#jggirl

I’m so very sorry you are booooooooooooooored

This was a fantastic prompt 😂😂 it was hilarious to write and a great chance for me to try out Simon’s POV (which I don’t write in as often as I’d like to). Thank you so much for requesting it!

The door seemed too grand to touch, especially in my current state. I wasn’t aware that it was possible to be both freezing and drenched in sweat at the same time, but here I was, doing it. Dirt-covered and snow-covered, I stood at the threshold of the Pitch mansion, feeling like a moron. Who was I to think that Baz would even want me here? He’d invited me, but certainly it was only a formality. I’d be lucky if I got out without getting lynched by the entire Grimm-Pitch clan.

I was about to turn around when I remembered the trek that awaited- not to mention the fact that I didn’t have a ride back to Watford. It seemed that this was my only option, unless I wanted to walk miles and miles in below-freezing weather. It was getting late, the sky’s blue a hint too dark to suggest daylight would last much longer. I sighed and held my hand out towards the bell, finger hovering centimeters above it. “Fuck it,” I mumbled to myself, and pressed it three times in quick succession. Dingdingding.

“Mum, someone’s at the door,” a little girl’s voice called from inside. I didn’t know Baz had siblings. A strange picture, him with little kids. It was a wonder his parents let him around them, what with his blood-sucking tendencies.

A few moments passed, and Baz’s stepmother, Daphne answered the door. I recognized her from the Watford Families’ Dinner we had every year until fifth, when the war really started picking up speed and the Mage decided it wasn’t safe to have that many powerful wizards and witches that hated each other in one room. I couldn’t say I blamed him.

“Simon! What a surprise!” She said, plastering a fake smile on her face. Under the expression was clear confusion, but surprisingly enough, no outright dislike. “What brings you here?”

“Hi, Mrs. Grimm,” I mumbled, looking down at my feet. “Um, would- would Baz be here, by any chance? I’d like to talk to him, if that’s alright.”

“Certainly,” she said, reinforcing her phony smile even bigger. “Let me go get him and tell him you’re here. Come in, come in.” She motioned inside, and I stepped in, grateful for the warmth. “Don’t-” she started. “Don’t step off the rug until you’re cleaned up, alright?”

“Okay,” I replied, trying to staunch the blush that was already making its way up my neck and to my cheeks. She hurried up the stairs to what I presumed was Baz’s room. Muffled voices came from that directions. I stood on the rug while melting snow dripped off me. I felt like more of a nuisance than usual.

Without warning, Baz started down the stairs. I heard his footsteps before I saw him, coming down the winding staircase. “Snow?” He asked, still out of sight.

“Hey,” I responded sheepishly. I could see his feet now, clad in casual-looking sneakers. I looked away, not wanting to meet his eyes when he saw what a mess I was.

“What are you doing here?” He didn’t sound irritated, which was different. Baz was irritated with me for breathing, so the fact that I was standing on his rug and dripping dirty water all over the floor should have set him on a rampage.

“I- I just…” My mouth was betraying me again. I took a deep breath and tried again, still averting my gaze. “You invited me.”

“True, but I didn’t expect you to walk. You could have called, or something.” Once again, he seemed more concerned than annoyed. It was disconcerting.

“I don’t know your number,” I confessed. “And I didn’t think to look it up.”

“You look like shit,” he sighed, pulling out his wand. “Clean as a whistle.”

I hated the way cleaning spells felt, like bugs crawling all over my body, but it was worth it to be rid of the dirt, sweat, and snow clinging to my clothes and skin. “Thanks.”

“Come on, Snow,” he said, motioning me towards him. “Come up to my room and we’ll find you a change of clothes. You’re soaked.”

“Alright.” I turned to him just as he was turning away.

“Wh-” the word died on my tongue. Was Baz wearing.. Jeans?

“Snow? You coming?” He turned around just enough so could look at me. He was wearing jeans. And they looked really fucking good on him. As in, fantastic. As in, I could only wish that my ass looked that good in jeans.

Baz’s eyes widened. He looked like he’d just seen a ghost. “What did you just say?” He whispered. He looked even paler than usual, white as a sheet of blank paper. I could have sworn I saw the slightest tinge of pink on his cheeks.

“What?”

“What. Did. You. Just. Say.” It wasn’t a question this time, but an accusation.

“What do you me- wait. Did I say that out loud?”

“That you wish your arse looked as good in jeans as mine? You did, actually.” I didn’t think I’d ever seen Baz embarrassed, but I had a feeling this was as close as I was going to get. It was almost worth my own embarrassment- but not quite. I wanted to swallow a cyanide pill. I wanted to fling myself into a volcano.

“Um. Um.” There was no coming back from that. “Um.” My mouth was numb.

