non fictional

Then We Talk Slow
Author: letsjustsee
Word Count: 20k
Summary: 
The picture showed Harry smiling widely (with a fucking dimple) at the camera, his glossy brown curls situated artfully around his shoulders. Louis couldn’t see his whole outfit, but it seemed to consist of a pink, floral button-up with most of the buttons undone. Louis could also detect the dark outlines of tattoos on his chest, although he couldn’t quite make out what they were underneath the shirt.
What he could make out was that his own heartrate seemed to have picked up significantly.
Shit.
This was so not good. Not only had Louis drunkenly sent messages in a deliberate attempt to interact with this man, he was now insanely attracted to him without ever having met him in person.
Maybe Liam was right – drunk tweeting really was a horrible, rotten idea.

A famous/non-famous AU in which Louis banters back and forth with his new record company on Twitter, only to find out that Harry is the man behind the tweets.

3

In @crankgameplays‘s Snakepass video he brought up a nightmare he had as a wee boi about a giant snake strangling him. And for some reason I decided to depict the snake back for revenge. I dunno, I’m tired. Noodle attempting to eat a blueberry or something. Always ask first.

Some people ask: ‘Why the word feminist? Why not just say you are a believer in human rights, or something like that?’ Because that would be dishonest. Feminism is, of course, part of human rights in general—but to choose to use the vague expression human rights is to deny the specific and particular problem of gender. It would be a way of pretending that it was not women who have, for centuries, been excluded. It would be a way of denying that the problem of gender targets women.
—  Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, We Should All Be Feminists

Women’s Work: The First 20,000 years by Elizabeth Wayland Barber, 1996

This is a great book, all about the work of spinning and weaving, how it developed, and how and why it was women’s work. It makes the great point that women’s work is ephemeral - food, cloth, it’s all things that don’t survive archaeologically, so that it’s something that gets overlooked. The author also knows how to weave herself, and has tried out weaving some ancient cloths, pointing out that it’s only by doing something like that that you can work out practical issues. 

One of the things that was really great was the author pointing out that the most plausible reconstruction for the Venus de Milo is of her spinning:

Even better, is that since the book has been written, an artist who makes 3D printed sculpture has made a 3D model of what she would have looked like - and you can buy one for yourself:

Western philosophers rated by fightability

Kant - You are in a town in Prussia. A frail looking man accosts you. He knows you know who he is. And he knows that you can see the glint in his eye that says the beating that he’s about to deliver unto you is going to be universalised. 8/10, it’s gonna get Copernican. 

Hume - A jovial looking Scottish man approaches. Despite his large frame and somewhat soft appearance you… you… uh, what? Is he here? Are you here? Is this, is this just a bundle of sense data? Somewhere, however in some small recess of your brain - if that’s a thing, you know he’s barrelling towards you at incredible speed. 9/10, this is going to hurt. Without doubt. 

Camus - You’re in a café. You think. It sounds like one, but all you can see is smoke and all you can smell is (other than smoke) deep thought. A man approaches. He smiles. Fighting you would be absurd, he explains, in beautiful floral French. You talk a while, about life, love, his work and honestly he just melts your heart. Fade to black. You awake the next morning refreshed and ready to continue fighting. 2/10, he left money on the sidetable. How rude. 

Sartre - You make your way onto a bustling Parisian street. You think. Again, it sounds like one but there’s a still strictly ludicrous amount of smoke. It parts like the red sea. A bespectacled man approaches. He looks at you, and you know that while this man may not know himself, he knows how to fight you. The smoke envelopes you once more. He’s coming. 9/10, hell is this fight in particular.

Žižek - You’re in a fast food restaurant car park in Slovenia, and so on. You are bizarrely aware of the nature of society as you sniff. You don’t have a cold. For some reason you keep thinking about batman. The Soviet national anthem begins to play as a bedraggled man emerges from a bin and lurches towards you and so on. 7/10, the ideology may be pure but this fight is going to get dirty.

