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blindbatalex · 2 days

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on cookies and retirement

“Hi honey, I’m home,” Brad called as the door shut behind him. Patrice’s retirement had been an adjustment for them both but he would be lying if he said a part of him did not enjoy having a househusband to come to. And especially when the house smelled divinely of freshly baked cookies, as it did today.

Patrice seemed to have other ideas. He came gliding through the hallway and before Brad had managed to take his coat off, he was being shoved against the wall, Patrice catching his mouth in a hungry kiss.

Oh, hello to me, Brad thought, pulling Patrice closer, sinking into the warmth of his familiar, gorgeous body.

“Hi,” Patrice murmured when they broke for air, his breath hot against Brad’s face. Brad let out a giddy laugh, smiling as he traced a line over Patrice’s cheek with his thumb.

Sometimes not seeing the man you love for five hours can feel like an eternity, and Brad was eager to drink his fill.

Right now, however, he was also eager to get his hands on those tantalizing cookies.

He slipped away from Patrice’s arms, to head deeper into the hallway, towards the kitchen.

“You've been baking?”

The answer was apparently yeah — some sort of aphrodisiac: in an instant Patrice was there again, wrapping his arms around Brad’s middle and nuzzling his neck with his nose. The feather light kisses he pressed onto the crook of Brad’s neck would have driven even a stronger man insane, so Brad turned around to kiss him properly again, and gave his pert ass a squeeze.

On the other hand, cookies.

“Just one cookie,” he breathed out as he drew away, already a bit lightheaded, “and then I'm yours to do with as you please.”

Patrice did not want to let him go, the grip he had on Brad’s wrist ironclad. It sent a jolt of pleasure through Brad’s body—he loved it when Patrice took complete control like this.

Which made him not want to yield—not just yet.

He shook his head, using his skills as a pest extraordinaire to free himself from Patrice’s grasp.

“Cookies first, baby.”

Pleasure delay, cookies—the same thing, really—and besides, he really wanted a taste.

Something flashed across Patrice’s handsome face, gone almost as quickly but not quickly enough for Brad to miss it.

“I haven't been baking.”

Huh.

“And the house just happens to smell like cinnamon and paradise?”

“I…bought a scented candle.”

No, Brad was right. Patrice may have been playing it cool but he was a big fat liar.

Somehow, about baking cookies.

Brad spent another second gazing into the depths of his husband's pretty brown eyes, his well kissed mouth, and then he turned around and sprinted to the kitchen.

“Oh, come on,” Patrice yelled after him, mask dropped, and judging by the sound of it, also running. But one of them was the captain of an NHL team and the other was a bona fide pensioner, so Brad won the race to the dot.

Sure enough, the oven door was open and there on the counter, buried under a pile of hastily thrown tea towels, was a tray.

Brad had just finished taking in the scene in front of him when Patrice caught up and quickly threw himself in between Brad and the counter—as if the counter, the tray, was an opponent Brad pissed off to protect him from.

“You are unbelievable,” Brad huffed. The manipulative bitch, using Brad’s undying hunger for him for evil ends.

He could dart around Patrice, probably, unmask the cookies but…there was something on Patrice’s face—anguish was too strong a word for it, but it was something—to make him pause.

Instead, he touched Patrice’s elbow, letting a bit of a whine slip into his voice.

“Could I have a cookie if I said please?”

Patrice sighed and his whole body seemed to deflate with the breath leaving his lungs.

“I’d rather you kept what respect you have for me.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “It’s bad.”

This silly man.

Brad tightened his grip on Patrice’s elbow, stroked his arm. Gazed into the depths of his eyes and gave him his brightest, warmest smile.

“Do you think there is anything in this world that could make me love you less? Let alone a batch of failed cookies? Do you think that little of me?”

Patrice glared back, bereft of a retort against the monumental truth of Brad’s words. Though he did huff—

“You are going to laugh.”

“I swear I won’t.”

Patrice regarded him for another moment, wary and suspicious.

How bad were these things? Taste, yeah, it could go quite sideways, but Patrice didn’t even want him looking at them and how badly can an oven humanly fuck up the appearance of a batch of cookies? Especially when you considered that one time they were cooped up at Brad’s place in a blizzard. They weren't dating yet and a venture to make a box mix to pass the time had resulted in a unified and burnt sheet of cookie, singular.

“Fine. But if you laugh—”

“I won't,” Brad reassured him, approaching the counter as Patrice stepped aside. He lifted the tea towel (and then three more tea towels) his mouth watering from the smell and his insides burning with curiosity until–

Brad bit down hard on his lip, desperately fighting to smother the cackle that wanted to rise from his chest.

