#puck whatever happened to being a little gentleman

[bloodtwin]

@duchissa sent: stinky

‘ . . . prissy. ’

[ladylvck]

"Ladies and gentleman...welcome to our little party!"

The atmosphere was lively, filled with talking and the soft chinking of fragile champagne glasses. Beautiful people mingling together in some of their best and glamorous outfits. Most quieted down when Puck took the stage with a grand sweep of his arms and a characteristic Chesire cat grin.

"Are you having a lovely evening?" he asked, to the answer of a few good natured and polite cheers. "The grand event is about to start soon, are you excited? Once I again, I am Admin Puck, your master of ceremonies for our fourth annual Hunt!"

Extensive underground facilities ensured no one could butt in; only those with invitations were allowed in. Any interlopers or uninvited plus ones had their minds wiped by a Psychic Pokemon and the offending invitee also summarily punished, though this rarely happened after the first few who did were made examples of.

For all their glitz and glamour, the members of the Lady Luck Lounges were still hardcore criminals, after all.

On stage came down a screen from the ceiling. There was static for a moment before images showed up. Eight people in total showed up on different feeds, bound, gagged and blindfolded. Some were still knocked out, others were struggling and screaming uselessly against their gags -- yet all who gathered did not seem perturbed, actually there were scattered chuckles and remarks of 'oh, that one's feisty!'

Puck took the time to introduce each 'contestant'. Other criminals they rounded up on their own and a few actually 'volunteered' by members of the audience; people who would not be missed if they went missing. Yet all were carefully selected by Puck, for maximum ;fun' as he liked to put it.

The Hunt was a yearly event he held for the criminal underground where lives were put on the line. Those able to pay the hefty price (and signing a waiver) would be allowed to hunt and chase down the contestants within a time limit. It was a riveting game of cat and mouse where the hunters usually came out on top, getting the thrill of being able to hurt, kill and main to their heart's content in a 'safe' environment. In the underground Lounge facility there would be no sudden raids or police presence or hope for someone to come and save the contestants.

And the people soon to be running for their lives, scrambling to grab what they could to survive, disregarding the others in a bid to survive along rather than working together? Well, survivors get the chance of a lifetime: a new life. A fresh start. A new identity, if only they can survive after the last second ticks. The only rule for them was to stay alive. Whatever else they decided was up to them, which made for a much more fun game.

The hunting grounds was a simulated forest area with equipment scattered throughout...along with traps. Those wishing to become hunters would have immediate access to whatever they'd like from a prepared arsenal. It was amazing to see what people picked out, at times.

Puck spoke with gusto, like a reality TV show host might, about people trying to win a prize. He made jokes, tickling his audience about the bad habits of one contestant, before moving onto the faults of another. Make it so there should be no guilt -- these were absolute scum after all and this is their trial by fire, speaking out to the hearts of those who were here while touting a 'noble' heart.

How fun the contradictions of humanity, while staring in the face of cruelty.

"...And of course, the rest of you can take your seats and watch from the safety of this reception hall. If you would like to make bets, we of course have our professional bookies ready to accommodate your little vice -- I hear contestant #6 has some very interesting odds. Why not bet on him? I hear he's a former Rocket!"

And with the last warnings given ("Don't forget to pick up a bullet proof jacket, hunters! Safety first!"), Puck bowed one last time before announcing to his audience and over the speakers inside the cells housing this year's prey,

"Let the hunt begin!"

[kafka-ish]

the drunken words you spoke last night (1) | b.d.

one thing leads to another and before she knows it, y/n's longtime crush becomes a casual fuck.

word count: 2,893

warnings/included: nsfw (explicit smut -- male x female, pretty vanilla), fem!reader, angst(?), also a lot of this is written in italics cuz of flashbacks

a/n: sorry it's been so long since i've written anything!!

-

It was never supposed to end up like this. Just one quick fuck was all it was supposed to be; which lead to another one, then another one, then another one…

y/n watches as Bill scurries around the room, searching for his shirt. She’s noiseless and he doesn’t know she’s awake yet. He does a good job at being quiet, making sure not to disturb what he thinks is a sleeping y/n. The grey baseball tee he wore to her place last night turned out to be underneath her bed—how it got there was a different story. The silence is broken when Bill opens the door and is met with a large creaking sound.

Don’t look back, don’t look back, don’t look—

He regrets it immediately when he sees y/n, her back against her bedframe. She’s wide-eyed from watching him with such intent.

“Hu-hey.” Bill swallows the saliva gathering in the back of his throat. “I, uh, I didn’t nuh-know—”

“It’s fine.” y/n says her words with such ease and for a moment Bill’s jealous. He wants to know a life without speech therapy, a life without the nickname Stuttering Bill. And most of all, he wants to know a life without loving someone who won’t love you back.

“So, you’re not staying?” y/n does her best to conceal the insecurity in her voice but it’s hard. She doesn’t want to come off as needy or clingy, but she wants a response she already knows the answer to.

“I duh-didn’t want t-to wake you.” Bill shrugs as he says this. Half of it was true—he really didn’t want to wake y/n but seeing as she was already up his excuse fell flat.

“Right.” It takes everything for y/n to not roll her eyes as she replies through gritted teeth.

“So…” Bill’s left foot is digging into the carpet and his fingers find themselves intertwined together.

“So.” y/n herself is picking at loose strings from her worn-out comforter. Her eyes avert from their previous lock on his figure and she doesn’t know what to do with the lump in the back of her throat. She’s annoyed—no—furious.

It was never supposed to end up like this.

“Hey,” Bill answered the door in low-rise sweats and shirtless. “What’s u—”

He’s cut off and taken aback with a messy kiss. It’s bold, breathtaking, and smelled like vodka—nothing he’d ever expect from y/n. Once the shock had passed, he felt his eyes flutter shut and he became lax under her touch.

“I need you,” y/n mumbled helplessly in between kisses. Her fingers which had previously been confidently intertwined around his neck were now reaching for the ends of her shirt.

“W-Wait—what?” Bill’s still hazy from the blunt he smoked earlier and everything’s going so fast.

“You heard me.” Uh, not really. She pressed another kiss to his already swollen lips and the feeling of his skin on hers feels a hundred times better than what she imagined it to be. “Fuck.” Her hips press up to his, but Bill can’t revel in the delicious spark their jeans create every time her hips meet his.

The Denbrough’s front door is still open.

“y/n,” Bill spoke. He tried to say it firmly, but it came out as more of a breath than an assertion.

“Hmm?” The noises coming from her are downright pornographic, which only made Bill wonder what the rest of the night will be like.

“I have to shut the door,” he whispered. His breath tickled her neck and y/n felt her face grow hotter—if that was even possible. Reluctantly, y/n relieved Bill of her possessive grip so he could shut the door. But, immediately, he noticed he’s cold—freezing, even. But how can Bill be cold in the middle of July—Maine’s hottest month?

y/n’s quick to reassume her previous position—arms swung around his tanned neck, hips bucked up desperately to meet his.

“Wuh-we should take this somewhere more comfortable. Sh-shouldn’t we?” Bill only stuttered when he’s nervous now. It’s cute.

She pressed a quick kiss onto his jawline. If there weren’t remnants of her lipstick on his skin, he’d assume he was dreaming. “Okay,” she hummed into the spot her lips had just previously grazed over. Bill shivers.

He led the two of them up the stairs and into his room. The trip is slow. Bill’s careful to make sure y/n didn’t trip or snag her top on the railing. What a gentleman.

“Bill,” she whined.

That night, Bill decided his favorite sound was her voice calling his name. He’s always loved the sound of y/n’s voice and the way his name rolled off her tongue (“Bill, watch!” “Bill are you coming?”). But this was different. Tonight was different.

“Bill, I need you.” He turned to y/n who wore a pout as she followed Bill closely into his room. It’s pitch black but Bill doesn’t need to turn on a light to know his way around.

The back of y/n’s calves hit his bed with a light thump followed by another whimper.

“Shh,” Bill cooed into her hair…

y/n awoke that morning with her too-tight tank top and faded denim shorts replaced with one of Bill’s graphic tees that drape over her figure like a dress. She finds half of her eyeliner and lipstick-stained on Bill’s grey pillowcase and there’s an empty space next to her where Bill once lay.

“Fuck,” y/n whispered to herself. She can’t remember the events that happened last night, and the pounding in her head doesn’t make it any better. But the way the sheets around her creased and wrinkled, and the way her collarbone peaked out of Bill’s Led Zeppelin tee made her skin crawl and her stomach turn.

“Hey.”

Bill’s scratchy morning voice startled y/n. His perfect tall and slender figure slanted against the doorframe and y/n had to compose herself under his sheets the way she’s done all her life.

“Hi,” she swallowed thickly. Her breathing started to pick up along with her pulse and when did it get so hot in here?

“Do you want breakfast?” Bill made a motion towards the kitchen downstairs. “My parents aren’t home still. I guh-guess they’re still out.” Bill’s parents were always “out”.

y/n only nodded.

“Look, about last night—”

“Whatever happened last night, I can—”

“Did you mean it?” Bill cut her off, not even listening to the word vomit spilling from y/n’s splotchy lips.