Diogenes of Sinope - You’re in a barrel. Masturbating. You reckon you could get used to this. Maybe you’ll go and interrupt a lecture later. Suddenly, the barrel is rolling. Someone yells at you in the most vulgar greek to stop cramping his fucking style. Oh, right. You get up, out of the barrel and lock eyes with the also masturbating Diogenes. In his free hand he wields a plucked chicken like a flail. 9.5/10, behold, a boss battle.

The Trinity - The notion of disrupting a lecture still appeals, so you head down the road to the academy. Before you arrive, you are manhandled into an alley and out and up onto the acropolis. It seems all of Athens has assembled. As you are shoved into… a wrestling ring, the crowd begins to roar derision at you. From the opposite corner approaches a man they bill as the Macedonian Menace. Zeus alive, you already know that syllogistically he’s going to beat your ass. The crowd roars even louder for some reason, and a second man enters the ring. It’s Plato. He roars and cracks an amphora of oil over his head. The crowd goes ballistic. He screams something about the form of the ass whooping. You cower. As if that weren’t enough, a third much older and frailer man approaches, and the two assembled part deferentially. Hovering about a foot above the floor of the ring is Socrates. I was wrong, he says - but more as a thought in your head than a vocalisation, I know one thing. He pauses for effect. The crowd is still. You’re fucking dead. 30/10, good luck.

Becoming Queer

When I was 8 I was obsessed with Disney’s Aladdin. Not just the original movie, but both of it’s poorly made sequels too. I watched them everyday after school while I drew pictures in our basement TV room, simultaneously fixated on their adventures and creating my own on paper.

I remember being absolutely in awe of how handsome Aladdin was, but also of the beauty of Princess Jasmine. They were the most attractive people I could ever imagine existing.

When I was 10 my mom gave me an American Girl book all about puberty and the female body. I only read through the whole thing once, but I left it close to my bed because of the one page I looked at nearly everyday.

It was one of the sections of the book on bodily changes throughout puberty– body hair, periods, etc. At the bottom of was a picture of several girls in front of a mirror, completely naked, to illustrate the different sizes and shapes of breasts. I was absolutely fascinated by these girls: the soft curves of their hips, their round and full breasts, the way their thighs came together. Despite their cartoonish nature, this was the closest I’d come to seeing a grown girl’s body. It was foreign and beautiful to me.

Somehow, I knew this wasn’t normal, so I always hid the book after I was done in case mom asked why I still had it.

When I was 12 I found my self distracted in classroom discussion circles looking at girls chests and lips and thighs. Every time I caught myself I’d immediately look down at my lap and blush. I’d learned by now that it wasn’t normal for girls to look at other girls like that, what it meant to be gay. But I’d eventually find my eyes wandering again, my thoughts focused on how beautiful one of my female classmates was.

I remember walking down the hallway one day mentally reciting “you can’t be a lesbian, you like boys… every girl must look at each other like this.”

When I was 13 one of the girls that I clung to during PE (because they were just as repulsed by physical exertion as I was) told us she was bisexual. This was the first time I’d been told someone could be attracted to boys and girls at the same time. It was confusing and enlightening at the same time.

I remember she put her arms around my shoulders once, during badminton week, her face inches from mine. It made me nervous, but in a way that I’d never felt before. My stomach had dropped, and I didn’t know why. It wasn’t like the fear I’d felt from scary movies and my dad yelling at me, but it wasn’t quite like when I felt exhilarated from riding a rollercoaster or binging on sugar with my friends… it was something in between, and entirely new.

I’d told my mom about it and she immediately wanted to call the principal and make sure the girl didn’t touch me like that again. That scared me, her reacting like that. I started acting repulsed by the girl afterwards, telling my friends she had flirted with me even though I wasn’t entirely sure she had, how weird it was and how weird she was.

