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actualbabe · 2 years

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i was. womdering if you had more schnick content. perhaps a. fic. or an except of a fic.

please help i just discovered there is indeed a tiny little fanbase for these two and i am DESPERATE for contents

hi there! i am on a permanent hiatus of writing fanfic. i have a handful of schmidt/nick and/or gay new girl ideas that are mostly just digital scribbles in random google docs, but i'm afraid they'll be sealed away as i enjoy my fanfic retirement

that said, here's a lil something from the vault :)

Happy Pride!

---

“Oh, I can come back,” Nick offers, already taking a step back towards the door.

“What? No!” Jess protests, waving him forward towards the bed even as Cece groans in dismay. “How'd I get so lucky? My bro and my hoe!”

Nick hadn't meant to walk in on them together, Cece just happens to be an ever-present presence at the loft ever since she and Jess finally sealed the deal. They've been practically attached at the hip ever since Valentine's day, with Schmidt rapidly fluctuating from making douchey comments attempting to insert himself into their sex life, dismay over his lost shot with Cece (however improbable), irritation over the mounting threat of female domination of the loft, and wise cracks about the logistics of a dual-bang relationship. Winston rapidly went through the five stages of grief upon discovery of their secret relationship, that is if those stages were Shock, Arousal, Anger, Bargaining, and Acceptance. (This was also conflated with finding the two of them semi-nude in the back of his car following a multi-hour musical sing-a-long, so perhaps he wasn't in the best place for such a revelation).

Nick knew before it even had officially begun, thanks to a drunken heart-to-heart slash dual-coming-out on the bathroom floor circa 5am on New Year's Day. He'd been a pretty pathetic sight, a jumbled mix of gay denial and reeling over the discovery that he was hopelessly in love with his best friend after watching said best friend makeout with some random dude who must be a horrible, terrible, no good, awful guy, even though Nick doesn't know a thing about him. Jess just wanted to pee, but she's always been quick to comfort people when they're mid-crisis. She's a good person like that. To date she is also significantly more successful at navigating and acting on best friend romance.

Hence his arrival. He stands before the lesbian council of Jess and Cece, pointedly staring away from any potential errogenous zones currently covered by layers of bedding.

“Have you told him that you’re gay?” Jess asks, her hands folded over her stomach and on top of the comforter delicately tucked around her midsection. Cece, looking terribly inconvenienced, flops back into the pile of pillows beside her girlfriend.

“Psh, yeah,” Nick scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest and pulling a face. “I’ll just tell Schmidt I’m gay. Yeah, right.”

Jess looks puzzled. “Um, exactly?”

Nick sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Jess, come on. I need some kind of plan here. A scheme.” He looks up at the ceiling, rubbing at his chin in thought. “Maybe I’ll get a skywriter. No, too expensive. Oh! I’ll write it on a little piece of paper, and then I’ll tie that to a bird’s leg, and then I’ll send the brid through his window-”

“You’re making this way too complicated,” Cece says, cutting off his rather brilliant brainstorming process. “Just tell him that you like him.”

“That I like him?” Nick scoffs. “What is this, Middle School?”

“Fine.” Cece rolls her eyes. “Tell him you want to suck his dick.”

Both he and Jess reel back in mild disgust at Cece's statement. Yeah, he does technically want that, wants it maybe a little bit too much, but that doesn’t mean he wants to hear it out loud. Or stated so plainly by Cece, who is still very much undressed (albeit tucked carefully and strategically beneath the floral blanket) and lying in Jess’ bed.

“And you say that I’m the immature one.” Cece rolls her eyes again. “Honestly, you’re only making this harder on yourself. Just tell him.”

“I have.”

Jess gives him a knowing look.

“Okay, I haven’t told him. But he knows. I know he knows.”

Jess and Cece glance at each other skeptically, doing that weird thing where they communicate via telepathy and minute twitches of their eyes.