On the tray, on top of a baking sheet, lay six flat, vaguely circular shapes. They had eyes (and even little noses) made of M&Ms and gazed upon anyone who dared look upon their wretched forms with eternal scorn.

He turned to Patrice.

“Bergy, these are–”

“An abomination against God himself?”

Patrice was actually upset about this. Brad could tell from the shape of his frown, the disappointed, angry glint in his eyes, like he'd lost them a playoff game via a bad turnover.

He placed his hands on Patrice’s hips. Retirement was still hard some days.

He smiled with all he got.

“They are my brethren and I love them. Funky little kings.”

“You don't have to be nice,” Patrice grumbled half-heartedly.

But the thing was—Brad wasn't, really. It took guts to know when to listen to your body and step away, even while still at the top of your game, and it took guts to try something completely new and fail.

And these guys—they weren't a failure. They were flat and haunted, sure, but they filled Brad’s chest with such delight and joy. And besides, they were made by the love of his life, no doubt as a surprise for him. They were badly disfigured rats of love.

And Brad was going to make sure Patrice got that — loud and clear and without the shadow of a doubt.

A/N: inspired by this post which I saw on my dash on the train ride home and it sent me into a writing frenzy

#marcheron #what is this world in which i write fluff???

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blindbatalex · 2 days

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Any snippets mayhaps for #24? Or I will also settle for further details into how you are setting this up 👀👀👀

Alex my love I’ll be honest with u, I genuinely don’t know how to plan fics. I’m hoping it starts taking shape the more I write BUT I do have a snippet !!!! just a tiny little thing that I have yet to edit lmao (also may or may not scrap the whole thing and go in a different direction so like. Very messy)

Brad knows exactly what he’s doing.

Patrice is quiet. Quiet in the way that a gun is, just before it goes off. Brad picks his lips, caught between nervousness and excitement as he skates into position next to the flyers’ rookie.

He’s pushing his luck, he knows it, but he’s close to winning. Can taste it on the tip of his tongue.

The whistle blows and he instantly cross-checks the kid.

He’s perfectly aware of the risks associated with his decisions, but the possible rewards… they’re irresistible.

Speaking of such rewards,

“What the fuck is wrong with you.”

There it is.

——

When Patrice catches on, he feels so dumb.

It was right there in front of him. The whole damn time. Yet, it still took Brad moaning as he was slammed back into the lockers for him to figure it out. The flush on his face wasn’t embarrassment, his fleeting gaze wasn’t shame. He’s been getting off on this the whole time.

——

Patrice’s hand on his face is heavy, Brad hopes it left marks. The slap is still stinging, the heat going directly to his cock. He wants Patrice to do it again; he’s never hit him intentionally before, he’s never touched him with such intent.

It’s a heady feeling, clouds up his mind. He’s never been this turned on in his whole life. He tastes copper. Swirls his tongue around trying to find the source, but in reality he wants to savor the effects of Patrice’s anger. He thinks this must be what aphrodisiacs taste like.

Patrice grabs him by the jaw, pulls him close and forces his mouth open. He presses a finger in, past his teeth, past his tongue, and pushes down on the very last spot, right before his throat. Brad watches Patrice’s face with lidded eyes, the heat in his eyes betraying his serious expression, the way his gaze darkens as Brad gags, his throat closing on Patrice’s finger—

He’s into this as well.

#woke up this morning feeling like i was forgetting something very important #and then it clicked where i was like aa! lavenders answer #which came in when i was still working innthe middle of the night and then tje game was on #which is to say HI i love you!!!!#marcheron #im so psyched for tjis

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blindbatalex · 4 days

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Carra whump is so underrated like I so desperately need a beat up Carra being tended to by Gnev. Bonus points if he was brawling defending Gnev’s honour.

i had a certain au in mind but that one isn't really ripe for picking in my mind, however i saw this art of yours this morning in between my slumbers and, well. i really hope you like this <3

"Gaz, lay off - lay off, shit - ow, ow, c'mon -"

"Carra, I swear to fuckin' God, shut the fuck up you baby, you brought this on ya self -"

"Youse could be a bit gentler -"

"Then move your head, I can't get to the cut and it's still fuckin' bleedin', 's not stoppin -"

"Ah, it's nothin'. Might leave a scar, though, how cool would that be, just -"

"Shut the fuck up, James!"

Jamie shuts up, because Gary actually yells at him, loud and proper. The breath he sucks in after is shaky, his lips pinched and his eyebrows furled, but when Jamie looks into his eyes, they're... they're huge, and Jamie doesn't know what that means.

