#sid - has a message!

[dmumt]

junmyeon donghwan photo in the year 2023 i love when exes are still supportive of each other

[angelsuecult]

it ain’t me babe | s. crosby

“Go melt back in the night, babe

Everything inside me is stone”

warnings: none.

summary: the aftermath of a wedding has you left wondering where your relationship with sidney is going.

request: We need Sid and younger girlfriend attending a wedding 👀 here realizing that maybe Sid should see other people angsty slow burn fluff smut maybe?

word count: 5.6k

song: it ain’t me - joan baez 

a/n: i hope you guys like this one! Im pretty proud of it. ALSO WHAT IS A TAGLIST?? I WANT TO DO IT BUT IDK WHAT IT IS I PROMISE IM NOT INTENTIONALLY OVERLOOKING IT I JUST DO NOT KNOW WHAT THAT IS!! SOMEBODY PLS LMK.

previous part | part two

—

The apartment falls quiet. Too quiet.

You go through the motions of getting ready for bed on autopilot.

Hair undone, makeup wiped away, heels abandoned somewhere in the living room a problem for tomorrow.

You exhale slowly as you sit on the edge of your bed, rubbing your hands over your face. The weight of the night presses against your shoulders, heavy and unrelenting.

Now you’re in pajamas—one of Sidney’s t-shirts and a pair of fuzzy pants that you had grabbed blindly from your drawer. The shirt is soft, worn down from years of washes, and smells just like him.

It makes your chest ache.

You should be exhausted. It’s late. Your body is tired, but your mind won’t shut up.

You shuffle around your apartment, turning off the lights one by one, until the only one left is the glow from your bedroom lamp.

And then, just before you head to bed, you do something completely fucking stupid.

You pull back the curtain and peek through your window.

Sidney’s gone.

You don’t know what you were expecting.

Of course he left.

You don’t know how long he sat out there, parked in the same usual spot, engine idling. But now there’s nothing. Just an empty space where his car had been.

Why would he still be out there? You gave him nothing to work with. No explanation. No indication of what the hell went wrong tonight.

Just shut down completely, locked yourself up tight, and now you’re surprised that he left?

It shouldn’t make you feel as lonely as it does.

But it does.

You let the curtain fall shut, swallowing the lump in your throat as you climb into bed.

Your sheets are cold when you slip beneath them, sending a shiver down your spine. It makes you curl up tighter, instinctively seeking the warmth of him.

Sidney’s pillow is right there.

It smells like him.

Like his cologne, his shampoo—like home.

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to shut out the ache that spreads through your chest.

Your phone is on your nightstand.

You curl into yourself further, phone in your hand, thumb hovering over the screen.

There’s nothing from Sidney.

Of course there isn’t. 

You open your messages anyway, staring at the empty text box.

You don’t know what to say.

You don’t even know if you should say anything.

You type something out. Delete it. Type it again.

I love you. I’m sorry.

Backspace.

I miss you. I’m sorry.

Backspace.

Goodnight. I’m sorry.

Backspace.

Your thumbs hover over the keyboard, but no words come out. So you toss your phone onto the mattress.

You really did want to go home with him tonight.

You did.

But no matter how badly you want to be in his bed right now, tangled up in his sheets, wrapped up in his warmth—you just couldn’t bring yourself to go home with him tonight.

Not when it didn’t feel right.

Something in you just—couldn’t.

Not when the night had left you feeling so fucking out of place. Like you had no right to be in his life.

So instead, you’re here. Alone. Holding onto his pillow like it’s the only thing keeping you together.

And then it happens. A knock that barely registers at first.

Your eyes are closed, you’ve been hovering in that in-between space—half asleep, half awake, mind slipping into unconsciousness when the sound filters through the quiet. You don’t move. Maybe you imagined it. Maybe it’s something outside.

And again.

A slow, deliberate knock.

Your stomach twists because you already know who it is.

For a second, you think about just staying in bed, pulling the covers over your head, pretending you didn’t hear it. It’s late. Whatever he has to say can wait until morning.

But you know Sidney.

And Sidney doesn’t just go when something doesn’t sit right with him.

You sigh, pushing yourself upright. The hardwood is cool against your bare feet as you shuffle to the door, barely awake, heart pounding. You don’t bother checking the peephole. There’s no point.

You hesitate for a second, fingers hovering over the handle. There’s a moment where you consider taking a breath, preparing yourself, but you don’t give yourself the chance. You pull it open.

Sidney’s standing there.

He looks—frustrated. Tense. His jaw is clenched, his hands shoved into the pockets of his coat, and his eyes sweep over you, taking in the way you’re dressed in his t-shirt, the sleep still lingering on your face.

His shoulders drop the slightest bit, like he was holding his breath without realizing it.

“Are you gonna let me in?” he asks, voice low.

You step aside without a word, and he walks in, waiting until you close the door before he turns to you.

He lets out a slow breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “What’s going on?”

You blink. “What?”

Sid exhales sharply, dragging a hand over his face. “What the fuck is going on with you tonight?”

You shake your head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Sid scoffs, lips pressing into a tight line. “Seriously?”

You fold your arms, the weight of exhaustion settling into your bones. “It’s late, Sid.”

“Yeah, no shit,” he mutters. “I’ve been driving around the block for almost an hour trying to figure out what the hell just happened.”

You swallow, shifting your weight. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“I want you to tell me why the fuck you suddenly decided you didn’t want to come home with me,” he says. “I want to know why you shut down, why you acted like you couldn’t get away from me fast enough.”

“I didn’t—” You exhale sharply, running a hand over your face. “I didn’t mean to.”

“Yeah? Could’ve fooled me.”

You look away, focusing on the floor, the wall, anywhere but him. You hate that you’re making him feel like this.

Sidney exhales through his nose, his patience thinning. “I don’t get it, okay? I don’t fucking get it. We were fine when we got there. You looked happy. You were joking around with me in the car, messing with the radio, making fun of my suit. And then suddenly—” He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “I don’t even know. You spent the whole night by yourself.”

You close your eyes.

“And then you thank me for a ‘great night’ like I’m some fucking Uber driver?” He lets out a humorless laugh. “What the fuck, Y/n?”