“Look, it’s a guy thing, okay? You wouldn’t get it.”

Cece looks up at the ceiling, fully unimpressed and looking rather fed up with this conversation. “You know what? I’m okay with that.”

“Just use your words, Nick.” Jess smiles encouragingly at him.

Nick lets out a sigh.

“Now if you’ll excuse me,” Cece says, shifting back towards Jess to press her lips to the corner of her jaw as the comforter begins to slip dangerously down the length of her bare shoulder. “I have some very pressing business to attend to with my girlfriend.”

Jess giggles and Nick suppresses his gag reflex. “You two are disgusting, I hope you know that.”

“Duly noted,” Cece comments, her head traveling lower down the slope of Jess’ neck.

“But what about me?” he protests, still feeling entirely unresolved.

“Goodbye, Nick,” Jess reiterates, shooing him out the door as she tilts her head back to give Cece better access to her throat.

---

The following afternoon while Nick’s shaving, he develops and finalizes his plan of attack. The next time that Schmidt goes to Fredo-kiss him, he’s going to grab onto either side of his face and haul him into it. Just like that. Easy. Simple. Most importantly: no words needed.

Nick Miller is a man of many talents: zombie novel author, expert handyman, thrifty consumer. That said, being good at feelings is not exactly one of his strong suits. He has grown to accept this for himself after a lot of personal growth and self reflection. Mostly resignation. Almost entirely resignation.

He scrapes the razor over the last patch of skin on his jaw before rinsing it in the sink. He leans over to splash water over his freshly-shaven jaw to wash off the remains of shaving cream from his face before standing up to look himself in the mirror, nodding resolutely at his reflection. It’s a foolproof plan.

---

Or at least, it would have been a foolproof plan.

Instead, after years of blatantly ignoring Nick numerous pleas, Schmidt seems to have suddenly decided to stop Fredo-kissing him entirely. It is, quite frankly, absolutely ridiculous. After weeks of frustration go by without even the slightest peck to the cheek, Nick feels like he might just lose his mind. Nick goes to extreme lengths in an attempt to solicit such attempts from Schmidt, all without success. He even stoops so low as to compliment Schmidt’s choice of wardrobe, which just draws an raised eyebrow of amusement from Jess and a look of bewildered confusion from Winston, but Schmidt just shakes it off and accuses Nick of trying to poke fun at his expense, which under any other circumstance would be the correct answer, and Nick storms away to his room to mull over yet another failed attempt.

Dammit, how hard is it to get someone to kiss you?

Nick’s in the middle of his ongoing internal strife over the whole situation when things go topsy-turvy in the form of Jess tackling him for no good reason during their pickup football game, leaving him writhing on the ground in agony while Schmidt stands over him in his stupidly tight leggings spouting absolute nonsense as Jess fusses over his prone body and Winston looks thoroughly amused about the whole situation. It is, frankly, entirely unfair.

And then, to makes things even worse, Jess insists on hauling him off to see her lesbian lady doctor friend, where Nick is then unfairly subjected to further prodding of both his tender body and newfound sexual orientation, which are two blows to his manhood that he did not need on a Saturday morning, thank you very much.

To cap off the whole experience, Jess’ lesbian doctor friend thinks he might have cancer, so that’s fucking fantastic.

---

Like most things, Nick copes with his possible cancer diagnosis by getting unreasonably drunk. He does a lot of moping, still high on painkillers and a bit too crossfaded to be completely coherent and gets in an argument with Jess about funerals and doing worthwhile things in your life that ends with her getting upset and him feeling guilty and frustrated, a feeling that only doubles down when he glances across the bar and sees Schmidt talking to Cece.

Winston sings him a sad song and Schmidt attempts to rap and under normal circumstances both of these things would be subject to ridicule and/or douchebag jar-able offenses, but Nick is both drunk and sad enough to appreciate the attempts to cheer him up and honor his memory. Cece tops them all with an actual rap like something right out of a Fruity Pebbles commercial, earning applause from the three guys and a slightly-sloppy kiss from Jess.

