imaginezimbits

[imaginezimbits]

Please please can you write some Kent/OMC or PBJ or just pimms or just Kent/bitty kidfic? Or Kent single father? I just need some Kent + kids

Read it on AO3

Kent hated visiting Jack and Bitty.  Not that he hated them, they were actually just about the closest friends he had outside of the Aces, but every summer they invited him to visit them in Providence, and every summer he ended up regretting it.  Their life gave him a goddamn existential crisis.  

It was one thing when it was their turn to come and visit him in Vegas.  Then the visit was filled with outrageous performances, going out clubbing and getting way too drunk, and then watching the pained expression on Jack’s face as he tried to corral his completely wasted (and very handsy) husband into the car and back to Kent’s.  Bitty, being about five years younger than him and Zimms, really knew how to keep the party rolling, and Kent was more than happy to let him.  It was nothing but goofing off with his buddies, and sometimes he managed to feel like the years weren’t passing around him while he remained stagnant.

Providence was another story.  The parties were more likely to include their college friends, who definitely inspired their own degree of drunken shenanigans, but also brought out a different side of Jack and Bitty.  Those guys were their family, and it was obvious that the dynamic was different as Bitty ran around playing host and Jack quietly broke up arguments, the two of them being pulled aside late into the party to dole out sage advice to their former underclassmen.

It was especially weird this year, because the Bittle-Zimmermanns had adopted a baby girl in February and freaked Kent right the fuck out about his life.  Because here he was, creeping up on thirty in just a few weeks, and still living the single life big-time.  Other than Jack, his longest relationship was when he spent all of the All-Star break fooling around with a Dallas Star (that shall remain nameless) as they fought it out over the West Coast title.  Jack, on the other hand, had married his college sweetheart and settled down in a cute yellow house in Rhode Island and now they had a sweet little baby that was currently parked in Kent’s lap, looking up at him with huge brown eyes that stared into his soul and said You are a pathetic man-child.

She really was sweet though.  Amélie was warm and delicate as he held her upright, hands under her chubby arms to prop her sitting.  Everything around her seemed to be fascinating, and her eyes would fixate on Kent, Shitty’s dog, birds in the tree, and back as she took it all in.  Her tiny mouth looked like it wanted to be smiling if she had any teeth.  He gave her a tentative bounce like he’d seen her father’s do before and she made a delighted squeal.  Kent couldn’t help but grin right back at her.  They lounged on a lawn chair together for a little while longer, splitting a small cup of Cheerios while Kent made faces or sang to make her laugh.  He’d been so focused on Amélie that he missed the backyard clearing out around him as the barbecue wound down.  It wasn’t until Jack and Bitty finished their cursory tidying up and wandered over to claim their child that he realized everyone had headed home.

“Oh, uh, sorry guys,” he said, reaching up to fiddle with a cowlick absently, his hands feeling weirdly at ends now that Amélie is cuddled up in Bitty’s arms.  “I probably should’ve said bye to people.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Jack said.

“They understand, she’s very distracting company,” Bitty reassured him, bouncing his daughter.  “Thank you for watching her so long, we haven’t been able to really catch up with the boys for a while.”

“And now our yard doesn’t look like a frat house just rolled through it,” Jack added, nodding at the pile of garbage bags filled with beer cans and paper plates.  

“Wasn’t a chore, she’s a really good baby,” Kent said.

“We like her alright.”  Jack and Bitty smiled at each other in that very sweet but kind of nauseating way they had about them (but then again he wasn’t sure if the nausea was from the sweetness or the existential crisis it brought on because.  Super single.)  Kent groaned as he stood up, stretching.  

“I can’t believe you two are still this gross.  You’re parents - aren’t you supposed to be cranky and hate each other now?” he teased.  Jack shrugged.

“I think that’s some weird straight people thing.  I think settling down with Bits is the most fun I’ve ever had.”

“Me too,” Bitty said, beaming at Jack.  Well, Kent thought, I’m probably going to want to be wearing the roadie headphones tonight.

He followed them inside the house where Bitty disappeared with a kiss to Jack’s cheek and a goodnight to Kent to put Amélie to bed.  

“You’re not going?” he asked Jack, who stayed leaned against the kitchen counter.  The past three nights the whole little family has gone upstairs to do bedtime together before Jack and Bitty returned to hang out with Kent until the adults were ready for bed.  

“I think you’ve got something you wanna say and you won’t do it if I let you think too long down here.”

“Ugh, fine, I’ll tell you,” Kent groaned, slumping onto one of the kitchen barstools.  “But you’ve gotta put the ‘fatherly advice’ face away first, it’s just weird.”  Jack rolled his eyes, which incidentally did get rid of the expression and settled his features back into a more neutral one.  “I think I’m starting to want this,” Kent admitted.  Jack raised an eyebrow, clearly demanding further explanation.  “The whole husband and kids thing, it…It seems really nice.  I don’t think I really want to be able to drop everything and hang out in Rhode Island for a month anymore.  Like, if I can just walk away from my life for a month what does that say about how much I have going on?”

“Well, we’d miss you, but Bits and I just want you to be happy,” Jack told him, voice low and steady.  

“What kind of vague-ass bullshit is that?” he asked, smiling.  Jack stepped forward and pulled him off the barstool and into a hug.

“The kind where we love you and we’re proud of you for admitting that you want to be old and boring too.”  Kent nudged his fist against Jack’s shoulder and stepped out of the hug.

“Okay maybe don’t take it that far.  I intend to age so well there’s internet rumors that I’m immortal.”

#zimbits #jack zimmermann #eric bittle #kent parson #omgcp

[imaginezimbits]

Bitty (or Jack u choose) gets a hickey and Samwell (and Falconers if Jack) chirp him nonstop

This was so much fun, I love writing chirpy boys!

Read it on AO3

Jack rolled up to Friday’s practice running late and notably disheveled.  He jogged into the locker room and tossed his bag in his stall, ripping the zipper open and pulling out his under armour.

“Well well, look who showed up late with Starbucks?” Poots chirped him from across the room.  Jack grunted and yanked his shirt over his head, then hurriedly shoved his jeans off.  True to form, ignoring the chirp only made his teammates more determined to get a rise out of him.  Tater and Marty, already dressed for practice, sauntered over to him.

“Hey kid, what kept you?”  Jack turned to answer Marty, eyes going a little wide.  Even though they both wore the A on their jerseys, there was still that nervous rookie feeling whenever Marty seemed to disapprove of something.  Nervously flashing back to the real reason he was late - Bitty’s smooth skin glowing in the morning sunlight, his voice rough with sleep as he pleaded with Jack to snooze the alarm just this once - he stammered as he tried to think of a less chirp-able reason.  

“I - uh, the um…My car…” Unfortunately, the way he was turned towards Marty left Tater with a fantastic view of Eric’s…goodbye.

“Ahhhh, say no more Zimmboni.  Tater understands.”  He grabs Jack’s shoulder and turns him so Marty can see the purpling mark low on his neck.  “Brings new meaning to name ‘Zimmboni.’”  The guys who were close enough to hear started laughing.  Guy was actually cackling.  

“Oh my god,” Jack felt his face burning up as he ducked out of Tater’s grip to grab his pads.  

“Ah kiddo,” Marty patted him on the back, choking down a laugh but not managing to wipe the grin off his face.  “Just take your chirping and extra laps-”

“Extra laps!?”

“-and we’ll all move on.  But yes, extra laps.  Tardy is a tardy.”

“Just shut up and take the laps, bro!” Poots shouted, shaking his hair back into place as his head pops through the collar of his jersey.  “Do you have any idea how many suies I’d do to be getting consistently laid?”

“Yeah, fuck you and your blissful monogamy,” Snowy scoffed, grinning all the while.  “Some of us still have to fend for ourselves over here.”  Thirdy pointed at Poots and declared,

“We are gonna make you are gonna eat those words someday, eh Zimmboni?”  And just like that, Jack felt like he had his footing back here.  He was a captain on this team too, and he could give as good as he got with these guys.

“Oh you’ll think twice about wheeling a puck bunny anytime soon, that’s for sure.  And Snowy, there’s no shame in playin a little five on one; we can’t all have game.”  Marty wheezed, the laughter tried to come out so fast, and Thirdy gave him an approving little nod as the rest of the guys joined what was now a chirping free-for-all.

Until the coaches came looking for their team, all of which was now late to practice and owed so.  Many.  Laps.

#zimbits #jack zimmermann #the falconers #omgcp

[imaginezimbits]

Plzzzzzz pt3 of zimbits football!!!!! I love your writing!! It's soOOOOO GOOOOD!

Ask and you shall receive (eeeeeventually!)Read it on AO3

“Y’all go on and get now, I have orientation in the morning,” Eric scolded the lumbering football players clogging up his teeny dorm room.  His roommate, a perfectly nice seeming boy from Oregon, had disappeared shortly after the team’s arrival, and Eric couldn’t blame him.

“Fuck orientation,” Holster dismissed.  “You’ve been chilling with us for a year, what more do you need to know about the college experience?”  Eric put his hands on his hips.

“Maybe some people from my actual class?”

“Pft, whatever.  Rans and Shitty are gonna be in school forever with their majors; you’ll have plenty of people to do senior year with.”  Ransom made himself comfortable with Shitty on Eric’s bed.

“That’s right, brah,” Shitty agreed, welcoming the snuggles.  “You’ll never be rid of us.”

“Graduation is a myth,” Ransom added gravely.  “And bro, you can make all the friends you want.  You’re a freshman with invites already lined up for the sickest kegsters of the year.”

“If you do say so yourself,” Eric huffed.  “I admit, you boys make a strong argument, but I shudder to think what your fearless leader has to say about y’all encouraging me to shirk responsibility like this.”  He turned to the man in question only to find him twisting back and forth in the desk chair, nibbling on one of the peanut butter cookies Mrs. Bittle had sent to thank the boys for carrying all of “Dicky’s” boxes.

“Um.”  Jack looked between his friends, who were watching him expectantly.  He swallowed.  “Well, I mean, I was gonna ask if you wanted to hang out tomorrow since it’s the last day before classes.”

“Jack!” Eric cried over the boys’ boisterous cheers.  “You’re supposed to be the responsible adult here!”  Jack shrugged, tiny smile playing at his lips and winning Eric over easily.

“Well…they really don’t teach you anything useful…”

“So you figure you can talk me into another day of nonsense with this lot?”

“Was kinda hoping.”

“Well I suppose I could be persuaded to give up an afternoon of icebreakers and forced socialization.”

“Good.  I hear Annie’s has their Pumpkin Spice Lattes out early this year.  And the art theater is screening Goonies, so we were thinking of hitting that too.”

“How can I say no to that then?”

“Just meet us at the Haus at eleven tomorrow.”

“I’ll come at ten and we’ll make breakfast.”

“Deal.”  Eric nodded.  “Alright boys,” Jack said to the room at large, “let’s clear out, we scared Bittle’s roommate out long enough.” The boys all stood and followed Jack to the door, leaving Eric with hair ruffles and back pats.  Jack held his hand in a wave as he followed the end of the parade into the hallway, closing the door behind them.  Eric sat down hard on the bed, grinning broadly.

“Eric Richard Bittle, what on Earth do you mean you don’t know what happened at orientation?” Mrs. Bittle demanded over dinner - she’d made her son’s favorites to lure him home for a meal to extract details.  Eric stopped picking at his mashed potatoes and exchanged a panicked glance with his father over the rim of the sweet tea glass Coach was using to avoid having to chime in.

“Uh…Jack said it’s stupid?  And the guys were going to see Goonies?”

“Jack said, hmm?  And I suppose if Jack Zimmermann jumped off a bridge you might think that sounds mighty fine too?”  Coach put his glass down.

“Suzie,” he said, laying a gentle hand over hers and giving her a significant look.  Eric saw the realization dawn on his mother’s face, could practically hear the unspoken “breakdown” that hung in the air, but what was actually said was, “Jack is a responsible young man.  I think he and Junior’s other friends will see to it that he isn’t completely lost.”  Suzanne sighed.

“I suppose.  But Dicky, don’t you dare make a habit of skipping out on your responsibilities.”

“I promise, Mama, I will stay right on top of everything.”

And he did.  Between the Haus study group and the relative simplicity of his first semester classes, Eric was able to keep up with his studies.  Until the Midterms Kool-down Kegster, when, happily situated on top of one of the hockey players in the frat next door to the Haus, he remembered.

“Oh fuck!”  he sat up abruptly, hair askew and shirt rucked up.

“Dude, already?” the hockey bro asked, eyebrow raised.

“I have a paper due tomorrow,” Eric explained, already starting to extricate himself from the bed.

“Oh dude, that sucks the big one.”

“Sorry.  I uh, had fun?” Eric patted at the tuft of hair sticking up on the back of his head.

“Yeah, was good for me too,” the guy said blandly, already reaching into his pants.  By the time Eric was across the room pulling the door shut, hockey bro’s dick was out, his head flopped back against the pillow, as if Eric had never been there at all.  Well then, glad he’s not too heartbroken, he thought to himself and trudged down the stairs.