You shift your weight, suddenly feeling too exposed, too cornered. “I’m just tired, Sid.”

“Tired?” He lets out a dry, humorless laugh. “That’s what we’re calling it?”

You cross your arms. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Sid’s jaw tics. “I want you to talk to me.”

Your throat tightens.

His voice is rough around the edges, threaded with frustration, but it’s not anger. Not really.

It’s concern.

And somehow, that makes it worse.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” you say, hating the way your voice wavers at the end.

Sid’s eyes narrow, like he can hear it too.

He shakes his head. “Bullshit. Jesus, I feel like I’m losing my mind here. You shut down out of nowhere, and now I’m standing here at one in the morning trying to figure out what the hell I did wrong.”

Guilt twists in your stomach.

You didn’t mean for any of this to happen.

But now you’re standing here, and he’s looking at you like he’s trying to put together a puzzle that doesn’t make sense, and you have to spell it out for him.

You have to say it out loud.

And the fact that you have to spell it out for him makes you feel like absolute shit. What’s so difficult to understand here? Doesn’t he know?

Your nails dig into your arms as you squeeze them tighter across your chest, pulse thrumming in your ears. You can feel the frustration clawing its way up your throat, hot and bitter, but you don’t know how to say it without it coming out wrong.

Because what’s the point of not telling him at this point?

Why are you still trying to swallow this down like it’s nothing? Like you weren’t sitting at that fucking table alone for half the night, smiling through gritted teeth while women old enough to be your mom compared you to a fucking escort? Like you didn’t have to sit there and pretend it was all fine while your own date couldn’t even be bothered to check in with you?

And now here he is. Confused. Sidney is staring at you, waiting. His hands are in his pockets, but his whole stance is tense, shoulders drawn tight, brow furrowed. Acting like he has no fucking clue why you suddenly wanted to go home. Like he doesn’t realize how humiliating it is to be borderline ignored by him and, in turn, everyone else.

And maybe it’s that. Maybe it’s the way he doesn’t get it. The way he’s standing there so fucking confused, waiting for you to explain why you feel like absolute shit instead of just knowing.

So you let it out.

You let out a short, sharp breath, shaking your head. “You really don’t get it, do you?”

Sid’s jaw tightens. “No. I don’t. That’s why I’m here.”

You let out a bitter laugh, the sound hollow in your chest.

“Jesus Christ, Sidney.” You step back, running a hand through your hair. “You’re—You’re Sidney fucking Crosby. The most important guy in the room, in every fucking room you walk into, and I get that, okay? I understand how this shit works by now.”

Sid doesn’t say anything, but his brows pull together, his mouth pressing into a firm line.

“I just wish I could’ve spoken more than a single fucking word to you tonight,” you say, and you don’t mean for it to come out as harsh as it does, but you’re tired. You’re tired.

Sidney blinks. “What?”

“I looked like a fucking idiot,” you snap, your voice trembling with something you don’t even want to name. “Sitting at that table alone, smiling at people who barely looked at me, waiting for my own fucking date to talk to me for more than five seconds before he got pulled into another goddamn hockey story.”

His frown deepens. “That’s not fair—”

“Isn’t it?” you cut in, voice sharp. “Because from where I was sitting, it sure as hell felt like I was there for no other reason than to be ignored.”

Sidney exhales heavily, raking a hand through his hair. “I wasn’t ignoring you—”

You let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Oh, really? Because it sure as fuck felt like it.”

Sidney’s jaw tightens. “I wasn’t trying to make you feel like that.”

You laugh, humorless. “Yeah, well, what you meant to do doesn’t really mean much when the result is me looking like a fucking idiot.”

Sidney’s eyes flicker with something—frustration, guilt, something else you can’t quite place. “No one thought you looked like an idiot.”

“Oh, no?” you say, and your voice is shaking now, not with tears, but with anger. “Because it sure fucking felt like everyone was in on some big joke I didn’t know about. The hooker comments, the midlife crisis jokes—”

His face hardens. “Who the fuck said that?”

You let out a sharp breath, shaking your head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does,” Sidney argues.

“No, it doesn’t,” you bite back. “Because that’s not the point! The point is that I was standing there smiling through my fucking teeth while these women talked to me like I was some kind of novelty, like I was some poor little thing who didn’t belong there, while you were ten feet away, completely oblivious.”

Sidney’s mouth presses into a thin line. “I didn’t know—”

“Exactly!” you cut in. “You didn’t know because you weren’t paying attention. You weren’t there.”

Sidney’s eyes darken. “That’s not fucking fair.”

You scoff. “Isn’t it?”

His hands finally come out of his pockets, and he gestures vaguely, expression tight. “You know how these things are. People pull me into conversations, I don’t always have control over—”

“I do know,” you interrupt. “I know exactly how these things go. I know you get dragged into conversations, I know it’s not intentional, I know all of that. But what you don’t seem to understand is how fucking humiliating it is to be borderline ignored by your own date—to be ignored by everyone else because of it.”

Sidney’s jaw tics. “I wasn’t—”

“You know what’s not fair?” You take a step closer, jabbing a finger toward his chest. “The only actual fucking conversation I had tonight wasn’t even with a guest—God forbid—no, it was with the fucking coat boy.”

Sid’s face tightens. “Coat—” He exhales sharply. “What the fuck does that even mean?”

You throw up your hands. “Jesus, Sid, do you hear yourself? It means you barely fucking spoke to me, Sidney! How many godddamn times do I have to spell it out for you?”

Sidney huffs out a breath, rubbing his hands over his face. “I don’t—what do you want me to say? That I should’ve been glued to your side all night?”

“No,” you snap. “I wanted you to act like you wanted me there.”

He stares at you, something flickering in his expression, something frustrated but also—guilty.

“And before you say some shit like ‘Why didn’t you just come over to me? Why didn’t you just talk to me?’ Why the fuck should I have to?”

Sidney flinches. Just barely.

You swallow, your breath coming a little too fast. “Why should I have to beg my own date to acknowledge me?” Your voice cracks slightly at the end, but you push forward. “Why the fuck did you even bring me if you didn’t want to talk to me?”

Sidney shakes his head. “That’s not what it was.”

“Then what the fuck was it? Because you invited me, remember?”

