Hey, Jack! So, I'm dating this ultra cute boy, and we're going to Frozen tomorrow, but I'm torn! Do I kiss him, or watch the movie? Much problem, many trouble. What shall be done? *winks*
WELL, ALLYCAT.
Elsa and Anna are pretty awesome. They totally deserve your attention. But I think there are a few points that are still good for kissing your hot date when you both go see it. I do recommend actually watching most of the movie, though. They're great singers.
Always post the rules. Answer the questions from the person who tagged you and make 11 new ones. Tag 11 people and link them to the post. Let them know you’ve tagged them.
1. Are you a cutie with a pretty booty?
Uh. Apparently. I like to think it's pretty good.
2. Favourite anime character?
I've never, uh. Watched anime.
3. Do you fear the Grim Reaper?
No. I met him. He's an ass.
4. Have you heard of The Human Centipede?
Isn't that a horror movie?
5. Favourite video game?
I haven't really played any. I used to play pinball machines when no one was looking, though.
6. Would you mind if I punched you in the throaty?
Pretty sure you'd have to catch me first.
7. Do you have Minecraft?
I don't...?
8. Where do you see yourself in three years?
Same ol' same ol'.
9. Are you afraid to die?
Ha. Been there, done that.
10. Do you like butts?
Sure. I don't really pay attention to them, but they're kinda nice.
11. Can I have your eyes?
No. Ass.
[My questions are gonna be repeated in another post, since I can only have five people tagged at a time--usefully, anyway.]
My questions:
Do you have a security blanket/doll/plush? Care to comment?
If you could have any pet that you wanted, what would it be and why?
Is it naptime? Where do you nap?
What's your favorite blended drink (alcohol or otherwise)?
What are your thoughts on aviator sunglasses?
Your favorite TV show[-s] just got cancelled, what are you going to do now?
Is there something you always wanted to learn how to do, but haven't gotten the chance to learn? What is it and why?
If you were a villain in a comic book series, what would your motivation be?
What's your "playful insult" pet peeve? As in, is there something people like to joke about amongst each other (or you and your friends) that actually annoys/bothers you?
“Excuse me?” asked the voice, and he jumped. Jack was on a knife edge, a combination from nightmares and Pitch coming to see him more and more often. He looked down to see a young boy watching him apprehensively. “Are you Mr. Jack Frost?”
The sound of his name on someone else’s lips was absolutely exhilerating. Jack suppressed an elated smile, and nodded. “That’s me. And who might this wonderful gentleman be?”
The boy blushed. “Connor. And this is for you,” he declared, pushing a small letter into Jack’s hand. “I like your hoodie,” the boy murmured, and Jack tossed him an amused smile, before unfolding the letter.
2.45 pm, Cafe Royal. x
“Who gave this to you?” Jack asked, looking down at the boy again. He pulled the lollipop from his mouth, and gazed at Jack thoughtfully before answering.
“A pretty lady,” he said, and shrugged. “She gave me ten pounds and this lolly for it. She was very nice.” A satisfied smile crossed the boys face, and he tilted his head to the side. “She looked a little like you. Not to say you look pretty--” he blushed hurriedly, “not to say you don’t. Not to say I--”
The boy looked incredibly grateful for Jack’s change of subject. “Right by the theatre. All the way down this road, and to the left. She’s at table eighteen.”
“Right. Thanks,” he muttered, and started off down the street, pushing off into the sky the second he was out of the boy’s view.
“Um,” Jack shifted awkwardly. “I’m not sure who booked the reservation! All I know is that there is a reservation, and that I’m meeting someone, and that they’re already here.”
“Like I haven’t heard that one,” said the waiter, giving Jack a bland look. “I’m sorry, sir, but no shoes, no service.”
The Frost spirit let out a quiet growl of irritation. “Look, my name is Jack Frost. There should be someone here that looks like me, or put my name down, if I could just have a look at the tables, I’ll be able to tell who invited me.”
The waiter sighed. “Sir, I wish I could, but this is an establishment of the highest order. I simply could not let a ragamuffin wander about the restaurant willy-nilly. It simply can’t be done.”
“Julian?” came the high, sweet voice by the door. Jack turned. “Julian, he’s with me. Table eighteen.” And she walked past him.
All Jack managed to catch a glimpse of was a large brimmed white hat, a ruffled blue dress and a white suit jacket that looked painfully familiar to him. Giving her a wary look, he followed after, dodging various customers that didn’t see him. She was already at a table when he sat down, a menu obscuring her face and a cigarette twirling between her fingertips. For Christ’s sake, she even had a cigarette holder! What was she, a film noir villain?
“I don’t believe we’ve met, doll face,” he said, narrowing his eyes. He hated people who smoked. And people who wore obnoxious hats. Her menu was placed neatly down, and he suppressed the urge to gag. Glasses so large that they had to be fashionable, a pair of white golfing gloves, and bright red lips. “Who are you, exactly?”
The voice was lower than it was in the reception. “Why, Jack,” she cooed, lips twitching into a smirk as she blew the smoke out. “Don’t you recognise me, darling?”
He glared at her. She laughed, a low and cool sound that echoed in his ears. The woman sighed, and licked her lips.
