[Ficlet] For the Sweet Drabblethon
Title: Batting Practice
Author: kelly1_watxm
Summary: Backwash is completely not sexy... except when it sort of is. For The Sweet Drabblethon. The prompt from griffndor was “Joe Mauer/Sidney Crosby - heat wave, water, smirk.” Hopefully you like the direction I took it in. :: nervous :: (Extremely casual Crosby third-person limited...trying to sound like a 22 year-old boy is trickier than it seems.)
Characters/People: Sidney Crosby/Joe Mauer. By mention: Maxime Talbot, Marc-André Fleury, Justin Morneau.
Disclaimer: This is entirely fictional and untrue and for fun. No disrespect or reflection meant on the actual Sidney Crosby, Joe Mauer, Maxime Talbot, Marc-André Fleury, Justin Morneau, Penguins, or Twins. (If you found yourself here by googling your name, now would be the time to back away slowly)
Rating: T+ for language, adult suggestions.
A/N: Uh... this is the first time I’ve ever written RPS, but the prompt was so darn inviting I thought I’d take a crack (and boy, is this cracky.) Hopefully I didn’t butcher it too much. Also, it ended up being a ficlet (850+), because I’m wordy heh, and rules said it had to be drabble length as a minimum.
He hadn’t been expecting an audience to his practice. The lanky figure reclining on the dugout bench in the Penguin’s jersey (number 87) was smirking at him. “I think I’m going to attach a fan to that bat. Get a nice breeze going at least. It’s hot as hell out here.”
Sidney Crosby shifted his weight to his back foot and prepared to swing again, balls sticking uncomfortably to the inside of his thigh in the tight Twins uniform (number 7) and the cloying mid-summer humidity. This is why no sane person played sports outside. In the middle of a freaking heat-wave. Wearing polyester pants. It was a publicity stunt for the golden boys of their respective sports. He would hit a few baseballs, Joe Mauer would shoot a few pucks, someone would edit it with dramatic cut-shots and catchy instrumentals and witty taglines about role-reversal and everyone would be happy.
Sidney was not happy.
He had spent enough time with Max and Marc-André to recognize good-natured chirping when he heard it, but it was one thing when it was coming from your friends and in a sport you knew you were good at. It was entirely different when you obviously sucked and a relative stranger was pointing it out... in approximately twelve million degree weather. He was definitely not in the mood.
“Yeah. I’m aware. That’s why some of us thought ahead and packed a drink.” It was an hour before the camera guys would show up and he still hadn’t managed to make contact with the ball. It wasn’t his fault. The last time he’d played fastball, he hadn’t even hit puberty yet. Sweat dripped down his forehead from under the helmet as the pitching machine fwipped out another perfect strike he missed by a mile.
Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as Mauer took another swig from the translucent gold and black water bottle with a chuckle. That was his drink, damnit. Didn’t this guy have any sense of decency? "And thanks for sharing. I appreciate it." It was now less than half full; Mauer was oblivious to his subtle glower. "That's why I love living with Justin, you know? You Canadians are always so damned affable about things." Sidney fanned on another pitch, grunting from the effort. Hrm, could you 'fan' on a pitch, or did that terminology only apply to pucks? “You’re just trying too hard, Crosby. You gotta relax.” Sidney tossed the bat down in frustration, stalking toward the bench. He needed a break. And for the peanut gallery to shut the hell up.
Mauer smirked again, tipping his head back and squirting the rest of Sidney’s cool, refreshing, deliciously hydrating water into his smug, vaguely attractive (the hell did that thought come from? the heat must’ve been getting to him) mouth. Mauer swished it with almost indecent pleasure, moaning softly.
"Relax!?” Sidney was surprised to find he sounded nigh hysterical, the temperature making him loose patience far sooner than he normally would’ve. “Honestly, it's bad enough I won't be able to hit a damned thing on this ball-melting God-forsaken infield while people are filming, but you seriously just drank all of my water and have the nerve to tell me to relax?" He wasn't quite sure whether he wanted to cry at this realization or punch things. Punching things was more manly; he was going to go with that. The press already ragged hard enough on him about his playoff beard, he didn't need "'The Kid' Bawls Over Water" to get out too. Not that “’The Kid’ Beats Beloved Baseball Star Over Water" was really all that much better for his PR.
Mauer seemed to realize, as his eyes widened, that not all Canadians were 'so damned affable' all the time. It was amazing how sheepish a person could sound around a mouthful of liquid. "Uhh, mot awavit...?" Sidney took another step towards him, hot under the collar in every possible way, so that his face hovered inches from Mauer’s. The last thing he remembered seeing that made any sense at all was that shit-eating smirk again.
And then lips were moist and cool and urgent on his, the chill of the water at the back of his parched throat as surprising as the tongue pushing his mouth open, the hipbones pressing hard against his own. Sidney swallowed, gulped, arched a little into the touch and the wetness. Mauer pulled back slightly, his eyebrows waggling wickedly. “You know, I’m not just a catcher.” Sidney didn’t feel angry anymore. Hell, he wasn’t entirely sure he could even feel his knees anymore. Apparently this guy didn’t have any sense of decency.
“Oh?” His voice came breathless and rough and betraying.
Mauer was out of the dugout and cracking hits before Sidney could recover, could reciprocate, could fully process what the hell had just happened. “I also hold the American league’s current batting title. Come on, champ, let me show you how it’s done; don’t want you to embarrass yourself.” He winked, sending a pitch to deep center with an easy swing. “And I promise, I’ll take you out for a proper drink after the shoot.”
