The luck puck keeps going missing from Bitty’s cork board. At first, the lost puck inspires a wave of panic, but after meticulous destruction of every piece of furniture (followed by a hasty repair), the puck turns up at the bottom of Lardo’s laundry hamper. She’s been in Cambridge all weekend- her alibi is solid, and a shroud of suspicion hovers over the haus.
It repeats; the puck disappears from the board overnight, turning up hours or days later hidden away in a linen closet, or tossed out the back door, or hidden behind the heater in the basement. Everyone claims their innocence, and even the tadpoles are subpoenaed to hockey court. After grueling interrogation by Lardo and a special appearance by Shitty, the day ends in a hung jury; no one’s alibis are solid, and no one has an obvious motive.
The perpetrator is emboldened. Despite the installations of guards posted in the vicinity (a webcam and a photo of Bad Bob Zimmermann looking disappointed) the puck vanishes in the night. Not even Ransom argues when Holster calls in Samwell’s resident exorcist. The ceremony doesn’t stop the puck from vanishing, but now the ghosts lash out against their would-be vanquishers by cutting out the music during kegsters and playing Informer by Snow on loop.
Some hockey players score four goals in their NHL debut and some players serve a penalty five minutes in and then illegally play the puck from the penalty box and have to serve another before even touching the ice.
Full Name: Mr. Chimsley Chubbs (“Just call me Mr. Chim”)
Deparmtment: Yellow [Mailroom Boss] (self-titled and unapproved boss)
Age: Several Thousand Years (“It don’t matter none.”)
You see that pretty little letter sitting in your mail box? Chances are this pink puck delivered it this morning! Meet Mr. Chim, the marvelous mauve mailman. This self-appointed boss of the mailroom handles morning delivery to several deparmtments as well as hand delivering various time-sensitive parcels, such as personal memos, time sheet revisions, and even the occasional pink slip (Those are his favorite). Obnoxious, loud-mouthed, and overbearing, this mail-mon wants to pull pranks and be everyone’s best friend, to most people’s dismay. Good thing the mail keeps him on his toes…er wings?
Could you please do something cute about Mathew Barzal??
Can you do a cute Mat Barzal one where another player says something about you and he gets protective, I have so many mat Barzal feels rn 😍
*AAAAHH!! I hope you like this one. So much feels. :) Not totally about a person saying something about the girlfriend but I hope that’s totally fine. Enjoy!:)*
Hockey butts are the best butts. Also, hockey thighs are the
best thighs. You looked at the parade of European hockey players in front of
you and grinned to yourself. You may be perfectly happy and in love with your
boyfriend – who also has a great butt and an even more amazing pair of thighs –
but you’re not blind. You recognize good butts when you see it.
One of the Russian players looked at you and smiled so,
naturally, you smiled back. You’re not a snob.
He waved at you before saying something to his teammate. He
turned back and took three steps towards you when you felt a heavy arm pull you
Summary: Jack hates conventions – the crowds, the noise, the forced socialization, but it’s a work thing that must be done. Enter Samwell Hockey Player, Eric Bittle, who attends the convention with a group of friends. Suddenly things begin to look up. Jack and Bitty meet at Falcs Fest. Flirting, shenanigans, and love ensue. Chapter 1 here. Also on A03.
“Everybody lock your bedroom door?” Bitty asked, double checking Señor Bun was in his bag as he stood by the green couch.
“Yes, mom,” everyone else replied in unison from wherever they were in the Haus.
“The Lyft is outside,” Ransom said standing by the front door, motioning to everyone to leave as he hauled his duffle bag over his shoulder. “So let’s go, go, go!”
Lardo locked the front door as Bitty, Holster and Ransom made their way to the car, loading bags in the trunk.
“I call shotgun,” Holster shouted and jumped into the front seat of the Lyft car, smiling at the startled driver.
“Adam. Pleasure to meet you,” he called out extending his hand.
“What did you pack, bro?” Lardo asked as Ransom climbed in with an overstuffed backpack.
“Just some stuff for Tater to sign: a couple jerseys, some bobbleheads, a few magazines, a couple pucks, a copy of his autobiography. Oh! A box of Wheaties with Tater on it…”
“Bro, stalker much?” Holster said as he turned to look back at Ransom.
