just one of those things [lucic / rask]
title : one of those things
team / pairing : boston bruins - milan lucic & tuukka rask
rating : r?
words : 1,400
03 June 2013
Milan feels every bone in his body grind and pop when he collapses onto his bit of bench in the locker room. It would be painful if it didn’t feel so damned good, he thinks as he shucks off his pads and jersey. At a time like this, he wishes he had someone following him around to undo his skates and pull them off his sore feet because the prospect of bending over to unlace them himself is just too much.
It’s easier to sit back for a moment, let his muscles have a few seconds of much needed rest. He wants to sit and smile like an idiot and enjoy the victory.
Brad and Tyler are, of course, huddled up like a pair of gossips, laughing about this and that. It’s typical, for them. And then there’s Zdeno, wandering around with a big grin on his face and he’s still got his stick in his hand, hasn’t even taken off his gloves. He’s making the rounds, doling out congratulations and praise, and Milan takes a quick moment to feel sorry for the players in the Penguins locker room.
He’s not at all jealous of the reaming they’re probably getting right now.
Skates, pants, shower. Routine, ritual, all the same stuff he’s used to doing every day. Everyone’s got a glow to them tonight, they’re all floating about doing what they’re supposed to and there isn’t much talking going on, just... glowing.
Tuukka doesn’t gloat. It’s one of the things Milan really likes about him. He goes about his business like the rest of the team, but without the smirk or the saunter. He just looks... satisfied.
“Good game,” Milan tells him, tugging his towel tighter around his waist before settling down next to the goalie. “I don’t know how you do it.”
And then there’s that other thing Milan finds himself attracted to- the way Tuukka’s mouth opens and closes for a second before he looks down at the floor with a half smile, like he doesn’t know how to take a compliment.
“I’m just doing what I’m supposed to. Same as the rest of the team.”
Milan rests a hand right between Tuukka’s shoulder blades, nails scratching gently at his back in a way he hopes is comforting. Really, he just wants a reason to touch that skin, to let his hand wander a little further up so his fingers can twist in the curls at the name of Tuukka’s neck.
It isn’t particularly subtle, but subtlety isn’t a quality Milan prides himself on having.
“Don’t sell yourself short.”
There’s a party after the game. Zdeno makes an honest effort to set some ground rules- as in don’t stay out too late, don’t drink too much, don’t pick fights with the locals- but no one really listens and he ends up shaking his head and telling everyone to have a good time instead.
Milan is surprised when Tuukka actually goes out with the party crew rather than heading back to the hotel with Zdeno and the others that chose to forgo celebration. He lingers around the goalie, stands a little closer than he should and he might be a little guilty of the hover hand on one or two occasions. Whoops.
It’s the shirt that does it for him. Milan’s got no idea what inspired Tuukka to pack the damned thing, but it’s practically painted on his skin and the top few buttons are undone and every time he looks at him, all Milan wants to do is take a shot off those collarbones. It’s a forbidden thing he thinks about sometimes. And maybe more often than just sometimes, it’s more like every time he looks at Tuukka for more than a few seconds in one sitting. And maybe when he’s in the shower, but only if it’s a very, very drunk shower.
This infatuation with his goalie isn’t something that keeps him up at night, it’s like a hobby- a living hobby that he calls his friend and happens to flirt back every now and again when Milan gets too drunk to keep his hands to himself.
He blames the shirt.
Tuukka holds his liquor surprisingly well, considering how seldom Milan sees him drink. By the time they leave the bar, earlier rather than later due to the disgruntled fans giving them the evil eye, Tuukka is one of the few not stumbling and it’s slightly impressive after most of a bottle of vodka.
“You’re a fucking machine,” Milan says, clasping a hand tight on Tuukka’s shoulder. To anyone else, it looks like he’s just leaning on the goalie, but his fingers are digging through the thin material of that shirt, tracing along the dip of his shoulder. “Remember the way back to the hotel?”
Tuukka, ever stingy with his smiles, snorts a quiet chuckle and wraps an arm firmly around Milan’s waist. The gesture is unexpected enough to stun Milan for half a second, but then he’s back in step, his own arm still draped casually over Tuukka’s shoulders.
Tyler is the one that ends up leading them back to the hotel, which is slightly humorous considering his state of intoxication. They have to stumble and bumble their way through a few street blocks, but he gets them there just in time to all cram into the same elevator before anyone out this late can notice a pack of drunk hockey players wandering the streets.
The moment comes on the seventh floor of the hotel. Everyone goes off to their respective rooms and Milan makes the quick executive decision to stealthily tuck his keycard into Patrice’s back pocket before looking over at Tuukka and grinning.