“Mean what?” y/n’s ungroomed eyebrows furrowed together inquisitively because what the fuck? What on earth happened last night that could have left Bill Denbrough wondering for answers in the morning?

“Wuh-when you said that stuff about needing me.” From the flushed cheeks and timid words, y/n could tell Bill felt awkward saying to her what he’d just said.

Mortification took the form of y/n y/l/n that morning. The tiny hairs on her neck started to rise and goosebumps shot a trail down her forearms.

Bill crept forward after he didn’t receive a response. His face was only a few inches away from y/n’s. The swoosh of his I-just-woke-up hair framed his hairline like an auburn halo. To make matters worse, the morning sun shone directly on his skin, giving him a god-like glow.

“Did you?” His minty breath hit her face. Colgate.

Instead of watching his swimmingly blue eyes—swimming for answers, an indication, anything—she watched his lips. She admired how rosy they were even in the morning. She admired the curl of his cupid’s bow. She admired how soft they looked and felt as she bit the bullet and shoved herself forward to kiss him.

This kiss is different from last night. It’s daring, yet nervous; sweet, but awkward. It’s not the same as her desperate kisses from when she was wasted. This kiss is slow, thoughtful—

Bill pulled away. His breaths grew heavy, and his eyesight got hazy. The only thing he could think to do was go in for another kiss. So, he did. He’s quick to capture her bottom lip with his and cup her jawline in the palm of his hand.

Bill’s impatient now. His parents were gone, and he had a beautiful girl in his bed. What else was a teenage boy to do? In a flash of flesh, Bill’s shirt was gone.

“Do-do you want this?” He asked before he made the effort to remove any other articles of clothing and possibly embarrass himself further. Of course, Bill would be perfectly fine with getting off in the other room with just his bruised ego and bare chest to keep him company.

But y/n was fast to reply “yes” and press yet another kiss on Bill’s swollen lips. Their flesh pinned against each other’s elicited a feeling inside the two that both y/n and Bill had never felt before.

“You smell good,” Bill murmured against her shoulder. The words slipped out of his mouth like a hockey puck on ice. “I bet you taste even better.”

y/n grew flustered at the sudden statement. It wasn’t like Bill to confess something like that—at least not to her. Before another moan, like the ones from last night, could claw its way out of her throat, y/n caught Bill sliding the elastic of his grey sweats down his long legs.

He’s in his boxers. y/n could only catch glimpses of streaks of greens and yellows but didn’t get a chance to look at them for long as her attention was redirected to taking off her—Bill’s—shirt.

Although he knew it wasn’t gentlemanly, Bill could only stare at y/n’s bra-clad chest. It’s just black, simple, classic. But it hugged y/n’s figure effortlessly and contorted her shape perfectly.

“Bill?” y/n wondered aloud. His silence worried her, but she has nothing to worry about—she’s got Bill hooked like a fish.

Her meek words snapped Bill out of his trance, which allowed him to press another kiss onto her lips before he trailed down to her neck. Each graze of his lips turned her into a moaning mess. Bill wished he could say he was surprised, but he wasn’t, not from when he remembered the events from last night so vividly.

His lips lingered a little longer on a certain spot just above her collarbone that made y/n’s lips part so erotic-like, Bill thought he might cum at the sight.

But he wouldn’t allow himself to release just mere seconds in of making out with his dream girl—even if it pained him.

He released his lips from her skin, leaving a bruise. Bill chuckled to himself. At least, if he can’t have her, he can pretend he does for these few moments until she leaves for home and covers his mark with her trusty concealer.

Their lips clashed again. It was hard and rough—y/n’s more dominant than she let on and before either of them realized, she was on top: legs straddled Bill’s torso, nimble fingers gripped at his skin where a shirt used to be, and her lips viscously stained his red with what was left of her lipstick from last night.

Bill’s the one to moan this time. The sound was throaty and gruff, which sent shocks straight to y/n’s core. She bucked up, causing Bill to moan again and the cycle repeats.

“Fuck, y/n, I need you.” y/n liked this side of Bill: the bolder, dominant side; the speak-your-mind side. But most of all, y/n liked Bill.

She giggled at his words. She loved the way his voice cracked with desperation and the way his fingers began to clutch her skin tighter—like she was his.

The delicate sound of y/n’s voice only made Bill want her more. The tent in his boxers grew impossibly harder—a contradicting feeling of pain and desire at the same time.

“Please.” It wasn’t long until Bill’s groans turned into pleads. The rough palms of his hands coast across her bare skin, causing goosebumps to form and hair to raise. “Please.” The fast movements of y/n’s clothed clit on his plaid-covered dick matched the fast beats of y/n’s pounding heart.

Ba-dumb. Ba-dumb. Ba-dumb.

“Plu-“

“Tell me what you want,” Bill’s voice easily sliced through y/n’s pathetic whines, “using your words,” he instructed clearly.

“I wah—” Another whine. “I want you.”

At that, the rough pad of Bill’s thumb started to massage the sharp edge of y/n’s jaw. “I need you to be more specific, baby.”

Baby? Bill’s never called her that before. Actually, Bill’s never had a girl as beautiful as y/n on top of his lap before but here he was, the tent in his boxers being barely relieved by the girl by his dreams.

“I—” The sensation of the fabric against skin felt too much to bear but she wanted more. “I want your—your cock in me. Please.” She said this through lazy lips and heavy lids.

“F-f-fuck.” Bill groaned at the vulgarity of her words. Never in his life would he expect y/n to utter something as filthy as that. But never in his life would Bill Denbrough ever expect to be offered the chance to fuck her. “Okay, baby, hold on.” His calloused palm slowly slipped its way down from the slope of her jaw to her neck where fingerprints were left and then down to the clasp of her bra.

The damn thing. As hard as his hand grasped and as hard as his fingers twisted, the clip wouldn’t budge.

“Need some help?” y/n giggled, as she noticed Bill’s pained expression. Effortlessly, she unhooked the cursed contraption. It was as effortless as how the piece of fabric once made her look so perfect. But perfection didn’t change once the garment left her skin. Bill then realized that it wasn’t the strawberry-stained lips or the dramatic smokey eye or the tempting clothing that made y/n perfect. y/n was already perfect on her own; everything else was just a prop.

Bill’s once furrowed brows softened when y/n began to take the lead. His bare back pressed further into the mattress in the same motion y/n’s chest leaned into his.

Her crotch just barely brushed his and Bill couldn’t take the ‘almost there’ feeling anymore. “I hate these,” he bit. His hand swooped down to peel off the lacy string of fabric in one harsh motion.

“This is a little unfair, isn’t it?” y/n posed. Her eyebrow raised a little the way it always did when she asked a question. Her hands were cold when they made a trail down his chest and to his boxers. “Now we’re even,” she giggled when she finally released him from his confinements.

In an instant, Bill’s erection had slapped his stomach and y/n found herself near salivating at the sight. Her thumb just barely brushed the tip, letting out a hiss from Bill.

“Baby—”

“Shh…” Before Bill could get another word out through choked moans and deep breaths, y/n led his cock to her heat. Immediately, she let out a whine at the stretch of Bill which he chuckled at. “Bill..”

“Yes?” Bill couldn’t help but smirk at the fact that he was making her feel this way. He was the one whose name she was moaning. He was the one she was fucking.

“Bill…harder…” Her moans were like a record Bill would never get tired of hearing. His right hand moved to brush a stray strand of hair behind her ear before his fingers gripped her scalp while his left hand moved just below her butt, allowing him to thrust deeper.

Moans turned into whines and whines turned into screams as Bill set the pace faster and harder. Each thrust hit deeper each time, hitting a spot no boy had ever found before. “Bill, I’m—” But y/n’s words were cut off when Bill’s lips captured hers in a kiss. His hand still found itself tangled in her morning hair. His other hand still tightly gripped on her ass which would surely leave a bruise. His hips bucked up once more, leaving y/n in a moaning mess, unable to hold herself above him anymore. With shaky arms, y/n allowed herself to collapse on Bill’s chest. Their breaths mixed and their pants synced.

Tenaciously, Bill pressed a kiss upon y/n’s sweat-slicked forehead. The feeling of his lips was gentle and tickled as they dragged down to her cheekbone.

It was never supposed to end up like this, y/n could only think to herself now as she watched Bill walk out of her room and presumably out the front door. Of course, he’d be back the next night. Ever since their first drunken encounter with each other, casual sex had become second nature to y/n and Bill—like learning how to tie your shoes or riding your bike. But it was at this moment when y/n realized how she wanted more.

Hickies and torn shirts would never be enough to satisfy the aching need for something deeper; the feeling that made her stomach drop every time she caught Bill looking at her; the feeling that made her throat dry up every time she tried to speak to him outside of moans and cries; the feeling that made her heart skip a beat at the thought of him; the feeling of want—and only want—for Bill Denbrough.

[whoacanada]

‘Wishful Thinking‘

Summary: Every NHL champion gets a single brush with ice magic. When Jack takes his first cup with the Falconers, he accidentally undoes the wish that brought him back from the brink of death in 2009, and Bitty becomes hell-bent on lifting the cup himself for a chance to set things right.

