he’s too disconnected from his limbs to do something about it.
People look, he thinks, brain stuttering over the realization, pushing itself out of its shock, people look and see -- people look at the two of us and what they see is --
A loud noise behind his back scares the living daylight out of him, enough to send him spinning on the chair. The door to his bedroom swings open, nearly banging against the wall with the strength of its motion. Behind it is Jack, standing in the doorway with his eyes blown wide and his face pale, looking like he's seen a ghost; panting for breath like he ran a marathon to get there.
Bitty nearly collapses out of his chair, stumbling over the papers on the floor to step closer, arms reaching out automatically. “Jack -- what --? Is everything alright? Aren’t you supposed to be with your mom --?”
“Bitty,” Jack breathes out, unsteady, and then tumbles further into the room. His hair is disheveled and his buttoned shirt is smeared with stains of sweat, and Bitty’s brain is still coming back online but he’s suddenly overcome with how handsome Jack still is, even like this.
And then Jack takes a lengthy step forward right into Bitty’s space, his body enveloping Bitty’s and his broad palms cupping Bitty’s burning cheeks, and tips Bitty’s mouth into his.
Bitty’s eyes remain wide open for one paralyzed split second, taking in the sight of Jack’s dark eyelashes and sculpted brow bone from extreme up close, and then Jack’s lips move and Bitty’s eyelids flutter closed, melting into the unfamiliar action.
Jack's mouth is as soft as Bitty imagined, as hot, velvety lips sliding against Bitty's and catching on the dip of his cupid’s bow. Bitty’s mind keeps up a remote chant of oh my god, Jack is kissing me, oh god, what is happening, before that too is silenced by the thrill of Jack’s mouth parting against his, deepening the kiss, and then everything goes blessedly silent.
An undetermined amount of time later, Jack’s phone begins buzzing insistently; Bitty can feel the vibrations from where his hip is aligned with Jack’s. Jack ignores it, separating their lips to angle his head in the other direction and suck Bitty’s bottom lip into his mouth, tongue wet and tentative. His phone buzzes again, though, and subsequently two times more, and then Jack finally sighs into Bitty’s mouth.
“That’s my mom,” he says quietly, breaking their mouths barely far enough apart to speak. His lower lip is shining with spit and Bitty feels faint, needs to sit down before he falls over, needs to step back before he sinks his teeth into it impulsively. “She’s waiting for me...”
“Oh,” Bitty says. His voice sounds like it’s coming from very far away. He has so many things he wants to say -- what the hell, and what does this mean, and but aren’t you, and stay, stay, don’t go -- yet the only sounds his mouth can apparently make are, “Uh. Okay.”
“We have this… dinner…” Jack continues, and his eyes are so blue and his lips are so red and his cheeks are so pink, and Bitty thinks that maybe this is a very vivid stress-induced hallucination, and also thinks that he wouldn’t mind hallucinating a little longer. “I gotta go, but I’ll -- I’ll be back.”
“Okay,” Bitty says again, even though he’s not sure it is. He’s pretty sure, actually, that once Jack exits the door of his bedroom this spell will break like at Cinderella’s midnight clock strike, and Jack will return from dinner with his mother still painfully perfect, and still painfully straight, and still so, so far out of Bitty’s reach.
Jack backs up towards the door, eyes lingering on Bitty as his hands drift down Bitty’s arms. “I’ll be back,” he repeats, although Bitty’s not any more convinced, and then he takes his hands away and fumbles blindly for the doorknob, slips out into the hallway from whence he came.
Bitty hears his breaths shallow into nothing more than gasps of air, and promptly crumples backwards onto his chair.
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Bitty spends the entire time Jack is absent slowly going out of his mind.
Once the shock passes and the fogginess clouding his thoughts clears, all he can do is think: think about Jack kissing him, and the lovely shape of his mouth, and the bewitched look on his face; wonder how the hell it happened, and why, and what it even means. He conjures a dozen, a hundred versions of what transpired to bring Jack to his door, and even more of what would happen if he does indeed come back.
Bitty paces back and forth across his room, unable to focus or hold onto any one scenario for more than a few seconds. His heart beats so fast for so long that it develops into nausea; he continues pacing while clutching his stomach and praying that he won’t throw up, because he doesn’t think he’d survive that kind of embarrassing memory.
Shitty and Lardo come back at some point, stoned and bearing three bags of sour worms. They squint at his messy room but don't comment on the condition of his hair or his shaky limbs, kindly offer him some sour worms and the opportunity for contact-high in Shitty’s room. They back off and close the door as soon as they see the look on his face. Bitty runs his hand through his hair one more time when he tries to imagine what his face must look like to successfully scare them away.
A long while later there are footsteps in the hallway outside his door. Bitty braces himself to tell Holster or Ransom or, god, Chowder that he’s busy right now. He tries to remind himself that he loves them even when he's in a state, and sits down on the bed to tell them that he isn’t feeling well -- except then the door opens, and it’s Jack standing in the doorway.
Bitty’s heart jumps, somersaults, and plummets all in the space of one millisecond, as he stands up abruptly from the bed and stares, openmouthed.
Jack doesn’t look as rumpled as he did earlier. His collar is adjusted neatly and the tails of his shirt are tucked and smoothed into his pants, but his face is a rich shade of pink and he’s clenching and unclenching his fists by his side. He seems so awkward, standing there, that Bitty’s continuous state of panic morphs into a different chaotic mess of confusion and affection, all while Jack does nothing but stare at him.
“How was dinner?” Bitty squeaks out, eventually, when it’s clear that Jack’s not going to speak anytime soon.
Jack looks like Bitty has veered off script unexpectedly. His eyes widen and he clenches his fists and then releases them again, compulsively. “Eh -- good, good.” Bitty nods. There’s a long stretch of silence neither of them fills. Jack inhales and says, right when Bitty is sure that his heart is sincerely going to beat out of his darn chest, “I. Bittle. About earlier.”
The color in his face deepens further but Bitty can’t tell what that means, if he’s already regretting what he’s done or if he’s just tripping over his own emotions like Bitty is. “You should -- the door,” he stutters, because whether he’s going to be kissed again or be let down gently, he’d rather do it without an audience. Jack looks at him like he spoke in a cryptic foreign language, so Bitty forces out, blushing to the roots of his hair, “Come in and shut the door, Zimmermann.”
“Oh -- shit, ouais,” Jack jostles into action, stepping away from the threshold and kicking the door shut after him. It’s the first time Bitty has seen him move with anything other than practiced poise.
Bitty’s room isn’t very large, and with the door closed the atmosphere in it quickly shifts. There’s an inherent intimacy in the short gap between their bodies that heightens in a small, enclosed space, and Bitty can feel his body heat rise and spread to his palms and his face as a result of it.
It’s unsettling, and Bitty suspects that he could grow to crave it, but not as long as he has no idea what is going on. “Jack --”
Jack interrupts him, keeping his eyes on the floor. “Wait, Bittle, listen. I -- it’s really important that you know that you shouldn't feel obligated.”
There are maybe a hundred thousand things that could’ve come out of Jack’s mouth after Bittle, listen, and Bitty spent two and a half hours imagining a good deal of them. Telling Bitty that he shouldn’t feel obligated is so perplexing that Bitty’s too wrongfooted to protest, and Jack carries on speaking. “I know as team captain I have a certain amount of authority and I didn’t even -- think about that, before, which is really wrong --”
Bitty squints, slowly gaining a renewed grasp on this bizarre situation. The only thing he manages to think with clarity, through the storm brewing in his chest, is, You doofus, what on earth are you talking about. “Jack. The season is over."
"Right," Jack shoves his hands in his pockets, squares his shoulders. "But -- still. Technically we kept up with a.m. practices even after the playoffs, so."
Because you are an insane person, Bitty thinks to himself, coming to terms with the fact that the tone of his thoughts is on a scale ranging between neurotic and cloyingly smitten. He opens his mouth, not sure what’s going to come out of it, but Jack keeps talking without pause.
"Anyway, the NCAA allows intra-team dating but doesn't say anything about involvement with captains. I checked."
This bowls Bitty over, a new wave of warmth rushing to his cheeks. "You checked?"
There's a sheen of what can only be nervous sweat above Jack's upper lip that shines under the glaring ceiling light. “It’s only thirty pages.”
Bitty feels lightheaded again, as he allows himself to consider for the first time that evening, with some measure of possibility, that Jack Zimmermann in fact came into his room and kissed the right sense out of him with the intention to date him. It’s almost too much to consider, making him weak at the knees. He grabs the edge of his desk to be on the safe side.
“You -- I -- dear god, what is even happening? What brought this on?” Because they’ve been spending -- well, they’ve spent almost every waking moment together this semester, excluding this odd week since the damned Swallow article. Jack had plenty of opportunity to confess his feelings had he possessed any, and the best time certainly wasn’t while his mother was waiting for him downstairs to go to a formal dinner.
“Well, I,” Jack stammers, dropping his chin to his chest. His ears are bright red, dark enough to be seen from a few feet away, and Bitty is enchanted by it. “I didn’t know, but. I read the stupid thing in the car because I couldn’t -- my mom said -- I kept thinking about you in every kitchen that we looked at, and I…”
Bitty can feel his eyes widen, his organs flipping over inside him. "You… did?"
Jack lifts his head, and when the two of them finally make eye contact it zings through Bitty’s body. "Yes. I mean, I guess it’s hard not to. If you're not on ice, you're baking, Bittle. Or tweeting. Or baking and tweeting."
He winces as soon the words are out of his mouth, and Bitty can’t help it: he bursts out in laughter, high-pitched and giddy. This boy, Bitty marvels, and euphoria spreads like thick cotton candy in his chest, making it hard to speak; to breathe.
Jack’s face still looks vaguely horrified, like he’s regretting ever opening his mouth. "Crisse, sorry, it's not -- I wasn't trying to --" he blows out air, starting over. "It's fine that you do. I mean, more than fine. I thought about you in the kitchens because I like it. I like you."
His voice is unmistakably uncomfortable, and beads of sweat are glinting on his temples. Bitty’s so overwhelmed by hearing Jack speak candidly about his feelings that he blurts out the first thing that comes to his mind. "You like me? But you're -- I mean, I thought you --"
Jack’s eyebrows draw down and his mouth thins. He looks irritated, but Bitty knows it’s the shape his face takes when he’s distressed. "I know last year it didn't seem like -- but I thought this year you knew things changed --"
"-- were straight," Bitty exhales, chest heaving. God. This is real. "I thought… you were straight."
