Tumgik
#shout out to Indi for accidentally giving me the idea for this joke
tippenfunkaport · 1 year
Text
Damn, girl, are you a Tumblr poll? Because you are way too vanilla.
3K notes · View notes
a-simple-imagine · 4 years
Text
Until Breakfast
Synopsis: Y/N meets Harley Quinn at a club and ends up looking after her for the night
Pairing: Harley Quinn x fem!reader
Words: 1.9k+
A/N - Based on the Canary/Quinn scene in BoP. I was supposed to have this up for valentine's day but it wasn’t finished so...
Warning - Swearing, alcohol and implied attempted assault
Tumblr media
Personally, you don't visit nightclubs very often. There's always too much going on and frankly, you didn't exactly have a lot of friends to go with but today you were embracing your independence and going it alone. The music was so loud, you couldn't even think but that was exactly what you needed right now. Who doesn't love to be stuffed into a sweaty room with a bunch of strangers? At least everyone seemed to be having fun; if you could call it that, most of them just seemed wasted. You decide to head straight for the bar, a drink will help bring you out of your shell a little. With so many people in once place, accidents were going to happen so it was no surprise when a body basically slammed into you. Stumbling backward, you manage to recover quickly as well as catch the person before they collapse. She lingers in your arms before pushing you away.
"I- ‘m fine- don' worry." She practically shouts down your ear. You help her up right where she presents you with a lopsided smile. For a moment she seems to be inspecting you. "Harley Quinn, nice to meetcha," She grabs your hand, shaking it rapidly. You already knew who she was, everyone did; it wasn't like it was hard to figure out.
"I'm Y/N," you reply slowly.
"You're pretty, Y/N," Harley insisted, almost falling on top of you. "Like real pretty."
"Thanks," Hands held out to stop her from falling but she just stumbles and regains composure. "You're... very pretty too."
"Ya think so?" Harley's arm snakes around your shoulders, turning you both so you face the large crowd. "So, who are you 'ere wit, huh? You're much too cute to be all alone."
"Guess you're the only one who thinks that," You awkwardly chuckle, looking to her. "Who are you here with?"
"I'm all on my lonesome," she declares loudly, tapping you ever so playfully on the nose. "I'm a strong inde- indi, independence woman."
"I can change that," You're abruptly shoved away from Harley to make room for someone new. An older guy. Smelt overwhelmingly like aftershave. He put an arm around you while the other sat on Harley's shoulders. "No one should be on their own. How about I get you two ladies some drinks and you can come join me and my friends."
He could have been a nice guy but the fact he shoved his way into the conversation didn't sit right with you. Ducking out of his grip, you shake your head. "No thanks, I'm good." Harley, on the other hand, heard the word drinks and her eyes light up.
"Yes," she clapped. "Drinks."
He's already whisking her away before you have a chance to intervene; you had no right to anyway. You weren't Harley's keeper. She was a grown woman who is free to do whatever she likes. You do follow to the bar though, opting to stay as far away from them as you order yourself a drink.
Hours spent in a dark club quickly grows tiresome. Your head was beginning to throb along with the bass of yet another EDM track. And you were tired of everyone. If they weren't accidentally bumping into you, they were hitting on you. You did run into a very nice girl in the bathroom though, she really gave you a confidence boost; kinda like Harley did. Sliding off the bar stool, you decide to call it a night and head for the door but of course, that's when you notice her. She'd gotten considerably quieter but Harley was still here; not for long though because she was practically being dragged out towards the exit. Call it instinct but you decide it's a good idea to go check on her. Make sure she's okay before you head home too.
"Hey Harley- wait up" you call out, charging towards them. It was the same guy; maybe they were going home together? Harley though, seemed out of it which explained the dragging and that didn't sit well with you. "You doing okay?" She hardly knew you but she also hardly knew this guy so you weren't sure if you should trust him to take care of her or help out? In response to having watched too many crime shows, you decide it's best to intervene.
"She's fine," He answers for her. That definitely left a sour taste in your mouth. "Nothing to see here."
"I'll believe that when she tells me herself," You comment, eyeing the woman in question. "Do you want to go with him, Harley?"
"I don't wanna go 'ome," It was hard to make out slurred but that wasn't a yes. He sighed loudly.
"See? We're fine." He snaps back. Harley mumbles something you can't even comprehend among the music.
"I didn't hear a yes," you comment, "just let her go, man. I'm gonna take her home, she looks like she's gonna pass out."
You watch him debate it in his head. Should he give up a girl who would so willingly go home with him or keep fighting for her? Gently, you reach for Harley's wrist. "Y/N," she mumbles happily, you're surprised she even remembers your name at this point. Harley stumbles back into your arms, nearly pulling you to the floor in the process.
"Fuckin' bitches," was all he said thankfully as he disappeared back into the crowd. You didn't have a plan if he decided to keep fighting so you're glad he just didn't see her as worth the effort.
"Shall we go?" You ask her softly, it wasn't a question you needed an answer to but you got one anyway.
"Nooooooo," she whined. "Don't wanna."
You take a deep breath and lead her outside into the cool night air. You push her against the wall to look at her straight on. She wore a dopey smile. "Where do you live, Harley?" You tried to be as stern as possible in hopes she'd come out with something you'd understand. She did not. She just kept insisting she didn't want to go home; probably for the best considering the shape she was in. Now stuck with the clown queen herself, you couldn't leave her there because some idiot was bound to see an opportunity so you book an Uber back to your place.
"Let's get you to bed, yeah?" Harley giggles hauntingly as you lead her inside your apartment. For such a small girl she was heavy but that may be because you were supporting all her weight. It takes everything in you to actually get her into the bedroom where she collapses down onto your bed. You push her over, so she's lying on her front; watching as she nuzzles against the duvet. Tossing the blanket over her, you take your leave.
"Wait," You look back at her. "Stay... stay with me,"
"I'm gonna be just out here." You explain, pointing out the door. Sleeping on the couch seemed like the best option here.
No," she groans, waving her arm around against the bed. "here."
"I think it's best if I stay on the couch."
"No!" Her voice got louder but it was still a pathetic attempt at shouting. It was amusing. "I'll scream."
"Please don't,"
She takes a dramatic deep breath- "Fine," you give in quickly. It was just easier to appease her than have her scream the place down. "can I at least get ready first?"
"Mhmm," Her voice was muffled, you take a detour to the bathroom. When you are finally ready for bed, she's already passed out and drooling a little. It was... sweet. Switching off the light you creep out of the room, quietly shutting the door behind you. It was just your luck that you hear a muffled yell of your name. At least that's what you think it was, either way, it was definitely Harley's voice. With a heavy sigh, you head back into the bedroom. How was she not completely gone was beyond you.
"You... sta... me," You roll your eyes. Her ability to form sentences seemed to dwindle more and more as the night went on but you assume she's telling you to stay in the bed. "P...wease" eventually you just give in and crawl up beside her.
"Do not throw up on me-" You come to an abrupt stop when the woman latches on to you like a teddy bear, nuzzling against you. You'd shuffle out of her grip if you didn't think it would just set her off again; so instead you just lay there in her arms until you eventually drift off too.
You're awake before Harley- no surprise there. At some point, she had let go of you during the night so thankfully, you didn't have much trouble getting out of bed without disturbing her. Making some coffee while you wait for the stranger to wake up. The loud thump from the bedroom suggested that she was finally awake. You check on her only to find her face down on the floor. "You okay?"
One arm shoots into the air giving you a thumbs up so you just leave her be. She comes out a little while later. "Where... am I?" She asks, surveying the apartment. "What happened?"
Coffee between your palms, you turn around to her. Leaning back against the countertop. All things considered, the girl looks pretty good. "You're," she points at you and just stops talking for a second. "the girl from the club... shit- Y/N, right?"
You nod, impressed by the fact she remembered. "I am."
"And you... kidnapped me?"
"What? No- What?" You reply sharply, the panic evident in your shrill voice. She takes a seat at the kitchen table. "some guy at the club tried to take your drunk ass home with him and I didn't trust him so I brought you here-" you realise that doesn't sound better. "But nothing happened. I- I was just tryna help and you wouldn't tell me where you lived or I would have taken you there I swear-"
"Fuckin' men eh?" Harley interrupted with a little chuckle. "At least I got to go home with a pretty girl, right?" You couldn't tell if she was joking or not. You took a sip of coffee as you lingered in silence. "I want breakfast."
"Uh... I can make you something maybe? I don't know what I have though."
"No," Harley huffs, head falling to rest against the wooden table; you don't even try to question it. "We're gonna go out." She piped back up, jumping out of her seat.
"We?"
"Yes," she declares loudly. "I know this place that makes the best egg sandwich and we're going. Consider it a thank you."
"I don't know..." Harley was a stranger and also a criminal. She probably wasn't the best person to be hanging out with.
"I won't take no for an answer."
"Are you gonna scream again?" You tease. Her brows furrow and you watch as her expression changes trying to figure out what that meant.
"Yeah?" She shrugs, clearly still confused. "I'll scream."
"Fine. Breakfast." You agree, giving her a small unsure smile before placing your mug down.
"Let's go pretty girl" Harley marches for the exit. You linger for a moment before beginning to collect a few things.
"I have a name," you huff. "And you have no shoes on." but when you look up she's already walking out the door.