"Gary?" Jamie says quietly, his burst lip opening up again. He feels it start to bleed again and he licks the iron, not wanting Gary to get even more upset. "Gary, lad, I'm -"

"Don't call me lad, I'm older than you." Gary scowls. The paper towel in his hand makes a reappearance, and Gary's touch is surprisingly gentle when he dabs against Jamie's lip.

"Not taller, though," Jamie says on reflex. He's had a growth spurt from one summer to the other in his teens, and now, at nineteen, he towers over Gary for the third year in a row.

Well, usually he towers over Gary. Not right this moment, though.

Now, he's sat on the edge of the tub in Gary's upstairs bathroom as Gary tries to deal with the mess that's Jamie's face after the fight. Gary himself hasn't been hurt; Gary hadn't even been there. He'd got to the alley just as that piece of shit John threw the final kick, and seeing Gary, him and his two friends gunned it out of there like there was no tomorrow. Gary'd screamed at them, fiery as always and fully prepared to beat up high school kids, if the furious way he was swearing was any indication, but Jamie'd tried to move and groaned in pain. That distracted Gary thoroughly and completely.

"They aren't aren't in," he explained as he half-dragged, half-carried Jamie to his Aunt's house. "They're with the kids, some camp this whole week and I came in earlier than I was supposed to. Aunt Linda left the key for me, thought I could use some alone time away from my folks on my break," he'd said. "I already hate this town and it hates me, how the fuck am I supposed to rest when the first thing I see is your arse being kicked by some kids?"

"There was three of them," Jamie had tried to protest, but Gary scowled at him and told him to shut up and sit hii ass down so he could see how badly he was hurt.

That brought them to this; Jamie sitting on the edge of the bathtub and Gary looking down at him after cleaning his face with some alcohol and gauze. Jamie's head hurts, and he's pretty sure there's something wrong with his ribs, but Gary is fretting and he is mad - maybe at Jamie, probably, he's always mad at Jamie these days - and he is so, so cute when he's all commanding and taking charge. Jamie understands why he's the captain of the Under 21s.

"Where else are you hurt?" Gary asks, his hand tracing Jamie's busted brow, as if unthinking of the action, and Jamie suddenly also understands that his adolescent crush might not have been as far away in the past as it used to be. "Tell me."

Jamie's left hand is on Gary's waist. He's acutely aware of that fact, because he grabbed onto Gary for support when Gary started cleaning his face. He wants to hold on, but he makes himself let go.

"I'm fine, leave it. You fixed me up as well as possible, and I'll be -"

"Jamie." Jamie stops, again, because Gary doesn't call him Jamie anymore, not like before, when Jamie was fourteen and Gary was seventeen and the best football player Jamie knew and a friend and larger than life. These days it's all wrong, or it feels like it's all wrong. It's Carra when he's in a good mood and James when he's mad, and Jamie doesn't know what to do with this, or with the soft little, "Please."

He looks up at Gary. He's still larger than life, somehow. His eyes are still huge and a beautiful brown colour.

"My ribs," he says, equally quietly. "That cunt got a kick in at the end, and I don't think they're broken -"

"Take off your shirt."

Jamie tries not to react, but the tone Gary uses and the words, put together... Jamie's acutely aware he's not looking at Gary and that his face feels hot as he obeys. He's slow in taking of his dirty shirt. It's red, so at least the blood doesn't show. He drops it on the floor and closes his eyes as Gary bends over, then goes on his knees in front of Jamie to better look at his ribs.

Jamie takes one look down and shuts his eyes tightly enough he sees spots playing in the darkness behind his lids.

Cold fingers press against his skin. "Does this hurt?" Jamie shakes his head, and Gary continues pressing until he finds the place that makes Jamie wince. "That's what I thought. I don't think they're broken, but ya gotta take it easy for a while."

Jamie nods. Gary's fingers are warming up on Jamie's skin. "Aye, captain," he tries to put some scorn in his tone, but he knows it all comes out wrong. He still hasn't opened his eyes.

He hears Gary shuffling and huffing. His breathing is erratic and he leans on Jamie's thigh in support as he gets up. Jamie forces himself to open his eyes.

Mistake. Gary is staring at him like he wants to see inside Jamie's mind. "Why were you fighting?" he asks. His shirt is white. There's dirt on one side, in the shape of Jamie's fingertips. Jamie knows how soft the material is, and how soft Gary's waist is under it.

"They were talkin' shit," Jamie says. It's cold in the bathroom, but he's running hot. "I couldn't let them get away with it."

Gary rolls his eyes. "You talk shit, Carra, you should know how it goes. The fuck did they say to you to make ya think it's a good idea to fight three of them?"

