Hit Me With Your Fave Hockey Rpf Mpreg Stories. Looking For Great Recs. Already Know About The Nolpat

LOVE THY GOALIE. GIVE THY GOOD BOY HEAD PATS.

scruff your ex-captain

canes fans: am I allowed to simp for Rod Brind’amour? I know nothing abt him. but i found this photo on twitter

i love everything about this

marat's hair simply unlocking everyone's aspirations of being a romance novel heroine

the h in nhl stands for homoerotic

bonus intricate rituals:

Take it for the Team by WolfSpider

It’s not enough to say the heart wants what it wants. I think of the ravine, the side dark with pines where we lounged through summer days, waiting for something to happen; and of the nights, walking the long way home, the stars so close they seemed to crown us. Once, I asked for your favourite feeling. You said hunger. - Mary Szybist, Incarnadine

Cottontail

Vince Dunn/Adam Larsson | 2,737 words | rated e

pwp, bunnyboy Vince, boypussy

Read it here!

lol so this has languished in my drafts for way too long. Thank you to @captainplant and @angry-geno-is-score for cheerleading this fic and encouraging me to finally finish it enough to post, this is for you 💜

Part 1 of 2, part 2 will be posted Saturday 😊

scare the hoes more and keep yapping about ekky (& others) getting used to maffhew, it delights me. and say even more about how sasha handles this feral and sweet omega that gets dropped into his orbit. smth smth “feels like i’ve known him 10 years” or whatever vows sasha recited to the press, cameras, and god

apparently we are taking more tumblr user ratatatastic abo yap thoughts for 500 may god hear our screams up wherever he is. big man in the sky you fuckin owe me one.

i think theres so much in particular to say in concerns of 1619 and how quickly they gelled irl but even more so in an abo au

ive always enjoyed when people assign matthew stronger scents that take getting used to if you don't like it already and i know ive read a fic where his scent notes did skew towards stronger cinnamon foods/drinks

anyways on that note it wouldnt surprise me that sasha takes so easy to this spicy little omega.

Like of course he does, he smells like the pastries he used to eat back at home, the pastries he eats now because he's found an established Finnish bakery down here that makes them homemade every morning, the bakery he likes to frequent with the other Finns when he can.

Is it ever a wonder that the cute omega that sent him such a terribly sweet text when the trade news broke out (you know, after the initial excitement worn off because Sasha does chuckle at memory of the brash "Fucking, right!" that pinged on his phone the very first time from an unknown number) smells like... home... No matter all the rumours that have swirled around Matthew, the rumours Sasha has personally experienced himself playing against him...he smells nostalgic. Like Sasha could be at home right now—you know, home home—lounging outside his cottage with tea and pastries on the little table that he's set out. The warm cinnamon that wafts from the typically sterile room they've assigned for pressers smells divine, for lack of a better word. It smells indulgent. Because Sasha can't have those homely pastries all the time, what, with his training regiment.

It's why he doesn't quite believe it that Matthew's the one that's the centre of it all. He's absolutely convinced he's hallucinating because the season is about to start and he's had to cut back on all his favourite sweets as much as it pains him to but for the betterment of the team? He'd do anything. And yet despite the way he rubs at his nose to at least try to clear it, he smells that cinnamon. That cinnamon that's definitely coming from new omega they traded over who's laughing so obnoxiously at the lectern they have set up that if his scent didn't catch your attention, his loud mannerisms certainly did. His voice is practically bouncing off the walls in big loud echoes that should hurt Sasha’s ears. Emphasis on should. As it is he finds his heart melting more than it should instead.

It's been quite a long time since someone's scent has moved him this much. All the people that have, have been in his life for so long he's forgotten what it's like to feel instant scent compatibility. His nostrils are flaring and he's trying his best not to open his mouth to huff in big gulps of it because it's rather impolite to be so obviously scenting the new guy. It could be misconstrued as Sasha taking offence to the new presence in the room.

