Merit just…. Rolls the fuck away from his problems
Merit, with twigs in his hair, hands in manacles, rolling through the forest and flipping out of some trees: “oh hey”
Tag: i love him
his name is zindelo dungledrags isn’t it
What I say: I’m fine
What I mean: Shinsou Hitoshi gives us all a glimpse as to how fucked up the My Hero Academia world and society are. They label you a hero or villain or other from birth based on your Quirk. He has been ridiculed, outcast, excluded, ignored, and just plain old shunned for something that he can’t help. And to be honest, his Quirk is amazing and probably one of the best a hero could ever hope for. It can change up the whole hero and villain industry and make villains take a real good long look at themselves. Not to mention, his Quirk can be a life saver in so many other occupations: policeman, detective, lawyer, teacher, security guard, but you know what? He doesn’t want to be any of those. Hitoshi wants to be a hero because “You can’t help for what you long for”, because he wants to help people. Does it matter that the world practically wrote him off as a villain before he could prove them wrong? No, because Hitoshi wants to be a hero not for the fame, glory, money, power, not any family reasons (at least, not that we know of cause we’re even not sure of his family situation at the moment). He wants to be a hero because he wants to save others and to prove the world wrong, that it doesn’t matter what Quirk someone is born with: it only matters what they choose to do with it.
found the rest of the fic! bad thing about being uhhhh not the soberest when i was writing: i did not refer to him as rislon or wren i called him rislonwren or some variation so now i dont know which name i should call him when im typing it up??
Gabriel, Wren, Rose, and Luna’s fancy clothes, the rose palace, and the palace entrance
its a tiddie out kind of look
“I am….” what what are u rislwrenslon u a vampire what ’……very curious" fuk u you dramatic fucker
Literally all of the pcs: wrenslon pls tell us something anything about what to expect at this gala pls
Rislwren, shrugging: they’re rich
Fic: The One Where Jack’s A Goalie – Part 2
Summary: Jack Zimmermann comes out of rehab with a new lease on life and a desperate need to reconnect with the ice. However, he’s unwilling to place himself back in the spotlight so he decides to start his career over and retrain as a goaltender. With less judgment from his peers and little chance of going pro, Jack has a chance to be himself at Samwell, possibly for the first time in his entire life.
Pairing: Zimbits, references to past hookups
“His nickname is ‘Bitty’,” Holster explains excitedly. “We decided last night.”
“Bitty?” Jack takes a break from re-taping his favorite stick (the one he doesn’t ever actually use, see ‘favorite’) and tries not to glare at Holster because he knows exactly what’s coming. “May I ask why?”
“It’s because he’s —“
“— If you say it’s because he’s ‘itty-bitty’, I will personally come over there and kick your ass,” Jack interrupts, keeping an eye on the door. Bittle’s been using the kitchen frequently enough he practically lives in the Haus at this point.
“Bittle,” Holster coughs after Ransom comes thundering down the stairs to elbow him in the stomach. “Because his last name is Bittle.”
“He’s got a mental block about his size,” Jack chides, turning back to his task. “Don’t make it worse for a joke.”
“Thought you were supposed to be helping with that,” Shitty yells from the kitchen. “You said he was getting better.”
“He is but I’m not the only guy on this team that should be watching out for him,” Jack defends before someone starts ‘coo’-ing like a pigeon and the noise spreads until the whole house is clucking and making bird noises. The ‘mother-hen’ title hasn’t gone away as quickly as Jack would have liked.
“Just remember if he loses his scholarship there won’t be any pie!” Jack yells over the noise, gathering his gear to retreat to his room. “Can you live with that?”
The answer is more clucking.
Jack’s plan for early morning pre-practice sessions is derailed slightly; Hall doesn’t want to overextend him too early in the season given Johnson’s still rocking two PT sessions a week so Jack isn’t ‘just’ a backup anymore.
This doesn’t stop the protein plan, the only aspect of his unexecuted training regimen he can actually encourage.
Under normal circumstances, the average person can set a habit by repeating an action sixty times. In hockey circles, a habit might as well be a superstition; and no one has superstitions like a goalie. Jack has never considered himself ‘average’ and he’s proud to say he can set a habit in less than half that time.
The boys maneuver the seating arrangement at the breakfast table to accommodate Jack’s newest quirk without a word of discussion. It’s so subtle and unquestioned Jack catches Bittle asking Shitty if he’d made someone mad.
