“Answer: I already made them and they’re adorable.”
“Answer: I already made them and they’re adorable.”
A message from jawpopping
"in the south we don’t say “you’re a dumb fuck” we say “bless your heart” and i think that’s beautiful. the more mind-obliteratingly stupid we find you, the more descriptive we get. “bless your precious, sweet, mama-loving heart” means we’re not 100% certain how you possess enough intelligence to draw breath." is this a thing bitty does?
Walking out of Faber, Bitty sighed as he scrolled through his phone and clucked his tongue. “Well well well—Kelly Rowland’s in the news again. Oh Lord, honey, that hair.”
Bitty was used to Jack tuning out most of his pop-culture related comments, but for some bizarre reason Jack instead looked back over his shoulder and frowned.
“Kelly Rowland?” asked Jack before looking at Shitty. “Oh, wow. Doesn’t she sit next to you in our history section, Shits?”
Looking up from his phone, Shitty gave Jack his gentlest Jesus-Christ-Jack-your-embarrassingly-culturally-inept-white-dudeness-is-showing-again look.
“Um yeah, brah, I’m pretty sure I would know if Kelly fucking Rowland sat next to me in section. You’re thinking of Kelly Reynolds.”
"Oh. Jack. Bless your heart,” said Bitty. And before he could catch himself: “And lemme guess—Beyoncé is your econ professor?”
"I don’t…What does Beyoncé have to do with Kelly Rowland?” asked Jack.
Bitty made eye contact with Shitty before returning to his phone and muttering, “Bless your darling home-grown hockey-playing Canadian heart.”
A message from paxpinnae
So, does Shitty by any chance have a much-more-talented older sister who plays for Team USA?
Knight Siblings AU. That one time Hilary Knight went to visit her little brother at Samwell and spent the entire time getting dragged around the Haus with Shitty introducing her to everyone:
“Oh, shit, Hils, this is Ransom and Holster, the best defensive duo in the ECAC; Rans, Holtzy—this is my sister and Olympic medalist and internationally ranked hockey player, Hils. (She has two medals.) (Two.) Oh, oh, and this is Bitty! HEY. Bitty! Fucking come and say hi to my sister, Hilary! (You’ll love, Bitty, he’s the tits, he like, generates pies as a byproduct of his fucking existence; ‘swawesomest shit in the—) Bits, did I tell you about my sister?! She was at this year’s Winter Olympics? Like, Sochi? And we watched all her games? She was also at the last one. You know. On the US National hockey team. (She’s a two-time Olympic medalist.) Jack! Yo! You remember my sister, don’t you? She only brought one Olympic medal with her, but she could have brought another. Because she has two.”
A message from volkswagonblues
how much does George Parros look like an adult version of Shitty?
Holster squints at the image Ransom pulls up on his laptop. “Eeeeeeh, Imma go with like a 6? Outta 10? I mean, there’s the mustache and the flow, but you’re missing like basic similarities in facial bone structure there.”
Holster looks back at Shitty, who’s reclined in Ransom’s bed because of the Never-Again-Shitty-With-No-Pants-In-Holster’s-Bed Act of September 2013.
“Meh, 6.5. Because eyebrows.”
Shitty frowns at his phone. “If we’re only doing a neck-up assessment, well, sure, then maybe like a 6. But if we’re fucking doing a whole body comparison, like a fucking 2. What’s Parros, like, 6-foot-3? 6-foot-4? And he’s a huge fucker. I’m like, 5-foot-fucking-10, so I dunno how much I look like the bro other than flow-wise and ‘stache-wise.”
“Bro, those are your defining characteristics,” says Ransom.
Shitty bolts up in bed. “Fuck you, Rans. My eyes have been described as shimmering and radiant.”
“I’ve always said the same thing about your mustache,” says Holster.
“Fuck you, Holster.”
Ransom spins around in the swivel chair and snaps his fingers at Holster. “Oh dude, you know who Shitty kinda reminds me of? That one guy from that movie. With the–where they’re all on heroin and they’re Irish? It has Obi-Wan Kenobi?”
“Robert Carlyle in Trainspotting,” says Holster automatically, snapping his fingers back. “And when Shits came back from break and got his flow chopped off, you said he looked like–”
“–Tom Selleck. Yup.”
Shitty throws his hands in the air. “The fuck! You guys are just naming white guys with mustaches!”