"There were only two when I threw the first punch," Jamie corrects, and Gary lets out a giggle.

"You're an idiot," he says, and there is a little smile in the corner of his mouth that he can't hide. "You could've got seriously hurt, and then what? You'd lose the place in the squad, you just wrote me they're letting you debut for the first team, you idiot! Nothing they said is worth missing that shot, James, I told you to keep your temper, I told you it'll get ya into trouble, and I was right, look at your face now, all busted up -"

"What, am I not handsome anymore?" Jamie grins, his lip hurting like hell but worth it to see Gary scowl again. "I'm still the handsomest bastard youse've seen -"

"Bastard is right, ya' idiot, to miss a chance because of fightin' -"

"But hadsome? Rugged, wouldn't ye say -"

"I'd said it a million times and I'mma say it again, only an idiot would risk the first team for fightin' -"

"Well I was fighting for ye honour, so catch me doing that again when all it gets me is bein' called an idiot!"

Jamie doesn't think when he says it. Him and Gary had always bantered, quick as whips both of them, and Jamie had always enjoyed it a bit too much to truly think about all the shit he's saying when he's winding Gary up.

"My - what?" Gary looks like someone's struck him. "My honour? What the fuck're you talkin' 'bout?"

Jamie says nothing. He's got nothing to say, or at least nothing that won't break something between him and Gary. It's all wrong these days, with Gary staring for United and Jamie on his way to be starting for Liverpool. There's a difference, a distance there ever since he switched from blue to red. It's not something they've ever talked about but... Jamie remembers. He remembers kids in red jerseys surrounding Gary, big kids, bigger than Gary was back then and much bigger than Jamie. He remembers the taunts and the words that his Ma told him never to repeat if he doesn't want her to wash his mouth out with soap. He remembers Gary's look when Jamie kicked the ball back to him on the playground, and how his frown disappeared when he saw his blue jersey when Jamie was eleven. He remembers the frown deepening when Jamie came to their playground in a red jersey for the first time.

"James," Gary says, and both his voice and his eyes are serious. "What did they say?"

Jamie clenches his fists. "Nothing, Gaz. Leave it alone, I didn't mean to say it, just ignore me."

Gary is still looking at him, and Jamie hates how fucking beautiful Gary's eyes are. Hates how much he likes when Gary smiles, lines appearing around them when he laughs at Jamie's stupid jokes. Hates how fragile Gary looks in the bad bathroom lights, like Jamie could break him with one word. Hates how much he wants to feel how that stupid barely-there moustache would feel against his skin. Hates how he knows they don't have that much time anymore, to fuck around with the ball every summer like they've been doing so far. Hates that he knows a darby is inevitable. Hates how he can recognize Gary's smell, even over the alcohol and the blood. Hates how much he just - wants.

Gary furrows his brows, then seems to decide on something. He lets the dirty towel fall on the floor as he steps closer between Jamie's legs, and the movement startles Jamie so much he grabs for Gary's waist with both hands this time. He swallows, grasping onto the white shirt, his breathing a lot heavier.

Gary's hand is shaking when he brings it down to trace the bruise on Jamie's cheek he can feel forming. "Jamie," Gary says, and it isn't fair, how much that one word affects him. "Jamie, were you defending me? Is that why you got hurt?"

Jamie swallows around his dry throat again. His whole body is hurting. His whole body feels like he's on fire. He can feel Gary's heat over the material of the shirt, where his fingers press down.

"I'm no prince charming," he says, stupidly, nonsensically. Gary smiles, and Jamie's startled to realise he hasn't seen that kind of smile on Gary in a while.

"No, you aren't," Gary says. His other hand rests on Jamie's shoulder. "But you're pretty charming, all ruggedly handsome, you."

Jamie tears his eyes away from Gary's lips to look into his eyes. It feels too hot in the little bathroom. Gary's fingers splay across Jamie's neck. It feels like the whole world is pausing. Jamie feels like he can't breathe. He tightens his hold on Gary's waist, maybe pulls him closer. He doesn't really know. None of this makes sense.

Turns out, he can breathe.

He takes the next breath right from Gary's lips, soft and hesitant and hotter than anything he's ever felt before. The angle is awkward but he realises he can hug Gary close and -

"- for fuck's sake Jamie, I can taste blood, I busted your lip, sorry -"

"Nah," Jamie grins, opening his eyes. "Fuck it. Bust it again," he says, and pulls Gary in.

#AAAAAAA THIS IS SO GOOD??#im obsessed #carraville #fic rec

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blindbatalex · 4 days

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uhm. king!bergy fic. idk how i got here either

#i just woke up but !!!#fic rec #marcheron

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blindbatalex · 5 days

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A Danton Heinen Imagine

Words: 1221 A/N: A prince(ss) and the frog AU in which you are the only one who can turn a beautiful but forlorn Danny back to his human state. Hope you guys like this!

