The H In Nhl Stands For Homoerotic

“just cleaning adam’s apartment. messy guy.”

being so normal about this

Marchy very happy his goalie likes the drip

Quiet

HRPF | Erik Karlsson/Kris Letang | 1.3K | Rating: G | Complete

Tags: Fluff, Established Relationship, post loss fic for the soul

Summary: Erik comes home to a sleepy, sick Kris after the Pens' OT loss to the Lightning (and Erik's very large bff, Hedman)

Read on Ao3. Summary under the cut :)

Erik tries to make as little noise as possible as he maneuvers through the dark front hall, the wallpaper peacocks invisible now, just blurs lost in all the other grey. Lucky, Erik knows his way half-blind now, from all the other nights like this one, trudging home in miserable, tired silence. There’ve been too many nights like this one.

Sometimes the air is tight with tension, too. Those nights are better, for the way Kris will press Erik hard into the wall, the pictures rattling in their frames as he bites at Erik’s neck, Kris’s hot hands, so quick and clever usually, gone rough and bruising with not-so-buried fury.

There are no hands tonight, though, no choked-off grunts to break the quiet. Only stillness and smudgy dark lit only by the deck light, muzzy and dim through the pulled curtains, just enough for Erik to make his way up the stairs without tripping.

No other footsteps follow his, avoiding the creaking fifth step. No warmth of a body close in space. No deep, disappointed sighs to mirror his own.

Erik finds himself hurrying as he gets to the top of the stairs, overcome suddenly, the dark quiet now somehow worse than everything else tonight—the hush of the arena after the last goal sounded, the harsh bang of thrown gear in the locker room, the familiar low sound of Geno’s voice drifting over from his post-game, atoning for all their sins like usual. All of it burns and grates and sinks in Erik, always, and each game this season a little more.

But none of it compares to this, now, this dark, this silence, the space behind Erik—empty, like it hardly ever is.

The bedroom door doesn’t squeak anymore, not since Erik got out the WD-40 over the summer. He thinks of that day every time he enters their room—Kris’s dark eyes, his big hands, his beautiful, grateful mouth. His laugh when Erik offered to fix anything, everything, for the rest of their lives, if it got him a thank you like that.

There’s no reason for thank you’s tonight. Even if they’d won, Erik wouldn’t have expected one, not with how miserable Kris was when he left, with his stuffed-up nose and red, bleary eyes, and his poor, shot voice, saying, win for me or don’t come home.

Erik feels a pang at the joke now. He knows there’s some truth in it, knows how hard these losses weight on Kris. Hell, Erik knows he’s to blame, at least partly, for a good portion of them. They’ve all been playing like shit, but Erik more than others, some games, and it’s—it’s hard, to face Kris then. To lie in bed beside him, both of them tired with nothing to say to each other. Erik feels the apologies heaviest then, clawing at his throat, desperate to escape into the air—I’m sorry. I’m sorry.  

Read the rest on Ao3 :)

Tyler Seguin has a stanley cup tattoo on his ass

Everything I've learned about this disaster bisexual has been against my will yet i am compelled by this new fact

WHAT! Is this real?? Are there pics?!?

i have a vision here alright just let me cook

Garland trying to look intimidating during a scrum

I feel like I need to be giving Maroon and Matthews privacy lmao

the white neck protector is sooo sexy and also adds to his haunted allure

an open letter to the boy i sat next to in junior high art class

youre missing a tooth, closer to the side of your mouth than the front. said you lost it playing hockey.

it was a first semester assignment. i did something red and blue with color pencils. you wrote in big letters with the soft drawing pencils, deep blue with the hardness embossed in gold like real artists used, probably. you pressed down hard enough that it carved dents into the paper.

you tried to erase it. the lines didnt even smear.

i dont remember much about you (or much of those years, for the matter). not your name, the position you played, what you drew in art. you sat on my right. your face was round with boyhood, pink in the cheeks. i remember your voice. i dont remember anything you said.

i only saw you in passing the years after.

when i still had hopes in my higher education, the nearest universitys mens ice hockey team didnt show up for the open house. their table was empty, sandwiched between other athletics. they had biking, helmet mounted like a skull.

you probably went far. the kids in sports always go far.

i watch prospects drop their gloves in grainy video. when you throw enough punches, the bones in your fist mold to the shape of it. theyre just kids.

the track team runs in the summer. its a locked car hot out there. the girl that sat in front of me complained that she was tired. she didnt ask me for advice i dont follow. just kids.

the newest draft class was born in 2006. the newest class of our junior high was born in 2014. kids.

how did you lose your tooth?

i looked up your name on the wikipedia page your draft year. it returned no matches.

i hope you made it.

i hope you didnt.