Jack squints, stopping himself in the middle of his sentence. He seems honestly, genuinely confused, the big lug. With a more functioning part of his mind Bitty recognizes that this is probably the most facial expressions he’s seen Jack make since meeting him.
"But I kissed you."
"Yeah," Bitty swallows, cheeks probably glowing bright red. Somehow it’s so much more jarring hearing the words out loud than it was to have Jack’s mouth on his. Like something that’s not supposed to be discussed out in the open. A secret lifted right out of Bitty's subconscious, manifested by sheer will. "Uh. Sure did. Thus my confusion."
"Your -- confusion…?" Jack trails off. His flushed face begins shifting by degrees, a smile spreading slowly but steadily and creating the smallest, sweetest crinkle at his eyes. He wipes his shiny brow with the back of one forearm and then crosses the distance between them in a few short strides, sweeping in to kiss Bitty.
It’s not any less mind-blowing the second time around. Jack's fingers slot under Bitty's jaw, titling his head up, his other palm sliding from Bitty’s neck to his shoulder and down his back in a tantalizing stroke. Bitty grows hot all over, bending his body into Jack's to press their chests together, his hands hesitatingly finding their way to Jack's hips. He hooks them over the sharp curves of Jack's hip bones, feels the strength in Jack’s obliques through his clothes.
Their mouths create a soft slick sound when they glide against one another, lips meeting and parting smoothly. Bitty gathers the confidence to attempt parting his own lips, applies the slightest pressure of tongue to Jack's bottom lip, and is rewarded by Jack's shudder and the tightening of his hand on the small of Bitty's back.
Jack pulls his face back slowly enough for Bitty to blink his eyelashes open and catch Jack licking his lips, exhaling shakily.
"I like you, Bitty," Jack leans their foreheads together. His eyes are staring right into Bitty’s, drooping and soft and so clearly fond that Bitty feels the tremor flow in his body all the way to his toes.
"Me too," Bitty whispers. His heart is still beating irregularly, vainly trying to catch up with the emotional upheaval of the last few minutes. “Jack --. I like you, too.”
Jack smiles at him, and it’s more honest, more tender than Bitty's ever seen it. It makes Bitty so happy that he wants to burst into giggles, wants to hide his beam in Jack's chest until butterflies stop fluttering in his ribcage.
Jack runs his fingers into Bitty's hair, gently brushes through it. He's bashful, both of them avoiding prolonged eye contact, and it's so absurd that they're shy after kissing like that, but Bitty can't help it. Jack tips his head to kiss Bitty's chin, his temple, makes Bitty actually giggle when he kisses his ear and then settles his lips in Bitty's hair, tugging him closer into the crooks of Jack's body.
"Hey, Jack?" Bitty says quietly, leaning his cheek on the curve of Jack's shoulder and wrapping his arms around Jack's waist, hands linking at the arch of his spine.
"Yeah?" Jack mumbles into Bitty's hair, mouth moving against the crown of his head.
Bitty presses his lips briefly to the closest patch of Jack's skin he can reach, which is the dip in his clavicle. It's barely a kiss, but his entire body shivers with the knowledge that he’s allowed. "Wanna be my date to Spring C tomorrow?"
Jack draws back far enough to be able to look down, tilting his chin into his neck and catching Bitty's eyes with his. His face is pink and his lips are swollen and Bitty's so unbelievably in love with him, but it's the furthest thing from pathetic now. It seems funny that it was ever something shameful at all.
"It'd be my pleasure," Jack smiles, and leans in for another kiss.
#omgcp#zimbits#zimbits fic#omgcheckplease#pavfics#ooof. finally done. i'm sure i'll edit again in the morning BUT
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Housesitting For Your Best Friend 101
This is inspired by something that @witcher-and-his-bard and I were talking about late last night that has sprung from my brain with very little coaxing.
Find it on AO3 here!
“You’re sure.” The question is phrased more as a statement, but Jaskier rolls his eyes all the same, grinning. “I can-”
“Geralt, dear, I may be a great many things, like dashingly handsome, a great lover, patron of the arts-” Jaskier stops when Geralt coughs into his fist, blue eyes narrowing until Geralt straightens up and quirks a brow as if to say what? “But if I cannot look after your apartment for a week, then consider my move back home to be raised further by my mother imminent.”
Geralt doesn’t say anything for a long moment, amber eyes staring down the man in front of him. Jaskier to his credit, takes Geralt gently by the arm, and then with more strength than his frame might suggest, shoves Geralt toward the door and his waiting bags. “Go already, you brute, I’ll be fine.”
“Text me if you need me to come home.” He finally stoops to grab his bags, lingering by the door for a moment more before Jaskier pantomimes kicking him out and down the stairs. Once the door clicks shut Jaskier throws the bolt, turning with hands on his hips to survey the living room. He’s been here more times than he can say, but there’s something intimate about Geralt trusting him enough to ask him to watch his place. The old couch that he lugged up three flights of steps is still here, still fraying at the edge of the cushions and garish blue flowers finally fading. Jaskier had insisted they head to the nearest estate sale to find the beast after walking in to see the sad sight of Geralt’s living room with nothing more than a sagging armchair in front of the tv.
First order of business: check the list that he knows Geralt spent hours thinking over before finally writing it down. It takes a few minutes of searching, but he finally finds it stuck to the fridge with a horse head magnet. Weird.
water plants
care for roach
clean up after yourself
Well, this seems easy enough. Jaskier laughs at the third task, knowing what hell he’d get if this place was less than spotless upon Geralt’s return. It’s fifteen minutes later while he’s standing on the balcony staring at the plants and wondering how much each one gets, that he spies the little arrow wrapping around to the back of the paper. There, Geralt has written out exact instructions for all of his plants, with helpful notes on how much water they get, and which ones to bring inside at night.
Roach is much easier; the brown tabby keeps to herself for the most part, and will let Jaskier know with a righteous fury if she needs something. Jaskier spends a good long while playing with her and brushing her fur before she runs off again, having had enough of his company for the time being.
Jaskier is in the kitchen, debating whether he wants to order in or attempt to cook when his phone buzzes. It’s a vibration he would know in his sleep- Geralt had found some way to set a specific vibration, and Jaskier was too lazy to change it back.
G: At the airport. Did you find the list?
Warmth blooms in his chest as he takes in the text. There’s nothing that should make him feel this way, but knowing that Geralt is still worrying is almost cute. Not that he would think of his best friend that way, of course. He shoots Geralt a picture of him posing next to the fridge with the list, tongue stuck out and number three carefully crossed off. Geralt’s reply is nothing more than a frowning face, which took Jaskier months to get him to use, but it makes Jaskier chuckle. This will be a piece of cake.
-*-
Jaskier is four days in and trying to find something to watch. Normally he would just use Netflix like a normal person, but Geralt’s internet has been spotty for the past hour and Jaskier is about ready to die of boredom. His only problem, it seems, is the complete lack of organization. And the insane amount of movies that include horses. Spirit sits right at the front- one of the few animated movies that Geralt will admit to liking, and the others Jaskier has never heard of before. Well, since Geralt doesn’t seem to care, Jaskier sets out with the intent to alphabetize everything, and while he’s got the shelves empty, dusts as well, just to prove to Geralt that he can clean too.
He’s six movies in to reshelving them when he pulls out Flicka, staring at the black horse on the front cover. He’s noticed a pattern so far- most of the movies involving horses have dark coloring, and that gets him thinking about archetypes within horse movies. Not that he’s ever seen any of the ones on Geralt’s shelf. Out of curiosity he pops the case open, staring at the disc within and wondering if he really wants to subject himself to a movie he knows nothing about past the horse and girl on the front cover. He’s going to watch it with Geralt sooner or later, he thinks, so he shrugs, grabbing for the disc. The little tab in the middle releases with a pop, and Jaskier watches in slow motion horror as the disc goes tumbling out.
Jaskier fumbles, trying to catch the disc before it hits the ground, but to his horror the disc bounces off the carpet twice before he hears a distinct snapping noise. No. It fell on the carpet. It’s fine. His heart pounds in his ears as he sets the case down and pads over to where the disc has settled, cracked almost nearly in half. The curses that Jaskier lets out are particularly colorful, and if he weren’t panicking, he would almost be proud of the ones he’d created. Faintly in his panic he hears the door open, and he whips up, eyes wide and breathing ragged as he stares at the door. Geralt isn’t supposed to be back for another three days yet how-
“What is that?” Yennefer’s voice is cool, but he can hear the amusement running beneath it.
“Yennefer! I- it’s nothing.” He takes a discreet step in front of his mistake, hoping she’ll leave it be. She never does, though, violet eyes sweeping the room and settling on the pile of movies on the coffee table waiting to be sorted. He clears his throat, and her eyes flick back to meet his briefly. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you.”
“Me?” His voice cracks, and he clears his throat again.
“We were supposed to meet for lunch. It’s almost two.” Jaskier swears again, and Yennefer finally steps fully inside, kicking the door shut and crossing her arms. “It’s a good thing I remembered you were house sitting. That wouldn’t happen to be one of Geralt’s movies laying on the ground, would it?”
“Uh…” Yennefer takes a few steps into the apartment, and Jaskier takes two steps back, the edge of the disc pressing into his heel. He shuffles his feet a little, not wanting to cause more damage and watching helplessly as Yennefer picks up the open case, closing it to read the front. Her eyes flick up to meet his, and for a moment she almost looks as panicked as Jaskier feels. She’s better at hiding it though, and her panic turns into a crooked smile, smug and slightly condescending.
“That’s Geralt’s second favorite movie.”
“I don’t-”
“The one that’s currently on the floor, broken I’m assuming.” Jaskier can feel the blood drain from his face, and he nervously glances down at the broken disc.
“Fuck.” He stoops to pick up the disc now that Yennefer has figured him out, and stares with dismay at the crack running up the length of it. Yennefer holds out the case, and Jaskier gingerly snaps the disc back in place. “I have to get him another, if he finds out I broke it he’ll never let me come over again.”
Yennefer crosses her arms, that same smug smile on her face, letting Jaskier squirm as he thinks about where he’s going to find a movie from fucking 2006. Immediately his first thought is to go on eBay, see if anyone is selling the movie in some kind of good condition. “Well, lets go then.”
“W-wha…” The dark haired woman pins him with a look, and she motions for him to get his shoes on, standing impatiently by the door.