~*~

You were not having the best day of your life when you met Danny. Yet another mismanaged project meant you had to work past midnight for days in a row, you still hadn’t procured the tarantula hawks you were going to release into your manager’s office and now, on your blissful day of rest your parents had decided to pay you a visit.

You loved your parents of course, as all children who were only mildly traumatized while growing up were contractually obliged to do, but they were a lot to deal with of late. They scoffed at your plans to land a hockey player–your own personal big bad Bruin–and insisted that you find someone normal to date.

At this point they had even given up on the gender of your future partner, despite their natural homophobia.

And now they were running late, bickering over parking which was entirely your dad’s fault if the texts from your mom were anything to go by.

You heard the voice just as you were wondering what would happen if you chucked your phone in the river and ran for the hills while waiting outside your house for their arrival. The voice was as deep as the ocean and carried an unspeakable sorrow in it. It was the most beautiful thing you heard all week.

“Ribbit!”

When you turned, in front of you was a golden frog with large beady eyes.

Keep reading

#HAPPY PLAYOFF GAME DAY #pls enjoy this playoff offering from 2019 #i too have written hockey imagines in my time

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blindbatalex · 6 days

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a little marcheron au for your sunday

Brad wakes up to the smell of fresh coffee.

For a moment still lost in half-sleep, he wonders whether and when he bought a magical coffee machine that brews coffee all by itself, before his present reality comes crashing back to him.

Patrice.

Right.

He rolls out of bed and pads his way to the kitchen, stretching, and sure enough, there Patrice is by the stove. He is wearing basketball shorts and the same gray t-shirt he had on last night before he bid Brad good night and went to sleep in the guest bedroom. The line of his shoulders is unfamiliar. He is still an athletic guy, obviously, but don’t play pro hockey for four years and your body will broadcast the fact to the world, all on its own.

He must sense Brad’s presence because he turns around, a disheveled, domestic look on his face, which soon enough, is adorned by a smile.

“Morning.”

Man, that still feels weird. Like, really fucking weird.

Then again, it does appear to mean that Brad is getting breakfast out of it in addition to coffee. Something sweet is sizzling on the stove and the kitchen smells wonderful.

“Morning,” Brad greets back, making his way over to see what Patrice is making for himself. Pancakes…judging by the smell?

No, not pancakes. Crepes.

“Bergy,” Brad says, his voice pitched low. He can’t help himself, he is only human, and fuck him, these are some serious crepes. Some put any French chef to shame, prepare to die of happiness and reach heaven level crepes.

All of this must show on his face too, because Patrice snickers, practically beaming with pride.

“Thought a treat might be in order.”

Happiness looks good on him, in any universe. He reaches with a hand to brush back his hair and the wedding band on his finger catches the morning light.

It’s too much. All of this–

Brad runs a hand through his own hair, taking in the jar of Nutella sitting on the counter, the box of powdered sugar and the bowl of strawberries.

He pops one into his mouth.

Patrice cooking – who would have thought?

“Okay, I don’t mean to be like, offensive, but last I remember you could barely crack an egg without setting the kitchen on fire,” he says, watching Patrice open the jar. “How did this…happen?”

Patrice gives him a pained look – one he quickly folds away. This must be just as weird for him. One moment you are watching your…husband suffer a nasty head injury on the ice; an hour later, he has no memory of the last four years of his life. Which is of course, not exactly true, Brad remembers those years alright – it’s just that he didn’t think telling the doctors ‘oh yeah I guess I have been thrown into a parallel universe or something’ would make them want to let him go back on the ice any time soon.

“I had time on my hands.”

That’s just– fuck. He had time on his hands. Of course he had time on his hands. He had to stop playing hockey at 28 because he got hurt so badly he almost died. Brad’s been here for a few days now and it still makes him furious. Still feels fucking illegal.

He reaches for another strawberry to distract himself but Patrice swats his hand away with a tut.

“Patience, babe.”

Patience. Somebody should have told him that that has never been among Brad’s virtues.

“I’m gonna get the coffees,” Brad declares, trying not to feel like there is a hive of bees under his skin doing their level best to burst out.

He opens a cupboard and is faced with plates and bowls. He does not know this house. He opens another and finds the mugs. Specifically, in the first row, are two matching mugs – navy blue with a golden looping B inscribed on one and an M on the other.

Jesus Christ.

He takes them out. Pours them coffee just as Patrice starts walking to the kitchen table with the two plates in his hand.

