When Canadian figure skater Jeff Skinner wrecked his knee, he never could have imagined that he'd end up helping pay his way through college as a live-in babysitter for Eric Staal's three-year-old son, Joey.

Geno had arrived in Pittsburgh looking every minute of the nineteen hour flight from Helsinki, plus however long he’d been in transit between there and his run from the KHL. Sid had been standing next to Mario, watching the new arrival expectantly, even though he didn’t think Geno was a threat. The other wolf had spent too much time negotiating on his own behalf to be allowed into another pack’s territory, and even more to be allowed to play with the team. But all the same, new wolves made Sidney antsy. Written for the multi-fandom Werewolf Big Bang.

“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.

This is not the Sidney he has come to know. This is the lord of the underworld, in his robes of office, heavy, rich, pitch black as night save the ornate embroideries of gold at the hems. There’s a diadem of onyx on his brow, flashing in the light, pointed shards of stone that make Sidney’s face underneath them look all the more stern and alien. Geno shivers. Anonymous asked: Mythology AU pls? Light angst in one scene (child’s death alluded to, not mentioned or described at all)

The hydrophones have been picking up nonsense for the past three days and Zhenya has had it up to here, honestly.

Evgeni Malkin is a star forward and three-time Art Ross Trophy winner. Sidney Crosby is the head chef of Nouma, a Halifax restaurant that boasts two Michelin stars. They cross paths in Pittsburgh.

Nolan flips to his messages, but as expected, it’s mostly just unoriginal openers—who’s going to respond to sup, honestly—and unflattering dick pics. He rolls his eyes and goes back to the profiles. He comes across one guy, just a scant two miles away, who actually has his face in his profile picture, which is a refreshing change. He’s cute, longish dark hair with a sneaky smile, and his name is Travis. Nolan has never started a conversation with anyone before, but again: antsy and horny. He debates for an embarrassingly long time over what to say and finally settles on something simple. And dumb, probably, but the magic of anonymity is that he doesn’t really give a shit. And at least it’s miles better than a dick pic of a soft dick, which Nolan didn’t know was actually a thing until he got more than one. The bar is low, is what he’s saying here.