1K notes · View notes
prettyboongi · 4 years
Text
BTS Reaction | You React to Them Calling You Ugly [Part 1: The Hyung Line]
[A/N: When I first got this request, I knew it was going to be a challenge. Not only the title alone is super angst-ridden, this reaction is pretty much a reversal of what I usually do. Instead of them reacting to you, it’s the other way around. However, I was only able to finish the hyung line parts at the moment. But I will finish part 2 as soon as possible! Hope you guys enjoy!]
Seokjin 
“Hey, Jin, am I ugly?” 
Your unexpected question catches your friend off guard. He looks up from his phone screen, catching the serious expression on your face. 
“That’s a random question,” he says with a light laugh, “What brought this up?” 
You look down at your coffee mug and sighed. “Well, the other day I was out with my little sisters at the mall, buying clothes and shit. We were only there for 2 hours and seven guys came up to us and started hitting on them. Just them though. I was completely left out in the dark. It was so embarrassing.” As far as you can remember, you’ve always felt ugly. Throughout the years, there was always someone pointing an imperfection of yours, whether it was your skin, hair or body shape. It definitely didn’t help having gorgeous sisters or even a friend as good looking as Jin. 
Jin looks at you sentimentally. “I’m sorry that happened, Y/N.” 
But you shook your head in response. “You never answered my question. Do you think I’m ugly?” 
“Why does it matter what I think of you? You’re obviously an amazing person, Y/N. 
“Just answer the question?” 
“Y/N-” 
“Jin,” your voice sounded desperate as you looked up at your friend pleading eyes, "Please tell me."
Jin quietly sighs as he puts down his phone on your kitchen counter. “If I had to be perfectly honest, Y/N, you could look much prettier if you actually took care of your appearance.” 
“So you think I am ugly.” 
“I never used that word.”
“You didn’t have to,” you said quietly. Feeling your eyes burn with incoming tears, you turned your back on Jin. “But thanks for being honest.”
Jin felt absolutely terrible. As your best friend, he always made sure to be honest with you, and with his blunt nature, it was never an issue for him. But for the first time in your friendship, he sees that he shouldn’t be this honest. 
After a moment of uncomfortable silence, you hear Jin scoot from his chair and gather his things. “Hey, I have to run somewhere. See you later.” 
The moment you hear the door close behind him, that’s when you let you collapse onto the floor, quietly sobbing to yourself. 
Tumblr media
Yoongi 
You honestly couldn’t understand why a person like Min Yoongi would ever be into you. Not only was he an amazingly talented rapper and producer, he’s also one of the most attractive men you’ve ever laid eyes on. That when he asked you out, you thought he was either pulling a cruel prank on you or he was some powerful drugs. I mean, how could you believe that he actually liked you. But after some persistence on his end, you decided to stuff down your insecurities and took a chance with love. 
Almost a month of dating, you have no regrets when it comes to Yoongi. He was nothing but a perfect gentleman and, most importantly, a perfect boyfriend. He loved everything about you, everything from your warm smile to your dry sense of humor. The only thing he didn’t like about you was your self-hatred and how you’re always quick to put yourself down. 
“I really wished you loved yourself better, Y/N,” said Yoongi. 
“Easier said than done,” you replied, laughing at his comment as if it was a funny joke. 
Despite how you felt about yourself, Yoongi thought you were beautiful, inside and out. Everyday he fell more and more in love with you and you felt the same for him. 
However, when he told you he wanted to introduce you to his friends, that’s when you broke out of your blissful reverie. At first, you vehemently refused, saying that it was way too soon and that you were too shy. But he didn’t buy it. 
“Come on, Y/N. What’s the worst that could happen?,”  he asked. 
You didn’t want to entertain his question with an answer but you did eventually break down and agreed to meet his friends. Knowing how sweet and mature Yoongi is, his friends would have to be the same way. Right? 
The plan was to meet up Friday night at the guys favorite bar downtown. Hours before the supposed rendezvous, you spent your time meticulously getting ready. Everything was picked out with the utmost care: your hairstyle, your outfit, your makeup. Of course Yoongi thought your prep was unnecessary but you wanted to make a great impression on his friends. Even if it was unnecessary, at least the effort you’ve put on your appearance boosted your confidence a bit. 
As you and Yoongi walk into the busy and warmly lit bar, you instantly hear a sharp shout from the other end of the establishment. 
“Yoongi! Over here!”
Nervous, you grabbed Yoongi’s hand before heading over to the booth the six men occupied. 
“Boys, this is Y/N,” he introduced you. “Please make her feel welcome.” 
You were so nervous you could only smile pleasantly and give a small wave. But deter the boys from warmly welcoming you. After scooting over to make room for you and Yoongi, the boys joked around with you, told embarrassing stories about Yoongi and overall just made you feel a part of the gang. It was safe to say that things were going great that night. 
It wasn’t until you were heading towards the restroom at the back of the bar when you spotted Yoongi’s youngest friend Jungkook. He had excused himself moments earlier to answer a phone call. You were planning on sneaking past him in order to not disturb his call when you mentioned your name.
“Her name is Y/N? Yeah I guess her name is kinda pretty. Too bad she looks fucking busted!,” he laughs into his phone. “Trust me, I’m not exaggerating. You think Yoongi-hyung would have taste in women but I guess not.” 
Listening to Jungkook, you felt your heart break into a million pieces as the intense feelings of shame heated your face. You quickly walked back to the table and pulled Yoongi aside. 
“What’s wrong?,” he asked, “You look like you're about to cry.” 
“I need to go home, Yoongi. I feel I’m on the verge of a panic attack,” you half-lied to him. You tried your best to hold in your tears but the first sob that escaped your mouth ruined it for you. 
Yoongi thought you were having a fun night but he did know you get panicky sometimes. He told you to head to the car while he said his goodbyes. 
You worked so hard to get ready for this night and it took one nasty comment to send you crashing down. 
Tumblr media
Hoseok
“Thanks for inviting me,” you say as you walked into Hoseok’s apartment. 
“No thank you for coming,” he replies with a cheery smile on his face. After helping you take off your coat, he leads you to his living room sofa. 
You couldn’t believe it when your longtime crush Hoseok began talking to you. To be honest, you were more than content dreamily gazing at him whenever you caught him around campus. But when one day he asked to sit next with you at the university’s cafe, it was practically a dream come true! 
For the next two weeks, the two of you kept up a flirty banter, both on campus and through texting. Having the campus hottie showing an interest you wouldn’t have thought things would get better for you. Well imagine your shock when Hoseok invited you to come hang out at his place. 
Once he sat next to you on the sofa, he put his arm around you and brought you closer to him. 
“What would you like to watch,” he asked you as he turned on the Netflix app on his TV. 
You nervously giggled. “Oh I dunno, it’s up to you, Hobi.” 
The two of you ended up settling for an indie romance film. However you two weren’t so invested in it. Especially after you started to feel Hoseok glide his hands on the soft curves of your body and felt his soft lips on your neck. One thing led to another and… let’s just say you two were emphasizing on the “Chill” part of “Netflix and Chill.” 
By the time your heavy romp was over, Hoseok excused himself to the bathroom while you stayed on the sofa, basking in sheer ecstasy. The silence of the living room suddenly broke when you heard the vibration of Hobi’s phone against the coffee table. Feeling a bit nosy, you decided to pick up his phone to see what notification he received. However, your thumb accidentally slid across the phone screen and it opened to his messaging app. You knew snooping on someone’s phone was not only a bad idea, but a total invasion of privacy. But you were too noisy for your own good. 
The screen was already opened on Hoseok’s conversation with his best friend, Jimin. You read their most recent texts, then instantly regretted it.
Jimin: Y/N? The same Y/N you’ve been hanging out with lately
Hobi: Yeah that Y/N
Jimin: But why? Didn’t you say she was ugly as fuck?
Hobi: Don’t recall using those words… but i would be quick to call her cute or anything 
Jimin: Okay so why her tho
Hobi: Well she seemed desperate enough to fool around with so I thought ‘why not’?
Jimin: Dude
You were so dumbstrucked of what you’ve just read that you didn’t hear Hoseok’s approaching footsteps. 
“What’re you doing…,” he begins as he sees you with his phone in your hands, screen opened to his texts. “What the fuck, Y/N?!” He tried to grab the phone from your hands before you threw hard at his chest. 
“You fucking asshole!!,” you cried. You actually thought someone as handsome as Hoseok genuinely liked you. But sadly you were dead wrong. 
He ended up kicking you out of his apartment but you didn’t care, you wanted to get out there. To get away from him. After getting into your car, you drove to the nearest parking lot you could find and sat there in the silence. And wept. 
Tumblr media
Namjoon 
Weddings were never your thing. For as long as you can remember, you were always dragged to go to someone's wedding. It started with relatives, then your older siblings, and now, as an adult, your friends. Everyone excused your hatred for weddings as you being a curmudgeon. But the real reason you weren’t a fan of them was that deep inside you knew you that no one would ever make you their bride. You were never going to wear a gorgeous yet outrageously expensive wedding gown. And most of all, you were never going to find a groom who will look at you lovingly while saying his vows before grabbing you for a passionate. But that’s life right?
You have gotten to a point where you swore off weddings because you just couldn’t bear them anymore. But your best friend since childhood just had to get engaged and made you her maid of honor. You loved her so much and wished for her happiness above yours so you decided to bear and grin through it. But this is the last one, you swore to yourself. 