Some part of his brain is still trying to catch up to the idea that Matthew even smells at all because the first time he met him (down here for some joint offseason ice-time) he didn't particularly smell like much, if at all really. Whether it's because he put on blockers to not intrude on pack territory until he smelled more like them, or he was still on suppressants even in the summer, Sasha wasn't sure and he definitely wasn't going to ask about it.

Known him for 10 years? He feels like he's known him his whole life. But 10's a safe number, 10's a number that won't scare off this new omega, right? 10's a number that conveys "As Captain I want this to work out, I'm opening up my pack for you, I won't shun you, you're welcome here," and not "If I stick my nose in your neck right now to scent you, they're gonna have to forcibly evict me from the new home I've found in you, and it's not gonna be a pretty outcome."

It's also why he's a little nervous when Media Day is over because despite how much it dragged along in years past it practically blitzed by and now Sasha has to—

You know, properly scent the new addition. Give them the purring acceptance of their Pack leader's scent to carry with them. And it's nothing big, it's just some chaste wrist rubbing... something subtle and not too overwhelming for everyone: the pack, and the newcomer alike. It's not like Sasha is going to mouth at Matthew's neck glands. He doesn't think he can even handle that right now but that's a problem for future Sasha—for when Matthew is really part of the pack and not like a goldfish in a plastic bag being dunked into an aquarium to get used to the water temperature. He just has to rub his wrist against his, it's like basic Alpha etiquette. It'll be fine, mostly. He hopes.

And it's as anticlimactic as he thought it'd be: gentle reintroductions and reignited chatter of excitement about the new season that's about to start... maybe just with the new lingering scent of sweet and spice in the background as if someone lit up a candle without Sasha even noticing it. It's a struggle to keep his eyes from closing from how heavy they feel, from how relaxed he feels in the presence of this new omega he knows has pissed him off on several occasions as composed as he was about it.

Matthew presents his wrist in a flourish successfully managing to divert his attention back to what they're supposed to be doing all alone like this in the dressing room like this, "I'm sure you've been dying to do this huh, Cap?"

Sweat starts to break out at the back of his neck. He knows? Sasha doesn't think he's been sending off any signals that could've hinted otherwise but Sasha admits that he's well out of practise, he hasn't had to reign in his scent this much in such a long time, and maybe Matthew picked up his weird fixation—

Matthew waggles his eyebrows for extra effect an offbeat later when the joke doesn't seem to land the way he wanted it to.

Oh, thank Christ, he's just teasing him. It's a joke. He doesn't actually mean it in the way Sasha thought he meant.

"Yes. Yes, I have," Sasha chuckles in relief, shaking his head at Matthew's attempt to lighten the mood.

"10 years, or so I've heard, bud."

"You heard? Uh, listened to the..." he trails off.

"Kinda hard not to when the setup made it sound like you were in the middle of the Earth, my guy. I don't think my ears are ever gonna recover from that."

"It's the first day for everyone," Sasha lightly chastises, not particularly aggrieved at all but wanting to keep up the banter to stall for time, so he can prepare himself. Quite honestly he feels like travelled back in time to the young anxious Alpha he was breaking out into the league for the first time.

"Be gentle, I bruise easily."

"Right, gentle. I'll treat you better than my clothes on the delicate cycle."

"Is that supposed to be a line?" Matthew says in glee, his voice pitching into incredulity.

"Line like fishing?"

"Oh, come on! You know what I'm talking about! You've been in this country long enough to pick up on that!"

"Yes, yes, that."

Matthew shoves at his shoulder playfully. "Just go on and do the thing already."

"Doing the thing."

Matthew snorts but his wrist is limp in Sasha’s hold. And as much as it was a dumb joke he does feel delicate between his fingers like that. So delicate that when he rubs his own wrist against his—to transfer over their pack scent—he feels like he's going to break it if he holds onto it for too long. It's why he drops it as quick as he took it, hands scrambling to his sides in an effort to remain polite but also to get a handle on himself so his pheromones don't go haywire with the new stimulus. It's a bit of a losing battle because he knows his scent just. But he can play it off as the excitement of an Alpha being able to claim another member to his pack, it's a possessive kind of thing.