Holster shrugs. “We’ve never seen you without a mustache–”
“Aaaand I’m out,” says Shitty before rolling off of Ransom’s bed and hopping to the attic floor with a thunk. “I’ve been in conversations like these a THOUSAND times and they always go in the same direction.” Shitty stops at the stairs and points at both of them. “I’m not. Shaving. The 'Stache.”
(The seriousness of the moment is undercut by the fact that Shitty is wearing nothing but Wonder Woman underwear.)
And Shitty leaves, stomping down the attic stairs.
“Damn,” says Ransom, staring after Shitty. “Why’s Shitty always so weird about his 'stache?”
“When the fuck did you see Trainspotting?”
“Holster. It was on your douchey list.”
Holster smiles at Ransom, looking genuinely touched. “You watched those?”
“You’re such a douchebag.”
Check Please Ficlet: First Week
staygold-kanerboy replied to your post: intellectual-carrot replied to your po…
BUT WHAT IF THERE REALLY ARE DRAGONS.
Holster pulls the cap off a Sharpie and circles three spots on the map.
“Aaaaaaaaaalll right. So, Giant bell tower penis in the dead center of campus? That’s Founder’s. Can’t miss it. You ever get lost, just think ‘giant penis’ and look up. What did Schmit say during our First Week, Rans? ’Let the dong that ding-dongs guide you.’ Guy was a fucking genius. Now, to get from Founder’s to the rink…just go here and here, right? And–oh–the Haus is over there. River side. You live in Norris which is admittedly out of the way, but just know that everywhere you could ever possibly need to go is north. Just walk along the river and you’ll be fine. Well. Mostly–if you want to go to Stop-&-Shop, there’s one south of you. But that’s Smelly Stop-&-Shop, which may make you vom on a cashier. But 'swawesome!” Holster smacks the map into Eric’s chest. “Bitty? You can now survive First Week.”
Eric nearly trips from the force of it and from simultaneously trying to stand on his tiptoes while keeping up with Holster’s strides. It’s 9AM and bright on the Monday of First Week, and campus is flush with thousands of Samwell students on their way to class. Oh, that would’ve been 'swawesome. (Or whatever it was they kept saying.) Tripping in front of Ransom, Holster, and Shitty and every other person at Samwell. (“Hey, remember that time Bitty face-planted in the middle of Lake Quad on the first day of class? Claaassic Bittle.”)
Eric starts to study the map—which now has a few extra circles on it. “Thanks, Holst–”
Ransom plucks the map out of Eric’s hands.
“Dude, he doesn’t even know where his classes are,” says Ransom. “Yo Bits. You have English 114, right? That’s over here. And Tuesday’s Intro Psych lecture is in Gregory too this year. Spanish is across the river in Stiles and Math 112–Holster gimme that Sharpie–” (Yeah. Nope. No. Eric’s not getting any of this. Mostly because–again–Ransom’s not holding the map at a reasonable height for non-hockey giants. But also 'cause everyone keeps calling him “Bitty” or “Bits” or some weird hockey-variant on his last name, and it’s for real throwing him off. ) “—Oh shit, but don’t go over that bridge because people get run over on it every year. Got all that?”
He slaps the map into Eric’s chest.
Shitty snatches the map out of Eric’s hands.
“The actual fuck–you guys didn’t mark the Forbidden Forest? This map is the basic-est shit in the world.”
“What are you gonna do, Shits, pull a Marauder Map out of your ass?” says Holster.
“He probably doesn’t know the Homonculous Charm,” says Ransom.
“Holy fuck, BRO, sick HP refs,” says a passing football player.
“Ten points to Ransom and Holster,” Holster calls back in an awful British accent.
Ransom and Holster high-five.
“Forbidden Forest?” asks Eric, looking away from the level of jock-nerdery exclusive only to Samwell. “Like from–”
“Yeah, remember when Jack thought the Forbidden Forest was a Hunger Games reference?” laughs Ransom.
“God! Fucking Jack,” sighs Holster. “I just want to sit the guy down and shove pop culture in his dumb Canadian face. Jesus.”
“Brah. All the shit in Samwell is haunted, right?” says Shitty as he drapes an arm over Eric’s shoulders and hands him back the map. “This is the haunted-est of all the haunted shit. Like ghosts, 'chyeah, but actual motherfucking dragons and shit, I kid you the fuck not. But seriously don’t go up there alone at night–some freaky brouhaha goes down there on the reg.”
“The Quidditch team legit does human sacrifices up there,” says Ransom.
Holster shakes his head. “Bunch of sick fucks.”
