Okay but i swear to you i will sacrifice my entire being for someone to write that pens!bitty fic or one shot. I need like air
(Alright, you monsters, I did this one, but I’m not great with RPF so this is probs it for Pens!Bitty <3 tw for concussion)
A sprained ankle here, a blown ACL there, and Bitty’s on the Penguins starting line flanking Sidney Crosby like it’s nothing. Like it’s no big deal he’s racking up assists left and right for the man who is going to displace two of Bad Bob’s career records this season. Like Eric didn’t have a debilitating fear of physical contact less than five years ago and is now playing for a team defending a championship title.
From behind, Sid looks like Jack. Or at least he has Jack’s ass, which is a hell of a thing to realize after being slammed into the boards. He’s disoriented enough to ask, “Jack?” when his captain skates up to check on him.
“Bittle, you okay?“
Eric blinks and the illusion is gone. No Jack, no Samwell, just the Pittsburgh Penguins beating the snot out of the New Jersey Devils. And the Devils beating the snot out of Eric.
“Yeah, I’m good,” Eric says, pulling himself to his feet and blinking through a blossoming headache. “You know you look a lot like Jack Zimmermann from behind?”
“Better not be a crack about my ass, Bittle,” Crosby elbows him lightly, herding him back to the bench.
“Aboot,” Eric echoes, “I wouldn’t joke about your ass, Captain. Special kind of cheek meat.“
That didn’t come out right…and why are the lights so bright? Are they always this bright?
Crosby slides to a stop and Eric bumps right into him. “You sure you aren’t concussed?” Though he’s asking, Eric can clearly see Sid waving over a trainer. Eric takes a moment to reflect on his situation, what he’s just said to his teammate.
“No, but you really look like my boyfriend.”
“You just said I look like Zimmermann.”
“I know. Jack Zimmermann looks like my boyfriend.”
Crosby connects invisible dots in midair with his finger. “I look like Jack Zimmermann, who looks like your boyfriend, who looks like me.”
“Yes. No?” That sounds right. Kinda.
“Bittle. Do I look like your boyfriend from behind?”
Eric nods, even though the motion makes his world tilt sideways.
“I look like your boyfriend, Jack Zimmermann, from behind.”
“Yes.” Wait. That’s a secret. “Shit, that’s a secret.”
“Fuck, yeah, you’re sitting this period out, buddy.”
Malkin slides up beside Crosby and gives Eric a once over. “What’s wrong with him?”
“Got his bell rung, thinks I’m his boyfriend.” Crosby slaps the rail twice with his glove and shoots Eric a wink. A couple of the boys whistle and holler while the trainer shines a light in Eric’s eyes. The part of Eric’s brain still functioning properly is probably really upset right now.
“I don’t think it’s a concussion, he’s just dazed.”
“I’m ready to go in, coach, just give me a chance.” Eric jokes, though no one laughs. “Ace Ventura? No?”
The arena turns sideways along with Eric’s stomach and he burps wetly. Sullivan makes a face and says something to the trainer and just like that Eric is being directed to the locker room for further examination.
Eric hopes this makes for a really funny story later.
Three long years of renovations done on the estate, followed by six long years off to war, and finally, it was finally home: Lallybroch. The fabled home of my dunbonnet and his faerie witch was now my own. I spun in a circle, giddy with excitement and bubbling nerves. I had a home, a place to relax, to live, to grow, and never worry if there will be somewhere for me at the end of the day.
The grounds were vast and gorgeous fields of flowing grass, wildflowers, and dense Scottish forest. The air clear from the smog of the city and decay of war. Each day was a new day to discover something from the past. I started familiarizing myself with my new home with daily walks into the woods. My journal close by to document any and every plant I came across.
Exploring the land gave me a sense of being home, and somehow closer to the Dun Bonnet tale that had fascinated me since I was teenager. It was his home and land, and with it came the most surreal experiences, especially the days I spent exploring his cave. The small cave about a fifteen minute hike from the house had given me chills. There was a small carving of initials in the stone deep into the cave, a jagged J, C & B. The letters tried to mimic the ornate style that was written in the mid-to-late 18th century. I couldn’t help but finger the small letters, wondering what or who the letters represented.
My head whipped toward the entrance of the cave. The wind must have been playing tricks on my mind.
“Mo nighean donn,”
I head the wind whisper words again just as my finger caressed the “J” in the sequence of letters. My skin had pebbled with gooseflesh, as though something were directly behind me. Each time I entered the cave this sensation occurred.