He stood outside the hockey house, staring at the Haus and feeling the street vibrate beneath his sneakers.  The party ball hastily duct taped to the living room ceiling lit the windows in a flashing array of rainbow.  The only light from upstairs came from Jack’s room.  His fingers slid across his phone screen before the decision was fully formed.

“Allo?”  The distracted greeting said Jack probably hadn’t checked his caller I.D.

“Hi Jack.” Eric paused.  “It’s Eric.”

“You don’t say.”

“I just did.”

“Are you okay?  Need me to come get you?”

“I’m okay.  Except I just remembered I forgot to write my paper for American History.”

“Bittle, it’s two a.m.”

“I am aware.  Jack, I just left mid-hookup for this, if you know anything at all about U.S. history, please come help me, otherwise fuck my grade I’m going back upstairs.”  The exasperated sigh was a protracted burst of static in his ear, but Jack relented.

“Okay, give me five to find my notebooks and some pants.  And know that you definitely owe me a batch of those homemade granola bars.”

“Anything.”

“Five minutes,” Jack promised, then promptly hung up.  

When he saw the light in Jack’s room go out, Eric stood up from the porch steps where he had been waiting.  It took another few minutes before the front door of the Haus opened to reveal Jack, backpack slung over his shoulder.  They met in the middle of the street and Jack gave a tired but fond grin in response to Eric’s grateful smile, and in mutual silent agreement, they made for Eric’s dorm.

The room was empty, so Eric texted his roommate that he’d gotten home okay and wished him a fun night when the roommate said, “Enjoy, see you after breakfast ;)”

“Well, looks like we got the place to ourselves for the duration,” Eric told Jack, trying not to sound like he could think of much better reasons than this stupid paper for him to want Jack alone.

“Good.” Jack made himself comfortable on Eric’s bed, kicking off his shoes and getting his notes and laptop set up.  “I brought reading to do while you’re writing, but I’ll help you outline and edit.”

“You are a saint.”

“I am an insomniac.  Believe me, this is going to be just as good for my sanity as yours.”

“Well alrighty, I guess I won’t feel too bad.”

“I still expect granola bars.” Jack winked.  Eric’s face burned, but he just focused on getting a blank document ready to go.  “So what’s this paper on, eh?”

“I have to write a few pages on a New Deal program and its immediate and long-term effects.”

As luck would have it, Jack knew a lot about the New Deal.  And he had more than enough feelings about it for Eric to pick a thesis.  Jack flipped his notebook open to a page covered in messy, blocky print, turned it towards Eric, and laughed at his horrified expression.

“What?”

“This is completely illegible,” Eric complained.

“Oh come on, it’s not that bad.”

“Really Jack, is this how your brain works?  Because if so, I have to say, I’m a mite concerned.”

“At least I have notes, Bittle.”  Jack gestured at the blank document on the screen.  “Is this how your brain works?  Because if so, I have to say, I’m a mite concerned,” he mimicked.

“Jack Laurent Zimmermann, let me live,” he huffed, flopping over onto the comforter, taking the laptop with him.  Curled on his side with the computer, Eric started filling in the heading and basic title of his paper and jotting down a few of the points Jack had made into a quick outline.  He’d started sorting through JSTOR to find the shortest relevant articles possible, figuring Jack had disappeared into his own corner of peer-reviewed purgatory, when the bed shifted under him and a warm weight pressed along his back.  It was Jack, and Eric almost jumped out of his damn skin because Jack had spooned up right behind him, chin hooked over his shoulder and arm flopping down over his abdomen.  

“How’s it going?” Jack’s breath tickled as it blew over Eric’s skin, the low rumble of his voice vibrating through Eric’s ribs.

“It’s…happening.  Slowly.  But I don’t think I’ll flunk.”  Jack nodded, chin digging a little uncomfortably into Eric’s shoulder.

“Yeah, this is looking pretty good.”  He figured Jack would let go and return to his reading, but he stayed wrapped around Eric.

“How’s your reading coming there?” he asked teasingly.

“Done.”

“Already?”

“I did start it at a decent hour.  That is possible.”

“Hmmm…sounds fake.” Eric could feel gentle laughter at his back.  Well…looks like this is just his life right now.  He went back to writing, struggling to get all of the bullet-points in his outline put into coherent sentences.  For a minute, he blanked out, staring at the blinking cursor on the screen.  He was tired and warm, and he could feel his eyelids drooping.  And then Jack  spoke up.

“Created the infrastructure necessary for the rapid development of industry during the war boom of the early forties?”  Eric physically shook off his exhaustion.

“Hmm?”

“Oh, just…where you were going with that sentence.  You could say ‘In addition to the immediate economic relief and placation of the anxious, unemployed masses, the formation of the WPA created the infrastructure necessary for the rapid development of industry during the war boom of the early forties.’”

“Oh.  Thanks, that’s really good.”

“Not my first rodeo.”  Eric typed in the end of the sentence, and getting past that block gave him the burst he needed to get the rest of the paper out, Jack proofreading as he went, keeping himself tucked close throughout.  At some point, he caught part of Eric’s hoodie in his fingers, idly rubbing at the soft fabric.  Eric didn’t realize that there was such a soft side to Jack.  He knew he was kind, one of the most loyal and dedicated friends he’d ever had, but compared to the rest of the group they hung out with, he’d never been up for all of the casual cuddling (aside from Shitty trapping him in a bear hug).  This gentle, sleepy Jack was incredibly endearing, and Eric’s chest felt warm and tight.

He put the finishing touches on the essay around three thirty.  After saving the document about five times and promptly sending it to the print queue, he closed the laptop with a satisfying “slap,” and turned to look over his shoulder at Jack, only to find him fast asleep.  Exhausted and resigned, Eric just wiggled carefully out of Jack’s arms and trudged off to the bathroom to brush his teeth.  While tugging on his pajamas, he briefly contemplated sleeping in his roommate’s bed, but upon realizing he didn’t really know how clean the guy was and feeling like it would be…cold - a rejection of this intimacy Jack offered, he lay back down and pulled a blanket over them both.

Eric expected to sleep terribly, to lie awake staring at the ceiling until the sun came up, Jack woke, and he was inevitably left with the uncomfortable silence and an empty bed.  Instead, he slept the best he had since coming to college.  The bed was warm and, completely relaxed, Jack was actually very soft to snuggle against.  Eric’s breaths unconsciously synched with Jack’s, his eyes got heavy, and the next thing he knew, the sun was streaming in from the single window.

He stretched, joints popping pleasantly.  And then his foot brushed a leg, and all of a sudden, he snapped back to the moment and felt fully Jack pressed up behind him.  He startled just enough to jostle the bed, and his heart skittered in his chest as Jack stirred. The arm around his waist tightened momentarily, and a soft groan escaped Jack as he woke fully.  The sound shocked down Eric’s spine and oh god, he was actually going to die.  In some twist of cosmic mercy, Jack wasn’t sporting morning wood - that would be the actual death of him.

“Oh.  Hey.”  Jack’s breath ghosted over Eric’s neck, and he had to squeeze his eyes shut so he could compose his voice enough to get out,

“Morning.”  Jack stretched again, and the movement pushed them closer.

“Morning.  I didn’t ruin your sleep, did I?”  He looked so genuinely concerned Eric couldn’t let him be uncomfortable.

“You didn’t make a peep,” he said, because he couldn’t quite admit just how much Jack didn’t ruin his sleep.  

“Okay.”  They lay in silence for another minute, unsure of how to act normally now that they were both lucid.  Eric was about to roll over and see if Jack just passed back out when their phones buzzed simultaneously, the group chat lighting up with all the dirt and surreptitiously taken pictures of shame.  It gave them something appropriate to do with their hands and something safe to talk about.  Lying next to each other, they made fun of their friends’ questionable-at-best choices - Holster making out with his ex, Esther (again), Ransom instigating body shots, Shitty’s general personality.  The best chirps got sent to the group chat, but mostly they were just giggling to themselves and speaking in broken sentences as they realized they were nowhere near the losers of this week’s morning after.  Jack even went as far as to say,

“I think I definitely chose the best place to wake up today.”  And even though Eric knew how Jack really meant that, his brain couldn’t really switch off the nagging curiosity of what could be if Jack thought differently - was different.

The chat died back down after a while, everyone either going out in search of food or back to sleep.  Jack locked his phone back up, let out a final stretch-and-groan, and asked,

“Wanna hit Commons?  I’m getting pretty hungry.”  Eric took the out and agreed, hopping out of bed and shucking out of his pajamas.  He tried not to imagine Jack’s eyes on him as he dressed.  When he turned around, Jack was idly thumbing through his textbook.

“You ready?” Jack looked back up.

“Oh.  Yeah, let’s go.”

At Commons, Jack and Eric split up - Jack to the omelette bar, Eric to the buffet.  He loaded his plate with a pile of french toast sticks and homefries, drowning the whole thing in the watered-down fake syrup in the vat at the end of the line.  Jack sidled up behind him, and in lieu of greeting said,

“You should eat more protein.”  Eric jumped, flushed, and finally defended his breakfast.

“I am a figure skater, I need energy.  If I become some muscle-brained jock-head I won’t be able to get any lift to my jumps.”

“Hey, a muscle-brained jock-head just saved your grade.”

“I’m just sayin’, don’t go mocking my diet plan - I get results.”

Jack conceded the point then, and sat down with his heap of egg whites and spinach, tucking in with one last glance at Eric’s plate that fell between longing and dismay.  Looking at the man himself, Eric could relate.  Jack was sweet and smart and handsome, and whenever Eric had brought Philip to hang out with the guys, he hadn’t batted an eye, just chatted as politely as Jack ever managed about college plans and books they were reading.  He was exactly the kind of friend he’d dreamed of having in Georgia.  If he was being completely honest with himself, Jack was the kind of boyfriend he’d dreamed of.  But there be dragons.

Because for all that he went to a super-queer liberal arts college and might accidentally minor in Women’s, Gender, and Sexuality Studies, Jack Zimmermann seemed as straight as an arrow shaft.  And even if he did like men, he was older and played football and drank horrific concoctions that contained lots of kale and protein powder.  There was no way Eric would be remotely his type.  Eric could feel himself getting maudlin, so he shook himself and took a sip of coffee to ground himself.

“Falling asleep there Bittle?”  Jack asked, smirking over his orange juice.

“I don’t know how in the hell you’re even awake right now,” he covered.

“I did get a little extra sleep,” Jack reminded him, and god did he not need to be reminded of Jack falling asleep spooned up against him.

“That’s right,  you abandoned me,” Eric teased.

“I did not,” he objected.  “I was there the whole time.”

“And what’s your alibi, the drool patch on the back of my shirt?”

“I do not drool!”  This came out louder than Jack had probably meant for and they got a couple of looks.  “Do not!” Jack whispered forcefully, leaning across the table.

“Do too!” Eric whispered back, leaning in as well.  Their faces were inches apart, and Eric had to fight to keep his face from softening.  In the end he couldn’t quite manage it after Jack reached up to wipe a smear of syrup from his cheek, the pad of it rough and warm on Eric’s face, and then licked the syrup off like it was nothing.  And then made an exaggeratedly offended expression at how ludicrously fake it tasted.  

Eric hated his life.  Before he could do anything stupid, he leaned back into his own space and returned to his breakfast.

The dining hall offerings were meager enough that Eric texted his mother to say he was coming over for dinner and did she need anything from the store.  She told him to grab eggs and some greens for a salad and “I’m thinking I’ll do brownies for dessert.  Maybe you can pick up some ice cream to put on top.”  Eric didn’t miss what a loaded statement that was.  His mama thought brownies were just about the lowest a baked good could sink.  Tiny batches, an inelegant slop of batter waiting in a pan, and finicky to make to boot.  But they were Coach’s favorite comfort food, hot and sticky fresh out of the oven, a scoop of ice cream melting over top.

“What’s wrong with Coach?” he asked.  Mama sighed.

“I don’t know, baby.  He was just in a rotten mood when he came home from practice.  He was real quiet, just took a beer and a puddin’ cup back to his study.”

“I wonder what happened,” Eric murmured, thinking briefly of Jack and wondering if he was upset too.  He clicked away from the call to his messaging window and sent off a quick text to Jack.  Coach is in a mood.  You alright?  There was no reply bubbles, but he hadn’t expected a prompt reply.  Instead of waiting to hear back, he wrapped up the call with Mama and headed off to the Stop & Shop.  

Back at the house, he set the bags of groceries down on the kitchen table and started rifling through for the greens to get started on the salad.  

“Thank you, baby,” Mama said, brushing a hand across his back as she passed behind.  “I know you’re just on the other side of town, but I do miss having you around.”  He laughs, but tucks his chin over her shoulder on his way to get tongs, promising,

“I miss you too.”  

They had everything set out on the table in a few minutes, and Suzanne hollered “Riiiichard!  Diiiiner!” towards the back of the house.  Coach joined them a moment later, dropping into his seat at the head of the table with a grunt that sounded more pained than ill-tempered.  He complimented Suzanne on dinner and asked “Junior” how his classes were going as always, and between bites, Eric and his mama traded glances.

