a lot of you here know i used to be a fairly prolific fic writer, and over the course of about six months from september of 2015 to march of 2016 i’ve written and published almost 100k cumulative words of check, please! fic.
for personal reasons, i haven’t been writing lately, and in october i orphaned all of my works on ao3. i didn’t plan to claim them here, but that was before i found out about the awesome charity auction fandom trumps hate.
i’m definitely prepared to decloak for the chance to (maybe!!!!) raise some money for causes that will need it in the coming years, so without further ado, a list of my published fic, organized by rating.
Rated G or T:
All This Nothing 5.3k; Jack/Bitty, background Dex/Nurse; epistolary Jack-never-went-to-Samwell au
1. I have you shoved against the wall but now I can’t stop looking at your mouth
If Kent were being honest with himself, he’d have admitted that he wouldn’t have noticed Eric.
(He was honest with himself no more than once per week; his self preservation was more important than his betterment as a person, no matter what the team counselor tried to tell him.)
He wouldn’t have noticed the guy hanging off of Jack’s every word if Eric hadn’t also been practically hanging off of Jack’s whole body. It had been a long time since Parse looked at anyone else twice.
In the past four years he had looked at plenty of people – other guys even – but never twice.
Kent looked maybe four whole times at Eric before he could unswallow his tongue and make his big entrance.
Jack was in fine, typical Zimmermann form.
Kent could have approached things better, but how many phone calls was he really supposed to leave before he got a little desperate? He could’ve left when he’d gotten to the frat house and seen that there were enough people inside to trample a lion in the inevitable selfie mill, but when would he work up the courage again to visit?
Maybe he could have nixed the Ferrari, but, like. Come on. Kent liked cars, cats, hot people, and hockey (probably not in that order). If he wanted to live a little, sue him.
Zimms bolted, and Parse felt as disappointed as Eric looked.
("Bitty – Eric Bittle. Only my team calls me Bitty, actually, but I figured since you’re. Um… Eric’s fine.”)
He really did try to leave after that, but fuck if he wasn’t right about the selfies. One of Jack and Eric’s teammates backhands him in the nose, and their manager thrashes him at beer pong. Kent had had less embarrassing losses in his life. He felt better about himself after Sweden beat team USA in a shutout in the semifinals at worlds, and he had had the fucking C.
He never knew the tiny voice in head that told him about all the things in his life he should have done better belonged to a pint sized art student called Lardo. It was the most useful thing Kent learned at college since an Aces prospect took Parse back to his dorm after an exhibition game. (Kent had been more impressed by the exhibition of deepthroating skills, to be honest.)
“Eat it, Parson!”
Eerily familiar.
After that, Kent really, really meant to leave. A couple beers in, he would’ve been fine after a walk and some coffee to drive. He was gonna run up to knock on Jack’s door just to say goodbye. Honest to God.
Right at the foot of the stairs, two of the Samwell guys argued. Parse had taken pictures with them, but he couldn’t remember either of their names; he knew their numbers better after a few too many nights watching NCAA highlight reels. Number 24 was pissed enough to spontaneously ignite, yelling about letting 28 freeze to death if he wanted to chill that bad in a pile of leaves.
Number 24 stormed off, and Number 28 swaggered in place, muttering “gonna get the biggest pile of leaves and bring ‘em inside. Can’t freeze to death inside, Dex.”
He spun around and elbowed Kent right between the shoulder blades, because tall people never stopped ruining his life.
“Ah, fuckin’ hell.”
Somehow, mumbling under his breath didn’t catch Eric’s attention.
Unfortunate.
“Get the damn hell offa me!”
Kent understood that bumrushing someone at a house party wasn’t polite or whatever, but Eric’s full body quake and flailing arms seemed like an overreaction. He scrunched his eyes closed, planted his feet, and transitioned from random arm motions to more tactical elbow jabs.
“Hey, hey, relax. You’re gonna – ouch, shit,” Kent said. If Eric hadn’t head-butted him in the chin, he would’ve mentioned that someone might get hurt. Irony, that fickle bitch, could be almost as bad as tall people.
“Oh, god, I’m so sorry!”
Eric might have said he was sorry, but he continued to do his best impression of a fight between a windmill and a bird. Kent pinned one hand and then the other to the wall for the good of humanity.
“Sorry ‘bout that. I just, um… I really don’t like getting hit.”