A/N: Finally posting some concepts I’ve played around with that aren’t 100% complete massive fics, but still pretty solid, just little things that might be enjoyed. Yet another cup-wish-gone-wrong-au with monkey-paw components. Also inspired by discord convos about canon!Jack meeting an older, veteran NHL!Bitty and having a lot of feelings. Also mentor/father-in-law!Bob trying to help Bitty navigate the NHL. There’s more to this floating around but this is the meat of it

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Bob can sense when it happens. A shift of something monumental that he’s only felt on a handful of occasions his entire life. A quick glance across the ice finds a number of the celebrating Falconers looking around curiously, unsure of the sensation; for so many, it’s their first brush with ice magic. A pleasant novelty. The vets, though, they look to each other.

Bob turns and doesn’t have to look far to find his son, one hand clasped around the cup, the other around Eric Bittle’s waist, smiling from ear to ear. Something about the moment is wrong, but Bob can’t quite determine why as he’s overcome with a wave of nausea. The stadium lights are too bright and he blinks hard, face scrunching, trying to force whatever wrongness he’s feeling out of himself.

Someone’s made a wish.

The moment passes. Bob’s vision clears. There, veiled in a shower of blue and gold confetti, is Eric; alone at center ice, face twisted in confusion as he looks around for the man who only moments earlier had been in his arms.

“You take the cup, you get one real wish,” the decades old, bourbon-lacquered voice of his first coach reminds him. “But only the one. Can be something small, like an empty cab in the rain, or it can be something big. World changing, even. The one thing, the most important thing — ”

“No,” Bob breathes. “Please, no.”

“— You never use your wish on another player.”

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They don’t know exactly what Jack wished for, but the next time Bitty’s blades touch the ice, it’s as if he’s stepped into the body of a new man. No more slurs. No more targeted chirps. He’s just one of the boys.

He plays. He wins. Then, the offers start to come.

NHL teams looking for fast wingers, team players, leadership material; not one of them mentions diversity, or Eric’s status as the first out NCAA hockey captain. No one cares. No one remembers Jack, and no one cares about Eric.

The best and worst case scenarios rolled into one. If this is the reality Jack unknowingly traded his existence for, Bitty has no choice but to walk through the door his partner opened.

Bitty swallows, trying to force the words out on one of his now nightly calls with the man who would have been his father-in-law in another world, if the shared connection between them hadn’t been interred in a Montréal cemetery almost a decade prior.

“I think . . . I think he wished for acceptance.”

___________

___________

___________

“No one remembers anymore.”

Eric scuffs his skate against this ice, building up a small pile of shavings before scattering them again, focusing on the soft white as if somehow he’ll be able to transport himself bodily to somewhere cool and quiet. Jackson Hole. Banff. Tremblant. Anywhere but here. Anywhen but now.

“Saw Tater last week at a press junket. Blank stares all around. Some days, most days, I wake up and I don’t know how I got here. I can go without thinking of him.”

Weeks. Eric doesn’t say aloud. Months. Those hideous mornings when he wakes up beside a warm body and forgets they aren’t him. They aren’t supposed to be him. Was there ever even a him.

Jack. Eric mouths silently, just to remind himself. His name is Jack.

The details always slip. The universe constantly trying to correct the fallacy of Eric Bittle remembering a man who died before they technically ever met. Faded photographs and corrupted memory cards. Selfies that used to have two people in frame. Vlog posts with cosmic ADR, swapping Jack’s name for someone else’s like a hastily rewritten script. Eventually, even Eric’s memories turn traitor. First times lost to reshoots and post-production magic. Blue eyes are brown. Black hair is blonde. Jack becomes Phillip. Eric’s first love recast. In desperation, he pulls a page from Memento, finds a tattoo parlor and has ‘Jack Laurent Zimmermann’ inked in dark, unmistakable letters on his inner thigh. Adds a cup, the Falconers’ crest, and the date they lost everything. It works well enough until the name fades; there are still days where a hook up will ask why Eric has a championship tattoo for a team he never played with.

Now, all he has is Bob.

“That’s why I’m here.” Bob reminds. “That’s why we talk.”

“But what happens if we don’t.”

Bob’s familiar assurances rumble through the phone. Constant. Refusing to acknowledge the harsh realities of the passing of time. The ever-present doomsday clock moving them both toward disaster — Bob aging, Eric aging out. He’s good, but he isn’t great, and the only offers coming his way are single-season contracts with teams that haven’t sniffed a championship in years. One day very soon, there will be no more chances for Eric to undo what’s been done. No more favors to ask of teammates that have long since forgotten a world where Jack Zimmermann was a college graduate and a rookie MVP. Not just an addict. Not just dead at nineteen.

Eric listens to Bob ramble, asks him to tell him a story, to tell him about the Jack that Eric never really got to know. The Jack he can barely remember. A man that Eric has dedicated his entire life to honoring, to bringing back — from where he cannot fathom — and Bob obliges in a soft tone Eric imagines is not dissimilar from how he must have spoken to his son as a child.

Eric ignores his teammates rushing around him — tossing chirps and gentle insults about his ‘Sugar Daddy’ — and focuses on the accented voice in his ear; grasping desperately at the memory of a man who doesn’t exist. Pretending. Hoping.

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__________

Across the ice, Eric sees Kent Parson watching him. When they lock eyes, the aging star glides toward him, under a guise of one amicable captain greeting another. He’s pushing 37, and while the years of competitive play are starting to show, he’s just as viciously handsome as the day they first met. At least, Eric thinks he is. He can’t imagine a life where Kent Parson strolled onto a college campus and played beer pong at a frat party, but there’s a folder of old photos on Eric’s computer. Jack is in none of them, but there’s one of himself and Kent. Smiling.

Eric can’t recall why the image bothers him so much.

Parson used his wish years ago on something that he’s never bothered to share — and Eric’s far too much a gentleman to ask a man who was once a rival what he wasted his golden ticket on — but now, he’s slowing down, and this is supposed to be his farewell season. Going out with a bang, riding the high of his fifth cup win. He’s worked hard, and he deserves to shove the Penguins back down into obscurity for another season. Deserves it far more than Eric, with his selfish, single-mindedness that’s ruined god knows how many careers in the last decade between his own ruthlessness and Bob’s meddling.

Except. . . this is also likely Eric’s last season. His last chance to undo the great tragedy of his life, and Parson knows it.

“How you feeling, Peaches? You ready?”

Eric hates the nickname in the same way he hates when his father calls him ‘Champ’.

Eric fights his own shame because he wants to be honest, say, ‘No, I’m not ready, I’ll never be ready,’ but Eric can’t ask for what he wants, anymore. He wants the Aces to balk on a power play. He wants Parson to flub a pass and throw the game —  he even knows the man would probably do it, too — but Eric needs to come by a win honestly. They learned the hard way in 2022 when Eric hands were wrapped around the cup, wishing, praying, crying, pleading . . .

Clear eyes, full hearts, or some such bullshit.

Cheaters don’t get wishes.

“I can’t remember, anymore,” Eric admits as they square up across the face-off circle, the resigned terror of an inescapable end creeping upon him like the burn of an old injury ignored for far too long. “Kent. Please.” Parson leans down, rests his stick against the ice, and holds Eric’s gaze as if to say, I’m here. Trust me. Just play.

The puck drops.

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There’s someone watching him, young, handsome with dark hair and the kind of bright blue eyes that scream ‘notice me’ with all of the biological bluntness of neon plumage and a mating dance. The man weaves through the crowd, unnoticed by Eric’s teammates, and comes close enough that Eric can’t help but assume familiarity. He must be a fan, the way he’s flushed and excitable.

Eric’s drunk enough on the moment that he’s happy to indulge his baser instincts. He also literally can’t remember the last time he brought company home and if there’s ever been a night to get laid, it’s this one.

“Crisse, look at you, Bits.”

The man is caught between being awestruck and simply struck, reaching out to touch Eric’s arm but not quite making contact, like his depth perception is the tiniest bit off. He drops Eric’s old nickname so easily, so earnestly, that for a moment Eric thinks they might already know each other — but that’s impossible. Eric would remember someone so handsome, so very much his type.

“Only my friends call me ‘Bitty’.” Eric cautions, raising his half-empty champagne bottle in a mock toast and flashing his best ‘you’re coming home with me tonight’ smile. “But I’m more than happy to to get acquainted with you, Sugar.”

Eric isn’t usually this forward, this unrestrained. Tonight, it doesn’t matter, he’s celebrating: another championship, the end of a career, a life well lived. It’s to be expected. What isn’t expected is how the man’s relieved smile falters; as if Eric’s unbridled joy is somehow misplaced.

“Bitty? It’s me.”

“And ‘me’ is called . . . ?”

On very few occasions in Eric’s life has he been able to witness true devastation first-hand; and those instances were related to deaths, hockey losses, or blackout morning afters.

“Jack.” The man says softly, face slack with surprise. “It’s. . . Jack. Bitty, you know me.”