“Listen, don’t judge,“ Ransom said waving a finger at Holster. "I can’t help it if the man is a hockey legend who deserves to be worshipped.”
“Take this man to church!” Bitty said laughing and pointing toward the highway.
45 minutes later, they were dumped in front of the Providence Hilton where a large banner hung outside welcoming everyone to Falcs Fest.
Prompt: you and the rest of the team go to a hockey game that Wendell and Booth are playing in.
A/N: I have no clue if there are a lot of Bones fans here but if there are then HEY! I love Bones so give this imagine a thumbs up so I can write more for you!
Written By: Claire
“Let’s go Booth!” Brennan shouted from her spot next to you on the stands in the ice rink. Wendell and Booth were playing in a hockey game together and had invited everyone to come along, so naturally you all did. This wasn’t the first hockey game you had been too considering that you and Wendell had been dating for six months but this was your first time going with more people from the Jeffersonian. This time it was you, Sweets, Brennan, and Camille all cheering on the two boys.
“Kill ‘em Wendell!” you shouted as he skated past, his eyes glued to the opponent with the puck. Your vision however was blocked when Booth checked an opponent into the plexiglass in front of where you were all sitting.
“Why did Booth do that?” Brennan asked looking at you for guidance on what was happening.
“It’s his job, he keeps the other team honest, they call him the enforcer.” Camille explained after she noticed you were too focused on the game to respond to Brennan’s question.
“Like a law enforcer?” Brennan asked back innocently, still not understanding the concept 100%.
“Sure, yeah, let’s go with that.” Sweets chuckled right as Booth checked another player, this time the whistle being blown and the referee skating over to him.
“What’s happening now? Why is Booth getting put in a box?” Brennan asked again watching as an angry Booth made his way over to the penalty box.
“He committed a penalty by checking a guy when he didn’t have a puck, now he has to go in the penalty box for one play.” you explained to her pointing to the clock which had just started up again.
“He doesn’t seem like he wants to be in the box.” Brennan mumbled looking at the upset Booth who was barking at the referee from the penalty box.
“He’ll be back in soon.” you reassured, and you were right, it was only about a minute before Booth was back in.
“You and Wendell must have incredible sexual intercourse after games.” Brennan suddenly said after a few minutes of everyone sitting around cheering. You looked at her wide eyed, only slightly surprised by the bluntness of her comment.
“Excuse me?” you asked slightly laughing at her remark, feeling Sweets shift uncomfortably next to you and hearing Camille chuckling off to the side.
“Well the extreme boost of testosterone in Wendell’s body along with the sexual arousal that comes around with watching physical games like this, you two must have very nice intercourse, it’s just science.” Brennan explained looking at you for a moment before looking back at the ice rink.
“Well yes, we do.” you smiled before returning your own eyes to the game. It was only a few minutes before Wendell had the puck once again and was making his way down the rink.
“Wendell might make a basket!” Brennan said happily tugging on your arm. You ignored her sports mix up and watched as he made his way down towards the goal, however he didn’t make it as a body came from nowhere and brought him to the ground.
“That can’t be legal.” Camille uttered as the referee blew his whistle.
“It isn’t.” Sweets spoke back. You kept your eyes glued in Wendell as Booth skated over and helped him up weakly, his body wobbling under his own weight.
After the game you stood outside the locker room in the thin hallway like always, keys in your hand knowing that you would be the one driving back to your apartment where Wendell would stay the night considering he was seeing double when he got off the ice.
“Where is Booth and Wendell?” Brennan asked suddenly coming down the hall.
“In the locker room.” you responded pointing to the door with your key holding hand. Brennan suddenly pushed into the room only to have you follow her. “You can’t go in there.” you spoke out but it was too late, she was already in there and now so were you.
“Are you two alright?” she asked looking down at Wendell and Booth who sat shirtless on a bench, other shirtless men walking around, some even pantless as well.
“Wow.” you heard a guy chuckle while another one whistled at you causing Wendell to turn and glare at the man.
“Bones, we’re fine why don’t you wait outside.” Booth suggested. You nodded your head and grabbed Brennan’s arm, pulling her back outside the locker room, leaving the boys alone.
“Wow Wendell, you got yourself a sweet piece of ass there.” the man who had whistled spoke from the side. “Isn’t she a bit too much for you to handle?”