Parse felt bad, so bad for this kid. He wasn’t all that much younger or smaller, but Kent got over the crushing awareness of the laws of physics when he was a teenager. Usually those memories felt ancient.
(Anything before Jack – anything before the draft was another lifetime.)
Once in a while – maybe when he had the puck and Zdeno Chara skated up and he remembered that Max Pacioretty was way the fuck bigger than Kent was – he felt scared all over again.
He never showed it. Kent didn’t have the luxury of laying all that out in the open the way Eric just did.
“No worries, Eric.”
Kent could have stepped away then, but he didn’t want to.
Eric was so obvious about everything: He was obviously in love with Jack; he was obviously scared, but not too afraid to fight; he was obviously gay; he was obviously staring at Kent’s mouth.
Looking over his shoulder for a second, Parse watched for a flash. There were no more fans hovering with their phones and no more people who didn’t know him from Adam but knew he was someone with a picture worth taking. Usually after a few hours, the novelty of him wore off.
Kent wasn’t usually obvious, but he thought he was pretty clear when he let go of Eric’s wrists and held onto his hips instead.
“Oh."
He opened his mouth when Kent leaned in. His lips were smooth against Kent’s tongue, and they slid easily between Kent’s teeth. Eric’s mouth was hot and hoppy, moving slow against him.
Parse acquainted himself with Eric’s jaw and the salt and tang of his shoulder. Meanwhile, Eric asked some kind of question about onlookers that, in fairness, probably wasn’t as stupid as it seemed to Kent. If he were being honest with himself, he would have acknowledged that even without the threat of someone selling pictures to Deadspin, this wasn’t the best idea.
“Tellin’ me you wanna take this upstairs?” he asked instead.
9. We’re hiding from the authorities and it’s very close quarters in here, I can feel your body against mine.
Pie in hand, Holster kicks the front door open. His glasses rest askew on his long nose, and his hair is in some kind of disarray. When he spots Justin sitting on the stoop, putting the final touches on his resume, he halts for half a moment.
“Under the porch,” he says.
For the split second Ransom takes to try to understand, Holster stays still.
“Wha -- “
“Porch! No time!”
Years of juggling homework with hockey practice honed Justin’s protect-the-laptop-at-all-costs reflexes. He could be blindfolded, in full game gear, and taking a stick to the face Radulov-style and the mechanics of closing his computer and tucking it under his arm would still be second nature. It would take more than Holster grabbing him by the wrist and dragging him along to shake the fear of god that comes with being a scholarship kid and a hockey kid.
“The fuck are you doing?” he yelps. Holtzy holds open the lattice that covers the crawlspace and flings Ransom in. He dives in right behind.
“I’m on the fucking lam, Rans. A renegade -- ”
“ -- Fucking don’t -- ”
“In fear for my life from the long arm of the law.”
Only Holster looks proud after quoting a Styx song. Only Holster quotes a Styx song that isn’t Mr. Roboto.
He looks pleased with himself, square branches of sunlight catching his goofy-ass grin. Justin hates the stunningly homosexual voice in his head that says Holster looks beautiful.
“Adam Birkholtz, that pie was for Jack’s team; get back here!”
Eric’s tiny, butterfly footsteps tap directly overhead.
“You know,” Justin whispers. “We’re the captains.”
“It’s Bitty’s world, dude. We’re just along for the ride.”
Holster creeps closer when the stairs creak under Bitty’s weight.
“I thought we agreed not to listen to Johnson unless it’s about gains.”
“Shh.”
Justin was whispering, but he won’t complain if Holster feels like he has to close his hand over Ransom’s mouth.
The crawlspace is exactly big enough to hide a few stolen lacrosse sticks and maybe a family of raccoons. The two of them are folded in improbable ways, treating the hollow like a dystopian clown car. It’s kind of messed up that Ransom is never more comfortable than when he’s touching Holster somehow, even if the parts of him that aren’t soaking up warmth and Armani aftershave are backed up against an unfinished concrete wall.
The only things between them are pie and sexual tension. Ransom breathes heavy through the scent of cherry filling.
“For an old dude, you act like a kid with a crush for, like, at least half your off-ice time.”
Rans brings up Holster’s feelings for Bitty -- the pigtail pulling straight out of the elementary school hetero playbook -- as a defense mechanism more than as censure. It’s easy to forget when they’re sharing the same space like this that Holster is basically an overgrown puppy where Bits is concerned.