Fast forward to three months into the engagement, it was the night of the engagement party. You and the rest of the bridesmaids were set to meet the groomsmen. The men were pretty normal, none of them really catching your eye. And then you were introduced to the best man, Kim Namjoon, and it was pretty much love at first sight. He was smart, funny and extremely handsome- saying that he was the perfect man would’ve been a complete understatement. And to your luck, he was incredibly kind to you and wanted to work side by side in this engagement. He gave you his contact information and social media, assuring you you can reach him anytime. And you did. Not only did you message him about the wedding, it soon evolved into friendly conversations about each other’s lives. In one of these conversations, you found that he was single and that he wasn’t planning on taking a date to the big day. Obviously, you didn’t have the balls to ask Namjoon out right then and there. But it did give you the incentive to wow him at the wedding. It was definitely something to look forward to. 
Fast Forward to the actual day of the wedding. For once, you actually put effort into your wedding appearance. You made sure you were beautifully glammed up, hoping to make Namjoon fall in love with you. During the reception, you even told some of the bridesmaids your plan, and they helped gas you up and gave you supportive platitudes. With their support and a few glasses of champagne, you were ready to ask Namjoon to dance. 
Walking up to the bar where he was sitting, your best friend stops you. 
“Hey, I was actually about to talk to Namjoon-”
“I know what you're about to do, one of the bridesmaids told me,” she interrupted. “Trust me, it’s not a good idea.” You were confused by her words, wondering why would stop you from finally giving love a chance. That’s when she pulled you aside and told you the truth. “He’s not a good guy, Y/N. He’s been making disgusting and hurtful comments about the bridesmaids and you especially. When he said that you weren’t “too ugly to fool around in the broom closet, but not hot enough for a one stand, I had to possess every power in me to not knock his lights out.” 
You just stood there, silently nodding and taking in her words. You put on a brave face but it was clear that your heart was broken into a million pieces. 
Your best friend pulled you into a tight hug. “Forget about that dumbass, you’re absolutely stunning. Just stick with me for the rest of the evening, okay?” 
“Okay,” the only thing you could reply with. 
Tumblr media Tumblr media
320 notes · View notes
doublexjump · 6 years
Text
An Open Letter to Hidden Block and Normal Boots
Hey guys,
It was back in January that we heard about Canada’s EGLX from some awesome artists I follow due to the Asagao Academy fandom. There were posts screaming, “Asagao is real!” and I burst into the den to declare to my sister Rachel, “We’re going to Canada!”
It was taken as a bit of a joke at first. Were we really going to travel out of the country just for a video game convention? Was that a good enough excuse to take time off from work? Would our bank accounts survive?
Yet, eventually we started asking ourselves, “Why can’t we go to Canada?” and the answer to the above questions ended up being a resounding, “Yes.” (Well, the bank accounts are still recovering, but weren’t hurt nearly as badly as we thought they would be.)
Planning for EGLX was a whirlwind, figuring out flights (neither of us have been on an airplane in 20 years), booking our hotel, expediting our passports to be sure we actually could get into Canada. It was nerve-wracking and exciting all at once.
But, damn, it was one of the best things we’ve ever done.
The hall for EGLX was absolutely overwhelming. We loved the retro games, and we met some incredibly skilled people in the artists alley and indie game corner, coming away with unique merchandise and being able to test out some new games before they come out on the market. Smash tournaments and speed runs happened all weekend, but we were more focused on seeing your panels and stage shows. Our other activities were planned around your time slots.
It was surreal seeing you guys wandering around the expo and definitely took us a little time to gather up the courage to go and say hello. There you were, the guys who helped shape who I am since discovering you a few years ago thanks to a kid Rachel used to babysit, and my tongue tied itself in knots at the sight of you.
Eventually, I spotted Jirard alone and, before I could chicken out, went up to him with a, “Excuse me, we just want to say hello!” and introduced myself and Rachel (who I had accidentally forgot to tell that I was going to go say hi to Jirard so she had wandered ahead a few steps before realizing I had stopped -- oops). Jared had wandered over as well and teased us a little by pretending to walk away after finding out that we had gone to EGLX just for your shows. The interaction was brief (especially since we forgot to ask for pictures at that point because we’re dorks) but both of you were so nice, and it just made us more excited to see what your panels and shows would be about.
We joined the line for Hidden Block’s panel about a half hour before it started and, judging by how long it grew, we were lucky to get seats in the third or fourth row for the Q & A. For Saturday’s shows, we claimed front row seats an hour before the Pokken Tournament started and didn’t move until after the Family Feud game. For Normal Boots’s Q & A, we were right in the second row after waiting an hour in line. Despite the wait times, we loved every minute of seeing you all, enjoying the panels, cheering you guys on during the Pokken Tournament, laughing at the absurdity of the Family Feud show.
But there were plenty of other little moments from you guys that made our semi-spontaneous trip to Canada all the more special: Jirard noticing us again when he was trying to make his way to the YouTube booth on Saturday and pausing to take a picture with us despite the crowds. Luke and Jeff waving from the stage during Family Feud, then Luke saying hi to us as we waited in line for the Normal Boots Q & A the next day. Jirard again recognizing us and giving us a hug as he went down the line of people waiting to get into the panel room. Being able to speak to Jirard and Shane at your booth on Saturday, and for them, PBG, Jeff, Jimmy, and Jared all taking the time to sign our little EGLX book. Sitting right behind Caddy, Wallid, and Luke during the Normal Boots Q & A, seeing them, Jimmy, and Jeff supporting Normal Boots just as Normal Boots had joined the audience during Hidden Block’s Q & A. Jared giving Brutalmoose a shout-out during their panel (you were definitely missed, Ian!).
Getting elbowed by Rachel as her “subtle” way to let me know Paul and Nick were passing by us in the hotel lobby on Friday. Riding the elevator down to the hotel lobby with PBG (and him saving us from accidentally getting off on the wrong floor because we weren’t paying attention) on Saturday morning. Giggling to ourselves when we heard Jimmy and Satch laughing from the hotel room next door. Hearing a bunch of you guys just joking and talking to each other in the hallway at 3 in the morning, having fun just hanging out together. Laughing whenever we texted our mother pictures of your shows and panels to have her respond with something along the lines of, “Is that Peanut Butter Guy? Or Josh? Jason?” (we have no idea where she got the name Jason).
They’re all little moments and, honestly, probably insignificant compared to the massive amounts of people you all saw during weekend, but they were pretty damn special to us.
With the crowd of people that mobbed your shows, panels, and booth, I certainly hope you guys have an idea as to how influential and inspiring you all are. As someone who floundered a bit after high school and college, trying to figure out what I wanted to do with my life when all I really cared about were stories and video games, it’s amazing to see all the passion and creativity that you all pour into your work. You guys don’t get nearly enough credit and recognition, and seeing how many people had come out to see you guys was absolutely heartwarming.
You guys are some of our favorite creators and entertainers, and we always turn to your videos, streams, and music for inspiration, cheering us up, or just chilling. So, this is a small thank you to you all for being you. It’s not much, and probably a little sappy, but I hope you guys always remember how wonderful you all are.
Kudos to you if you actually read all the way down here! Hopefully you all made it home just fine after EGLX (here on the east coast, we have about two feet of snow), and we’re looking forward to seeing what projects you guys put out next.
Sincerely,
Kristen and Rachel
30 notes · View notes
glitterdustcyclops · 4 years
Text
five times bridget saw frankie (and one time she didn’t)
i have literally maybe only ever finished two stories in my entire life, and this is now one of them. i’m proud of how it turned out and so i’m posting it here. read on for gay smooches, angst, and pining. also see my sad gay feelings playlist for the soundtrack to this dumb little fic. enjoy~
1.
The first time Bridget sees Frankie is a hazy summer day. A party. They’ve just finished their junior year of high school and there’s this pervasive sense of freedom in the air, a yearning towards something; hundreds of sticky sweaty bodies in need of a distraction.
Summer parties happen at Brianna’s house, because Brianna’s got a swank mansion with a giant pool and incredibly permissive parents, and pool parties are a good excuse to be more naked than usual. Rampant hedonism and red plastic solo cups. Things get pretty crazy at Brianna’s summer parties.
There’s terrible music and screaming-giggling girls, a splash as someone is “accidentally” knocked into the pool, and Bridget is sitting on a patio chair by herself feeling like a sad loser. Her and Brianna are fighting again—not that Brianna would ever actually admit that—and her and Ryan are fighting because her and Brianna are fighting and her other so-called friends are ignoring her and Bridget’s actually pretty sure she wasn’t even invited to this stupid asshole party and like honestly, she didn’t even want to come anyway, she has no idea what she’s even doing here, this is the fucking worst and she’s going to leave and then—
She sees her.
Frankie.
Frankie is standing there in a halter-neck top straight out of an episode of I Love Lucy with a coordinating pair of high-waisted polka-dot patterned shorts, looking all innocent and batting her pretty little eyelashes. Talking to Ryan and pretending like she doesn’t notice the way he’s sizing her up like a goddamn meal. God, fuck her. Okay, so maybe it isn’t necessarily Frankie’s fault—Bridget was the one who suggested she and Ryan go on a “break” in the first place, and more importantly, she fucking hates him right now because he fucking sucks but, still.
It’s Frankie.