He needs to eat with Bittle. Needs to add something to his breakfast. If they can’t physically train yet, they can work on nutrition. The first morning it was hard-boiled eggs. The next day: a protein bar. The day after that? A slice of bread slathered with almond butter.
“I can feed myself,” Bittle says defensively after Jack tries to hand him a plate of bacon. “I know you think I’m not trying hard enough, but you can stop teasing me, thank you.”
The whole table goes silent, expecting something Jack can’t interpret. Perhaps in another life, he’d be offended on his own behalf but that’s not something he feels like entertaining today. Though there is now a curl of embarrassment in his chest threatening to strangle his heart.
“Oh, uh, no, I just,” Jack sets the dish down and snags a crispy piece for himself, trying to play off how unsettled he’s immediately become. “I know you’re capable of feeding yourself, I didn’t mean —”
“Jackie-boy’s just trying to make you feel welcome,” Shitty interrupts with careful levity, keeping an eye on Jack as he drops an arm around Bittle’s shoulders. “Just a good ol’ goalie superstition. Means he likes you.”
Jack finishes the bacon and slides his left hand under his thigh, already feeling the ghost of a tremor. He hasn’t had this happen in a while, almost six months, and he’s not about to have a panic attack over a misunderstanding.
You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay, he’s okay, you’re okay —
“Yo, Zimms, we have that meeting in five,” a weighty hand settles on Jack’s shoulder and he nearly jumps when he blinks up and finds Johnson staring down at him. “You ready? Let’s go.”
He forces a nod and shoves out from the seat, quickly enough the noise echoes through the hall. Bittle says something Jack doesn’t quite catch through the blood pounding in his ears but he doesn’t have time to think beyond the instinct to follow Johnson.
“You okay?” Johnson pulls a water from his bag and hands it over. “Talk it out. C’mon.”
“I know what triggered it,” Jack breathes, tucking himself against the brick wall, tapping a count on his fingertips. “Just didn’t realize it was a trigger.”
“What? The Frog getting all huffy? You talk about Bittle to everyone but Bittle. Some tension had to develop but you know this is about you, not him, right?”
“Well, no shit it’s me,” Jack downs half the bottle, gasps because he needs oxygen, too, and hands it back. “I think…Embarrassed? I’m embarrassed. I don’t want to make people feel inferior. I don’t want to make people feel like I felt. Like I wasn’t good enough. I still feel like I’m not good enough.” Jack slides down the wall and sits on the dirt, processing. “Fuck. I need to call my therapist.”
“Nice job working it through. You’re getting better at that.”
“You think I scared him? Bittle?” Jack asks, glossing the compliment and waiting for his heartbeat to regulate. “The boys acted like he’d dropped a slur.”
“I think you interpreted the situation how you wanted to interpret it. He’s probably just confused.”
Jack sucks in another breath, easing himself into a forced state of calm. “Confused,” he echoes, “makes sense. Should I apologize?”
Johnson gives him a look that can only be interpreted as ‘no’.
“Wait it out. Bittle’s got his own perception of what you’re trying to do. Let him piece it all together before you start re-building bridges you haven’t actually burned. Sound good?”
“No,” Jack admits, shaking a hand through his hair. “But I’m compromised so what the hell do I know, right?”
A polite cough brings their attention to Bittle, standing awkwardly near the trash can, Jack’s messenger bag over his shoulder.
“Um, you left your bag, I thought I’d —”
“You know what, I’m late for something unimportant,” Johnson offers a hand and Jack allows himself to be pulled to his feet while Johnson says his goodbyes. “Jack,” Johnson says, then nods to Bittle. “Potential love interest.”
“Potential what?” Bittle’s awkward embarrassment slides to blatant confusion and in that sense, he and Jack are on an even keel.
“He does that…if you ignore him he’ll stop.”
“Oh, well, um, sorry,” Bittle recovers, cautiously handing Jack his bag. “I was coming out here to apologize, too. Um, Shitty explained some things about…I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions. You were trying to be nice. I guess.”
“He told you I’ve got anxiety and I’m quirky, right?” Jack finishes, watching the girls playing ultimate frisbee over Bittle’s shoulder. “I thought you’d appreciate food-based acts of service, all the baking you do. Also, I accept your apology.”
If Jack keeps chirping he’ll be okay. Nothing defuses his anxiety in the moment like vague insults; though to be fair that strategy tends to backfire pretty spectacularly when he has time to reflect on what he’s said.
“Yeah, well,” Bittle laughs and tugs at the sleeve of his shirt. “I’m used to feeding people being my thing. It’s the Southerner in me.”