Looking back, I probably wish that she had been flirting with me.

When I was 14 I was acquainted with the first queer couple I’d ever met. They were in theatre with me, and I’d been wanting them to start dating for months. At this point I’d stopped acting weirded out by gay people and claiming that bisexual people were “selfish and should just pick a side already.” I openly showed my support for gay people, citing my theatre friends of examples of how “normal” they could be.

I walked in on the couple in the dressing room one rehearsal, shocked to see them making out. I stood in the doorway a moment, then walked out without either of them seeing me.

I thought about their kiss for the whole day, wondering how their relationship worked, what it was like to date someone of the same gender as you. I was dating a boy at the time, my first boyfriend and the one that would create fear and an inability to trust for my entire high school career when he started abusing me. I wondered if this couple’s relationship could be anything like ours.

When I was 15 I joined Tumblr. I’d just moved from Michigan to Alabama, had my heart broken by my abusive boyfriend furthering the pain he was inflicting by cheating on me, and was just beginning to realize that I had an eating disorder with no idea how to feel about it or whether or not I wanted it to go away.Tumblr became a place for me to escape all this into “fandoms” and “fitblrs” and personal posts from strangers I didn’t know but whose lives intrigued me. It was on Tumblr that I first encountered the word “pansexual.” I was 16.

I was intrigued and slightly obsessed with the concept of it, pansexuality. I’d only just begun to learn about transgender and heard rumors of other genders outside of men and women, and being attracted to all of them or being “genderblind” seemed impossible, but incredible. I spent months randomly researching sexual orientation and transgender people before finally adopting the term as my own.

Though, it was only in my head that I claimed pansexuality as my own. I didn’t want to tell anyone… not because I was ashamed so much, I’d forgotten that stigma several years ago, but more because I was afraid that I only wanted to be pansexual, not that I actually was.

After all, if only ever been in relationships with boys at that point. How could I know if I was actually attracted to other genders if I’d never dated them?

When I was 17 I got my first crush on a girl. I didn’t recognize that that was my motive at the time, but I was constantly staring at her in the two classes we shared, payed special attention when she spoke, and the day she announced that she had a Tumblr I made it my goal to be a part of her life.

By winter we were best friends. By summer I’d begun to realize the extent of my feelings for her. The first time I got drunk at 19 I blurted out that I thought about making out with her all the time. I told her how I felt at 20, 3 years of pining later.

She told me she didn’t feel the same.

When I was 18 and in my first year of college, I binge watched all of Laci Green’s videos on YouTube, deciding that it was time I figured out how my body and how sex worked. Through her I found not only the courage to masturbate for the first time, but my first confrontation with “third genders.”

I obsessively studied nonbinary genders, claiming to just be interested in them, giving speeches and presentations on them for class, messaging nonbinary people to ask about their experiences. I came to accept that I identified with this term the summer of my sophomore year of college.

When I was 18 I also came out to my dad. I’d already come out to my close friends, sisters, and mother at this point– all giving me generally positive responses. This was not the case with my dad.

We were fighting in the kitchen, something that had become a regular thing since I’d started expressing my feminist and liberal beliefs. He was making homophobic comments and I guess I must of have been very clearly upset by this, because he asked, “do you have a problem with that?”

To which I responded, “Yeah, because I like girls, dad!”

My outburst led to two and a half years of him telling me that my identity was fake, a scheme to get attention, that all I believed was a result of my being brainwashed at college and my own self delusion. The full force my panic, bipolar disorder, and depression came out during this time. The first time I thought of killing myself was when he threatened to kick me out and cut me off from my sisters if I didn’t stop with this “feminazi LGBT bullshit.”

When I was 19 I started dating one of my best friend from high school– a boy, but pansexual like myself, I felt like this was the first queer relationship I’d been in.