“Let’s go see what we can find.” Jaskier shoves his feet into his boots, grabbing for his keys and wallet and stopping to shrug on a sweater much too big for him when he sees snowflakes fluttering down outside. Yennefer raises a perfect eyebrow at that but doesn’t say anything, just leads Jaskier to her car, giving his shoes a look before letting him into the car.
They search four different stores and three thrift shops, but the only copies of the movie he finds are in almost worse condition than the one currently at Geralt’s house. He’s really panicking by the time Yennefer drops him off with food and a stern command to find something before Geralt gets home. Jaskier puts the movies back haphazardly, not caring about the order they’re in anymore. He parks himself on the floor in front of the couch, food on the coffee table and laptop balanced on his knees. He eats bites in between scrolling, and to his immense relief, there are over two thousand results for the movie. It only takes him a couple more hours of agonizing to find one that looks to be in good enough condition, and promises to get to him within two days. It’ll be tight, but as long as nothing happens, Geralt will be none the wiser.
Jaskier makes his bed up on the couch and makes sure to bring in Geralt’s plants before bed, confident in his plan. Now to wait for it to ship, and Geralt to come back from visiting his adopted father.
-*-
It comes perfectly on time. The case is in better shape than even Geralt’s was before, but by now Jaskier has learned, and swaps the cases before tossing the broken disc. Onto the shelf it goes, no worse for wear, and Jaskier can breathe a sigh of relief. His place in Geralt’s house secure, Jaskier sets out to clean up the apartment some, wanting nothing else to go wrong. Geralt should be home in a few hours, and if he knows his best friend, he’ll be starving. A good hearty welcome back meal is in order, and while Jaskier would never say he’s a fantastic cook, he’s proficient at the least and knows what his friend would like.
Roach joins him while he’s cooking, stubbornly perching herself on his shoulder and watching his every move as he chops vegetables. He’s made this particular dish before, and knows that Geralt likes it more than he’ll say. Jaskier pops the freshly filled pot pie into the oven with 10 minutes before Geralt is supposed to get home- not that he’s counting or anything. Roach has settled herself like a scarf around Jaskiers neck, head tucked under his chin and little cat breaths puffing onto his neck. He’s sweltering in the heat of the kitchen and Roach’s long fur, but he would never squander any love that Roach chooses to show him.
Jaskier is wiping up any excess mess when he hears the door click open softly, followed by the thump of bags hitting the floor. Roach perks up, ears tickling Jaskier’s cheek as she pulls herself into a standing position on his left shoulder. Her claws dig uncomfortably into him while she moves, but he forgives her. He’s still wearing Geralt’s sweater after all, and the material is just thick enough to keep him from getting maimed.
“Jaskier? Roach?” Geralt’s voice is tired, and Jaskier pops out of the kitchen, grinning and heart beating wildly when he catches sight of Geralt. His white hair is wet with snow, and curls loosely wherever it’s free from his ponytail.
“Geralt! You’re home just in time. Was your flight okay?” Geralt doesn’t say anything for a few moments, eyes dark as they flick over Jaskier, down to his toes and then up again. He holds his hands out for Roach, and she leaps off of Jaskier’s shoulder easily, landing in his waiting arms. Geralt is still staring at him as he allows Roach to snuggle into his arms, but Jaskier is used to this.
“Yes.” He finally says, not saying a word when jaskier comes forward to work him out of his wet jacket, one arm at a time so Roach doesn’t have to be set down. Jaskier can see Geralt’s nostrils flare, and he glances over at the kitchen where the pot pie Jaskier has crafted has begun to smell heavenly. “You’re wearing my sweater.”
Jaskier pauses, cheeks flushed faintly, before he shrugs, chuckling softly. “Somehow I neglected to pack any sweaters, and well, it’s a long train ride home.”
“Hmm. Food?”
“Almost done. Sit, I’ll bring it out.” Geralt nods, toeing off his shoes and tucking them away before settling on his couch. Jaskier ducks into the kitchen to get his pie out and serve it, careful not to burn himself (again). Geralt takes the hot plate from him gently when Jaskier holds it out to him, taking in a deep breath and shooing Roach when she tries to snag a bite of the chicken inside.
They eat in comfortable silence, Jaskier’s feet tucked under Geralt’s thigh to avoid a chill and Geralt only grunting at the cold that seeps through his jeans. Jaskier is halfway done with his pie when he sees Geralt pause with his fork midway to his mouth, a crease forming between his brows and eyes flicking back and forth.
“Geralt?”
“My movies.” Jaskier looks over, sighing and laughing nervously.
“Oh, I uh, was dusting so I moved them, but I couldn’t remember what order they went in. Sorry.” Can Geralt hear his heartbeat? Jaskier worries for a second that he’s going to be found out, but Geralt only frowns and goes back to eating. Jaskier thanks whatever god is out there watching over him and digs back into his food, grateful for the dropped subject. Geralt finishes before Jaskier, staring once again at the shelf full of dvds with a frown on his face. The longer he stares the more nervous Jaskier gets, and he hops up when he finishes, grabbing Geralt’s plate.
“Be right back!” Geralt looks at him briefly as he disappears into the kitchen, and Jaskier thinks he’s going to have a stroke, there’s no way he’s going to get away with it. While he’s freaking out in the kitchen he figures he might as well actually do the dishes, just to say he was doing something other than hiding in here. He’s definitely not hiding in here from his best friend because he broke a dvd and had to replace it. The warm water and bubbles are a nice distraction, but there aren’t many dishes that haven’t already been done and Jaskier is running out of time to just stand here.
Jaskier gathers whatever courage he has left and dries his hands off once he’s certain he can handle more questions, slipping back into the living room. Geralt’s back is to him, and Jaskier definitely doesn’t take a moment to admire the muscles he can see through Geralt’s shirt. Definitely not. Geralt doesn’t seem to pay him much mind, shuffling his dvds around and putting them back in whatever nonsensical order they were in before. Jaskier isn’t quite sure what to do now, or if Geralt expected him to leave, so he goes about gathering his things so that he’s ready at a moment’s notice. He’s hunting for a stray sock he can’t seem to find when Geralt turns sharply on his heel, a white dvd case in hand.
“What did you do?” Geralt’s voice is soft, but Jaskier can hear the accusation in his tone.
“Hmm?” Jaskier looks up from where he’s crammed his head under the couch, eyes widening when he takes in the movie that Geralt is holding. “Uh, the dishes? Pack? I don’t-”
“It’s different.”
“What is, Geralt?” Geralt holds out the case, and with a growing amount of dread, Jaskier realizes that Geralt is both way too asinine and way too meticulous to not find out. “Your movie? I told you, I-”
“Jaskier.” The frown is back, and Jaskier only lasts a moment more under those disappointed eyes before he sighs.
“Right, so uh, I might have had a little accident while cleaning, but I fixed it!” Geralt looks down at the case, and then back up at Jaskier, quirking a brow as if he doesn’t believe him. “Stop looking at me like that! I- ugh, okay so I was cleaning and your organization was just awful- not the point, so I was going to organize your shelf but then-”
“You’re rambling.” Geralt cuts in, expression smooth. “The point?”
“The disc fell out and I don’t know how carpet could damage it, but it uh, kind of broke? In half? So Yennefer-I know- took me to a few stores but we couldn’t find it, so I had to go on eBay to get a new copy.”
Geralt says nothing for a few long moments, just staring at Jaskier while he squirms, looking anywhere but at Geralt.
“Jaskier.” He looks up at the mention of his name, and Geralt is still looking at him, though this time his gaze is warm, and there’s a small tilt to his lips. A hint of a smile that he’s trying to hold back. The sight brings tears to Jaskier’s eyes and he has to blink a few times to keep them at bay.
“You aren’t mad?”
“No.” Jaskier reaches up to rub at his eyes, laughing and shaking his head.
“I must look like an idiot, worried over a dvd, but I didn’t want you to come home to me having broken something after you trusted me to-”
“I have more than one.” Geralt interrupts, and jaskier really should tell him to break that habit.
“Huh?”
“I have more than one copy. For when the other breaks.” For a second Jaskier doesn’t hear what Geralt said. Once his brain catches up to him he bursts out laughing, hardly able to catch a breath between bouts of incredulous laughter.
“So I didn’t- didn’t break your only copy?”
“No. But,” Jaskier has quieted down a bit more now, and Jaskier almost can’t handle the soft expression Geralt is looking at him with. “Thank you, for replacing it.”
“You’re welcome.” Jaskier smiles at him, and they stand there, smiling, until Geralt clears his throat awkwardly.
“So uh, did you want a ride home?”
“Oh, yes, yes that would be lovely. Lead the way.” Jaskier gathers his things, and Geralt doesn’t say a word when he drops Jaskier off, still wearing a sweater much too big for him.
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Sitting Front Row at...(On a Budget Obvs): Lookbook no.15
Hey to anyone reading!
And welcome to my fave lookbook I’ve done in a longggg ass time! Yes, that’s partially because it involved making collages and doing the low effort work of scouring Vogue Runway for “research purposes”, but I promise, that statement wasn’t made out of COMPLETE laziness-I am super happy with it too. It’s been a good use of pre-part-lockdown-lift time in the interim between that brief period of Christmas celebrations and eateries finally fucking opening again because let’s be honest, I always knew I was gonna get distracted by oat milk vanilla lattes and veggie all day breakfasts once I could actually sit down with them at my fave local cafe. You could say I was very much operating on a self-imposed deadline.
