└your 23-24 Colorado Avalanche

the h in nhl stands for homoerotic

bonus intricate rituals:

ahem.

The chattering coming from the TV cuts off the instant Zhenya walks through the hotel room door. Ah, Zhenya thinks as he slips out of his sneakers. It's going to be one of those nights.

"Hey," Sid's voice comes from the direction of the bed. Zhenya likes the hotel they stay at in Montreal—the door opens up to a seating area, perfect for him to lay out his suitcase on the coffee table, and there's a tiny hall back to the bedroom. It's nice and feels private, which means he makes Sid wait a moment before ducking through the doorway.

"It's raining?" Is the first thing Sid asks, his eyes flickering over the dappled dark drops on Zhenya's gray shirt.

The answer is obvious; Zhenya doesn't say anything. Instead he eyeballs the empty takeout container next to Sid and reaches for the nightstand, plucking one of Sid's three half-drunk water bottles up and twisting off the lid.

"Cheesecake?" he guesses, and Sid flips the box shut, depositing it on the other nightstand.

"Cheese tart," he corrects. "C'mere."

He's handsy as Zhenya mounts the bed, grappling to arrange Zhenya how he wants him: tucked up against his side, Zhenya's face ostensibly pressed up against his chest but really landing more in his armpit, Zhenya's stomach tucked up against his hip. Zhenya plants the water bottle between Sid's big thighs, the plastic crinkling as he digs it in.

"How was Jean-Francois?" Sid's arm comes up around Zhenya's shoulders, cradling the back of his head and getting into his hair.

"Fine, fine, wants me to try lighter gray again."

Zhenya leans into the heat of Sid's body. When Sid gets like this—touchy, needy, hungry for contact—there's rarely any payoff to teasing. Sid's got him too figured out; Zhenya's compliance is an inevitable thing, and delaying it just wastes time that Zhenya could spend with Sid's capable fingers scratching his scalp. He lays his hand flat against Sid's stomach, which is a little bloated from his treats.

"Lighter gray could look nice."

"What happen to Oh, Geno, you look so sexy in black suit. Oh, Geno, wear dark blue again, is lucky?"

Sid laughs. "I like you in anything."

"Like me best in nothing."

"Mmm," Sid hums in agreement, but his hand just rubs at the back of Geno's neck before returning to carding through his hair.

They're not in their twenties anymore, and Zhenya's come to realize that some nights there's more pleasure in this—just touching each other, familiar and warm—than in sex. Anyways, they try not to get into too much the night before a game. Zhenya had been disgusted to find that there was a kernel of truth in Sid's belief that playing with some sexual frustration added a nice little kick to each game.

"What about you? Do something fun for me this year? Green suit?"

"Not likely," Sid laughs, his stomach quaking beneath Zhenya's palm.

"Do 'nother purple liner, so pretty," Zhenya hums, sliding his hand down.

Sid's breath catches for half a second, but Zhenya's fingers slide down his hip and to the neck of the water bottle, which he wrenches from between Sid's thighs and holds up imploringly. Wordlessly, Sid opens it for him.

"I'll do another purple liner if you do that light gray suit," Sid says as he drinks.

"You want me dress up? Try something more adventure," Zhenya says, and takes pleasure in how Sid's face crinkles. His beloved boyfriend, who's painfully vanilla in every way Zhenya can conceive.

"We already said," Sid mutters, "I like you best in nothing."

Zhenya hums and plucks the remote from Sid's side. He's going to make Sid watch an hour of something fast and action-packed before they both pass out. Sid's fingers resume their easy, rhymthic patterns in Zhenya's hair, and Zhenya smiles.

Awww goalie love ❤️

Ullmark consoles Swayman after the loss.

Not Bodie Boy and Gracie Girl

New fic (again)! I am VERY excited and also very anxious for this one. I'll be hiding under a large cardboard box for the next few days, for sure.

A Place to Return To

Summary: Vince Dunn, a cage dog, is rescued from his latest fight ring and brought to a place called Seattle Rehabilitation Center. It's a place that promises to help dogs like Vince heal and recover from the violence and trauma of their pasts, and for all intents and purposes, it's heaven on earth.

The only question is if Vince will be able to let down his guard enough to let himself heal and if—in the case of Vince's reluctant recovery partner, Adam Larsson—he even wants to.

Quiet

HRPF | Erik Karlsson/Kris Letang | 1.3K | Rating: G | Complete

Tags: Fluff, Established Relationship, post loss fic for the soul

Summary: Erik comes home to a sleepy, sick Kris after the Pens' OT loss to the Lightning (and Erik's very large bff, Hedman)

Read on Ao3. Summary under the cut :)

Erik tries to make as little noise as possible as he maneuvers through the dark front hall, the wallpaper peacocks invisible now, just blurs lost in all the other grey. Lucky, Erik knows his way half-blind now, from all the other nights like this one, trudging home in miserable, tired silence. There’ve been too many nights like this one.

Sometimes the air is tight with tension, too. Those nights are better, for the way Kris will press Erik hard into the wall, the pictures rattling in their frames as he bites at Erik’s neck, Kris’s hot hands, so quick and clever usually, gone rough and bruising with not-so-buried fury.

There are no hands tonight, though, no choked-off grunts to break the quiet. Only stillness and smudgy dark lit only by the deck light, muzzy and dim through the pulled curtains, just enough for Erik to make his way up the stairs without tripping.

No other footsteps follow his, avoiding the creaking fifth step. No warmth of a body close in space. No deep, disappointed sighs to mirror his own.

Erik finds himself hurrying as he gets to the top of the stairs, overcome suddenly, the dark quiet now somehow worse than everything else tonight—the hush of the arena after the last goal sounded, the harsh bang of thrown gear in the locker room, the familiar low sound of Geno’s voice drifting over from his post-game, atoning for all their sins like usual. All of it burns and grates and sinks in Erik, always, and each game this season a little more.

But none of it compares to this, now, this dark, this silence, the space behind Erik—empty, like it hardly ever is.

The bedroom door doesn’t squeak anymore, not since Erik got out the WD-40 over the summer. He thinks of that day every time he enters their room—Kris’s dark eyes, his big hands, his beautiful, grateful mouth. His laugh when Erik offered to fix anything, everything, for the rest of their lives, if it got him a thank you like that.

There’s no reason for thank you’s tonight. Even if they’d won, Erik wouldn’t have expected one, not with how miserable Kris was when he left, with his stuffed-up nose and red, bleary eyes, and his poor, shot voice, saying, win for me or don’t come home.

Erik feels a pang at the joke now. He knows there’s some truth in it, knows how hard these losses weight on Kris. Hell, Erik knows he’s to blame, at least partly, for a good portion of them. They’ve all been playing like shit, but Erik more than others, some games, and it’s—it’s hard, to face Kris then. To lie in bed beside him, both of them tired with nothing to say to each other. Erik feels the apologies heaviest then, clawing at his throat, desperate to escape into the air—I’m sorry. I’m sorry.  

Read the rest on Ao3 :)

they want to do what to the oilers

on a scale of 1 – sway how loved is your goalie? THE BEARS SURVIVE ROUND 1

possibly i like the thrill

cannershane | rookie free use | 2,151 words | rated e

Krakencord did a little exchange for Valentine’s Day. Here’s my fic, a gift for @hotteokzz . I hope you enjoy it!

Read it here

💖💌 Happy Valentine’s Day 💗💜

sid’s gone full slut 😭