“Well, in that case, being a hockey player with loose personal boundaries is the French Canadian in me. I can trade you baked goods for aggressive training tips if you’re agreeable.”
“I think I may be,” Bittle smiles, tension draining from his posture. “You don’t have to stop. The protein thing. If it’s a ritual, that is. Lord knows it doesn’t bother me a bit if it’s coming from a place of good intention.”
Jack is about five seconds from launching into an explanation of his entire training plan when Bittle’s phone chirps and he’s apologizing because he needs to go to class.
“I’m sorry again!” Bittle calls, turning tail so quickly the cowlick on the back of his head is flat for a half-second. “See you at practice!”
When Jack gets to his Econ class, twenty minutes early because why not, he finds a napkin-wrapped peanut butter cookie wedged precariously between his notebooks. He sniffs it, takes a bite, and his suspicions are confirmed.
Homemade.
Bittle.
Fic: The One Where Jack’s a Goalie – Part One
Summary: Jack Zimmermann comes out of rehab with a new lease on life and a desperate need to reconnect with the ice. However, he’s unwilling to place himself back in the spotlight so he decides to start his career over and retrain as a goaltender. With less judgment from his peers and little chance of going pro, Jack has a chance to be himself at Samwell, possibly for the first time in his entire life.
Pairing: Zimbits, references to past hookups
–
“You’re a goalie stuck in a forward’s body, Jack. I hope you never lose that spark.”
Jack remembers being fourteen and horribly offended. All he’d done was get a little excited about how the Royal Canadian Mounted Police transitioned into their modern incarnation. That’s it. He knows deep down his father meant it as a compliment but Jack knows goalies are quirky. Weird. They aren’t playmakers, they can’t be captains, they’re integral, necessary, but they aren’t stars. Jack’s supposed to be a star.
Jack says as much and his father stares him down with one brow arched playfully.
“You’re laying on stereotypes pretty thick, bud. You’re telling me Patrick Roy wasn’t a playmaker? Sawchuck? Hell, I should call Martin and have him come down here himself. Goalies are the glue that keeps a team together, the last line of defense and the most entertaining people you’ll ever meet. Or the biggest bastards. Either way, you remind me of some of the best boys I’ve ever known.”
Bad Bob has made his point but Jack holds fast on his opinion for a long time. Through the Q, even when he’s exhausted and strung out and hating everything around him. He resents goalies on principle: they’re his natural enemy, keeping him from playing his best game. Eventually, he takes that dislike all the way to rehab.
“The professional pipeline discourages individuality in players that are marked for great things,” his therapist prompts. “You aren’t allowed to be an individual. We’ve discussed this before but I don’t think you’ve really examined why you project these judgments. Is it that goalies are ‘weird’, or is it that you resent the fact they aren’t judged as harshly as you were?”
At a Junior World Cup game, an announcer called Jack ‘a hockey-playing robot’ and the nickname stuck. It wasn’t long before scouts, news article, and people on the street he didn’t even know started calling him a ‘robot’ like it was a compliment.
Goalies are weird. Quirky. Goalies can love history and old movies. Goalies can sing to Toto during timeouts. Goalies can be anxious. Goalies can have tantrums and yell and they don’t have to be perfect all the time. Goalies aren’t robots, they’re people.
Jack doesn’t cry during that particular session but it’s a near thing.
He comes home from therapy and starts researching how common it is to switch positions and still be a decent player. There isn’t much to work with but Jack has plenty of time and energy to spare. He isn’t planning on going pro, he just wants to play. He wants to have fun.
So, one night Bob makes him a dinner and Jack downs half a steak half before saying, “I think I want to be a goalie.”
Bob Zimmermann cuts an impressive figure, even sporting his ‘Check the Cook’ apron. He’s a little older, little grayer, more than a few of the lines around his eyes are Jack’s fault, but for all of Jack’s internalized fears of failure, perpetuated largely by growing up in the shadow of a legend, the man has always been a dedicated father. Jack’s overdose only proved it.
“You want to be a goalie?” Bob asks from across the kitchen, waving his spatula to mime what Jack thinks is supposed to be a mitt. “Goalie-goalie?”
“I think I’d like to play hockey again. Reset and start over. I can do that as a goalie. No pressure to be…well, me.”
His father contemplates him for a moment before grabbing an avocado from the bowl near the coffee machine and chucking it at Jack’s head; he barely dodges it when his mother yells, “Jesus, Bob!”