As the fall and winter months turned into the first brisk breezes of spring, the locals began creeping out of the woodwork to welcome me to the area as the seasons passed. Most were apprehensive and standoffish. I caught some of their hushed words on the rare occasion I went to town.
“What’s a young Sassenach lass doing living in the old Fraser-Murray estate?”
“Poor lass lost her only family in the war, wonder why she decided to move to the Highlands?”
“Scandalous! A woman of her age alone in a place like that! Why if her family knew they’d be rolling over in their graves.”
Sometimes, though, the words were of kindness and pity not malice and apprehension. I learned to take the good with the bad, ignoring the jibes at my upbringing and single status. I ignored them until one day the talk of a witch and folklores of old drifted from an open door. My interest piqued, I tentatively walked into the small shop. The shop was cloaked in a sickeningly sweet smell of floral perfume and baked goods. Postcards hung from a string in the window, while the interior was filled with the most delicate bits and baubles made from glass and ceramics.
“Och! Hello m’dear! And what brings ye to Madame Elsie’s today?”
“I’m terribly sorry to interrupt, but I heard something about a white lady?”
The old woman, presumably Elsie’s eyebrows shot into the curls of her hairline.
“Aye, and that’s no something to be spouting off about. Though since ye heard us speaking of it, it wouldnae hurt to ask why ye’re interested in the matter?”
“Oh! I’m a folklorist, or well, I used to be…before the war. My uncle and I traveled the world documenting the folklores of different cultures.” I felt my cheeks heat, “I really am sorry for intruding, it’s a second nature for me to always be listening for a story.”
The old woman smiled, “Never fear dear, please have a seat and we’ll tell you what we know of the White Lady.”
I pulled up a plum colored plush armchair and my notebook before sitting down between the two women.
“Do you mind if I write this down?”
“Of course not dear! Write whatever you wish. This story is common knowledge and I’m surprised this is the first you’ve heard of it on this day.”
“Elsie…” The second woman warned.
“Relax Miriam,” Elsie said with a wave of her hand. “You know that the Crooks, the Baird’s and the Murray’s all tell this tale today.”
Miriam scoffed and went back to her tea.
“So m’dear, the tale of the White Lady that’s going on aboot the town today is an interesting one. Today is the day that the White Lady is said to be seen on this day every year. It’s the day she meets her love for the first time.”
“Is the White Lady a ghost?”
“Och! Aye! She is indeed, from the ‘45 rebellion and all! Ye can hear her screams and cries for the love she lost and the life she knew from the faerie hill up yonder.”
“Child! Surely ye ken the Faerie hill, Craig na Dun?”
I shook my head slowly. “Could you tell me how to get there? I’d love to see it.”
The two women exchanged a glance then nodded as one. “Aye, go down the road aboot a mile or so and turn left. The Faerie Hill is five miles from the fork in the road. Ye’ll ken it from the stones that stand upon it. They seem to glow from the sun and their ancient dead power. If ye see the screaming White Lady, be wary child. She’ll no take kindly to intruders.”
Author: @dumbass-stilinski Rating: NSFW 18+ Pairing: Dylan O’Brien/Reader Words: 3,202 Requested by Anon:
Do you think you can write something where DOB and the reader have been together for a while and Dylan finds the readers journal that has all her “extreme kinky fantasies in bed” and Dylan finds it. It also just so happens to be the reader's birthday?! AN: I love you guys, okay? Don’t ever forget that. Also, I think I have a mild Ewok obsession? lmao. Also I edited this quickly so there may be some mistakes. Sorry aboot that.
Dylan sighed happily when he finally arrived home, dropping his suitcase and his pillow next to the door and swinging it shut behind him.
“Honey, I’m home!” He called, rounding the corner into the living room and through to the kitchen. It was empty, save for the note left on the counter.
“Dyl, I had to run a million errands today, I’m so sorry! I’m picking up stuff to make you your favorite for dinner and I have to stop and pay the electric and the jeep needs an oil change. I promised I’ll be home soon, I figured you’d need time to unpack anyway. Call me if you need anything. Love you and I’m so glad you’re home.”
He smiled to himself as he read, leave it to you to leave everything for the last minute. He sighed, pulling open the fridge and grabbing a beer, sipping from the bottle as he leaned on the center island. He’d been gone filming for about 3 months, and he’d only seen you once since then, when he had been able to leave for a weekend for his cousins wedding and you had met him there.