Sidney looks at you, and there’s something in his expression—something frustrated, something aching. Like he wants to fix it but doesn’t know how.

Your breath is coming out uneven now, chest rising and falling with every word you force out, every ounce of frustration and hurt bubbling over. Sidney is just looking at you, his jaw clenched so tight you think he might crack a tooth, hands flexing open and closed at his sides. And it only pisses you off more because—because say something, for fuck’s sake. Say anything. Defend yourself. Fight with me. Do something.

But he just stares.

And you—god, you can’t. You’re too tired, too drained, too fucking done with feeling like this, feeling like you’re just… there. Like a placeholder, like a pretty little accessory to sit at his side while everyone else in the room actually matters.

So you let it spill out.

“I’m not the one you want, Sid.”

His entire face drops, mouth parting slightly like you just knocked the fucking wind out of him. And maybe you did. Maybe that’s what it takes to make him finally fucking see.

You laugh, but it’s not funny. It’s not even bitter, just… hollow. “I’m not the one you need, either. And that was made pretty fucking clear tonight.”

Sidney shakes his head immediately, taking a step forward, but you step back just as fast, arms tightening around yourself. “That’s not true.”

“But it is,” you say quietly, swallowing around the lump in your throat. “And you would know that if you actually listened to anything anyone said tonight.”

His brows draw together. “What the fuck does that mean?”

You exhale sharply, shaking your head. “I couldn’t get a fucking word in with you tonight, Sid. Not one. And you know why? Because I don’t matter in that world.”

Sidney’s expression darkens, and his voice drops lower, more serious. “That’s not fucking true.”

“But it is,” you argue, eyes burning now. “I’m not saying it’s your fault, I’m not even saying it’s something you did on purpose, but it’s just… how it is. I was there, I was at that table, but I might as well have been a fucking ghost. And you—”

Your voice cracks, just a little, and you have to pause, have to force yourself to swallow down the lump in your throat before you can go on.

“You didn’t notice me, Sid. You didn’t talk to me. You didn’t ask me to dance, and maybe it was because you forgot or maybe it was because you didn’t want to, but it doesn’t really matter either way, does it?” You shake your head, breathing out a humorless laugh. “You didn’t even sit down to have dinner with me.”

Sidney closes his eyes for half a second like he’s trying to keep his frustration in check. “I didn’t mean—”

“I know you didn’t mean to,” you interrupt, voice quieter but no less sharp. “But you did. And that’s why I can’t even talk to you about this.”

Sidney lets out a breath, one hand dragging down his face, and when he looks at you again, his eyes are a little wilder, a little more desperate. “That’s bullshit. You are talking to me about it. Right now.”

You shake your head, exhausted. “Not really.”

His nostrils flare. “You think I don’t want you?”

You press your lips together, looking away.

Sidney steps forward, forcing you to look back at him. “No, seriously—do you actually think that? That I don’t fucking want you?” His voice is rough, raw. “Because that’s fucking insane.”

Your throat is tight, fingers curling into the fabric of the shirt you’re wearing—his shirt. “Sid—”

“No,” he says, voice sharp. “You don’t get to say shit like that and then just shut down on me. What the fuck are you even saying right now?”

He exhales sharply, dragging both hands through his hair like he’s trying to physically hold himself together. His jaw is tight, his expression pulled with frustration, guilt, something raw and unspoken sitting heavy between the two of you.

And you don’t even know where to go from here.

Is this it? Is this how it fucking ends?

One bad night. One really, really bad night—so bad it’s made you question everything. So bad you’re standing here, your chest tight, your vision blurring, telling the man you love that you don’t think you’re the one he wants. The one he needs.

And it’s not like you don’t know how fucked up that sounds, how unfair it probably is. But it’s how you feel. And god, it just won’t go away.

Sid lets out a rough breath, shaking his head. “I can’t fucking believe this,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, pacing half a step before turning back, his eyes sharp, desperate. “This is really what you think? That I just—what? Forgot about you?”

You blink fast, your throat burning, voice quieter but still raw. “You did forget about me.”

Sid’s mouth presses into a hard line, his nostrils flaring slightly. “That’s not—Fuck, I didn’t forget about you, babe. I was just—”

“Busy?” you cut in, shaking your head. “Yeah, I know, Sid. I know you were busy. You’re always the most important guy in the room, and I get it. But Jesus, Sidney—” Your voice catches, and you take a shaky breath. “I sat there for hours just waiting for you to come back. Just waiting for you to maybe fucking look at me. And you didn’t. I had to sit there and smile while people made the butt of their fucking jokes, and I couldn’t even tell you about it, because you weren’t there. You weren’t even thinking about me.”

Sidney’s face twists, something like regret flashing across his expression. He shakes his head again, stepping forward, voice softer but no less urgent. “Baby, I—”

You squeeze your eyes shut.

Baby.

Your fucking weakness. But you push on.

“And maybe it wasn’t a big deal to you,” you press on, voice shaking now. “Maybe it was just one night to you, maybe I’m just making a fucking thing out of nothing, but—” Your breath stutters, and you have to look away, swiping roughly at your eyes. “But it didn’t feel like nothing, Sid.”

Sidney curses under his breath, the sound almost pained. “Jesus, baby,” he murmurs, stepping closer, reaching for you.

You shake your head, stepping back. “Don’t.”

Sid stops in his tracks, something breaking in his expression, like that physically hurt him.

Your stomach twists, and you swallow against the lump in your throat. “I don’t—I don’t know what to do with this, Sidney. I don’t know what this means.”

Sidney exhales slowly, his voice thick. “It means we fucking talk about it.”

Your throat tightens, something sharp and exhausted threading through you. “Do we? Because I’ve been trying to talk to you about it for the past thirty minutes and you still don’t seem to understand.”

Sid’s brows furrow, his face still tense, but his voice softer now, more pleading. “Babe—”

“I don’t know if I can do this,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know if I can sit in rooms full of people who look at me like I don’t fucking belong there. Who talk about me like I’m some kind of joke.” Your eyes are burning again, and you blink rapidly, shaking your head. “And I don’t know if I can do this when it feels like you don’t even fucking care.”