Neither of them dared ask about practice until the brownies were cut and ice cream scooped.  Only then did Suzanne clear her throat and and ask, “So sweetheart, how was practice?”  Eric shoved a large spoonful of ice cream in his mouth, anticipating a long-winded speech about whatever the boys had done to piss him off.  Instead, Coach looked a little awkward and addressed Eric.

“Well, funny enough, I wanted to talk to you about that.”

“Oh?”  Eric’s ind raced, frantically trying to recall if he’d played a part in any activities that could’ve affected the boys’ game.  “Well fire away.”

“It’s - it’s a favor - a biggun, and you can say no.”

“Okay…Daddy, you’re makin me nervous.”

“Sorry, sorry.  Uh, well, you know how our backup kicker has been on leave with mono?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, it seems our starting kicker busted his ankle playing soccer.”

“Oh…So you want me to…”

“Fill in, yeah.”

“Coach…”

“I know.  I said it was big.  And I can see about pulling one of the boys from fourth string, but you’ve got a good leg and you know the team.”

“Richard,” Suzanne warned.

“And kickers hardly ever get tackled,” he promised.

“Richard, that’s enough,” Suzanne said again, firmer.  Eric was silent for a moment, staring at his father.  Things were different now than they were in Georgia, he knew this.  He had his father’s support, the boys knew he was gay and didn’t make an ordeal of it - a few of them were even queer too.  The only thing that really bothered him still was the idea of being tackled, but the fact that Ransom and Holster would be his defense…

“I’ll do it.”

“You will?”  Both his parents sounded shocked, but a grin was breaking out from under Coach’s moustache.  Meanwhile ama looked like she’d swallowed a frog.  

“Dicky, you know you don’t have to, right?  Not if this is gonna bring your problem back.”

“I’m not gonna faint, Mama,” he told her, trying not to sound irritated.  “You’re not supposed to even touch the kicker, and besides…” Eric looked at his father.  “I wanna help the team.”  Coach nodded, beaming.

“Practice is at 3:30 tomorrow.  We’ll get you out there and see if you’re comfortable, and if all goes well, we’ll play you Friday.”

“I’ll be there,” Eric promised.

“Thank you,” Coach said.  “I can’t tell you how much it means that you’re even willing to try.”  Eric nods at his father, but when he stands to clear the table, he’s engulfed in a bear hug.  He squeezes his eyes shut and reminds himself that his father is already proud of him.  This is just icing on the cake.

#jack zimmermann #eric bittle #zimbits #coach bittle #suzanne bittle #football au #omgcp

[imaginezimbits]

zimbits gym au where jack is a cycling instructor and bitty is the zumba teacher

The dance music was ruining his class.  It happened every week, just as his cyclists were supposed to be hitting their peak of the workout; the eleven o’clock zumba class would get started and the thump-a thump-a of the dance music would undermine everyone’s pace.  Distracted from Jack’s encouragements to “aim for the top!” and “progress takes effort!” they would settle into pedaling along with the drum beats coming through the shared studio walls.  And while they were bobbing along to the music, he’d find that the whole class had settled into cool-down pace twenty minutes early.  Trying to get them amped up again without slipping into Disapproving Captain Voice was a chore, especially when he was trying to keep his own speed up despite the hypnotic rhythm.

The worst part was that he couldn’t even complain to the other instructor.  It was a dance class, and for however he may feel about a workout regimen of soccer moms bopping along to latin music, it was a popular course at the gym.  He’d tried talking to the owner, Georgia, to see if the class could be moved half an hour later so it didn’t overlap with Advanced Cycling.  

“Sorry, Jack,” she’d told him.  “But once the class has started there’s not really anything we can do.  I’ll see about changing the scheduling when we block out next term’s classes.”  There hadn’t really been anything more to say to that, and so he’d resigned himself to slogging through the last couple months of the session and silently hating whoever the instructor was for playing such catchy music.

He complained about this frequently to Shitty, who taught the hot yoga class.  They leaned against the smoothie bar during their break, and Jack would order his wheatgrass monstrosity, and Shitty would have strawberry banana blast, while Jack bemoaned how

“This zumba thing is killing me.  I can feel myself about to lose it, I’m like thisclose”  he illustrated, pinching his thumb and pointer finger together.”

“Aw come on, Jacky Boy, he doesn’t bitch about your shoutey fitness slogans.  Cut him some slack.”  Jack groaned.

“I know it’s stupid to be mad at him, but it’s either that or be mad at my class for falling for it every damn week.  This is an advanced class, they should have more focus than that.”  Shitty clapped him on the shoulder.

“Brah.”  Jack looked him in the eye as he said, “It’s just a fitness class at the neighborhood gym.  You’re not training these people for the Tour de France, if they don’t wanna pedal faster…just let it go.”  Jack blew out a breath.

“I know it doesn’t matter that much, I just…”

“Can’t seem to make that stick?”

“Yeah.  It’s honestly as exhausting as the cycling.”

“Well maybe it’d help if you actually me the teacher?”

“Somehow I doubt that, Shits…I mean I’ve kind of been channeling all of my anger into hating the mysterious instructor and now it just feels too late.  But I can deal, it’s just another month.”

“That’s not healthy, brother-man.  And I know the zumba guy, trust me, it’ll be impossible to keep hating him once you actually know him.”  Jack made a non-committal noise, but before he could decline more firmly, Shitty perked up and grabbed Jack by the arm, waving with his smoothie to someone crossing the gym.

“Yo, Bitty!  My dude, come meet my bff, Jackabelle!”

“Shitty, no, I didn’t -”  Jack tried to tell him, but it was too late.  “Bitty” was looping his earbuds over his shoulders and smiling their way, turning to head towards them instead of the staff locker room.

“Hey, how’s it goin’?”  Bitty asked, a slight bounce to his step as he stopped in front of them, despite the sweat darkening his hairline and making his sharp collar bones and toned arms stand out under the fluorescent lighting and - Jack should not be noticing his collar bones and toned arms, not at all, because this is the guy he’s been hating for the past two months and he needs to get it together and not be weird about this in 3…2…1…

“Hi, I’m Jack.”  Okay, not bad, not bad.  “I uh, teach advanced cycling next door to you.”

“Ahh, right, you’re motivational slogan guy,” Bitty grinned.  “Eric Bittle, but my friends call me Bitty,” he said, holding a hand out.  They shook, and Jack very quietly corrected his previous assumptions about the benefits of zumba because clearly it did wonderful things for Eric’s body.

“Uhhh I - I guess that would be me.  You’re the music guy.”

“Yup, that’s me alright.  Teaching the PTA how to shake their booties three times a week!”  He laughs at his own joke, and does a little shimmy-shake that’s definitely meant to be part of the humor, but just makes Jack’s mouth go a little dry instead.

“Haha.”  Jack had no idea what to say next.  Somehow two languages eluded him completely and he was left standing, mute, before Eric and Shitty.

“Sooo,” Shitty interrupted, saving Jack from the awkward silence he’d plunged to conversation into. “I’ve gotta go get ready to teach another sesh, but Itty Bits and I usually go out for drinks with the rhythm gymnastics teacher and a couple of the trainers after closing.  I know you usually like to go home and crash but your Netflix account won’t miss you for one night.”

“Definitely!” Eric agreed, bouncing on the balls of his feet a little before catching himself and adding in a more reserved voice, “I mean, if you want to that is.  I’m sure the others would love to meet you too!”  Jack tried so hard to make himself say no thank you, to just say he doesn’t drink and he’d see them around, but instead he heard himself saying,

“Sure, that sounds fun.”

“Great!  Shitty can -” Eric turned to Shitty, but the spot he had been occupying previously was vacant, their friend having apparently off to class early.  “Or I guess I can text you the deets,” Eric recovers, and pulls his phone out from the pocket of his gym bag, passing it to Jack with a new contact page open.  Jack put his number in, and as soon as he passed it back to Eric, he tapped at the screen a bit and then returned the phone to his bag.  Jack’s own bag buzzed, and Eric smiled.  “There.  Now you have my number too.”  

“Okay,” Jack said, smiling at Eric.

“Okay.”  Eric grinned back and stepped away.

“I’ll text you,” Jack promised.  Eric nodded, still smiling, and took another step back before turning and walking away for real, waving over his shoulder as he finally disappeared into the staff locker room.

#eric bittle #jack zimmermann #zimbits #au #alternate first meeting

[imaginezimbits]

figure skater!bitty and hockey player!jack

There is music in Faber.  Not the usual game-day get-hyped mix that he was used to when they tested the sound system.  It was beautiful - swelling cello, melancholy and then building speed and drive.  It gets under Jack’s skin, makes his palms sweat.  He wonders if it would offend whoever’s playing it if he asked them to shut it off.  He bypasses the locker room in favor of following the sound, and when he sees the figure on the ice, he almost thinks he’s dreaming.  The music, the scrape of skates, echoing in the rafters is eerie.  In flashes of blonde hair and black clothing, the skater is a phantom, toying with Jack’s memories.  But he can’t leave.  

Nobody else has ever been on the ice before Jack’s usual practice time.  He finds himself equal parts afraid and intrigued as the ma makes graceful leaps, moving too fast to get the impression of a face.  Slowly, he descends through the stands until he is braced against the gate, fingers clutching tightly at the door.  The music ends, skater coming to a flourishing stop at center ice, toe pick dug into the faceoff dot.  Jack’s shoulders fall with the sudden “woosh” of his breath.  His gear bag slips and falls to the ground, the thud of it snapping the man’s attention to Jack.

They regard each other with wide, terrified eyes.

“Um.  Sorry,” the guy says.

“No, no.  I uh - I’m sorry.”

“What?”

“I didn’t know anyone was using the rink.”

“Oh.”

“I thought maintenence put music on.”

“No, that - That was me.”

“I see.”  The guy fidgeted.  “You’re good.”

“Well…Thank you.”

“I mean it.  That was beautiful.” The skater blushed.

“You’re too kind.”

“I’m really not.” They continued to stare at each other.

“I should probably get out of your way then.”

“You - uh - you don’t have to.”

“Hm?”

“We could split the ice.  I don’t really need a whole rink for my thing.  Was just gonna shoot some pucks.”

“You’re on the hockey team.”  It wasn’t a question.  Jack nodded anyway.

“I’m Jack.”

“Eric.”

“Nice to meet you.”  Jack tried to smile.  Eric smiled back.

“You too.”  Jack smiled wider, realer.

“I should, uh, go put my skates on.” Jack jerked his thumb at the bench.  Eric bit his lip.

“Okay.” He started skating backwards slowly.  Jack dragged his bag into the penalty box and grabbed his skates.  After kicking off his running shoes, he took his time lacing up, willing his ears to stop burning as he pulled the laces taut.  With a breath, he stood and took the bucket of pucks with him, gloves tucked under his arm as he took the ice.  Trying his best to ignore Eric, who had put in headphones, he started with a few half laps to warm up his legs.

They nearly scared each other half to death when they skated up the center line, turning to skate right beside each other.  Eric recovered his poise first, giving a bright smile before speeding up and leaving Jack in the dust.  Jack tried to work on some puck-handling drills, but found himself watching the puck in his periphery, watching as Eric runs through the routine again and again.  He can almost hear the cello in the movements of his body.  As he finishes the run-through, Eric looks over his shoulder at Jack.  Jack loses control of the puck.

It thumps against the boards.  He goes after the puck, and for the first time in his adult life, his skating is entirely graceless.

“Sorry, I’m distracting you,” Eric says.  “I should probably just go.”  Jack turns quickly, startling Eric.  

“You don’t have to go,” Jack insists.  “It’s not - You aren’t distracting in a bad way.”  Eric’s face is already flushed from exertion, but the little smile he directs at his skates makes Jack’s chest squeeze.  He skates closer, cradling the puck with his stick, until he and Eric are close enough that they don’t have to raise their voices in the cavernous rink.  “You’re really good.  You - um, uh - it’s…really beautiful.”

“Well thank you.”  Eric meets his eyes, smile growing.  “I guess I best get going though, free skate’s almost over.”  Jack looks up at the clock on the scoreboard and sees that his team will be in for practice any minute.

“Oh…Yeah, the guys will be here for warmups pretty soon.”  He doesn’t want Eric to go, but if they walked in now, the chirping would be brutal.  He’s pretty sure it’s written clear on his face just how adorable he finds Eric.

“Right…” Eric’s smile dims, and Jack scrambles to fix it before he disappears.”

“But I’ll see you tomorrow?” And there it is, back in full force.

“Tomorrow.”

#eric bittle #jack zimmermann #zimbits #check please! #omgcp

[imaginezimbits]

Bittys reaction to jack cutting off his 90s boy band bangs 😪

“Hey honey, how was - Oh my!”  Bitty froze, half turned away from the cream he was whisking, eyes wide.

