“I feel like my curls have always been a part of who I am. They are a very
real representation of the mix of my two cultures. When you’re a part
of a minority of any kind, you’re told not to take up much space, but my
hair does that, so there’s nothing I can do except take up the space
with it. It gives me confidence.”
i talked to him on a wednesday. he sighed on my bed. i was skyping my sister, who was trying to teach me how to knit. i told him i needed to go to bed early, i had a test in the morning. he said he had things to discuss and i’m a patient person so i listened.
this is, i learn, how our “friendship” works. hours of my life become his sanctuary. he texts me constantly. his problems fill up every space in my planner. often he demands my attention rather than asking. i feel bad, because i’m the type to feel bad, so i listen. i offer advice that goes ignored, i sit in contemplative silence even though i should be studying, i nod my head and support him.
he doesn’t notice i start drinking wine as soon as he shows up. a few times i make the mistake of trying to bring my own problems up. they are always overshadowed by his own, or else i am given an odd supply of uncomfortable comments. “i don’t feel good lately” is met with “a girl as pretty as you isn’t supposed to feel sad.” i say “i don’t like my writing recently” and he spends forty seconds saying i’m beautiful and intelligent and a perfect girlfriend before saying “unlike me, i’m awful” and before i know it, i’m comforting him again. we don’t have real conversations. once, as an experiment, i spend two hours completely silent, just to see if he’ll notice. he doesn’t.
once he bursts into my room while i’m scheduling my week. he’s taken aback by how much i’m doing. “you look so busy!” he says, “where’s all the time you’re planning on spending with me?” he doesn’t ask about any of my other activities. he knows nothing about my life except that i’m good at listening. i feel myself under a rolling pin. he flattens me out to use me. he punishes me if i don’t give him attention - all i hear is how he is useless without me, how he’s barely holding on, how he doesn’t know what he’d do if one day i was gone. he doesn’t know my middle name. he misses my birthday.
it’s wednesday again. i’ve been drinking. he took some of my wine without asking. he lounges on my couch with his arm casually around me. my actual friends know i don’t like touching. i asked him to move but he just laughed and said “you’re so funny.” he’s too heavy for me to move physically so i just let him lay there, complaining. i stare into space, thinking about the news i got that day. about how my life has changed.
he looks up to me. “can i ask you a personal question?”
i don’t say “that would be a first,” because my mother raised me to respond politely. i tell him go ahead, as always, i’m listening.
“why do girls like you date jerks?” he asks me.
i stare at him, uncomprehending. he is a runaway train, his mouth still moving. “I just mean,” he says, “you’re all always going after the worst guys like you don’t even see people like me. like i’m always being friend-zoned, even you did it, and you’re one of the only people who is nice to me. but girls like you never say yes to boys like me.”
i don’t know what he’s saying. i’m dating a girl, and he would know that, if he knew anything about me; a clever and talented girl who means everything to me.
he sighs and sits back when i’m not immediate in responding. “this,” he says, “is what i mean.” looks up with puppy dog eyes at me, “i mean could you ever date someone as awful as me? am i just a friend? am i doomed to be nothing more than the friend to pretty girls?”
we aren’t friends. we aren’t friends. we aren’t friends.
he moves the topic before i can reply, back to his problems. i text my girlfriend, “men are animals” and she sends me back a poem about how much she loves me. he tries to kiss me when he leaves, and when i duck out of it, i later get sixteen texts on how scared i am of sex. his facebook posts are all about how women don’t know how to find the right men. how we’re blind to the good things. how we don’t see fate when it’s happening.
I don’t know why I keep drawing them like thisXD I guess athough I love them being punk and grumpy buddies I also enjoy the idea of the two of them being trusting and relaxed around each other. I’m honestly starting to feel bad for Otabek, how this guy manages to get anything done when there’s always at least one cat sleeping on him? Also guys do you have ideas how their mugs should look like? I made them simple because I like simple but give me some crazy ideas:D
And thank you so much for all the likes and rebloggs under my previous works. You guys keep me going and you are the best. Love you all!<3
PS. Also I should be called style fluid artist. You could be staring at two of my artworks and never guess they’re both mine;)
I was rereading the comic right before Jack and Shitty’s last game and Shitty says that if they win he gets a lifetime supply of Jack Zimmermann hugs. Well, obviously they lost.
But, I was thinking about everything and… here you go.
Tater leaves the Christmas celebration after a slice of pie, bowing out by saying he needs to Skype with his mother. It gives the apartment the odd, after-Christmas feeling where nothing feels quite real.