He told me he didn’t want a monogamous relationship, that he identified as polyamorous– which I knew because this was one of the reasons his last relationships hadn’t worked out. Thinking I wouldn’t fall as desperately in love with him as I did, I agreed to an open relationship.

Two months into the relationship and much research and self reflection later, I’d come to accept that I was also polyamorous and I never wanted a monogamous relationship again.

When I was 20 a girl on Tumblr reblogged a set of selfies that I’d posted, exclaiming in the tags about how handsome I was. I took one look at her blog, saw the profile picture of her staring directly at the camera with intense blue eyes and an expression impossible to read, and immediately followed and messaged her my thanks.

We started messaging frequently, talking about such expansive and random things, things I’d never talked about with anyone. Soon we were messaging everyday and I began to realize how hard I was falling. I wanted her, I wanted her so badly.

I hadn’t had a crush on a girl that’d worked out in my favor and I was constantly pining for a girlfriend. I loved my boyfriend, I was still attracted to men and non-feminine genders, but I felt not only “too straight” to be queer at that point, but also like I was missing some sort of affection in my life that only a feminine partner could fill. And I was beginning to wonder if this girl was the person who could finally end my wanting.

The only problem with this girl was that she lived an ocean away from me, in Denmark to be specific. But my feelings became so strong that I couldn’t just be silent anymore: I told her I liked her.

She said she felt the same.

Today, March 2nd, 2017, Hayley Kiyoko released the music video for her single “Sleepover.” It wrecked me.

Hayley has become someone that I not only admire, but someone who makes me feel so validated in who I am. A mixed, Japanese American, queer girl in love with art and comfy clothing. Before Hayley, I’d never felt like there was anyone in the media who was even remotely like me. With great music and a connection I’d never felt in any other celebrity before, I became an avid fan. So naturally, when the video for “Sleepover” was released it only took me minutes to find it on YouTube and watch.

The music video was so much more than I could have anticipated, actualizing all my experiences as a queer feminine person, admiring from a far, living in my head with my fantasies and no hope of ever being able to experience them in reality. With this video I was thrown back into all the years I spent confused and afraid of how I felt and who I was, all the girls I wanted to be with but knew they couldn’t work out, or didn’t work out even when I tried. And as melancholy as these thoughts were at first, it pushed me to the realization:

I love who I’ve become. I love that I’m queer.

And despite how grueling the process of it all has been, I wouldn’t trade all that heartache for a normal life if I could. I wouldn’t give it all up to be the straight girl with no struggles or worries about who she loved as I once believed I would. Even with the pain that it had brought, becoming queer has made me the person I am today.

And I love that person, even if there are still rough edges to be smoothed, I am finally unafraid of who I am.

I think of reading like a balanced diet; if your sentences are baggy, too baroque, cut back on fatty Foster Wallace, say, and pick up Kafka, as roughage. If your aesthetic has become so refined it is stopping you from placing a single black mark on white paper, stop worrying so much about what Nabakov would say; pick up Dostoevsky, patron saint of substance over style.
—  Zadie Smith, “That Crafty Feeling,” Changing my Mind: Occasional Essays
On History and Pie

Summary:  A nonathletic!Jack fic, where grad student and history nerd, Jack Zimmermann meets the cute Samwell student/baker Eric Bittle at the Bread and Butter Bakery.  Will the two make a love connection?  For @devereauxsdisease and @victorineb who love this incarnation of Jack as much as I do.

Originally posted by butteryplanet


They’d chatted at the bakery enough times that Bitty was able to pull the information from Jack. He’d started coming to the bakery about four weeks ago, and during that time Bitty became more and more charmed with the second year grad student.

He always sat in the corner armchair, ordered a black coffee, two macarons and a slice of whatever the pie of the day was. Bitty first noticed him when he came in to order a slice of Weary Willie cake.

Bitty loved his job at the bakery, it gave him some extra cash while he attended Samwell. Whenever Bitty was there, he was the de facto person in charge. Shirley and Spencer, the owners of Bread and Butter adored Bitty.