“Does it look bad?” Jack asked, sheepish as he shifted on his feet, ruffling his newly-shorn hair.  The floppy bangs - the ones that reminded Bitty of his brief and shameful boyband phase before he found Beyonce - were gone.  Instead, Jack sported a short, clean cut.  He looked…

“Good!”  Bitty rushed to assure him.

“Yeah?”  Jack seemed to doubt it.  Bitty quickly started whisking the cream again, trying to get the peaks to stiffen as fast as possible while reassuring his boyfriend that,

“Yes sweetpea, you always look so handsome.  I just didn’t know you were getting a haircut.  I’m…surprised!”

“You’re sure it looks okay?”

“I swear on Moomaw’s peach cobbler recipe.”  At that, Jack let out a breath, finally letting himself smile.

“Okay, I believe you.”  He came over to Bitty, and as soon as his boyfriend had set the mixing bowl aside, Jack bundled him up in his arms.

“What has gotten into you today?” Bitty asked, laughing into Jack’s chest and hugging him around the waist, squeezing back just as tight.  Jack nuzzled into Bitty’s hair, the softness and the sweet smell of conditioner making it one of Jack’s favorite things.  He hummed, pressing a smiling kiss where his mouth landed.

“Pretty happy, I guess.  Coaches are pretty confident we’ll be making it to post-season.  Three more games, and we only need one more win to lock at least a wild card.  That’s euh…kinda why the haircut.”

“Jack!” Bitty looked up in surprise.  “Isn’t that bad luck?”  Jack shook his head, looking amused.

“A little presumptuous maybe, but the coaches said so and there’s no specific superstition against it so…”

“So?  What on Earth managed to get you to deviate from your standard - your classic - Backstreet Boys bangs?” Jack laughed, and started to sway, taking Bitty along with him in the silly half-dance, and pulling a laugh out of him as well.

“Well I didn’t want to spend our first anniversary sporting my old high school ‘do.  That’d be awful.”  Bitty stopped, his resistance stilling Jack as well, and Bitty turned in his boyfriend’s arms so they could be face to face.

“That’s actually incredibly sweet.”

“You know how important you are to me, Bits.  I know it’s not a big thing, but I don’t want hockey to make me look like a ridiculous caveman on our day.  Figure it’s the least I can do after you had to live through Movember.”

“Oh god,” Bitty groaned, remembering the awful ‘stache that had plagued him all through November.  “That was trying.  Good lord but that thing was hideous.” Jack leaned down to kiss him, firm and barely holding back a smile.  “I suppose I’ll get used to having that thing on my face eventually.”

“Does that mean one of these years you’re gonna let me keep it?”

“No, it absolutely does not!  It just means that I love you enough to overlook your regrettable facial hair occasionally.”  Bitty cupped his cheek, stroking a thumb over his face thoughtfully.  “But a well-groomed beard would definitely be up for discussion.”

#jack zimmermann #eric bittle #zimbits #check please! #omgcp

[imaginezimbits]

Jack and Bitty are out on a date. A little old lady walks by thinks Jack is trying to take advantage of a minor. She starts whacking him with her cane. Bitty has to show her id to get her to believe him and clear Jack's name.

Hello.  First, I’d like to thank you for sending a prompt.  Second, I don’t want any of the following to be read as accusatory, because I doubt this was maliciously intended.  That said, the third point is that I can’t write this prompt.

To do so would require me to make humor out of grown men taking advantage of teenagers, which is a huge and very real problem.  I could not in good conscience make light of something like that, especially in a way that discourages people from speaking up in defense of minors.  This is a prompt that, outside the context of a sexual/romantic relationship could be harmless and funny (ex: Bitty being Mistaken for Holster’s brother when everyone stops shaving for playoffs). Additionally, writing this prompt would engage in long standing harmful stereotypes that were/are still used to connect homosexuality with pedophilia as well as infantilize a gay man that exhibits effeminate qualities.

I hope my reasons are clear, and I encourage you to send another Zimbits prompt in - I would love to be able to write you something else.  If you or anyone else has any questions about this response, feel free to ask them and I will try my best to answer them clearly.  

Thank you,

imaginezimbits  

[imaginezimbits]

This is silly and weird?? But you know how Bitty is a southern gentleman and was raised with MANNERS. Well the first time he accidentally burps around Jack he probably freaks out

“I can’t -” hic “believe -” hic “I did it again!” Bitty wailed, thumping his head down on Jack’s shoulder.

“Oh Bits,” he tried to sound sympathetic, but couldn’t quite keep the amusement out of his voice.

“Don’t laugh at me!  I really was gonna be responsible this year.”  Jack squeezed Bitty’s thigh where he was holding him up.

“It’s Spring C, nobody’s going to judge you for being schwasted.”

“This is the second time you have had to piggyback me home from this.”

“Yes, but this year you have both shoes, so you’ve made progress.  I bet next year you’ll walk back all on your own.”

“Chirp, chirp, Mr. Zimm-” Bitty was cut off by a loud, rumbling belch falling right out of his mouth.  Jack snorted, then coughed, and finally doubled over with laughter.  The sudden lurch had Bitty gripping him tighter, fingers bunching the sleeves of Jack’s shirt.  “Oh my lord,” He pressed his burning face into the back of Jack’s neck.  “Excuse me.  Oh honey, I’m so sorry, I’m just a mess.”  That only made Jack laugh harder.  Bitty huffed, “Well, I’m glad you think it’s funny,” and proceeded to let go and roll off of his boyfriend and onto the grass of the quad.

He pushed himself up to sitting and tried to start wobbling his way across the lawn.  It was pretty slow going since he felt like a baby deer.  Behind him, Jack’s laughter tapered off, and he heard footsteps as he closed the distance between them in a couple long strides.  As soon as Jack’s hand cupped his elbow, the world steadied.  And then Jack was in front of him, easily supporting him and reaching with his free hand to brush through Bitty’s sweaty hair, his expression concerned.

“Bits, what’s wrong?  Why are you so upset?”

“I just-” his voice went wobbly, vision blurring with frustrated tears.  “I’m tired, and sweaty, and drunk, and I really just want to be home.”  He sniffles.  “And I really, really, want a shower.”  

Jack moved to Bitty’s side, wrapping an arm around his waist to keep him steady.  He kissed the side of Bitty’s head.

“I think we can manage to make that happen.”  Bitty sighed happily and leaned harder against him.

“Thanks sweetpea.”  They shuffled their way back to the Haus together, walking along in contented silence.  Bitty was still pretty out of it, and Jack didn’t mind the quiet, so they shambled along, Bitty still heavily bolstered by Jack’s hold.  At the Haus, Jack nudged Bitty up the stairs, following carefully behind in case he stumbled, and sent him into the bathroom to pee while Jack fetched a pair of pajamas.  Then he joined Bitty and got them both undressed and into the shower, Bitty leaning against him again as he sudsed up his hair and gently washed the sweat and dirt smudges from his body.  He combed his fingers through Bitty’s hair to get the bubbles out, tipping his head back into the spray and shielding his eyes with his other hand.  When Jack washed himself, Bitty tried to clumsily reciprocate, humming and giggling and giving Jack a soapy mohawk that made him laugh outright.

Both boys toweled off and pulled on shorts and t-shirts and all but fell into Bitty’s bed, smiling and thoroughly exhausted.  Jack, curled on his side to face his boyfriend, reached out to run a hand under the back of Bitty’s shirt and touch cooling skin.  

“Feel better?” he checked.  Bitty nodded, scooting closer so he could tuck his face into Jack’s shoulder.

“Much.  You always take such good care of me, baby.”  Jack closed his heavy eyes and settled deeper into the pillow.

“I learned from you.”

“Oh stop,” Bitty murmured, sounding half asleep himself.

“Never.”

Imaginezimbits is open for prompts!  Send your requests here!

#jack zimmermann #eric bittle #zimbits #check please! #omgcp

[imaginezimbits]

SO I was just reading another fic where Bitty was looking for cans of pumpkin and I just thought... I wonder how Bitty reacted to the news this past fall that cans of pumpkin actually contain very little pumpkin? That like, it's mostly other squash?

“Yo Bitty, we’re back!”  Ransom and Holster stomped the snow from their boots and tramped into the kitchen where Bitty was prepping a whole line of pie dishes with their bottom crusts.

“Perfect timing!  I was just finishing up with these.”  He reached out to take a ag from Ransom and start unloading it into the pantry.  “Thank you boys again, I just could not hoof it all the way to Stop & Shop in that weather.”

“We got your back, bro.”  Holster slapped him on the back and started pulling out bags of nuts and fruit for the Hausgiving pies.

“Where’s the pumpkin?”  Bitty asked, looking around at the pile of groceries.  “I should get started with that since it’ll take the longest.”

“Oh, I think it’s in here,” Ransom said, giving one of his bags a shake.  It made a metallic clunking noise as cans of soup knocked against each other.

“In there?”

“Yeah.  I know, I hate when they bag all the cans together too.  This thing’s fuckin heavy.  Like, we get it, it’s organized, but it’s -”

“Y’all got canned pumpkin?”  Bitty looked at him with wide eyes, a bag of pecans dangling from his other hand.  Ransom cut his eyes over to Holster, who was staring back at him, fear clear behind the lenses of his glasses.

“Um…yes?”

“That’s not what the list said.  I wrote one pumpkin.”

“Like…an actual pumpkin?  Like for Halloween?” Holster asked.  Bitty whirled around to face him.

“YES like an actual pumpkin!  That canned junk ain’t real pumpkin, it’s mystery squash.”  

“Oh.”  Holster scooted back to the door, carefully keeping the table between himself and Bitty.  He remembered the Beyonce album release fit and did not want to find himself the target of Bitty’s next rage.  “Um, should we go back and get one then?” His voice squeaked a little and Ransom would usually chirp him for days for a crack like that, but he honestly couldn’t blame him.  

The happy ding of Bitty’s phone getting a text from Jack saved them.  Bitty just sighed and shook his head as he pulled out his phone and read the message.  “No, y’all just go upstairs and don’t bother me ‘till these pies are done.  Jack’s almost here, so I’ll have him stop.  Clearly y’all were not ready for Hausgiving errands.”  He waved them away, and neither argued as they turned and scampered up to the attic, Ransom carefully snagging the bag of Doritos off the table as they left.  

Jack showed up twenty minutes later with his overnight bag over his shoulder, a bag of extra butter and flour, and a beautifully round pumpkin tucked under his other arm.  Bitty kissed the pumpkin and his boyfriend, in that order.

“Honey, this is perfect.  I should’ve just sent you from the start, I dunno what I was thinking letting the boys go on their own.”  Jack smiled in that fond way he did when Bitty was being ridiculous.

“Come on Bits, they tried.”  Bitty hummed and Jack tipped his chin up for another kiss.  “Just think, when you met them, they would’ve come back with a Marie Calendar’s and a case of pumpkin-spice flavored beer.”  Bitty laughed through the pained groan that thought elicited.

“Oh lord, is that was passed for Thanksgiving here?”

“No,” Jack said, setting down the groceries and suitcase so he could wrap Bitty in his arms.  “That would’ve been them trying.���

“That’s horrifying.”

“Mmhm.”  Bitty pressed his face into Jack’s chest.  “And look how much they love you.  Jack picked up the bag of cherries from the table.  “These are organic.  Do you know how huge that is for these guys?”

“Cherry’s my favorite,” Bitty mumbled.

“They know.”

“…Maybe I was a little harsh earlier.”

Ransom and Holster woke up from an afternoon nap to the smell of a mystery squash pie sitting on top of Ransom’s Orgo textbook and figured they’d been at least partially forgiven.

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#eric bittle #jack zimmermann #justin oluransi #adam birkholtz #ransom and holster #zimbits #check please! #omgcp

[imaginezimbits]

Hello! I just read all of your stories and I love them!! You write so well! Anyways, I was wondering if you could possibly write a fic where Jack is watching one of the Samwell games (after he graduated) and Bitty gets checked really badly and he freaks out?

Okay so this is a liiiittle different than what you requested, but I couldn’t not write it when I thought of it.  Warning for some unfriendly chirping, but nothing too extreme.

Bitty was having a great game.  He was dodging check left and right, and had even managed to dole out a couple of nudges back.  He’d scored the goal that put Samwell on the board late in the first period off a sweet pass from Ransom and kicked the third off with an assist on Tango’s backhand goal.  Shitty had hardly sat down in his seat the entire game, cheering and waving his new favorite sign “GIMME THE 4-11 TONIGHT” and getting a dusting of glitter all over the hair and fries of the guy in front of them.  Jack, for his part, was bouncing on the balls of his feet, hands twitching at his sides when he wasn’t using them to gesticulate wildly as he cheered on his boyfriend and their friends.  

Meanwhile, down on the ice, Bitty was pissed.  One of the d-men on the other team had been chirping them in an especially unfriendly way all night, and it was getting on his last nerve.  Usually, Bitty had a pretty thick skin when it came to that though.  Years of torment at the hands of bullies in Georgia and being probably the smallest guy in the NCAA made him good at shaking it off.  He’d close his eyes, take a deep breath, and remember the day he’d finally told his MooMaw what had really been giving him such a tough time at school.  She’d set down her cup of tea and leaned over the table to pinch Eric’s chin between her weathered fingers, and told him, “You’ve just gotta turn the other cheek baby,” and then her eyes took on a wicked gleam as she added, “and let ‘em kiss your ass.”

