beggingwolf

[beggingwolf]

#dirty minds worldwide

[beggingwolf]

the most important thing you can do to combat how terrible your sports team is playing is to make them have gay sex in your Google docs. I can’t stress enough how important this is

[beggingwolf]

actually it's your civic duty to write and post as most completely unhinged rpf as possible because the more you do that the more fucked up google's AI answers will get

[beggingwolf]

pamper your omega day at work

[beggingwolf]

I…see.

[beggingwolf]

i know coach geno commercial led to sid basically tackling geno and begging to get sid pregnant

mmmmmhm.

Sid has spent most of his professional career pretending that he doesn't have omega instincts.

Not that he isn't an omega—he couldn't avoid that if he wanted to, not with the emphasis every coach, teammate, team employee, and member of the media has put on it since he was old enough to be worth paying attention to.

Omega Breaks Oceanic Scoring Record.

First Omega Drafted First Overall.

Omega Captains Team Canada to Gold.

It's never just about Sid and his accomplishments, there's always a qualifier attached. When he didn't win the Calder, it was treated as a given, even by his parents, that it would go to an alpha instead. When they won the Stanley Cup the first time, it was because the alphas on the team were led by their instincts to push the team to victory after Sid got hurt. On and on, for well over a decade now.

Some omegas, the younger guys that have broken into the league in the intervening years, lean into it. They bat their eyelashes at reporters after bad games and inject their voices with just the slightest omega coo; it's not as effective at deflecting criticism now, but it still works.

Sid manages by pretending he's made of plastic.

He doesn't like to buy into his own hype, but he's pretty sure it's an objective fact that he was subject to far more scrutiny than any other player in the league right now, from a much younger age. People used to try to go through his parents' trash cans to figure out his heat cycles, and his first few years in the league he couldn't so much as go out for lunch with teammates without IS CROSBY READY TO SETTLE DOWN—WITH AN AMERICAN??? headlines being plastered all over Sportsnet.

It was easier to act like he had no interest in alphas at all, no desire to settle down, nothing on his mind but hockey 24/7. It didn't make the attention go away entirely, but it helped a lot.

It's also a lie. But just because Sid keeps his bond bite hidden doesn't mean he doesn't have one, and it doesn't mean he doesn't get swept up by his biology on a semi-regular basis.

Like now.

Sid and Geno had been basically frog-marched into attending Ovechkin's Cup party in Moscow. They were both licking their wounds after losing their shot at a three-peat, but politics in Russia are indifferent to personal pride, so Geno had been required to show his face—and Sid was not about to let him deal with that alone. They decided to spend a few weeks there, let Geno manage some business in town with his Russian sponsorships, then escape to the private island they've been renting for a few weeks annually since they bonded to sweat out Sid's heat in the sunshine and privacy.

Sid hadn't anticipated what watching Geno skate around with a bunch of kids for a commercial would do to him, though.

Sid squeezes his thighs together and thanks whatever made him decide to sit far back in the stands when they got here this morning. He stinks of pre-heat, strongly enough that even he can smell it, and if he were any closer to the ice he's not sure he'd be able to stop himself from barreling out there and bodily dragging Geno back to the locker room.

He should text Geno what's going on and get back to the apartment somehow. His Russian isn't great, but he's pretty sure he could find the nice omega coordinator they met earlier today and ask her to call a beta driver from the car service for him.

Instead, though, Sid sits and watches as Geno play-wrestles with the kids between takes, chasing them around and tickling them when they get too close. A few of the little boys gang up on him and Geno lets them take him down to the ice, yelling about boarding as he flails around amid a pile of giggling children.

Christ.

Sid must zone out a little bit, because suddenly the coordinator is tapping urgently at his shoulder. "Mr. Malkina?" she asks, and Sid has to suppress a full-body shudder. The Russian habit of referring to omegas like their bondmates' property had grated at first, but with Sid in pre-heat it sounds like the best thing he's ever heard. "Evgeni Vladimirovich is done, he changes now. I can take you to the room?"

Sid clenches his jaw and resists the urge to run down to the locker room. If he does that, they'll never leave, and Sid knows it's better for both of them if they make it back to Geno's apartment. "Can you take me to the car?" he manages, swallowing as images of Geno showering flash in his mind's eye. "Tell him I'm waiting for him, I—"

The coordinator's eyes widen as she flares her nostrils and inhales. "Oh, of course," she says hurriedly, rising to her feet and gesturing for Sid to follow. "I will call for, ah, safe driver."

Sid's not sure how long he waits in the car, but by the time Geno slides into the seat next to him and barks something at the driver he's starting to sweat.

