float like a butterfly, sting like a bee

NHL!Bitty - Origin: From Samwell to Seattle

(I haven’t posted any of my background stuff on how Bitty gets from Samwell to the Schooners, so here’s my bullet point breakdown of how/when/why)

Part I - Hug Check | Part II - Chirping | Part III - Post-Season


- Senior year, Bitty is the first openly gay NCAA captain of any men’s sport. When Samwell wins the Frozen Four, commentators start speculating on him being a draft prospect. Jack isn’t out yet.

- ‘Get Bittle in the NHL’ goes viral as an equality issue and the NHL is under pressure to recruit him, which creates this divisive ‘is he really good enough to play’/’the league is homophobic’ situation among fans and within the NHL.

- Bitty gets a lot of heat from all sides and Jack is really worried about his bf, who is living every coming-out fear Jack’s ever had. The Falcs can’t recruit Bitty because Jack has already disclosed their relationship to management, so Jack can’t protect Bitty.

- Things go downhill quickly after a hacker leaks a series of emails between the Commissioner and several owners, wherein he says an AHL franchise needs to ‘take one for the team’ and recruit Bittle so the NHL won’t have to deal with the ‘problem’ anymore. 

- The league course-corrects hard and is bending over backward to get Bitty to sign off on their official apology, but Bitty is disgusted by the whole process and doesn’t want to participate in the draft just to make the league look better. He isn’t planning to go pro at all, and now he’s hesitant to move to Providence with Jack, concerned that he might accidentally out Jack and land him with the same PR problems. 

- Bitty goes back to Georgia the summer after he graduates. 

- After things calm down a bit, Bitty gets a call from the new Schooners owner, a progressive tech billionaire who hates the NHL commissioner and genuinely wants to sell Bitty on Seattle. Unsure of himself and his relationship, Bitty agrees to the meeting… 

- And surprise! Bitty loves Seattle, the team, the ownership group, the food, everything. Even less of a surprise, the team loves Bitty and offers him a two-year contract with an option for renewal.

- The distance hurts, but it actually makes things easier because the risk of Jack being outed is much less if he’s not sharing an apartment with Bitty.  

- Bitty understands now why Jack needs to prove himself before he comes out, the same way Bitty needs to prove himself now. Jack deserves that buffer, and Bitty can help in his own small way.

- At the same time, after seeing how Bitty was treated Jack doesn’t want to come out until his boyfriend is established enough that he won’t be remembered as ‘that gay hockey player’ or ‘Jack Zimmermann’s boyfriend’. They’re just two dumb boys looking out for each other. They agree to revisit coming out together after Bitty’s two-year contract ends.

- Bitty’s rookie year is a hell of an adjustment, he billets with d-man called Carter Morin who is a year younger than Bitty but still has three pro seasons under his belt. Carter is convinced Bitty will be a target because of his size and sexuality, so he becomes obsessed with teaching Bitty how to ‘defend’ himself. This basically boils down to lessons in ‘how to play dirty and not get caught’.

- During these lessons, Bitty realizes he has a lot of anger he’s not dealing with. He’s pissed about being marginalized by the league, the press that won’t stay out of his and Jack’s business, he’s pissed he can’t publicly be with his boyfriend, he’s furious WBC are planning to picket his first home game. He has years of repressed southern rage and he doesn’t have to play nice to make bad people feel good. Not anymore.

- Off the ice Bitty is a perfect gentleman, does tons of outreach, fundraising, he visits hospitals and coaches day-camps, after that first season he’s a fan favorite, but on the ice Bitty slowly becomes a living embodiment of ‘float like a butterfly, sting like a bee’; he’s a good player, everyone knows it, but now he’s absolutely ruthless and spends his fair share of time in the penalty box, initially for defending himself, later for defending others. 

- During a particularly aggressive Schooners game, a commentator jokingly describes a post-fight Bitty as Bob’s spiritual successor, coining the term ‘Bad Bittle’. Bob is elated, Jack is horrified.

- Bitty ultimately makes friends on the team, builds a following, and becomes an integral part in building Seattle’s fledgling franchise into a championship team.

