adélie penguin

  • Me: The playoffs are cancelled because the Stars are out. I literally don't even care who wins the cup.
  • Also me: *would die for Sidney Crosby. is internally screaming at the thought of the Pens having to play CBJ. is considering buying a Crosby shirsey for the Pens playoff run*
  • Me: Yeah I don't know who I'd even root for at this point.
Together We'll Make History (Part 1)

For the lovely halffizzbin on Valentine’s Day, we have the first part of a thoroughly ridiculous, self-indulgent, and tropey virgin!Sid fic.  I am gifting this to her–and thus, to all of you–because she is a wonderful, beautiful person who has even promised not to judge me too harshly for being a human disaster and thus not (yet) delivering on the porn.  Please be advised that when I have the whole thing finished I’ll give it a good scrub and polish, but for now this is barely edited in the name of getting it posted in the forty minutes remaining until midnight in this time zone.

Happy Valentine’s Day, Julie, I hope all of your cheesiest and most embarrassing wishes come true. <3


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“Thanks for coming out with me.” Sidney tosses back his second shot of Jack as Zhenya watches, bemused. “I really appreciate it.”

It’s a strange thing to say after nearly half an hour of conversation, but Zhenya’s used to Sidney being a little strange. It’s why he’d barely even blinked when he turned up at the address Sidney had texted him: a quiet little bar not too far from his house, but otherwise nothing like what he’d usually think of as Sidney’s kind of place. There are only a handful of other people there on a Tuesday night, mostly college-age kids wearing strange combinations of thrift-store clothes, with shaggy beards and messy buns and glasses with thick black plastic frames. There are no sports games playing—no televisions at all, actually—and Zhenya’s pretty sure that the music he doesn’t recognize is playing off of the flannel-clad bartender’s iPod.

Not the kind of place, all in all where anyone was likely to recognize Sidney Crosby and Evgeni Malkin, even in the heart of Pittsburgh.

“Happy to come,” Zhenya grins anyway. “Invite to bar by Sidney Crosby—is not happen every day.”

“No. I, uh. I thought about just asking you to come over to my place, but I thought that might be a little weird. You know,” he goes on in response to what must be Zhenya’s obvious confusion, “because of the drinking, and. I didn’t want you to be … weirded out. I don’t know.”

“Not weird.” Sidney’s fiddling with his shot glass, lifting it up every few minutes like he’s forgotten he just drained the thing. Zhenya’s a couple drinks in himself, and can’t stop watching Sidney’s fingers. “Don’t need to be drunk for hanging out with you, though.”

“Yeah, well. I wanted to ask you something, and I need a little …” He glances down at the empty glasses on the table, the fresh collection of sticky rings gleaming on the already tacky wood. He laughs a little. “Courage, I guess?”

“Okay.” Zhenya doesn’t really know how to answer that beyond smiling again, a little uncertainly this time, and nodding at the glasses as well. “Feel brave now?”

Sidney laughs again. “Only one way to—I need a favor. And you’re the only person I could think of who wouldn’t laugh at me too much for asking.”

“Won’t laugh, Sid,” Zhenya says, feeling somehow insulted even though he makes a habit of laughing at Sidney at least every other day. Sidney knows it, too which is probably why he’s smirking like Zhenya just tried to convince him that the domes of St. Basil’s Cathedral had originally been conceived as giant rock-candy sculptures. Again. “Won’t laugh,” Zhenya assures him.

“Yeah you will.”


“No, you really will.”


“I’m telling you—”


“I need you to help me lose my virginity,” he blurts out.

Zhenya can’t do anything but stare.

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