The drive back to the apartment is a blur, but Sid remembers Geno hustling him out of the car, his hand hot at the small of Sid's back as he rushes them through the lobby and onto an elevator. Geno's in the penthouse, all the way at the top of the building, and by the time the door chimes and slides open Sid's dizzy with their combined scents rising in the enclosed space.

When Geno practically throws him onto the mattress, Sid whines and bares his neck, spreading his thighs in invitation.

"Fuck," he hears Geno mutter. "Sid, malysh, what's wrong? You're not due for, like, week and a half I think, when we're on vacation."

Sid gathers his thoughts together through force of will alone. "Watching you," he replies, the purr under his words drawing Geno closer until Sid's practically flattened into the mattress under him. "You're so good with the kids today, and...fuck, Geno, I need you to put a baby in me."

It can't happen. Sid doesn't really want it to happen, and neither does Geno. Sid's on industrial-strength birth control, and they'd agreed years ago to wait until they were done playing.

His words still hit Geno like a lightning bolt.

"Oh, you want baby," he croons, pulling back to tug Sid's sweatpants down. "You want I give you my knot until you're knocked up, yes? Make you take until you're full, keep you that way?"

"Fuck, yes," Sid gasps, fumbling at the drawstrings of Geno's joggers until Geno takes pity on him and undoes his pants.

They're both still more than half-dressed. But when Geno pins Sid's knees up by his shoulders and pushes into him, sinking his teeth into Sid's neck with a sub-vocal growl that knocks through Sid's brain and sends him down so fast his muscles practically go liquid, it hardly matters.

Sid's last coherent thought is that they're probably going to need to reschedule their flights.

[beggingwolf]

Working on a bigger project right now involving these little dudes

[beggingwolf]

[beggingwolf]

#sidstache. actually#<- have you considered its performative in that it’s his real self coming through? one month a year he drops the aw shucks schtick#and swaggers around like he’s the most eligible stallion at the stud farm (via @yabagofmilfs)

[beggingwolf]

[beggingwolf]

everybody wants to family-ize all the relationships between players on a hockey team but i'm built different. "that's his dad :)" he wants to FUCK that old man. "they're like brothers omg" they met at age 20 and are exploring each other's bodies under the a blanket at team game night. "his wishbaby-" calls him mommy, NEXT

[beggingwolf]

december 14 2024 @ senators, 3-2 OT loss

creature feature time. yes i've already written incubus sidney crosby once and i likely will again; what can i say, it compels me.

credit for this prompt goes to @beggingwolf who ended it with 'and uh something something they sleep together'. can do!

Zhenya can tell when Sid hasn’t fed in a while.

The team keeps a close eye on his intake, of course. He gets his blood tested weekly, and there’s a whole sub-department of the medical team dedicated to his care and keeping.

League requirements for something like Sid are much more lax than they are for other creatures; wolves take suppressants and wear thin gloves made of cut-resistant fabric under their normal hockey gloves, vampires wear specially-molded mouthguards that have to be cracked off by the dentists and get shots that dull their sense of smell on game days. Some creatures aren’t allowed in the NHL at all—the fae and telekinetics are stuck in the lower levels because magical dampeners aren’t effective enough.

Incubi, though? Unless they’re underfed, they’re in complete control of their abilities, and it’s so obvious when a sex demon is putting someone under thrall that they’d be tossed immediately, before any impact to the game could occur. 

So Sid is subjected to regular testing, and he has a group of people more involved in his sex life than he’d probably prefer, but it’s a small price to pay relative to others, and Zhenya’s never heard him complain.

Sometimes, though, he lies.

Sid’s stubborn, always has been. There are certain cities he doesn’t like picking up in even if he’s scheduled to feed, and he’s slippery, good at avoiding questions without the medical staff picking up on it until it’s too late.

Normally, it doesn’t matter. A day or two here and there doesn’t really impact anything, and Sid knows his body—he’d never delay to the point where it would impact his performance, or the team.

And if it does get close to a critical point, well, that’s where Zhenya steps in. It’s why he’s gotten so good at picking up on the early signs.

One of the places Sid never feeds is Montreal. He’s far too visible there, too well-known; they can barely duck in for a sandwich without him getting mobbed. They have to stick to the VIP if they go out, and even then he spends time brushing off hopeful fans looking to get up close and personal. All it would take is one person running to one of the innumerable hockey reporters that are constantly buzzing around the Penguins when they’re here, and it’s a league-wide story for months, if not the whole rest of the season.