- Schooners take the cup in Bitty’s second year and Jack is surprisingly okay with his boyfriend getting a ring before him, it means they’re one step closer to being untouchable

- The Falconers dethrone the Schooners the following season and win the championship. Jack and Bitty come out/marry on Jack’s cup day. They don’t wear wedding bands, they wear their cup rings.

27 Inspirational Ron Swanson-isms That Will Help You Lead A Healthy And Fulfilling Life


1. “There has never been a sadness that can’t been cured by breakfast food.”

2. “Never half ass two things. Whole ass one thing.”

3. “When people get too chummy with me, I like to call them by the wrong name to let them know, I don’t really care about them.”

4. “I like saying ‘no.’ It lowers their enthusiasm.”

5. “Birthdays were invented by Hallmark to sell cards.”

6. “Son, there is no wrong way to consume alcohol.”

7. “The less I know about other people’s affairs, the happier I am. I’m not interested in caring about people. I once worked with a guy for three years and never learned his name. Best friend I ever had. We still never talk sometimes.”

8. “If any of you need anything at all, too bad. Deal with your problems yourselves, like adults.”

9. “I also think it’s pointless for a human to paint scenes of nature when they can go outside and stand in it.”

10. “Fishing relaxes me. It’s like yoga, except I still get to kill something.”

11. “Normally, if given the choice between doing something and nothing, I’d choose to do nothing. But I will do something if it helps someone else do nothing. I’d work all night, if it meant nothing got done.”

12. “Keep your tears in your eyes where they belong.”

13. “If there were more food and fewer people, this would be a perfect party.”

14. “On my deathbed, my final wish is to have my ex-wives rush to my side so I can use my dying breath to tell them both to go to hell one last time. Would I get married again? Oh, absolutely. If you don’t believe in love, what’s the point of living?”

15. “Sting like a bee. Do not float like a butterfly. That’s ridiculous.”

16. “There’s only one thing I hate more than lying, and that’s skim milk. Which is water that’s lying about being milk.”

17. “When I eat, it is the food that is scared.”

18. “I got my first job when I was nine. Worked at a sheet metal factory. In two weeks, I was running the floor. Child labor laws are ruining this country.”

19. “Dear frozen yogurt, you are the celery of desserts. Be ice cream or be nothing. Zero stars.”

20. “Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day. Don’t teach a man to fish, and feed yourself. He’s a grown man. Fishing’s not that hard.”

21. “Any dog under fifty pounds is a cat, and cats are useless.”

22. “Crying: Acceptable at funerals and the Grand Canyon.”

23. “I’m a simple man. I like pretty, dark-haired women and breakfast food.”

24. “An ideal night out, to me, is stepping onto my porch area and grilling up a thick slab of something’s flesh and then popping in a highlight reel from the WNBA.”

25. “Do not waste energy moving unless necessary.”

26. “I was born ready. I’m Ron F**king Swanson.”

27. “I regret nothing. The end.”

6.5.16 // Probably one of my favorite spreads so far. Loving these mildliners! 😍

“Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.” - Muhammad Ali

Out for the count.

Authors note: Part 3 to boxing Au.
Part 1
http://imagine-that-one-thing.tumblr.com/post/156567115971/round-one-float-like-a-butterfly

Part 2
http://stylesfics-xx.tumblr.com/post/156618245691/sting-like-a-bee-round-2

