THERE YOU GO #15

Kent strips quickly, looking up to make sure the locker room door is closed while Moose and Philly do the post-game interview. Nobody needs to see Swoops’s dick gif-ed, making its way from Twitter to the entire Internet.

He hisses between his teeth as he pulls off his pads. There’s a new red patch at the bottom of his ribs that will be blue-purple in a few days, a yellowing stripe across his thigh. He flexes his knee, standing on one leg like a flamingo. His knee creaks.

How long, he thinks. How long? He wants it to be forever. He knows it can’t be.

He towels off his hair and dresses.

Swoops is already wearing boxers–they’re black, with red lip-prints all over them–and doing something serious with a tub of hair gel that has him biting his lip in concentration.

Kent reaches up to mess Swoops’s hair, like the asshole he is. Swoops knocks his hand away. “Naw, baby,” he says, and smirks at Kent with one side of his mouth. His hair gel smells like flowers.

“Parser,” Jeff says.

Kent looks over from his treadmill. His blond fringe is still fluffy. Sweat hasn’t plastered it down onto his forehead yet.

Jeff jerks his head at the sound system.

Kent slams the ‘stop’ button on his treadmill.

“What.”

Swoops begins to grin, a predatory expression. “C’mon, baby, don’t be like that,” he coos. “Hand it over.”

The Aces have a tradition in the weight room. Everybody has to put their phone or iPod on the speakers. There’s a complicated rotation no one except Snowy can keep track of. The purpose has been lost to time. Team bonding, maybe? Increased chirping options?

Something complicated flashes across Kent’s face. He looks like he’s about to refuse. He looks, briefly–Jeff isn’t sure. He looks defensive, like he’s bracing himself for a hostile reporter or for fans after a bad loss.

Kent unplugs his headphones. He spends a moment checking his settings. Then he hands his phone over.

Well, I don’t know if you expected three mini fics, and I didn’t fully follow the prompt, but here we are.

1. Charmer

Look, Chris knew it was dumb. He knew that everyone on earth had a plain black suitcase, he knew he should have double-checked the luggage tag, he knew it was important to be sure abut these things. But knowing what he should have done couldn’t help him when he finally got his suitcase home and opened it up to find mostly yoga pants and sundresses. 

Fuck.

He zipped the bag back up and flipped open the luggage tag. It was cute, pink with some metallic lettering saying “I’m outta here!” in a handwritten font. Chris blamed jetlag and the redeye flight for making him miss the fact that it wasn’t his Sharks tag. He blamed the bag’s owner for not filling out any of the information on the tag.

Dammit.

Well, sorry random girl, he thought. He opened the suitcase up again to try to see if he could find anything that would give him a clue as to who the suitcase owner was. He moved a makeup bag aside, and hit gold immediately. Well, Samwell red. A Women’s Volleyball tshirt– mystery suitcase girl had to be on the volleyball team.

“Hey Ransom!” he yelled. “You’re facebook friends with all the volleyball team right?”

“He’s friends with everyone on campus!” Holster yelled back.

“Ask their captain if anyone flew in from the Bay Area and lost their luggage!”

_X_

“Is Justin here? My captain said he’s got my suitcase.” Chris overheard her at the door. He grabbed the bag and started hauling it downstairs. As he set it down at the bottom and caught sight of the girl in the doorway, he froze. She was pretty. Like, really pretty. 

“Um, hi,” he said.

“So you’re Justin? Oh my god, I’m so glad it wasn’t some total rando who got my bag.” 

“I’m actually Chris, Justin was just the one who was friends with your captain. Um, I’m sorry, but I kind of had to look through your stuff? Your luggage tag wasn’t filled out.” The girl laughed.

“Yours wasn’t either! Me and my teammates were like one minute away from googling the record holder for most San Jose Sharks merch, but it totally makes sense that you’re on the hockey team.” 

“Since we both forgot to write our numbers down, maybe we should do that now?” Chris suggested. The girl grinned, grabbed his phone out of his hand, and opened up a new contact. She punched in a number, and when she handed it back he saw a text of several random emojis addressed to the new contact of “Caitlin Farmer” with a girl farmer emoji and a volleyball emoji.

“Text me sometime, and maybe we can get dinner?” she said, and she was gone with her suitcase. 

