Nope

Well, with my hall pass to post whatever I am choosing to post more of my novel!!!

Finally Zac stops pacing and comes and sits down on the foot of Kit’s bed; on the very edge, so that if he moved two inches to the left he’d fall off. “Anyway, uh. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. They wouldn’t have let me go home if I wasn’t,” Kit points out.

Zac hums. “Yeah. It’s just - it looked really bad, when you went down,” he mutters.

“Yeah,” Kit acknowledges quietly.

“Still looks pretty bad now, to be honest,” Zac murmurs. He leans forward and traces a finger over Kit’s cheek, feather-light.

Silence stretches between them. Kit feels like the whole world is narrowing to Zac’s fingertip on his skin. He feels off-balance, like he’s tilting closer and closer towards Zac, and he finds himself saying things that he doesn’t remember deciding to let out of his brain. “There was a minute right afterwards when I thought I might have broken my jaw or something. Maybe gotten a concussion. And I thought I might not be able to play for weeks. Maybe months. And I just felt this fear of like - what will I do if I can’t play? Just sit around and… think about everything? If I don’t have hockey, what will I have?” There’s a lump in his throat that’s not just from the pain.

The silence stretches on again; Zac, for once, seems lost for words. He’s just looking at Kit. Looking at the cut on my lip, Kit thinks.

“You’d have -” Zac starts, right as Kit forces himself to get it together, to man up, and adds:

“But it turned out I can still play. So it’s fine.”

“Yeah. It’s fine,” Zac agrees. He leans back, away from Kit. “Anyway. I should let you rest, I guess.” He stands up. “You should eat the chicken soup, though. It’s really good.”

“Wait,” Kit says, for some reason he’s not really sure of. “Can you - just stay with me for a bit?” he asks. “Just till the painkillers kick in?”

Zac sits back down on the bed. “Yeah, of course, Baby,” he says softly. “I’ll stay till they kick in.”

Ch3 of Small Dick Fic, my newest WIP, is up!

Thanks to @sequestering for cheerleading, @makeit-takeit for organising WIP week, and of course @patrebka for getting me to write it in the first place.

A WIP for my largest fandom! Well, that’s certainly sidgeno. This is a fic about Geno’s late-in-life gay awakening, and it takes place in the 2025-2026 season. It’s called “nineteen years” and it’s affectionately dedicated to @ticklefightgeno who brainstormed this with me in the DMs months ago.

The divorce papers come through on a Tuesday afternoon.

Zhenya has a brief cry after he skim-reads them, although it’s not like any of it comes as a surprise. He considers pouring himself a drink and really committing to being miserable for the rest of the day, but he rapidly decides against it: he doesn’t need to add a tendency towards alcoholism to the list of problems with his life. Instead he phones the physiotherapist, says he wants an extra-long treatment on his knees, and drives himself to the rink.

*

The massage is good; being around other people is better. By the end of the hour Zhenya feels pretty normal. Lots of people get divorced. Lots of people get divorced when forty is just around the corner. It’s okay.

When he leaves the physio’s office he wanders down to the rink on a whim.

Sid’s out on the ice. Of course he is.

“Crosby,” Zhenya hollers, a little louder than necessary. One must keep up appearances. “What you doing, don’t you know it’s like, rest day?”

Favourite WIP: also my novel <3 hashtag mynovel.

“So, what, I’m just gonna be a dirty little secret for however long you keep playing?” Zac asks. “For the rest of your life?”

“I can’t come out,” Kit insists, aware that his voice is getting shrill.

“Why not?” Zac demands. “I came out and it didn’t kill me.”

“It is not the same!” Kit snaps. “You coming out is not the same as me coming out, okay? You don’t have everyone in Toronto watching you, everyone in the whole fucking league -”

Zac scoffs, “Sorry, how could I forget, you’re a generational talent and I’m just a fucking normie.”

“That’s not what I said,” Kit tells him. “But we’re talking about my whole career, Zac -” 

“No, you’re talking about your career,” Zac shouts back. “I’m trying to talk about our relationship, but apparently at the end of the day what really matters is you and fucking hockey!”

“Yes! It does matter!” Kit yells. “It matters that I’ve spent my whole fucking life dreaming of playing for the Cup and now you’ve put that at risk! It matters that I’ve worked my fucking ass off to get here! It matters that I love hockey, okay? I know you think it’s, whatever, cringey and uncool to say that, but I do. I love it. You just don’t know what it’s like to love something this much.” Zac’s face does something but Kit is too worked up to think about that. “You don’t know what it’s like to work this hard. Maybe that’s why -”

He plans to hit where it hurts. Takes aim. Shoots.

“- why I’m a generational talent, and you’re doing an internship your dad got you.”

Kit knows he’s ended the argument when he says that. He sees Zac’s face shut down.

Time for the WIP closest to completion! Which is… my original novel <3 It’s about gay hockey players, of course. We are currently editing the full draft which is uhhh hard work. But so worth it! I give you: COS.

Instead, Kit asks abruptly: “Can I have a cigarette?”

Zac looks at him, seeming surprised. For a horrible moment Kit thinks Zac might say something about his cardiovascular health. He thinks, If you do I will scream. He feels like doing something stupid, something dangerous. If they’re about to rip hockey away from him, he wants to say a final fuck-you.

But: “Sure,” Zac says, and Kit gets up to join him by the window. Zac flicks open the packet for Kit to take one, and then leans in to light it for him. Kit finds himself tilting his head. Zac’s fingers are very near his mouth.

Kit has a weird thought that he doesn’t look as sophisticated with this in his mouth as Zac does.

“There you go,” Zac says softly.

Kit inhales deeply and immediately explodes into coughs. Zac bursts out laughing.

“Aww, Baby,” he coos.