“Kiss my ass, Dunfort,” Bitty muttered to himself as he re-positioned himself beside Whiskey for the face-off again.  The ref dropped the puck, Whiskey knocked it back to Nursey, and they were off again.  They batted it around a bit, Nursey to Bitty to Tango and back to Whiskey, who got smashed into the boards cleanly and lost control of the puck.  Bitty spun, kicking up a spray of snow, and booked it after the puck.  Nursey and Dex zeroed in on the two players volleying it back and forth down the ice and shoulder-checked them out of alignment just enough for their last pass to go wide.  The stray puck rolled around behind the goal and Bitty dashed after it, and was, of course, met by Dunfort, who shoved him roughly out of the way, scooped up the puck, and tried for a wraparound, only to have Chowder’s glove swoop down and stop him.

“Fuck!”  With two minutes left in regulation and Samwell up by one, and with the way their D had been lighting it up all night, it was looking like victory for the Wellies was imminent and Dunfort was none too happy about it.  He threw his stick down in frustration as the ref skated up to take the puck from Chowder.  His teammate tried to pull him away by the elbow, but he pulled his arm free and turned to glare at Bitty patting Chowder on the head in congratulations.  “Fuckin ridiculous!  Between Tinkerbell and Brace-face here, we might as well be playing middle schoolers.”

Bitty huffed, and he saw Chowder’s eyebrows pinch together behind his mask.  Off ice, Chris Chow was the sweetest person Bitty knew, but on the ice it’s a whole different story, and he didn’t want some jerk getting him out of his zone.

“You’re one to talk, fresh-meat.  I’m surprised you can even hold up your fat head yet,” Chowder shot back.

“Oh lord,” Bitty sighed.  Dunfort sneered.

“You eat your girlfriend out with those tinsel teeth?”  Chowder stood up and skated to the edge of the crease.  Bitty could feel his presence looming behind as he glowered.

“Don’t talk about my girlfriend!”  Chowder skated forward again, and Bitty tried to pull him back.  His own blood was boiling, and he was itching to step in and say something, but chirping was never going to really put a bully like that in his place.

“Come on man, just drop it,” Dunfort’s teammate gave his sleeve another yank, but he wouldn’t let it go.

“Chowder, honey,” Bitty tried to soothe him with a glove on his chest.  Dunfort cackled.  The edges of Bitty’s vision went red.

“Honey!?”  He hooted.  Bitty pulled his hand away from Chowder and shook the glove off.  “Oh man, that’s so fuckin-” Dunfort didn’t get to finish his sentence.  Bitty’s glove swiped the helmet off his head and his bare fist connected with Dunfort’s cheek, and that was that.

He only got the one hit in.  Immediately after, Dunfort shoved him to the ice and the linesman swooped in and removed them both, Dunfort to the penalty box and Bitty from the game altogether.

Up in the stands, the crowd was losing its collective shit, none moreso than Jack and Shitty.  Shitty was screaming indiscernibly,though Jack assumed it was probably profane in nature.  Meanwhile, he himself was warring between concern for Bitty’s safety and and overwhelming pride.  Fortunately, both reactions demanded the same response from him: he left the stands.  The game was basically won, and even on the penalty kill for the last of it, the Samwell team’s morale would be through the roof from watching Bitty throw down.  So he made his way down to the players’ tunnels, following the path he could still take in his sleep.  

He reaches the locker room just as coach Hall is shoving his way back out, scowling hard and nearly running into Jack.  

“Jack!”  He looks surprised to see him, which is probably fair so close to the end of the game.  Shaking his head, he tells him, “You might’ve fixed Bittle’s physicality issue a little too much.”  Jack consciously pulls his mind away from any meanings that could apply to that beyond hockey, but he still feels himself blushing as he shoves his hands in his pockets and says,

“Sorry?”

“Guess I’ll be careful what I wish for next time,” he says, and then he gives Jack a couple pats on the back and disappears down the tunnel, hurrying back to the bench.

When he steps into the locker room, Jack’s not sure what he’ll find.  He sort of expects Bitty to be crying - he’s never good with confrontation, and Hall surely reamed him out for getting himself booted from the next game.  He’s definitely expecting something quiet and subdued, the way Bitty always is on the other side of a fight, drained of all the rage he mustered up for the occasion.  For all he was a fighter, Eric Bittle wasn’t good at being angry.

Instead, Bitty looked livid.  He was crying too, face red and a few frustrated tears dripping down his cheeks, like he’d managed to hold it in until coach left and was bursting at the seams with it.  “Don’t” he chokes out as soon as he makes out Jack standing in the doorway.  Jack steps further into the room and lets the door fall shut to give them a moment of privacy while the game runs out and the teams shake hands.

“Don’t…what?”  Bitty’s taught him not to be afraid of asking more questions, even if he’s worried they might sound stupid.  “It’s stupider to just let it get lost in translation,” Bitty had told him.  So he asks.  Because he wants to be whatever his boyfriend needs right now, but he needs to be told. 

“Don’t lecture me, I know it was wrong, but I’m not sorry and I’m not gonna be.”  His arms are crossed defensively across his chest, but his lips keep trembling and Jack just wants to make him stop caving in on himself.  He nods and crosses the room to stand in front of Bitty and smooths his hands over his shoulders.

“That’s not what I came here for,” Jack promises.  Bittle sniffles, waiting for him to continue.  “I just wanted to make sure you were alright.  It’s not like you to let chirping get to you.”

“Well.”  Bitty shrugged.  “He went after Chowder.  And he was like a dog with a bone, that one.  Nothin’ else was gonna shut him up.”

“So you shut it for him, eh?” Jack’s mouth curved up in a smile, and Bitty laughed, the redness in his face fading a little as his eyes dried.

“That’s about the size of it, seems.” Jack pulled him into his chest for a hug, Bitty rubbing his tear-stained face against the fabric of Jack’s t-shirt, and Jack pressing a kiss to Bitty’s hair, uncaring of how sweaty and unruly it was.

A moment later, they heard the team thundering back down the hallway, and could tell from the volume alone that they’d won.  They tumbled into the locker room in a heap of yelling boys and flailing limbs, shoving and whooping as they split off to their stalls to start stripping gear off.  Shitty picked up the rear, churro in one hand and glitter sign in the other.

“What a fuckin night!” he crowed through a mouthful of fried pastry.  “Bits, brah!  Way to throw the fuck down!  Rans, that last goal’s going in the spank bank!”

“Thanks, Shitty,” Bitty laughed, tucking himself under Jack’s arm.

“I feel sorry for Lards though,” Holster elbowed Ransom.  The woman in question shoved through the frogs and gave Shitty a playful swat on the butt with her clipboard.

“I knew what I signed up for.”

“Jack, tell these fuckers how beautiful they are!”  Bitty felt Jack laugh against his side, and expected him to shake his head and brush it off, but instead, Jack’s arm around his shoulders shook him, free hand ruffling his hair as he yelled, 

“My man scored a Gordie Howe hattie tonight!”

#eric bittle #jack zimmermann #zimmbits #check please! #omgcp

[imaginezimbits]

Jack is wretchedly sick and Bitty is taking care of him. (Not hospital sick, but still total feverish misery.)

Jack doesn’t really get sick.  Years of spending hours a day in ice rinks have left him all but immune to the effects of the cold, he takes multivitamins religiously, eats well, sleeps consistently, and keeps up with his doctor’s appointments.  He’s the picture of physical health, and he’s gotten quite used to it.  

Jack doesn’t really get sick.  

But when he does, he gets really sick.

Like, truly, pathetically, bed-ridden sick.  In fact, the incident that cemented his friendship with Lardo came when they were the only two crashing at the Haus for spring break Sophomore year, and he came down with a late flu so badly that he couldn’t keep himself steady on his feet.  For the worst couple days of it, he was so weak she had to help him to the bathroom to pee.  They never spoke of it to the guys, but by the time everyone came back, they were ride or die.

And Jack hadn’t been sick again before graduation.  As he kicked into high gear preparing himself to enter the NHL, he was even more obsessively healthy, and with Bitty holding the Haus to a higher standard of cleanliness, there were fewer germs flying around than ever before.  The only thing that could’ve sabotaged him was the “awful green couch that probably had smallpox in it, good lord”, but even that, he’d built up an immunity to.  But being in a totally new city, in a new apartment, and surrounded by all new people - some of which had very tiny children - was enough to do him in.  And when Providence flu season rolled around, there was no vaccine or vitamin supplement that could save him.

It came on quick, as these things do.  One day, he was a little sniffly, but paid no attention to it.  Bitty was coming down to visit after his finals, and Jack couldn’t wait to see him after weeks and weeks apart.  Because as lovely as it was to be able to call him on the phone or see his face over Skype, now that he knew how it felt to fall asleep with Bitty snuggled up close, warm and soft in his arms, it was so hard to force himself back to settling for a smile on a screen.  He had made plans for them all night, starting with dinner down by the waterfront at a place Tater had shown him a few weeks ago, and followed by a walk around town to the bakery he passed every day on his run that always made him think of Bitty.  After that, they’d bring pastry home and eat it - he had visions of them feeding each other bites of tarts and cake, curled close on the couch - and then…well.  It had been a while.  Nobody could really blame him for his imagination running a little wild.

When Bitty hopped into the passenger seat outside the Commuter Rail station, he was beaming, and immediately leaned over the console to kiss Jack’s cheek.  

“Hi honey,” he said, cheery and bright, and Jack felt warm.  So warm.

“Hey Bits.  I missed you.”  

“I missed you too.”  Bitty took his hand.  “Are you feeling alright?”

“Yeah, I’m okay.  Why?”

“Oh nothing, just you sound a little stuffed up.”  Jack shrugged and pulled away from the curb, heading home.

“It’s probably just from being in the rink.  How’re you?”  

“Oh.  Well…”  Bitty launched into a long, complicated story about his cousins on his father’s side and the drama surrounding one of the girl cousins’ wedding planning, all of which culminated in her planner quitting in a huff.  “…and then, this girl decides to call me.  Of all people, and I said, ‘Clarissa, why on Earth did you think I’d be of any use here?  I live in a damn frat house.’ and she has the gall to say, ‘I thought, well…you know…that you’d be good at this.’  Can you believe that?”

Jack gave a grunt that he hoped was appropriately outraged, but couldn’t really coalesce his thoughts well enough to really respond.  He wanted to pay attention - usually he had no trouble paying attention because his boyfriend was captivating.  He loved how Bitty told a story, the clever ways he used words.  But everything was just a little foggy and overheated.  It didn’t seem like Bitty noticed though, and he kept chattering away until they were back at the apartment.

It hit Jack what was wrong the moment Bitty got him up against the front door, their mouths sliding together.  As soon as Jack’s eyes closed, he could feel the watery stinging sensation that came with fever.  He wanted so badly to keep kissing Bitty, but he couldn’t knowingly infect his own boyfriend, so he pulled back, pressing their foreheads together.  Bitty whined in protest, and tried to tug him back in, but Jack shook his head.

“No, Bits.  I think I’m sick.  I shouldn’t kiss you.”  And oh god, how did he not hear it in his voice earlier?  He’s doomed.  “Yeah no.   I’m definitely really sick.”

“Oh baby.”  Bitty made a sad face up at him, and then there were cool calloused fingers brushing his bangs off his forehead and feeling for a temperature.  “Hmm.  You do feel a little warm, but not too bad.  I’ll make soup for dinner though.  Moomaw’s chicken noodle can cure anything.”  Jack smiled and sniffled.

“Thanks.  You’re the best, you know?”  Bitty patted his chest.

“Oh, I know,” he said, and turned away to focus on the kitchen.  Jack settled himself at one of the barstools to watch as Bitty got a pot of broth simmering and cut up some leftover chicken.  He lost himself in the rhythmic sound of carrots being chopped and the ups and downs of Bitty’s voice as he chattered on about the guys back at the Haus.  

The scent of the soup cooking couldn’t fully make it past Jack’s now definitely clogged sinuses, and he wasn’t particularly hungry, but when a steaming bowl was nudged in front of him, he obediently picked up his spoon and tucked in.  As he ate, Bitty rubbed gentle circles on his back, and Jack tried not to flinch away.  He was starting to feel chills creeping into his bones under the fever flush, and the pressure on his skin felt achy.  Just the weight of his shirt shifting felt like it was scraping him raw.  Finally, he put his head down on the counter, finished with at least most of the soup, and groaned, “Even my skin hurts, this is awful.”  Bitty’s hands pulled back, and Jack grumbled at the sting that seeped in where his boyfriend’s fingers used to be.  