The “what I would wear to sit front row at...[insert designer here]” TikTok/Instagram reel trend was something I wanted to get on board with ever since I first saw one and whilst the option of doing my own live action take-I really cannot bear the thought of having to edit footage of myself awkwardly attempting to sit nonchalantly in front of a camera for hours on end-was off the cards considering my complete lack of screen presence, I decided a Tumblr text post would work just as well, and if not even better in a way. Given the absence of the time limitations you face when you’re making a reel or a TikTok I thought it’d be cool to present the looks as part of a mini moodboard for each designer which adds a bit of context to each look even if you aren’t familiar with their past collections and establishes the general vibe of the brand I’m attempting to replicate. Not to sound snotty or as if I am the font of all knowledge on anything high fashion related but even with my amateur knowledge I noticed that as the video trend took off and was adopted by big name influencers, it became less about the average person putting their own personal spin on the aesthetic of the labels we can’t ordinarily afford and more about them building outfits that only vaguely resemble the general public perception of the brand around the real corresponding (and often gifted and thus inaccessible to someone who doesn’t makes thousands for a sponsored post) pieces they own SO I thought I’d take the trend back to its roots and get a bit resourceful. All that being said, in no particular order, here are the outfits I would wear to sit front row at Gucci, Vera Wang, Miu-Miu, Marc Jacobs, Dolce & Gabbana, Brock Collection, Alexander McQueen, Etro, Burberry aaaand Saint Laurent based on their past collections and guess what? They didn’t cost a shit tonne of money :-)
-disclaimer: will include an asterisk before any new purchases if from a high street store though to be honest, I don’t think there are any, we shall see! I do include where I got old purchases from in case anyone wants to search anything on Depop/Ebay-
1. Saint Laurent (formerly Yves Saint Laurent)
-blazer from identityparty on Depop, pleather trousers from Zara, jewellery from Dolls Kill-
I know technically abbreviating Saint Laurent to YSL doesn’t really make much sense anymore given the brand’s name change in 2012, but I’ll always think of it as that in the same way I’ll always associate it with the slightly dishevelled yet simultaneously glitzy rock n’ roll aesthetic. The thing is, whilst YSL hasn’t done anything wildly out of the box for a long time, it’s rare they put a look on the runway that I wouldn’t wear; they never end up being a fashion week standout but the Parisienne take on grunge we’ve seen Anthony Vaccarello establish as his go-to will always have a place in my heart.
2. Alexander McQueen
-embroidered leather jacket from Ebay (originally Topshop), harness from Amazon, dress from ASOS, boots from Koi Vegan Footwear-
Alexander McQueen is a brand that is pretty much universally liked, from the historically extravagant and groundbreaking shows the man himself put together to Sarah Burton’s more toned down but still beautiful collections. Obviously I didn’t attempt to do justice to the former, so I tried my hand at putting together a look inspired by Sarah’s blend of delicate femininity and nomadic edge, and it went...okay? Like it’s definitely not my favourite of all the looks because it does give off slightly cheap copycat vibes buuut outside of the context of this lookbook it’s cute.
3. Brock Collection
-boater hat from Ebay, midi skirt from morganogle on Depop, corset top from ownmode_, heels from amybeckett1, bag from Primark-
Brock isn’t as well known a brand as most of the others in this list but I adore everything Laura Vassar Brock does and I couldn’t pass up an opportunity to try and channel the vision of one of the OG pioneers of the cottagecore vibe through my own wardrobe. I mean fr, this woman’s work as a steady provider of meadow photoshoot worthy dresses and corsets and skirts is v slept on and I will not stand for it. I will sit in front of a camera and then write a paragraph in my blog post begging anybody who reads to give LVB (an abbreviation I acknowledge is unlikely to catch on because Lisa Vanderpump anybody?) some form of acknowledgement for her services to period romance novel inspired moodboards everywhere.
4. Marc Jacobs
-coat from House of Sunny, white shirt from Retro World Camden, co-ord from Sugar Thrillz, bag from Poppy Lissiman-
If there’s one thing Marc Jacobs always does, it’s COMMITS. TO. HIS. THEME. I just KNOW he has a secret Pinterest with separate boards for every fashion era of the 20th century and he is putting those boards to good use providing us with collections that are as immersive as they are eclectic year in year out.
5. Miu Miu
-beret from H&M, hair clips from H&M, jewellery from Primark, coat from mollyyemmaa on Depop, shirt from YesStyle, sweater vest from YesStyle, skirt from Depop, diamanté belt from Brandy Melville, shoes from Koi Vegan Footwear-
We all like to talk about Bratz dolls and Monster High dolls and Barbies as fashion inspo but can we all focus on Cabbage Patch dolls for two secs so as to acknowledge the fact that a Miu Miu collection is basically all their fits grown up? And made boujie as fuck? If I want my fix of Wes Anderson meets Scream Queens (what a combo) inspired outfits, if I want prissy and girlish but also glam, if I want to look like a bratty rich girl whose one redeeming quality is her eye for vintage clothes, I know where to look and that is the Miu Miu section of Vogue Runway.
6. Vera Wang
-blazer as in no.1, velvet bralet from catdegaris on Depop, harness from Amazon, skirt from Ebay, knee high socks from Ebay, lace up boots from Ebay-
Vera Wang’s RTW aesthetic, a blend of the ethereal, ultra-feminine bridal designs she’s known for and British style punk rock influences, is something I feel has only become firmly established in recent years but it is everything I ever wanted and more. I always find myself trying to balance the part of me that loves everything girly and delicate and pretty and the part of me that would love to be in a biker gang and Vera’s collections are always an inspirational reminder of just how well it can be done.
7. Burberry
-coat from charity shop, suit from emmafisher3 on Depop, top from simranindia, shirt underneath from Zara, jewellery from ASOS-
Now I’m not gonna lie, I’m not the biggest fan of Burberry but there have been a few looks over the past few years I’ve really liked and as someone who owns numerous trench coats, high necks and way too much plaid, I thought it’d be an easy one to replicate. Plus, if you can count on Riccardo Tisci for nothing else you at least can rely on him giving you some layering inspo which is very much needed in a country where it literally just snowed in April and where my plans for today have just been cancelled because the iPhone weather app did a Karen Smith and didn’t predict rain for today right up until it started raining so thanks for that one British meteorologists. Your incompetence strikes again.
8. Etro
-corset from Urban Outfitters, vinyl trench coat from Topshop, boots from Ebay, black slip dress from kaoanaoleinik on Depop, fur trim afghan coat from louisemarcella-
Like with Brock Collection, Etro isn’t a hugely well known brand, but it is always one of my favourites-to add a spanner into the works of any attempts to cultivate a firm sense of personal style, I live for the ornate Bohemian look that Etro does so well just as much as I love both grungy and girly pieces, and so I really wanted to include a brand whose collections go down that route. It was a toss-up between this and Zimmerman, the flirtier, free spirit counterpart to the dark romance of Veronica Etro’s designs; her vision really shines through the most when it comes to the brand’s winter collections, imo, and given that I live in a country where winter or some weather state resembling it does seem to take up 70% of the year, I did decide on channelling her work rather than that of the equally talented Nicky and Simone Zimmermann this time round.
9. Dolce & Gabbana
-flower crown from ASOS, tiara from Amazon, earrings from YesStyle, dress from alicealderdice1 on Depop, opera gloves from Ebay, boots from Koi Vegan Footwear-
D&G is a brand I felt really conflicted about doing-I don’t include their current collections in my fashion week reviews based on the actions of designers Stefano Gabbana and Domenico Dolce over the last few years because I don’t want to mitigate the collective effort of fashion critics to push them towards irrelevancy. Though people like to claim the brand has turned a corner since Lucio Di Rosa was brought on board as the manager of celebrity and VIP relations last year (they are as prolific a force on red carpet fashion as ever), we haven’t seen any real meaningful apologies or reparations made by Dolce and Gabbana themselves which once again leaves us in the all too familiar quandary of whether or not we can separate the art from the artist especially when it is far too much of a simplification to only credit the two men for their work given there’s a whole design team behind them. There are a LOT of shitty people working in fashion, the whole industry is a bit of a cesspit if we’re honest, but I don’t think that should stop us from at least being able to appreciate old collections if we make sure we aren’t engaging in any kind of promotion of current works whilst doing so. D&G are a brand of high highs and low lows, with looks that range from hideously ugly to showstoppingly beautiful in a single show-when the looks are good, they are GOOD-and their presence in the fashion world is most definitely felt whether we want it to be or not. It would just be shit to refuse to recognise the existence of some real iconic runway moments, the practical work that went into the ornate detail and opulence that helped cement D&Gs place in sartorial history, the styling that’s made goddesses and fairytale queens out of modern day women as they’ve glided down catwalks, the far more extravagant and, let’s be real, sexier version of our world D&G shows have transported us to in the past. Will I talk about D&G ever again? No, and if you Google the scandals their brand has faced over the past few years, there are more than enough reasons why, but just this once I did want to pay homage to some of the collections, the snippets of which I saw on my Tumblr dashboard back when I was about 13, that first got me into fashion.
10. Gucci
-fur coat from Topshop, clips from Zaful, glasses from Ebay, dress from gracewright246 on Depop, shirt from Boohoo, blazer from charity shop-
Now last but, if you ever read any of my fashion week reviews (the likelihood of someone actually having read one of them and reading this is incredibly, incredibly slim lol, I wouldn’t read me either) you’ll know, definitely not least, is Gucci because Alessandro Michele comes through every!! single!! time!!
The man is truly the king of quirky throwback maximalism and it hurts my heart that a lot of people seem to think of it only as a brand associated with ostentatious displays of wealth. Year after year since Michele was made creative director he has released purposeful, fully-fleshed out collections which unravel themselves to us on the runway like time capsules containing the belongings of the rich and whimsical and yes that can sometimes result in outfits which are *ahem* a bit mismatched but it doesn’t matter because through fashion he manages to take us to a vivid version of the past where people could dress as freely and lavishly as they wanted to, into the wardrobe of a person unaffected by the side-eyeing of others. You get the impression he doesn’t design so much as plays around with some kind of enchanted dress up box and takes inspiration from there and to give that impression is only a credit to his talent-to make outfits so kooky and extravagant look like they were meant to be takes a boldness and genuine love for clothes that I do tend to feel a lot of the big name designers have lost in the pursuit of profit and the necessary placating of the dying customer base that keeps that coming in. Of course I'm not for a second saying Gucci does not care about profit, but at the very least, they have on board a creative director who genuinely has fun with what they’re putting out there and wants to make a statement too and that really shows; you can rest on your laurels and sell tweed boucle jackets to rich old white women for eternity but nobody’s going to mention your brand name and the word groundbreaking in the same sentence ever again unless they’re talking about what it was a century ago, you know (mentioning no names...unless...did I hear someone say Chanel)? That feels like such a shady way to end, lol, but I’m sure said brand will survive-to be fair, they’ve been included in every other What I’d Wear to Sit Front Row At video I’ve seen so although I’m always slagging them off for doing the saaaaame thinggggg year after year, for that same reason their aesthetic is instantly recognisable and so will always be a source of imitation. There are obviously pros and cons to being a brand which constantly reinvents itself but I think it’s totally possible to do that whilst maintaining an overall mission, and Alessandro Michele’s work at Gucci demonstrates that with ease.