Bridge has hated Frankie since middle school. She can’t even really remember how it started, but Frankie doesn’t exactly make it hard to hate her. She’s just so fucking stuck up, all the time. She’s so weird, and she has to be doing it on purpose for attention, no one is just genuinely like that. And, okay, so they’re probably definitely way too old to keep doing this Mean Girl shit, but still. It’s one thing to have to put up with Frankie in class—always the teacher’s pet, the gold star favorite—it’s quite another to have to deal with her here, so perfect and pretty waltzing around like the Indie Romcom Sweetheart with her stupid pink hair and her stupid vintage clothes and her stupid instant camera and her stupid cat-eye glasses and—and—
Just who the fuck does Francine Takahashi think she is, anyway?
And before Bridget even knows what she’s doing, she finds herself headed towards them, towards Ryan with his fucking shirt off and water glistening on his carefully sculpted abs, standing too close and just leering—and Bridget’s already got some stupid plan half-formed in her head.
2.
The second time Bridget sees Frankie is about two weeks later. She’s done her best to put the whole stupid drunken night behind her, as much of it as she can remember anyway. Which is not a lot, but enough to know that Bridget hopes she never has to look at Francine Takahashi again. Ryan and Bridget are still not talking but she’s back to orbiting around Bri, because she doesn’t know what else to do with herself. And then, one day, Bridget finds herself in a mall food court, realizing not for the first time that teenage girls are fucking awful.
“Bridgie oh my God really?” Brianna whines behind her, voice Valley-Girl perfect. “So now you’re just gonna throw a fit and walk away? Okay fine, later loser!”
Bridget is walking away but she can practically hear Brianna’s eyeroll, her “oh I’m so totally not affected by this at all” put-upon sigh. Of course, she knows Bri way too well to buy that. She is pissed. Good. Fucking whore.
Bridget storms halfway across the food court—impulsive, anger sparking along her nerve endings—and that’s when she notices her.
Frankie.
She is perched at a table near the escalators by herself, drinking a smoothie and reading a book. Because of course she can’t scroll through her phone like a normal human being. Annoyance flares in Bridget’s eyes for a second, irritation tinged with regret, but somehow, she finds herself headed towards the other girl anyway.
“Uh, hi,” Bridget says once she’s close enough, all these mixed emotions settled in the pit of her stomach like a lead weight, and she’s already deeply regretting her choices thus far.
Decades, eons, a literal eternity passes before Frankie finally looks up from her book, setting it face down on the table and quirking up an eyebrow slightly.
“Oh, hello,” she says, politely enough. Maybe that’s a good sign.
“C-can I sit here?” Bridget blurts out. What the fuck—oh my god no—why—what are you doing?!
Frankie half shrugs up a shoulder, casual, and then just sits there, staring at her. Blinking. Waiting. Bridget takes the opposite chair.
Frankie blinks. Bridget swallows.
Silence. It’s awkward.
And then—
“Okay no, I gotta ask,” Frankie finally says, half to herself, “why?”
“Uh, why what?” Real smooth there Bridget, she thinks, bitterly.
Frankie makes a—a sound, strangled in her throat, her nostrils flaring; and then suddenly, she’s talking, or more like yelling, words spilling out of her in a barely-restrained angry huff.
“Ohh no. No no no, you know exactly what I’m talking about. How the fuck are you gonna sit there pretending like—like you didn’t—like, okay, sure I get the first time. Let’s play spin the bottle and embarrass the Lesbo! Ha ha, very funny—”
Bridget winces with embarrassment. She wants to run away again, wants to hide, to pretend like it never happened, but the lead in her belly keeps her anchored at the table. Like, like she deserves it somehow.
“I—I’m—”
“Oh what, are you sorry?” Frankie snaps back, eyes hard—glinting—this mean little half-smile on her blue-painted lips, and it’s just fucking weird seeing that expression on sweet-innocent-perfect Frankie’s face.
Bridget shrinks back a little, almost subconsciously, but that doesn’t stop Frankie. She’s on a roll now.
“For which part are you sorry Bridget? The part where you tried to play the lamest prank on me in the history of ever, or maybe, do you mean later when you came and you found me and you—”
“Stop!” Bridget feels her throat—tight, constricted—something sour and ugly bubbling up from the lead in her stomach. She doesn’t—she can’t—not here, there’s too many people here.
“Stop what?” Frankie sneers, arms crossed in front of her chest, nails digging into the skin. Everything about her is like a pit bull on a chain, snarling and ready to lunge, and it makes the dread in Bridget’s stomach boil higher. “You fucking kissed me, okay, and I’m not a fucking idiot. I know the difference between a prank and—and that. Don’t fucking do that.”
“I—” Bridget is frozen. She knows, oh God she knows.
“Well? Say something Bridget! Tell me how it was all just a big funny joke, tell me how when you moaned against me you were just totally kidding, no homo. Come on Bridget—”
“Shut up!”
To Bridget’s surprise, Frankie actually does. Her eyes big and wide and shocked while a couple at a table nearby stares at them. Bridget will probably definitely die of total mortification about this later, but for now all she can see is Frankie, all that hurt and anger her face and—fuck. Guilt tightens Bridget’s throat; the sicksour dread and anxiety of it all, and if she could zip herself out of her own skin right now, she totally would.
“I’m sorry okay!” Bridget shouts back, words bubbling up from her stomach to her too-tight throat, all of it crashing together and spilling out in a horrible jumble. “I’m sorry it was stupid and I shouldn’t have—shouldn’t have—just, I please, just please, please I’m sorry! Are you happy now? Okay? I’m the worst and you should probably just hate me forever like everyone else does and—”
Bridget knows she’s about to spill over into a full-blown emotional breakdown. She can hear how hysterical she sounds, but she can’t stop it, like her whole body’s on autopilot and she’s just screaming trapped in her brain trying to hit the buttons but they’re not doing anything, and the small rational part of her left just wants to melt into the floor from the embarrassment of it all. Especially when she feels tears welling up in her eyes, a couple drops breaking free to spill over her cheeks with that horrible wad of wet, messy emotions still caught in her throat.
“Uh…” Frankie looks at her, caught somewhere between utter confusion and rage, which must be a weird emotional place to be in, and Bridget will definitely be dying about this later.
“Do—I mean—” Frankie attempts, while Bridget feels the hot red splotches on her cheeks, and then, still just completely and totally mortally embarrassed about it all, gives a hiccupping little gasp of a sob. “Here, let’s uh, let’s go somewhere more—private.”
And then Bridget finds herself being more-or-less dragged to the women’s bathroom. Frankie deposits her in front of the sink, handing her a handful of paper towels while Bridget stares intently at the tile floor and tries to get her breathing under control. She blots ineffectively at her eyes, feeling like a complete and utter lunatic standing there under the harsh fluorescent lighting and completely losing her shit.
“Are you alright Bridget? Wait, no, that was dumb, I mean—look. I’m sorry, I didn’t—”
“You’re apologizing to me?” Bridget looks up at Frankie, tries to laugh it off, but it mostly comes out as a teary little blub.
“Yeah? I mean, I’m still pretty fucking pissed off, but I didn’t mean to like make you cry or anything. I just—I wanted you to at least acknowledge what you did to me.”
Frankie’s expression darkens for a moment, a shade of that cruel angry glare from before, but then she sighs—resigned—and continues, almost defeated sounding, “I, I wanted to know why.”
God. Bridget really wants to melt into the floor now. Even if she’s never been particularly fond of the girl, Bridget has the self-awareness to acknowledge that what she did was messed up, and it makes her skin feel all itchy. Guilty, she thinks pointedly, that’s all I’m feeling, just guilt, nothing else. And then before Frankie can make her feel any worse the excuses come pouring out of Bridget, another jumbled mess she only half-understands as she’s saying it—just, anything, whatever she can think of to make Frankie stop looking at her like that.
“I’m sorry Frankie. Really, I am. I’ve been acting weird for weeks, Ryan and I are fighting right now, and not that it’s like your fault, you didn’t even know, but I’m still so fucking mad at him, and you—just, when I saw you talking to him—I guess, I went kind of crazy?”
“Kind of?” Frankie chuckles, but it somehow manages to make Bridget feel a little bit less like the scum of the earth, so she’ll take it.
“Okay, fine,” Bridget rolls her eyes, “I went full-on psycho bitch.”
They share a small laugh at Bridget’s expense, and a part of the knot in her throat maybe almost starts to loosen, just a bit.
“I know it’s fucked up to take it out on you. I don’t—I was drunk and stupid and weird and such an asshole, and I didn’t mean to lead you on or anything. I’m a fucking mess right now but that’s got nothing to do with you, Frankie. I’m—I’m sorry.”
There’s another silence while a pit opens up in Bridget’s stomach, a yawning cavernous void of anxiety as Frankie gives her this look, like—like she doesn’t really buy it, but then, finally Frankie sighs, nodding, and that deep black pit in Bridget closes up. At least a little.
“Alright. Thank you for explaining Bridget.” There’s a pause as Frankie gives her a wicked sort of smile and then continues, “I will be the bigger person and choose to forgive you.”
And then she laughs, a real honest laugh, deeply amused at her stupid not-quite-a-joke. Bridget rolls her eyes, but it is actually a relief that Frankie’s gone back to being her normal annoying self. Receiving sympathy from the girl is almost worse than being shouted at by the mean angry cruel Frankie from before.