Sid looks wrecked. Absolutely fucking wrecked. His throat bobs, his hands tightening into fists before he forces them to relax. “Y/n, I’m—” His voice catches, and he exhales hard, taking another step toward you. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, looking away.

“No, look at me,” Sid says, his voice rough. “Please, baby, look at me.”

You hesitate, then finally meet his eyes.

And god, he just looks so fucking sorry.

“Y/n,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. “Please.”

Your throat clenches, your chest so fucking tight it hurts.

Sid hesitates, like he’s giving you a second to pull away—to run, if that’s what you really want. But you don’t move. You can’t.

And then, slowly, so fucking slowly, he reaches for you.

“Come here,” he breathes, soft and pleading. “Please, baby. Just—just come here.”

And God help you, you do.

You don’t even think. You just go, letting him pull you in, letting him wrap his arms around you tight, like he’s terrified you’ll slip right through his fingers if he doesn’t hold on hard enough.

And fuck, it almost hurts how tightly he’s holding you, his grip firm and desperate, like an apology all on its own.

You squeeze your eyes shut, burying your face in his chest, and Sid lets out a shaky breath, pressing his face into your hair. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice raw, breaking. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

Your throat clenches, and you swallow hard, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket.

Sidney exhales hard, arms tightening around you. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like that,” he murmurs, voice thick. “God, I didn’t—fuck—I didn’t mean to make you feel like you weren’t important, I swear.”

You squeeze your eyes shut.

“I love you,” he whispers, voice breaking on the last word. “I love you so fucking much, and I—I don’t know how the fuck I let this happen.”

Your chest tightens painfully, and you shake your head against him.

Sidney swallows hard, arms flexing around you. “You’re the most important fucking thing in the world to me,” he breathes, voice rough and aching. “And it’s not okay that you felt like that tonight. It’s not. I should’ve—I should’ve fucking been there.”

Your breath shudders out of you, and Sid lets out something close to a quiet curse, shifting slightly so that he’s cradling you now, one hand sliding up to the back of your head.

“I love you,” he murmurs again, like he’s trying to will it into you, like he’s trying to make you feel it. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

You nuzzle into his shoulder, breathing him in, letting your fingers play at the soft hair at the nape of his neck, twisting the strands between your fingertips, memorizing the way they feel. Just in case. Like if you just press yourself deep enough into him, maybe—maybe—it won’t hurt so much when this all slips through your fingers.

Because if this is the last time—if this is the last time you ever get to hold him, touch him, love him—then you want to make sure you remember everything. Just in case this is it. Just in case you lose him tonight. Just in case you don’t get to love him tomorrow.

Sid breathes out hard, his grip tightening on you like he can feel the way you’re preparing yourself to lose him. And maybe he can. Maybe he can feel the way you press your face into the crook of his neck, like you’re trying to keep him there just a second longer. Like you don’t want to let go.

"Baby," he breathes against your temple, his lips brushing your skin. "Don't do that. Don’t—don’t pull away from me like that."

You squeeze your eyes shut, willing yourself not to break, not to let the sadness welling in your chest swallow you whole. "I’m not," you whisper. But you are. You know you are. And of course he noticed.

Sid exhales hard, his hands smoothing up and down your back, grounding you. "Yeah, you are," he murmurs. "I can feel it. I know you."

You don’t say anything. You don’t know what to say.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, hands firm on your lower back, like he’s keeping you right there. “Don’t—don’t hold onto me like you’re saying goodbye.” His throat bobs. “I can’t—fuck, I can’t do that.”

You drop your gaze to his chest, fingers still playing at his hairline. “I don’t know what else to do.” Your voice is small, raw.

Sid groans softly, tilting his forehead against yours, his hands sliding up to cradle your face. “You stay,” he murmurs, thumbs brushing your cheeks. “You stay right here. With me.”

Your breath stutters, and for the first time, you let yourself look at him. Really look at him. His eyes are red-rimmed, tired, his expression so full of regret it hurts to see.

Then finally, Sid sighs, long and slow. "You're right. I fucked up,” he admits, voice rough, thick with something heavy. “I disrespected you. I got caught up in everything.”

Your fingers still in his hair.

Sid sighs, his other hand rubbing slow, absentminded circles against the small of your back. “I let myself get pulled into conversation, into all the bullshit, I forgot what was really important tonight. And I’ll never be able to apologize enough for that.”

You blink up at him, studying the way his brows are drawn, the way his mouth is set in a hard, miserable line.

Sid shakes his head at himself, eyes flickering over your face, guilt written in every line of his own. “I’m an idiot,” he says quietly, shaking his head. “There’s a million fucking things I should’ve done differently tonight.”

Your throat tightens, and you nod because—yeah. There are.

Sid exhales sharply, his hand sliding up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing softly under your eye. “But I’m not losing you over this,” he murmurs, voice low, firm. “I won’t.”

You swallow, your fingers curling into the fabric of his dress shirt. “Sid—”

“I mean it,” he interrupts, shaking his head. “I’m not gonna lose you over this.” His voice is quiet but firm, like an unshakable promise. “I won’t accept it. One bad night isn’t gonna ruin what we have.” His hands drop to your waist again, holding you steady, grounding you. “It’s too special.You’re too fucking special.”

Your chest aches, your fingers flexing against his shirt. And you believe him. You do.

Because this is Sid. Your Sid. The man who worships the ground you walk on, who loves you fiercely, who cares.

So you just look at him for a moment, drinking him in—the hazel hue of his eyes, the curve of his mouth, the way he’s looking at you like you’re the most important fucking thing in the world.

Sid brushes his nose against yours, his voice softer now. “I love you too fucking much to let this be the thing that breaks us.”

And for the first time all night, you feel something loosen in your chest.

He studies you for a moment, eyes flickering over your face like he’s trying to gauge where your head is at. Then, more quietly, “You do know that, right?”

And yeah. Yeah, you do.

You nod slowly, and Sid lets out a breath, relief flickering across his features.

“I know you’re upset with me,” he murmurs, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “You should be. I’d be fucking pissed if I were you.” He gives a half-smile, but it’s small, cautious, like he’s afraid to push too soon.

Your lips twitch, just barely, and that’s all he needs.

He exhales, leaning in closer, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “I mean it, baby,” he says against your skin. “I love you. And I hate that I made you feel like anything less than the most important fucking person in that room tonight.”