Chris collapsed on the couch, a dreamy look in his eyes.

“Chowder? You get your suitcase back?” Bitty called out from the kitchen.

“Yeah! and I think I’m in love now!”

2. Nurseydex

“Cheryl, I’m telling you, I had a ton of inspiration on the plane and I wrote some great stuff for act three. No. No, it wasn’t just me thinking it’s great because I popped some melatonin and got really sleepy. It’s like, legit. Yeah, I’ll send it over as soon as I get home and–”

Derek slammed into something. If he’d been holding his phone in his hand (bluetooth is a blessing when you drop stuff easily) it would have launched across the airport. As it was, his post-flight latte was soaking through the nice white shirt of the handsome stranger in front of him.

“Shit,” the stranger said, looking down to survey the damage.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have trusted myself to make a phone call and not be clumsy after such a long flight,” Derek said. He set his briefcase down and pulled a wad of napkins out of the outside pocket. The guy took a deep breath, going from murderous to calm in a few seconds. 

“I wasn’t looking where I was going either, it’s not your fault,” the guy said, setting down his own briefcase and accepting the napkins. He blotted at his shirt.

“Let me pay for the dry cleaning. Or a replacement,” Derek offered. The man shook his head.

“It’s fine, it probably needed to go to the cleaners anyways.” He checked his watch. “If I run, I can probably get a new one before my meeting.” He wadded the napkins into one big ball, picked up his briefcase, and walked towards the exit with a terse nod. Derek, feeling terrible about the whole thing, picked up his own briefcase and walked to baggage claim.

By the time he was reunited with his home office, a cozy bookshelf-lined room in his brownstone, he had almost forgotten about the coffee incident. He was focused on sending the manuscript to Cheryl. Unfortunately, that was going to be difficult, considering he pulled a PC laptop out of the bag instead of his Mac.

Derek stared at the computer for a full minute. He almost couldn’t believe that this was happening to him. Hesitantly, he opened the laptop. On one side of the keyboard there was a weird thing that a few seconds of phone googling told him was a fingerprint scanner. Shit. He hit the space bar experimentally. Something flashed on the screen, and then was replaced with just a plain black screen with red text: ACCESS DENIED

Derek swore. He started to look through the rest of what was in the briefcase, but was disappointed to find it empty except for the laptop’s charger, three packs of gum, and receipts from a lobster shack in Maine. Shit. Nothing in here would tell him anything about the redhead he’d launched a latte at. 

He closed the laptop dejectedly, ignored his editor’s text messages, and went into the kitchen to make himself lunch and feel sorry for himself. This was the universe punishing him for covering a cute guy with coffee. If he had just kept his focus and waited to call his editor later, he could have sent the draft along and saved it and not be desperately trying to remember his inspiration.

Just as the self-pity spiral was really taking off, the doorbell rang. Derek sighed, put down his tea, and walked to the door. When he opened it, it wasn’t Girl Scouts or Jehovah’s Witnesses, but the guy from the airport.

“Cancel whatever you’re doing today, I need to teach you the most basic principles of digital security,” the guy said, pushing past Derek into the dining room. He shoved a stack of papers onto a chair and pulled Derek’s laptop out.

“I’m Will, by the way, I make software that’s hopefully a step ahead of viruses.”

“Is the draft still there?”

“The draft of what?” The guy looked confused.

“My third act breakthrough. I’m a novelist, I need to get it to my editor and I couldn’t remember if I saved it,” Derek explained.

“You know you can set up an auto-save every five minutes or so, right?” Will asked.

“This might be surprising to you, but I’ve never had a cute guy storm into my house and yell at me about computers before.” Will looked up from Derek’s computer, blushing.

“I haven’t had a cute guy dump a gallon of coffee all over me and steal my laptop before, either, but here we are.”

“Maybe you can yell about computers over lunch with me?”

3. Zimbits

Button downs. Tank tops. Slacks. Shorts. Three rolling pins. A pie tin. A half-emptied multipack of sharpies.

No lucky puck. No clothes in his size. No jerseys.

Jack sighed. It would just be too much to ask for anything to go well today. He picked up his phone to call someone with the Falconers, in the hope that they could talk to the airline and sort all this out. At the same time, his phone lit up with Tater’s face.