“I mean, yeah.”
It’s totally fine. This cuddling kind of thing doesn’t have to mean the same thing to both of them. Justin’s fine, but maybe it’s a little cramped under the porch, and there’s like, a spider or something crawling on his arm. He can leave whenever he wants, anyway. The only thing he did wrong was move too slow to avoid being literally dragged into the scene.
“My pickup game might be lame as hell, but I’ve got the guy I like alone for once. We got a pie here, I have two forks poking my asscheek from my back pocket, and there isn’t a single tadpole around to ask me how come I don’t hit my head more if I’m so tall. I think I’m doing alright.”
“Why are you like this?”
Rather than listen to another smartass response or, worse, an earnest answer, Justin sticks his hand in the pie and presses a handful of it into Holster’s face. Bitty would forgive him, probably.
“Kinda thought you were gonna kiss me, Rans.”
“I’m working up to it,” says Justin.
Ransom’s left hand is asleep, there is definitely at least one spider on his body, and the raccoon family sounds like it’s getting feisty. He scrapes his elbow against the foundation wall climbing onto his knees. There’s pieces of cherry caught in Holster’s teeth.
It’s the best kiss of Justin’s life, and he can’t stop smiling.
“Wow!!!!! Do you think someone could live down here if we found a mattress, and -- um. Hired an exterminator?”
“Tango?”
Holster’s eyes are closed. He is approximately two centimeters away from Justin’s face, which is at least two centimeters too far away.
3. I just told you I liked you but now I’m shy and say “never mind, forget it” and why are you looking at me like that?
The argument was about pie, maybe. About Bitty’s constant monopoly over the oven, or about how it’s obvious that Bitty misses figure skating the way a hooked fish misses the water, or about Beyoncé.
It doesn’t matter how it started, even though Jack sort of wishes he remembered so he could draw a map for future reference; he never wants to get from that starting point to this destination again. He’ll throw up mental road blocks and eliminate entire swaths of subjects for conversation to avoid going down this road.
Somehow, they’re here, and Bitty is accusing him of things he has tried not to think about for the past seven years, and Jack feels nauseous and defensive in equal measure.
“Just because you decided you have to choose between hockey and being happy doesn’t give you the right to force that on the rest of us!”
To have been misunderstood so uniquely is a blow Jack never saw coming. To know that this is what people think of him – what the people he loves think of him, rather. He’s always known what the people think of him and his drugs and his life choices, but to have Eric say that… Jack feels sliced from sternum straight through his belly, open and exposed.
There are people, and then there are his friends. There are commentators and analysts and fans, and then there are Shitty and Lardo and Justin and Eric. It’s nothing knew to shrug off a retired Bruin’s opinion. But how can Bitty not see the long game Jack is playing? How can he be so close and not realize that with hockey he’ll be happy. Hockey, first, and then he’ll work on the rest.
“I don’t expect anyone to make the same choices as me, but I expect you to respect them,” Jack says. He consciously keeps his voice down. He won’t ask Bitty to respect him and then turn around and scold him the way he used to last year.
Bittle’s eyes widen. He starts to say something, frowning and looking full of regret. Jack keeps talking; he doesn’t want to hear Bitty backtrack and pretend he didn’t mean what he said just because it happened to hurt Jack’s feelings.
“And, yeah – maybe it would be easier if I didn’t look at you and think about how it might be worth my entire career just to kiss you, but – “
He has an entire paragraph beyond that. He wants to explain how some things are worth waiting for, and that if Jack can just be smart about this, he doesn’t have to choose between anything. How he figured out when he was sixteen and wanted to kiss his best friend that there was a time and a place, after his hockey had spoken for itself.
He just forgot who he was talking to for a second. And then in the next second, it swept in and stole his breath.
“Never mind,” he whispers. This isn’t part of the plan. Heartbreak and ruined friendships are not part of the scheduled programming until at least a year after signing. “Forget it.”
Jack is so tired, and he is so lost in this argument.
He almost tells Bitty that he’s going to bed early, but he realizes he’s being watched. Bittle watches him with the same quietly fond smile that always makes Jack think one of Chowder’s exams is going to be posted on the fridge. Bitty looks like this when Chow holds a chair out for farmer, or when Dex agrees to go to one of Nursey’s poetry readings.
Bitty watches Jack like he’s proud of him, and it makes no sense.
