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!

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.

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."

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

“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.

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?”

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.

"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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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?"

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.”

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.

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

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.

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.

“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.

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.

Zhenya is curious. Now that he’s seen Sid at a vulnerable moment, he can’t get the image out of his mind.