Zhenya’s half-wondering if Sid will call him to his hotel room after the game. They’re not leaving until tomorrow after practice, and a bunch of the guys are chattering about going out as they all get changed.

Sid doesn’t say anything, though, and despite the blowout win his face is drawn. He lurks in the shadows at the bar they decide on and slips out early.

Zhenya shrugs it off and distracts himself with a couple of giggly French-Canadian girls with accents so thick he can barely understand them. He won’t go home with either of them, of course, but it’s fun to make friends.

—

Sid puts on a good face at practice the next day, but he’s quiet and crabby on the train, sitting across the aisle from Zhenya’s card game but refusing to be dealt in even when Karl tries to cajole him into playing. He chats for a while with Neets, but spends most of the ride staring out the window with his brow furrowed and one hand clenching and unclenching in his lap.

Zhenya sits next to him at dinner, but Sid doesn’t say a word, not even when Zhenya asks leading questions to try and get around to the topic.

Sid doesn’t text that night either, not that Zhenya was expecting it the night before a game.

The Senators game is fine. They manage a point, which is better than they usually do against this team, and they have two days before they play again. The team normally wouldn’t go out two nights so close together, but Karl’s chattering excitedly about a bar he used to go to all the time when he was playing here, and when Sid unexpectedly pipes up to say he’s in, the rest of the team follows suit.

Zhenya grabs Sid on the way out. “You sure?” he says quietly, leaning down so Sid can hear him. “You’re tired, I think, need to feed. We can go to hotel if you want.” Ottawa is another city Sid won’t pick up in, a relatively recent development that Zhenya hasn’t bothered getting to the bottom of outside of how it impacts Sid’s routines.

Sid stares up at him. His eyes are huge and black in his pale face, and his skin is drawn tight over his cheekbones. For a second Zhenya can feel thrall creeping up, and he sways forward, but then Sid shakes his head and wrenches his arm free. “I’m fine,” he says shortly.

Zhenya stares after him, baffled. Even when Sid had his eye on some other target, he’s never brushed Zhenya off so rudely before.

Sid’s demon likes Zhenya, is the thing. Zhenya’s heard it from its own mouth, lying prone on a mattress in some hotel and listening to the incubus inside Sid’s body murmur about how good he is, the best, as it works Zhenya over into orgasm after orgasm. And yeah, part of that is flattery designed to keep its food source compliant, but Sid had confirmed it too, when Zhenya screwed up enough courage to ask.

"Yeah,” Sid had said, flushing pink. “I mean…it’s not picky, you know, but there are…favorites, I guess. You’re one of them. You taste—” and then Sid had cut himself off.

Sometimes, Zhenya wonders how much of their encounters are Sid and not his incubus side. He likes to pretend that it’s strictly transactional, a series of mindblowing orgasms in exchange for keeping his demon fed, but Zhenya knows what Sid looks like when it’s just him in there. The lines have felt blurred for a while now, and Zhenya isn’t sure how much more clear he can make it that if Sid wanted it, Zhenya would wife him up so fast.

Husband him up. Whatever.

Maybe Sid figured that out and he’s trying to give Zhenya a hint. That would be just like Sid, to get himself all worked up over something and decide he has to shut it down before even giving it a chance.

Well, Sid isn’t the only stubborn asshole on this team. Zhenya’s prepared to wait him out. And since Sid’s incubus likes him so much, he’s got the edge over whatever objections Sid might try to trot out. He just needs to force the conversation and let their natural chemistry take it from there.

All Zhenya’s confidence evaporates, though, when he loses track of Sid for a solid hour at the bar Karl directed them to, only to spot him leaning up against a hightop making eyes at someone else.

To Zhenya’s surprise, his eyes sting like they’re about to fill with tears, and he has to swallow hard around the sudden lump in his throat. It feels like he’s gotten the wind knocked out of him.

Sid’s making himself perfectly clear. Whatever he and Zhenya used to do, he doesn’t want it, and by hitting on some guy in the middle of a bar like this, he couldn’t be sending out a stronger signal—we’re done.

Just as Zhenya’s about to turn away, make his way back to their table to grab his jacket and get back to the hotel to lick his wounds in private, Sid’s head suddenly turns, and they make eye contact across the bar.

Zhenya tucks tail and flees. He doesn’t need Sid’s pity right now.

He’s barely gotten changed from his going-out clothes into his pajamas, though, when someone pounds on his hotel room door. There’s really only one person it could be, and Zhenya seriously considers ignoring it and pretending he’s already asleep, but then Sid knocks again, harder this time, and Zhenya sighs, heading to the door to let him in.