Anyway, if you got to here, thanks for reading! I know I’m super behind on this whole TikTok trend and I know a Tumblr post instead of a video is a bit of a cop out but all the real, physically awkward ones out there know that watching yourself back is excruciating lmao, so I hope this does the trick. After this, I’m gonna get back to the reviewing S/S21 collections post though knowing me I’ll probs take a few days to get back into that because I feel like since I left full-time education (RIP me going back in a few months) writing continuously like this for any longer than about 15 mins fries what brain cells I have left. Again, thank you for reading and if you are, sending many good vibes your way! Stay safe!
Lauren x
#front row#frontrow#fashion#fashioninpo#fashion inspo#style#style inspo#designer#gucci#vera wang#burberry#label#miu miu#runway#fashion week#mood board#ysl#saint laurent#runway trends#ss21#lookbook#vintage#outfit#marc jacobs#Alexander mcqueen#runway fashion#high fashion#haute couture#trend#collage
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In a Week
Part 3/4 - Snowballs and cigarettes
(Frankie Morales x f!reader)
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Summary: The snows finally stopped and its about time you got to work unburying your car. With your friends all prompting you to move on from your toxic ex you find yourself becoming more and more aware of the kind of person you’d want to be with. And how Frankie was ticking all those boxes.
Authors notes: Ugh okay I was over the max block text so the finale is split into two parts!! But you get them both tonight💕🌻💕 .
Warnings: mentions of toxic relationships, allusions to sex (nothing depicted), PTSD, smoking, drinking, swearing
Tagged: @agingerindenial @icanbeyourjedi
Word count: 4.0k
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Day 4
It had only been three days but you had found yourself in a routine that you hoped you never fell out of. Each morning he’d wake up first and you’d be predictably wrapped around him for another 2 hours or so. He found it hard to believe you were able to wake up before 10am, let alone that you were up at 5am most days but he’d love to be around to see it happen. For the first time, he saw something he’d long given up on. A future with someone else ingrained into his and his daughters life. Maybe it was stupid feeling this way after a few days, but he was old enough to know when he felt a real connection, and he’d never felt as good as he did when he was with you. He would make his feelings known to you, one way or another, he’d regret it forever if he let you slip through his fingers. He just had to find the right time to do it. It had been a long time since you’d woken up with someone in the same bed as you and even longer since the person was someone who made you feel safe and secure. There was something calming about knowing that even if you pushed your freezing cold feet between his calves in the middle of the night he wouldn’t get angry, or push you off he’d just grumble and pull you closer.
It sounded pathetic but it was the nicest a guy had been to you in years. You knew how stupid it was to catch feelings this fast, and it definitely wasn’t like you to feel such strong emotions. Since the funeral you had actively decided to forego them although. This benefited your work, helped you in your field, made you a better doctor, but keeping all your emotions bottled up took its toll. Primarily on your love life. You’d had your fair share of flings with other residents, nurses, friends of friends, but between classes and shift work there wasn’t time. Plus what was the point when you had no idea where you’d be moved to. At least that’s what you told yourself. Then Jonathan came along and you’d let him in, let him know you and you fell for him in the process. Then he’d started dating someone else, told you he didn't realize you were exclusive, and it shattered you completely. You’d pieced yourself back together and once you were better, once you were finally over him, he’d cycle back round to you, determined to keep you on retainer. The whole ordeal had left you tired. You’d never had a real relationship and you were already done with them. You never understood how people would want to live with someone for the rest of their lives until now. Catching feelings had always happened in periphery to your life making it easy to push by a crush by simply avoiding them, but you couldn’t avoid Frankie. Each day you spent trapped inside with him he’d continued to grow on you, cementing your feelings for him tenfold. You yawn and stretch your leg out over Frankies torso propping yourself up onto your elbow so you can reach over him and grab the glass of water on the nightstand. He exhales as if your movement across him is an inconvenience to his meticulous strategy for winning whatever game he was playing on his phone. You take a sip and put the cup back down, rolling off the bed and opening the curtains.
“Hey!” you shout, causing Frankies head to shoot over to you, “It stopped snowing!” you exclaim, gazing out over the parking lot where the snow had fallen. The powder undulating overtop the cars buried beneath it. You stretch your arms up catching an unsavoury whiff coming from your armpits causing you to pull a face. Turning around just in time to see Frankie laughing from the bathroom door.
“Seriously man? Do you have to beat me to everything!” you pout, crossing your arms over your chest.
“Gotta be faster sweetheart.” he says, closing the door behind him. From anyone else the term would have driven you into a rage induced frenzy, but it was endearing not condescending coming from him. You take the time to call Stella, you’d been texting with her since you got stuck but you felt it was time to officially announce your arrival as permanently cancelled.
“Hey girl”
“Hey babe what's going on? You calling with good or bad news?” she asks, a constant bustle evident in the background.
“Don’t shoot the messenger, but only bad news on my end. I am so fucking sorry, I should have just flown down like you said” you offer, leaning back against the window allowing the chill of the outside to cool you off.
“Well this is why you should always listen to me, but i’ll forgive you just this once.” she laughs.
“God I can’t believe the one wedding I actually care about I’m going to miss!” you exasperated, shifting away from the window and flopping down onto the bed.
“Well I definitely won’t miss you, especially considering you’ve already sent a gift.” she teases.
“How, very dare you” you punctuate.
“Yup long con paid off, 10 years I pretended to like you just to get you to buy me a toaster from ebay” Stella laughs.
“You could have just stolen mine after the first year, then you could have had me gone!” you state.
“Ugh a huge mistake!!” she overemphasizes dramatically, causing you both to burst out laughing.
“So….” you say after your giggles subside leaving a gentle ache in your ribs that always occurred when you talked to Stella.
“What?” she asks, sniffling.
“ Did John make it out there?” you ask, in a painfully transparent way.
“Why?” she spits, her tone suddenly lethal. She hated the guy, she was the one who was always left dealing with you after he’d used you up, helping to piece you back together, just in time for him to get a hold on you again.
“He asked about me?” you query, once again failing to convey your intentions.
“I’m not indulging this anymore, it's bad for you. He’s bad for you, there's only so many times I can watch him emotionally manipulate you” she rants.
“Ya, but it's easy and it's so good with him.” you emphasize.
“It’s not easy, take it from someone in an easy relationship, it's not supposed to hurt that much.” she chides, determined to have you see the light.
“But..”
“Nope, I'm drawing the line for you, find someone else. You’re a gorgeous single doctor,
“Almost doctor” you interrupt, but the statement is ignored.
“Aren’t you currently shacked up with one of my stupid brothers friends?”
“Yes? And?” you say, your heart suddenly beating faster as your head turns to see Frankies hat on the nightstand.
“Frankie right? Statue like, soft curls, kind, deep brown eyes? And don’t pretend like you didn’t notice I know you like the back of my hand!”
“So what if I have, doesn't mean..” you whisper, not wanting him to hear you.
“Nope, don’t sell yourself short, I say get cozy with him and finally move on from dickhead McGee, even if it's just for a night, cleanse the palette. Besides, you know he’ll be doing whoever looks his way at my wedding.” you hear a muffled shout “alright I have to go, something about the bridesmaids fighting.”
“Your sisters? Fighting? Who could have seen that coming” you deadpan.
“I know, god I wish you were here.”
“I wish I was as well i'll call tomorrow in case you get cold feet, I have a five point plan”
“I won't” she chimes.
“ I know because you love her”
“And I also love you” she says
“And I love you” you respond before hanging up. Not even a minute after hanging up you get a call from Santiago
“Hey, I just wanted to verbally apologize for trapping you with ‘Fish, though he's definitely one of the better ones to get stuck with.” he says.
“Well that’s good to know” you laugh, rolling your eyes.
“He hasn’t tried anything has he? If he has I'll kill him, and get away with it, you'll have to help me with the body but...” Santiago starts.
“Santi, it's fine he's cool, really sweet, actually,” you offer heat rushing to your face for some unknown reason.
“Good. He touches you ill..” he warns.
“You’ll kill him ya I got it!” you snap, you understood why Santiago felt like he had to play big brother for you but sometimes he was a touch overbearing. “Is John there?” you try and ask casually, failing to head Stellas advice.
“Don’t...” Santi starts, you can practically hear his jaw clench over the phone “you know if I see him tonight i'm gonna knock him out for how he treats you”
“It wasn’t that bad.” you whisper.
“It was, still is, I heard him bragging about how if worse comes to worse he always has his plan D,” he offers, not to hurt you but to try and free you from the cycle.
“That dick. You know what Stellas right, fuck him!” you exclaim with a newfound determination to rid him from your life.
“Oh my god, are you finally seeing the light?” Santi asks “Praise the lord!” He shouts up into the sky.
“Ya I guess so” you say staring at Frankie as he dries his hair with the towel. “I gotta go, see you soon.”
“Not soon enough” he laughs as you hang up.
“Whose that?” Frankie asks, still curious about who you’d been hoping to see at the wedding and what they’d done to earn your affection.
“Pope!” you say with a smile, pushing your back off the bed and sitting up.
“Threatening to kill me?” Frankie predicts.
“Ya we have a plan” you murmur.
“We?” he asks, a twinkle in his eye and his mouth upturned at the sides.
“Well he'll kill you but, I cant have him go to jail so i'll have to hide your body.” you explain
“Good glad that got sorted” he says, his smile now in full effect.
“I'll go grab some breakfast” you say.
“No ill get it, you’re always getting it, plus gives you time to shower, I can smell you from here.” He prods, grabbing the key.
“Rude!” you yell out after him.
He's back when you exit the shower
“Oh thank you, you say grabbing the plate form him”
“Just what the doctor ordered, hey?” he asks, smiling stupidly big.
“Ouuuf that that was bad truly apologize to me” He laughs at how serious your face gets “You're laughing? I had to listen to that joke and you're laughing?” you say through a mouthful of eggs. “Here's something that'll wipe that stupid smile off your face, snow stops which means we have to clear off my car.”
“Using the royal we are we?” he asks
“Think of it as repayment for the pun,” you say waving your fork in his face
“How will we be clearing it off?” he asks, leaning over the counter.
“Brush” you say, as if it's obvious
“Where's the brush?” he asks, resting his chin on the back of his hands and smiling sweetly at you, waiting for an answer.
“In the….oh” you say, face dropping when you realize that the brush was in the car currently buried under a snow pile.
“Not so smart now” he laughs pushing back off the counter taking your empty plate with him, washing it up for you.
“Well I guess we just have to get to the door with our hands then” you say smiling.
“Once again, about this we,” he says, drying his hands on the dish towel, turning to see a dramatic pout plastered across your face.