“We never had any kids of our own, so you’re the closest thing to it, Bitty,” Shirley said to him one evening over a cup of earl grey tea.

So Bitty stood there, face to face with the bluest eyes he’d ever seen the first time Jack walked in. The Clark Kent glasses in front of them did nothing to hide the fact that they were beautiful. It was a good face, a handsome face. He was burly and tall, and Bitty loved that. He smiled, and Bitty’s body language invited Blue Eyes to speak.

“Can I get a slice of the Weary Willie cake?”

“Sure can, handsome,” Bitty said as he began to ring up Blue Eyes’ order, who blushed furiously. “What else can I do you for?”

“Coffee. Black. Medium, please,” he replied looking down at the counter.

“Why don’t you go find yourself a seat and I’ll bring it out to you,” Bitty said with a warm smile.

“Thank you,” Blue Eyes said softly and then turned to walk toward the corner armchair.

When Bitty approached, Blue Eyes had pulled out a laptop and several textbooks, the one on top of the pile was called Foundations of Modern European Intellectual History.

“Doing a little light reading, huh?” Bitty said as he put the cake and coffee on the side table.

“Oh, haha. Yes.”

“Do you go to Samwell?”

“I’m finishing up my masters in history there,” he said as he held up his book.

“That’s great. I haven’t seen you here before,” Bitty said wanting to know more about History Blue Eyes.

“I saw the chalkboard outside listing the Weary Willie cake and the history nerd in me became curious.”

“Look at you! You certainly are a history major.”

“Did you make the cake?” Jack asked raising his eyebrows.

“Sure did. My moomaw had the recipe from her mama.”

“Well, it’s not often I find a somewhat obscure historical reference on my way back to the history building.” 

Keep reading

I think that the power of art is the power to wake us up, strike us to our depths, change us. What are we searching for when we read a novel, see a film, listen to a piece of music? We are searching, through a work of art, for something that alters us, that we weren’t aware of before.
—  Jhumpa Lahiri, “The Metamorphosis,” In Other Words.

Happy birthday to Vincent van Gogh!

Did you know? National Book Award Finalist Deborah Heiligman wrote a non-fiction book called Vincent and Theo about Vincent and his brother, Theo. It hits shelves on April 18th, but you can start reading the first few chapters right now!

What does a word mean? And a life? In the end, it seems to me, the same thing. Just as a word can have many dimensions, many nuances, great complexity, so, too, can a person, a life. Language is the mirror, the principal metaphor. Because ultimately the meaning of a word, like that of a person, is boundless, ineffable.
—  Jhumpa Lahiri, “The Fragile Shelter,” In Other Words. 
literature genres

Gryffindor: Anything gripping and Nonsense; at least it shouldn’t get boring. Gryffindors are only enthusiastic about books with a fluent story; otherwise they’d stop reading in the middle of the book. About the half of the Gryffindors actually read a lot of books; the others aren’t really passionate about reading.

Slytherin: Nonsense and Horror. Just like the Gryffindors, they hate stories that flatten down in the middle. Slytherins usually read a lot and share their muggle books (after the war against Voldemort, they got more tolerable with muggles and mudbloods), so they’re all reading the same books and nobody’s alone in their fandom.

Ravenclaw: The most of the Ravenclaws are fond of either dramas and non-fiction or real stories. They don’t really like made-up, surreal stories and fiction, except old tales and myths; they also read and write a lot of poems. Only a few purebloods read muggle books because the Ravenclaws usually like to buy the books themselves.

Hufflepuff: They’re having a soft spot for Comedy and schmaltzy Romance. The Ravenclaws find it pretty tasteless of the Hufflepuffs for liking kitschy books, but they actually just read them for fun. Hufflepuffs never really take novels they read in their spare time serious; that’s why they avoid creepy or serious texts. They basically read for amusement.

the houses as literature genres requested by anon

inbox is open!