You sigh, leaning into him again, and this time, it feels different.

Softer. More you and him.

Sid watches you carefully, eyes flickering over your face like he’s searching for something. “Come back to me, my love,” he murmurs. “Please.”

You press your lips together, exhaling slowly.

And then, quietly, “I’m right here.”

And just like that, his shoulders sag with relief. You exhale slowly, your breath still finding its rhythm, but the ache in your chest has softened. Sid’s eyes stay on you, unwavering, searching, like he’s waiting for you to say something—anything.

And you believe him. You do. Because even though tonight fucking sucked, even though you spent hours feeling like you didn’t belong, even though you had to sit with the humiliation of being overlooked by everyone, including the one person who should have seen you—you love him. You love him, and you know he loves you too.

What you have is special. It’s everything. 

Your fingers tighten in the fabric of his shirt, clinging to him like he might slip away if you don’t. But he’s not going anywhere. You can feel it in the way he holds you, the way his hands splay across your back, like he’s trying to mold you against him, like he’s making sure you’re real.

Sid exhales through his nose, slow and controlled. His fingers trace lazy circles at the base of your spine, grounding you. “Talk to me, baby,” he murmurs. “Let me in.”

Your throat tightens, the lump still there, even though the sharp edges of your anger have dulled. “I hate feeling like this,” you admit, your voice quiet.

Sid’s hands tighten around you. “I know,” he says softly, and the way he says it—like he really knows, like he gets it—makes you feel even closer to tears.

“I don’t—” You break off, shaking your head against him. “I don’t want to be mad at you.”

Sid sighs, rubbing a hand up and down your back. “Then don’t,” he murmurs, voice softer, lighter now. “Just love me.”

You let out a watery laugh, and he feels it, his arms tightening as he presses his forehead to yours. “Baby,” he says again, so fucking tender, like he’s pouring every ounce of love he has for you into that single word.

Then, after a moment, his voice comes quiet, hesitant. Hopeful.

“We’re okay, right?”

It’s so soft. So careful. Like he’s afraid of the answer. Like maybe, just maybe, he’s still a little scared you might walk away.

You let out a slow breath, thinking. Feeling.

“I think so,” you whisper.

Sid exhales sharply, a little relieved sound, and he nudges his nose against yours, affectionate, familiar. His fingers tighten briefly against your back before his hands smooth over you, slow and steady.

“Good,” he murmurs, lips brushing lightly against your temple. “’Cause I don’t think I could fucking take it if we weren’t.”

A small, breathy exhale leaves you, and for the first time tonight, it’s almost a laugh. Almost.

Sid hears it, feels the way your body relaxes just the smallest bit, and it’s like he latches onto it, chases after it.

“Jesus, babe,” he mutters, pressing a kiss to your cheek, then another, then another. “I feel like I aged ten fucking years tonight.”

That gets a real laugh out of you—quiet, small, but real.

Sid pulls back slightly, looking at you like he’s trying to memorize you, trying to read every single emotion on your face. His thumb brushes over your cheek, gently.

“There’s my girl,” he murmurs, the corner of his mouth twitching just the slightest bit, like he’s trying to smile but doesn’t want to push it too soon.

Your throat tightens at the warmth in his voice, the relief. The way he says my girl like it’s fact.

You close your eyes, letting yourself sink into the warmth of him, the safety of him. His fingers slide up to cup your jaw, his thumb brushing gently over the apple of your cheek. “We’re okay,” he says, like he needs you to know it. Like if he says it enough times, you’ll believe it too.

And you do. You do.

You let out a slow, shaky breath, nuzzling into his touch. “I love you,” you whisper, barely audible, but he hears it.

Sid lets out a sound that’s almost a laugh, almost a sigh, almost relief. “Fuck,” he breathes, tilting his head just enough to press his lips to yours—not desperate, not rushed, just there. Just a promise. Just an I love you too.

[intheupside]

“I get to do what I love,” Crosby said. “The least I can do is treat people well along the way.”

really good sid article in the athletic today

Moments before overtime of Game 6 between Sidney Crosby’s Pittsburgh Penguins and Alex Ovechkin’s Washington Capitals in 2016, the Penguins all sat in the silent home locker room. No one moved. No one uttered a word..

Over the years, the Penguins had been mentally tougher than the Capitals, which explained why they owned their bitter rival in the biggest games. Now, the tables appeared to have turned and the Penguins were rattled. It was all silent in the Pittsburgh room, until only a few intermission minutes remained.

Then Crosby, the soft-spoken captain of the Penguins, stood up and addressed his team.

“Hey guys,” Crosby said. “We’re better than that f—ing team. This ends now.”

It took only 6 minutes, 32 seconds of overtime for Bonino to score the game-winner, ending the series and paving the way for Crosby and the Penguins to win their second of three championships. But Crosby’s message left a lasting impression.

“No one could believe it when he did it,” Cole said. “Bones scored the goal, but it was Sid. We needed to hear it. It was all Sid. That’s the kind of leader he is.”

Crosby has been the captain of Team Canada since 2014, and for almost half of his life, the 37-year-old Crosby has skated with the “C” stitched on his chest in Pittsburgh. Along the way, he has developed a reputation for leadership that is second to none. There is a family atmosphere and a charitable spirit within the Penguins organization that largely exists because of him.

Even this season, as Crosby’s Penguins miss the playoffs for a third straight season, his leadership attributes have never dimmed. The results and on-ice success may vary from year to year; Crosby does not.

What’s his secret? What makes him unique? What makes him a great leader?

Those who have shared a locker room with Crosby swear by him and talk about a set of common principles:

He treats everyone the same and insists that he’s treated like everyone else.

He makes everyone feel welcome and does so with personal touches.

His competitiveness rubs off on everyone else.

His work ethic and consistency inspire others to be better.

“There’s never been anyone like him, and there never will be,” said former Penguins general manager Jim Rutherford. “I’ve been around a while and I’ve met a lot of people. I’ve never met anyone like him.”

In 2014 the Penguins acquired Lee Stempniak and Marcel Goc at the trade deadline, and the pair was set to play in San Jose the following day. Goc and Stempniak were en route to the SAP Center in San Jose.