———

The words roll of your tongue before you can even think of something else to say. This is not how you had contemplated telling him. It was meant to be sweet and thought out; not on the side of the road after a prizefight and after throwing up. “You’re lying.” He shakes his head, catching you off guard as the words roll of his tongue, shocking you.
“You, you actually think I’m lying?” You get tongue-tied, undecided of whether the man in front of you is the man you married given that the man you joined in marriage would absolutely never question your integrity.
“It could be your plan to stop me from boxing.” He answers, your eyes leaving his gaze. Disappointment being the only expression your face shows.
“Look at me.” He gives precise instructions, placing his hand under your chin to force you to gander up at him. “Are you serious?” He says in a low voice, his eyes tender and saturated with joy, something you haven’t seen in quite a while. You roll your eyes, incapable of stopping the sarcastic retort, “no, I’m throwing up on the side of the road because I feel like it.” You murmur, incompetent of controlling your words. At least now you have justification for your outbursts of bitter sarcasm, not to mention his foolish question on whether you’re participating in a lie about being pregnant or not; it’s not like you gave the appearance of throwing up in front of him just for humour.
“So— you’re growing a baby?” He gapes, lost for words, and you can’t help but chuckle, holding back a smart ass comment as you nod your head, admiring how his eyes are gleaming and full of such pleasure. You imagined his ravishing emerald eyes would reflect brilliancy with joyousness, but you didn’t imagine he’d ask such imbecile questions. “A baby? Ten fingers, ten toes?” He continues, seeming rather excited.
“Hopefully.” You agree with a smile, disregarding his oafishness, “ten fingers, ten toes, two long legs, and two long arms.” You continue, your heart filled with so much exultation as you continue to observe Harry’s expression. “But, the baby needs a daddy without cuts, bruises, and broken bones.” You pressure, drawing the conversation back to the ultimate plea. His eyes continue to gaze at you, uncertainty playing a role in the anxiousness you’re feeling, along with the nausea. “I can’t.” The words break your heart, your hopes of the baby changing things shattering entirely. “I can’t stop. I know it’s what you hoped and planned, but no.” He shakes his head,
“We can talk more when we get home, but I want to be there for you, holding your hair and your hand instead of you getting me ice and all.” He continues, minimizing the importance of your thoughts and feelings. You look at him, a little heartbroken that the announcement didn’t go to plan, maybe you shouldn’t have told him with the aspirations that the news would change his ambitions. “Here, I’ll drive.” He adds, gesturing for you to go over to the passenger side. You shake your head, not having many words for him, “baby, you don’t look too good, just let me drive.” He presses and you allow him to guide you to the passenger side.
For years you have stood by him, took charge of the aches and pains he’s put his body through, been to every doctor visit, every hospital call, you’ve been the best girlfriend, best wife he could possibly ask for. You’ve never expressed dissatisfaction when he’s woken you up at five in the morning because his ribs are killing him, you’ve never protested when you’ve had to care for him and keep him occupied while on bed rest, never once have you asked him to skip a fight or a training session. But, now is the time for him to stop, to invest in activities that don’t harm him in negative ways. You rest your head against the window, pretending to sleep as Harry drives, doing his best not to adjust his shoulder too much. The thought comes to your mind on whether you want to raise your child to be an athlete themselves, perhaps they’ll inherit the boxing trait from Harry, but do you really want the little one to come home in the same condition Harry does, black-and-blue with new scars?

***

To say Harry has been too interested in his boxing would be an understatement. Not being able to compete the last two months, (thanks to his shoulder), has put him in a full rage to uninterruptedly train and overwork his body, it’s as if he has to get his energy out to be able to stay sane.

