So, I wrote some Tyler Seguin/Jamie Benn porn based on this amazing post by [personal profile] sinsense about the universe she and others had created where promising rookies in the NHL were assigned an older player to ~kneel~ for as a training measure. GO READ THAT POST it is amazing if you're into that sort of thing.

Zhenya checks everything one last time: the artificial slick goes in the pocket of his jeans, and yes, the bottle of wine for Sid’s collection is nestled in a wood box in the back seat. He’d actually gone out and bought cream cheese to make a cheesecake on autopilot before he’d remembered – food is an alpha’s courting-gift, not an omega's. He'd thrown the cream cheese out, and bought the wine the next day.

“What kind of pleasure do you want to offer the Lover?” Sid asks. People usually want sex, of course, but not always – Sid’s had supplicants who just wanted to make out, or cuddle, or flirt… and one memorable supplicant who wanted to give him a massage, which was awesome. She confessed to Sid afterward that she’d gone in intending to have sex, but “when I saw those muscles, I was like, damn, I need to get my hands all over that!”

Sid peers down at the human who was shoved at him – a young man, as far as he can judge. “What is going on?!” Sid asks, feeling as unmoored as a dragon ever can. The human looks nearly as confused as Sid does. “Uh, you heard the village headman,” he says tentatively. “The crops are… bad. Worse every year. We know you protect the valley, so we figured you must be mad at us if you were letting the crops fail.” “I protect the valley from things I can bite,” Sid huffs, still thoroughly confused. “I don’t know what you expect me to do about… blight, or insects, or poor crop rotation."

He saw the horn poking out from the pony's head, golden and straight and somehow delicate-looking despite the empty tuna can hanging off of it. The unicorn horn. "The fuck," Sidney said out loud, his eye skipping from the horn over the greyish-white body to the graceful gold-toned hooves.

RainyForecast)

The locker room chatter started up almost at once, providing a screen of background noise. Zhenya sat down beside the ghost. “I’m captain. Evgeni Malkin.” “Sidney Crosby,” the ghost said. He didn’t offer his hand, which made Zhenya think he had been dead for a while, long enough to shed the ingrained habits of the living. “I’m, uh. Is it really 2018?”

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.

A wolfborn on an airplane was either unbearably reckless or a hockey player. Most of the time, both.

Nicklas Backstrom knows that Alexander Ovechkin is his soulmate but they never talk about it.

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.

It was embarrassing, but Tom only realized he was in rut well into the last week of January. It was Thursday, and he was in Starbucks because Mike had mentioned, off-hand, that he was a little bit tired and needed some caffeine. Tom got to the front of the line, made eye contact with the pretty omega boy behind the register, and barely caught his drool with his own hand.

In its early stages, this project appears to be achieving the initial goals, and has greatly expanded the availability of samples for study across a broad range of disciplines. Inspired by metamorphosis by ionthesparrow.

Being a star athlete changes you.

"Being a star athlete changes you." And just when you think you're done, you become the face of an expansion team. Playing a winter sport in a desert. OR A (Dragon)Flower in the Desert

Bitty knew about the hockey gods, of course. But he didn’t exactly believe in them. Hockey players could be quite superstitious indeed, making their own rituals in routines. Now he’s on a pro team. He’s in the big show. The Schooners have made the playoffs. And playoffs…are a different creature altogether. For even if you don’t really believe in the hockey gods... ...they believe in you.

Connor would give up a lot to have his soulmate write back even just their name.

The first time Connor sees him, in person, he’s wearing a backwards hat and holding a Frappuccino. He looks eighteen and very much not like a member of the undead.

Mitch’s heart is freezing over. It takes him exactly one year, seventeen days, five hours, and thirteen minutes to notice.

On June 26, 2015, Connor McDavid is drafted to the Edmonton Oilers. A few days later, he finds out that his new team is cursed. Things get complicated after that.

The blankets had pooled around Geno’s waist where he had propped himself up to look at Sid. His pale chest and the remnants of his marks from many months ago were visible under the warm glow of the lamp. They had mostly faded, but Sid could have sworn he was still able to make out the faint outline of rings--some the size of dinner plates--clinging possessively to Geno’s skin.

Smut ficlets, mostly Mpreg related, but knowing me it will likely spiral.