They sit down.

“How did you sleep?”

Patrice shrugs. He looks tired – and there is only one person to blame.

“Comme ci comme ça. You?”

French? Is that who they are? Does Patrice sprinkle in the occasional French into their conversation these days? Has Brad – this place’s Brad – been learning it for him? Then again, what does he know what Bergy was like in his romantic relationships, in his own universe?

And–

It is kind of cute.

“Oui monsieur, s’il te plaît, ooh lala,” he replies, drawing a groan from Patrice, but it’s okay because he is laughing too, just a little bit. His laughter sounds like music. It always has.

“Eat your food – before I divorce you.”

Brad gasps.

“You would never. You love me.”

The moment the words leave his mouth, Brad regrets them. Bergy sighs. It carries zero heat, betrayed by a crooked, fond, unbearable smile.

Still, there is nothing for it – he takes a bite of his crepes. They are perfect. Crisp but still somehow soft and just the right amount of chewy.

He sets his fork down, forces himself to take a long, slow but discrete breath.

“Did I threaten to break up with you unless you learned how to feed me or what?”

He aims for a teasing tone and fails completely. Patrice’s smile turns strained. He always could sense when something was wrong.

“No, of course not,” Patrice replies, instinctively covering Brad’s hand on the table with his. “I was um– I wanted to thank you, I suppose.”

Brad has to look away.

“For what?”

Not that he doesn’t know the answer. It’s just–

“Brad, we don’t have to talk about this right now. Let’s just eat.”

Yeah, probably because Brad must look like a pathetic child, ready to break down in tears any moment now. But he needs to know. He needs to hear it. He forces himself to meet Bergy’s eyes again.

“Please.”

Patrice is still looking back at him like he thinks this is a monumentally bad idea, but he never could say no to Brad, not when Brad asks it like that.

“When I had to stop playing hockey, you were there for me,” Patrice says evenly. “You were sort of, the only reason I made it out of that year alive, if I’m honest. I wanted to– I know you like crepes.”

Because apparently, that’s how they got together. Brad made it his life’s mission to be there for Bergy when Bergy got hurt. In the process they got close. In the process Bergy fell in love.

And the thing is, they are really good crepes. Exactly how Brad likes them. He has dreamt about this actually. Patrice making breakfast for him. Patrice doting on him, kissing him. A life they would get to share.

And now that he has it, he wants to smash it all into pieces.

He is just not worth the price. He never was.

#hockey rpf #marcheron #my fic #this would make a rly nice fully fleshed out at - TBD

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blindbatalex · 10 days

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Wet Rat Wednesday

@confusion-is-wonderful put that wet rat wednesday post on my dash and then @thebluejayawe egged me on in the DMs and here we are. When I am not actively dying of sleep deprivation, I may just make this a little more angsty and put it on ao3, but for now, et voilà! Enjoy!

Patrice opens the door to the empty bedroom and panic hits him like a flood wave, as if blinking out of existence might just be another concerning symptom of the flu.

“Brad?” he calls, doing his best to get a hold of himself, when the sound of running water alerts him to the likely new whereabouts of his liney. The ensuite bathroom.

He strides there in three steps flat, opens the door and–

Well, there Brad is – sitting on the floor of the shower under running water. He is fully clothed; judging by the steam, the water is scalding hot.

“Jesus,” he mutters, walking in.

“Happy Wet Rat Wednesday!”

Patrice makes a sound. It's not an entirely dignified sound. But Brad is looking up at him through his eyelashes; his eyes are big and shiny with fever and his hair is plastered to his forehead and the dopiest grin lights up his face. He is looking at Patrice as if Patrice is God’s own gift to mankind, as if– But that doesn't matter because– did Patrice mention – he is sitting under a stream of hot water when he already has a temperature high enough to warrant an urgent cool shower.

He reaches the tap and turns it off.

“What did you do that for?” Brad whines, shifting on the floor. “Water is an essential part of Wet Rat Wednesday.”

“Yes, but cool water, mon chou, you are running a fever.”

He touches Brad’s forehead and shit– it feels even warmer than it did five minutes ago, which was already ridiculously, disconcertingly warm.

Calm. He needs to stay calm. Brad does not at all help with that when he presses his forehead against Patrice’s palm with as much strength as he currently possesses. As if he needs the touch like he needs air.

Patrice can't afford to think about that right now.

“Lift your arms. Let's get these clothes off you.”

“Mmmm,” Brad whines. He crosses his arms at his chest and pouts, suddenly the poster child for modesty.

Patrice considers threatening him with a trip to the ER, which is looking more and more likely regardless. But then another idea occurs to him.