“If we’ve met before, I’m sorry,” Eric apologizes, hating to see the kid look so defeated. “I meet so many people — ”

Over Jack’s shoulder, Eric catches sight of Bob Zimmermann and waves, delighting in the way Bob’s face lights up when he catches sight of Eric, practically going supernova when he notices Jack as well, crossing the ice like a man possessed; Bob moves to pull them both into a hug but Eric’s new friend holds up a defensive hand and Bob stops mid-gesture.

It’s extremely apparent something is off, and between the reporters, the confetti, the champagne, and the fans, Eric is missing all of the context clues.

“Just won my last cup,” Eric singsongs, gesturing with the bottle between his mentor and the man Eric would very much like to fuck — who look very similar now that Eric can see them side by side. “Everyone’s super excited, right? Yeah? So, what’s going on. Did someone die?”

“No.” Bob says quickly, eyes flicking between Jack and Eric warily. “No. Not . . . that.”

“Severely injured?”

“. . . Non.”

“Okay, then, we should be celebrating!” Eric throws his arms wide and nearly clocks a passing teammate. “No more party pooping, Bobbert. Speaking, this is my new friend, Jack. Jack, Bob, Bob, Jack. Though, I’m getting the feeling you two might know each other. Or might be . . . related.” Eric gasps and smacks his free palm against his forehead. “Oh my god, the Tremblant retreat? Is that where I know you from? Listen, I was fucked up on pain meds that whole weekend, I am so sorry if we’ve already met.”

Despite Eric’s continued attempts at clarifying their shared mystery past, Jack keeps looking at Bob with that same wounded expression and it’s really killing Eric’s buzz.

“Bob.” Eric redirects. “Help me, here. Cutie’s nervous.”

“Eric, this is my, ah, well,” Bob’s smile is so forced, so tense, it looks more like a grimace. “Well, this is my son, Jack.”

There is only one ‘Jack’ Eric has ever known in relation to Bob Zimmermann, and he is not someone to be mentioned in polite conversation.

“Your son?” Eric echoes slowly. “Your son, Jack.”

Bob realizes what Eric’s tiptoeing around and casts a furtive glance toward the younger man, lifting two fingers to his cheek conspiratorially to imply ‘it’s a long story, not meant for public ears’. Eric knows how to play along.

“Wow, okay, did not expect that, but now that you’re saying it, I can one-hundred-percent tell. You have the same, well, everything.”

Eric takes Jack’s hand for an obligatory shake, not missing the way Jack’s features twist up into something caught between flattery and misery, before staring down his pseudo-mentor.

“My question is this, where have you’ve been hiding him — because how long have I know you, Bobby? Shame.”

“I’ve been . . . away.”

Jack’s tone is weighted with context Eric absolutely does not possess, but can definitely read into. Given the age difference and Alicia’s conspicuous lack of attendance this evening, Jack’s definitely a love child from some 90s Zimmergroupie. Or, original Jack didn’t actually OD and Bob spirited away his kid to keep away the prying eyes of the public; but that wouldn’t explain the age difference or the shared name.

Oh, Bobbert.

“Couldn’t wheel him out too soon,” Bob jokes, but Eric can tell the man’s heart isn’t in it, reinforcing Eric’s suspicion.

“Well, I’m happy you did,” Eric says graciously, trying to smooth over the awkwardness. “He’s very handsome, when he isn’t doing this Eeyore impression.”

“Just like his father,” Bob says reflexively —  defensively —  as Jack goes pink. “Eric, will you excuse us for a moment? Back in five minutes, tops.”

Eric offers a gracious wave, gaze lingering on Jack’s retreating back — and backside, bless — watching Bob rest a firm hand on his son’s neck, gripping tightly to lean in and furiously whisper something. As Eric watches, Jack looks back over his shoulder; it’s not the fond glance of a potential paramour. Regret, maybe? Grief, definitely.

He must be as disappointed to be cock-blocked by his father as Eric is.

Across the ice, Kent Parson has rushed Jack, gathering him into a crushing embrace that the younger man returns easily —  burying his face against Parson’s pads; pulling back only when Parson grabs Jack’s shoulders to push him away, taking a long look at him, holding his face between his hands briefly before pulling Jack back into his arms.

They don’t just look like old friends, it’s a reunion of desperation, like the videos his mother sends of soldiers coming home from war, but before Eric can think better of it, a teammate fists a hand in the collar of Eric’s sweater and pulls — away from Bob’s forlorn love child and forgotten first meetings — and the night goes on.  

Bob doesn’t return. Neither does Jack.

Eric doesn’t even notice.

__________

__________

[puckrman]

who → noah puckerman & quinn fabray

when → november 28, 2019 ( approx. 7 pm )

where → local lima park

tagging → @quinnfabrayhq & @noahpuckermanhq

warnings → n/a

tl; dr  → they're engaged!!!

Quinn was more than happy to get away from the awkward dinner with their moms - even if it hadn't actually been quite as bad as she'd anticipated. Something she owed to Sarah, mostly, who had done Quinn a favor by changing the topic every time babies and marriage came up. She was definitely going to have to get that girl something really nice for Hanukkah, that was for sure. Settling back into the passenger seat of Puck's truck, she watched him fondly, and put her hand over his as they backed out of the driveway. "You look so handsome in that sweater. Like a true gentleman."