“Allow me to clue you in,” she said, pulling the hat off and placing it on the floor. He followed the hat on its way down with his eyes, about to quip something about how rude it was to wear hats around guests, when--
He followed the line of her neck, the curve of her shoulder, her small arms. He didn’t realise he was crying. White hair had tumbled down from under the hat, curling and spirally down her face and her neck, studded with diamonds and beads and ribbons.
“Bleak,” he whispered.
“Hello, Jack.”
The stem of his wineglasses shattered in his grip, but Bleak didn’t bat an eyelash. She waved for the waiter to take it away, and sipped at her own thoughtfully. “You missed me, then?” she asked. He hit the glass from her hand so that it smashed against the floor. “Rude, Jackson.”
“Bleak,” he said again, louder. His voice grew in volume as he stood. “Bleak. Bleak. Bleak!”
She watched him as the wind whipped at her hair, a product of his anger, totally unimpressed. “Yes, Jack. That is my name. No need to shout it, darling, you’re drawing stares.”
He almost hit her for that. “Fuck you,” he whispered, and her lips quirked into a devillish smile, her teeth still sharp as ever. “Did you ever care, Bleak? Did you?” Jack whispered, voice soft again as he lowered back into his chair. She blew out some smoke. He watched its path.
“I think you know the answer,” she said smoothly, voice with a confidence that it had never possessed ten years ago. Had it really been ten years? There was something smug now, something dangerous.
“I want to hear you say it.”
“Get used to disappointment, Jackson.”
“Why didn’t you say goodbye?” he whispered, not looking at her. She fixed her hat back onto her head with gloved hands, turning to watch him with bemusement. “Why didn’t you at least tell me goodbye?”
She shrugged. “I left a letter, didn’t I?” she asked, and his eyes narrowed. She had-- a standard goodbye letter, written years ago, addressed ‘to whom may be concerned’. It had no feeling, it had no love. It simply said lock up the house and give the piano to a Mr. Jackson Mischief Frost.
“Oh, yes,” Jack said, voice full of venom. “A letter. A fucking letter, written on parchment with black indian ink. The only person I’ve ever loved, ever cared for, spent seventy fucking years waiting for and longing for, and a piece of biodegradable paper makes it all better, does it?”
“You’re overreacting now, Jackson.”
He flinched, and glared at her. “Ten years,” he said, watching her. She watched him with mirrored glasses-- of course I knew how long it had been, they taunted, and he stood again, the chair tipping.
“Ten years. Ten fucking years, Bleak! Ten years that I’ve been counting the months, the days, the fucking seconds-- telling myself that ‘she’ll be home tomorrow’,” he cried, and Bleak stayed where she was. “And you never were. No one sits at the fireplace waiting for me, no one pulls my hair, no one calls me Mis, and I don’t want anyone to-- not since I’ve been called that by the sweetest voice I’d ever hear.” Treacherous tears. “I loved you. So much.”
“Touching,” she said, standing up. He stared at her, desperate and angry and sad and tired, “truly touching, Jackson. Well, hasn’t this been a lovely reunion?” She fixed her hat back onto her head, and adjusted her sunglasses.
Something dropped into Bleak’s wineglass. She watched him curiously, and picked it up, swirling the merlot about to listen to the quiet chink of metal against glass. A single white eyebrow arched upwards, and she cast him an irritated look. “What’s this?”
“I think you know the answer,” he murmured, and she plucked the ring from the wine. His eyes filled with tears when she waved her hand, and it disappeared into thin air, vanishing with a glint in the sunlight.
She tilted her head to the side, birdlike and curious. “Is that all, Jack?”
“...Yes.”
“Goodbye.”
He watched her carefully, and moved to where she stood, towering above her. For a split, insane second, he thought he might kiss her. But then he caught his reflection in her mirrored glasses, and stopped. He looked tired, he looked lost, and he looked like his world had just ended.
“Goodbye,” he echoed, and brushed his lips against hers-- a promise, and a plea. She jerked away, and glared at him.
“Fuck off, Jack,” she bit out, and whirled around, leaving him alone at the table.
And she was running. Her heels were gone and she was barefoot against the grass, hair whipping out behind her. Tears froze the moment they fell from her face, and she stopped by an old ash tree, grasping at the bark and letting out desperate pants for air.
She ripped her glasses off and swiped the tears from her gold eyes, unable to stop. “I’m sorry,” she whispered to the air, “I’m sorry, Mis, you’ve got to understand that. You’re my everything, I swear.” The ring was on her finger again, glistening in the sunlight that was steadily weakening. “You’re my moon and midnight and talk and song and I thought we’d last forever and I’m sorry!” She curled up in on herself, whispering madly.
A hand on her shoulder. “Stop crying.”
She twisted her lips into a snarl. “You’ll stop, then?” she asked quietly. “I did what you wanted. I made him hate me. Now will you stop?”
Pitch chuckled, and she could feel tendrils of nightmare sand about her. “Stop what, pet?” he asked, voice low as the sand twined into her hair, riding out her shivers.
“Don’t play coy, Pitch,” she told him quietly. “He hasn’t been sleeping well. He’s been having nightmares. I can practically smell you on him.” She looked up, and her eyes were wide and innocent. “I’ve done what you wanted, so leave him alone.”
Pitch patted her hair, and smiled. “As you wish, Bleak.”