“I’m not a goalie yet,” Jack shouts, turning around to look at the dented avocado resting on the floor.
“Clearly,” Bob sighs and, to his credit, apologizes for throwing the fruit before asking, “You still want to learn to be a goalie?”
“If I say yes will you throw an orange at me?”
Jack fights the urge to retreat to his room when his father pulls out the chair beside him and sets a notepad down beside Jack’s half-finished plate, ‘To Do’ scrawled messily at the top, and directly below that, ‘new goalie pads’
“No, I was thinking about shooting some pucks at you, which might actually be worse. Let’s start with this.”
Like most things, it takes time. Jack starts developing a different set of muscles, does the same training exercises his pint-sized pee-wee goalies practice religiously. For months the Zimmermann’s entertain a steady stream of hockey legends bribed with beer and good company to help Jack practice his puck-stopping skills.
Never let it be said that Jack Zimmermann half asses anything.
He goes to therapy. Keeps a journal. Does breathing exercises and forces himself to be honest about the things he enjoys. When he wants to make a joke, he jokes. He chirps. With no chance of going pro, there’s no pressure to hide. Well, less pressure. He doesn’t want to accidentally out Kent, but if a cute boy smiles at him, he’s smiling right back.
Jack’s goalie pads might as well be a suit of armor. His pee-wee kids are in awe. His beer-league teammates are terrified. Eventually, his skill sets overlap and he’s not just a big fish in a small pond, he’s a shark; going crazy sitting around all day doing nothing but read and train. He needs something bigger, a challenge.
(His mother says he needs a boyfriend, but that’s debatable.)
When Jack decides he wants to go to school, Alicia’s alma mater of Samwell is a foregone conclusion. However, like most things regarding Jack, his reputation precedes him. When he goes to meet with the Dean regarding his slightly unorthodox admission, they find the head coach of the men’s hockey team has been invited to meet them as well.
“Jack’s not here to play hockey,” Bob says immediately, in lieu of a proper greeting, already tense. “He’s here to be a student.”
“Maybe not ‘normal’,” Jack amends, leaning against his mother’s side. She giggles behind her hand but composes herself quickly.
Hall, the newly appointed Men’s Hockey coach launches into his proposal emphatically, talking about the school’s repeated playoff berths and building the entire program around Jack. Bob is red-faced and looks like he’s about to flip a desk but Jack reaches over to rest a hand on his father’s arm to steady him.
“It’s okay. I think I’d like to do it,” Jack’s parents both turn to him in surprise. “Under one condition.”
“Anything you need,” Hall says quickly, unable to hide his excitement.
“I want to be brought in as a goalie.”
Hall’s smile falters.
“What?”
“I’m not a forward, anymore. I can understand if you aren’t looking for a —”
“No! No, um, we only have one goalie right now, I’m sure we can bring you in under Johnson until we see how you perform.”
A tentative verbal agreement is struck, hands are shaken, and Jack’s brimming with excitement he knows he can’t share just yet.
“Are you sure this is what you want?” His mother asks when they clear reception, wary of listening ears. “This wasn’t the plan, you don’t have to play if you don’t absolutely want to.”
Jack almost doesn’t answer, distracted by a flier tacked to a student notice board announcing an end of semester bonfire. He doesn’t miss the pride flag stamped in the corner and neither do his parents.
“One in four, maybe more,” Alicia teases softly, not for the first time since they’ve arrived.
“I know,” Jack glosses. “I still love hockey, if I’m terrible at it, no harm no foul.”
His father is less certain, a frown tugging at his lips as he guides them both toward the door.
“This is a Division 1 school, Jack. A degree is one thing, being a full-time college athlete is another. You’ll have eyes on you again.” Bob nods to the flier. “I just want to be sure you aren’t overextending yourself before you’ve even started.”
There are kids playing ultimate frisbee on the quad; beyond them, Jack can see a group of runners disappearing behind the science building. The sun is shining, the trees are in full bloom, and Jack desperately wants to be a part of something normal.
“If it’s too much, I’ll quit,” Jack promises, keeping stride with his parents as they head to the rental car. “Can’t hurt to try.”
(Two Years Later)
Johnson slaps Jack’s ass and says, “Look out, your timeline’s about to jack-knife.”
“You say that every week,” Jack settles into the crease and wiggles his hips, ready for the new frogs to show their stuff. “Still don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, bud.”
There’s a hell of a freshman class this year, a lot of potential, a lot of risk, and the A on Jack’s sweater means he gets a chance to help mold the team into something great. He’s excited. He’s nervous.