But it’s nice, just Jack and Bitty and Shitty in the kitchen, similar to how it was in the Haus.
“Bits,” Jack says, exasperated. “You just cooked an entire Christmas dinner. By yourself. No, don’t say I helped, we all know a kindergartner could have helped just as much. Let me and Shitty do the dishes.”
Bitty sighs but relents, retreating to the living room.
“You two are so good for each other it hurts,” Shitty says, shaking his head. “Honestly. Hosting Christmas dinner together. Bitty here for the holidays.”
“It’s great,” Jack says, barely catching a lovesick sigh before it escapes. “I’ve never… I don’t even know how to put it. But I’ve never. Any of this.”
“The great Jack Zimmermann, finally spilling deets,” Shitty says, elbowing him playfully where he’s drying dishes. “’I’ve never any of this’. Such detail. Such poetry.”
“Oh, shut up,” Jack gets out around a laugh. “Because you’re so generous with information about you and Lardo.”
“Look at us, all grown up and in secret, clandestine relationships. We’ve grown up so fast,” Shitty says, wiping away a fake tear.
“Oh - that reminds me. I have something for you.” Jack wipes his soapy hands off and heads for the hall closet.
“Hey! I thought -”
“It’s really small. Not a big thing.”
“This is coming from the person who bought his teammate an oven just because -”
“No, this is actually a small thing. It probably cost a dollar. Rounding up. And it can be for your birthday if you don’t want it to be a Christmas present.” Jack reenters the room with a tiny gift bag, which Shitty takes.
“You’re ridiculous, Jack, I don’t know why - holy shit.” Shitty stops midsentence when he opens the gift.
“Ah, I don’t know if you remember? But our last game -”
“I said that if we won I get a lifetime of Zimmermann hugs.” Shitty stares at the homemade, printed certificate.
“Right, but we lost. But I know I haven’t been a great friend these past couple of months -” Shitty snorts. “- but you’re not any less important to me now. So. Yeah.”
“So you just gave me an infinite supply of hugs. In writing.”
“We can get it notarized if you want.”
“We can get it note - Good God, Zimmermann, how does Bitty put up with you?” Shitty says it in an exasperated tone, but his voice gets thick and he has to wipe his eyes a little.
“You’ll have to ask him, because hell if I know.”
“I’m cashing in on one of these,” Shitty says, waving the certificate a little. “Right now.”
aaaaand that’s it folks! i honestly didn’t plan for this comic to give me feels. it was meant to be “haha adrien is so oblivious” instead of.. confused pain. but my hand kind of did its own thing. i hope everything becomes easier after the Big Reveal and not more complicated. these two already love each other so much, they just need to realize it.
also i used a ref for the last panel. not gonna embarrass myself again by not learning how to draw hands properly.
(please do not use, repost, pin, translate or whatever without my explicit permission.)
If you were honest, it was all your
fault. You had made a comment to Steve
just before he’d left for the mission on the Lemurian Star about the stealth
suit. Something about the deep blue of
it and how it sat just right across his broad shoulders. He’d laughed it off at the time, but you’d
seen the look in his eye. And to be
fair, you were the one that suggested a way to relieve some stress and get back
at Fury at the same time. Which is how
you wound up here, pinned against the inside of Fury’s office door, legs
wrapped around Steve’s trim waist and hands in his perfect hair.
lanzazul: Yoooo!! You never really told me when captain Keith started to have a crush on the prince!
@ardcntblaze: Okay so hear me out. Keith always thought the young prince was kinda stuck up and spoiled. But one day, while doing rounds in town as a soldier, he witnesses Lance being very kind. Helping out some poor children and their families. Dirtying his hands to help out. And then he saw how much Lance cared about the people. And then he sees Lance’s genuine smile, not the fake smile that Lance wears in court and around the nobles but a sweet, honest, happy smile that just lights up his entire face and he gets these doki dokis
“Y/N?” A knock at the door accompanies the voice that just spoke, bringing a smile to your face. It’s a welcome distraction from staring at the wall, which you’ve been doing for four hours straight. There’s not much to do when you’re not allowed out of your bed. “Are you awake?”
“Come in,” you call back, propping yourself up against a few pillows. It takes some effort and your body rebels against the movement, but you grit your teeth and swallow back your groans. All the aches and pain are worth it. They prove that you’re okay. That you, unlike Antoine, are still alive.