The rest of the Penguins had long since departed the arena in San Jose for the hotel to engage in the standard pre-game afternoon nap. Stempniak and Goc, however, were headed straight to the arena, so Crosby sat for hours in the Penguins locker room, waiting for the new players to arrive. He had already welcomed them to the team via text, but he prefers to add the personal touch.

“That’s what I noticed when the Penguins first traded for me,” said Ryan Pohling, who played one season for the Penguins before moving on to Philadelphia. “I get a text from Sid. And he’s chatting you up, making you feel so comfortable. And you’re like, ‘Sidney Crosby is talking to me.’ It just gets your attention because of who he is. But he just wants to make you feel welcome immediately. He’s different than anyone else.”

There is a long trail of evidence of Crosby making new guys feel welcome.

“It’s crazy,” said Rutger McGroarty, one of the youngest Penguins. “You’re barely in the NHL, and Sidney Crosby is chatting you up.”

But those personal touches extend to longtime teammates as well.

“If you’re having a bad day or having a problem, he’ll take care of you,” said Marc-Andre Fleury, his former teammate. “He’d talk in French to make me feel better.”

During the 2016 Stanley Cup run, Crosby frequently took the young players out to dinner, wanting them to feel comfortable in a new city.

Sometimes they’d be itching for a nap on the road. Too bad.

“We usually have these team lounges at hotels,” Rust said. “Trust me, he was always encouraging us to get down there. He wanted everybody there, but especially the younger guys. So you would go down to the lounge, and he’d be there waiting. Shoot the bull, play cards, whatever. I think he just wanted everyone hanging out together. It was important to him, and it still is. We’d have team dinners, stuff like that, and he’d always make sure the young guys attended. He went out of his way to make us feel comfortable during that time.”

That, Rust said, led to the Penguins’ back-to-back championships as much as their talent.

“It’s 100 percent a real thing, and Sid always understood that,” Rust said. “It can be the missing piece to the puzzle.”

Just because he wants to make people feel welcome doesn’t mean Crosby wants them to stay too relaxed. Not for long, anyway.

Crosby makes those around him better simply by challenging them.

“He doesn’t even mean to do it,” former teammate Mike Rupp said. “At least, I don’t think he does.”

In 2010, the Penguins were conducting their annual team testing at the beginning of training camp. Rupp, a 6-foot-5, 230-pound power forward and menacing physical presence, had earlier in the day thrown the medicine ball further than any of his teammates.

when Crosby walked up to him.

“So I heard you have the record for today?” Crosby said. “Not anymore.”

“So we started throwing the medicine ball back and forth after this,” Rupp said. “I throw it the first time, and it goes maybe 25 feet. Then he gets 26. Then I throw one 27. So then he throws one that goes 30 feet. I think we got up to 33 feet.”

“The point is,” Rupp said, “I had thought, at that time, that I had thrown it as far as I could. That I gave everything that I could. But I hadn’t. That’s how Sid brings you to another level.”

On or off the ice, Rupp had never seen anyone who could inspire greatness from those around him like that. The oldest of his former teammates agrees.

Matt Cullen was almost 40 when the Penguins won those championships in 2016 and 2017. Even he found himself looking up to Crosby.

“I think his drive to constantly improve his own game and his unmatched work ethic leaves teammates no choice but to follow,” Cullen explained.

[chrispotatos]

Unfollowed- chris sturniolo

warnings: smut, p in v sex, idk what

summary: you saw chris' following and he makes you help unfollow them all since it bothers you so much.

a/n: i didn't proofread cause im too tired and i know im gonna regret it when i wake up.

a/n: this was inspired by one of @mattscoquette asks I'll tey and find it when i wake up but I'm literally about to crash out.

"im not playing around with you chris, so stop fucking smiling" you say through gritted teeth, pointing in his face.

You were currently yelling at chris about his insta following. You don't normally check his following because he has your trust and you didn't need too.

His fans were constantly messaging you about it so you checked and it was random only fan girls.

"Unfollow them!" you demanded, handing him his phone back. "why? you jealous" he let out a humorless laugh; infuriating you more.

"they don't mean anything to me" he added you felt as though he was lying straight through his teeth. If they didn't mean anything why couldn't he simply unfollow them "chris it was brought to my attention and it bothers me. unfollow. them"

"all of them" i added

"i don't know about you but this is really turning me on" he snorts grabbing your wrist and putting your hand on his crotch feeling his growing erection, not taking his eyes off you once; smirking. "chris.."

you were flattered while also shocked, for the most part. what you were saying probably wasn't even being heard and if so he liked it. The yelling and you trying to stand your ground and exert dominance, it was cute the affects you had on him showed profusely.

"go lay on the bed y/n" his stern tone made your pussy throb, you were now just as turned on as him.

chris got up from his gaming chair and walked over to the bed, where you were laying propped up on your elbows.

"you wanna demand thing, how bout you do me a favor and unfollow these girls for me, while i fuck you huh?" he told you, not asking nor suggesting.

He pulled your legs off the bed and flipped you onto your stomach, your ass sticking out against him. you let out a suprised gasp from the aggressive toss.

he threw his phone infront of you on his following list. "don't touch shit till i tell you to" you nod in response.

"oh c'mon baby, you were doing all that yelling, and don't have not one thing to say?" he teased. you shake your head making a chuckle leave his lips "alright then"

chris tugged your loosley fitted jeans off and threw them onto the ground leaving you in your panties. He unzips his pants, pulling them down along with his boxers and takes his aching dick out leaking with arousal.

he pulls your panties to the side to feel your soaked cunt, his semi cold fingers coming in contact with your core made you jolt. "Y/n" he warns.

your panties were pulled down and tossed to the side with some of your other article of clothing. you helped by also removing your shirt, but you gave up when you started struggling to take your bra off.

chris tugs your hair back and puts his hand under your mouth "spit" whatever you could form in your mouth you spit into his hand.

he strokes his length, with pre cum and your spit.

chris groans when sliding into your pussy this made you sink your teeth into your bottom lip letting out a muffled whimper.

"Start unfollowing. and say the name of the girls you unfollow too"

he ruts his hips into you, a loud moan following from the sudden movement followed by a low 'fuck'

your focus was on the phone but the sensation of pleasure was a distracting and manipulating your train of thought.