Dinner was fine, but Puck had too much on his mind to really enjoy it, he hadn't even gone up for third helpings and only ate one slice of pie, which was complete bullshit, so when they climbed into his truck and he hadn't been called out for acting weird, frankly he was surprised...and relieved. Still, he was quiet as they pulled away from the house and he took Quinn's hand in his own, glancing over at her and smiling, "It's itchy." He teased, lifting her hand and kissing it, "Wanna go see the lights display? I heard it's really great this year, they have this whole manger scene and stuff too, I called to make sure." "I'll help you take it off when we get back." Quinn smiled back at Puck, unbuttoning her jacket with her free hand, before turning the heat up a little. "That sounds nice. It probably won't be all that busy right now, either, since most people have gone off to do their Black Friday shopping." She was a little confused about why he had gone to so much effort as to call ahead, but she chose to focus on just being happy that he was making sweet gestures, rather than whatever it was that he was planning. Most likely something new in the bedroom. But with how loving and romantic he'd been since she'd arrived in Lima... maybe she'd surprise him right back and agree to try it out. Maybe. "Let's do it." Puck smirked, "Yeah? It makes you hot? The ugly dad-sweater makes my girl wet, good to know." He teased and nodded, "Yeah, that's what I was thinking, plus we'll probably be too busy during December to get out here." He added, focusing back on the road and trying to keep his breathing steady as he rehearsed his proposal speech in his head again, "Dinner was really great, by the way. Like really, really great." "You're ridiculous." Quinn chuckled, shaking her head and letting go of Puck's hand so she could straighten her beanie. "Busy? Have a lot of plans for us, do you? Or do you just mean that you're not going to let me get out of bed for the next month?" She turned from the mirror and back to him, rubbing her lips together to make sure the lip balm she'd applied before they left was properly spread across them. The last thing she needed was her lips to get chapped in the cold weather. "It was a lot nicer than I thought it'd be. I'm glad our moms didn't bring up those questions too much. And your turkey came out perfectly." Puck grinned, looking back to Quinn for a moment before he spoke again, "I just figured you'd have us going to every church event, and volunteering and all that. But if you didn't make any plans I'll keep up all booked up in bed, babe." He teased, chatting a bit more about dinner with their mothers before pulling into the parking lot of the park and climbing out of the truck, double checking the small box in his pocket before he moved around to help Quinn out and kissed her slowly, his hands holding her hips and pulling her against him, "You look pretty tonight." He added and smiled. Quinn gently pressed her hands against Puck's chest as she beamed up at him, feeling the soft, warm fabric of the sweater against her palms. "And you are being quite the gentleman tonight. What are you up to, Puckerman?" She narrowed her eyes at him, searching them as though she was trying to read his mind. "Planning on taking me behind some of these trees? Or getting creative with some mistletoe?" Puck smiled, he knew he was beyond lucky to be with someone like Quinn, and the fact that she'd stayed with him all this time was a miracle, maybe he shouldn't push his luck by asking for more, but he was tired of being unsure. He knew what he wanted, and what he wanted was to marry Quinn, and have more kids with her, kids they'd actually raise, together...hopefully in Lima. "Come on, we'll freeze if we don't get moving." He took her hand and tugged her towards the walking path, brushing off her probing questions. "It's not even that cold out..." Still, Quinn moved in closer, speeding up her pace a little to keep up with him. As they walked - nearly jogging, technically - Quinn kept her eyes on him. He was up to something. Puck had never been a good liar or secret keeper, and she could just tell something was going on with him. What it was, she had no idea, but she really hoped it wasn't some sort of prank. Puck stopped when the reached the lighted path, slowing down so they could actually see the light display, "I think seeing the lights is actually one of my favorite parts of the holiday..." He admitted, "Like when I was a kid...before Sarah arrived, we barely ever had enough cash to like...do the whole presents on Hanukkah or under the tree and stuff...but my ma always took me to look at the lights around town and stuff. It was nice..." Quinn put her hand on Puck's back, leaning into his side and admiring the twinkle of the lights. "It's still nice." She glanced back up at him, watching the color of the lights changing reflected on his face. "This was a good idea." Standing up on her tip toes, Quinn pressed a kiss to his cheek, before snuggling in closer to him, and just quietly taking in the view, and Puck's body heat. "Yeah?" Puck asked and pulled his arm around her, walking alongside her slowly and watching the lights as they walked by them, "I'm glad, I was worried you'd think it was lame...and I guess it kind of is. But...last year we talked about making our own holiday traditions and I thought maybe this could be one?" Quinn hesitated, sensing the underlying question Puck was really asking - that he wanted them to be in Lima the next year, but choosing to ignore it for the sake of not having to bring up the same argument again. "Looking at Christmas lights? Sure. That sounds like a really nice tradition to keep." She looked back at him, studying his face for a moment. "You know I was flirting with you, when I said that though, right? I meant... a different kind of tradition." Puck nodded, he didn't miss the way she'd skipped over his question and flinched, maybe tonight wasn't the night after all, she wasn't ready, and even though he knew he was, and he hung onto her tighter, trying to remember the speech he'd planned one more time. "Right, yeah. I could think of a few of those. I could figure out some fun ways to use mistletoe...if you were into it." He teased, kissing her cheek and pulling back, tugging her further into the park. "Maybe. I'm sure you could convince me, if you really tried." Quinn squeezed Puck's hand as she followed him, letting out a small laugh at his pace. "What is with you tonight? You're in such a rush, is there a game on tonight or something? We could have done this another night, love, I wouldn't have minded." Puck laughed, "Yeah, yeah, but I wanted to come here tonight, so sue me for wanting to catch the tail end of the game." He teased, finally arriving at the center of the lights display, the one with all the angels and the baby jesus, the one he knew Quinn would like the best and he grinned, "So? What do you think, babe? Is it beautiful?" Quinn stopped when Puck did, resting her head against his shoulder as she admired the display. "It really is. Who knew that something so beautiful could come from a place like this?" The people who had put it together had done an amazing job with it, they'd really stepped up their game since the last time she'd visited the display, years ago. November 30, 2019 Puck grinned, maybe Puckerman Landscaping had funded this specific display, but Quinn didn't need to know about that. He let her look at the display, taking a few steps back before taking the little blue box from his pocket and finally moving onto one knee, breathing nervously as he waited for Quinn to notice and turn around. "The snowflake ones look so delicate, almost like real icicles and-" It was then that Quinn noticed Puck was no longer beside her, and with a roll of her eyes, she turned to look for him. "Why didn't you just use the bathroom before we left the house, you're so-" She froze, spotting him on the ground. "-gross." Her lips parted in surprise as she took him in, for a second wondering if she was just seeing things, and he was only tying his boot, but the expression on his face made it pretty obvious what was happening. "Puck?" Puck chuckled softly, hesitating for a moment before he nodded, "Okay...so..I know I'm not the kind of man that deserves to have you, but...I love you Quinn. You're my entire world, I want to give you everything that you need or want. I'll do whatever it takes to make you proud, to keep you happy and satisfied. I will cherish you and love you forever. I know you're unsure about your life here, with me, but I promise you, I won't fuck it up. So...Quinn Fabray, my queen....will you marry me?" He let out a breath and lifted the ring box up a little further, his hand shaking as he waited for her to respond. Quinn stared at him, tears filling her eyes as he spoke. In her heart, she knew he was telling the truth. He'd proven in the last couple of years that he'd do anything for her. Despite his shortcomings when they were younger, he'd really stepped up, and become the best man she knew. She'd been with a lot of men over the years, but no one had ever made her feel as much as Puck had. She loved him, she wanted to spend the rest of her life with him. Sure, she'd prefer to do that in Los Angeles, but if she had to choose between being alone and miserable in LA, or happy and with the man she loved in Lima... it was a pretty easy decision to make. Besides, it's not like being here would force her to be a housewife. She could work online, or travel... there were options. It was the twenty-first century, and she could do it all, like the lead in a romantic comedy. For once, she was going to follow her heart, instead of running from it. After spending way too long confirming her decision, she gave the poor guy a break and nodded, letting the tears start to fall down her cheeks. "Yes. Yes, I'll marry you." Puck's eyes widened, he hadn't planned past the begging her to marry him, he hadn't actually expected her to say yes and now she was and shit, he should say something now. "I...yeah? Yes?" He laughed moving to his feet and pulling Quinn close again, kissing her deeply and letting out a soft groan, "I love you so much. Oh shit, here..uh...look if you hate it we can go pick something else for sure." He murmured, handing her the ring box and smiling, "It's I guess like...a princess ring...or...princess diamond...anyways I thought that was cute..." Quinn laughed and nodded again as she kissed him back, wrapping her arms around his neck and only letting go to take the box. She looked at the ring inside, her eyes widening in surprise as she looked at it. "Princess cut. It's... wow. It's beautiful. It's perfect. You have... surprisingly great taste." Carefully taking the ring out, she handed it to Puck, and extended her left hand towards him. "You put it on. Make it official." Puck smiled, "I...yeah? I was going to take Sarah with me, but I thought I should do it alone...make it more personal and there was like so many to choose from but this was just like...I don't know it was perfect. I kinda pictured you wearing it." he chuckled and took the ring, fumbling with it slightly before he finally managed to slide it onto her finger and kissed her finger, looking up at her and beaming, "You're gonna be my wife. Wow...I'm so fucking lucky." He whined happily, lifting her up and spinning her around before kissing her again. Quinn hugged him tightly, enjoying the feeling of the ring on her finger even more than she ever would have thought. "I can't believe your proposal was nearly entirely family-friendly. Who would have thought?" She teased him, smiling as she slid back down to her feet, but not letting go of him just yet. "It was beautiful. This was beautiful. You're beautiful." "Well...I know you'd want to tell the story to our grandkids one day, so..." Puck shrugged and smiled brightly, his body warm again, this time with excitement and relief, "No, you're beautiful. The most beautiful person in the world. You're everything to me, Q. My life." He whispered and kissed her again, "I love you so much, god, I...I can't believe you said yes." "Grandkids?" Quinn chuckled, raising an eyebrow at him. "Slow your roll there, buddy, let's get married first, yeah? No more babies out of wedlock." She wiped the tears off her cheeks and shook her head, sniffling as she hugged him once again. "Believe it. It's happening. I'm going to be your bossy, high maintenance wife. I hope you've realized what you're signing up for." Puck raised a brow and shook his head, "But we'll get married soon. Not too long of an engagement, right?" He smiled, "I love bossy and high maintenance. In fact, I thought you could plan out our summer garden this month...and I'll have it all ready by the time you move back in the spring..." Quinn eyed Puck, staring him down as she realized that this hadn't been some impulsive, romantic decision. "How long have you been planning this, Puckerman? How many days have you been talking talking to me, looking me in the eye, and knowing you were going to be proposing, without telling me?" She wasn't angry, only impressed. Keeping secrets and planning ahead weren't things she thought Puck was very good at. But then again, all of his work with his company had proven that he was capable of at least the second one. He was no longer the immature boy she remembered from high school, but a grown, responsible man. The type of person she'd always hoped she'd marry. "Weddings take time. But... I'll promise you by this time next year, I'll be your wife, and by the summer after that..." She paused, drumming her fingers on his chest and smiling shyly. "You'll have to help me in the garden, because I'll be busy carrying our new baby. How's that sound?" Puck shrugged, "Well, the light show was...actually pretty crappy, so...I called the parks commission and managed to get them to make a few changes...and the ring took a while to save up for, and there's some other stuff...you'll see when we get back home...it's been a while. I just wanted it to be perfect. To show you...how much I love you. And how serious I am about this." He smiled, nodding eagerly, "Really? that soon? That's amazing, you're amazing. You're the most amazing woman in the world, Q."

Quinn shook her head slowly, kissing Puck, lingering in it for a few, long seconds, before pulling back. "Come on. Let's get you home, and out of that sweater, yeah? Time to work off all that turkey." She winked, taking Puck's hand and leading him back towards the truck. Puck beamed, a few paces behind Quinn still in awe of the moment, she'd said yes, which meant at some point in the near future she'd be his wife, it was something he never imagined actually happening, and he certainly never imagined being deserving of it. But he'd worked his ass off, to make something of himself, to prove himself to Quinn and to anyone that had ever doubted him...which was everyone, including himself. "Good, because I was thinking of having seconds when we got back, and I'm going to need to really work up a sweat to get rid of all those calories." He teased, pulling her close as they reached his truck and kissing her again, "God, I love you." He spoke gently before pulling back, helping her climb back into the truck with a grin. Quinn smiled softly at him as she settled in, admiring the man she'd soon be officially spending the rest of her life with. They'd certainly come a long way since high school. "It's funny... I used to always talk about how I was going to lose my virginity to my husband. I guess in a way... I was right." Puck started the truck...only after the third, trouble try and grinned, taking Quinn's hand again, "You are still so precious to me. You're still an angel. My angel, you saved my life. I know we didn't start things out perfectly, but I'll work my ass off to make sure you have the life you want." He promised, feeling his eyes tear up and blinking before looking away, "Fuck, I can't believe you said yes." He laughed softly.