“I lost my key,” he says shamelessly, “Mind if I bunk with you?”
Tuukka doesn’t give away a single thought. He’s drunk (Milan know this because if he drank as much as Tuukka, he’d probably be rolling on the floor) and his eyes always look so innocent and wide, but hell will freeze over before Milan can look at him and know what’s going on in his brain.
But rather than turn him away or even worse, call him out, Tuukka sighs and slides his own key out of his pocket to let them into his room.
“You can take the bed by the window,” Tuukka says, kicking off his shoes as soon as the door closes behind them.
The shirt goes next and Milan’s still leaning back against the door, a little too dizzy to do more than just stare as he watches inch after inch of skin revealed. It occurs to him that this isn’t something normal people do, that he should be pulling off his own clothes and crawling into bed, but he’d rather just stand here and admire.
Or conversely, reach out to pull Tuukka towards him and admire in a slightly more unconventional way.
“It’s your arms,” he mumbles against the goalie’s neck, fingers starting up at Tuukka’s shoulders and working down to his elbows in a soft massage. Tuukka freezes, arms hanging limp at his sides and Milan leans in a little closer, pressing his chest to a slender, toned back. “You move so fucking fast.”
He can smell the booze on Tuukka’s breath even though they’re not facing each other, it’s practically radiating from his skin and it’s making Milan feel drunk all over again.
“Mila-”
Tuukka is cut off with a shush and Milan pressed an open mouthed kiss to his neck, skin so hot and Milan can taste the remnants of sweat and subtle cologne. His hands crawl down to Tuukka’s hips, close around his jutting bones for a moment before his fingers slip into his slacks.
And then his entire world turns upside down because Tuukka’s slapping his hands away and pinning them to the wall and when did Tuukka even turn around?
“Enough,” he breathes, “Why?”
Because your thighs look like they’re begging to hitched around my hips and sometimes you look at me like you want me to pull your fucking hair. Because you’re strong and fast and I could probably bend you in half and fuck you silly and you’d just ask for more. Because I’ve wanted bite your pouty fucking lips since the first time I saw you.
Milan shrugs and leans in to lick at Tuukka’s mouth, pleased when the goalie’s tongue darts out to meet his own briefly, blending the taste of vodka and whiskey.
“I guess it’s just one of those things.”
.
team / pairing : boston bruins - milan lucic & tuukka rask
rating : r?
words : 1,400
03 June 2013
Milan feels every bone in his body grind and pop when he collapses onto his bit of bench in the locker room. It would be painful if it didn’t feel so damned good, he thinks as he shucks off his pads and jersey. At a time like this, he wishes he had someone following him around to undo his skates and pull them off his sore feet because the prospect of bending over to unlace them himself is just too much.
It’s easier to sit back for a moment, let his muscles have a few seconds of much needed rest. He wants to sit and smile like an idiot and enjoy the victory.
Brad and Tyler are, of course, huddled up like a pair of gossips, laughing about this and that. It’s typical, for them. And then there’s Zdeno, wandering around with a big grin on his face and he’s still got his stick in his hand, hasn’t even taken off his gloves. He’s making the rounds, doling out congratulations and praise, and Milan takes a quick moment to feel sorry for the players in the Penguins locker room.
He’s not at all jealous of the reaming they’re probably getting right now.
Skates, pants, shower. Routine, ritual, all the same stuff he’s used to doing every day. Everyone’s got a glow to them tonight, they’re all floating about doing what they’re supposed to and there isn’t much talking going on, just... glowing.
Tuukka doesn’t gloat. It’s one of the things Milan really likes about him. He goes about his business like the rest of the team, but without the smirk or the saunter. He just looks... satisfied.
“Good game,” Milan tells him, tugging his towel tighter around his waist before settling down next to the goalie. “I don’t know how you do it.”
And then there’s that other thing Milan finds himself attracted to- the way Tuukka’s mouth opens and closes for a second before he looks down at the floor with a half smile, like he doesn’t know how to take a compliment.
“I’m just doing what I’m supposed to. Same as the rest of the team.”
Milan rests a hand right between Tuukka’s shoulder blades, nails scratching gently at his back in a way he hopes is comforting. Really, he just wants a reason to touch that skin, to let his hand wander a little further up so his fingers can twist in the curls at the name of Tuukka’s neck.
It isn’t particularly subtle, but subtlety isn’t a quality Milan prides himself on having.
“Don’t sell yourself short.”
There’s a party after the game. Zdeno makes an honest effort to set some ground rules- as in don’t stay out too late, don’t drink too much, don’t pick fights with the locals- but no one really listens and he ends up shaking his head and telling everyone to have a good time instead.