Acceptance as a Queer Asian American

Coming out as pansexual to my grandmother was an extremely important, and I believe, pivotal moment in my life as a queer, Asian young adult. I believe this for many reasons, but there are two specific ones that over shadow the rest.

The first of those is what it meant to me as a Japanese-American woman to feel safe enough and confidant enough in who I was to come out to my grandmother. For the majority of my queer journey up to this point, I was dead set on the fact that I could never tell my grandmother my sexual orientation. No matter the circumstance, I was sure that my grandmother would not understand or approve. No matter the circumstance, there was a great chance of my losing my relationship with her, my strongest tie to my Japanese heritage and her presence in my life as a third parent could be gone forever. I wasn’t willing to sacrifice the love between us or isolate myself even more than I already felt from the Japanese community.

As much as my refusal to share my identity with my grandmother was based in my fear of her not loving me anymore, a good portion was also based in how I felt my faux-heterosexuality was essentially tied to my right to my Japanese heritage. I already felt like an imposter for being biracial and I felt that my admission to being attracted to more than just men would give the community more reason to exile me, revoke my membership that I’d come to believe I could only have if my grandmother backed me first. After all, my grandmother was the closest resource I had for my culture and language. Everything that made me feel Japanese I could attribute to her: my round face, olive skin, and almond eyes, my short stature and straight frame, my knowledge of Japanese tradition and lore with her songs and stories, my induction to Japanese pop culture with Studio Ghibli, candies and sweets, cartoons by Sanrio, and watching her Japanese shows on the TV, my love of the Japanese food she’d raised me on, the miso shiru and gyoza that marked my childhood, my interest and grasp of the Japanese language that she’d spoke and sang to me all my life. If she disowned me for this, it would feel like the entire Japanese and Asian community behind her would disown me as well.

When I finally decided to come out as pansexual to my grandma I was twenty. Four years after my official acceptance of the label, I’d gained enough confidence in my intersectionality of identities, enough love and pride for them all, that none of them could be affected by her acceptance or disapproval. My forgiveness and acceptance of my white, Scottish family and heritage had allowed me to discard the shame I felt for being mixed race in the Asian community. My growth and education in my Japanese heritage, history, and language had given me confidence in my identity as a Japanese person that no amount of racial slurs, stereotypes, or discrimination I received from any group of people could shake. My growth and knowledge of my self as a sexually and gender queer person and found footing in the LGBTQ+ community had shed the self hatred and fear of rejection from my mind. As painful as losing my grandmother would be, it would not and could not break me as might have before. I was tired of living behind lies. Being able to do something about that without fear of losing myself in my lost relationship was the most liberating thing I’d felt in my history with my Japanese and queer identities.

The second of the two reasons is absolutely the way my grandmother responded to my coming out. She both met my expectations and surprised me in the best of ways. And by that I mean that her reaction was so explicitly something my grandmother would say and do, but my fear of the worst case scenario had clouded my ability to perceive this outcome over the former.

I saw the opportunity to tell her over a conversation we had started about the recent mass shooting of LGBTQ+ people in Orlando, Florida. The devastation she expressed over the massacre, her clear understanding of the hateful prejudice behind the crime, it allowed me to see her clearer than before.

“I don’t understand why people do that!” I remember her shouting. “Why you got to hurt and kill people just because you disagree? Megan, it does not matter who you love, who I love, it doesn’t matter! Just because you believe doesn’t give you right to take another’s life!”

With her words my perceptions changed. My biases that often allowed me to view her as a stubborn child with an adult’s face and experiences had been pushed aside. Instead of the previously held image I’d had, my view of my grandmother had shifted to that of a women who’d experienced much hardship and shut out many new people and ideas because of it, but was still capable of growth and acceptance of new social norms and ways of thinking. This new image, this new perception of my grandma was a kinder, softer one than I’d met previously. It was one that I was safe with, I could feel it in my stomach and my cheeks.