“Oh thanks,” Bridget snarks at her, but in spite of herself, she laughs a little bit too. And then she realizes how they must look, the two of them still standing in front of the sink, face-to-face weirdly close together, Frankie with her arms folded loosely around herself, near enough Bridget almost feels the warmth from her body while Bridget’s a tear-streaked mess, holding onto the wet paper towel and sniffling softly. So, she takes one precise step back and away from Frankie’s bubble, straightening herself, blinking away the remaining tears in her eyes.
“And don’t worry Princess,” Frankie is saying, all smirk now, “I won’t tell anyone about your meltdown. Secret’s safe with me.”
“Oh, shut up,” Bridget replies. She’s decided the best course of action is to go back to pretending like none of this happened and she doesn’t have feelings, like Frankie totally didn’t just watch her sobbing in a mall food court, and that she isn’t still holding that snotty crumple of paper towel.
She quickly tosses the offending ball into the trashcan and then goes back over to the sink to wash her hands. As if that would somehow help. God, her face is all puffy now, ugly blotches of red on her cheeks, her nose.
Frankie moves to lean against the back wall, watching Bridget in the mirror and looking far too amused at the entire situation. But at least she doesn’t say anything else; perfectly silent as Bridget tries in vain to fix her mascara.
Maybe, Bridget thinks, she really will be good on her word and won’t tell anyone, and then Bridget can bury this brief horrible moment way deep down inside her with all the other ones. She hopes so, even though she has no right to. It would only be fair, after all, for Frankie to use this newfound upper hand to give Bridget a taste of her own medicine. After all those years of torment Brianna and Bridget put her through? She wouldn’t blame her.
Bridget winces again, guilty just thinking about it. All throughout middle school Bridget and Brianna and Brooklyn did whatever they could to make Frankie’s life miserable for no other reason than she was weird and they could. Hell, they practically tortured the girl, every day for years, and sure Frankie was annoying and stuck up, but still. Looking back on it now, the whole thing just seems so petty and pointless.
“Hey Frankie?” Bridget says with a resigned sigh, meeting Frankie’s eyes in the mirror before looking back down again. “I’m sorry I’ve been such a horrid bitch to you for like, ever.”
“Yeah, you were kind of the worst,” Frankie laughs, and Bridget is about to get defensive again but Frankie’s still talking, all casual and breezy like they’re just having a chat about the weather outside and not the multiple years of bullying (and Bridget can’t even pretend like that wasn’t what it was, not in her own head) that they put her through.
“But that was like forever ago, everyone was a terrible monster when we were twelve. I’ve gotten over it,” she shrugs.
Bridget wants to say “Really?” all incredulous, how could anyone just shrug and be over that, but then she meets Frankie’s eyes in the mirror again, and she looks—maybe not exactly pleased, but definitely not traumatized or anything. Maybe that’s something.
“Thank you for apologizing, dude,” Frankie continues when Bridget doesn’t respond, still staring uselessly down at the counter. “I appreciate it.”
And she sounds like she really means it.
“You’re welcome, I guess?” Bridget replies lamely.
There’s another silence then, the soft drip drip of the faucet the only sound between them, but it’s a tiny bit less awkward now. Maybe we’ve bonded, Bridget thinks sarcastically.
“So maybe let’s get out of the bathroom yeah?” Frankie says, gesturing over her shoulder towards the door.
“Uh yeah, probably.”
Frankie turns around and heads back out to the food court and Bridget, at a loss for what to do, follows her.
“What are your plans for the day?” Frankie is asking as they walk together, looking over at Bridget like she’s actually interested in the answer.
“Uh—” Bridget stops to think about it. Brianna has almost certainly ditched her ass by now, and she won’t be able to get a ride from anyone else for a while. She’s not sure if she really wants to anyway; the mall is cool inside and being here is better than being stuck at home. Even with Frankie it might not be so bad, maybe, the two of them wandering around together.
Bridget’s sure then, that’s she well and truly lost it, suffering from heat stroke or psychosis or something. But she plays it cool.
“Nothing really,” she says with a bit of a shrug, “Brianna was my ride.”
“Oh,” Frankie chuckles again, “whoops!”
“Yeah.”
“Well, come on then,” Frankie says expectantly, waving for Bridget to follow her.
“Uh, what?” Bridget says instead.
“Let’s have an Adventure!”
And then Frankie stops walking, turning back around and giving Bridget this look that gleams, bright, mischievous, and Bridget is definitely not sure she likes that look. But since today is already strange enough as it is, Bridget sighs to herself, shrugging again. Fuck it, why not, she thinks.
It’s not like things between them could get any weirder.
Together they walk around downtown, something that Bridget’s done maybe hundreds of times, but following Frankie is like seeing it all for the first time again. Of course, she knows all these obscure places off the beaten path where tourists don’t usually go. A thrift store, naturally, with one of those weird fortune telling machines out front; a racist caricature in a turban that vaguely predicts something that may or may not be happening to them in the future. An actual photobooth in another random little boutique, a shitty arcade where Frankie wins Bridget a weird stuffed alien toy, record stores and stationery shops, and then they top it all off with vegan ice cream from a quaint local parlor that does strange flavors like black charcoal, or something called Unicorn Vomit. But it’s surprisingly good (even though Bridget sticks with tried and true vanilla, thank-you-very-much) and, in spite of herself, Bridget finds that she’s actually like, having fun?
They talk and they laugh while Bridget is pulled this way and that, clutching her new little alien friend and posing for dumb photos, and she finds that it’s quite an enjoyable afternoon.
With Frankie.
Wonders never cease.
But of course eventually all things must end. It’s getting to be early evening now, and Bridget realizes she was supposed to be home—Jesus, an hour ago. So they make the trek back to the mall, back to where Frankie’s car is safely waiting for them in the parking garage. And of course, Frankie drives a lime green Volkswagen Beetle with white daisy decals on the sides, of fucking course. Frankie drives her home blasting a Beach Boys tape the whole way—because of course her car is old enough to still have a tape deck, and of course Frankie listens to the fucking Beach Boys on cassette—and somewhere along the way Frankie asks Bridget for her number, oh-so-casually, like it barely even matters, and Bridget doesn’t think twice before she gives it to her.
And then suddenly Bridget is home, walking up to her room, ignoring the lecture her mom is currently shouting at her from the kitchen while she holds her phone in her hand, one new message from an as-yet unsaved number blinking up at her: hay gurl hay. And Bridget feels this lightness bubbling up from her, from where the lead weight and the anxiety-pit had been before. Not even her asshole mother can ruin her mood. For the first time in what seems like a long time, Bridget feels—good. More than good. Happy, she realizes.
And isn’t that pathetic? She’s happy from just one afternoon spent hanging out with her former mortal enemy. But Bridget can’t deny that she is. She’s happy, and she had fun, and she decides that she’s just not going to think too hard about why.
3.
The third time Bridget sees Frankie, she can’t actually see her very well at all. They’re at the Garden Arts Cinema, a small local movie theater, and it’s all dark and cool inside. Too dark to see much of anything. Which of course hasn’t stopped Bridget from trying to sneak sideways glances whenever she thinks she can get away with it.
They go to a lot of movies for a reason.
It’s been a few weeks now and Bridge is finding herself enjoying this weird sort of secret friendship they’ve got going on. Frankie has found a way, somehow, to make all the normally annoying things about her magically endearing. She loves telling dumb jokes and she loves to laugh, and her laugh is so infectious that Bridget usually can’t help but start laughing too.
She’s basically stopped talking to Bri and Brooklyn right now. Besides a random “where r u???” text and a couple Instagram messages they haven’t really interacted at all since that fateful day at the mall. It doesn’t seem like Bri misses her company, and Bridget doesn’t really miss her either. She prefers her Adventures with Frankie. With Frankie it’s just so easy, she doesn’t feel like she has to put up a front. She can just let herself exist, for once.
Frankie seems to enjoy her company too. Desperate, she had told Bridget. All her friends out of town, on their own vacations. And Bridget carefully felt nothing at all about it, when Frankie told her that she was essentially her last resort. It doesn’t matter. They’re just having fun together.
Frankie comes and picks her up in her ridiculous little hippie Bug and they hang out wherever she’s decided. Thrift stores—of course Frankie knows all of them—where she’ll try on atrociously tacky clothing just to make Bridget laugh, or they’ll hit up the arcade and compete for the most tickets. And then, of course, movies. Frankie likes Garden Arts because they do a lot of classic cinema and weird indies and every Tuesday tickets are five bucks.
Bridget likes that no one their age ever goes there, and on a sunny Tuesday afternoon even with $5 tickets, the theater’s almost always basically empty. Safe and dark and private. It’s not like Bridget’s ashamed of being seen with Frankie or anything like that. She just—she doesn’t want to deal with the questions she knows people would ask her. And she shouldn’t have to! This is—theirs, their thing. Their secret sort-of-friendship, born of desperation, and that doesn’t have to mean anything.
Frankie doesn’t complain about it, thankfully. Hardly seems to notice at all, really, that Bridget studiously avoids going anywhere somewhere might recognize them, doesn’t let Frankie come inside her house or see her friends. Honestly, she probably wouldn’t want to hang out with Bridge’s horrid Mean Girl clique anyway. Bridget barely wants to hang out with them.
So instead they go to Frankie’s places. Quaint cafes, weird restaurants. Empty movie theaters.