“Fine, I'll only help because I think you may disappear in the snow if you go in alone” he responds, the truth was, he couldn't deny you.
You both get dressed into the most winter proof clothes you had, neither of you having packed for a snowy expedition. As you exit the room you see him grab a pack of cigarettes he’d been hiding, not wanting you to see his worst traits.
“Those will kill you, you know,” you say, causing him to roll his eyes dramatically.
“Okay mom” he laughs grabbing the lighter despite your disapproving glare,
“You have a daughter to think about” you say, feeling like you'd be letting your profession down by giving up so easily.
“It's why I smoke, the safest way to calm the nerves while staying clean” he murmurs with a look on his face that is enough to get you to drop it for now. You weren't about to pry into his struggle with addiction and you certainly weren’t one to judge, you’d faced similar issues after your brothers passing.
“I used to smoke,” you confess as the elevator doors close in front of you both.
“Seriously?” he remarks, not able to believe it.
“Pack a week for about a year” you say, slowly nodding your head as the two of you walk through the foyer towards the parking lot.
“You quit?” He asks, impressed.
“Ya I don’t think it was long enough to form a habit. When did you start?” you offer as you move your legs through the snow, it was dense your legs would be sore tomorrow.
“What? Are you gonna assess the state of my lungs?” Frankie laughs, moving easily through the snow you were struggling so hard against.
“Yes, but i'll only tell you the results if you want to know”
“Few years back, after...” he stops himself before confessing the worst thing that ever happened in his life.
“The mission” you finish for him, remembering how Pope had picked up similar habits once he finally returned home. “You were there with Santi?” you question
“He told you about it?” he asks, sterner than you’d seen him before, he was afraid that you knew what a monster he was. You shake your head, no and he thanks the gods. “You think i'm going to?” He queries lighting up a cigarette and taking a drag, making sure not to blow it out anywhere near you.
“I don’t know, maybe. It’s the one thing he wont tell me about, figured it would be easier for you if you were talking to a stranger about it.”
“Not much of a stranger now” he laughs, but there was something behind his eyes, a similar sadness that you saw with Santi when he talked about it. Your thoughts are interrupted when something cold hits you in the face, your mouth drops open, your forehead scrunches in disbelief.
“Shit, I wasn’t aiming for your face I swear!” he looks up panicked
“I guess it's what I get for asking so many questions” you say, hand still over your face playing into it as you formulate your attack.
“No, oh my god! No! It wasn't because of that, let me see” he says, you let your hands drop and you smile wickedly up at him. Before he has time to react, you rub a handful of snow into his face.
“Oh... you're gonna pay for that.” he draws out, wiping the snow from his face.
After 15 minutes of all out war, and a brief truce that was to be officially signed once back inside you managed to get to the door handle and lean into the back seat grabbing out the brush. You offer it to Frankie, but he's already started clearing off the rest of the car with his arms.
“Hey can you grab my spare charger out of the compartment there?” you say cleaning off the trunk, the front doors now accessible.
“Ya, holy shit is this a knife?” he asks, pulling out a knife.
“Maybe.” You say staring into his eyes as his mouth hangs open in amusement. “For safety, I didn't know who I'd be driving up with! You coulda been a murderer” you explain palms up.
“And you were planning on what? shanking me?” he laughs a huge smile on his face, weirdly endeared by your thought process.
“Only if I had to.” You say chuckling between shivers, the cold now seeping through your makeshift snowsuit hitting against the sweat you’d worked up.
“You want it?” He offers.
“No i'm good, thanks”
“Because you don’t think I'm a murderer or because you have another one hidden in the room already?” he laughs, but he stops when you tilt your head slightly and raise your eyebrows, averting your eyes.
“Wait, do I need this knife?” he calls as you trudge back through the snow.
You both change into less sweaty attire and you settle into the couch turning on to watch the latest forensic files rerun. You shiver as you sit down having caught a chill. Noticing you shaking, Frankie goes to the wardrobe and grabs down a spare blanket throwing one at you so it lands directly over your head. He laughs when he sees you slowly turn towards him beneath the blanket, like someone in a makeshift ghost costume.
“Excuse me!” you laugh
“Hey you should be thanking me, can't have you freezing to death.” he says, “Are you asleep under there?” he asks, when you don't respond
“I'm not a cat! I don't fall asleep when someone throws a blanket over me!” He's not paying attention to what he's doing and the bottle in his hand shatters against the counter, a shard slicing his hand open.
“Fucking shit.” you him sigh.
“Are you okay?” You ask maneuvering out from under your blankets to see Frankie in the kitchen, glass on the floor and blood coming down his arm.
“Wow you're out of my sight for 2 seconds and you maim yourself” you say laughing, stopping when you see the panicked look in his eye, the event evidently triggering something deep in his psyche. You quickly stand up and he goes to move towards you.
“No don't move Frankie, stay where you are.” you reassure softly, watching as his eyes lay into your own, his breathing calmer now “You're in socks, can't have you cutting your dancing feet” you say.
“You’ve heard of my dancing feet,” he says, grounding himself again.
“Only bad things” you say, throwing him a pair of shoes that he carefully puts on before moving toward the closet where the broom is “No come here, let me see your hand. The mess can wait, you're more important,” you stress leading him over to the couch and sitting him down.
“Wow, first time I'll be able to afford professional health care “ he jokes as you take his hands in your own.
“Ow” he says when you press down onto the hand to assess the damage.
“It's fine, not deep enough for stitches, should heal up on its own. I still want to clean it though, to stop any infection.” You return with a small bottle of over priced vodka opening it and dabbing some onto a cotton pad. He doesn't flinch when the alcohol cleans the wound and he watches as you bandage his hand up.
“You carry a med pack with you on every trip?” he queries, but you don’t hear him you’re too focused on wrapping his hand.
“There! good as new,” you say standing up and cleaning up the glass on the floor. “Hey did you bring a swimsuit?” you ask, dumping the glass into some newspaper that was left in the room.
“Why?” He asks.
“Answer the question Frankie” you say, folding the paper around the shards before placing it into the trash.
“Yes, you wanna go hang out at the pool with the fifty families stuck here?”
“Ya. You don't? Seriously this room is wildly expensive and has a huge jacuzzi tub, I'm getting in your welcome to join, but bathing suits are mandatory.” you offer.
“I was gonna get in fully clothed,” he offers, not missing a beat.
“Perfect even better”
As per usual he beats you to the punch and settles into the tub that was more akin to a hot tub than a bath, he wanted to get in first partially to annoy you and partially so his body wouldn’t be on full display, he wasn't as jacked as he once was and he’d become insecure about certain areas that he’d let go once his kid came along. He watches as you walk in and his eyes can't help but follow your figure around the room, a beautiful person behind a beautiful personality, he thanks the universe for placing him into your orbit.
“That why they call you catfish?” you ask drawing him from his daydream back into an equally pleasing reality.
“What?” he responds, blushing at having been called out on his gawking.
“Cause your mouth hangs open like a fish out of water when you're zoned out” you smirk, lowering yourself down into the tub.
“Rude” he says splashing after you settle in.
“Alright, Frankie, what is it?” you ask, causing his face to look up to you “what's your deal, apart from smoking? You gotta have flaws”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.” he charms
“Sinister” you laugh, but he doesn't, you reach your foot up tapping his cheek with it,
“Disgusting,” he chuckles, grabbing it and rubbing the arch before pushing it back into the water.
“God, I miss the ocean” you confess, “ I hate the city sometimes.”
“You’re not planning on staying in Chicago after you're done?”
“Nope, gonna get myself out to the coast, or at least somewhere without winters.” you say stretching your arms out across the tub. “How about you, are you planning on staying?”
“ Probably, no reason to leave, plus it's close to my mom so she can take care of Arianna when I'm at work, though I wouldn't be opposed to moving if the opportunity presented itself she's young enough that it wouldn’t be too hard.” he says, wanting you to know that if you asked, hed follow you anywhere.
“Arianna, beautiful name. Did you pick it?” you ask looking up when a few minutes of silence pass. As you do you notice that the somber look from early had returned. “You okay?” you ask.
“I don't deserve her, I don’t deserve something so good.” he states, suddenly realizing he didn’t deserve someone like you either. You wouldn’t be sitting in the tub with him if you knew what he’d done.
“Frankie that's not true” you reassure
“You don't know the shit I've done. I'm not... I'm not a good person,” he says, still not looking over to you.
“Well, I…” you begin to refute.
“Seriously, I've done bad things… awful things'' he clears his throat, afraid to look at you, afraid you’d be terrified by him.
“People make bad mistakes, but that doesn't make them irredeemable, not if they are willing to change. You understand what you did was bad, that says something.” you reassure, knowing the guilt was likely left over from the military.
“Well, wise words coming from someone who's never done anything bad”
“You don't know me that well Frankie, I’ve done my fair share of stupid things, crappy things to numb the pain. It's what we do to make up for those shitty actions that count. At every turn, you’ve shown me that you're not an evil person. Everything I’ve seen is good, and funny and incredibly kind.” you finish and you continue to nudge him with your foot until he finally cracks a smile.
“Well now you're smiling again, my missions complete and it's time for bed” you say stepping out of the tub and drying off, unaware that you’d just made Frankie fall even harder for you. His eyes helplessly following you as you leave the bathroom.
“Since I'm an outpatient, does that mean I get the good side of the bed?” he calls out after you. You roll your eyes but let him have it, you preferred the sleeping situation the way it was.
#In a week#part 3#frankie x y/n#frankie x reader#frankie catfish morales#triple frontier fic#triple frontier fanfiction#frankie morales x reader#frankie morales x you#pedro pascal characters
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2 for Annie x Nancy! 17 for Beth x Rio!
I no longer have the link for what this was for but I had saved the prompts, and look what happened!
Annie x Nancy - with relief
“You ever feel like we give our bad decisions too much credit?”
Annie says this as Nancy watches her get dressed, dressed in a robe herself. She’s home so she doesn’t have to wear normal clothes and that makes Annie feel a little pissed, because she could use a nap after the workout they’ve just had.
“What do you mean?” Nancy asks, tilting her head and furrowing her brow the way it does when Annie says something she doesn’t understand, which happens a lot.
“I mean, people do stupid shit and write a love song about it. You know? We romanticize everything to excuse shitty behaviour. Eric Clapton fell in love with his best friend’s girl and then wrote a song about how she rejected him and he persistently pursued her anyway, and it’s his most famous song! I mean, are we, you and I, shitty people?”
