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i have theories for how krug got a hold of marchand's softball jersey...
I wrote a flashfic thing.
Back at the hotel, Krug get restless. It's a dig your nails into your skin kind of sensation, a repositioning of what it's like to barely fucking scrape by. The game's still rattling around inside him, every turnover, every battle lost, the anticlimactic game-winning goal in high definition. Something inside him is moving him to crash on a certain shore. It's this one specific desire that rears its head again and again. The victory tonight had been a strange one, clunky and undeserved, but a win's a win and a point's a point and Krug is knocking on Marchand's door after everyone's gone to bed. Marchand lets him in with this sleepy smile, this pliant amiability he tends to drift into when the alcohol's working to take the edge off victory. The first time Krug played for Boston and won, he couldn't sleep all night, he was so fucking wired. That feeling never really goes away with every win. Like defeat, you just learn to manage it. The strategy is similar, and it's not like they are unfamiliar with losing at this point.
"What's going on?" Marchand asks as he steps aside to let Krug through. Beer in one hand, other hand rubbing the back of his neck. It's sore, Krug can tell. He can empathize, all banged up himself, but he cannot sympathize. That's not what he came here to do.
"Are you drinking alone?" Krug asks, amused.
"I don't have to be," Marchand says, closing the door.
"Dude, that is so sad."
"Whatever, man. You're here now."
Krug shrugs. "Just in time, I think. Who else is going to save you from yourself?"
"Tuuks, probably."
Marchand puts his beer on the table and Krug hooks his fingers through Marchand's belt, pulling him closer.
Not much drinking gets done. The sex is slow but deliberate, the both of them exhausted from the game. They make up for it with thoroughness. Every touch lingers, every taste is savored. Marchand rolls his hips and bites down on Krug's shoulder, and the pleasure aggregates, every thrust drawing breathless sounds out of Krug and there's nowhere else he'd rather be. All the tension seeps out of Krug as he submits his body completely to this, letting the orgasm take him apart.
They drift into comfortable silence afterward, side by side, recovering, simply breathing.
Marchand is the first to speak. "That was an ugly fucking win."
"Win's a win," Krug recites. He turns his head to look at Marchand. "Still think they're gonna trade someone?"
"Yeah. Maybe." He shrugs.
"What if they trade me?"
Marchand scoffs. "I heard my name tossed around in the rumors more than yours is."
"The whole league hates you, though," Krug laughs.
"They don't have to love me. All they gotta do is help me win."
"Aren't you supposed to help them win?"
Marchand winks. "That's what I want them to think."
The quiet returns. They ebb and flow for a few minutes, and when they're not speaking Krug can hear the traffic outside, the hum of the AC. Marchand's legs rustling the sheets. Out in the hall, there are familiar voices fading in: Dougie telling a story through his giggles, and the new kid, Pastrnak, laughing. And fade out. Marchand shifts closer and throws an arm around Krug, mirror of a gesture he'd do anywhere else. Personal space was never that much of an issue for Brad Marchand, and Krug has always been thankful for that.
There's a lot of things Krug feels like saying, but he settles on the one thing that isn't guaranteed, which is of course what he wants most. "Don't get traded."
"You too."
It's late, but neither of them are going anywhere, so it doesn't matter.
I'm, uh, handwaving the wife situation. AU?
In related news, I was looking for video of the Krug/Marchand scuffle, but I found something more glorious. Here is Torey Krug playing softball and pretending to be Brad Marchand. Yes, both at once! Look at this multitasking sunuva gun.
YOU LITTLE SHIT. These little shits. I wonder if Krug and Marchand have always been insecure about their heights, or if it's the byproduct of being on the same team as Zdeno Chara.
Back at the hotel, Krug get restless. It's a dig your nails into your skin kind of sensation, a repositioning of what it's like to barely fucking scrape by. The game's still rattling around inside him, every turnover, every battle lost, the anticlimactic game-winning goal in high definition. Something inside him is moving him to crash on a certain shore. It's this one specific desire that rears its head again and again. The victory tonight had been a strange one, clunky and undeserved, but a win's a win and a point's a point and Krug is knocking on Marchand's door after everyone's gone to bed. Marchand lets him in with this sleepy smile, this pliant amiability he tends to drift into when the alcohol's working to take the edge off victory. The first time Krug played for Boston and won, he couldn't sleep all night, he was so fucking wired. That feeling never really goes away with every win. Like defeat, you just learn to manage it. The strategy is similar, and it's not like they are unfamiliar with losing at this point.
"What's going on?" Marchand asks as he steps aside to let Krug through. Beer in one hand, other hand rubbing the back of his neck. It's sore, Krug can tell. He can empathize, all banged up himself, but he cannot sympathize. That's not what he came here to do.
"Are you drinking alone?" Krug asks, amused.
"I don't have to be," Marchand says, closing the door.
"Dude, that is so sad."
"Whatever, man. You're here now."
Krug shrugs. "Just in time, I think. Who else is going to save you from yourself?"
"Tuuks, probably."
Marchand puts his beer on the table and Krug hooks his fingers through Marchand's belt, pulling him closer.
Not much drinking gets done. The sex is slow but deliberate, the both of them exhausted from the game. They make up for it with thoroughness. Every touch lingers, every taste is savored. Marchand rolls his hips and bites down on Krug's shoulder, and the pleasure aggregates, every thrust drawing breathless sounds out of Krug and there's nowhere else he'd rather be. All the tension seeps out of Krug as he submits his body completely to this, letting the orgasm take him apart.
They drift into comfortable silence afterward, side by side, recovering, simply breathing.
Marchand is the first to speak. "That was an ugly fucking win."
"Win's a win," Krug recites. He turns his head to look at Marchand. "Still think they're gonna trade someone?"
"Yeah. Maybe." He shrugs.
"What if they trade me?"
Marchand scoffs. "I heard my name tossed around in the rumors more than yours is."
"The whole league hates you, though," Krug laughs.
"They don't have to love me. All they gotta do is help me win."
"Aren't you supposed to help them win?"
Marchand winks. "That's what I want them to think."
The quiet returns. They ebb and flow for a few minutes, and when they're not speaking Krug can hear the traffic outside, the hum of the AC. Marchand's legs rustling the sheets. Out in the hall, there are familiar voices fading in: Dougie telling a story through his giggles, and the new kid, Pastrnak, laughing. And fade out. Marchand shifts closer and throws an arm around Krug, mirror of a gesture he'd do anywhere else. Personal space was never that much of an issue for Brad Marchand, and Krug has always been thankful for that.
There's a lot of things Krug feels like saying, but he settles on the one thing that isn't guaranteed, which is of course what he wants most. "Don't get traded."
"You too."
It's late, but neither of them are going anywhere, so it doesn't matter.
I'm, uh, handwaving the wife situation. AU?
In related news, I was looking for video of the Krug/Marchand scuffle, but I found something more glorious. Here is Torey Krug playing softball and pretending to be Brad Marchand. Yes, both at once! Look at this multitasking sunuva gun.
YOU LITTLE SHIT. These little shits. I wonder if Krug and Marchand have always been insecure about their heights, or if it's the byproduct of being on the same team as Zdeno Chara.