“I’m gonna go to bed. Don’t stay up too late – practice tomorrow.”
“Jack?”
He has already turned around. He is walking toward the stairs with every intention of putting this bizarre half hour behind him. Tomorrow, he’ll wake up, and everything will have gone back to normal, his five-year plan intact.
Bitty is, as usual, the confounding variable.
“I wanna kiss you, too, you know.”
It could be a huge scene, but it’s better that it’s not. Jack doesn’t even have to look at Bittle as he says it. He doesn’t have to suffer through the horrible, stuffy mortification that wraps around his chest and throat and squeezes. He doesn’t have to let Bittle see the vivid, splotchy pink of his cheeks.
Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers (◠‿◠✿)
eli <3 <3 <3 <3 <3
in ascending order of how much i like them (complete with my personal fav line from each):
(ps: these are all zimbits bc this pony only knows one trick)
5. Give me my sin again. - E - 22.6k
literally can’t believe i wrote this; can’t believe i finished this; can’t believe it has over ten thousand hits. congrats everyone, we’re goin to hell. alternate titles included: eric bittle, the last kinkbender
“Holster, is that a dildo in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”
4. All Saints - M - 21.5k
a cute lil (hah) halloween 2015 fic written before ngozi murdered everyone in cold blood with that bitty-as-a-bunny art. someday i will repost this after having betaed it, but even without edits/without an ENTIRE SUBPLOT I STILL INTEND TO WRITE AS A CODA i’m p happy with this
“Oh, my god. That maple-syrup flavored bastard!” Lardo cries. Jack’s shoulders twitch, and she adds, “Yeah, I’m talking about you, Jack! I’m onto you, you francophone scum!”
3. Double Jeopardy - T - 7.9k
people really love this fic, and i’m glad bc it was literally inspired by a fucking meme. i also accidentally invented probably the best drinking game ever in the process of writing this, so thanks me.
“Holster, if you try to make out with me while Chowder’s sitting between us, I’m contractually obligated to kick your ass.”
2. Menteur - G - 5.8k
it’s got vignette headers in french and a childhood-centric prologue so obviously it’s some arty shit. but like actually i’m proud of this one. the first and only soulmate au produced by this writer like. ever.
They’d just squared away his single in the student dorms—no chance of any breach of privacy that might come with his minor celebrity being exposed to an excitable eighteen-year-old; no potential for his jocks to end up on eBay. Again.
His first billet family hadn’t been a great match.
1. Thaw - T - 2k
honestly this might be one of my favorite things i’ve ever written. (or i might just be salty bc it’s one of my least popular fics but. whatever i like it.) speed skating au set at the sochi olympics ft. good guy kent parson
Already decorated in Sochi, Bittle, Zimmermann, and Parson are the favorites to place. Parson’s experience and finesse give him an advantage, but the Zimmermann-Bittle contest is more difficult to forecast. In the battle of Wunderkind versus Comeback Kid, we’ll have to wait and see.
now i know why camilla was talking to jack: she knew he was friends with lardo and wanted to know more about her (too bad jack only talks about hockey and chicken tenders)
OR, jack knew lardo liked camilla and after screw he found OUT CAMILLA IS GAY SO HE STARTED DATING HER IN AN ELABORATE PLOT TO GET HER CLOSE TO LARDO WHILE HE AND CAMILLA WERE EACH OTHER’S BEARDS(elaborate plan here meaning: “oh hey, camilla. why don’t you come to practice and watch me play at hockey. you can sit with our manager lardo while you wait and then you can come with us to the dining hall for chicken tenders.”)
jack zimmermann is a Friend to Queer Women Everywhere, and it’s why he and george get along so well.
“Holtzy, I swear to fuck, I don’t care about my birthday. I have a midterm tomorrow, plan the kegster without me.”
“Dude, I got you a present,” Holster offers, benign, hanging over the edge of Ransom’s bed because Justin couldn’t manage the ladder to his own bunk.
His head is too full of data tables to even begin to process it. Reaction times down to the thousandth of a second of neurons batter against the inside of his skull, and it eats away at his ability to play nice.
“I don’t want your fucking dick in a box,” he snaps.
Does repetition correlate with reduced rate of information transfer?
No, it fucking doesn’t, because three data points aren’t statistically significant.
“It’s not my dick, dude. I couldn’t find a big enough box.”