Nancy smiles and gets up, stopping close enough for Annie to smell her shampoo. She begins to undo the buttons she’s just done up, and Annie is about to remind her Ben is due home from school soon, when she realizes she’s redoing them, lined up the right way this time. In her attack of neurosis, she’d missed a couple of them.
“Have you been writing some songs about us?” Nancy asks, smiling down at Annie’s worried frown.
“No.”
“Then, I think we’re good.”
“We shouldn’t be sneaking around. It feels wrong.”
“You’re right,” Nancy says, smoothing her palms up Annie’s chest and over her shoulders. “So, let’s stop sneaking around.”
“Really?”
“I’m not ashamed of this. Maybe a little...surprised, but definitely not ashamed. Are you?”
Annie smirks, already melting under Nancy’s soft gaze. Post-sex Nancy is soft. Who would have thunk?
“No,” Annie replies, wrapping her arms around Nancy’s waist, pulling her in close and tiling her chin up to kiss her chastely. When she pulls away, she sighs with relief, but visibly stiffens instantly at the thought of exposing their month long affair, or whatever, to Gregg.
Ben has his suspicions. Annie can tell in the way he takes his time opening the front door when he’s seen Annie’s car parked outside Nancy’s house, and the way he takes extra noisy steps coming up the stairs. The way he smiles knowingly at them on movie night before excusing himself early to hang out in his room. But Gregg. Gregg is clueless, and therefore unpredictable.
“This is good,” Nancy assures her, then, a fleeting spark of doubt in her eyes when Annie doesn’t immediately agree. “Right?”
Annie inhales deeply.
“Unfortunately, your neurosis and obsessive nature haven’t yet surpassed how good you are at sex.”
Nancy rolls her eyes and gives Annie a playful smack on the arm as she turns away, but she’s pulled back before she’s all the way out of reach.
Annie holds onto her, making sure she has her attention when she says, “You’re also a great mom. And the best at late night chats. This is good.”
Nancy looks at her like she often does lately; like she’s trying to figure out how the hell it is that this is actually working, and Annie doesn't blame her. She’s spent nights trying to figure it out herself, but she figures some things just don’t require an explanation.
Her mouth opens and her breath hitches like she’s about to say something, but then she doesn’t and Annie waits, joke at the ready, teetering on the tip of her tongue when Nancy suddenly says, “I love you.”
It’s Annie’s turn now to open and close her mouth like a fish, uncharacteristically speechless at the confession. Her heart races then, her palms immediately begin to sweat, and her brain is at a standstill, she can practically hear the record scratch before panic sets in. Why is she speechless? Is this bad? But then, she’s speaking, the words stumbling out of her before she knows what’s happening.
“I love you, too.”
And it’s like instant relief. As if the sound of the words alone set everything into place, and right. The nerves are good, the panic is good. Because for once, Annie can place it on something, and it’s not regret or impending doom. It’s the feeling of having something to lose, something to fight for, something to protect in addition to Ben.
Nancy smiles and she exhales a laugh as Annie pulls her into her arms.
“Oh, thank god!”
Nancy kisses Annie, holding her face in both hands as she does so. She then sighs, burying her face in the crook of Annie’s neck as they hold each other.
Annie can’t help the dumb smile on her face, or the way she immediately inhales Nancy at given the chance. A year ago she wouldn’t have known what to do with the feelings doing so would stir, but now it just feels like home–like family.
Beth x Rio - After an argument
They’ve fought before, but not like this, because it’s not really a fight. But Elizabeth’s been antsy, and sensitive. He’ll be the first to admit that they’ve said ugly things to each other before, and that he can be particularly hurtful when he wants to be. Certainly he’s said things to her that have made her flinch, but he’s never seen her just grow silent like this. There’s something in the way that she flinches at his words this time however that really and truly makes him feel like the scum of the earth–a feeling he has ever only associated with Marcus and the look on his face when he’s disappointed about Rio missing something important.
He’s certainly used to sitting with the feeling, but what he’s not used to is the counter argument he expected to get in return but doesn’t seem to be getting. There’s no snappy comeback, or smartass remark, or now-it-all sass he’s used to getting from her and that’s...that’s an added blow. That makes him feel especially low.
Beth has been obsessing over shopping for the kids a lot lately. So much so that she’s become distracted. She almost cost them a deal just the other day by excusing herself every five minutes to check her bid on some ridiculously expensive, extremely rare collectible for Kenny.
The kid moved out of his mother’s house completely, has decided to live with his dad save for weekend visits, and even those have become sporadic. In turn, Elizabeth’s decided to shower him with gifts that do nothing except drain her bank account, which is what Rio says to her when the fight about the meeting is in full swing.
“Why does it matter!” She snaps, face glued to her laptop. “It’s my money, so don’t you worry about it.”
It’s been a long day. It’s been a long day and he should have walked away, but–it’s been a LONG DAY, and he is running out of patience, so as he loads the dishwasher, his back to her still, he opens his mouth and lets the words slip before he can filter them.
“Yeah, well, buying him crap he’s going to forget about in two months isn’t going to make him magically hate you less.”
The silence is not just deafening exactly, but painful. He looks up, ready to receive whatever she is going to dish out, but it never comes. She continues to stare at the computer screen, clicking idly, swallowing audibly, her eyes welling up and just before he can say anything to save the situation, she’s gotten up and quietly excused herself. Seconds later, the door to the bedroom slams shut, and that is how Rio’s found himself knocking, locked out for the first time in--well, ever.
“Elizabeth,” he starts softly. “I didn’t mean that, come on.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he hears her say. “All he knows is I got his dad shot and then caused a divorce. I’m the reason he has to live in a tiny one-bedroom with a second hand pull out sofa.”
And well, he doesn’t quite know where to start.
“He’s a teenager! Teenagers are dicks. It’s the natural order of things. He’ll grow out of it, trust me. And if dumbass Dean is half as decent as you keep saying he is, he’ll talk some sense into him.”
There’s silence in return, and he gives her a moment before giving the door another knock.
“Elizabeth?”
The door opens a second later and she’s standing there, blotchy and teary eyed, and beautiful.
“I’m a terrible mother,” she chokes.
“Hey, come on.”
He tugs at her hand, and again when she resists, finally holding her against his chest while she sniffles into his shirt.
“I just want him to like me again.”
“I hate to break it to you,” he says, pausing to drop a kiss on her crown, hoping it’ll cushion the blow, “but that might not happen until he goes off to college.”
She groans before finally pulling back enough to look at him.
“Were you this horrible to your mom as a teenager?”
Rio laughs, “No. If I even thought about talking back I’d be in a world of pain.”
She frowns, and he finds himself tucking her hair back without thinking about it.
“You’re a good mom.”
“I guess.���
“You are and you know it. You want to take a bath? I’ll bring you a drink, light some candles.”
She smiles then and he thinks he might be getting her back tonight.
“Co-baths are for after fights. That wasn’t really a fight.”
“I was thinking you could take one alone, but I like where your head’s at.”
He leans forward and drops a kiss on her neck, nipping her collarbone and getting a throaty laugh that feels like a victory.
“Okay,” she says before meeting him for a chaste kiss. “Why don’t you start the bath…”
“Okay.”
“But run it slow because this ebay auction ends in twenty minutes and I really think I’m going to get it.”
“What?”
“Twenty minutes!” She calls as she runs past him, back to her computer, but now in better spirits, so he relents, making a mental note to give the kid a talk the next time he gets a chance.
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WIP Wednesday #15
Since Jason's birthday is tomorrow and all, I'm doing something longer as a treat. A triptych, if you will!
Content warnings for child abuse and neglect, alcoholism and food insecurity.
Thalia wakes up, like she usually does, to Jason curled against her with his fingers in his mouth. She can't easily put him in his crib by herself, but her mattress is on the floor and there's nowhere for him to fall, so she can ensure that she's there to hold him whenever he wakes up crying. Her shirt's a little damp, but this time it's just because he's drooling in his sleep. Last night, thankfully, was free from disruptions.
For him, at least.
He's a year old today, and she hasn't seen their mother since two nights ago, slumped on the couch with an empty bottle of vodka on the ground next to her. The door to her room is closed. Whether she's in there sleeping it off or out somewhere getting drunker, Thalia has no idea.
Bitterly, she doesn't care. It's not like their mom cares about them, either.
Jason yawns, his hair sticking up like a cockatoo's feathers. The first eye contact of the morning always leaves him giggling and reaching for her, and the feeling of his small, warm body flopping onto her brings her focus back to where it should be.
"Happy birthday, shrimp."
"Happy," he repeats, nosing at her stomach.
It's up to her, like usual, so she gets him dressed and ready and gives him the last of the cereal to occupy himself while she digs through her closet to find the old coffee can she stashed there.
Every time she thinks she can get away with it, she lifts a bill from their mother's wallet and puts it in the can. Every nickel she finds on the street, every dime she pulls from the couch cushions; it all adds up, a little at a time.
After carefully saving as much as she could for the past few weeks, she's squirreled away enough. She takes out a fistful and stuffs it in her pocket, then re-buries the can under a pile of her laundry.
Today's special, and she'll cover the loss somehow— by sneaking some extra groceries under her coat again, if she has to.
Jason's finished with his breakfast by the time she emerges, sitting patiently and playing with the plastic dish she'd given it to him on. Her sweet baby brother, looking up at her with a smile so sunny you'd think they were living like kings.
Her chest feels tight and her throat's in no better condition. After a deep breath, she reaches down to grab his hands.
"Do you know what birthdays mean?"
He takes a second to think about it as she pulls him to his feet, then shakes his head.
"Birthdays, Jason," she says, grinning— it's harder to dwell when he's holding onto her hand— "mean birthday cake."
The gas station a block away at least has the miniature kind wrapped in cellophane. He won't know the difference, since he hasn't even been introduced to the concept of cake yet, but she'll still have to make it up to him with a real one someday.
—
By the time Jason turns two, Thalia has shoplifting down to an art form.
People are usually too busy fawning over how precious her brother is to pay her much attention, and having Luke along makes it almost easy. Jason adores him, and he's happy to draw focus away from her by translating the toddler babble and proclaiming that they're his favorite babysitting clients, which conveniently explains the lack of adult supervision.
Thanks to him, she's managed to get Jason something a lot better than cake.
She saw it in the window of a toy shop and immediately knew it was perfect, but it cost more than she'd scrounged in the past six months. She'd been resigned to the idea of stealing a brownie instead, and then last night, Luke showed up at her doorstep with it tucked under his arm and his face split into a wicked grin.