“You poor thing,” Bitty sighed.  He took Jack’s hand and guided him off the barstool, through the bedroom, and into their bathroom.  “You’ll feel better after a hot shower.  Go steam open your sinuses, get warm, okay?” Jack nodded, and allowed himself to be nudged along until he stepped under the spray.  Bitty left the door open behind him, and Jack could hear the closet door opening and closing, the rustling of bedding, and then Bitty rummaging in the dresser for pajamas.  Breathing in the steam did help unclog his nose, even if he could feel it dripping down his face, and the stream of water felt harsh where it hit between his shoulder blades, but it seemed to be rinsing the rest of the discomfort off of him.  

When he turned off the water and stepped out, Bitty was there to meet him, and wrapped Jack up in one of the guest towels because they’re so much fluffier than the ones he picked for himself.  Bitty gently patted him dry and guided him to the bed, where he’d laid out pajamas for Jack - thin flannel pants and a worn Habs t-shirt that used to belong to Bob.  Jack got dressed, only speaking to murmur “Thanks,” as he tugged the shirt down.  

“Of course, sweetpea.  I’ve got your back.”  When he slid under the covers, Jack found that Bitty had changed the sheets too, finding the soft thin ones Jack usually saved for summer.  He sighed at the gentle slide of them against his achy body.  Bitty climbed in on his side.

“You don’t have to stay in here with me,”  Jack said.  “You can sleep in the guest room if you want, I don’t want you to get sick.”  Bitty shook his head.

“I got my flu shot, I’ll be fine.  In any case, I’m not leaving you in here to be miserable all by yourself.  So get used to it, mister.”  Jack smiled, and Bitty scooched closer until he could tuck his hands up the back of Jack’s t-shirt and gently work at the knots along his spine.  Jack drifted off to sleep knowing that he was going to feel like absolute garbage in the morning, but knowing that Bitty would be there to take care of him.

The ask box is open!  Submit your prompts and headcannons here!

#jack zimmermann #eric bittle #zimbits #check please! #omgcp

[imaginezimbits]

What if Bitty says "Peachy keen, Jelly Beans" and SMH LITERALLY CANNOT HANDLECTHEU CUTENESS? Love your fics btw

It’s totally Holster’s fault.  Because literally who else would want to watch Grease just because ABC Family was having a “Musical Monday” for the long weekend?  Absolutely no-one but Holster, whose love of musicals is almost completely indiscriminate (Excep Cats.  Fucking fuck Cats.)  Bitty ends up watching about half of it with him out of pity while he waits on a pie.  The conclusion at the end of it remains unchanged.

“Well, that was terrible as always,” Holster sighs pushing himself up off the couch for a pie break before Hairspray started.

“Oh, naturally,” Bitty agrees.  “But Rizzo is kind of goals, right?  Like, she’s so badass.”

“I know, right?”

And see, the thing about musicals is that they don’t have to be good to be catchy.  So by the time the weekend rolls around and Bitty is headed down to Providence, the whole Haus is pretty well done with hearing about Holster’s “chills”or literally anything Bitty has to say about Sandra Dee.  There’s a legitimate concern that the Frogs might mutiny before classes on Monday.

Jack isn’t home from afternoon workout with Tater and Marty, so Bitty settles himself in the kitchen and gets his music going.  The ritual of cutting the butter into the crust, peeling apples, lacing strips of pastry together to form the perfect lattice crust lifts his already good mood, and by the time Jack gets home, Bitty is practically vibrating from the joy.

“Hey Bits,” Jack greets him, smile soft and arms coming to wrap him in a warm hug.

“Hi,baby,” Bitty sighs, leaning into Jack’s chest.  It’s always surprising how soft Jack is.  For all he looks made of marble, every time he’s wrapped up in Jack’s arms, Bitty thinks he’s cozier than any bed.  “How were the boys?”

“Good,” Jack says, ducking to press a smiling kiss into Bitty’s hair.  “How’re you?” Bitty looks up, all big brown eyes and sweet freckles.

“Peachy keen, jellybean.”

Jack similarly believes he may have suffered an episode of cardiac arrest at just how completely fucking adorable his boyfriend was in that instant.  He just kind of stands there in gaping awe while Bitty extricates himself from the embrace to slip the pie in the oven and set his egg timer.  As soon as Bits finishes winding it and turns back to him, Jack breaks.  He steps in again and scoops Bitty up, hauling him off to their bedroom.

“Forty-five on the clock.”

Bitty laughs, but makes himself comfortable in Jack’s grip as he pulled his poor hopeless boyfriend into a kiss.

#eric bittle #jack zimmermann #zimmbits #check please #omgcp

[imaginezimbits]

Oh my god I love all of your fics! They're all amazing! I was wondering if you could do a over-protective/jealous zimbits? Idc who is the possessive one or if it turns to fluff or nsfw but I'd just love a happy ending. You're great btw!

!!!! You’re too sweet!  Here’s some jealous zimbits with just a hint of [redacted] for you

Eric is not the jealous type, which has definitely been in the best interests of his and Jack’s relationship.  The way attraction works for Jack is just so slow that by the time he gets around to dating someone, they’re usually friends too.  Which leads to things like standing lunch plans with Camilla Collins whenever she comes to visit her sister at Brown or hanging out at alumni events together.  Even he and Kent have finally started to be friends again, a development largely facilitated by Eric himself.  Add to that the amount of time Jack spends with beautiful people hanging on him at bars after a win or at Falcs events, it’s enough to drive a lesser man mad, but Eric can always brush it off.

“Oh baby, I don’t mind.  I know you’re as loyal as they come.  And besides, why would I be jealous of someone talking to you at some boring fundraiser when you’re coming back to our bed, hm?”

Jack really wishes he could think like that; that he could be content just knowing that he’s loved above all else and not concerning himself with the rest.  Because it’s not that he thinks Eric would ever in a million years cheat.  He knows that when Eric first came out to his parents he had a very long talk with his mother that ended with a “Dicky’s Wedding

But Jack is, in fact, the jealous type.  It’s just another part of his anxiety that he hates, the way that it sometimes makes him so selfish and attention-seeking.  He’s not worried about his boyfriend cheating on him, he’s worried that Eric just doesn’t realize he exists right now.  It’s ridiculous, he knows.  After all, the only reason they’re here at all is because You Can Play was hosting a fundraiser and George had asked Jack to be there.  But Eric had been locked deep in conversation with a donor and the Aces’ AGM for the past hour and he was starting to get antsy, wanting Bitty’s smile aimed at him, to press his hand to the small of his back, to see the champagne flush on his cheeks up close.  He leans back against the bar, sipping his seltzer and lime, taking in the line of Eric’s throat as he throws his head back and laughs.

“Why am I not surprised to find you lurking in the corner?”  Jack turns to find Kent beside him, flagging down the bartender and gesturing for another of whatever fruity cocktail he’s drinking.

“I’m not lurking,” he protests.  “Just wanted a break.  You know how I feel about these things.”

“Yeah, you think these people are a bunch of insincere assholes.”

“Well, aren’t they?”

“Some of ‘em, yeah.”  Kent takes his new drink from the bartender with a nod and sips at the straw.  “Sounds like your boy’s found a nice one.”

“Yup.”  Jack looks down at the ice in his glass, then glances back at Eric.  Kent frowns.

“What?  Did I say something?”

“No, nothing.  Just - He’s just been over there awhile.”  Kent rolls his eyes, a knowing smile pulling at his lips.

“Jeez Zimms, if you miss him so bad, just go over there.”  Jack shakes his head, bangs shifting across his forehead.

“No, no.  I shouldn’t interrupt.”

“Then get him to come over here.”  With that, Kent reaches into the pocket of Jack’s suit jacket and snags his phone.  He elbows Jack out of the way when he tries to make a grab for it, unlocking it with his free hand.

“How do you know my password?” Jack demands, making another feeble bid to take his phone back without drawing attention to their scuffle.

“Because you use your freakin anniversary, like a moron.”  Resigned, Jack watches as Kent opens his message thread with Bitty and sends a brief thanks to the universe when the most recent messages are their exchange about dinner.  Kent taps out a quick message and hit send.

Hey sexy, turn around ;)

“You’re so immature, he’s clearly going to know that’s not me!”  Jack snatches his phone back just in time for Eric to excuse himself and check the notification.  He turns around, ears burning red.  When he catches sight of Jack and Kent at the bar, Jack can feel himself flushing in response and points at Kent accusingly.  Kent just raises his drink to Bitty, shooting him a wink.  Eric rolls his eyes and taps something quick out on his phone before pocketing it and returning to his conversation.

Kent’s phone buzzes.

“He gave me the finger!”

“You deserve it.”  Jack glances at Bitty again, whose ears have returned to a normal color.  He feels a pang of wanting again.  Kent’s text had been stupid, but the principle of it had worked, so Jack unlocks his phone again and taps out a new message.

I miss you.

Across the room, Jack sees Eric pull out his phone again, a tight irritated set to his shoulders that runs out of them when he reads the message.  He looks back over his shoulder with soft eyes, and Jack lets himself broadcast how lonely his is.  His phone vibrates.

Well then come over here, silly!

Jack bites his lip, trying to figure out how to tell Eric that he’s jealous of anyone who’s taking Eric’s focus away from him without sounding needy and crazy.  He’s been assured that it doesn’t bother Bitty when he has to reassure Jack, that he’d gladly tell him a hundred times a day how much he’s loved.  It still never gets easier to admit the days that he kind of needs to be at the front of Bitty’s mind like that.

Or you could come over here

Jack, you know we’re supposed to be talking to the donors.

I needed a little break from the people.  I really just want to be with you.

He kind of regrets the last text just after he sends it, too cloyingly honest.  But then Eric is excusing himself from the people he’s been talking to and starts making his way out of the banquet hall.  Jack watches him go, then eyes the door next to the bar.  Kent elbows him.

“You do realize it’s going to be pretty conspicuous if two of the three out players here disappear for a while?”  Jack fixes him with a stare, and after a moment’s interpretation, Kent sighs and pushes away from the bar.  “Right, and you don’t care.  Fine, I’ll cover for you.  But only because I’m the best    ex-boyfriend ever.

"That you are,” Jack agrees, promptly ditches the rest of his drink on his way after Bitty.

When Jack pushes open the door to the bathroom, Eric is standing at one of the sink mirrors fixing his hair.  He turns at the creak of hinges and goes to Jack, the two of them drawn together like magnets.  

“Is there anyone -” Jack starts.

“No, it’s just us,” Eric interrupts, stepping into Jack’s space, their chests pressing together.  Jack feels his pulse kick up.  He hadn’t really been thinking of anything specific beyond getting close to his boyfriend, but reaching out and getting his arms around Eric’s waist is suddenly bringing up ideas.  It’s effortless to get Bitty pressed against the door, he goes easily, reading Jack’s intentions in an instant and dragging him into a kiss, slow and dirty.  Jack wastes no time slotting a leg between Bitty’s, pulling a stuttered gasp from his lungs.  “Oh sweetheart, I wish we could, but we really don’t have time.”  Jack starts kissing across his jaw, one against his forehead, down the bridge of his nose.

“We’ll make time.”

“Jack, I know we’re good, but we’d still need considerably longer than the average pee.”  A gentle nip just below Eric’s ear has him swallowing down a moan.

“Then I guess I’ll just have to give you a good reason to take me home early.”

“Wha -” Jack drops to his knees, and Eric’s head falls back against the door.  He really can’t bear the sight, it’s too overwhelming.  Really, a boy ought to be able to prepare for this, his poor heart.  “Jack, we so don’t have time for-”  He can’t catch the sound this time as Jack noses at the fabric covering his hardening cock.  “Oh lord,” he sighs.  Well, hopefully nobody’s heading to this particular men’s room at them moment, because Jack doesn’t let up on the teasing, trailing his lips and the tip of his nose in teasing strokes as Eric hardens in his slacks, panting above him and occasionally stealing glances down with eyes that are somehow bigger and darker than usual.  

Years of being together has left Jack keenly attuned to Bitty and the ways his body moves, so he teases just enough, just until he can sense him reaching the edge of desperate, and pulls away, getting to his feet and pressing one more searing kiss to his boyfriend’s slack lips.

“Hm?  Baby?” Eric mumbles against his mouth, confused.

“Hi,” Jack smiles at him.  “We’d better get back.  Or else your new friends are going to get suspicious.”

“Jack are you - Huh?”  Jack steps away, and Bitty blinks rapidly, clearing the fog from his vision.  “Are you serious?  You’re serious!”

“I’m Jack Zimmermann.  I’m always serious.”  Eric gapes at his boyfriend.  “Unless of course you’ve changed your mind about wanting to go back to the party?”

“Oh my god, you tricked me!” He accuses.

“I prefer…led you around by the dick.”  Eric shakes his head in wonder, reaching to cup Jack’s cheek.

“Damn those eyes of yours.”  Jack smiled his chirping smile back at him, and Eric surged up to kiss it off.  “Say your goodbyes and meet me at coat check in twenty minutes.  You win.” 

#eric bittle #jack zimmermann #zimbits #check please! #omgcp #cannon compliant

[imaginezimbits]

Hey! I love your writing! Are you ever going to continue the football AU thing? I loved it!!