Frankie picked their movie today—they trade off—which means they’re watching a really bad horror movie from probably the 70s. Bridget has never voluntarily seen so many horror movies; it took her literal years before she could make it all the way through a Saw. Just, all that blood? No thank you. But she’s a Good Friend, and so she lets Frankie pick. Frankie has suffered through several bad romcoms for her, so it’s the least she could do. And Frankie’s kind enough not to make fun of her for being startled by the jump scares or hiding behind her during the goriest parts.
Like now, for instance.
“God please tell me when it stops!” Bridget practically squeals, squeezing her eyes shut and clinging to Frankie for dear life.
Frankie chuckles softly under her breath, but she doesn’t say anything.
And maybe Bridget lets herself cling longer that she strictly needs to, head turned into the crook of Frankie’s neck, breathing in the smell of her. Her shampoo—which always smells amazing—and her perfume and just her, her skin, and then Bridget realizes how fucking weird that is and she stiffens, pulling away and rearranging herself back into her seat.
Okay. So, Bridget officially has A Problem.
She’s not quite sure when it started, she didn’t notice when the change happened. When she suddenly stopped thinking of Frankie as the annoying stuck up hipster, or the slightly-less annoying girl she’s kinda casually hanging with, to—well. This. It’s just, sometimes Frankie just looks at her, when Bridget has cracked a particularly amusing joke, or even when they’re just sitting next to each other at a café saying nothing much at all, and it’s enough to make Bridget’s stomach go all…flippy and weird. Or sometimes Bridget will catch herself staring at Frankie and realize she hasn’t really heard anything she’s said for the past couple of minutes. She keeps getting distracted. By Frankie’s lips especially.
It doesn’t help that Frankie’s always wearing something on her lips. Whether it’s sparkly lip gloss or something stranger like black, or one time, memorably, fucking sunflower-yellow lipstick; and it draws attention. Like a bright yellow traffic sign. And it doesn’t help either that Frankie’s got a fucking obsession with candy. Lollipops that she keeps stashed in her purse and pulls out randomly, sucking on them for hours. Or, if not lollipops, then bubblegum; blowing giant ridiculous bubbles and popping them, over and over. And Bridget fucking hates it. It’s like Frankie knows, somehow. Like she’s doing it on purpose just to torment her.
And it definitely, definitely doesn’t help that Bridget still remembers what those lips felt like against hers. She can’t stop remembering it, in perfect painful clarity. It keeps her up at night, that wretched first kiss—and then, even worse, the second. It makes her stomach feel like she’s swallowed hot coals, like she can’t breathe. And it most definitely doesn’t help that Bridget can’t stop fucking wondering what it would feel like to have Frankie’s lips pressed against other places.
Seriously, it’s a fucking problem.
Suddenly there’s a blood-curdling scream from the pretty blond meat on screen and Bridget practically jumps out of her own skin, reaching out for Frankie’s arm again, her heart pounding in a sympathetic rush of adrenaline. And then, Bridget’s heart threatens to pound right on out of her fucking chest when Frankie just reaches over oh-so-casually and tangles their fingers together. Bridget thinks she might actually be having a heart attack right now, her stomach doing somersaults while she tries to remember how to breathe like a normal person.
Frankie doesn’t even look at her, her attention focused on the screen of course, taking a sip of her giant cherry Icee with her other hand, but Bridget can almost swear she sees the faintest hit of a smirk on the other girl’s face, limned in light from the screen.
Those lips. Cherry red today.
Oh no. Wrong thing to be thinking about while they’re fucking holding hands. Oh God oh God oh God—
But then, just as sudden, Frankie pulls her fingers free so she can grab a handful of popcorn from the bucket balanced on Bridget’s lap, and Bridget absolutely hates the way she misses that brief contact.
The rest of the movie passes in a blur. Frankie doesn’t try to hold her hand again and Bridget holds herself stiff as a board in her seat. She’s actually pretty sure that she’s died in fact, and this is her eternal torment in Hell, for being such a shitty person or something. It seems fitting.
“Alright? Movie didn’t scare you too bad, right?” Frankie is asking her as they stand in the lobby, just a hint of playful mockery in her voice.
“What? Oh yeah. Yeah, I’m—fine,” Bridget replies absently. She’s just a bit distracted at the moment. Why is my hand tingling right now?
“Ha ha okay. Come on, let’s get you home before midnight, Princess,” Frankie laughs, and Bridget especially hates the stupid flip her stomach does every time Frankie calls her that stupid nickname.
They head out together into the late afternoon summer heat, and before Bridget even realizes what she’s doing, she’s reaching down and grabbing Frankie’s hand again. Fuck. Frankie doesn’t say anything about it, hardly seems to notice, really. She just walks hand-in-hand with Bridget, laughing about something dumb that supposedly happened during the movie.
Meanwhile, Bridget is basically on the verge of a goddamn meltdown, the warmth of Frankie’s hand in hers making her heart go all stupid again. She thinks it’s probably a little weird (and definitely incredibly stupid) to be walking hand-in-hand with another girl when they’re seventeen years old—a gay girl no less—and it’s probably even weirder that she’s so fucking freaked out about it. Bridget wants to let go but she also kind of doesn’t, and she’s totally way overthinking holding hands with someone, this is officially insane—and, and Frankie’s laughing again at some joke Bridget missed.
Inside Frankie’s car they sit and wait—it’s old enough the AC takes a while to kick in—and it’s quiet except for Frankie’s favorite Beach Boys tape. The poppy fun music is completely at odds with how Bridget is currently feeling, too distracted by the rapid beatbeatbeat of her own heart to make casual conversation.
“Bridget,” Frankie says suddenly, entirely too serious.
“Yeah?” Bridget turns to meet Frankie’s eyes for the first time in, God, hours.
She’s caught in Frankie’s deep brown gaze, those eyes practically magnified by the ridiculous glasses she wears, surrounded by thick dark lashes, and Bridget’s throat goes dry. She swallows. There’s a beat as she hangs suspended for a moment in that tension, and then, because Bridget has evidently gone completely and totally one hundred percent absolutely nuts, she leans in towards Frankie and then—
Then, before Bridget quite realizes it’s happening, Frankie leans in too, over the center console; close, too close, and then—and then—
Then Frankie is suddenly fucking kissing her.
It’s just a quick little peck, barely anything at all really, but it still somehow feels like lightning sparking down Bridget’s spine; and then just as fast Frankie is pulling back with a wicked little smirk.
“There. Now we’re even,” she giggles.
Oh for fuck’s sake—Bridget feels like she’s gonna vomit up her own fucking heart. That’s it. A girl can only be reasonably expected to take so much torment. So she grabs Frankie by the shoulders and pulls her in close and then kisses her for real, goddamnit.
Apparently her memory is a liar, because this kiss feels nothing like the other ones did. Those hazy nightmare-dream kisses that still fucking haunt her. No, this one is way better. Maybe it’s because she isn’t drunk off her ass and miserable this time, but God, this is. Right. She feels the crushing weight of her heart hammering away in her chest, and she thinks she might actually explode with it as Frankie leans in and kiss her back, and it’s all just so different-new-thrilling-exciting-terrifying—and Bridget knows she’s definitely dead now, because she’s actually pretty sure she’s stopped breathing. Her grip on Frankie’s shoulders is white-knuckled, and she doesn’t stop until her lungs burn.
When they finally part for air Bridget can’t help but notice the way Frankie’s gone all breathless, and that does something absolutely stupid to Bridget’s heart.
“Finally,” Frankie says, relieved, giddy, some other emotion Bridget doesn’t have a name for.
“What?” Bridget blinks at her, lips tingling as she sits there stunned stupid, feeling like a moron.
“Honestly, I’ve been waiting for like a week now for you to get over whatever your deal is and kiss me already, but you’re a pretty stubborn lady, you know?”
“You—you knew?”
Oh, wow Bridge, not even gonna try and deny it, huh?
“Uh yeah?” Frankie says like it’s obvious. “I mean, I hate to tell you this sweetie,” and there goes Bridget’s heart again, “but you haven’t exactly been. Uh. Subtle.”
“I—I don’t know what you mean.”
“Oh come on Bridge, I’m not blind. I can see you staring at me when you think I don’t notice. You blush. Either I’ve got a second head growing out of my neck I haven’t noticed that you’re too embarrassed to tell me about, or you’re into me.”
“What—I—” Bridget sighs. She really can’t pretend not to know what Frankie’s talking about, not when her stomach feels like it’s flipped all the way inside out and her heart won’t stop fucking beating, and all she can think is I wanna kiss her again. It’s hopeless.
Bridget wants to grab Frankie again and kiss her silly, and it terrifies her.
“Sorry,” Bridget mumbles, a supremely weird mix of embarrassed and horny.
“You don’t have to apologize, Bridge. I was trying to take things slow, give you space. Didn’t wanna freak you out. I thought—”
“What?”
“It’s silly.”
Bridget gives her a look.
“Well, okay, but I thought if I flirted enough, you’d get the hint? But goddamn you are oblivious, or maybe I’m worse at flirting than I thought—”
“You were—were flirting with me?!” Bridget blurts out before she can stop herself.
“Oh. Okay, so I guess I am worse at that than I thought.”
And is it just Bridget’s imagination, or does Frankie sound embarrassed?
“No! Shut up that’s not what—I, I’m sorry. I just—why?”
