Ninety percent of everyone's problems could be solved by a robot that just texted NO to hockey players on a regular basis. Unfortunately, Sidney didn't have a robot.

sea_salt_waves said: I've been having all these feelings lately about a human Geno falling for sexually-repressed incubus!Sid who pays sex workers to jerk off for him and has never been in a relationship before, with all kinds of insecurities and pining… ... I didn't stick to the prompt perfectly, but it was definitely my inspiration. I hope you enjoy!

He doesn't want to go back to the minors, or fucking get kicked out all together, so he's got to get this right. He's going to be perfect even if it kills him.

The NHLOmega GroupMe isn't particularly helpful or professional, but the gossip (and the dick pics) make it worth the headache. Olli's just glad to be here.

Sid refuses to be jealous of something that's two and a half feet high and can't play hockey. OR: The Pittsburgh Zoo named some penguins after the Penguins, and no one will let Sid forget the one named after him has its shit together, because all his friends are assholes. Also there's pining.

"I think I have to get bonded," Sid said in a hollow voice, cutting off Geno's building outrage. "Wait, what?" Geno asked, mind jumping like a car on a blown tire. "To who?" "Anybody." Sid's eyes were unfocused, staring through the wall in front of him. "I don't know. I just need to bond." "That's a story," Geno scoffed. He had always thought they had good sex education in Canada, but apparently, the rumors persisted there, too. "You don't stop heat if you bond." "Heat?" Sid asked, eyes squinched up curiously. "G—I'm not. You know I'm an alpha, right?" *** Or five times Sid couldn't bond with an omega and one time he did.

At the 2014 Olympics, Russia injected Zhenya with a bond blocker, same as the last two times he'd been to the games. Only this time, it brought him to his knees and left him gasping, feeling like his soul was ripped from his body. As an unbonded omega, the shot should have no effect. It should have only targeted an active bond. Unbeknownst to Zhenya, Sid collapsed on the ice at the same time.

In which Evgeni Malkin comes to America as one of the few omegas in pro hockey, lights up the NHL, and spends a lot of time wondering why Sidney Crosby is so damn weird.

Crosby’s Biggest Secret! For years, Crosby has been famously quiet about his personal life. But now sources close to Crosby have confirmed that the secretive star has been keeping an even bigger secret than we thought! Meet the heir to his hockey throne—a son! Geno almost drops his phone.

It hits Sid first, because of course it does. He’d been talking with Phil, discussing their first power play unit, when he gets distracted by Geno’s ass in spandex. “I don’t know why everyone’s always going on and on about my ass, when you’re around. Fuck, man. It’s fucking incredible.” “Whose ass, now?” Tanger shrieks gleefully and Sid realizes with a dawning horror that— “Did I say that… out loud?”

“So I’ve noticed something,” Sid says, and Zhenya makes a face. Sid is using his Serious Captain Voice and he is using Personal Discussion Introductory Phrase No. 3. Fuck’s sake.

Eight years, four months and change, and that's the moment the bond snaps into place.

Zhenya nudges Gonch with his elbow. "Who is that?" he says in urgent Russian, jabbing his glove at the now retreating zamboni. "Who?" Gonch follows the line of Zhenya's gaze, blinks when it lands on the zamboni. "What, the driver? Him?" Zhenya nods vigorously, his eyes fixed on the zamboni. Gonch stares at him for a few seconds before answering with hesitation, "That's...Sidney."

Jamie remembered the first time he spoke to Tyler Seguin, or rather, Jamie remembered the first time Tyler Seguin spoke to him. He hadn’t even been fully aware of the situation, sitting and waiting for their names to be called at the All-Star Game, even then he’d kept catching himself glancing at Tyler from across the room even though he hadn’t meant to. It was just that Tyler Seguin happened to the the best thing he had ever smelled in his life. “Look, I’m sure you’re nice guy and all, but I don’t really do Alphas, you know? You’re all way too demanding and stuck in your ways so I’d appreciate it if you’d stop looking at me like you’re a starving dog and I’m a steak okay?” Tyler had said.

Geno keeps the mental door closed to his teammates in the summer, at least when he can help it; he doesn’t always check in like Sid does. They have other ways of doing that, text and email and social media, and now is the time when they’re supposed to have a break from each other. Geno likes having his head to himself. It’s good for him to get it in order for the next season.