Quinn leaned in, pressing a warm, lingering kiss to his cheek. “Hey. Believe it. You’re the best man I know, and I’d be honored to be your wife, Noah.” She didn’t use his first name often, mostly out of habit, but when she was trying to show him she was serious, it tended to slip out.

Puck grinned happily, "I...I'm glad." He drove quietly for a while before glancing back over to her again, "You sure you like the ring? Because I won't be butt hurt if you want to exchange it, like I totally get that I don't understand fashion and shit." He chuckled, "I was really just thinking about how it'd look on you, naked." He shrugged.

Quinn admired the ring, shaking her head slowly. "It's perfect, Puck. You can't go wrong with Tiffany." She chuckled softly, turning in her seat so she could put her left hand on his thigh. "You won't have to just wonder for too much longer, love. You can find out whenever you want."

Puck swallowed and groaned, "Damn. You might want to revise that one, because you know I'll be asking you to show me whenever the mood hits...which is pretty much always." He chuckled and lifted her hand from his thigh, kissing the back of it gently, "You're so good to me."

                   ...to be continued

[ayecaptnswan-blog]

When You Need Me, I’ll Be There

Soooo it’s been a while but I have a fic.

PROMPT: Emma goes to a high school reunion with Killian where he finds out Emma had been bullied quite severely so they go to face it together.

The link is https://archiveofourown.org/works/10923549 if you would like to read it on AO3 and I’ll post it just under this.

I don't own anything, I do not own the cast, characters and/ or the plot of the show, that all belongs to ABC and Adam and Eddie; I am just a faithful watcher. I was also deeply saddened to hear of Emilie, Jen, Josh, Ginny, Jared and Bex's departures from the show, but I think they're going to create something great and I do love Colin so much so I'm very glad he's staying. I also adore Andrew West; ever since he was on The Walking Dead I have loved him so I'm very excited to see how he and little Alison will do.

But, as always Captain Swan will always be remembered for me and I hope that the show lets them keep their very deserved happy ending.

When you need me I'll be there

3rd Person

Emma huffs softly at the sight of herself in the hotel mirror.

The knee length black dress that she had brought for the occasion she was going to clung to her in all the wrong ways, and the heels she wore to match made her feet ache in ways she couldn't have imagined. However, this wasn't about her-

(Okay, maybe it was just a little bit.)

-This was about changing opinions, making everyone see her as she is now.

Killian is lying on their hotel bed, playing with his phone, his hook in his overnight bag while his fake hand is in its place. He doesn't enjoy being in New York, not since his last journey's there. However, two months ago when his wife had approached him with puppy dog eyes and the promise that she'd finally clean the storage cupboard with him was too impossible to deny.

Apparently, she has one of those 'school reunion' things or so she said and despite the fact that everything about her demeanor at the time had screamed that she didn't want to go to it, she'd begged him to. That's something he didn't understand.

However, after a quick chat with his mother and father in law, he was informed that his lovely wife wanted to show off. He knew that Emma didn't have much as a child, so he didn't mention the fact he knew she wanted everyone to be jealous of her now quite-spiffing life.

Hearing Emma groan again makes him sit up, quirking an eyebrow at the sight of her. She looks beautiful, as she always has and always will to him, but she also looks very uncomfortable and quite put out. "You alright, love?" He queries softly.

Emma glares a little at him, crossing her arms. "You." She bites out, before gesturing at her abdomen, where the dress clung to her tiny bump, evidence of their true love sitting proudly inside her. "Did this, do you see?"

"That you're pregnant, yes, Swan, I do see." He stands, walking to her slowly like a hunter who doesn't want to spook a deer. "Is that bad?"

Emma pouts, laying her hand on her slightly protruding stomach, turning so that he can see that the zip of her dress is half way up. "My dress doesn't fit anymore, my feet hurt and I couldn't be any more obviously pregnant." She states simply and Killian pulls her into his arms gently.

"I think you look beautiful and there are quite literally seven dresses for you to choose from, love. Two of them being maternity dresses." He reminds her and Emma pouts.

His wife is reluctant to making the switch to maternity clothing as she claims it means she'll be officially in the 'whale stage' of her pregnancy and she doesn't want that, although their little one seems to have different ideas as she's only three months along and her bump was bigger than usual.

"But this one makes me look good." Emma shrugs, glancing into his eyes. "Get the stupid red one." She sighs and he grabs it for her, passing it to his wife gently. "It's not as sexy, but I suppose it'll do."

He kisses her gently, stroking her jaw. "Oi, you're very sexy, besides, you're my wife, and I don't think I want to fight those men for you." He jokes, pressing a kiss to her cheek before sauntering off back to the bed.

"Just pull out your hook, that'll scare them off." She smiles softly before getting changed.

Emma had ended up choosing the red dress, mainly because it was one of the only ones that fit and it didn't make her look like she was wearing a bin bag like she thought the gray one did. Since the pain in her feet became quickly unbearable within ten minutes, she was now in a pair of flats, so she was in quite the sour mood when they walked into her old school building.

At first, she had pointed out her old locker, noticing it still had the tiny E she had carved with a penknife as a grumpy teen, then her old gym room where she'd constantly truant lessons and watch them from a hidden corner while laughing.

However, as lovely as it was that she was telling him these stories, Killian never heard a friends name in them, not one. "Swan, as much as I love this, what did you and your friends do around here?" He asks curiously and Emma just looks ahead of her.

With a shrug, Emma chews her bottom lip. "Nothing much, messed around, stupid stuff as friends do, but anyway, I used to hang out of that window and climb down onto the roof and then I could break out of school." She explains and Killian stops, leaning on a locker with a small but knowing frown.

"You didn't have any, did you, love?" He asks softly and she shakes her head, looking away. "You hate this place… yet you're telling me stories and it doesn't sound awful-"

"It is when you have to break out of school just because of people bullying you." She states harshly, going to sit on a bench nearby, glancing at the hall in which they're supposed to be in. "I was the new, weird, kid with glasses who was too skinny."

With a sigh, Killian goes to sit next to her. "Swan…I'm sorry." He whispers. "I know what it's like to get picked on."

She nods slowly, he's told her about how the kids at school would beat him up just for the hell of it until his father took them away and sold them into slavery where he was bullied every day no matter what, having no safe haven.

"It just sucks being back here," Emma states, biting her lip. "I came here and joined all these clubs, I made the hockey team and I did cross country, I was a really big athlete." She sighs. "But then kids picked on me for my hand me down clothes at cross country so I quit, and when I made Captain in hockey they all hated me, one girl even hit me in the eye with a puck, so I quit that." Emma looks away. "I was the kid that loved English, I loved learning, and I even liked Science."

"What made you stop?" He asks curiously.

"The boys picked on me, called me names, the girls were just as bad, if not worse. One of them even pretended to be my friend, learned all my secrets, but one night we had a sleepover and she put gum in my hair so I had to have it cut off, which meant I was then made fun of even more." Emma tells him, looking away with a sigh.

"That's not it though…" Killian whispers, he knows her, something else happened.

"She then told the entire school my secrets, including this guy I had a crush on, who then told me he liked me, but it was all just a ruse because he got me to send…photos that I shouldn't have."

Killian's eyes widen a little. "Oh…"

"He then showed them to everyone but said he didn't mean to and I was so stupid I believed him, but then he lifted up my skirt in the hall and everyone called me a slut, whore, anything you can think of really." Emma blinks away tears, sniffling as he pulls her close, wanting to kill whoever did that to her.

"Swan…I can't believe someone would do that to you." He whispers, hiding the anger from his tone as he strokes her back slowly, letting her cry into his chest a little. "Why the hell would you come back here?"

She buries her face into his chest a little before sighing and looking up at him, letting him wipe away her tears with his thumb. "To show them I'm not that girl anymore." She admits, stroking his chest, relieved (not for the first time) that his chest hair pokes out from his shirt and ever-so-gentleman-looking waistcoat.

"Of course you're not that girl, you never were, and you're not any of the things those idiots said to you, Swan. Nor will you ever be."

She hesitates, just like every time, calling herself Jones as she knows she'll always stay being his Swan. "I just want them to see that I'm a completely different Emma. I'm married to the love of my life, we have our Henry and I know my parents and I'm pregnant. I want them to know I do have it all. I have the house and the family, the children. "

The small smile he offers is enough to make her swoon but she continues.

"I have the perfect husband, the perfect son, perfect home, we even have the freaking dog and white picket fence!"

With a chuckle, Killian nods, kissing her gently, nuzzling her nose before pulling away. "Then lets us go show them, love. I'm more than happy to show off Emma Jones and kick that man's arse." He states, before thinking. "But is he a big guy cause it's been a few years and I might need my hook?" He jokes.

"Shut up." She giggles, kissing him again.

Walking into the hall, hand in hand like usual, Emma feels slightly lighter after sharing her secrets with him, as she always does. They walk up to the table with all the name tags on it, searching for hers quickly but can't find it so she asks one of the ladies at the table. "Hi, sorry but I can't seem to find my name, I did say I was coming."

The women, who Emma recognizes immediately, quickly look at her. "And you are?" They ask, so Emma sighs.

