Contrary to popular belief, weres don't actually need alphas. Patrick never had one, since he's the only person in his family with the gene, and his parents didn't push him into finding one. Alphas make their betas better; they keep them calm and level, they support them, they guide them. Without an alpha, betas are perfectly fine. They're just better with one.

In this rewriting of history, Sid gets an experimental treatment for his concussion that has some rather unusual side effects. Geno helps him out. There are complications.

“Geno? Are you okay? Physically,” Sid asks, which is good, because Zhenya doesn’t think he can put into words how he’s feeling emotionally. He imagines saying, The person I’ve loved for ten years finally took me to bed last night, but it turns out he didn’t want to, and now I can read his mind. No, thank you. “Feel fine,” Zhenya answers. “Even head feel fine.” And suddenly he realizes how fucking odd that is: he was concussed, and the room is brightly lit – he should be hiding under a blanket right now. He narrows his eyes and asks, “Sid, why head feel fine? What happen to concussion?” Sid takes a halting step closer to the bed and says, “Our bond, it’s—it’s a healing bond.” “Holy mother of God,” Zhenya breathes. So. They’re definitely not breaking the bond, then.

“Sid, need you to pay attention to me,” Alex says firmly. “You have bond crisis. You sick, Sid. Very sick. Need somebody to touch you to stop you being sick.” “I didn’t know you could get sick from being lonely,” Crosby mumbles. Zhenya makes a noise that sounds like he’s been punched. “I guess it makes sense, though.”

Andre walks in on something he couldn't have imagined in his wildest dreams.

This all felt so familiar to Justin. Inspired by it wrecks who it pleases by addandsubtract.

Sometimes he wakes up sucking on his fingers, rutting his hips into the bed. He’ll be right on the edge of coming, the wet head of his dick trapped between his hips and the sheets, but he can’t, he can’t, not without – not without something pushed up inside, something stretching him open.

"We've got a special request tonight," the PR rep says, clipboard in hand. The way she says it, you can hear the implied capital letters: Special Request, the publicly friendly way to say some fans shelled out a lot of cash to watch you fuck.

The NHL draft entry class of 2006 are the new best and brightest, and they have to do what the best and brightest have always done: go to an isolated swamp in the Canadian wilderness, let the hockey gods have their way with them, and incubate the next generation of gods in their bellies.