“Don’t need to be the best,”Jack whispers to himself, watching Holster razz a small winger. “Only good and kind.”
The first issue of the season presents almost immediately. The short frog can’t take a check and goes down so hard it’s painful to watch. Jack doesn’t leave the net, lets Johnson investigate since he’s closer, but he watches like a hawk, trying to figure out what the issue is without engaging.
Hall said the kid used to be a figure skater, so clearly he isn’t used to contact, but he’s made it this far so he has promise. Everyone has promise and Jack feels a weird camaraderie: change is hard, he should know.
Eventually, they slide the kid to Jack’s side of the rink and Jack finds himself staring down a set of bright brown eyes reddened by shame.
“Bittle. C’mere.”
“Jack, right?” His accent catches Jack off guard in the best way.
“So I’m told. Stand still,” Jack kicks off a little and slides into Bittle’s space at a glacial pace, slow enough Bittle has time to back up a few inches.
“What are you doing?”
“Checking you. You know ‘bunny slopes’, eh?” Jack realizes he needs to explain himself. He’s thinking about kids learning to ski on beginner courses and hooks his stick around Bittle’s leg to drag him forward so he bumps against Jack’s pads. “Bunny checks. Lapin check.”
“Are you making fun of me?” Bittle pushes back and frowns, hurt. “I know it’s stupid —”
“No, non,” Jack pushes his mask up and turns to set his stick up on the net. “Checking is hard, you need to start small.”
“Wait,” Bittle’s expression changes from wounded to confused. “You’re actually trying to help?”
From across the rink, Jack can see Murray watching them both with the same cautious optimism he showed after they awarded Jack the A.
“Hall said you used to figure skate,” Jack says, nudging Bittle’s skate with his stick. “It’s hard adjusting to a different playing style, don’t let it get you down.”
“I played hockey in high school,” Bittle defends lamely, letting Jack maneuver him toward the bench.
“So did I,” Jack jokes, though Bittle doesn’t seem to find the same humor.
“Zimmermann! Give us back the frog!”
“Take it easy,” Jack orders, patting Bittle’s helmet awkwardly. “Keep your head up.”
Bittle offers a wary ‘thanks’ and heads back to the frog huddle while Shitty whips around to steal Jack’s water bottle.
“Think you spooked him trying to be all maternal. Trying to make that frog your new pet project? Gonna fix him up nice and pretty for the ball? Rescue him from a tower?”
“Maybe. Stop mixing metaphors. No one that fast should seize up so quick.”
“Well someone needs to do something or he’s going to get bust down real fucking fast —” Shitty stops and gives Jack a hairy eye. “You got the look, brah. Crazy eyes. It’s too early in the season for that thousand-yard-stare.”
Jack smacks Shitty with his stick, mind already a million miles away. He needs to make a few calls, confer with his father, but he thinks he can sort Bittle out in a few weeks with some dedicated attention. He tells Hall and Murray as much.
“You’ve got more experience than anyone else on this team, if you think you can help, by all means,” Murray tells him, giving the program’s blessing.
It takes Jack half a day to plan out a schedule, a timeline of exercises before he realizes he hasn’t actually spoken to Bittle about the extra practices. Or anything at all beyond their initial interaction.
“Bro, you went crazy internal,” Ransom points out at dinner that evening. “Your psychology notes are a mess, looked like you were comparing stats.”
“I was…busy,” Jack defends, casually sliding a hand over his ‘notes’.
“Jackabelle, here,” Shitty slaps his tray down beside Jack and shakes him with a one-armed hug. “Is going to fix whatever’s fucking with Bittle. Operation: S.O.B.: Save-Our-Bittle.”
“Ha,” Jack scribbles a reminder to talk to Bittle in the morning. “Like Arrested Development.”
That night, Jack lies awake listening to the boys roughhouse upstairs, trying to figure out how he’ll broach the subject of extra training.
He can fix this. He can fix Bittle.
The next morning at team breakfast, Bittle settles in across from Jack, a little to the left of Jack’s empty coffee cup. His plate is loaded with breakfast potatoes, Texas toast, and a few scant pieces of turkey bacon. It’s unbalanced for a preseason meal, but nothing that can’t be remedied so Jack rolls two hard boiled eggs from his plate onto Bittle’s; the frog will need the energy if they’re going to train together.
“Bittle.”
The kid blinks up, surprised.
“You need to eat more protein.”
Nava 