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davey jacobs keyed his ex's car. davey jacobs texts that ex begging for them to come back every once in a while. davey gets really drunk those nights. davey jacobs is unhealthy. don't let the proper academic shell fool you. davey jacobs is a mess. can davey jacobs understand complex nuances in literature? can he do university-level physics? yes. davey jacobs is smart, but he's certainly not much else, at least in his own eyes.
writing drabbles isn't enough I need to SEE the characters do the things
would david jacobs smoke
(pot or cigarettes you decide)
Albert lies on Race's bed. It's 8:34am (or so Race's clock tells him), he's groggy, and he can hear Race's microwave and coffee machine.
He blinks a few times. He remembers what had happened last night; he wasn't THAT drunk, and he remembers it was fucking embarrassing. He dreads facing Race as he will inevitably have to.
Race, the cute guy in apartment 309 that now knows it was Albert leaving him meals after he overheard on the phone Race hated cooking, Race who smells faintly of smoke and has a crooked smile, Race who he shared a bed with last night, Race who gave Albert his hoodie. Race who, Albert is certain of it, he is completely and totally crushing on.
He drags one foot to the floor, then another, pushing himself upright. His sweatpants are creased, the neckline of his- Race's- hoodie is askew, his hair is knotted and all over the place; he can tell just by running a hand through it. He follows the noise of the coffee machine to Race's kitchen.
There he is.
God, Albert nearly faints. His hair is adorably tousled, his shirt is loose and hanging barely onto his shoulders, he has his back to Albert, letting him drink in all of his sharp lines, curved musculature- or at least what he can see under the shirt.
Albert clears his throat.
Race turns, brandishing a mug. "Morning! How'd you sleep?"
Albert tears his eyes from Race's figure to look at Race's coffee machine.
"Uh.. alright. I'm a little hungover, though. I might get a glass of water?" He clears his throat again, looking down to his feet. "Sorry about last night."
Race is all smiles and bounces as he fills a glass with water and brings it to Albert, smiling softly and, dare Albert say, sweetly and lovingly, as he hands Albert the water and pats his shoulder.
"That's totally okay, man. I get it, I get you. I'm sorry about how fucked up and awful your emotions must be. But now we get to eat yummy breakfast together!" Race points at the microwave. "The food you made last night! I have no idea what it is, but it looks and smells delicious!!"
"We?"
Race looks away, takes his hand off Albert's shoulder- Albert's shoulder is cold.
"Well.. I mean, unless you don't want to..."
"No! No, I want to." Albert steps closer to Race, putting his own hand on Race's shoulder. "I just.... I was scared you didn't like me."
Race looks shocked.
The coffee machine stops brewing.
"No, Al, I..." Race sighs, looking away. "I don't know. I'm confused."
Albert sags, a little defeated. "That's okay. Take your time figuring it out. I'll be here for you, if you want me to be."
The microwave beeps.
"That would be lovely."
albert doesn't really KNOW how to express affection. he steals race's cigar every once in a while, but he doesn't think race really appreciates that. what he knows (or thinks) race likes is when albert hugs him, when albert compresses race as tightly as possible for as long as possible. usually albert isn't a hugger, but something about the way race melts in his arms is addicting. the faint smell of smoke on his vest, the soot on his cheeks wiping onto albert's neck, where albert wouldn't want to clean, to keep that faint reminder of race on him for a little longer.
some mornings albert 'accidentally' puts on race's vest instead of his own, to smell his scent of smoke and sweat and warmth in winter. sometimes he climbs into race's bed with him just to Be with him. to feel race's warmth and smell his smoke.
being with race is the only thing he really wants, he thinks.
You are my favorite Ralbert person, so I present to you the song “Strawberry Wine” by Noah Kahan from Albert’s perspective on Race :)
OH ANON YOU ARE SO SO SO CORRECT...
im listening to this song for the first time ever right now, and you're so right ... im imagining Albert singing this in his apartment, and race hearing it through his floor and fantasising about it being about him ...
Hey.... bad news... yeah, they got ahold of your found family... yeah, they're assigning them nuclear familial titles... yeah, I don't think they know that's not the point... I know, I know. Sorry man, nothing I can do about it now.
guyssssss...... I think chapter one is nearly ready to be published........ here's a small taster teehee!!!!!