“Shut up man.” Booth spat, but it was too late for verbal warnings, Wendell was up and on the guy, his fist only connecting twice before Booth was there to pull him off the man. “He’s not worth it.” Booth scolded pushing Wendell back. Wendell glared at the bleeding man for a moment before grabbing his bag and leaving, meeting you out at the car and immediately giving you a tight hug. You didn’t know what it was for exactly, in fact you wouldn’t know what it was for until the next day when Booth would tell you about the confrontation, but you just hugged back and held him close, no questions asked.
my birthday had recently passed so this happened. that’s the bondage set used (the one that i rlly rlly want) and this part is everything I want in life fUCK YEah. also i finally wrote smut in harry’s pov and i’m dead. also i’m working on a badboy!5sos and badboy!harry smut/imagines then nerdy!5sos and teacher!harry ohmyfuck
Warning: degrading names(?), smut, bondage, oral, sir/princess type thing
I looked down at the dozen rozes I held once again, biting my lip as I hoped Luna wasn’t allergic to anything-specifically flowers. I knocked three times on her office door before Luna appeared from the other side. She stared down at the flowers with a smile on her pink lips before she adverted her gaze to me.
“No one has ever bought me flowers.” She opened the door wider so I could slide in before kissing my lips gently. Handing her the flowers, I smiled down at her while she admired the roses once more. She looked up at me with tears in her eyes and my smile immediately faded.
“What’s wrong? Are you allergic? Fuck you’re allergic, goddam I’m sorry I’ll throw them out.” I tried to grab the flowers away from her but she pulled back.
“You’re the only one who’s ever gotten me flowers and we’re not even in a fucking relationship.” She placed the flowers down before kissing me harder than before, her soft lips molding with mine as she clutched onto the hairs at the nape of my neck. “By the way,” she started as she pulled back, “you look so sexy with your hair cut like that.” She grinned devilishly.
the tears streaking down your cheeks you headed back to the closet. You had brought this on yourself but it hurt
more than you expected it to. Maybe it
was from watching the smile disappear from his face while you spoke or it could
have been you turning your back on his pleas, but you hadn’t expected the pain
in your chest to appear.
There was so much
more you needed to pack than you had expected.
You truly had made a home here with Brendan, but something just didn’t
feel right anymore. Sniffling you wiped your
nose on your sleeve while trying to reach the top shelf holding more of your
It is the first of November and so, today, someone will die.
I don’t open my eyes immediately. Images from races past wash over me like the bloody tide, pulling at my hands like they want to pull me down. A phantom breeze washes over my face and a phantom surf washes against my calves and my hands curve over phantom reins. My hand rests on a warm body and, for a moment, I can believe I’m touching Corr. Then she speaks to me.
“You aren’t getting up already, are you?” Puck murmurs sleepily. She gathers a handful of our blankets and pulls, giving my feet a cool kiss of morning air as the blanket goes over our heads. “Oof. That was a mistake,” she says, tucking her knees to her chest. She sounds indefinitely more awake now.
“I’m heading to the beach,” I say. I’m going through my morning list for Corr—change his wraps, muck out his stable, take him for a swim to rebuild his strength—and I can do it, if only just, if I start now.
Puck props herself up on an elbow and fixes me with an incredulous stare. Her hair is twisted into fantastic shapes, like those of clouds, and I swear there’s a running horse lurking just behind her ear. Strands of it are attached to our blanket tent. “You can’t,” she says simply. I reach out for her hand and she gives it to me, a smile flitting across her lips.
“Why not?” I press my lips to the inside of her wrist. I speak now with her skin against my mouth. “I have to start now. If I start now, I’ll be finished by the time the races begin.”
Puck frees her hand and runs it through my hair, resting her palm by my temple. “You’re pushing yourself too hard,” she says. “Besides, it’s not even light out. It must be only four, Sean Kendrick, and you remember what you promised me, surely.”
I do. “Stay in bed until six,” I say, and am rewarded with a smile. I smile myself. It’s only the shorter races in the morning. Surely I can sleep for a few more hours. I adjust so my feet are back under the blankets, and close my eyes.
It is the first of November and so, today, someone will die.
But it is not going to be either of us.