"Well, see you around! Call it a hunch but I have a feeling we'll be seeing more of each other." And the joke wasn't funny the first time, truly the equivalent of leaning on the office fax machine and going "You come here often?" to your coworkers who just want to get their work done—and just as sleazy too with the greasy grin Matthew has permanently stuck to his face but Sasha still laughs like he did the first time he heard it.

And it's only now that Matthew is gone that Sasha realises the room smells strongly of cinnamon, so potent that anyone with a working nose would be able to tell that. Like Matthew was doing his best to ease Sasha’s obvious nerves when Sasha should've been the one to calm the omega who's been uprooted from their own pack and thrown into a completely new environment, himself.

"Jesus, it reeks in here. Smells like cinnamon," Aaron wrinkles his nose, wandering back in after his own media duties were done, finding Sasha all alone in the locker rooms.

"It does?" Like he can't tell the room smells like the equivalent of someone knocking over a Yankee Candle into an open fire.

"Yeah, like an awful lot." Aaron scrunching up his nose, trying to fight off an incoming sneeze. "It's strong," he says without thinking, swallows before his eyes shift over to Sasha and then to the floor, "Not bad just... strong..." The I can get used to it is left unspoken between them.

"I like it," Sasha admits because if Aaron is confessing to things without thinking then he might as well too. They've known each other long enough.

"I can tell." Aaron snorts, "You reek too."

Sasha lets out a questioning little noise, tilts his head to the side as he silently urges Aaron to continue.

"You have no idea what cinnamon and cardamom smell like together, do you? I feel like I walked into a bakery when I should be at the gym right now."

"Is that bad?"

"For you? No, of course not," Aaron's eyes soften, and while his scent wasn't anywhere close to abrasive, it does lighten up just a tad bit in the presence of his pack Alpha. "For me? I'd rather dunk my head in a bucket of coffee beans." A bit of an exaggeration on Aaron's part but the wry grin he has on really adds to the fact he's just joking—just a little, maybe there's some truth hidden in there. He knows how Aaron is, the way he tries to downplay anytime he bristles about something. Peace and vibes, and all that.

So Sasha can joke as well, "Forsy's stall is over there," and motions his head towards it across the room.

"Oh, hilarious."

"If I was funny I would say jock."

"You know, what? I think I will hit the gym today, thanks for reminding me."

"Mmm, anytime." And when Aaron's half out the door he adds, "Ask the staff where they put the jerseys we used today!"

"I'm going! To the gym!" he echoes back, not bothering to turn around as he shuffles down the hall in a hurry, and decidedly not going in the direction of the gym. It's not surprising when he hears chatter pick up and shoes scuffing briskly into the direction of the laundry rooms.

I for one would vvv much like to hear more about your Pius/JT abo agenda please!!!!!!

(If you want to expound upon it obv!)

OHHHH ANON THERE IS TRULY NOTHING MORE IN THIS WORLD I WOULD WANT TO DO MORE!!!

I’ll put it under the break bc it’s a bit of a doozy and I know not everyone is into omegaverse :]

Okayyyyy so. I mean to preface, everything millsy/pius I post about is fully in collaboration with my beloved Nem (@playoffsides). Idk how we got to this ship either, but it has completely and utterly consumed us for the past uhhhh (checks calendar) FIVE MONTHS………. yeah. Anyways.

So, we kinda have two different versions of an omegaverse au with these two, but I’ll lay out the more recent one bc I personally find it to have more depth and it’s also a little less convoluted HEKDHKSSJ

Picture this: you are Pius Suter. You present as an omega very, very early. However, you very quickly find that you don’t really seem similar at all to other omegas — nobody can pick up on your scent, you don’t seem to have the same pheromones, you’re just… utterly uninteresting. Eyes glaze right over you at school, on the street, at practice. The only compelling thing about you, seemingly, is your hockey.