Here it is!  Took a while, but this chapter is longer than the first, so hopefully that makes up for the wait

Eric bit his lip nervously, turning his phone over and over in his hand.  He looked down at the message he had typed out again.

Hey is it weird if i ask your opinion on my prom outfit?  It felt weird but he thought that could just be him.  After all, he and Philip had agreed to stay friends after Philip went away to college and they broke up.  They had even talked somewhat frequently over the semester, but about innocent things.  School, their old friends in town, what the weather out in California was like.  Neither of them had brought up moving on, but if they were actually going to be friends long term, it was going to have to happen eventually.  Eric hit Send.  It only took a couple minutes before the bubbles that indicated Philip typing showed up, followed shortly by a reply.

Eh, maybe a little but whatev.  I’m cool with it.

Thanks :)

Eric smoothed the front of the suit jacket one more time and took a deep breath before letting himself smile and snapping a picture in the dressing room mirror.  He attached it to a new message and said: Be brutal, if I wanted compliments I’d ask mama.  The next reply came after a few moments of consideration.

Tbh, that suit makes me want to take your virginity all over again.  Do the world a favor and get it.  Eric felt a pang of longing, remembering when he and Philip had gone to get their tuxes for Philip’s senior prom the year before and they’d ended up making out in the dressing room.  He still laughed though, imagining the exaggerated leer Philip would’ve given him if he was there.

Alright, I’m convinced.  You’re the best! :-*

Give Mama a hug for me! Xoxoxo

Will do!

Eric put his phone down on top of the pile of his clothes and stepped out from behind the curtain.  When Mama saw him, she pressed a hand to her chest.

“Oh Dicky, you look so handsome!”  He smiled and told her,

“Definitely this one.”

Waiting by the front door, Eric fussed with his bowtie restlessly while he waited for his date to arrive.  He hadn’t met Bryan in person yet, though they’d been texting for a few weeks.  It was technically a blind date, set up by, of all people, two of  coach’s backup linebackers.  The duo called themselves Ransom and Holster, and had become inseparable at training camp back in August.  By the back-to-school barbeque, they had started to be referenced in one breath as RansomandHolster.  They had also taken Bitty under their incredibly large wings.

Part of having what amounted to two enthusiastic older brothers slash best friends apparently entailed having guaranteed dates for any and all social functions.  So when prom season came around and Eric was still single, they took it upon themselves to find him a date.  Ransom, who had apparently friended the entire freshman class of Samwell as well as a good part of the senior classes of both Marsh High School and James Madison High, had plopped himself down on the Bittles’ couch with his laptop and started scrolling through his Facebook and reading off the names of eligible young ladies.  

Eric had clammed up in the face of such enthusiasm but Rans didn’t get far through the list before Holster nudged him and waved his hand in a slicing motion in front of his neck, shaking his head.  Ransom ground to a halt and clicked a few times to a new tab and started reading again, instead listing guys’ names and accompanying descriptions.  

“Stop me anytime, Bits,” he prompted after the first five.

“Um, the rower sounds nice?”

“Excellent choice!”  Holster proclaimed, and Rans nodded along.

“Great arms, not too tall, high calorie diet.  Ideal partner for our itty bitty baker.”  Holster gasped.

“Broooooo, you totally got it!”

“What?”

“Eric’s totally sw’awesome nickname!  Bittle, Bitty?  Dude, it’s perfect.”

“Noice,” Ransom agreed, nodding and bumping Holster’s fist.

“Bitty?” Eric asked, arms crossed over his chest.  “Y’all expect me to answer to Bitty?”

“It’ll grow on ya,” Holster assured him.

Ransom promptly distracted them both by announcing, “Messaging rower dude now, operation Get Bitty a Prom Date commenced.”  It was honestly a little spooky how quickly Ransom was able to message Bryan, get a response, and have Bitty’s phone lighting up with a friend request quickly followed by a message that read,

hey your profile pics even cuter than justin said

And just like that, Eric - Bitty’s last semester of high school was off and running.

“Dicky, are you alright?” Mama asked, coming downstairs with her digital camera in hand, worried crease between her eyebrows.

“Yeah, Mama I’m fine.  Just…excited.”  Eric stopped fussing with the bowtie.  Mama tucked the camera in her cardigan pocket and come over to fix his tie herself.  

“Oh baby, you just look so handsome.  I wish your Moomaw could be up here to see you off, she’d love this.”

“Mama, it’s just the prom.  It’s really not a big deal.”

“Well you know how your grandmother fussed over your older cousins when they went to their senior proms.”

“Yes, and it is one of the hundreds of reasons I’m grateful that you and Coach moved us up North.”  Headlights flashed over the front windows of the house, cascading shadows across the room.  “And here comes another reason.”  Mama laughed and went to fetch the boutonnieres from the fridge where she’d been keeping them fresh.  Bryan had come by himself, apparently his mother had gotten a sufficient number of pictures of him in a tux at his own senior prom the previous month.  Suzanne definitely fussed enough for two mothers and maybe Moomaw too, directing them in what was essentially a full-fledged photoshoot.

“Wait wait wait!”  She called, making Eric pause just before he could pin the flower onto Bryan’s lapel.  “Hold that!  No honey, don’t look at me, look at Bryan!  Don’t twist your face up like that.  Good!”  And

“Oh oh oh!  One on the stairs; we need one on the stairs!”  And

“Richard!  Get in here the boys are leaving for the prom!…Oh honey no you can’t be in the pictures dressed like that, go put on a nice shirt real quick.  Yes I am serious, these pictures are forever!  Don’t - Oh good Lord what am I going to do with you boys?”

When she finally let them go, Bryan looked a little uncomfortable, tugging at his shirt collar as he slid into the driver’s seat of his car.

“I am so sorry about her,” Eric apologized.  “She just gets all excited whenever there’s an occasion to dress up.”

“Yeah, no it’s cool.  When I went with my friends all our moms went nuts, it was so annoying.”

“Well I try to indulge her a little, I mean she is my mama.  And she’s my best friend, ya know?  So I just want to make sure she’s happy.”

“Your mom’s your best friend?  That’s…cool, I guess.”  Bryan tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, looking out at the road.  Eric turned forward to look out the windshield as well.

“Yeah.”

The prom itself was pretty nice.  It was being held in a restaurant in downtown Samwell that used to be a mill building.  There were incandescent bulbs dangling from the ceiling and lots of exposed pipe and brick, old wide-plank wood floors.  After the students voted Emilio’s as the venue the prom committee had surveyed the space and decided to make it a steampunk theme, which yielded…interesting results.  There were a lot of vintage suits and dresses that had clearly been meticulously thrifted by members of the drama and history clubs.  A few people had broken out their old stovepipe hats from fourth grade Abraham Lincoln projects, and the prom committee had spray painted the edges of dollar-store swim goggles as party favors.  There were functionless gears stuck just about anywhere you could imagine.  As centerpiece, cardboard tubes painted like industrial pipes spilled “steam” from dry ice they’d acquired courtesy of the Samwell chemistry department.

Eric let Sammi from homeroom push a pair of sparkly goggles on him.  He put them up on top of his head to keep from getting awful rings stamped around his eyes, only to find that they shoved his bangs up in a ridiculous puff of blonde hair.  

“How do I look?” He asked Bryan, tossing his head a little to make the puff of hair wiggle around.  Bryan laughed and declined Sammi’s offer of a matching pair of goggles.

“You look pretty ridiculous.”

“Well that seems to be the point,” Eric said, waving to his classmates, most of whom were dressed much more elaborately than a pair of shiny goggles and a suit.

“Really, I’m good.  The theme was a nice effort, but not my thing.”  

“Alright, suit yourself.  Let’s go grab some punch or something.”  Bryan took his hand to walk over to the punch bowl, and Eric allowed himself to think that maybe that was a good sign.  Maybe he was shy?  Relax, Bittle.  They each ladled themselves a cup of what looked to be Hawaiian Punch with some orange slices tossed in for garnish, and headed for the table that had been commandeered by Eric’s friends from the journalism club.  “Hey, y’all!  This is my date, Bryan.  Bryan, this is Cameron, Deja, Sihua, and Josh.  They’re all on the e-board for the school news blog.”  

“Cool, cool.  I think my school has a newspaper.”

“And that’s precisely why we went digital,” Josh said.  “Before us, nobody even knew the paper existed.  It was just, like, a sad tumbleweed you saw crushed up in the hallway and in the school library archives.”

“The journalism club was basically a cryptid,” Deja put in.  “There was always a yearbook photo and there were always meeting announcements, but yet nobody could claim to have actually read an issue.”

“Until when we were Freshmen,” Bitty explained, “the seniors on the e-board decided to stop wasting the budget printing papers nobody was reading and instead built a website and just started posting articles on there.  They kept sharing the posts on their personal social media accounts and people kept reading them without realizing they were the school paper until they realized the articles were all about our school.”

“And so a legend was born.”

“Bitty runs a cooking vlog out of the home-ec classroom to teach people how not to be sad, underfed college students.”

“Sihua runs the advice column, Josh does our featured hard-hitting investigative pieces, Deja does lifestyle stuff -”

“Meaning I review the school play and all the shitty garage bands, plus whatever restaurant opened for the next few months in the perpetually abandoned old theater on Main Street.”  Bryan laughed.

“Hey, that’s still way cooler than anything we’ve got at Marsh.”  He downed the last of the punch as the song changed, and turned to Eric.  “Wanna go shake it?”’

“Only always,” Deja jumped in for him.  “Get going, I’ve been looking forward to this all year.”

“I take it you’ve got some moves?”

“Sweetheart, my depths are hidden and spectacular.”  

Just how spectacular his depths were had to wait for the afterparty, however.  Because while his teachers up north didn’t care if he danced with boys, or even kissed the boy in question a few times, they were in fact there to chaperone and therefore couldn’t reasonably let the dancefloor devolve into an ersatz nightclub.  

That particular part of the night was saved for Sammi’s living room.  Her older sister was supposed to be watching her while their parents were out of town, but she had ever so kindly agreed to be out at one of the Samwell football team’s infamous kegsters in the hours immediately following the Madison high prom.  As soon as she’d been crowned prom queen and danced with the king, she ducked out with the members of the prom committee who hadn’t also volunteered for cleanup crew and headed back to her house to start setting up.  

By the time Eric and Bryan got there, almost the entire junior class had packed themselves into the poor Victorian, teenagers spilling out onto the porch and into the backyard pool if the sounds of splashing and screaming were any indication.  There was another (much stronger smelling) punch bowl on the kitchen island, which had been turned into the bar for the occasion.  Bryan headed for that, dunking a solo cup from the leaning stack beside it.

“You do know that’s basically Jungle Juice, right?” Eric warned.  “I think it’s taking the paint off the cabinets as we speak.”  Bryan took a sip, eyes crinkling at the corners, belying the smirk he was hiding behind the drink.

“Don’t worry, Mom.  I can handle myself.  You want a cup?”

“Well, suit yourself, but I have places to be tomorrow so I’m gonna take a pass.”  Eric rummaged around in the cooler at his feet and pulled out a hard lemonade.  He poured it into his cup and added some iced tea from the mixers section.  “If I’m so hungover I can’t pass for just tired, my mama will tan my hide.”

“You southerners and your weird expressions.  It’s so cute.”  He stepped closer to Eric and wrapped his free arm around his waist.  “Come on, let’s go really dance.  No chaperones.”  Eric felt a flush creep up the back of his neck, but he nodded.

“Let’s show ‘em how it’s done.”

They took their drinks back to the living room where somebody had set up speakers and the student council treasurer was playing “DJ” since he was apparently the only one around with decent taste in music and no ads on his Spotify account.  The next song came on strong with low, heavy bass and Bryan plastered himself to Eric’s back as soon as they merged into the crowd, rolling his hips against Eric’s ass.  It made Eric’s face burn, even as his body moved to the music of its own accord.  He wasn’t kidding earlier that he was a good dancer, that he liked to dance, but the last time he was grinding on somebody, it was Philip.  At a pre-season kegster that Shitty had invited them to at the football Haus, laughing and a little sunburnt, not drunk because the guys felt ethically weird about getting the coach’s kid schwastey.  Everything had been hot and bright and wonderful.

In contrast, Sammi’s living room floor was already getting sticky with spilled drinks, and Eric had to move quickly to avoid getting a splash of Bryan’s awful mystery drink on his shirt when somebody jostled them.  The smell of the alcohol on Bryan’s breath was sickeningly sweet, and Eric was a little relieved when the cup went empty and Bryan told him,

“I’m going for a refill, you need more?”

“Vodka cranberry please,”  Eric smiled and handed his empty cup over.  Maybe he just needed to loosen up more.  He’d been with Philip so long, it was probably just that moving on still felt weird.  Bryan was cute and nice from what Eric could tell.  By all rights, they should get along famously.  Eric briefly found himself sandwiched between Sihua and Cam, who had taken to reenacting Night at the Roxbury with everyone they encountered.  He was nearly doubled over with laughter when Bryan returned, looking at them in bewildered amusement.  Eric took his drink with a smile and allowed himself to be pulled back to his date, waggling his fingers at his friends as they bopped off to harass Deja.