"For realies, though–the fucking bell tower, the fucking steam tunnels, fucking everything is haunted, though. Oh shit.” Shitty punches Eric’s shoulder. “The Haus. The Haus is haunted.”
“NO it’s not–”
“Shutup, Rans.” says Holster.
They were now in the center of the Lake Quad–which Eric knows is the Lake Quad because he can see the lake behind them. ("Bro. Don’t say ’The Lake Quad’–it’s just Lake Quad. And if you call The Pond 'The Lake’ you might as well write 'I’m a clueless frosh: on your forehead.) Shitty looks at his phone.
“Well, I got class. What about you dicks?”
“I got lab orientation,” groans Ransom.
“Sucks to be you, broski,” says Holster, grinning toothily.“I got nap orientation. At the Haus. In my bed.”
Holster sticks out his tongue. Ransom punches him in the stomach.
“Yup, you deserved that,” says Shitty, turning away. But right as he is about to walk off, he spins around. “Oh fuck. Bitty. You good, bro?”
He makes a thumbs up at Eric.
“Oh—yup! Definitely. Thank y'all so much.”
Ransom and Holster punch Eric in the shoulder (simultaneously) and Shitty winks at him. Then the boys disperse.
Eric looks down at the map, which is now slightly torn, dented, and has a bunch of frenzied circles and incomprehensible crazy-person writing on it. He looks around at the swarm of Samwell students walking purposefully to class—smiling, laughing—not a single map in sight. What was wrong with him? How did everyone already know what to do? He sniffs. Goddammit, Bittle, do not cry on the first day. This isn’t kindergarten. Or the first day of middle school. Or my first day of high school. Or my second first day of high school after we moved. Actually, wait.
That’s when his phone buzzes. He expects it to be from mother, but it’s from a number he doesn’t recognize. The text is terse:
“english 114 is in gregory. that’s on the N side of the lake quad”
Eric frowns down at his phone. And then seconds later, almost as an explanation:
“i get all the frog scheds and phone #s”
And then after Eric doesn’t move:
“go to *class* bittle.”
Eric puts the map away and runs.
Haus Group Text
Shits: lol jack when are u gettin instagram bro
Jack: whats instagram
Rans: woooow hahahahaa unreal
Holster: What the actual fuck, Jack.
10 minutes later
Holster: You realize Betty White has instagram.
Jack: how is it different from twitter
Jack: does she go to Samwell
A message from penroseparticle
BITTLES. BEYONCE ALBUM DROP.
Jack lifted up his backpack just in time to shield himself from Bittle’s sudden onslaught of kicks, most of which were aimed in the general direction of his face. Bittle probably would have tried to punch him, but Ransom and Holster each had one of his arms, and Shitty his left leg. Well, it could have been worse. Only half of the Samwell library was looking at them.
“Come on, he weighs like 100 pounds,” Jack hissed. “Why is it taking all three of you to hold him down?”
“I have no fucking clue,” said Holster, trying to be quiet. “He’s summoned some kind of super-human strength. It’s like wrestling a really tiny bear.”
“FUCK, Bitty, that’s my FACE.”
Bittle simply ignored Shitty’s pain and kept kicking with his free leg.
“Fuck, bro, just say sorry!” said Ransom. “What’d you even say to piss him off?”
Jack was backed up against a wall. “He was going on and on about some new album, and how it’s a huge surprise and…” Jack looked at them. “All I did was ask ‘why is Beyoncé so important?’”
“GODDAMMIT, JACK.” shouted Holster.
And now the entire library was looking at them.
The Haus Ghosts, Mandy and Jenny.*
No one is exactly sure what happened during that infamous Theta Alpha Theta rush event of 1993, but it left the sorority house empty for a decade until it was purchased by the 2003-2004 Samwell Hockey Team. After which, it was kinda renovated. Ish. The upstairs bathroom will forever smell like vodka and baby powder. Some say the ghosts of the two deceased sisters still haunt what is now called “The Haus”, but some say a lot of things about the Haus, because once again, it is a total piece of shit.
The night before a home game, if you’re in the Haus and up at 3am, you can hear the faint sound of the Samwell Fight Song coming from nowhere in particular.
*As were named in a Check, Please! comment-fic I read earlier this week. Er, thanks, staygold-kanerboy!
He gingerly grabbed his twig.
Jack smiled. “Hey, Bittle. Good shot.”
And Eric was both lost in the blueness and confused by the droopiness of Jack’s eyes.