You get better. Really, really good, actually. You get an agent. Nobody has showed any remote interest as you as an omega, yet, but that’ll change if you get to the biggest stages in the world; right? It’s fine. You go to a party your agent organizes with all their other Swiss hockey player clients.

Roman Josi mistakes you for a waiter. You want to hide away in a little ball.

People start assuming you’re a beta — no scent to be smelled whatsoever, so you guess it… makes sense. Whatever. You cling to your omega identity, even if you’re doing it all wrong, because it’s the last vestige of interest about you outside of hockey. There’s so few omega players, surely that carries some weight, no?

You get passed over twice in the draft. Whatever. You play for years in Zurich. You give up on correcting people when they assume you’re a beta. You suffer through long, painful heats alone, because nobody seems inclined to help you.

Finally, you make it to the NHL! The hope that things will be different wears off after your first season, when despite playing on the first line, despite being near the top of rookie scoring, Chicago doesn’t keep you. Nobody knows you’re an omega, and you doubt they’d care even if they did. You go to Detroit and play two seasons there; you’re not bad. You’re really good, actually, but still — same story. Eyes glaze right over you.

Your heats gradually stop. It’s like you’ve been neglected for so long that your omega body has given up, dried up. The only things that still prove you as an omega are disappearing, and you’re terrified. But still, you don’t tell anyone.

Now, picture this: Jonathan Tanner Miller, presented so, so young as an alpha, filling every checkbox on the traits of a stereotype. Actually, no; it’s more accurate to say the boxes have been blacked out and scribbled outside the lines.

Protectiveness, passion, ruthlessness, competitiveness, all turned up to one hundred and ten. He’s called uncontrollable, a danger to those around him. It’s what makes him so damn good at what he does.

Nobody wants him; they think they do, at first, but that’s quashed pretty quickly once they realize how unstable his entire being seems to be. Long, painful, vicious ruts, bursts of any emotion blowing up at any time, his pride taking precedence on more than one occasion. He suffers through his ruts alone, hurting anyone who tries to stay.

Everyone wants to fix him. Nobody wants to help him.

He’s a bite risk, a fight risk, dangerous; they keep a muzzle in his stall, Just In Case. It makes him scared; scared of himself, of what he’s capable of, of what would happen if he lost control. Sometimes his instincts tell him to do things that make him feel sick to his stomach — or maybe he’s just nauseous because he’s so sensitive. Every scent is overwhelming, every noise, every pheromone. He can feel all of it.

Picture this: Pius signs in Vancouver. Even though it’s a different city in a different country on a different coast, he knows it’ll be the same. He doesn’t expect to make a splash; and he kinda doesn’t. He likes it, though, his teammates are nice. He’s a beta, to them.

Well. Except to JT.

What do you do when a quiet, pretty omega with such a muted scent and demeanour joins your team after another disaster of a season? What do you do when he doesn’t mix in with the other omegas? Can’t you people see that he’s lonely? What do you do when he gets a hatty to singlehandedly drag the team to overtime, and the hats do not go flying, and the team fucking loses, and it all drags you straight into your already unstable rut?

I mean, you fuck about it.

Pius smells like home to JT, he finds out. Like being at his childhood house on a Saturday when his parents were doing laundry, a warm hug of fresh linens. Pius purrs for him, and it’s crackly and rough and pitchy because he hasn’t done it in years, but it’s the sweetest thing JT’s ever heard, through the haze of his rut. Neither of them can do it right. It’s okay, though, because they’re doing it wrong together <3

Hooooooooly. That ended up being WAY longer than I expected. Lots of thoughts to get out!! But yeah, tonight’s game really just made the brainrot worsen………… hnhgg. The ‘you’re broken because you’re too much and I’m broken because I’m too little’ of it all. Matched set and all that.

Anyways!! I hope this kind of got the gist of how we characterize both Millsy and Pius across <3 I desperately want to write something proper of them but work and seasonal depression is kicking my ass rn so it might be a while. But thank you so much for the ask anon!!!!!!! I’m always so happy to talk abt the blorbos!!!!!