The night wore on, Eric stashing his suit jacket in the hall closet and letting his bowtie hang loose from his collar, buttons slowly making their way undone as the temperature in the livingroom rose with every drink.  He knew he was heading for the drunken side of tipsy and started slowing his sips, turned down the next offer of a refill.  Bryan on the other hand was pretty trashed after matching Eric drink for drink with whatever noxious concoction was in the cooler.  He swayed on his feet and his dancing was more awkward, as though he was suddenly back in middle school and unsure of how to control his limbs.  Eventually, Eric decided that it was probably more of a risk to the surrounding dancers to let him stay on the dancefloor and he needed to get him at least decently sobered up so he could - shit.  

There was no way for them to get Bryan’s car home.  Eric was way more sober but he’d never be good enough to drive in time to get them back.  They’d have to hitch a ride with Deja in her minivan.  Eric would bake her an entire strawberry pie in thanks.  But he should definitely try to get Bryan to dry out a little bit more before they tried to take him home in case his parents were waiting up.

“You know,” Eric said in the lull between songs.  “I’m getting pretty tired, why don’t we step outside for some air?”  Bryan nodded and allowed himself to be toted along like a ragdoll until they reached the front door.  “Oh how nice, there’s a porch swing.  Why don’t we go sit out there?”  Eric pushed open the screen door and stepped outside.  Stumbling on the doorframe, Bryan followed, almost pitching headfirst down the stairs, but Eric caught him by the belt.  

“Whoa,” he said, straightening up slowly.  His cheeks were ominously pale and going green.

“Um, are you okay?”  Bryan mulled it over for a moment, then shook his head quickly before doubling over and emptying the contents of his stomach all over Eric’s shoes. “Oh lord.”  Eric looked up to the roof.  “Oh god no.”  But yes.  There was hot boozy liquid seeping in the lace holes.  

“Oh god,” Bryan mumbled.  He wiped his mouth on the back of his shirt.  “Ohhhh that was terrible.  What the fuck?  Jesus was there fucking kerosene in that?  God that burned.”  He then promptly hunched over the railing and proceeded to heave into the poor  begonias below.

Everything was so suddenly too much.  His date was puking, his shoes were a mess, his suit jacket and friends were still all inside and he didn’t know what to do.  He wanted his mother to come to him, clean him up the way she would when he was a child, but he couldn’t.  He was drunk at a party and so were all his friends, and his mother could never know.  He opened his phone and started scrolling through his text threads.  He called Deja, the DD for the journalism club, but got voicemail.  He called Cam, but when he picked up they couldn’t hear each other and all he got was “GET IT, ERIC!”  

His eyes had caught on the thread below Cam next: Jack Zimmermann.  It was stupid and desperate to hope.  The football team was having a party too, for all he knew Jack was in no state to come and save him.  Or more probably asleep already.  And he probably wouldn’t want to help Eric anyway.  Sure they were friends, but  coming to the other side of town in the middle of the night to bail him out of an awful date was a pretty tall order.  But hey, he really was desperate and pretty well full of liquid courage, so he dialed the number.

The voice that answered was slurred from sleep and grasping at captainly composure but landing somewhere around half-panicked anyway.

“Bittle?  Bittle, what’s going on?  Are you okay?”  

“Jack, hi.  Um, I’m fine?”

“You don’t sound sure.  It’s the middle of the night.”

“Well I’m not great but it’s not an emergency?  I do kind of need help though.”

“What’s going on?  Where are you?”

“I’m at an after prom party.  Uh, my date’s really drunk.”

“What kind of drunk?  Are you in trouble?”

“No!  No, just um.  He puked on my shoes.” Eric glanced behind him to check on Bryan quickly.  “And now he’s asleep on the porch swing.  I just - I really don’t feel like being at this party anymore.  My date soiled Sammi’s garden, my socks are all gross, and I’m not sober enough to be dealing with this.  I really want my mom to come and fix it but I can’t call my mother drunk and I don’t know what else to do.”  By the time he was finished, his eyes were burning and his vision was blurring and he was so angry.  At Bryan for being a disaster, at Philip for leaving, but mostly at himself for crying on the phone with Jack Zimmermann.

“Bittle?  Bittle.  Can you hear me?”  Jack was speaking gently, soothing.

“Yeah,” he felt his cheeks burning in shame at the cracks in his voice, embarrassed that Jack was having to coddle him.

“Alright.  I’m going to come and get you okay?  There’s still a party going on downstairs so I have to hang up, but when I do, text me the address you’re at.  I’ll be right there, I promise.”

“Okay, I will.  Thank you Jack, thank you so much.”

“It’s no problem, Bittle.”  The line went dead.  Dutifully, Eric copied over the address from Sammi’s invite and then sat down on the steps to wait for his rescuer.

He looked up at the sound of a car coming to a stop in front of the house, and sure enough, there was Jack, climbing out of Shitty’s awful hatchback.  When he came around the hood and started up the front steps, Eric’s heart jumped in his chest.  Jack was dressed in soft-looking plaid pajama pants and a faded Habs t-shirt that looked just a tad too big for him.  A pair of wire-rim reading glasses were perched on top of messy hair, and he was wearing honest-to-God slippers on his feet.  Basically, he looked like somebody’s dad rolled out of bed, but on Jack it looked adorable.  

“Hey.” Jack greeted him.  Eric scrambled to his feet and looked up at Jack.

“Hey!  Hi, um.  Thanks again, oh my lord, I’m so embarrassed.  I can’t believe I dragged you out of bed for -”

“Bittle.”  Jack’s hand landed on his shoulder, warm and so big his thumb spanned across Eric’s collarbone easily.  “It’s okay.   I’ve got your back.”  He held up a matching pair of slippers in his other hand.  “I’ve also got your feet.”  Eric briefly contemplated crying again, and perhaps working in a marriage proposal because there was absolutely nothing in the world that would could make him happier than the chance to not be wearing his gross barfy shoes for another minute.  Instead he just said,

“Jack Zimmermann, you are my hero.”

“It’s no big deal.  Shits probably won’t miss ‘em.  Especially if he knows his slippers are saving his favorite future Wellie.”  Eric took the slippers and stepped out of his dress shoes.  Scuffs be damned, he couldn’t bear to touch the soggy laces.  He ditched his socks too for good measure and sighed as his feet sank into the fluffy soles.  “Better?”

“So much,” he sighed, closing his eyes in bliss.

“Good.  So, where’s this date of yours?  And your jacket?”

“Oh.  Darn, I forgot about that.  Um.  Well, date is over there.”  He pointed to Bryan, snoring on the porch swing.  “And I left my jacket in the coat closet.”  Jack contemplated Bryan for a moment before apparently deciding he wasn’t an issue and dismissing him.

“Alright, I’ll come with you and help you find your jacket.  Then we’ll stuff him in the backseat and get him home.”  This must be the kind of intensity Coach was always talking about with Jack.

“So when we get inside, you grab the jacket at the snap and then I’ll go long?”  Jack blushed, which, while not Eric’s intention, was certainly a lovely surprise.

“Keep it simple, Bittle.  Although I don’t think I’d mind punting that guy,” he nodded at Bryan.

“You and me both.”

When Jack stepped into the house behind Eric, the noise around them started to die down, confused silence following them through the living room to the closet.  He heard classmates yelling over the music,

“Who’s the old guy?”

“Shit, is he a teacher?”

“Is that someone’s dad?”

“Fuck, are we busted?”

“Hot damn!”

Jack pretty studiously ignored the last one, but Eric couldn’t help laughing when Jack grumbled, “Dad?  Jesus, what’s wrong with these kids?  I’m not that old!  Certainly not old enough to be anyone’s dad.”  Eric grabbed his coat and patted Jack on the arm.

“Well I think your dad glasses make you look distinguished.”

Jack handed Eric the keys to unlock Shitty’s car and hefted Bryan like a sack of flour.  While he held the door to the backseat open, Jack wrestled Eric’s groggy date into the seat and buckled him in, then jostled him until he woke up enough to focus on Jack’s face.

“Hey man, you got way too drunk.  I’m taking you home.  And when you wake up, you owe Eric an apology.”

Eric climbed into the passenger seat and pulled up Bryan’s address on Maps, letting Siri guide Jack as the three of them rode to the next town over in silence.  When they got to Bryan’s house, Jack got out of the car again, gesturing for Eric to wait behind.  He helped Bryan stumble up the front walk and took his keys to let him in the front door, leaving him to his own devices after he got inside.

“Well,” Jack sighed, settling back behind the wheel.  “That was a pretty terrible date.”

“Ya think so?  I dunno, I was thinking a summer wedding.”  Jack chuckled and put the car in drive again.

#jack zimmermann #eric bittle #zimmbits #check please! #omgcp #football au #anonymous

[imaginezimbits]

zimbits hurt + comfort w jack comforting bitty through smth like depression/anxiety related bc. i love my mentally ill kid

Bitty knew he was a procrastinator.  He knew it was a bad habit.  And every time he got a new assignment for a class, he said to himself “No more.  I am going to get a head start on this tonight and I am going to write a paragraph every night and it’ll be fine.” But every time, he goes home, makes himself an outline, and then pats himself on the back for making such good progress.  Then, come the night before the paper’s due date, he would find himself still with nothing more than bullet points and too keyed up to really think about the topic.  All the assignments ended up turned in on time, but he was always dissatisfied with his work, knowing it was a just passable pile of caffeine-induced word vomit.

One night over Skype, after getting back yet another C paper on a subject Bitty knew he had at least a B+ grasp on, he broke down in frustrated tears, startling Jack, who had just asked Bitty how school was going.  

“Bits?  Bitty, what’s wrong?  Did something happen?” he asked, brow furrowed in concern and hands fluttering nervously like he wished he could reach out and offer some kind of physical comfort.

“Oh,” he sniffled, wiping under his eyes.  “Honey, it’s - It’s nothing new I suppose.  I just didn’t do as well on that essay as I could’ve.  And I - I knew I should try harder, and I knew I should’ve started earlier so I’d have time to edit it, but every time I thought about it, I just felt so paralyzed.  Like, I knew I had to care, but I couldn’t make my brain actually feel it.  You know?”  Jack was nodding slowly, now wearing his strategy face.

“I think I kind of get what you mean.  I sort of have the same problem.”  Bitty laughed wetly.

“Jack, you’re the most obnoxiously responsible student I’ve ever met.  I don’t think you’ve procrastinated a damn thing in your entire life.”  Jack shook his head.

“No, no, I don’t mean with school.  It’s more like…I’m not always great at self care stuff?  Like, I have a bunch of alarms and stuff on my phone to remind me to eat or to tell me when to stop working out.  Half the time the only reason I can drag myself into the shower is because I know I’m going to be skyping with you and I can’t look like a gym zombie.  Sometimes it’s just…hard.”

“That - Yeah, that sounds about right.  I want to do it, but the motivation is just never there, or if I don’t try to start the paper until the last minute I can blame that instead of having to admit that I don’t know something.  Alarms don’t help though.  I just end up brushing it off.”  Bitty looked down at his hands folded in his lap, playing with his fingers and wishing he was in Providence.  He never felt so stupid or helpless when he was visiting Jack, living their life, cooking dinner together, helping him fold the big bed sheets when they came out of the dryer.  Jack was clearly brainstorming a solution to Bitty’s problem, which might have insulted Bitty if Jack hadn’t admitted to having the same issue.  He never liked feeling as if he wasn’t completely independent.  

“Maybe I could help you over Skype?  You could write a paragraph at the beginning of our calls and that way every time we talk you get a little bit of work done?”

“Oh honey, that’s so sweet, but I don’t want to waste our time together on that.  You’ve got better things to do than sit around listening to me try to write some boring paper.”

“I really don’t, Bits.  And it’s not a waste of time if it’s going to help you get your grades up where they deserve to be.  You’re so smart, mon lapin.  I just want to help you show your professors that too.”  Bitty felt his eyes and cheeks get hot, and he blinked hard to clear his vision as he looked back at his boyfriend.

“Jack…”

“There’s nothing wrong with getting help.  Trust me on that one.  We’re a team, Bits, and I’m here to help you.  No matter what.”

“Thank you, sweetheart.  I’ve got your back too.”

When Bitty’s next paper comes back with a B on top of it and a I knew you had it in you, Eric!  from the TA, Jack asks to put it up on his fridge.

#eric bittle #jack zimmermann #zimbits #check please! #omgcp #cannon compliant #anonymous

[imaginezimbits]

Hey, I just wanted to wish you a happy and productive new year! Also, I appreciate you and your presence on my dash. :)

AH! What a sweet message!  Thank you, darling, I’m just settling in to get that productivity moving now!  Have a great new year yourself

#anonymous #mod post

[imaginezimbits]

Hey! This is an awesome blog that takes prompts and headcannons for ALL your omgcp faves. They write great stuff, so you should all go check it out and drop some messages in their inbox ❤️🏒❤️

#imaginethehaus #mod post #fandom friends #check please! #omgcp