---

Flash forward several hours and an ill-fated attempt to splash in the ocean later, and they're at the beach, Jess and Cece huddled close together beneath their coats and Winston passed out in the backseat of his piece of shit car. Nick sits further out from them and stares out at the waves, mulling over his thoughts when Schmidt appears at his side.

“This seat taken?”

“All yours.”

For a few minutes there’s nothing but the sound of the waves crashing on the shore. It feels appropriately moody, and although Nick’s a little pissed at Jess for convincing him to run into the freezing water buck-ass naked, he does appreciate her choice of scenery for his cinematic moment.

“You know what I’m thinking about?”

“What, Schmitty?”

“That now I've finally gotten to see your manhood, even if it was too cold out to showcase its full glory.”

“I can’t believe you.” Nick shoves at his shoulder in annoyed disbelief, and Schmidt sways at the contact. “That’s what you're thinking about now? I’m your best friend, and I’m fucking going through something here, man-”

“I know, I know.” Schmidt shakes his head in mock shame, still staring out at the distant ocean, and Nick resists the urge to smack him upside the head or tackle him to the ground to rub his face in the sand. Of all the ways for Schmidt to see his penis for the first time, even with all that ridiculousness of Jess and his weird obsession over the strength of their friendship. After everything that has happened since then it almost feels like ages ago.

“Then why would you say that?”

“I don't know why.”

“Why would anyone say that?”

Schmidt shrugs. He turns back to look at Nick again. There’s something complicated hidden in the shadows of his eyes, and it makes that awful feeling in Nick’s chest well up and multiply. Nick can feel the words he’s been trying to say for months, hell, years, sticking in his throat, just beneath the ticking time bomb in his neck. He opens his mouth to say something, only to shut it a few seconds afterwards when nothing comes out. Another wave crashes over the sand, flowing up over the shore and leaving the ghost of white sea foam in its wake before it's soaked down into the wet sand.

Staring out over the reflection of the moon on the water, Nick thinks about what Jess said, about not doing things and about regret. He thinks about how brave she is, about the way she looks at Cece and how it lights up her whole face. He thinks about his future if he really does have cancer: about lying in a hospital bed in Chicago far away from his friends, and how his whole body would ache with the longing to be with them one last time before he kicked the bucket. He thinks about his ma crying at his funeral, about his dad trying to pull a slip-and-fall scam at the funeral home, about Jamie telling his future kids about their Uncle Nicky who they never got to meet.

He thinks about Schmidt, about leaving him behind without being brave enough to finally put the words to what he feels for him. He thinks about how selfish his own love is, about how he hates to put himself on the line and how he takes and takes and takes from people like Schmidt and like Jess who only know how to give. He thinks about how he doesn’t deserve the love that Schmidt gives him, and about how Schmidt keeps handing it to him on a silver platter anyways.

Schmidt is still silently watching the water. The evening sea breeze has ruffled his hair slightly, and there’s a stray curl that falls over his forehead, pulled out of place with a casualness that feels as though Schmidt may have planned for it to happen just so. There’s a shade of stubble on his jaw, a barely-there shadow that’s only really visible because Schmidt’s skin is so pale and his hair is so dark in contrast. His lower lip is slightly swollen from him nervously worrying it all night, and Nick so desperately wants to bite into it with his own teeth.

“Hey, Schmitty?”

His head turns on a swivel. “Yeah?”

Schmidt’s dark eyes meet Nick’s own, swimming with the same fear that Nick feels building in his own chest. Nick takes a resolute breath.

“I fucking love you, man.”

He smiles, and oh god that’s fucking pity in his eyes, isn’t it? “I love you too, man.”

“No.” Nick shakes his head, feels his hands tremble. “I mean it.”

