Tyson: He Doesn’t Get It. That’s Okay, He’s Hot.

2024 Stanley Cup Playoffs: Round 1, Game 4 Canucks @ Predators | April 28, 2024

Today's surprise guest for season ticket delivery: Elwood Graves! 🐕‍🦺🐾

🥺🥺🥺🥺

I'm not done being annoying yet. Bon Appétit!

[24.05.19] pre-game vs. kazakhstan (iihf worlds 2024 group stage)

do not. ask me how I came up with this plot idea

Historical fiction. Kirill is a soldier in a war, and after some things go wrong, he gets stuck in the tents of soldiers who are injured and sick. A member of the clergy tells him to keep them company and listen to their stories. He sits beside a teenager who's dying, someone he's seen a few times in the past months but never really got to know. He doesn't even know his name. The teen (who speaks in broken Russian) asks Kirill to write a letter to his uncle. Kirill is half worried whoever his uncle is won't understand Cyrillic, but he does so anyway.

The letter travels all the way to Norway, where the uncle, Mats, finds it in his mailbox one morning. He speaks a little Russian, but knows nothing about Cyrillic. So first he finds someone who can translate it in his village, but when he does they can't fully read it. They tell him it's about his nephew and that another soldier wrote this letter for him. It has his name and troop number. Mats can mentally put the pieces together, but he wants to know what the rest of the letter says. Not just that, he wants to meet the soldier who was with his nephew in his dying moment.

And so he sets forth on a journey, traveling between countries, to puzzle together who this soldier may be and where he can find him. And well... when you learn so much from others about a single person, and you spend months of your life searching for him, sometimes it's hard not to fall in love with him, right?

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 💗💜

a little something i might possibly use in the fic im writing !

────୨ৎ────

“Y’know, you only scored ‘cause you wore my jersey before the game right.” Will said proudly as he shut the door to Jumbo’s guest house where Mack was living for the season.

“Uh-huh, is that right?” He replied, turning around to face Will in the dim light of the entrance hallway.

“You might have to wear it every night.”

“Oh you’re funny, Smitty.” He paused for a sec looking at Will, the air felt weird, tense, but oddly not in a bad way. “If BC is so good why didn’t you score tonight, huh?” He continued as Will stepped closer.

“Oh, I did.”

“What? No- you didn’t-“ The rest of the sentence mumbled as Will pressed his lips to Mack’s, grabbing the burgundy and golden stripes at the waist of the BC jersey he was still wearing.

As he pulled away Mack stared at him in shock, a light blush washing over his cheeks.

“I did.” Will reiterated in a whisper.

────୨ৎ────

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.