Sidney would really like to be able to draw the line at being sexually attracted to his breath mints. Or, when Sidney was forced to do a whole lot of growing up

There was a newly-uploaded picture, one that hadn’t been there yesterday. Sid tapped it open. The only lights he’d bothered turning on were the down-lights above the kitchen island. He moved closer until he was standing directly beneath them, the better to see this latest picture. It was of a newborn. Or at least, a newborn’s hand, tiny and curling around Geno’s index finger, the Love for Lokomotiv wristband he never took off distinctive and visible at the edge of the frame. There was no caption.

Sid’s standing in the hotel hallway, already in sweats and a t-shirt. “Hi G,” he says, already pushing past Geno to walk into his hotel room. “I couldn’t sleep so I thought we could watch TV or something.”

Sidney looks from Flower's arm to their handcuffs to the little nest on the floor where he assumes Kris slept. There's a giant, empty champagne bottle on the table in front of the couch, he's pretty sure the same glitter that was on Kris's face is also on his jeans, and his head still aches. "Okay," he says loudly, "I know I'm kind of stating the obvious here, but what the hell happened last night?"

Malkin’s table stays until closing time, still lingering over that bottle of Beluga when Sid comes out of the kitchen to start his nightly closing routine. He goes through the same checklist of jobs he does every night after the kitchen closes but before the bar does, tries to keep his mind on the tasks at hand, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t notice Malkin’s gaze tracking his movements, if he pretended that he can’t feel the heat of Malkin’s eyes on him as he moves around behind the bar. Sid tells himself to keep his head down, but when he does look up, just to test his theory, Malkin doesn’t even bother to look away, just holds Sid’s gaze, direct and unblinking with just the tiniest hint of a smile. The thing is, Sid’s notoriously bad at this stuff. He’s never had any working gaydar that he’s aware of, and he’s been wrong – very wrong – about this kind of thing probably more often, in his life, than he’s been right. So he assures himself this is just another one of those occasions where he’s definitely reading something incorrectly, imagining things, because there’s no way the captain of the Pittsburgh Penguins is, whatever – checking him out. That would be ridiculous.

They met by accident, fate, Geno always says, three years ago.

A fill for this prompt I saw on tumblr: plot bunny: hockey player of your choice comes out to his team/comes out to his new team/has always been out but is generally quiet about it. his team is cautiously supportive of his sexuality. they are, however, astonished and outraged to learn that dudes do not often consider their out teammate a catch.

"No," Beau says sternly. "Geno, I am not wearing that." "Boss's order!" Geno says gleefully. "Is Paul Martin jersey. Ginger d-man, very handsome. You like!" Beau takes the jersey and pulls it over his head reluctantly. He very much regrets accidentally telling Geno that he has a serious weakness for muscular redheads.

This time yesterday, Jamie was picking Tyler up from the airport. It's been six hours since Nill called her and said, "Hey, looks like you're in town, can you come in today?" and five since Jordie texted help I have a wardrobe emergency. Half the notifications on Tyler's phone are Snapchats from Brownie, presumably 50/50 dogs and blurry dick pics. This is Tyler's life.

AU: Sidney Crosby is a foster kid growing up in Nova Scotia. Geno Malkin is a Russian transplant. They play hockey. And also have sex. I claim to know very little about the junior hockey league and even less about Canadian Childrens Aid Services.

It must happen during the Stanley Cup locker room celebration. Sid walks in, and sweeps the Cup up over his head amongst an eruption of champagne spray. Sid is so brilliantly, incandescently happy that he doesn’t even notice that not all the joy he feels is his own.

Lots of people watch Geno. Like most people, really, at least let their eyes linger for a few seconds. For starters, he’s six foot three with a penchant for thick-soled combat boots and carefully sculpted hair arrangements that together can easily add 5 inches to his overall height. Then there’s the eyebrow ring, the purple streak through his dark hair, the smudged eyeliner, and typically, the tightest pants Geno can pour his fabulous if-he-does-say-so-himself ass into. All of those would be enough, any given day, to make people stop and stare. But today he’s also the guy most of North America watched in Prime Time last night, kicking ass and taking names as he as he swiped the Men’s Singles Gold from the clutches of that whiny fucking sore loser, Plushenko. So. Yeah, lots of people are watching him, but Sidney Crosby is not lots of people. He’s Sidney fucking Crosby.

"What are you saying?" Johnny says slowly, because this sounds like she's trying to pick him up, which is impossible, because if Kaner has one concrete rule, it's ‘anyone but teammates.’ "We can help each other out here," Kaner suggests, crossing her legs in her too-short skirt. "That's all. Two friends helping each other out in a dry spell. You're free to do whatever. It wouldn't be a big deal."