"Emma Jones, but I used to be Emma Swan." She explains, keeping her calm, despite being offended they don't remember her. "I remember emailing back, but apparently it must not have sent or whatever but-"

"Oh my god, wait! Emma Swan?" One of them asks, smirking softly, leaning back in her chair. "You actually came?" When Emma nods, she laughs chirpily. "Wow…now that does surprise me considering how you used to be, very flighty, I wouldn't have expected you'd come back to, what was it you said to me once, the armpit of the US?"

With a cough, Emma leans on her husband's side gently. "Well, uh, I'm here, so…do I have a nametag or not?" She offers her a smile and the woman takes a nametag with Emma Swan written on it.

"Sorry, forgot you were married." She states, smirking softly as she passes it to the blonde, who just steals her pen and crosses out Swan to write Jones instead.

"Sorry." She points at the woman's ringless finger. "Forgot you were still single." She throws her pen back at her before taking Killian's hand and walking around the hall, breathing slowly. "God I hated her in high school, although it's nice to see she's had no changes."

"Except for the bleach blonde hair?" Killian glances at the woman and Emma nods, giggling softly. "Looks rather like a rats den, if you ask me."

With a hum, Emma links her arm with her husbands just as someone knocks into her, making her free hand fly to her small bump carefully. "Hey, watch-" She pauses when she looks up to see the man who crashed into her. "It." She finishes, glaring.

In front of her stood the reason she always ran away, the reason she skipped school and didn't get the grades she wanted since she was never there. "Chris Myers," Emma mumbled, her grip on her husband tightening a little.

To his credit, the man actually remembers who she is without looking at the name tag. "Emma Swan, uh, hi?" He offers her a hand but she just glares at him so he takes it back, wrinkling his nose. "Well, you're just as I remember, well… not exactly as I remember." He gives her a wink that makes her skin crawl.

Killian's jaw clenches on its own as he stares at the man. "It's Emma Jones and she's my wife." He states, guessing that this was the man that upset his Swan so much as a teen, hating him on sight. "I've heard quite the story about you…although I'm having trouble remembering your name, mate, was it uh…ah yes! Cock womble, that was it!" He exclaims gleefully, making Emma hide her smirk at the look on Chris' face. "See you later, cock womble."

With a smirk, Killian leads her away from the man who quite obviously was embarrassed.

After nearly an hour there, Emma has had several awful encounters and she's only reminded of how much she hated this place, how much they all made her hate herself.

It's not until she goes to the bathroom since she's suddenly needing it every five minutes because of their tiny, yet lovely and wonderful, the baby inside her that has decided to be an asshole today, that she hears the worst of it.

She's closed in a stall, just pulling down her dress when she hears the voices of some of her past school enemies speaking, which normally wouldn't bother her except for the fact they were speaking about her, about Killian in fact.

The girls are people she remembers as Missy James, Olivia Spencer and her old bully, the main one, the worst, Karen Clarkson. All were tall, beautiful, and slim and always had the boys all over them in high school, or from what Emma can remember before she ran away with Neal.

Missy was the nicest of the three, Emma thinks, she was never outright rude to her and even once helped her clean up her books, but the other two were the spawn of Satan, which is only confirmed by what Emma hears.

"Have you seen Emma Swan here yet?" Karen asks, looking at herself in the mirror. "She's just as…Emma as I remember, plain, irritatingly skinny, although I did notice she's got a bit of a belly on her-"

"She's pregnant," Missy states simply, shrugging. "Hardly a belly, it's nice."

"Nice?" Karen scoffs, fixing her hair. "Another Emma in the world, God help us all. I mean…what did she even expect out of this reunion? That we'd all see her pregnant and feel bad for what we did? We didn't even do anything wrong! It was just fun!" She laughs to herself.

"You locked her in a storage room until she had a panic attack." Missy points out, frowning. "You're lucky she didn't report you!"

Karen scoffs while Olivia just smirks, both of them fussing with their hair or makeup. "Yeah, yeah, shut up. But! Did you all see who-"

"Whom," Emma whispers under her breath so they can't hear.

"-She's here with? Her husband, I know, shocking that she's married, but have you seen how hot he is?" Karen asks them with a smirk. "The brunette, kind of tall, smolder on point, blue eyes, gorgeous smile, and beard?" The other two nod.

Olivia hums. "He's hot, what does he even see in Emma? He's…him and she's, well she's her you know? He's out of this world gorgeous, could date anyone he wants, but he chose her? The school whore?"

Missy frowns but doesn't say anything as Karen laughs softly. "I know why." She states like she knows everything. "He's got a fake hand." She points out, making Emma frown.

"Why does that matter?" Missy asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, he's broken." Karen shrugs. "He's got one hand, meaning he's pretty much an invalid, who would love a guy whose only half?" She laughs softly. "I'll bet he's got some pretty ugly scars with it too, I mean only Emma would fall for that. And then he's so desperate for someone to love him that he'd take any whore."

"Karen!" Missy scolds, frowning. "What the hell is wrong with you?! Why can't you just accept that Emma may have actually passed her teens? That she fell in love with someone and they're happy? I mean, if they're happy together then it doesn't matter whether he's got one hand, which I didn't even notice! No one did!" Missy yells, making Emma feel a pang of admiration for the fact she finally stood up for her.

With a scoff, Karen pushes past her with Olivia and leaves, smirking. "Whatever."

As soon as they leave, Emma unlocks her door and steps out, wiping away her tears, and Missy looks shocked that she's there. "Hi," Emma whispers, walking to the sink to wash her hands, sniffling. "Thanks. It meant a lot that you stood up for me and Killian." She bites her lip, drying her hands.

"I'm sorry," Missy states softly, chewing her lip gently. "About what Karen said, she's just bitter because someone loves you and she's getting divorced. But she was having sex with Chris Myers so…I kind of don't blame her husband." She offers Emma her hand. "Truce?"

Emma smiles softly and takes her hand, shaking it once. "Truce. Now, what do you say we go back to my husband, whose probably pacing outside the door with worry." She lays her hand on her bump gently. "He's really protective over bean and me."

Missy laughs softly, nodding. "I can tell, I've seen his hands on your waist or the baby practically since you've been here, he looks at you like you hang the moon."

Emma blushes, nodding. "He does, I'm very lucky."

"So is he, because you look at him in the exact same way." Missy points out. "Now come on, let me meet your lovely baby daddy?"

With a giggle, Emma leads her out.

It's not until a few days later, when Emma is cuddled up into Killian on their couch, listing out baby names, that she realizes how lucky she actually is.

Karen was a bitch yes, but she did make a valid point. Killian could have anyone in the world, anyone he wants, and yet he fought for her and has stuck by her and loves her with everything in him. And it's not because they were always destined to, their love has been hard and they've fought so hard to get to where they are now, it's just because of one simple fact.

He loves her. And that's all that matters.

It doesn't matter to her that Karen said those things or that she was bullied or that she was known as the school whore, because they were just stupid teens (and now adults) who haven't taken the time to know her, didn't speak to her, didn't care about her.

But Killian does, and so it doesn't matter what they think or who they are to her or what they did to her or what they're saying behind her back or whether or not she has awful memories from it.

It doesn't matter because most of them are single and alone or divorced and are unhappy, clinging onto their status as cool in high school and not caring about others, however, Emma has Killian, she has her family.

She's not a little-lost-girl anymore because she has him, so there is something she can bring from that school reunion, something she'll remember forever and cherish the fact she knows it now.

Fuck the past.

[whoacanada]

‘Hot Jock Contest’

2k of date night auctions, shenanigans, and awkward first meetings. A Zimbits AU where Jack never overdosed and Bitty’s gay self is comfortable with being auctioned off for charity.

Rating: Teen, no explicit anything (not this time, lol)

(100% based off an ad I saw in passing for the Chicago Gay Hockey Association’s ‘Hot Jock Contest’.)

Jack rereads the email and fights a tightness in his throat at the image attached.

“Gay men’s hockey club is holding some kind of striptease disguised as a fundraiser. It’s the perfect place for you to spread your bisexual wings. You’ll get to see cocks in jocks, Jack. The kind you can actually look at, and, hopefully, touch.”

“Parse, I don’t know if that’s the kind of image I’m supposed to be cultivating, you know?”

Jack is eight months out of the closet and still horribly, desperately single; a fact made even less palatable by his ex trying to get him laid from a thousand miles away.

“Okay, that excuse worked until you got so backed up it started affecting your game. Look, at some point you have to make yourself happy, right? Coming out is supposed to be liberating and you’ve been wallowing in your freedom because people knowing you like dick doesn’t change the fact you’re still real fucking awkward, bud.”

“Thank you for the pep talk, Kent.”

“No, I mean,” Kent huffs like he’s the one suffering through this conversation. “Go out, have fun, get laid. And take Tater, he’s a good wingman.”

Ultimately, Jack folds like a cheap suit and finds himself in clothing that is far too tight, sipping on a craft beer that is too sweet, in a loud club full of beautiful people doing questionable things.

Jack doesn’t belong here.

“I still don’t think this is --”

“Zimmboni, relax! We find you cute boy tonight, no problem at all. How about that one? Nice legs? Nice face? Look good in your bed, ah?”