“I thought you just, like, breathed it in?” Kit gasps, feeling somehow betrayed.

Zac’s still giggling when he asks, “You’ve never done it before?” When Kit shakes his head he says, “Okay, go slowly. Hold it in your mouth. Suck. And then, like, swallow it down.”

Kit follows his instructions. His breath seems to have stuck in his throat. 

“Now breathe out.”

Kit does. He wouldn’t say it’s pleasant, but at least it doesn’t set him off coughing this time. He takes another drag.

Zac giggles again. “God, I can’t believe I taught Baby Byrne how to smoke. Corrupting the youth.”

Kit scowls. “You are less than four years older than me,” he points out.

Zac grins and lets that one go. “So, what d’you think?” he asks.

Kit breathes in again, breathes out again. “I think I like it,” he admits.

“Tempted to take it up properly?” Zac asks.

“Probably not a good idea for a hockey player, eh,” Kit says.

Well. Heehee and indeed haha, because I am going to wilfully misinterpret the prompt of “smallest fandom” for this one. You know what’s small? Matthew Tkachuk’s dick. And you know who’s a fan of it? Leon Draisaitl.

Leon can’t stop thinking about it. Tkachuk’s words keep circling round and round in his head. That’s how I prefer it, darling, when Leon said Matthew would be the one taking it. Matthew saying I wanna do it on all fours. Matthew saying Come in me. Matthew calling him babe.

Leon develops some kind of brain condition over the next few days, where he can’t stop thinking about Tkachuk having sex. Matthew on his hands and knees for other guys. Matthew’s face when another guy fucks into him, Matthew’s face when he comes. Matthew jerking himself off, too, his strangely elegant hand wrapped around that little dick, in Leon’s head when Leon’s jerking off.

Leon goes looking for some very specific porn. Surprisingly, there’s a lot of gay porn featuring guys with small dicks. It seems to be, like, a thing for certain gay men. Initially Leon finds porn where the guys have really tiny dicks, like less than an inch, and that doesn’t really do anything for him. But then he finds the ones where they have, like, normal-but-small dicks, like Tkachuk’s. And he watches a lot.

Yikes! I gotta catch up on WIP Week! Okay, I’m going to post the first four days’ worth in one go. My oldest WIP: rentboy Sid / oligarch Geno.

Thanks to @makeit-takeit for inventing WIP Week and inviting me <3

“Did you eat at the office?” Sid asks.

“Little bit. Leftover meetings food.” 

That makes Sid smile. Meetings food is one of Geno’s particular turns of phrase: he means mini sandwiches, fruit platters, pastries.

“Masha left some stuff in the fridge, if you’re hungry. Varenyky, I think.”

Geno groans happily. “Yes. Two minute, I change.”

He slides Sid’s legs off his lap and heaves himself off the sofa, his suit jacket crumpled and forgotten behind him as he ambles out of the room. That jacket probably cost more than a thousand dollars. Sid picks it up and folds it over the back of the couch. Masha will hang it up tomorrow. 

Sid pads through to the kitchen, and Geno reappears a minute later, looking much happier in sweatpants and an ancient hoodie from the hockey club he played for as a teenager. 

“We’re match,” he says, plucking at the hoodie Sid’s wearing; a memento from his own high school hockey club.

“Rimouski would have kicked the Foxes’ asses,” says Sid on principle. Geno scoffs but doesn’t argue back, too busy hunting through the fridge.

Sid’s junior hockey career is one of the things Geno shouldn’t know about. When Sid unofficially moved in, he made a token effort to avoid wearing his old merch around Geno; but the Rimouski gear is his favourite lounging clothing, and that resolution only lasted a couple of weeks.

At least Geno doesn’t know about how Sid’s career ended. Although Sid has to accept that Geno might have looked at the scar on his knee and put two and two together.

Geno’s found the varenyky, and makes a borderline pornographic noise as he shoves the first one into his mouth. Sid watches him eat.

It’s odd to think that Geno’s thirty-five, practically the same age as Sid. Often he seems so much older: responsibility for an international steel company resting largely on his shoulders. But sometimes Sid can see with startling ease the kid he was: standing around in a hockey club hoodie, eating leftovers out of a tupperware with his fingers.

“You want?” Geno asks through a mouthful of mince, and holds the tupperware out to Sid. Sid opens his lips and lets Geno hand-feed him.

When they’ve demolished the varenyky Geno suggests, “Bed?”

more small dick mattdrai for you, beloveds!

<3

“Last orders, gentlemen,” says the bartender. When neither of them ask for anything else, he adds, “Well then, I’m going to close the bar up, but feel free to stay and finish your drinks.” He nods at the remains in Leon’s glass, now mostly melted ice.

The bartender disappears, and Tkachuk keeps fucking - touching him. Leon’s knee and his elbow and his back, as Tkachuk wriggles closer and closer until their thighs are pressing up against each other. And fine, now that Leon’s figured out Tkachuk’s game, he’s determined to win it. He turns toward Tkachuk, letting his fingers graze the side of Tkachuk’s thigh. The satisfaction of competing makes his blood beat faster: he is not going lose to Matthew fucking Tkachuk at gay chicken.

The service door behind the bar clunks shut and they hear it lock. Suddenly they feel very alone.

“So,” Tkachuk says, nodding at Leon’s drink. “You done with that?”

Finally, an out. 

“Yup,” Leon says. “Guess I’m done here.”

He waits for Tkachuk to lean away from him, to stop touching him. 

“Guess so,” says Tkachuk softly. He’s staring at Leon intently. “What if I’m not?”

Leon’s tempted to say “Huh?” because he’s honestly not even really sure what they’re talking about right now. But one of the rules is, never act confused. Never let anyone think you’re not in control of the situation.

“That seems like a you problem,” Leon shrugs.