“Zimmboni! Look on twitter. Small internet baker has your suitcase!” Tater hung up before he could reply, so Jack just opened twitter instead. 

omgcheckplease: A bunch of pucks, some dirty jerseys, and a history textbook. Either I’m back in college or this isn’t my suitcase.

omgcheckplease: .@falcsofficial please tell your #1 player to DM me and come get his shit

omgcheckplease: and @falcsofficial tell him to give me my shit back. my hockey days are in the past, I need rolling pins, not a mouthguard

Jack smiled and laughed in the way a person laughs when they’re alone, just blowing more air than normal out of his nose. He looked through the twitter for a minute– the guy, Eric Bittle, was a Providence-based chef, whose latest tweets were mostly greetings to the various cities he’d been visiting on tour. Jack clicked the media tab on the account, and looked through the pictures. Bittle was cute. He wrote a reply.

zimmboni: .@omgcheckplease how do I send u a DM

omgcheckplease: .@zimmboni you don’t deserve to be verified, oh my god #verifybittle2k17

A few seconds later another notification popped up, and he tapped it to be brought to a DM window.

omgcheckplease: hey! sorry about the mixup. I can only imagine how confused you were to find all my book tour stuff.

zimmboni: Probably as confused as you were finding hockey stuff?

omgcheckplease: I wasn’t joking in my tweets, I did play hockey before I got into the whole cookbook/food show thing

zimmboni: Exactly, I did a book tour last year in the off-season :-)

omgcheckplease: oh my gosh, isn’t it the best and the worst?

zimmboni: I know. It’s great to meet people and talk about your work, but it’s exhausting.

omgcheckplease: that’s why I’m so excited to be back in Providence! at least until the next cookbook.

zimmboni: Well we should probably meet up to trade suitcases. Want to meet somewhere for dinner?

omgcheckplease: don’t trust me to learn where your house is?

zimmboni: I mean, if dinner goes well enough…

omgcheckplease: OH. okay, then, Mr. Zimmermann, it’s a date.

ESPN Magazine comes calling. Eric makes a creative choice. Jack gets excited.

NHL!Bitty Masterpost!

Cold. Colder. Freezing.

“The Body Issue, Bits. You can’t turn this down, and if I did it for you, you have to do it for me.”

Actually, a three-hour naked photoshoot on ice is definitely something he can turn down, but he promised Jack he would participate if asked. Granted, it was a sleep-deprived, post-coital promise, but a promise just the same. 

A copy of the spread from Jack’s issue is already tastefully hung in the master bathroom of his townhouse. Eric will have to get his framed to match.

It’s not about the nudity, except, maybe it is a little bit, but he’s worked hard to get his body to look this good. His ass may never be in the same arena as Jack’s magnificent backside, but hell, if the whole world got to ogle Jack, why can’t Eric get some love, too? 

a milestone prompt free-for-all fic  🍑

@halfabreath​ prompted art and ransom/holster

ransom is a gross pre-med hockey boy. holster indulges him. art is created.

warnings: hockey-related injuries, description of injuries and wounds, copious blood mentions, gruesome descriptions, weird bro-ness

When Ransom yanks his skate off in the locker room after the game, his sock is full of blood.

“Woah, sick.”

He yanks it from under his hockey sock and shin guard, noting that it makes a sticky, moist sound as he peels it from his foot. Underneath, his big toe is where the blood is wettest. He feels it throb slightly, even as he looks at it. Resting his foot on his other thigh, he leans in to inspect the damage.

Really, it looks to be nothing more than just a burst blister, probably rubbed slightly too hard on a turn or a stop, only bleeding so much because of his increased blood flow. It’s still oozing a little, and he realises too late – it makes a little scarlet dot on his white hockey sock before he has the sense to extend his leg again.

“Yo, Holtzy. Look at this.”

(for @hoenursey​, who had a rough day and wanted some gentle nurseydex <3)

The room is dark when Dex gets back from class, the lights off and the shades drawn, which is weird, since it’s the middle of the afternoon. Absently, he flips the light switch on his way through the door.

There’s a muffled whimper from Nursey’s bed, and he freezes. “Nursey? 