Reporters flock the beach today, their camera bulbs flashing as they spot promising capaill uisce. They swarm to the rich and powerful and take pictures of them doing rich and powerful things, like frowning dramatically at the rolling clouds, or scratching their bums.
Sean and I separate quietly at Dory Maud’s stand with a simple squeezing of each other’s hand. Dory Maud clucks at me as I approach, which immediately puts a scowl on my face.
“What?” I ask abruptly. I rearrange my teapots on her table, moving the more lopsided ones to the back.
“You and that young man,” she replies, and to my surprise she cackles “I never thought.”
“Never thought what?” I’m rather pleased that I manage to stop my reply here.
Dory Maud follows Sean with an amused eye. “I never thought you two would come true,” she says. “You two are a wish I never thought to hope for.”
I open my mouth, certain that there’s something I can say to this proclamation, but nothing comes. I give myself a few moments before closing my mouth in defeat.
“Ah, a silent Puck. There’s a strange sight,” Dory Maud quips. “What on earth are you doing to those teapots?”
“Some of them came out wonky,” I reply, glad to have something to say. “And before you say something about wonky and people being wonky—”
She interrupts with a wicked gleam in her eyes. “I wasn’t going to,” she says. “I was going to let your future babies do that for me.”
“Dory Maud!” My ears are utterly flaming, I can tell.
Dory Maud just shrugs, pleased with herself.
“I must say, I’d be intrigued to see those children myself,” a familiar voice says in a familiar broad accent. I look up and am unsurprised to see George Holly standing arm in arm with Annie, Dory Maud’s blind sister. He’s wearing a pressed green sweater and about half of Annie’s lipstick.
He’s also holding a gigantic paper bag from Palsson’s, which undoubtedly holds at least a dozen November cakes. Seeing them makes me think of Finn, who likely carefully selected each cake as if his life depended on it. That’s one of the things I’m most grateful for, that my winning the races meant Finn doesn’t have to apprentice with Thomas Gratton. Aside from being able to keep the house, and Sean keeping Corr, the fact that Finn doesn’t have to deal with blood every day means the world.
“Are those to share?” I ask, ignoring Dory Maud’s pointed look and Annie’s unfocused glare. Years of trying to survive on the kindness of others doesn’t go away that quickly. George Holly smiles widely at me pulls out three individually wrapped cakes.
“One for the both of you and one for Mr. Kendrick,” he says, which is strange, because I know he calls Sean ‘Sean’ and he knows I know he calls Sean ‘Sean’. I don’t worry on it, though; tourists never made much sense to me.
I thank him, hand one to Dory Maud, and head off to find Sean.
The crowd parts around me much easier this year. It’s a strange thing, this awareness. We acknowledge you, the movement seems to say. Curious eyes meet my gaze so frequently that I instinctively jut my chin and glare back.
It takes a little while to find Sean. There’s so much movement on the cliffs that I step back and let my eyes relax, the better to find a small corner of stillness. After three minutes I find him standing just off to the side, hands in his pockets, his face the same sharpness as the cliff face. He’s watching the short distance races with a politely distanced expression on his face, and I know it’s not just for show. Sean raced because he loved Corr. He doesn’t now because he still does.
I go up to him from the side, as I would with Dove if she was stressed. I’m not sure why. He doesn’t comment, instead taking my hand as he had this morning. His fingers play with the red ribbon bracelet he’d given me before we raced together.
I miss it sometimes. The exhilaration, the speed. But standing here with him, it’s enough.
I’m not watching the races after Puck takes my hand. I accept her November cake, leaving the box in my coat pocket. I think she can tell how nervous I am, because she looks at me from the corner of her eye as the short distance races finish.
They’re calling all those entered for the real race to the starting line and I feel everyone’s attention taughten. Some look at the lineup and then at me and I can tell they’re wondering why I’m not racing. I tighten my grip on Puck’s hand. She runs her thumb across my knuckles.
I breathe in the sea, in the smell of Puck’s hair, in the sensation of her hand in mine, and I am so, so alive.
Then the riders are off.
It’s a bloodbath. The capaill uisce in the middle are the ones I noted early in October, the ones whose riders are lazy or cruel or indulgent, the ones whose reins are just too loose and whose manes are covered in flowers and chains and bells. The ones who are hungriest, the most determined to return to the sea.