“You know, it’s kind of scary for people like me, people who like more than just the opposite sex, people like those killed in that club, to be alive right now,” I said. “I’m like them, I like more than just boys, I want to date a girl someday, and it scares me that someone might want to kill me for that.”

My grandmother stared at me for a moment, her bony arms encircling her small legs, a high hum coming from her throat. That hum and the noise of her TV that never got turned off were the only sound in the room for several moments.

“You like girls?” She asked, then gestured to the news on the TV. “Like those people?”

I nodded and she made the same high hum.

“Well you know, Megan,” she said, looking down then back up again. I could feel my heart pounding heavily against my chest. “it does not matter who you love what you believe because you are my granddaughter. You are my first granddaughter and I will love you and take care of you always.”

I felt tears pricking my eyes and my heart slow its pace. I’d cried coming out to each of my parents so far, but this was the first time my tears were from joy.

With my mother I’d cried with frustration and anger at her lack of understanding and patronizing questions. Despite her general acceptance and “I’ll always love you” concluding statements, it’d hurt that she’d had so many concerns and objections. With my father I’d cried with rage, the pain of betrayal, the pain of lost love, and a fear for my livelihood then forward. He’d made me feel like a child running from home who truly had no option of turning back. He’d made me feel like his promises to love and care for me all these years had been out right lies.

But with my grandmother, all I’d felt was an overwhelming happiness from her words. Her straightforward acceptance, her attempt to understand me with out being invasive… I hadn’t been aware of how desperately I’d needed her to respond in this way until she had. With it I felt a tremendous weight lifted off my chest and a surge of love and emotion.

Seeing my watering eyes, my grandmother leaned forward and hugged me. I laughed at how her arms could hardly reach around my shoulders and I scooted closer so to make it easier for her. She patted my back with her bony, knobby, hands and kissed my head.

“I don’t care who you love, Megan. I love you first and that’s what’s important.”

I sniffled and laughed, squeezing her waist in my arms.

“Arigatou gozaimasu, obaachan. Aishite,” I said. “Thank you, grandma. I love you.”

On History and Dinner

Summary: A non athletic!Jack fic, where grad student and history nerd, Jack Zimmermann meets the cute Samwell student/baker Eric Bittle at the Bread and Butter Bakery.  Picks up right after On History and Pie.  Jack takes a chance and meets Bitty for dinner. It’s their first date.  A collaboration with the wonderful @zim-tits​ featuring her lovely artwork. Also on AO3

Bitty was closing up shop for the evening at Bread and Buttery Bakery when he heard a small tap. Lardo smiled as she looked through the large picture window and saw who was standing on the other side.

“It’s your boy, Bitty,” she said.

He glanced and saw Jack standing outside as he waved shyly.

Chowder unlocked and opened the door. “Welcome! Come on in.”

“Thanks,” Jack said as he came in slowly, looking at Bitty with a soft smile.

Bitty closed the register and smiled in return as he walked from behind the counter toward Jack.

“Hi, Jack.”

“Hi, Eric. Bitty.”

The two wordlessly stared at one another, smiling. Lardo, taking pity on them, cleared her throat, “Uh, Chowder, can you help me with something in back?”

Chowder frowned disappointed he wasn’t going to be able to watch.

“Sure, Lardo.”

“You came,” Bitty said. “Thanks for that. Thanks for trusting me.”

“My uncle says… well, never mind, but I’m the one that should be saying thanks – for the shortbread. It was really good.”

“Really good? I was aiming for so amazing it would make you wanna slap your mama but then again, I’m sure you love your mama, so really good will do.”

Jack laughed softly, “I do. So, are you… that is… if you’re still interested…”

“Jack, would you like to go grab something to eat?”

Jack smiled, relieved that Bitty had taken the lead.

“Yes, I’d like that.”

Keep reading