He flutters his eyelashes.

“Do it for me?”

Bingo. In an instant, Brad’s entire expression shifts. It’s a strange thing, knowing that someone would kill for you if you only gave the word. A heavy thing. But right now Patrice is grateful for it, because it means Brad's arms go up too.

He helps Brad out of his t-shirt.

“You are such a good rat.”

“You think so??”

The sheer pride and glee in Brad’s voice– The edge of desperation you might just miss–

Patrice gives him his brightest smile, because Brad has never deserved anything less.

“I know so. More importantly–” He tries not to let his eyes linger on Brad’s flushed chest, the tufts of hair plastered to his skin, his toned abs and the Stanley Cup tattoo across his ribs. “–you are my rat.”

“Your wet rat,” Brad giggles, leaning forward to rest his head on Patrice’s shoulder.

They still need to take Brad’s sweatpants off and take care of that shower. They will get on with it in a moment, Patrice thinks. For now, he reaches out to wrap his arms around Brad, rub his back and hold him in place, so small and warm and dripping wet. He has always marveled at how well he's fit in his arms. Like this was why the two of them were put on this earth – to play hockey and to hold each other.

“Despite all my wrath,” Brad sighs happily, “I am still just a rat in a bath.”

#marcheron #hockey rpf #hrpf #my fic

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blindbatalex · 10 days

Text

This is so neat and @thebluejayawe is truly an inspiration to us all 💯

just part of a WIP from right after the Bruins vs Krakens game

“Sorry March, can you repeat that?” Brad shakes his head, “No, it’s okay. It’s nothing.” Brandon knows something is definitely up and he is not letting this go. “No, it’s not okay. C’mon Marchy, don’t hide away from us.” More silence. Until he hears the dumbest and most incorrect thing that ever came out of Brad Marchand’s mouth. “Is it me? Did I make the wrong calls? Am I looking at the right things to improve on? I don’t think I should be captain. I know I’m not Bergy or Krech but I’m trying and I’m still fucking up. And we keep losing and we keep falling and I’m just here fucking things up.” And suddenly, louder, “Oh fuck. Fuck. Krech said not to let him down and oh fucking christ I’m letting him down and I just can’t seem to get things right and I’m just disappointing them now fuck.” At this point Brad’s voice turns from an almost whisper to gasps and sobs. And Brandon is hurt. Hurting for his captain. Hurting for the rest of the team. Hurting that all he could do is to hold him tighter and try his best to tell him that no, no that’s not true at all. He wishes Patrice were here, just a little though, as he is one of the few able to dispel Brad’s insecurities the most. He envies Patrice’s closeness to Brad, just a little. His suit is damp and he doesn’t give a damn about it. He pulls out his phone and clicks on Coyle’s name. Bambi: tell everyone to bring their sleep stuff and duvets to Marchy’s room when we get back. No one’s sleeping alone tonight if i can help it CCCCC: 👌 After that confirmation he puts his phone away and starts pulling Brad towards the bench where his clothes are. “C’mon let’s wipe you down and we can go back to the hotel, okay?" A slight nod. Which is better than nothing.

Yea I had some feels about the games

The whole time I was like well fuck after losing both krej and bergy he's gotta be internalizing this shit now

And since Brando's now the designated big huggy comfort its up to him to take charge and get their captain some cuddles with the team

a not so lil bit of Carlo x Marchy if ur ok with that, theres gonna be swaymark too

Yea its also kinda based on the Team Bed AU by BlueJay141519 on AO3 so go check that out too Hug Me Shy - Bluejay141519 - Men's Hockey RPF [Archive of Our Own] (i dont know their tumblr or any other handle im so sorry)

#fic rec #hockey rpf #team bed au

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blindbatalex · 10 days

Text

forgot this messy rough outline for a fic i wrote ages back and now im sitting here in shock

#ohhhh but i love the way this flows unconstrained by linear time or the brutal chain of action and consequence #like carra is clearly out of it (drunk perhaps) and all of these moments exist in the same space #jostling against each other pulling and twisting #carraville

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blindbatalex · 11 days

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Soft promt, 30. and Mattdrai?

30. ‘this is my husband/wife/girlfriend/boyfriend/partner etc.’

Prompts!!

Freudian slip

——

“What’s up with you?” Matthew’s been quiet all dinner, glancing at him and smiling like a schoolgirl. It’s endearing, the way his face contorts to fit it, makes him look rounder, softer.

Except Leon’s never seen him act like this before, and frankly, he’s scared.

“Nothing.” Matthew sing-songs biting at his fork. Leon narrows his eyes.