"I don't hear you" he reminds. His thrusts becoming more forceful and deep.

"paige- i unfollowed paige" you squealed screwing your eyes shut and opening them again to finish what was asked of you. "Im not letting you cum until you unfollowed every girl"

That made you fill with haste and begin looking at names quicker atleast you thought you were going quicker. "sid- sidney i unfollowed her" chris makes a makeshift ponytail and uses that as leverage to fuck into you harder.

his dick abusing your insides pumping in and out of your wet pussy. Wet, lewd sounds of skin slapping echoed in the room. chris brings his hand down to your clit rubbing it vigourisly with pressure, leaving your mouth agape, whimpers and high-pitched moans exited your mouth.

"chris- i can't finish reading the names" you admit. "then i guess I'll just have to stop" he begins slowing down his pace "no!" You protest against it picking the phone back up

"thats what i thought"

"mia.. im close" you said "my names not mia" he lets out a humorous chuckle, removing his hand from your hair and hold your hips pushing in and out.

You are reaching your climax and trying so hard not to realese.

his movements were at an ungodly pace making you drop his phone and forgetting why you were holding it in the first place.

with a few seconds passing his actions were getting more sloppy signifying he was getting close to his orgasm.

there was one more girl left then you were done it's not like he followed a whole bunch of them just about 10 max.

"madeline!" you yell out the last girls name, hitting the unfollow button then finishing around him laying limp against the bed. chris feels you up with his seed, your juices mixing; as he plunges his twitching cock in and out of you riding out both your orgasms, he winced pulling out. heavy breaths leaving from both of you. chris flops down beside you on the bed.

waiting a few minutes watching, as your chest rises and falls; catching your breath. "lets get cleaned up yeah?" he suggested.

[elleaitch22]

Terms of Endearment

Chapter 10: Tender as a Bruise

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd

A/N: I was supposed to have this finished a few hours ago, but today has been a day. Please disregard any errors! I hope you love it!! Notes and live reactions are always appreciated! xx Elle

Warnings: PTSD, nightmares, mentions of panic attacks, brief mention of SA, murder, discussions of mental health

Word Count: 4.0k

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Paige didn’t sleep well. She couldn’t. The day had shaken her more than she realized.

Hearing and reading about the abuse Azzi had experienced reminded her too much of her marriage with Manny. He was more for fists and kicks than emotional and psychological abuse, but Paige felt that may have been easier. Bruises heal in a week, but words? The soak into the brain and never really fade.

Sure, men made Paige uncomfortable, and sometimes she braced herself when people moved towards her too quickly. But Azzi had been free of Grant for two years, and she still carried those words and wounds with her daily.

Azzi’s monster was still alive. And was resourceful enough to find her again.

Emmanuel Martinez would never harm Paige again. She made sure of it.

He liked fast cars, so she rented an F1 track and car for his birthday, she just made sure he wouldn’t be able to stop. He slammed into a crash barrier going 170 miles per hour. It was fast. Final. There was no way he survived it.

The tears Paige shed at the track, and later at his funeral, were tears of relief. Tears of joy for her freedom. No one knew that but Nika. A few weeks later, she bought Aurelia. Three months after, she brought Soleil home to their penthouse. Paige hadn’t been haunted by nightmares since then.

But now? Knowing Azzi couldn’t get that same relief? It made her furious.

She couldn’t keep walking around this angry, so she pulled her phone out and messaged her therapist, not caring it was only 6 a.m.

Paige: Sorry about the time. Can you fit me in today. I can’t control it.

It took a few minutes, but he replied.

Kyrie: Do you want to come in at 7?

She hesitated. Azzi might wake up confused, disoriented. Paige needed to be here.

Paige: I don’t think I can leave right now. Can you come over?

Kyrie: Will be there in 15.

Paige let out a breath. Just talking with Kyrie would help. Even if he couldn’t offer a solution, maybe he could help her think clearly. Breathe again.

She went back into her bedroom and did what she had been doing all night – sitting in one of the accent chairs, watching Azzi sleep.

Azzi looked like she belonged there. Curled on the left side of the bed, her curls spread across the lavender sheets like ink. She didn’t know that Paige always slept on the right, always closest to the door. But somehow, Azzi had left it open for her.

Paige started the night trying to sleep. But every time she drifted off, a nightmare played behind her eyelids. Manny, again and again.

Azzi started to whimper softly, her brow pinched. Then the restlessness began — a leg kicking out, her body twisting under the covers. Paige crossed the room and gently touched her face, smoothing her eyebrows with her thumb, brushing her knuckles against her cheek. To her surprise it worked. Azzi melted into the sheets.

So, Paige stayed close. All night, she sat by the bed, chasing away the nightmares Azzi couldn’t fight off herself. And when she wasn’t soothing her, she was planning. Trying to figure out what the hell she could do to help Azzi feel whole again.

The elevator dinged. Kyrie was here.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Kyrie Irving was one of Paige’s favorite people. He was steady, dependable, and the best therapist Paige could have hoped for. He helped her untangle trauma she didn’t even know she was carrying. Paige wanted to be fine by the time she had Soleil, and Kyrie made sure she was.

Even now, mostly healed, Paige had a session with him twice a month.

“If it isn’t my favorite client.” He greeted with a crooked smile and a side hug.

Paige smiled, leaning into his embrace. “We can go to my office.”

Kyrie looked at her with a raised brow. “You got company or something?”

She hesitated. “That’s part of what I need to talk about.”

His smirk dropped quickly, following Paige into the office.

She closed the door and motioned to the two armchairs. They sat.

“I’m sure you saw the papers over the weekend?” She began. Kyrie nodded and gestured for her to continue. “It’s not a real relationship.”

Kyrie interjected. “I mean I figured. You hadn’t mentioned anybody in any of our sessions.”

Paige rolled her eyes. “She was Soleil’s teacher, and she worked at the club. I offered her… a different option.” Her gaze dropped. “Anyway, she lost her job when the photos of us came out. And her abusive ass ex found out where she was. She’d been hiding from him for two years.”

Kyrie’s voice was calm. “An abusive ex, how is that landing on you?”