“What is it that you do, Omega Malkin?” Sid says eventually, tired of the guessing game. Apparently, he’s asked a controversial question. There’s a tension in the air. Mrs. Malkin starts giving a very particular look to her son and Omega Malkin shifts in his seat and straightens his spine like he’s gearing up for a fight. “Hockey,” Omega Malkin says evenly. Sid’s fork slips from his grip and clatters against his plate. He looks up and across the table at Omega Malkin. -- or; Sidney Crosby is an unbonded werewolf. So is Evgeni Malkin.

Dylan doesn’t know whose idea it was to put hockey players in lingerie, but he kind of wants to send them a thank-you card.

“Best baby need best jersey,” Alex says blithely, which doesn’t actually answer the question. It does, however, tell Nicklas whose jersey it is, and sure enough when Alex lifts it up to put it back in the bag Nicklas can see the 8 and the 'OVECHKIN' emblazoned on the back. or, nicklas finds himself responsible for a baby. alex approves.

It isn't, Alex reflects inanely, the fact that Nicky isn't wearing his cuffs. They aren't even cuffs but magic-infused braided and inscribed leather bracelets, one on each wrist—Nicky pushes them up his forearms during every game. No, it's Nicky's anguished face when he takes them off.

Nicky scores a hat trick, and gets an orgasm. Or three.

When your love for someone or something changes, you get love fever. When you get love fever, you usually get a love rash: a nasty, persistent itch in the shape of flowers or birds or your lover's hands. Alex has always noticed that Nicky doesn't get love blisters, just like he's noticed how Nicky fumes after losses, and prefers lasagna to ziti, and likes his girlfriends to cut his hair. He just assumed Nicky was one of those lucky people, the ones who don't get the rash.

The first time Nicke sees a mature pair of player wings in person—not pre-downs, not rookie wings, but a full wingspan—it's the April before the draft, and he's in a dressing room in Latvia, trying not to be star-struck by his own teammates. Or: The NHL gives you wings.

Geno is too injured to go to the 2017 All-Star Game, which would be bad enough if that wasn't also the weekend of Sidney's scheduled heat. Luckily, Alex Ovechkin is more than willing to help Sid through it.

Mitch keeps it to himself most days, the fact that he carries around Dylan’s handprint.

the slow slide of what life was, into something else Inspired by where nothing stays buried by addandsubtract.

Connor McDavid and Dylan Strome are going to the Toronto Maple Leafs together. Even if they have to get married about it.

Connor mutters "I thought you didn't like me," out of the corner of his mouth. "I don't," Jack says. Connor's staring at him. "But you knew," he says. His words might be generic-- gave him a time and place, maybe, but not person. But Jack's weren't. Aren't.

Connor’s experienced some weird fan interactions since he’s joined the NHL, but nothing surprises him quite as much as when a little girl raises her hand during a fan Q&A and asks him if he’s married. Not because it’s a particularly outlandish or rude question, but because his first instinct is to say “Yes.”

Brady only realizes how sore he is when Kevin slaps his chest, both of them coming off the ice after practice.

For the record: Travis does hook up. A completely normal amount, even.

The girl on Tinder is typing again. why don’t you show me how good you are with a cock Tyler coughs and drops his phone. That’s—wow. He did not expect her to go there.

Auston’s ex-girlfriend didn’t need to warn him off. He’s never met a girl who was so obviously, so completely, so spectacularly out of his league as Mitch Marner.

“I didn’t fuck Mitch,” Dylan hisses into Connor’s ear, squeezing Connor’s hips tightly. Connor’s right on the edge when Dylan presses his lips to Connor’s ear and whispers, viciously, “But I wanted to.”

"So you're gonna take me to prom, huh," Dylan says, testing the words out in his mouth. "Which one?" "Not McDowell's," Connor says, like he's given it a lot of thought. He probably has. Jesus. "Ideally we'll still be in the playoffs, so we won't have time." "Ideally," Dylan echoes, and takes another bite of burrito to calm himself. Whatever, it's not like prom's a huge deal to either of them. They could go as buddies. People do that. "What should I wear?" If anything, Connor just grins wider.

MycroftexMachina

When the lights come back on after the Pride Tape presentation and the boys start to stir, Connor looks at Ebs, sitting on the floor in front of him, and he says, without thinking, "Is this about me?" Everyone within earshot freezes.

Sometimes you just need to drive across Canada with your girlfriend, your girlfriend's girlfriend, your girlfriend's girlfriend's boyfriend, and a couple of dogs.