It’s four in the morning when he rolls over and elbows you gently, thinking you’re already sound asleep, but to your disappointment the feeling of queasiness has been striking you every morning between two and eight for the past two weeks; carrying twins doesn’t make anything easier. “What?” You question, your eyes staring up at the ceiling as he slowly moves within the bed. You two haven’t been on best terms, primarily granting that you’ve had enough of everything, your hormonal outburst of emotions not making anything easier. “It hurts to breathe.” He lets out, striking your attention instantaneously. You’re used to the conventional aches and pains he feels after training and strings of events, the usual muscle cramps, hand bruising, and the occasional headaches that keep him up, but never has he griped over his breathing. “You fought tonight, didn’t you?” You hiss, coming to terms with the fact that he didn’t just decide to train from the hours of six to eleven this evening. “You’re a fucking idiot.” You growl, trying your hardest not to move within the bed, taking into consideration his body is presumable in a lot of pain.
“I appreciate the help.” He moans, pushing the covers off his body,
“Just like I appreciated your help the last two weeks.” You remind him of the mornings he slept through and how he has been a dreadful husband for not waking up and holding your hair or even making sure you’re okay. Sure, you’re a grown adult and can take care of yourself, but it’s pleasurable to have a husband who at least pretends to give a damn. “Oh c'mon, I’m a heavy sleeper, and breathing and morning sickness are two different things.” He coughs as he leans over to turn the light on, another grunt escaping his lips, “fuck.” He exclaims, lying back down on his back.
“I’m carrying two babies in me, and you want to compare that to your moronic decision to box and get hurt?” You ultimately question, sitting up in the warm bed and looking over at your spouse, who lies beside you with soreness. He rolls his eyes, biting his lip before taking a few deep breaths, “did you get examined by the physician after your fight?” You delicately ask, your heart tenderising as you take notice of the ache in his eyes, he nods, not giving you any detail on what the physician said with the examination, “care to share?” You challenge, needing more detail so you know whether you’re about to be making a trip the the emergency room or not.
“Probably bruised ribs, he said to get an X-ray in the morning. But, I didn’t go through with his directions.” He reports to you, reminding you of just how intellectually dull and stubborn your husband truely is.
“Lift up your bloody shirt.” You give preliminary instructions, your hands making their way to the hem of his shirt, he leisurely lifts the shirt with your assistance, your eyes trailing to his left rib cage that’s sketched with a hell of a sized carmine-coloured bruise. “You got the fuck knocked out of you.” You gape in amazement, his hands instantly grabbing yours as they inch closer to his side,
“Please, don’t touch.” He pleads. You delicately pull away from his hand and go against his wishes, very lightly placing your cold fingers on his ribcage. “You’re going to your doctor and getting checked out when his office opens, I don’t want to hear whining, you could have fractured your ribs.” You inform him intently, giving him no room to dispute your demands like he’s previously done before with certain injuries. “I hope you learn your lesson.” You grouch, getting out of the bed, putting your own discomfort aside for the moment. “Wait, where are you going. Don’t leave me.” He wails, somewhat humouring you as he requests you to stay. You ignore his comment, exiting the bedroom.