“Easy,” Jack throws his teammate a warning look at tries to focus on the parade of scantily clad hockey players looping the stage. “It’s not a meat market.”

Tater snorts. “Is always meat market. Just usually you are meat on ice.”

A beefy defenseman in a blue jock and matching harness stops in Jack’s line of sight and cocks a hip to display his bare backside and the tattoo of puck on his left ass cheek. Tater whistles and earns himself a wink.

“You’re not gay,” Jack chides.

“No, but I appreciate good physique.”

The lighting changes up and so does the music before a voice comes over the speakers announcing ‘special guests in the club tonight’ and Jack barely has time to duck his head before he’s hearing Tater’s name alongside his own.

“Crisse,” Jack curses while Tater stands to accept the resulting applause.

“AM HERE TO FIND ZIMMBONI CUTE BOYFRIEND,” Tater yells gesturing at a red-faced Jack. “HE LIKES BLONDES WITH SOFT HANDS.”

The crowd goes wild, practically drowning out the music.

“Well,” Jack peeks through his fingers and sees the glitter covered announcer staring him down, mic pressed close to his Providence Blue lips. “Lucky you, we have one of those up for auction tonight.”

Blue Harness comes to a stop on the other side of the stage with the other men up for auction and Jack tries not the stare, looking for the aforementioned blonde.

“Did you see him already?” Jack askes Tater, kicking himself for falling prey to his own curiosity.

“No,” Tater whispers loudly, “but always save best for last. You have to bid, or I bid for you.”

The lights go pink and Jack leans back in his chair, forcing himself to enjoy whatever is about to happen.

“Ladies, Gentleman, everything and everyone betwixt and between,” the MC teases. “Our last lot of the evening is a feisty peach from the sunny south who can out-skate, out-bake, and out-class just about any man on the ice.”

Tater wolf-whistles while Jack stares, lost in anticipation -- too preoccupied to comment on the fact ‘betwixt’ and ‘between’ are the same thing -- as the curtain slides back to reveal a short, adorable blonde with big brown eyes and very little covering his nearly perfect body. The man sees Jack, flashes a bright, teasing smile, and Jack’s breath leaves him.

“Our very own NCAA Champion, Eric ‘Bitty’ Bittle. Bidding starts at $500.”

Jack can’t make his voice work and someone else gets the first bid -- in fact, the auction is all the way up to $2000 by the time Jack can choke out “$1500,” but Jack’s voice is drowned out by Tater’s yell of “$3000!”, and Jack nearly gives himself whiplash turning to his teammate.

“What are you doing?”

“Bad taste for you to buy your own boyfriend, so I will buy for you. You will pay me back later -- I can be best man at your wedding.”

Someone else ups it another two hundred and there’s a slight commotion on stage. Bittle, ‘Bitty’ Jack silently corrects, has taken the mic and is assessing the crowd with an amused expression amid catcalls and whistles.

“Y’all, I’m very flattered, but you know you’re just buying a date, right? And you should also know I don’t put out on the first date.”

Some of the cheers slide to boos as Bitty hands back the mic before kissing two fingers and pressing them against his bare ass, skin practically glowing against the stark-white jock and thigh-high socks. Jack’s so light headed he’s going to pass out. He’s already dead.

Tater looks like he’s about to bid again when someone sticks a phone in Jack’s face and all hell breaks loose because Tater tries to grab the thing and by the time the dust has settled Jack is being ushered to the door and the auction is the least of their worries.

“All this press and you didn’t even get laid?”

“I knew it was a fucking mistake,” Jack grunts, trying to focus on his quads and fighting the heat in his cheeks as the boys keep chirping. He’s embarrassed for more than a few reasons. The pictures that popped up online, the call to his publicist, the fact he really wanted to win that date and couldn’t handle the attention long enough to pull it together.

It’s a lot of regrets to bring to a late-season home game.

Jack’s still going through his warm-up stretches when he starts hearing a tapping behind him -- he doesn’t look, he’s too experienced for that -- but eventually, the tapping becomes small voices saying, “Excuse me? Mister Zimmermann?”

Crisse. They’re being polite. He swipes a puck near his skate and stands, ready to plaster on a smile for whatever parent is pimping out their child for a game puck when he sees a familiar tuft of blonde hair through the glass.

Oh.

Bittle waves shyly from behind a whole slew of small children in Falcs gear, face pink with the chill in the arena. He’s bundled up tight, a blue and yellow scarf around his neck, looking embarrassed but determined. He’s as handsome fully clothed as he was barely dressed the night before.

Bitty calls out something over the kids' chatter, and Jack can barely make it out.

“I can’t hear you,” Jack tries, and Bitty shakes his head apologetically.

He swipes a few more pucks from the ice and shoves them through the camera hole before motioning for Bitty to follow him toward the penalty box, which is more of a task than expected as the seats are half full and cordoned off. Jack moves ahead and raps on the door of the penalty box until the attendant, Marcus, finally lets him in.

“Jack, what’s going on --”

“You see that guy?” Jack points to Bittle, who is trying to negotiate his way past an usher one section over. “Blonde guy they aren’t letting into 109, can you go get him?”

“You know I can’t leave, kid.”

“Ugh, fine,” Jack pulls off his gloves and sidles past Marcus to pull open the side door and step out into the stands, much to the shock of the dozen or so fans sitting in the first few rows.

“Zimmermann! What the hell are you doing?”

Jack sticks two fingers in his mouth and whistles loudly until the usher turns to see what’s going on, and Jack recognizes the staffer almost immediately. Unfortunately, he also attracts the attention of every fan the surrounding three sections.

“Hey, Christine! He’s with me! Let him through!”

She waves apologetically and Bittle, bright red with embarrassment, slides past the other attendees to reach Jack, who is back hiding behind the door as fans pile up behind the glass hoping for a photo. Eventually, Bitty makes it to the penalty box and Jack cracks open the door to let him in, but not before tossing a few bait pucks to the fans in the way.

“I don’t think any of those are going to kids,” Bitty chides with his delightful accent, collecting himself and making Jack’s heart melt even as fans keep slapping the glass hoping for more swag.

“eBay,” Jack mumbles, looking down because Bittle is a solid foot shorter than him in skates. Jack could lift him easily. “Probably. Hi.”

“Hi,” Bittle returns, the red in his cheeks still bright. “Hey, I thought you were going to win the auction.”

“What?”

Marcus coughs and says, “I don’t think you’re allowed to do this.”

There’s a pounding behind Jack and he catches Poots and Snowy making kissy faces at them. He can’t flip them off with kids around but they know he wants to, the look on his face is enough. Thankfully, Bittle laughs and blows a kiss back for good measure.

“I like him!” Poots yells, skating off. “I’m gonna tell Tater!”

“That’s what I was trying to tell you,” Bittle continues. “I thought you were going to win. Then you were just gone. Hurt my ego a bit.”

“Bad timing,” Jack apologizes. “I get skittish around cameras.”

“Mmm,” Bitty hums and turns around to look at the dozen people recording them on their phones. “And this is much more private?”

“Well, you picked the venue,” Jack fights a smile and summons his courage, leaning down to whisper in Bitty’s perfectly shaped ear, “and, you’re wearing clothes this time.”

Someone slams into the boards hard enough to rock the wall and Jack spins, dropping a protective arm around Bittle. It’s Tater, grinning like a damn loon.

“LITTLE B! YOU FIND ZIMMBONI!”

“I did! Thank you again for the tickets, Alexei,” Bitty shouts back, leaning into Jack’s side. “I’m very grateful.”

Tater opens the box door and leans in, “Zimmboni, see, I am best wingman, Kenny tell you this. Also, coach pretty mad, you should come do job, now. Paid to skate, not kiss cute boy. Do that after game.”

Bitty giggles and Jack looks up to see there are only seven minutes left on the clock. “Crisse, I need to go,” he curses, looking back down at Bitty. “Where are you sitting?”

“Section 113, but how am I supposed to --”

“Go back and find Christine, the usher you were talking to, tell her Jack wants you to go to Bob’s Box, she’ll take care of you. I’ll find you after the game.”

“Okay, ‘Bob’s Box’, I can do that,” Bitty seems only slightly overwhelmed by the orders but nods dutifully, stepping aside for Jack to pull open the side door. “Wait, who’s ‘Bob’?”

Marcus snorts and Jack fights a laugh because, of course, this hockey playing angel wouldn’t know. If Jack wasn’t in love before, he sure as hell is now.

“You’ll find out,” Jack teases, leaning down once more to whisper, “and maybe tonight you’ll get a chance to see me wearing nothing but a jock strap. If you want.”

He drops a quick kiss to Bitty’s cheek, heedless of the cameras, and hopes to god he hasn’t ruined everything. 

Evidently, he hasn’t because when he rears back, Bittle is staring at him with wide eyes and a bright smile, almost dazed.

“Oh, honey, I want that very much,” he sighs, reluctantly slipping through the fans and out into the stands, heading toward Christine. “See you soon!”

He’s beautiful. Jack might have a date. Hell, Jack might even have a boyfriend.

“Zimmermann! Close the damn door!”

First, however, Jack might have a League Fine.