“You left,” Sid says as he pushes past Zhenya into the room, except it’s not just Sid, there’s a crooning undertone to his voice that Zhenya knows mean the incubus is here too. “Why did you sneak out? You—” and Sid sniffs the air, sometimes this demon shit is beyond weird even after all these years, “you’re upset about something.” He steps closer to Zhenya, widening his eyes. The irises are pitch-black, not a hint of Sid’s normal hazel, and Zhenya closes his eyes against the gentle thrum of thrall brushing over his skin. “What happened?”

“Sid,” Zhenya sighs, taking a step back to try and keep his head clear. “You’re say you not want with me, you’re with some guy tonight. I’m a little upset, okay, maybe I’m jealous, because I think…” He shrugs. “It’s stupid, maybe, but I’m not want to see you do with someone else, so I come back to be alone, give you space.”

“Baby,” Sid murmurs, closing the distance again and curling a hand around the back of Zhenya’s neck. “I never want space from you. You know you’re my favorite.”

Zhenya doesn’t need thrall to give in, not when Sid’s standing so close and looking at him that way. He’s a weak man, and impulsive, and so he’s already moving for the bed before Sid has to push any harder.

Sid undresses them both slowly, letting his fingers reverently linger over Zhenya’s skin, the way a man besotted with his lover might. Zhenya closes his eyes and lets him, drifting on the drugging feel of thrall.

Sid lays him out on the mattress and stretches out next to him before leaning down, kissing him deep and lush, like the kiss is the goal and there’s nothing else he’d rather be doing. His hands over Zhenya’s body are rhythmic and intoxicating, and they feel good, but he keeps intentionally avoiding Zhenya’s dick, which is getting hard painfully fast.

“Please,” Zhenya finally groans when he manages to break away from Sid’s mouth for a minute and gasp to catch his breath. “Sid, need it.”

“I need you,” Sid—the incubus—Zhenya can’t tell at this point, purrs at him, but instead of teasing further he slides down Zhenya’s body and takes Zhenya into his mouth.

Sid gets a lot of shit on the ice for what his mouth looks like, and Zhenya can attest that he deserves every last word of it. He’s preternaturally skilled with his tongue and doesn’t seem to have a gag reflex at all, and when Zhenya looks down at Sid’s head bobbing in his lap it takes all his effort to keep from coming right there.

He wants this to last.

Sid hums around him, taking him deeper and reaching down to press at Zhenya’s hole, just lightly, rubbing circles over it with a finger that’s somehow slick with lube even though there’s no way he had time to get Zhenya’s bottle off the nightstand. Zhenya tries to buck back and force Sid’s finger in, but Sid’s other arm is a steel bar over his hip bones, pressing him into the mattress. All Zhenya can do is lie there and take what Sid decides to give him.

Sid’s said before that when he’s with someone like this, he can kind of feel what they’re feeling. Nothing major, but enough to tell him what’s working and what isn’t—the better an orgasm is, the better he feeds. Zhenya wonders what Sid’s getting off of him now, the deep swell of arousal and love and longing that’s making his chest tight.

It means that Sid knows the exact right moment to slide his finger in and press mercilessly at Zhenya’s prostate, rubbing and rubbing as he sucks hard until Zhenya’s coming down his throat with a shout.

Sid nurses at Zhenya’s cock for a while until the shocky oversensitivity turns painful, then pulls back, licking his lips. His eyes are half-slits, and he looks contented, satisfied, like a well-fed cat.

Now that the high of orgasm is fading, though, Zhenya feels empty.

“Hey—” Sid says, and that’s Sid, just him, no trace of the demon. He props himself up on his elbow and looks down at Zhenya, eyes big and worried and wholly his again. “What’s wrong? I can still…I mean, not much, but I can still feel you a little.”

Zhenya flinches. “Sorry,” he mutters, wishing they weren’t lying on top of the covers so he could pull a blanket over himself. He feels exposed. “It’s not—I feel dumb, like, it’s big overreact for nothing. I know it’s…what’s word, like, a deal for you, it’s not serious. I let myself think something more, maybe. It’s okay, though, I get over. We don’t need to stop when you’re hungry.”

“G,” Sid says, voice small, “it is something more. I wasn’t…” He sighs, scrubbing his free hand over his face. “It’s true, that you’re its favorite. My favorite. It’s not just a deal to me, and you’re not overreacting. I noticed it a few weeks ago, the last time I fed from you, but I thought it was bleed—that can happen sometimes, the link starts to let stuff through the other way. I thought you were getting how I felt, and I felt terrible influencing you like that. So I pulled back.”