You re-enter into the bedroom walking over to your husbands side of the bed as he miserably lies on his back, “put this on your bruise.” You hand him the ice, “and sit up.” You brief, watching as he stares at you and shakes his head, “sit up so you can take these.” You wearily sigh, placing two pain killers on the side table, offering your hands to help him sit up. He places his hands in yours and you gradually help him sit up, your heart breaking with the grunts that escapes his lips. This is exactly why you wanted him to stop, distinctly the dislocated shoulder wasn’t enough, now he’s got bruised ribs, possibly even broken ribs and this could have been prevented if he had of listened. You definitely don’t want to raise the twins watching their fathers body deteriorate and become beaten and damaged. Not to mention your doctor couldn’t stress more that you don’t need any extra and unnecessary strain while carrying two little bundles of joy, they’re going to be stressful enough on your body. “Lie back down and try sleep.” You mutter, walking to your side of the bed and carefully getting between the sheets,
“Y/N, I can’t sleep.” He instantly comments, not even trying to close his eyes, his body far too awake and in too much discomfort to sleep just yet.
“Then reflect on how I asked you to stop boxing and your dumbass continued, and now you’re in more pain than ever.” You ungraciously grumble, giving him a little bit of tough love to try get your point across. For too long you’ve been too nurturing, understanding, and caring, which has ultimately landed the two of you in this position. “I can’t stop.” His voice is low and weak, full of exhaustion and soreness.
“Then you can’t complain.” You harshly respond, pulling at the covers and leisurely getting comfortable within the bed. You may be a little heartless within the conversation, but you refuse to move too much within the bed. If it wasn’t for being pregnant and already uncomfortable, you’d move to the couch to give him the whole bed to relax in. “Do you hate me?” His questions catches you off guard as you’re close to drifting off to sleep, for a moment you stay silent, beginning to feel guilty for how you’ve been treating him lately. “I know you’re not asleep.” He continues, his legs moving within the comfort of the sheets.
“No, why?” You murmur drowsily, curious as to what his response could possibly be. You haven’t been too mannerly to him, but it’s with good reason. You feel his hand gently find yours under the covers, “because I haven’t really been there for you when you’ve needed me. I kinda slept through all your morning sickness or I ignored it.” He expresses recognition of his terrible actions, his thumb rubbing over your knuckles and you allow him to continue holding your hand. Perhaps this is his strange way to apologise.
“You ignored it?” You interrogate, not entirely flabbergasted that he overlooked the dreaded mornings. You’d ignore them, too, if you could. He confirms with a nod,
“Yeah, when I had early training sessions I’d leave and you’d be throwing up still.” He reminds you of the times you’d actually managed to forget. “I really haven’t been the greatest.” He confesses with an extremely low voice.
“I want you to quit boxing.” You straight out comment, hoping that he will see the light and come to his damn senses.
“It’s all I have. I need it.” He disputes, still not raising his voice in the slightest. “I need to release my energy somewhere.” He continues, beginning to explain the advantages to his sport.
“I want you to stop. If you won’t stop for your own body, stop for me and your two little babies.” You delicately pressure, keeping your voice low, not wanting to argue with him, at least not while it’s four-forty-two in the morning and while he’s in pain and trying his best to conceal it.
“They won’t be here for another six months. I’ll stop then.” He breathes, somewhat compromising, but it still doesn’t satisfy you enough.
“I don’t want to go through this alone for another six months, you need to make a decision, and I hope you make the right one.” You whisper, your heart breaking as you’re forced to give him an ultimatum. You never expected your marriage to come to a point where giving an ultimatum to your husband would be such a thing. You expected to have to remind him of his stupid ideas, of how he can’t always lounge about in his boxers, or how he can’t sleep all day because too much sleep can be detrimental for him. Never did you expect to give him the ultimatum to choose between the person he loves or the sport he loves. You’re doing it for his own good, and for the family the two of you have made. After moments of silence, Harry’s voice cuts the air, “I want one last round.” He informs you, not allowing you to dispute his wishes. “One last round, I’m not stepping down after being defeated tonight. When I’m cleared by the doctor, I’m taking my last fight.” He composedly notifies you, making his decision.
“Harry, it’ll take a while to recover and get another match. At least three months.” You sigh, not wanting him to get his hopes up or to have one last fight and decide he wants more. It’s almost like boxing is his narcotic, he gets high off the adrenaline, and the sound of punches hitting skin.
“I need one last round.” He presses with a desperate tone,
“Harry, you’re out for the count. Two back to back injuries should be enough. What’s next after a dislocated shoulder and possible broken ribs?” You implore, not wanting to even think about the next injury he could perchance harbour. After all, they do say it comes in threes. “Please, one more?” He entreats, playing on your emotions as his voice stays soft and vulnerable. You nod, giving in. You can deal with one last round as long as it is the last round you’ll ever have to endure Harry coming home with new scars and battles painted on his skin. They say it comes in threes; hopefully Harry puts the myth to shame.

though he’s already planning on working at his family’s kennels, kiba’s studying econ to keep his mom happy and enjoying the college parties, the only reason he’s not pledged to a frat is that hana threaten to chain him to a lamp post for joining ‘a pack of alpha males run rampant, brain dead from their own testorone’ and she means it, she’s got a choke chain

meanwhile shino is studying entomology and minoring in botany, and helps out in the yamanaka flower shop part time, after being partnered with ino for a project and pulling some all nighters at the shop, the two are better friends than most expect (and if she gets too high maintenance he has plenty of skittercritters that can send ino running for the hills) he visits his dad every weekend and still won’t do a kegstand no matter how much you ask 

doubling in buisness and international studies - she can float like a butterfly, and sting like a bee; except the bee sting is more like a sledgehammer, hinata may look like a shrinking violet but years of ‘self-defence’ training has made her a living weapon (though she’d rather we just, uh, not fight, at all …please) which has been a rude awakening for more than one handsy co-ed