And now Frankie’s staring at Bridge like she’s the one with the second head.
“Uh, because I like you too?” Frankie says, as though Bridget had asked her what color the sky was. “Okay, just so we’re clear here, I uh, I really kinda like you Bridget? And I’m pretty sure you like me too, I mean—”
Frankie waves vaguely to the space between them while Bridget feels her face heat all over.
“And uh,” Frankie stops, swallowing. Holy shit, she’s nervous. Finally, it isn’t just Bridget freaking out by herself. “I dunno, maybe you wanna go out sometime?”
And then Frankie’s round freckle-dotted cheeks go absolutely bright pink, and Bridget is definitely in trouble, because it’s the cutest fucking thing she’s ever seen. She’s sure now. She’s died, and maybe she’s not in hell, but this is clearly some weird afterlife-fantasy scenario. There is no way this is really actually happening.
Bridget stares at Frankie for a minute, lost for words.
Frankie, with her neon-pink-orange bob and her blunt bangs that make her look a bit like a comic book character, with her thick black cat-eye glasses and her delicate features, her softly almond-shaped eyes so dark, dark enough to get lost in; with her elegant pale throat and the black choker wrapped around it, and the voice that comes out of it, the one Bridget can’t stop dreaming about.
Frankie, who is a complete and total weirdo and so deeply, genuinely sincere about it. Bridget can’t believe she used to think it was some kind of act. She knows better now of course, knows that it’s impossible for Frankie to be anything other than herself. This goofy sweet silly smiling pixie, who is just so fucking beautiful that it makes Bridget’s heart ache.
Frankie, who for some unfathomable reason, actually likes Bridget too.
Why? What could Frankie possibly see in her?
In Bridget, the never-quite-as-pretty one, the boring one, the side-kick-in-her-own-damn-life one. She honestly has no idea why Frankie would like her, why anyone would, for that matter. But maybe—maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe, she could—maybe, just maybe—
Why not, Bridget thinks. She might not understand it, but she wants to believe Frankie, believe that another person, this person, could know her and still want to be around her, be with her. So, she pulls Frankie close and tries to tell her with a kiss, since she can’t say the words.
Yes yes yes I wanna go out I like you so much I wanna be your girlfriend please like me too please oh God please don’t stop kissing me, never stop—
“So, is that a yes?” Frankie says, all sweet and innocent, once they’ve parted again.
Bridget rolls her eyes. She’s the worst, Bridget thinks, but then, God I’m totally into it aren’t I?
“Ugh. Fine. Yes.”
Her stomach, miraculously, does not manage to come up her throat with the words, as much as it threatens to.
“Good,” Frankie laughs, the sound making Bridget’s stomach flip back over, and then she kisses her again.
That night Bridget goes to bed with a heart full of glitter, all her nerve endings spark-fizzing with joy while warmth blooms down deep in the pit of her stomach. She swears she can almost still feel the pressure of Frankie’s lips against hers, the slick wet heat of their mouths pressed together, the taste of Frankie’s cherry-flavored lip gloss.
God, Bridget thinks, lying in bed and staring at her phone, the text message from a still-unsaved number (several sparkly heart emojis and a ridiculous kissy face) that makes her feel like she’s flying as she runs a finger over her screen. God, I am in so much fucking trouble.
4.
The fourth time she sees Frankie, Bridget’s sprawled out on a picnic blanket watching her, watching as Frankie dances to the music they’re playing off her phone, watches her twirling and singing along enthusiastically and generally being a complete and total dork. Just to make Bridget laugh.
This is their Fifth Official Date (not that Bridget’s been counting or anything); an almost disgustingly adorable picnic in the park. Frankie has brought an honest-to-God picnic basket and everything. There is iced tea and sandwiches carefully cut out with a heart-shaped cookie cutter, because of course there is.
Frankie just does shit like that. It’s absolutely ridiculous and she doesn’t care. She doesn’t care if someone might make fun of her or call it stupid, she takes Bridget on cheesy-romantic dates and sends her “good morning babe,” and “sweet dreams hon,” texts every single day and makes her actual mixtapes and heart-shaped goddamn sandwiches, and it all drives Bridget absolutely crazy. It makes her heart feel like it’s about to explode into confetti.
Today is a beautiful almost-breezy late afternoon and they’ve managed to find a nice shady spot under some trees and down a steep hill that’s relatively private. No one’s around to bother them for playing their music too loud, and even better, there’s no prying eyes to judge her when Bridget decides she can’t take it anymore and pulls Frankie down on top of her.
Frankie giggles like crazy—which always makes Bridget’s stomach feel like she’s swallowed a bunch of butterflies—as she tumbles into an awkward heap on top of Bridget’s lap and into her waiting warms, laughing and squirming as Bridge assaults her with kisses wherever she can reach.
It’s pretty fucking incredible that she can just do that, now.
So far they’re trying to keep it casual. Well, as casual as Frankie can be. Bridget is quickly discovering that Frankie has a hard time being casual about anything she feels—if the mixtapes and picnics are any indication—but, it’s casual enough. Taking it slow. It’s—it’s not like Bridget’s ashamed or anything. She just hasn’t told anyone yet.
And it’s not like she has to, anyway. It’s no one’s business but their own. Just the two of them. This little world they’ve created, these little stolen moments. With Frankie everything else just disappears for a while and Bridget doesn’t have to worry so much about everything. She doesn’t have to care what people would think, what they would say; she doesn’t have to care about anything but this girl.
This impossible wonderful ridiculous girl with pink-orange hair and strawberry lip gloss, who makes Bridget heart-shaped sandwiches and makes her head spin. This thing, so precious and pure. Is it so wrong that she wants to protect it as long as she can?
She hopes Frankie understands. They haven’t exactly discussed it, but Bridget thinks that she does.
“Hey you,” Frankie says, still sprawled on her lap, arms resting casually around Bridget’s shoulders, hands tangled in her hair. Rubbing idly at the back of her neck. That feels nice.
“Hey yourself,” Bridget replies, with a giant ridiculous grin on her face, looking up at Frankie and the plastic pickles that are dangling from her ears. Because of course, Frankie has a pair of earrings shaped like plastic pickles.
God I’m just absolutely stupid for her, aren’t I?
“Penny for your thoughts?” Frankie asks her.
Bridge shrugs. “It—it’s nothing. You. This, I like this.”
She waves a hand between them.
“Hmm, me too.” Another casual kiss to Bridget’s cheek, and Frankie smiles, that smile that just lights up every single corner of Bridget’s stupid idiot heart.
Casual, she warns herself. Easy. Nice and light. She’ll do whatever it takes to keep it that way. To keep the rest of the world away from them.
5.
The fifth time Bridget sees Frankie is the worst, because they’re fighting. It seems like they’re always fighting these days. They’ve been whatever they are for over a month now, and Frankie’s frustrated. Clearly. Tired of keeping it a secret, of hiding. And Bridget knows that, she hates making Frankie feel like she’s ashamed of her, of what they have together.
But.
She just—
Brianna has started noticing things. They’re talking again, and she’s asking questions. Questions Bridget doesn’t—can’t answer. Doesn’t have the words to even begin answering them. And Ryan too—Christ they’re still technically dating, aren’t they? They made up before he left, and now he’s still texting her, even away at football camp, and she texts him back and it makes her feel—
Rotten.
Even her parents have almost caught them twice, and she can’t keep—she can’t keep doing this.
Bridget is scared. She’s panicking, she knows it, and she can’t stop. Can’t stop the anxiety that bubbles up whenever she’s not with Frankie. And lately, even when she is with her. Like now for instance. They’re at their spot, their safe private spot in the park but Bridget swore she saw someone from school walk by and now she’s totally freaking out. This is way too much, way more than she asked for.
It’s just—it’s, it’s too good.
So, Bridget pushes. Pushes Frankie away, and of course Frankie’s so stubborn she just pushes right back, and lately all they do is yell at each other, and—
And it just sucks so fucking much. Bridget knows that she picks fights with Frankie on purpose, some part of her just knows that Frankie’s way too good for her, so she’s decided to burn it all down before Frankie has a chance to get sick of her, to hurt her first. And Bridget hates herself so fucking much for it, for doing this, but somehow, she just can’t stop.
Coward, she thinks bitterly, as Frankie storms off, and Bridget immediately regrets it. The words she said still echo like a firework, like gunshots—why are you so fucking clingy all the time—and Bridget wants to call her back, to apologize. To beg and plead and make promises she can’t actually keep, to do whatever it takes just to see that smile back on her lovely Frankie’s face.
But she can’t.
Coward.
So the next time Frankie texts her to apologize, Bridget doesn’t respond. Through all the time they’ve been hanging out, she’s never once ignored a text from Frankie, but she just. Can’t. So she doesn’t.
And when Frankie texts again, worried, asking if she’s okay, Bridget just deletes the message, heart sunk like a stone deep in the black void of her stomach.
Bridget keeps deleting them, feeling her heart crack open a little more with each new notification, each new message more and more worried. And then the worried messages turn to angry messages, and it’s what she deserves, so Bridget doesn’t delete those. She reads every single one and lets them pierce through her empty cavernous chest, the ruined crater of her heart, all the while thinking coward, thinking monster, thinking—no knowing that she’s the worst person who ever lived.
And then finally, horribly, the texts just stop coming altogether.