“Sid,” Zhenya says chidingly, but he has to blink away the dizzying wash of hope. “You’re not say anything? Have to talk, like, can’t just make decisions without say to me.”

“I know,” Sid mutters, flopping down onto his stomach and hiding his face in a pillow. “I felt so stupid, though. I mean, you’re doing me this huge favor and here I am making you feel stuff…it’s more than stupid, it’s unfair, it’s…” He trails off, but Zhenya can plug in a number of words into the silence that he thinks Sid probably would use if they weren’t so unpleasant to say aloud. “I wanted to give you a break to get your head back.”

Zhenya manfully refrains from making a dirty joke. “It’s both of us, I think,” he says instead, rolling onto his side so he can skate his palm over Sid’s back. “You and me, we’re both feel, that’s equal, yes? It’s good.”

“Yeah,” Sid’s muffled, but Zhenya can hear hope rising in his voice too.

[beggingwolf]

you, artist online. somebody has referenced you in conversation irl by your online handle and somebody else knew who you were talking about. somebody has kept up closely with your posts for a period of time like their morning paper. somebody found a music artist because of you, thinks of you when they hear them on the radio. somebody followed you years ago and remembers you randomly even though they can't find you. somebody has screenshotted and saved your posts and sent them in discord servers. somebody has made your drawings their lockscreen, added them to their favorites folder and looked at them when they're going through some shit, has sent them to their best friend and sparked conversation in private chats. your art in particular could be the source of a keen sense of nostalgia for someone. maybe they've even printed out your images using their home printer and taped them to their bedroom wall and they look at it every day and they never even told you. isn't that scary? isn't that awesome? remember this well.

submit to the mortifying ordeal of being known so that you may turn around and see the impact you leave and the light you cast on others.

[beggingwolf]

how do you guys organize your google drive re: fics because mine... is a mess

[beggingwolf]

december 7 @ canadiens, 9-2 win.

woah mama that's a lot of goals!

the penguins took a train from montreal to ottawa today because they're a bunch of cuties. i'm feeling sentimental and happy about our little guys, so here's a sappy little thing that reflects that.

Sid wakes up the morning after the Habs game wondering if he imagined the entire thing.

He’s been sleeping poorly for about a week, a side effect of the heavy-duty cold meds he’s been on to keep himself in the lineup. He’s had some extremely odd dreams too, and dropping a 9-spot in the Bell Centre would definitely qualify as one of the stranger ones.

A quick check on ESPN confirms that no, it really happened. Sid shakes his head.

Geno’s still sprawled out next to him, snoring gently into the pillow. Sid watches him for a while, considers letting him sleep in until practice but, well.

Geno’s not happy at first when Sid shakes him awake, but Sid makes it worth his while, and when he gets up to shower, Geno’s still lying flat on the mattress, panting and covered in sweat.

Geno follows him into the shower and gets his own back. They’re both late to practice.

—

It’s the best practice Sid can remember in years, maybe since before the Covid pause. Not to say it’s been miserable the whole time, of course not, but a game like that, in a place like Montreal…the whole team is on a high.

Sully does his best to keep them grounded, remind them that the win only counts for two points and they have a long way to go, but after a while even he gives up and lets them spend most of the practice playing around.

The light atmosphere carries into the locker room and on the bus to Central Station. Normally, this would be the point where everyone starts settling down, to rest or catch up on social media or call home, but the novelty of taking a train instead of a plane keeps them all energized.

Sid settles into his chosen chair next to Geno’s card game to watch the snowy landscape roll by, but he soon gets distracted.

Geno’s loud, teasing Karl and Kris and cheating outrageously, and Sid settles back in his chair, resting his chin on his fist and watching.

He looks good, hamming it up for the cameras and putting on a little show for the guys. The season hasn’t worn him stick-thin yet, and he’s still somehow clinging to the remnants of his summer tan.

When the train pulls into Ottawa, everyone’s calmed down, and the boisterous roughhousing from the morning has settled into quieter jokes and muffled laughter as guys grab their bags and make plans for dinner.

There’s not much in the way of romance to be found in the Ottawa train station, especially not in the grim early days of winter. But Sid grabs Geno anyway, pulls him to the side before they troop off the platform, tugging his face down and kissing him in the manufactured privacy their reserved car and a delayed deboarding affords them.

When Sid finally lets him go, Geno’s smiling. Sid smiles back, taking Geno’s hand and tugging him inside.

The whole team is waiting, ready to catcall them. Sid can’t find it in him to even pretend to be annoyed.

He’s too happy.

[beggingwolf]

queerbaiting is good because the yearning is always better than the having

[beggingwolf]

Dogs as a metaphor for dogs