She's not sure she wants to know how he managed to smuggle it out without getting caught, but the way Jason lights up when he lays eyes on it, happier than she's ever seen him, is enough to make her ignore the uneasy feeling.
"Puppy!"
She can't help but mirror it back to him, her heart swelling with emotion as he flings his arms around the stuffed animal's neck. It's almost as big as he is.
"That's right. It's a wolf puppy. She's named after a mama wolf called Lupa."
The real Lupa is the matriarch of a pack living at a conservancy in San Diego county. Her likeness is an embodiment of the fiercely protective love Jason should have gotten from his own mother, and which has fallen to Thalia and her limited capabilities instead.
Jason rolls over, still holding tight to his new doll, and lays his head in her lap. If she's coming up short, he certainly hasn't noticed.
"My Lupa?"
He's gently petting the wolf's fur, in a movement that's strikingly similar to how Thalia's petting his hair. She blinks a few times to chase away the burning in her eyes.
"Your Lupa."
She can't give him the childhood that he deserves. It's a struggle to make sure even his most basic needs are met, and some days it feels like the whole world is united against them, but then he hugs her leg or curls up against her shoulder or tells her in that sweet voice love you, Taya—
And everything settles in her chest, refining itself into a white-hot determination.
She's all he has, and the one thing she can make sure he'll never want for is someone who loves him enough to fight for him.
She understands how the real Lupa must feel about her cubs. She knows, with more certainty than she's ever known anything, that if anyone so much as thinks about hurting her little brother— hurting her baby— she'll tear them to shreds with her teeth before they have time to run.
—
Everything is perfect. Thalia's made sure of it.
The party doesn't start for another hour, so she has to keep Jason occupied until then. He thinks she has lunch reservations and they're meeting at her place for coffee first— the second part is true; she has a pot of Kona ready to go as soon as he arrives.
While she's preparing his decoy surprise, the rest of his friends are in Manhattan, helping Percy and Sally get his bash underway. She finds herself quivering with excitement as she puts the last few touches in place.
The doorbell rings and she squeaks, shoving the main item behind a bookshelf before racing to answer the door.
"Happy birthday, shrimp." She stands up on her tiptoes and hugs him around the neck. "I have something for you."
Jason beams, pink, and squeezes her back.
"I told you last year that you don't have to get me anything. Your company is a gift in and of itself."
"Ha ha," she counters dryly, knowing he can hear her getting a little emotional at the sincerity on his face. "Very funny. Like I'm not going to try to make up for the ten of them that I missed."
She takes hold of his arm and pulls him into the apartment, past the kitchen to the hall that leads to her bedroom. She opens the door beside it, the one that used to be her study.
Jason's eyes go wide.
The desk is still there, but the chair is new, much larger than the one she used. The bookcase is the same, too, but she's put her video games in a box in her bedroom and filled the shelves with fresh sketchbooks and paints and pencils instead. The bed is new too, as well as the nightstand and the dresser.
Sally stripped and varnished all of the wood, and built a set of floating shelves that are currently storing a series of framed photos from Annabeth's camera reel. Piper decided on the paint colors— sky blue with a deep purple accent on the wall that slants to the ceiling. Leo took care of borrowing Jason's favorite sketches to make the framed prints above his bed, by pretending he was doing a photography project with them.
(He'd burst into laughter when she gave him Jason's baby drawings to frame too, and she'd almost punched him in the mouth— but then she'd noticed his voice was a little tight when he told her the crayon scribbles looked just like her.)
"Wow," Jason breathes, staring around the room as though he doesn't know where to land his focus. "This— is all of this for me?"
"Anytime you need an escape, you've got one. Think of it as your safe house. And there's one more thing."
Reluctantly, she steps away and retrieves what she hid earlier.
Jason's mouth drops.
"Lupa," he whispers, raising his hand. He stops himself halfway through reaching over, like he doesn't know if he should. "How did you find another one? I thought they were a limited run."
Thalia takes his hand, wrapping his fingers around the new doll's front leg.
"I traded twenty-seven ultra-rare mint-condition beanie babies for her with a collector in Montana."
"Do I want to know how you got twenty-seven ultra-rare mint-condition beanie babies?"
"It's not as sordid as you're thinking, I just spent a lot of time on Ebay."
Jason laughs, shaky, and sits down on his new mattress. He's probably not even conscious of the way he's running his thumb over Lupa's paw, exactly the way he did the first time.
He said that donating the original to charity was his idea, but Thalia has a suspicion he was pushed into it with a healthy dose of shaming and manipulation, and the look on his face— shocked, bright-eyed, a little scared like he thinks she'll disappear if he blinks— pretty much confirms it.
Thalia sits beside him and wraps an arm around his back. He slides down along the mattress until he's lying with his head in her lap.
"My Lupa," he says quietly, and she knows he remembers doing it before.
"Your Lupa," she chokes back. "For real, this time. Nobody's going to take her away from you, ever again."
It's different now, because Lupa is about the size of a two year old child, and Jason very much no longer is. She fits in the crook of his elbow, and he couldn't wrap his arms and legs around her if he tried.
Thalia tries not to think about all the nights between then and now that he's needed her, and didn't have her.
He smiles, wiser than his fifteen years.
(He's fifteen years old. God. She missed so much— thirteen months isn't long enough to even really begin to catch up.)
"I know they won't," he tells her. "You won't let them."
She's never going to get those years back. The only thing she can do is make sure she appreciates what she has now.
"I believe you would."
"I'll bite anyone who tries," she whispers back, leaning down to kiss his forehead. He bursts into laughter, reaching up to ruffle her hair like she used to do to him.
@perseusjackson-jasongrace @msdrpreist I still feel self-conscious about pinging people tell me if you'd prefer I didn't difjvhg
#thundersibs are go#wip wednesday#let jason grace be cuddly dammit#q#Jason Grace Birthday Spam#i wrote this#stellarverse
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DOA Bullshit and Bias
Hubbywrangler is always in the comments foaming at the mouth whenever someone says less than positive things about DOA. Your autocratic bullshit only works on DOA; you cant control what people say online and you certainly cant ban them for having an opinion, but since you enjoy being an asshole to those who are scared of joining DOA, have felt unwelcome there or discriminated against, why not say something that really matters? The other moderators dont comment on things here, but a mod did on IG and had her ass handed back to her, why not give it a go here?
Fantyfofo and MANY others got banned with no warning because they cast doll mannequins to make wigs, something that was not in the rules before banning them - no warning and not allowing them to fix their "mistake". This is unfair, specially because theres just a big red banned on their username and most assume its scamming; you know the damage that this does. when people question this, you just brush their frustration off. Youve sometimes said that these people are lying and the ban was actually not what this person is saying. Well, why not put in the reason why someone is banned? Youve already placed an obnoxious BANNED title under their name, its only fair for everyone to know why they were banned, so no one would accuse you like they have in the past for power tripping. You know the average user would see the banned title and avoid purchasing or dealing with said person - even if the ban was because they made another account, made a mannequin head or ffs, disagreed with a mod offsite.
Before you say no, I know for a FACT that Aimeeeee banned a person because they had a disagreement with her on LJ, if you need names, its Hi3ru. I also know of the bullshit secret section of DOA that got hacked and leaked over a decade ago with Sal3m and JaM3 being particularly the shittiest of them all. Dont give me this non-biased bullshit when you obviously dont know how to be anything but biased. This may not be the case these days, but the secret section was there, anyone who has been in the hobby for a long time would remember it or has seen it.
There is zero recast tolerance on DOA, yet Mannie admitted that she posted her recast and got suspended for it, when others did the same mistake but got banned permanently, please make it make sense. How is she not banned permanently? How is she still active in the forums when not only did she post her recast, but she admitted to it on her tumblr, and had made tutorials on how to purchase one safely? When being fair, the rules should apply to everyone; that does not mean your friends get to be exempt from it.
Speaking of, how do you expect to be the "authority" on everything BJD, when even mention or linking of recasts get you banned or suspended? Do you think a newbie, or someone who has english as their second language will first assume its a fake? When a person wants a discussion - note discussion, not statement - on recasts to educate themselves to make an informed decision, is met with a suspension; how likely do you think they will get a recast out of spite for being "shunned" from the community? No sense in spending too much, "artistic integrity" when the artists and the "head" of the community is hostile towards you. This is such a missed opportunity for DOA to make something great, actually make a difference and encourage being pro-artist instead of bullying a person who is questioning it (no, those who made informed decisions on purchasing recasts can fuck off).
I had my recent feedback deleted off my page because the moderators suspect the feedback is from offsite and is against the rules. Did you know, that when you get banned, there is no reply or appeal? You have to send an email which never gets replied to. The other thing; there would be an archive of dolls being sold. Clothes and accessories? Once its sold, its gone. The feedback I got was from those sales AND DOA suspended me because they suspected it was offsite sales. Putting that on the side; why limit feedback on DOA to only sales done on
DOA? IG and FB allow feedback from everywhere; as long as you have experience with that buyer and that seller, that should be the only thing that matters. Having the problem transaction thread for members only is also a decision I wont understand. Yes bad feedback can be linked to the feedback page, but how am I supposed to see and judge the feedback if there is no access to the bad feedback linked, because problem transactions are members only?
People are fed up with the rules and tip toeing on DOA. Conversations have become so inane and stupid that I feel my IQ drop every time I read the debate section. The forums used to be enjoyable with actual meaningful conversations and now people only go to DOA to read the problem transaction threads, or BJD news. The discussions is nothing but people talking about their purchases, their missed purchases or purchases they hope to make. There is no conversation and you have no one to blame but yourselves because of the free use of bans, suspensions and this shitty punishment point system you threaten people with. You honestly need to get over yourselves because others see you as intimidating. Some mods are better than others, but generally speaking, you guys are power tripping assholes who are way to proud to get with the times and realize that the current way of running the forum is outdated. This is why many see DOA as an archive; talk too loud and the librarian shuts you up; only old threads have any value. Why do you think people have moved to discord, facebook and instagram?
You know what would be nice? Allowing name changes. People will pay for it if you provide it, and you can always link the past usernames on their profiles like ebay. Let people change their names. Not alot will pay for extra doll profiles, and extra DOA PM space, but they will pay for name changes.
If anyone else has anything to say, please sound off in the comments. H0bbitwrangler has defended DOA a lot, and they are an active mod that comments and lurks here; let them know what you think because they are trying to make DOA seem like the only ones having an issue are those who were banned "fairly".
~Anonymous
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