It’s over in minutes. It’s an eternity on the beach, but it’s over before I finish my November cake.
“Strange,” Puck murmurs. Her voice is like the sea, and it calls me back to myself. Her eyes mirror the color of the waves. “It seemed so much longer, when it was us.”
And I know at her words that I’m right. It couldn’t have been anyone else. I smile at her faintly.
She narrows her eyes curiously. “What?” I shrug, my usual response. She turns to face me fully, free hand on her hip. “No, what? What’s that face?”
“Will you marry me?”
I’m immediately horrified. This isn’t at all what I planned. She doesn’t reply right away, staring with her mouth slightly open at me. I’m holding a half eaten November cake, my jacket’s streaked with salt from this morning’s swim with Corr, there’s blood on the beach below, and this isn’t what I planned. I have no bread to give her.
She’s still not saying anything. I take my hand back and twist around to reach into the pocket on the other side, and pull out the little box. Puck’s eyes widen as I one-handedly open the box and sink to my knee.
The people around us have noticed now. Reporters point their cameras at us, and I hear excited whispers and our names echo around us as I say, “Puck Connolly. Will you marry me?”
Puck gives me a blazing look that’s belied by the tears streaming down her face and nods. She runs into my arms and knocks me over, laughing through her tears.
“Is that a yes?” I say, laughing slightly myself. I take the ring out of the box.
“Of course that’s a yes,” Puck replies. She wipes her eyes fiercely with her sleeve and I take her hand and slide the ring on.
I sit up, heedless of the reporters taking photos, and kiss her. My arms are full of Puck and my stomach is full of November cake and I’m getting her hair sticky with the honey and icing. And I hear someone that sounds suspiciously like George Holly call out, “What did I tell you? It’s a good thing you aren’t a gambling man, Mr. Kendrick, or you’d be out a lot of money.”
But I wouldn’t have cared.
Puck kisses me back, hard, and our spectators cheer. We ignore them. She smiles underneath my mouth.
It’s the first of November and so, today, our lives will begin anew.
Debrincat got boarded WHEN HE DIDN'T HAVE THE PUCK and no call, but three seconds later, the Otters are in the box for interference it got so bad the Otters twitter called them out on it but of course quickly deleted the tweet. Sorry I have a lot of feels. Also, I hope your show went well. :)
WHAT THE FUCK THO UR FEELS R CERTAINLY JUSTIFIED. brinksy deserves better tbh. also, it did go well, and im kinda sad about high school ending, but i’ll live heh
She’d almost forgotten how tiring it was to get back into the eight shows a week routine. Though the holidays had been packed backed to back with shows, since Puck had come home Rachel had made it a point to take a couple of performances off. Usually only working the eight pm show, so that they could spend the night and most of the morning together. And with all the time they’d spent apart, they most definitely needed that one on one ‘alone’ time. With the holidays being over though, and her contract over in a matter of weeks, she needed to get as many shows in as possible. She needed her producers to know that even if she would be taking a break to get pregnant, that she was still as dedicated as ever to Wicked and everything she’d accomplished since taking the role of Elphaba. Besides, it was a paycheck. Something they needed if they expected to keep living the way they were on the Upper East Side, in the lifestyle that they lived. Not that they lived lavishly, but they’d both gotten use to some of the finer things in life.
The show ended at 10:30, and by 11:45 Rachel was walking through the front door of their apartment. Very rarely was there a Monday show, but investors were coming in and that was something the Gershwin needed. Her heels in her hand, yawning. Two shows, and an early morning rehearsal had left her spent. All she wanted to do was eat a quick snack, take a hot shower and then sleep until her alarm went off at nine. Then she was lucky enough to have her day start all over again. She could hear the TV on in their bedroom and knew Puck had been home for a while. Throwing her coat onto the couch she went into the kitchen, grabbing a piece of pizza out of the leftover box Puck must have ordered for dinner, and then followed the sound of the TV until she found who she was looking for. “I figured you’d be asleep by now” She said with a yawn as she took a bite of the cold pizza, walking over to their bed. “You’ll be happy to know, that the big wigs still love Elphaba and the Land of Oz and Wicked is safe for another year.” She said with another yawn. “And I am never doing a Monday night show again.”