Milan is surprised when Tuukka actually goes out with the party crew rather than heading back to the hotel with Zdeno and the others that chose to forgo celebration. He lingers around the goalie, stands a little closer than he should and he might be a little guilty of the hover hand on one or two occasions. Whoops.
It’s the shirt that does it for him. Milan’s got no idea what inspired Tuukka to pack the damned thing, but it’s practically painted on his skin and the top few buttons are undone and every time he looks at him, all Milan wants to do is take a shot off those collarbones. It’s a forbidden thing he thinks about sometimes. And maybe more often than just sometimes, it’s more like every time he looks at Tuukka for more than a few seconds in one sitting. And maybe when he’s in the shower, but only if it’s a very, very drunk shower.
This infatuation with his goalie isn’t something that keeps him up at night, it’s like a hobby- a living hobby that he calls his friend and happens to flirt back every now and again when Milan gets too drunk to keep his hands to himself.
He blames the shirt.
Tuukka holds his liquor surprisingly well, considering how seldom Milan sees him drink. By the time they leave the bar, earlier rather than later due to the disgruntled fans giving them the evil eye, Tuukka is one of the few not stumbling and it’s slightly impressive after most of a bottle of vodka.
“You’re a fucking machine,” Milan says, clasping a hand tight on Tuukka’s shoulder. To anyone else, it looks like he’s just leaning on the goalie, but his fingers are digging through the thin material of that shirt, tracing along the dip of his shoulder. “Remember the way back to the hotel?”
Tuukka, ever stingy with his smiles, snorts a quiet chuckle and wraps an arm firmly around Milan’s waist. The gesture is unexpected enough to stun Milan for half a second, but then he’s back in step, his own arm still draped casually over Tuukka’s shoulders.
Tyler is the one that ends up leading them back to the hotel, which is slightly humorous considering his state of intoxication. They have to stumble and bumble their way through a few street blocks, but he gets them there just in time to all cram into the same elevator before anyone out this late can notice a pack of drunk hockey players wandering the streets.
The moment comes on the seventh floor of the hotel. Everyone goes off to their respective rooms and Milan makes the quick executive decision to stealthily tuck his keycard into Patrice’s back pocket before looking over at Tuukka and grinning.
“I lost my key,” he says shamelessly, “Mind if I bunk with you?”
Tuukka doesn’t give away a single thought. He’s drunk (Milan know this because if he drank as much as Tuukka, he’d probably be rolling on the floor) and his eyes always look so innocent and wide, but hell will freeze over before Milan can look at him and know what’s going on in his brain.
But rather than turn him away or even worse, call him out, Tuukka sighs and slides his own key out of his pocket to let them into his room.
“You can take the bed by the window,” Tuukka says, kicking off his shoes as soon as the door closes behind them.
The shirt goes next and Milan’s still leaning back against the door, a little too dizzy to do more than just stare as he watches inch after inch of skin revealed. It occurs to him that this isn’t something normal people do, that he should be pulling off his own clothes and crawling into bed, but he’d rather just stand here and admire.
Or conversely, reach out to pull Tuukka towards him and admire in a slightly more unconventional way.
“It’s your arms,” he mumbles against the goalie’s neck, fingers starting up at Tuukka’s shoulders and working down to his elbows in a soft massage. Tuukka freezes, arms hanging limp at his sides and Milan leans in a little closer, pressing his chest to a slender, toned back. “You move so fucking fast.”
He can smell the booze on Tuukka’s breath even though they’re not facing each other, it’s practically radiating from his skin and it’s making Milan feel drunk all over again.
“Mila-”
Tuukka is cut off with a shush and Milan pressed an open mouthed kiss to his neck, skin so hot and Milan can taste the remnants of sweat and subtle cologne. His hands crawl down to Tuukka’s hips, close around his jutting bones for a moment before his fingers slip into his slacks.
And then his entire world turns upside down because Tuukka’s slapping his hands away and pinning them to the wall and when did Tuukka even turn around?
“Enough,” he breathes, “Why?”
Because your thighs look like they’re begging to hitched around my hips and sometimes you look at me like you want me to pull your fucking hair. Because you’re strong and fast and I could probably bend you in half and fuck you silly and you’d just ask for more. Because I’ve wanted bite your pouty fucking lips since the first time I saw you.
Milan shrugs and leans in to lick at Tuukka’s mouth, pleased when the goalie’s tongue darts out to meet his own briefly, blending the taste of vodka and whiskey.
“I guess it’s just one of those things.”
.