Thanks so much! This is the first Zimbits I’ve ever written, so I’m hoping it’s up to par! (I assume you meant Zimbits for a ship when you said check please). Enjoy!

The new neighbor is at it again with the Christmas music, and honestly Jack is just done.

He’s done with everything about that guy, in truth- his stupid reindeer sweater that he wore yesterday to check the mail (with nothing but briefs underneath! Who does that?), the lights strung up around his house, his dumb chihuahua that won’t stay the fuck off Jack’s lawn. He’s especially done with the goddamn Christmas music.

It started very quietly about an hour after Jack got home last night, around ten. The stars were out and Jack had wanted to enjoy a steaming cup of coffee on his porch in the cool air, not quite infected with the bite of winter. He’d just wanted some peace and quiet. It’d been a stressful day in general, and then he’d freaked out in the line at the grocery store when he tried to pay with cash and discovered he was ten cents short. They just had to cancel the entire purchase and redo it with his credit card, but by the time it was over, he’d felt about ready to cry.

And then he’d gone out onto the porch and what was playing but All I Want For Christmas Is You, on November 2nd? He just knew it was coming from the neighbor’s house. He just knew.

Now, it’s lunchtime on his day off and he just wants to rake the leaves. He has bright red, fluffy earmuffs on, not for warmth but for a barrier against the sound of the Justin Bieber Christmas album blasting from the house across the street. Jack is in amazement at how someone he’s never met can irritate him so much. As the song switches, he loses it. Throwing the rake down into the pile of leaves and scattering them all around the lawn again, he tugs his scarf tighter around his neck and storms across the road.

The door to the house is bright yellow, which somehow pisses him off even more, though it’s been like that for years. He briefly considers that maybe he’s just not used to neighbors (no one’s lived in any of the surrounding houses since he moved in) but decides not. This guy is just annoying as fuck, and he’s going to set the record straight. He knocks the door three times, hard, commanding attention.

“Gimme a minute,” a Southern voice calls from inside. Behind the door, there’s a bit of a scuffle, then a crash, and then the door handle turns and the door opens.

Immediately Jack is hit in the face with the scent of apple pie, so overwhelming that his mouth begins to water. He doesn’t even see the guy for a moment, he’s so captivated by the smell. He almost asks about the pie before catching himself- he’s here for a reason.

When his eyes finally focus on the man in front of him, Jack completely loses his nerve. He’s blonde and tiny compared to Jack, but not below average height, and he’s fit as hell. He’s wearing denim cutoff shorts that are far too short for any straight guy (Shitty would kick him right now if he could hear that thought. “SCREW GENDER ROLES,” a voice in his head screams, and he knows exactly who it belongs to). His shirt is bright red and form fitting, with a “Kiss the Cook” apron on over it.

“Well, hello there darlin’,” he says, and his smile is pure sunshine. “I wasn’t expecting anyone over, I look a mess. Sorry about the commotion, I wasn’t paying attention and I burned myself.” He glances down at his hand, where there’s a small blister, then back up at Jack with warm, brown eyes.

“Could you shut off the damn music?” Jack snaps, more irritated by himself than the other guy by now. He shouldn’t be shell-shocked like this, he’s seen the guy already (not up close though- up close is different).

The blonde looks perturbed. “If you want,” he says, oddly good natured. “Is that it? Because I have a pie baking, and I was just about to bring it on over to you if you wouldn’t mind staying a few minutes.” His smile is back as though it never left. Who is this guy? What’s the matter with him? Jack is being a total dick, and he’s inviting him in for pie?

"Actually, I’m… I’m sort of busy,” Jack lies, trying not to look at the crestfallen expression on the blonde’s face. “I’m busy doing… Stuff.”

"That’s quite alright, Mr…” he trails off. It takes Jack a moment to realize he’s waiting for an answer.

"Zimmermann,” he responds, holding out his hand. “Jack Zimmermann.”

"Eric Bittle,” the other man responds, clasping Jack’s hand between both of his. “But you should call me Bitty.”

"Bitty,” Jack repeats dumbly, staring at their still-clasped hands. Bitty is covered in flour, he notices, from the elbows down. “Aren’t you cold?”

"Cold?” Bitty asks, confused. “Oh, the shorts?” He laughs. “It’s very warm inside. Are you sure you can’t come in, just for a half hour or so?”

Jack considers his options. He can say no, walk across the street and never look back. Or he can come inside and eat delicious-smelling pie with an adorable blonde boy in tiny cut offs who is still (still) holding his hand.

"Only if you turn of the fucking Christmas music,” he sighs, letting his hand drop to his side. “It’s November.”

"No problem, sugar,” Bitty says, and places his hand on the small of Jack’s back, leading him inside. “Now, Mr. Zimmermann, let’s get you inside and get you warmed up.”