Holster snickers like it’s news to Ransom that he’s packing six inches completely soft. After a while it’s just boring. Rans gets it--Adam Birkholtz is hung. Nice work, God.
“You’re shaking again.”
Holster mentions it, hauls back onto the bunk, and climbs down to take up all the space on the bottom not taken up by printouts and periodicals. He’s halfway on top of Rans, and Justin wants to bury his face in Holster’s chest almost as much as he wants to shove the asshole to the ground.
“I found this apartment listing in Boston. My parents already told me they’re getting me a car for graduation, and it’s like a ten minute walk from Northeastern’s campus.”
“Man, I haven’t been accepted yet.”
He will. Justin’s grades are killer and he’s more than qualified for the DPT program, but if Holster jinxes him, dammit--
“You got into BU though, right? Isn’t that your backup?”
“What’s going on?”
Holster looks away with a shrug and mumbles, “I might’ve applied for us to move in in June. It’s no big deal, though.”
“Dude.”
Ransom hasn’t had to space to even think about where he’d live for his Grad degree. He’s gotten as far as probably Boston, definitely New England before things like Captain duties and his senior fucking year distract him. He probably would’ve gotten his diploma and stood stock still in the hall of the Haus as he realized he was technically homeless.
Justin shoves the papers off his lap and topples Holtzy onto his side.
“You’re so fucking gay, bro,” Ransom says. He covers Holster’s prone body with his own and holds Holster’s big, goofy face between his hands. “You’re lucky I’m sort of in love with you.”
He won’t hold still, batting at Ransom’s chest and arms, so Justin gets his point across by kissing hair, glasses, elbow--whatever he can reach.
“Glad you like it,” Holster preens, hair a mess and glasses crooked.
Ransom’s headache dims for the second that Holtzy’s lips touch his temple.
Okay Zimbits + 35? I'm on mobile which is rare so my messaging is a mess
35. “You heard me. Take. It. Off.”
Usually when the sight of Bitty in nothing but a jersey greets Jack, it’s the beginning of a night for the highlight reel. The Falconers let Jack keep his jersey from his first NHL game, and between Bitty’s slight frame and sweater’s having been made big enough for Jack in his pads, the collar slips over bare shoulders and does something to the possessive part of Jack that rattles in his ribs like a tin cup against prison bars.
The fabric that drags against Bitty’s thigh isn’t blue, though--it’s black. And the number on his sleeve isn’t a one but an eighty-seven.
His boyfriend, Jack’s boyfriend, is wearing Sid Crosby’s jersey in bed.
“Take it off,” he growls without preamble. His bag slides to the floor and lands heavily, but neither of them flinch.
“Your uncle Mario sent it to me for my birthday,” Bitty grin. “It’s even signed!”
He pulls the shirt away from him to better show off the scrawl across the penguin on Bitty’s chest. Under the jersey, Jack gets a glimpse of black and gold, and if Mario sent his boyfriend autographed penguins underwear, too, he’s going to be disowning a few relatives and burning the gifts for good measure.
Or maybe he’ll sell them and donate the money to the Falcs and Friends LGBT outreach charity. He’ll do something, but the specifics will have to wait until Bitty isn’t representing the enemy.
“Take it off,” Jack grates out again. He toes off his shoes.
“Excuse me? This was a present, Jack,” Bitty does some lip-biting and lash-fluttering that would send Jack to his knees any other night.
“You heard me. Take. It. Off.”
Bits flushes and grins, staring with the most defiant arch of the brow that Jack’s ever seen on him.
“You can’t just--”
Jack pounces, and Bitty squeals. Bits arches his back, suddenly without complaint when Jack slides the jersey up to his armpits, letting his hands slide along the sides he reveals in the process. His forearm slips into the curve of Bitty’s back, and Jack lifts him tight against his own chest to get the thing over Bittle’s shoulder blades and off.
“Honey, be careful! I wanna keep that!”
Bitty really should have thought of that before wearing it in Jack’s bed.
“I hope you know,” Jack mumbles against Bitty’s sternum after lowering him back against the sheets. “I wouldn’t be doing this if there were penguins on these, too.”
He kisses down the center of Bittle’s chest, drawing out low moans and giggles. The cradle of Bits’s hand fits snug against the curve of Jack’s scalp, fingers tugging lazily at his hair. The boxers Bitty wears are plain and black, but Jack is hardly any less hasty in tugging them off.