His expression twists, and Schmidt ducks his head slightly to break their eye contact. “Nick-”

“Oh, for the love of-”

Without any further waffling, Nick throws his hand around the back of Schmidt’s neck and hauls him in for a kiss, mashing their mouths together before he has a chance to realize how deeply fucking stupid he is.

After a few seconds, just long enough for Nick to reconsider his every decision over the past three months and also be halfway thankful that he’s dying because then at least he won’t have to live with the consequences of this moment, Schmidt’s hand brushes up against his cheek, and Schmidt tilts his head slightly, parting his lips enough to turn the kiss from middle-school awkwardness into something real, and it sends a fucking shockwave through Nick’s whole system. Nick greedily returns the kiss, tightens his grip on the collar of Schmidt’s shirt and presses himself forward, chasing the foreign-familar feel of Schmidt’s lips on his own.

They hold the kiss until it becomes awkward again, after which Schmdit pulls away to take a shuddering breath. Nick lets him go, but maintains the touch of his hand on Schmidt’s broad shoulder, trying to keep himself grounded. Schmidt blinks once, then twice, then a third time before looking at Nick’s face. His gaze darts back and forth between his lips and his eyes with a perplexed look, trying to puzzle out what just happened.

“‘M gay,” Nick mutters, suddenly feeling extremely self-aware of his own stupidity.

Schmidt lets out an exhale that might be the ghost of a laugh. “Okay.”

Nick nods resolutely. Then he leans in again, and the genuine press of Schmidt’s lips to his own is starting to become familiar, which sends a whole new thrill through him, especially when Schmidt wraps one of his arms around his neck, pulling him closer as he opens his mouth against Nick’s, deepening the kiss into something dizzying while Nick just falls into it, no longer attempting to keep his wits about him. He lets himself get lost in it, in the feel of Schmidt’s heartbeat against his own and the assured way Schmidt kisses, half confidence and half practice, and he could fucking get used to this.

“So,” Schmidt finally says when they pull apart. His voice is rough and his lips are kiss-swollen, and Nick doesn’t hold back his impulse to rub his thumb over Schmidt’s lower lip. “You love me.”

Nick laughs a little, suddenly nervous. “Yeah.”

Schmdit grins. “I feel like I’ve been telling you that I love you for years.”

“I mean, me too.” Nick shrugs. “In my own way.”

Impossibly, Schmidt’s grin widens even further. “Yeah.” He ducks his head, blushing. “I know.”

---

Nick doesn’t have cancer. The doctor tells him a lot of other things that he should probably be listening to, but all that Nick hears is that he doesn’t have cancer, and it bounces around in his head until it crashes into the fact that Schmdit loves him.

He tells them the good news and Schmidt kisses him again, and Nick lets him until Winston makes a wolf-whistle, prompting Nick to shove Schmidt off, dimly aware that the look of overwhelming relief and joy on Schmidt’s face mirrors his own. Jess just laughs and Cece rolls her eyes fondly, and Nick scratches nervously at the back of his neck, sheepishly staring down at his boots.

On the walk home Nick holds Schmidt’s hand, and the intimacy of it overwhelms him. It strikes Nick as funny, because they’ve done far more serious things, hell, roughly six hours ago he’d felt up the hard line of Schmidt’s dick in his jeans while kissing him, with tongue and everything. But despite it all, he can’t help the heat that rises to his face at the simple contact of Schmidt’s fingers threaded through his own.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees that Schmidt is grinning at him, looking like a kid on Christmas.

It’s nice.

#my fic #schnick #schmidt x nick #tbh if there was anything that could coerce me out of retirement it might be gay new girl... 🤔#nick x schmidt #also i think i have the rest of my schnick stuff under that nick x schmidt tag so go nuts

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pupil-of-law · 2 months

Text

@mettleborn

Though it was late in the evening, and the townhouse had been empty and silent all day, the sound of the busy thoroughfare outside, uproarious with the traffic of pedestrians and the swift flow of horses and hansoms, now thrummed down below. Adelheid’s brother was not looking at her, but examining a stack of papers at the desk he stood at.