He doesn’t know why Matthew insists on going to these places, fancy and dark, you’d think with the cost of the menu items they’d afford to keep the lights on.

It’s romantic, Matthew tells him. Leon would argue it’s more romantic if he can see his fucking date.

Besides, since when is Matthew the romantic type? He doesn’t know when the switch happened, it seems as if Matthew stopped being content with takeout and fast dirty fucks out of nowhere. He wants to do this dating thing right, apparently. Leon thought they’ve been dating for months. But somehow it seems that calling Matthew his boyfriend for the first time made Matthew realize it.

He’s a little offended, frankly. Did Matthew think he didn’t want to date him?

“So,” Matthew says around in his mouth, looking at him from under his lashes, uncharacteristically coy. “You want to marry me?”

Leon chokes.

“What?” He pounds his fist at his chest as he tries dislodging the pasta in his throat, and when the threat of death has finally passed he glances up at Matthew.

He knows what that face is. He knows when Matthew is concealing his hurt. Fuck.

“Where is this coming from?” He tries, but it seems that Matthew had already guarded himself against being vulnerable. He’s not looking at Leon anymore. “Matty.”

He shrugs, making a noncommittal noise, suddenly really interested in the food. Surely a truffle risotto isn’t that interesting.

“Mathew.”

“Well I just thought—“ he’s talking fast, caught between embarrassment and irritation. “When you introduced me as your husband—“ when he what.

“I- did I-“ Leon is thankful he didn’t eat another bite because that would’ve killed him for sure. He tries quickly rewinding in his head and realizes that he did say that. Oh my god. Matthew is looking around and—

He can’t have that. He grabs Matthew’s hand and pulls it between them. Now that gets his attention.

“Matthew.” He starts, runs his thumb over his pulse point for courage. “I was planning to propose in the summer.”

It’s so easy to please him, he realizes. And somehow spoiling the surprise doesn’t feel as bad as he thought it would. Matthew’s smile is so wide and bright that he almost lights up the whole restaurant by himself.

“Really?” He says, like he can’t believe it. He grips Leon’s hand back, entangles their fingers together.

“Yeah. I must’ve—“

“Aw, you couldn’t keep it to yourself, you just love me so—“ interrupting Matthew with a kiss is really proving to be Leon’s favorite way to shut him up.

#oh mate i can't tell you how much i *dont* go here but this is SO GOOD #in such a short space too #the miscommunication - the embarrassment on matts part - the resolution #mwah chefs kiss #hockey rpf #fic rec #mattdrai

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blindbatalex · 12 days

Note

#21 with Brando/Marchy please?

21. this is a very long hug now sort of hug

prompts!

This was so delightful to write agsjlsahha

Tunnel rituals

——

The tunnel has to be Brad’s favorite place.

Not because of the design. Oh god no. It’s horrible, atrocious. Almost as if the rink designers gave it no thought; simply a transitional space between the locker room and the ice. And you know what, maybe to a non hockey player, that’s all it is.

No, the specialness of the tunnel resides in the rituals players would inevitably construct to hype themselves up, to prime their teammates, to sculpt their focus, reinforce their bonds.

Which, Brad particularly enjoys.

He runs at McAvoy, falls on Freddy, screams at sway and gets bonked and punched by so many hands that he loses count. The sounds rattling in his head so often that he still hears it when he’s on the ice.

But his favorite. His favorite is Brandon’s hugs. The warm embrace that swallows him whole, surrounds him like a weighted blanket.

It’s so different that any other hug he’d had, it’s different than Bergy’s, warm and overwhelming, moving sands that he sinks into so, so easily. It’s different than Freddy’s, quick and hard, served with a side of mandatory no-homo back slaps. It’s definitely different than Sway’s, big and imposing, a bear hug in every sense of the word, picking him up enough for him to kick his feet in the air and scream to reaffirm his masculinity.

No, Brandon’s just… comfortable. Safe.

Brad holds him close and shuts his eyes real tight, feels Brandon’s fond chuckle through his chest, and maybe, maybe, if he doesn’t open his eyes he could keep holding him.

And the thing is, Brandon never lets go first. He holds him just as tight, just as close. And once even, he laid a loud kiss on top of Brad’s head. He thought of it for days, filled with joy and happiness.

Brad lets go of Brandon, regretful. They have a game to play.

Maybe he could get a Carlo hug when they’re not in the tunnel. Maybe he should try.

The way Brandon smiles at him, the way his hands linger, Brad doesn’t think he’d turn him down.

#MY HEART!!!!#this is the fic we deserve ahhhh #im so glad you reblogged that ask game mate #everything that came out of it is so so exquisite #hockey rpf #fic rec #brandochand

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