The lump of blankets on Nursey’s bed wiggles and the top of Nursey’s head pops out, pain-tense and greyish. “Can you turn the light back off,” he says hoarsely, looking nauseous, and Dex winces.

“Shit, yeah.” He hits the switch, and the faint light filtering in from the blinds is enough for him to see the relief on Nursey’s face, despite the lingering pain. “You okay?”

“Migraine,” Nursey grunts, pulling his blankets back over his head and disappearing back under the cocoon. Dex cringes. He gets stress headaches when he stares at his computer for too long, but nothing compared to what Nursey’s described to him.

“Fuck, dude. Sorry. Can I do anything?”

Nursey’s quiet for a moment, and then, slowly, pokes his head out of the covers again. “Come sit with me?”

3. “I may be an idiot, but I’m not stupid.”

8. “Forget it. You fucking suck.”

(I’m combining the two because they’re both very NurseyDex and I can’t choose)

…………

In hindsight, he’d been so excited about getting to live in the same Haus as Chowder that Derek Nurse hadn’t anticipated just how difficult sharing a room with Dex was going to be.

Sure, it was the type of difficult that resulted from a feud like theirs. They fought for an hour over who got the bottom bunk (Nursey) and who got the desk with the outlet closest to it (Dex). They scuffled over bathroom space. When they did homework in there at the same time, everything felt cramped and awkward.

There was, however, the difficulty that no one except Derek knew, and that was that he was very rapidly and very dangerously falling in love with William Pointdexter. 

He doesn’t have a planned moment, but he knows that the days between the team knowing and not knowing are getting shorter.

After showering, Jack steps into the kitchen to pull out the supplies for the afternoon. The boys finally wore him down, or maybe he’s just more open to the idea of bringing in something that is, to him, so personal into public.

It’s just a sandwich, he tells himself.

The bread is nearly fresh, baked on the weekend and wrapped tightly in cloth before being stowed away in the bread basket. Bitty fussed for hours over the bread, even longer if he counts the time spent flitting between bins at the Whole Foods, scooping grains in a bag and comparing them, weighing the pros and cons of each before finally setting them into the basket hooked over Jack’s waiting arm. Bitty kneaded the dough with floured hands, dusting the kitchen in a fine white powder that seemed to follow Bitty everywhere. Bitty talked about the key to a perfect rise in pastries, but it was his forearms that Jack focused on, strong and flexing as he expertly beat the dough into submission. Jack waited just long enough to drag Bitty into his bedroom after that. He’s still finding flour in his sheets.

Jack shuffles through the fridge, pulling out the last remains of the almond butter and making a note to ask Bitty to send more. He was hesitant about switching to almond butter, and it was a point of contention between them. Jack knew that Bitty was right about the benefits of almonds over peanuts but that wasn’t enough to push him past his apprehensions of making such a big change to his pregame ritual. “You change the type of jam on your sandwich all the time,” Bitty had pushed, during a rare quiet moment at the haus. “How is this different?” Jack looked at the bread that Bitty had slid in front of him on the dinged kitchen table made with Bitty’s newest almond butter recipe. It’s not that Jack wasn’t happy to eat it any other time, but before a game? “Because jam is jam no matter what it’s made of,” Jack said, “but it’s not peanut butter if there’s no peanuts.” When Jack took his first bite, he swallowed his words.

As he grabs the jam, he chuckles to himself, remembering how it had come straight from Georgia in a nondescript box. He called Bitty, certain he might have a clue about how a half-dozen jars of jams and jellies ended up at his door unprompted. “Well you see,” Bitty explains, and Jack can see the guilty turn of his eyebrows from two states away, “these are Aunt Judy’s jams, so I couldn’t just up and ask her to send me some, cause of course she’d tell Momma all about it, you know how she is. Remember that one time - well, anyways, I ended up ordering them through her Etsy store through an alias and shipping them directly to you so she wouldn’t catch wise and go runnin’ her mouth. If I’m found out I’ll be tried for treason back in Madison, so I hope you know how much I love you to risk it.” Jack smiled at his phone. “I love you, too, Bits.”

But.

gonna go with more of like. magical shapeshifter than cryptid bc usually id go with @dexthecryptid’s cryptid!au but that type of cryptid doesn’t really work with this sitch i guess (i love u anyways)