Bridget pretends like she isn’t dying inside, looking down at that last message from Frankie: okay fine fuck you too you fucking bitch. It makes Bridget feel like she’s swallowed broken glass, seeing those words there. But she can’t fix it. This is what I deserve.
Instead she goes back to Ryan, back from camp now looking all boyish charm and tan and big muscly arms, and it’s just easy, so easy to flirt and to bat her eyelashes and let him woo her again; and she goes back to Brianna and Brooklyn, and they don’t ask questions.
And the worst part of it all really, is that Bridget can’t tell anyone about it. No one even knows. The whole wretched summer is locked away in some alternate universe and she can’t say a single goddamn word. And then, even worse: the one person who could possibly comfort her in a situation like this, the one person who had so quickly become her biggest emotional support, so vital to her, is the exact fucking person she can’t turn to, because Bridget is a fucking monster who has ruined everything good in her life.
So, she pushes it all back down, way deep down into the pit of her, to rot with the rest of her emotions. Bridget had been well-practiced in the art of bottling shit up way before she had ever met Frankie, and she can do it again. She can smile and laugh and be pretty and perfect and popular. With her handsome wonderful boyfriend and her two best friends. All of it just so fucking perfect.
But no, that’s not even the worst part.
The worst part comes a week later, at the tail end of summer, when she gets home from Brianna’s house one evening to find her parents waiting for her in the kitchen, her laptop open on the table and a small box she’d somehow forgotten about sitting next to it. Bridget recognizes that box instantly, and it feels like a bullet straight to her heart. She stops dead in her tracks, voice caught in her throat.
That box. Random empty packaging from a birthday present, kept hidden under her bed. Secret, safe. And after—after everything, she’d simply forgotten all about it, forgot to throw it away. The things inside aren’t that important; photobooth strips and a couple silly little arcade prizes, the mix tapes, cute notes folded into origami hearts—but then, not quite so meaningless: the ring. It hadn’t been anything like, crazy, just, they’d been them for a couple weeks, and Bridget had spotted this pretty rose gold ring in one of their favorite thrift stores. It was a small, delicate thing, shaped like a wreathe of intricate little leaves. No stone, but elegant and dainty and nothing like Bridget had ever owned. So Frankie had surprised her with it the next time they went out. And absurdly, Bridget had almost wanted to cry when Frankie gave it to her.
She never wore it, of course—that felt like too much of something—but even just keeping it near her, in her little vault of treasures, it was—
Ryan had never bought her jewelry before.
Seeing that box now, on the table, it feels like Bridget’s entire chest has been sliced open, every awful weeping oozing thing she’s been trying to keep bottled up leaking out all over their pristine tile floor. She feels—flayed. Raw. She wants, bizarrely, to laugh almost; and then suddenly, she wants to cry, and the rush of emotions makes her feel dizzy.
They know.
“Bridget,” her father says, his voice so cold hard angry that it gives Bridget goose bumps. They. Know. “Your mother and I found some—concerning messages on your phone last night, on your computer, and we’d just like to talk to you.”
They know oh God they know how did they—
It’s all come tumbling down, crashing in on her, crushing her under the weight of it. Catching her breathless and she can’t—Bridget can’t—she—so she does the only thing she can think to do. She lies.
When it’s all said and done, her parents know all about poor Bridget and her Psycho Lesbian Stalker. She pours it all out of her, exactly what they want to hear. How she’s just so sorry she didn’t tell them, how she was so scared—because Frankie scared her—they were just friends, Bridget was being nice because she pitied her until Frankie got all crazy and delusional and obsessed with her and Bridget couldn’t tell them, she wanted to so bad of course, but she couldn’t, she was just so embarrassed about it all.
There’s threats of a restraining order; a tense meeting between her parents and Frankie’s parents and lawyers (it’s almost ironic, Bridget thinks, that this is how she finally meets Frankie’s family), and when it’s all said and done, Frankie promises to stay away from Bridget at school, promises not to try and contact her again so they don’t have to involve the authorities in this ugly business. Frankie will leave Bridget alone and no one else has to know.
And the whole time, Bridget can’t look anyone in the eye. She decides then, sitting in that horrible office watching Frankie caved in on herself, defeated, that she is done feeling things for good.
She doesn’t tell Ryan or Brianna anything about it. She couldn’t do that to Frankie. Not that. Of course it doesn’t matter, it couldn’t possibly make up for the colossal mountain of horrible things Bridget has already done to Frankie, but still. She doesn’t want to talk about it anyway.
And then about four days later Bridget finally breaks up with Ryan for good. Sick of him, sick of being near him and pretending. She’s sick of seeing the way Brianna looks at him, like she’s mentally inserting herself where Bridget’s standing next to him. And of course, they’ve barely finished typing their goodbye texts—amicable enough—when Brianna is suddenly calling her, utterly, utterly heartbroken but wanting to know if Bridget minds, maybe, if she asks Ryan out. Apparently, she had just dumped Matt, her so-called True Love, the day before.
Bridget honestly does not fucking care anymore. She feels emphatically nothing about it, about either of them. Fine. Let Brianna have him. Bridget honestly can’t even remember why she wanted him so badly in the first place, except because Brianna did too. Whatever. She hopes they get married and have a bunch of perfect fucking children and grow old together and die.
She lets it go. All of it, she keeps on Not Feeling Things all the way until school starts. Right until the night before, when she wakes up suddenly, startled by a nightmare, her heart aching with fear and guilt. Bridget reaches out—still half-asleep—like somehow Frankie would be there, would be beside her telling her that it’s alright and to go back to sleep. But all Bridget feels is the empty sheets instead.
And then, Bridget is done pretending she doesn’t feel things. All at once it all bursts out of her, all the regret and shame and guilt and anger and wretched awful heartbreak pining, all the gross ugly tears she’s been keeping locked up for way longer than this summer. All of that pain finally pouring out, spilling out all over her, and Bridget just hopes she doesn’t sob too loudly.
Thankfully no one wakes up or comes to check on her, and that’s almost worse, somehow. Bridget curls up into a ball on her floor, and that’s when she notices the a small forgotten plushie under her bed. She recognizes it instantly. Herman the Alien. The very first thing Frankie had given her, before, before everything, before they’d even—it was that very first time they hung out together, at the arcade. He’d somehow come out of the box and managed to escape the Great Purge.
Bridget looks at him through the tears streaming down her face, his giant black eyes and tiny little smile, and this stupid green alien plushie just breaks something inside her, another wall come crumbling down. So, fully aware how completely and totally pathetic she must look, Bridget crawls over and pulls him out, cuddles him close. Wishing it could somehow bring her comfort, that it could somehow bring Frankie back.
Stupidly, Bridget wishes that she could go back in time and undo the entire awful summer, that she could fix this, and she’s not entirely sure which part she wants to change. She hardly understands anything anymore, really, except that she misses Frankie, right down to her marrow, and she hates it so much.
Most of all, Bridget wishes that she was a different person, a better person. Somehow who could have deserved something as sweet and as good as what she had with Frankie. She wishes that she hadn’t been such a colossal idiot, a coward about it, and that she hadn’t thrown it all away.
But it’s useless. Bridget is not a better person. She’s known that all along, of course. This is what she deserves. She is a horrible monster who fucked everything up, and she can’t ever fix it. So instead, she holds a dumb stuffed alien and she cries and cries and cries.
It doesn’t help.
6.
The first day of school, Bridget walks up to Green Valley with her head held high. There are rumors swirling around, but there always are, and Bridget is too used to pretending she doesn’t hear them. Everyone knows about the Ryan-Brianna situation by now of course, and the looks of pity people shoot her would normally drive her nuts, but Bridget doesn’t feel anything anymore, so she hardly notices them. She finds Brianna waiting at their normal spot, her and Ryan standing close together like they had been made for each other in a lab somewhere, his paws draped all over her. Obnoxious. And the rest of their friends stand there too, all of them talking and laughing and just so fucking perfect.
Bridget can’t help but notice that Matt is conspicuously absent, however. She doesn’t blame him.
Of course, her and Brianna and Brooklyn have all their classes together. They’d set up their schedules at the end of last year, before the summer, before—everything. It had seemed natural, logical, at the time. The three of them always had all their classes together. Now though, Bridget walks into first period wishing she could join the witness protection program and move to another country where no one speaks English.
Their first period is Chemistry—which is already torture enough, honestly—and she comes in and sits at their usual spot, back corner, forever Brianna’s right hand woman. The two of them talk like they don’t secretly hate each other’s guts, performing for their audience.
And so of course in first period Chemistry with Bridget’s blood near boiling, simmering rage and everything carefully hidden underneath, all bottled up but almost leaking out of her, that’s when—
God. She walks in.
Frankie. In one of her fanciest tea-length floral-print vintage skirts, all perfect poofy petticoat and hair freshly dyed a bright aqua-teal color; bangs straight, eyeliner sharp. Looking for all the world like a woman on a mission. Determined. Proud. Bridget’s heart aches.
She watches Frankie’s eyes scanning the room, looking for something, and then—she sees Bridget staring at her and her mouth drops open in a small, startled “oh.” Almost like, like she’d forgotten, somehow. Bridget feels what remains of her heart shatter into impossibly tinier pieces, feels like she’s about to vomit up every single wretched shard right there on the table and so—
So, Bridget looks away, and she pretends she doesn’t see her.
0 notes