Author: kelly1_watxm
Summary: Backwash is completely not sexy... except when it sort of is. For The Sweet Drabblethon. The prompt from griffndor was “Joe Mauer/Sidney Crosby - heat wave, water, smirk.” Hopefully you like the direction I took it in. :: nervous :: (Extremely casual Crosby third-person limited...trying to sound like a 22 year-old boy is trickier than it seems.)
Characters/People: Sidney Crosby/Joe Mauer. By mention: Maxime Talbot, Marc-André Fleury, Justin Morneau.
Disclaimer: This is entirely fictional and untrue and for fun. No disrespect or reflection meant on the actual Sidney Crosby, Joe Mauer, Maxime Talbot, Marc-André Fleury, Justin Morneau, Penguins, or Twins. (If you found yourself here by googling your name, now would be the time to back away slowly)
Rating: T+ for language, adult suggestions.
A/N: Uh... this is the first time I’ve ever written RPS, but the prompt was so darn inviting I thought I’d take a crack (and boy, is this cracky.) Hopefully I didn’t butcher it too much. Also, it ended up being a ficlet (850+), because I’m wordy heh, and rules said it had to be drabble length as a minimum.
He hadn’t been expecting an audience to his practice. The lanky figure reclining on the dugout bench in the Penguin’s jersey (number 87) was smirking at him. “I think I’m going to attach a fan to that bat. Get a nice breeze going at least. It’s hot as hell out here.”
Sidney Crosby shifted his weight to his back foot and prepared to swing again, balls sticking uncomfortably to the inside of his thigh in the tight Twins uniform (number 7) and the cloying mid-summer humidity. This is why no sane person played sports outside. In the middle of a freaking heat-wave. Wearing polyester pants. It was a publicity stunt for the golden boys of their respective sports. He would hit a few baseballs, Joe Mauer would shoot a few pucks, someone would edit it with dramatic cut-shots and catchy instrumentals and witty taglines about role-reversal and everyone would be happy.
Sidney was not happy.
He had spent enough time with Max and Marc-André to recognize good-natured chirping when he heard it, but it was one thing when it was coming from your friends and in a sport you knew you were good at. It was entirely different when you obviously sucked and a relative stranger was pointing it out... in approximately twelve million degree weather. He was definitely not in the mood.
“Yeah. I’m aware. That’s why some of us thought ahead and packed a drink.” It was an hour before the camera guys would show up and he still hadn’t managed to make contact with the ball. It wasn’t his fault. The last time he’d played fastball, he hadn’t even hit puberty yet. Sweat dripped down his forehead from under the helmet as the pitching machine fwipped out another perfect strike he missed by a mile.
Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as Mauer took another swig from the translucent gold and black water bottle with a chuckle. That was his drink, damnit. Didn’t this guy have any sense of decency? "And thanks for sharing. I appreciate it." It was now less than half full; Mauer was oblivious to his subtle glower. "That's why I love living with Justin, you know? You Canadians are always so damned affable about things." Sidney fanned on another pitch, grunting from the effort. Hrm, could you 'fan' on a pitch, or did that terminology only apply to pucks? “You’re just trying too hard, Crosby. You gotta relax.” Sidney tossed the bat down in frustration, stalking toward the bench. He needed a break. And for the peanut gallery to shut the hell up.
Mauer smirked again, tipping his head back and squirting the rest of Sidney’s cool, refreshing, deliciously hydrating water into his smug, vaguely attractive (the hell did that thought come from? the heat must’ve been getting to him) mouth. Mauer swished it with almost indecent pleasure, moaning softly.
"Relax!?” Sidney was surprised to find he sounded nigh hysterical, the temperature making him loose patience far sooner than he normally would’ve. “Honestly, it's bad enough I won't be able to hit a damned thing on this ball-melting God-forsaken infield while people are filming, but you seriously just drank all of my water and have the nerve to tell me to relax?" He wasn't quite sure whether he wanted to cry at this realization or punch things. Punching things was more manly; he was going to go with that. The press already ragged hard enough on him about his playoff beard, he didn't need "'The Kid' Bawls Over Water" to get out too. Not that “’The Kid’ Beats Beloved Baseball Star Over Water" was really all that much better for his PR.
Mauer seemed to realize, as his eyes widened, that not all Canadians were 'so damned affable' all the time. It was amazing how sheepish a person could sound around a mouthful of liquid. "Uhh, mot awavit...?" Sidney took another step towards him, hot under the collar in every possible way, so that his face hovered inches from Mauer’s. The last thing he remembered seeing that made any sense at all was that shit-eating smirk again.
And then lips were moist and cool and urgent on his, the chill of the water at the back of his parched throat as surprising as the tongue pushing his mouth open, the hipbones pressing hard against his own. Sidney swallowed, gulped, arched a little into the touch and the wetness. Mauer pulled back slightly, his eyebrows waggling wickedly. “You know, I’m not just a catcher.” Sidney didn’t feel angry anymore. Hell, he wasn’t entirely sure he could even feel his knees anymore. Apparently this guy didn’t have any sense of decency.
“Oh?” His voice came breathless and rough and betraying.
Mauer was out of the dugout and cracking hits before Sidney could recover, could reciprocate, could fully process what the hell had just happened. “I also hold the American league’s current batting title. Come on, champ, let me show you how it’s done; don’t want you to embarrass yourself.” He winked, sending a pitch to deep center with an easy swing. “And I promise, I’ll take you out for a proper drink after the shoot.”