drawings from my sketchbook this past 2021￼ocs+studies w/ house sprinkled in. computer broke so no digital renders of some of these till later :-(
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Full crack here:
Identified - the worst monetization of art in Vienna.
And Jack says yeah.Yeahwith conviction, a surety that presses in his chest and in his throat. The only other times he’s felt like this have been with Bitty - their first kiss, their tentative but assured touches in Georgia and Providence, the i love you that tumbled so easily out of Jack’s mouth, we’re a team. Bitty and I are dating.
He hasn’t felt more real - more alive.
The feeling in his chest expands like a balloon, but it’s not anxiety. It’s just a need, an urge to pull Bitty close and never let go. To show the world how much Bitty means to him.
Jack has never wanted to hide. They’ve talked about this, just enough to indulge their fantasies - for Jack, winning the Stanley Cup was always a strong, hard if, and he only considered it a possibility late into the night, his heart and mind racing, Bitty’s arm looped around his waist and Jack’s nose in Bitty’s lemon-scented hair.
Jack squeezed Bitty, one night, and whispered, What if I win it?
Bitty didn’t respond for a second, just grumbled awake and said nothing. Jack had thought Bitty hadn’t heard until he said, Lord. I think I’d want to jump into your arms and kiss you right there.
Jack could imagine the rush of winning as if it had already happened, the imaginary euphoria and elation and he knew, right in that second, as Bitty’s fingers drummed a pattern onto Jack’s back and his lips rested on Jack’s chest, their bodies so elegantly fitting together–
Bitty’s hand froze. I. Your career, Jack. And my parents still don’t even–
I know, I know. Jack sighed. But. You. You still could. If you wanted to. We still could.
That’s so brave, Jack. Yeah. Maybe. Bitty sighed, but this was just the two of them dreaming of a future that Jack wouldn’t be able to give them. As Jack imagined the pulsing joy of winning he had to remember that the Stanley Cup was a strong–hard–if.
Bitty took in a deep breath and let it out with a long whoosh. Jack could feel in the slackening of his arms and the little hum against his chest that Bitty was almost asleep again. He burrowed closer to Jack and stuck his nose into Jack’s chest, and the twist of happiness that Jack felt drowned out some of the alarm bells going off in his head.
When he awoke, remembering flashes of their conversation from before, he felt small. It was how Jack always felt when thinking about coming out: his brain buzzed, how the press would turn on him, how they would criticize him and misattribute his failures and tear down the reputation he worked so hard to rebuild. Even though Bitty challenged all of those fears with his smiles and his chatter and his hands, Jack felt tiny, and weak, when he thought about the world knowing. How would coming out make him any stronger?
Besides. The. Stanley. Cup. Was. A. Strong. Hard. If.
Jack had to stop thinking about it. His doubt whispered that it was a pipe dream. He’d never know the joy of victory, the rush of success in his veins that made him bigger, that could prevent him from tearing down his career.
But. Now. Here he is. Jack’s several inches taller than normal on his skates, and Bitty’s in his shoes on the ice, and Jack feels big and strong. Bitty’s wrapped up in Jack’s arms, smelling like lemon and honey, and Jack’s nose is cold, but Bitty’s body radiates heat, and the pressure of him against Jack’s gear surrounds Jack. The last of the confetti tumbles down around them, and he feels like they are alone on the ice, even though the screaming is loud.
Jack just won the Stanley Cup. He is huge.
When Bitty looks up at Jack, says, “kiss me,” and “why can’t we?” and “I know you want to,” then “kiss me” again, closing his eyes, Jack realizes that he’s not the brave one. It’s Bitty.
Bitty, who maneuvered around his parents to steal kisses and touches in dark rooms, hidden corners, late at night. Bitty, who stared at his father and his mother at the dinner table with Jack beside him and clenched his jaw in fear, barely looked at Jack for fear of accidentally giving away the nature of their ‘friendship.’ Bitty, who tried again and again to tell his mother but couldn’t. Bitty, who risked losing his family, yet still held Jack closer to him than anyone.
Jack squeezes Bitty’s arm, and Bitty opens his eyes, large and brown and smiling, full of love and joy, and Jack asks, “Are you sure?”
Bitty knows what Jack means. His eyes cloud, but he shakes his head and nods. Then nods again, staring at Jack’s chest and blinking away his tears, then looking back up with a firm set of his jaw. He nods again.
“Yes. Lord, yes. Kiss me.”
Jack’s grin feels like it’ll burst his face open. He brings one hand up to cradle Bitty’s jaw, and the boy breaks into a bright smile, happy and laughing as they take in the revelry around them. Jack can’t believe he has this, Bitty’s arms looping around his chest and pulling him up close to Jack’s face. Jack can’t believe he has this beautiful boy looking at him like he’s the world, sacrificing everything for Jack’s happiness. Jack leans down, slips his other hand to the back of Bitty’s head, looping his fingers in his hair.
The voices around them grow louder and louder until they’ve blended into white noise. The world spins around them, and Jack is lost in Bitty, so lost that he says, “You’re so brave, I love you,” and pushes their lips together.
It is everything. Fireworks go off in Jack’s head, Bitty’s lips are warm and responsive, his hands burn against his body, and the euphoria of the win somehow doubles. Then triples. Bitty is all around, in Jack’s arms, in his nose, in his head.
The balloon in Jack’s chest grows and grows but it’s a comfortable pressure, like his body is carrying so much happiness that he may burst. Bitty pulls back to gasp for air, and Jack expects him to pull away, but then they’re kissing again, bordering on less than chaste. Bitty’s hands clasp around Jack’s waist, fingers digging into his hips, his tongue sending shivers down Jack’s spine. He smiles against Jack’s mouth. Kisses him again, and again. Jack’s on the ice but he isn’t thinking about anything. The persistent buzz of anxiety in Jack’s head is quiet.
Jack feels mighty.
reblog if you like this! tyyy
So sweet. Hello fic, I’ve missed you.
Ambrogio Alciati, c. 1900
hands that kiss hymns up your sides
replacing that Yves Pires sculpture with ocs