'I'm gonna make you the best omelette you've ever tasted, David. Just give me a few minutes to get some cheese from my apartment. Mull over that equation, or something. I'll be right back.’
youre telling me racetrack Higgins WOULDNT be into y2k fashion?????????????? he's a DANCER he's a MODERN MAN he's GAY of COURSE he loves y2k!!!!! the wraparound sunglasses, the tight crop tops, the big jeans, the headphones???? that man was MADE for y2k!!
shitty lil ralbert drawing i did in chemistry today instead of learning about spdf orbitals ‼️
new javey think just dropped!! (cw for mention of sh scars!!!)
Davey needs a breath of fresh air.
He travels up to the roof of the building, taking the stairs instead of the elevator becuase the last thing he wants right now is to feel nauseous.
His chest feels tight, his eyes are sore.
Maybe it's not worth it.
He reaches the roof, opening the door and feeling the cool breeze on his wet cheeks as he glanced around.
He sees another figure on the roof- he's not alone.
Who else would be out here at this time of night?
When Jack hears the door to the roof open, he turns. He doesn’t whip around in surprise, he's far too tired. He turns, almost lethargically.
The figure has the same curls and chiseled nose as David Jacobs. Even in the dark of the night, it's clear he’s been crying. His shoulders are drawn up near his ears and his hands are wringing an invisible towel, trembling slightly.
His voice carries on the wind: ‘Jack?’
He replies, hoping his voice carries the same way: ‘David?’
It's like a Western standoff. The moon slinks behind a cloud. The stars toss beautiful shadows across Davey’s cheeks, shiny with tears.
‘Come here.’ Jack says softly, gesturing to the view. ‘Look.’
Davey begins to walk over, stumbling a little over his own feet. He looks out at the view- it's beautiful. Windows shine like stars, cars flow on the streets like rivers of lights and electricity. Electricity flows through Davey’s veins. Jack’s shoulder touches his.
The sleeves of Jack’s hoodie are drawn up, and his hands dangle over the edge of the building. Constellations of scars and freckles litter his arms. The scars: methodical, patterned, they are buildings, they are cars. The freckles: tossed haphazardly across Jack’s skin, they are dappled light, they are stars.
Davey always had a bit of a thing about stars.
‘Are you alright, Dave?’ Jack asks the city skyline.
'I'm…’ Davey sighs towards the bank building. ‘I’m alright. Better now that I’m chatting to you. Better now that I’m getting some fresh air.’
Jack hums, slipping a hand around Davey’s shoulders.
‘The city’s beautiful at night, iddnit?’
‘It reminds me of you.’
@pigeonwit this is how davey talks about gollum for sure
[very clearly enamored AND elated] He fucking bit me.
why is he actually so ethereal
WIP Weather Ask Game
Inspired by the random thunderstorm that just popped up out of nowhere. Enjoy.
💧Rain - What's the most emotional scene you've ever written?
❄️ Snow - Who is your coldest / most stoic character and how do they express themselves (if at all)?
🌨 Sleet - What's the most you've ever written in one sitting?
☀️ Sun - What's your favorite part of your WIP?
🌫 Fog - What was the hardest part of your WIP to write?
🌬 Wind - What was the easiest part of your WIP to write?
🌪 Tornado - Who is your most impulsive character and why?
🔥 Wildfire - Who is your most emotional character and why?
🌌 Clear Skies - How long have you been writing your current WIP?
☁️ Cloudy - What inspired you to start writing your WIP? (or in general)
⚡️Lightning - Have you ever spontaneously added something to your story that you wouldn't have added normally? If so, what made you do it?
🪹 Drought - What do you do to help with Writer's Block?
💦 Flood - How many WIPs do you have?
🏝 Hurricane - Do you often stick to one WIP and finish it, then move on, or do you bounce between WIPs?
🪨 Landslide - Which WIP has the most worldbuilding?
⛰ Earthquake - Which WIP has the least worldbuilding?
🌊 Tsunami - When and where do you like to write?