‘My judgment is final,’ he said curtly. ‘Indeed if it was not before, you may be assured that it now most certainly is. I could not have made a greater error in sending you into the field. Were you not my own flesh and blood I would not have begrudged the Ottomans the diplomatic right to your imprisonment and sentence… But you’re home now.’ He seemed to soften, slightly, and even lifted his small beetle-black eyes to her. He came out from behind the desk to approach his sister, shadows under his eyes showing in the dim light from the lamp on the glass-topped coffee table where Adelheid sat. Friedrich Zeitzler’s hair was sparse and macassared; a silky gradation at the temples of pale grey to darker brown partly obscured by a pair of small round spectacles. A dark, smooth moustache sat above his colourless lips. He reached out perfunctorily to take Adelheid’s palm and meet her eye. ‘Dr Joachim Behren. He remains a man of significant influence and generous sponsorship; you may have read some of his old speeches at the Reichstag during your school days. He is a keen member of the International Eugenics Congress, and believes in good breeding. This is a high compliment.’ Pausing for a moment to appreciate the limpness of Adelheid’s recedent hand, and to notice her eyes glittering with fury, her lips parting to issue an objection, he frowned in incredulity.

‘Don’t you dare speak. Your conduct makes it clear you haven’t the slightest concept what we are are attempting to achieve in this war. Do you think that I - that Germany - are such spendthrifts of human life that we would allow the casual larceny of an entire generation, for so common a reason as you might employ when deciding what evening dress to wear? Do you truly think the world is so fashioned? That the human good comes about by the mere whim of politicians. No. Peace and prosperity for mankind takes violence you cannot imagine, and sacrifice which you will soon appreciate. You are German. You owe this duty to your homeland and by God I will make sure you fulfil it! Like the rest of us.’

Suddenly there were footsteps, and a flurry of movement from between two high stone pillars at the entrance of the room. Zeitzler turned, rubbing his reddened temple with distress, to the noise. ‘Sebastian, is that you?’ ‘Guten Abend Geheimrat,’ came a deep bass voice in reply, and two men lumbered in. Sebastian, in shirtsleeves and a sweat-slick brow from dancing and drinking all night at the Princesse De Léon’s debutante ball, was smiling victoriously; his moist bright eyes catching for a moment to fix on Adelia, before sweeping away again. His companion, Baron Sipolje, wearing his Order of Maria Theresa on his breast, was an expensive looking man, effete and well-groomed, Zeitzler’s closest confidante. He made a low bow when he noticed Adelheid, and gave her a sinister, mincing smile as if he knew her fate better than she did. Throwing his hat and stick onto the armchair next to her almost as if to see if she would flinch, he noted: ‘Dear heart, what a face. Mata Hari act not quite work out, hm? I told your dear brother as much before you left. No, no, see-' he made so bold as to reach out his stubby fingers to her cheek to turn her face to the light, tutting and shaking his head. ‘Far too striking. Those cheekbones.’

Rather than aiding his sister, Zeitzler had already turned to Sebastian to study his agent with a long, circumspect look. Under its cold pressure, Sebastian merely leant back against a bookcase and spoke for the first time in a hoarse, soft voice; his eyes heavy but serene and untroubled. ‘Domine, me immundum.’ There was another brief silence, before Zeitzler responded: ‘Non, purus es.’ Sebastian swallowed, and when Zeitzler told him to go and rest he did so without another word.

‘You will not see him again,’ Friedrich turned his head to address Adelheid, before going to fetch the papers from his desk for her to sign. ‘He leaves tomorrow for the Belgian Frontier. If he returns, it will not be to Germany. Your sole and chief concern from this night on is the happiness of your husband. This is for your own good, as well as the good of your family and your country. Do we understand one another?’

#v: schnick schnack

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