🌋 Volcanic Eruption - What's your biggest flaw as a writer?
🌈 Rainbow - What do you think makes your story unique / stand out?
🌙 Eclipse - What's the most common / reoccurring theme of your WIP(s)?
'Jack's too tired to think about it.'
i don't know anybody either 😭😭 @ethereal-bumble-bee @coircus-aceman @newsies-lesamis-oz-and-me @iloverace @carmineskiesandspidereyes and anybody else who wants to! :-) sorry if u already got tagged!!
Last sentence tag game
RULES: Post the last sentence you wrote (fanfic / original / anything) and tag as many people as there are words in the sentence.
Tagged by @lurkingshan and I haven't really written anything in a bit, so have a little peak at the latest entry into my always growing notes app
And in the end, heroes and villains don't matter, because only the strongest survive.
Tagging @dimplesandfierceeyes, @waitmyturtles, and @anixknowsnothin to play, no pressure of course!
The walls of Race’s apartment were far from blank. They were adorned with almost anything he ever found or bought. Posters, shitty drawings, better drawings, sticky-notes, old sheet music, newspaper. Anything Race could find. He was like a crow in that sense.
He couldn’t bear living in between two blank walls. It would feel too much like a psych ward or a hospital- Race was never too fond of hospitals.
The last time he was in a hospital, it was for one of his friends having a baby. He was happy for her, but the blank walls tightened around his chest and held him firmly still, too still. Standing too still between the blank walls, Race couldn’t help but think of the fact that a hospital was the first place he had ever been. It would probably be the last, like it had been for so many members of his family.
Such a sterile place to be filled with so much death. So much pain. So much happiness.
All of it contained in this vessel so devoid of emotion that Race can’t breathe.
It’s not the blankness of the space that constricts his chest, it’s the amount of emotion it contains. He wants to explain it but nobody would really understand the extent of it.
But even before he steps into Race’s living room, Albert understands.
He knows- to a certain extent- what has happened in Race’s life, what has shaped him, what draws him to make forts out of blankets, decorate his walls, write on his arms; and he understands.
Albert has patches sewn onto almost every piece of furniture and upholstery he owns. Albert has posters on his walls and Albert writes on his hands.
Race is just a reflection of him, really.
That’s why he loves him. That’s why Race loves Albert.
Their experiences shape them into the same person. Is that such a bad thing?
it's slowly coming together, everyone ...... I haven't forgotten y'all I promise .... it's just taking a while to actually write and set up and logisticize and everything .... plus i SHOULD be getting an ao3 account on feb 21st so im hoping to post there :)
“Okay, Quintin,” Davey sighs, arms folded at the little tuxy squatting precariously on the ajar door. “I don’t think you’re meant to be up there-“
The kitten’s paw whips forward, batting Davey across the face, and perhaps Jack has been watching too many soaps, because he can’t help his dramatic gasp. Davey only blinks, his glasses now dangling askew from his nose.
“You’ve assaulted me, Quintin.” Davey says flatly. “I will never forget this disrespect.”
Quintin hunkers down in shame, mewing piteously from his perch.
“No, there’s no room for excuses now,” Davey scolds in that same flat tone as he reaches on his tiptoes, his shoulders pulling at the flimsy hem of his work polo. “You are being unreasonable, Quintin. You are making a scene.”
It’s truly, honest to God unfair how well Davey pulls off a shitty work polo.
Quintin squirms on the thin line of the door, still not wanting to come down but growing more and more aware that he is a very wobbly kitten on a very small surface. He mews irritably, if only to prove he can, and Davey tuts his tongue against his teeth. He slides a hand under Quintin’s soft white belly and pulls him down in one slow and fluid motion, cradling the little thing to his chest as Quintin meows furiously.
“Right, then,” he mutters in a faraway monotone, as if his consciousness has left the human world in order to communicate with this very bad-tempered kitten. “To jail with you, young man – no, no, I shan’t hear it-"
Jack can only watch as he drags Quintin’s yowling little self back to the cattery, rambling nonsense while a kitten squirms and whines in his arms. Jack swallows, bracing one arm against the desk.
Davey may be the first man in all of history to make the word “shan’t” sound sexy.