Paige shrugged. “I had a couple nightmares. Didn’t go back to sleep. Got really angry. Destroyed one of the model apartments.”

“It’s good that you were able to release your anger without hurting anyone, Paige.”

“Yeah, I get that. But Azzi had a breakdown yesterday. Didn’t want her to see me like that and get scared.” She swallowed, shifting uncomfortably. “It feels like this was all my fault.”

Kyrie nodded. “Can you tell me why?”

“She wouldn’t have lost her job if I hadn’t taken her to the gala. If the photos didn’t come out. And her ex found her because of them. Everyone knows where I live. It wouldn’t be hard to figure out.”

“Did you force her into this relationship?” Kyrie’s head tilted to the side.

Paige rolled her eyes, knowing where this was going. “No, but if I didn’t offer, she’d still have her job and she’d be safe.”

“Do you think she didn’t think the photos of you would be publicized?”

She scoffed. “She’s not an idiot, but I don’t think she knew what all would happen because of it. She only accepted because she’s in so much debt.”

“Did she tell you that?”

“No, I had someone look into it.” Paige muttered ashamed. “Her fuck ass ex-boyfriend put credit cards, their apartment, his car, all of it was in her name. He stopped paying when she left, probably to get her to come back, and it wrecked her credit. She’s paying it all off now. It’s why she was working at the club.”

“Hmm.” Kyrie rubbed his beard. “So it’s the ex-boyfriend’s fault?”

Paige couldn’t answer that. Yes, Paige is partially the reason why Azzi got involved in this mess, but she wasn’t the reason Azzi was struggling enough to accept her offer. Grant was.

“I want to murder him. Make it take time so he can feel at least a little bit of the pain she’s in right now.”

Kyrie shrugged. “You can find out where he is. You have people for that. You could find him and do whatever you think is necessary. Why won’t you?”

“I don’t know what Azzi would do if I did. Her mind is so fractured right now. I don’t know if she’d feel like it was her fault.” She paused. “Her situation was different than mine.”

“How so?” Kyrie questioned.

Paige leaned towards her therapist. “Manny wasn’t manipulative like that; I mean he manipulated his way into marriage. But after he just wanted to drink, play his game, and abuse me.” Her brow furrowed. “I mean it was bad, but he never came back and told me he loved me or that it was my fault. When I got rid of him, he didn’t linger in my mind.”

“But Azzi’s abuse was different?”

“Yeah. He drugged her and assaulted her. That’s how their relationship started. He isolated her, so she could feel like he was the only person who loved her. The only person who could love her.” Paige sighed. “She’s just – she’s so good. She’s kind. She sees everyone as a person deserving of love. She’s just perfect. But he said so much shit to her that she blames herself. She thinks she deserved it. She can’t even trust herself to make simple decisions.” She swallowed hard. “I don’t just want to kill him. I want to make him suffer, at least half as much as she’s suffering now.”

The office was quiet for a little bit. “So, what were you wanting from today’s session?” He asked.

“I don’t know what to do to help her.”

Kyrie stood, “Are there feelings involved?”

Paige stiffened, then nodded. “I want her, but I would rather have her be happy and healthy. I need you to help me with that.”

“I think you have to ask her. It seems like she needs structure and for people to show her she doesn’t need to earn love.”

Paige nodded.

“It’s 7:45. I gotta get to the office so I can prep for my first client.”

The two walked out together, “Imma text you and make an appointment for Thursday or Friday.” Paige said.

A figure on the couch made her stop short.

Azzi sat rigidly, curls messy, eyes wide. She glanced from Paige to Kyrie and back again.

“Oh, hey Az.” Paige offered a smile. “Didn’t know you were up already.”

Azzi nodded slowly. Her shoulders were tight. Her lips pressed in a line. Eyes flickered between Paige and Kyrie.

“This is my therapist, Kyrie. He’s the best.” Paige turned to the man. “Kyrie, this is Azzi.”

Kyrie gave her a gentle smile. “Nice to meet you, Azzi. I’ll see myself out, P.”

He didn’t linger. Paige watched him go, then turned back to Azzi.

And for the first time all morning, she wasn’t sure what to say.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Azzi didn’t know what to do. Paige smiled, but she’d just met with her therapist, so there was obviously something wrong. Azzi didn’t know if she was angry at her and not wanting her to know or what. Azzi knew what to do when people were angry at her, but she couldn’t get a good enough read on Paige to know.

Paige looked calm — too calm. Azzi had seen that kind of calm before. The kind that came after a decision. The kind Grant wore, right before everything fell apart.

She stared at her hands, nervously cracking her knuckles. “Are you angry with me?”

“Why would I be angry, Azzi?” The brunette scoffed quietly. “I’m not mad at you at all. Are you mad at me?”

“No!” Azzi’s head shot up, only to see a smirk.

“There you are,” smirk turned to a warm smile. “What do you want for breakfast today?”

Azzi was even more confused than before. Was Paige asking her these questions, waiting for her to answer one incorrectly?

Her hands were trembling. Her heart wouldn’t slow. She felt a mix of agitation and anxiety; she was aware of her inability to make a decision, but there were too many options that Paige could have thought were wrong.

“What are you feeling?” She questioned, looking at Paige. That usually worked with Grant, even when he was already annoyed with her.

“I’ll eat anything, as long as it doesn’t have vegetables.” Paige’s head tilted. “Why won’t you answer me?”

Azzi’s ears started ringing. Her vision tunneled. Her head felt light. Eyes blurred with tears. “I– I– I’m sorry. I just – I’m okay with whatever you want. I’m sorry.” She felt her hands shaking and her body tense.

She’d fucked up again. Paige wasn’t going to want her in her life, in her family anymore.

She was going to get rid of her.

She wouldn’t even have a home once Paige kicked her out; she broke her lease when she moved in here.

Grant was right. She fucked up everything.

She was so stupid. Such a fuck up.

“–zi! Azzi! Fuck. Azzi!” She blinked quickly, feeling warm hands on her face.

When had she started breathing so fast?

Blue eyes and pale skin were the only things she could see.

Azzi blinked hard.

“Azzi. You’re having a panic attack. You need to slow down your breathing. Can you do that for me?”

The woman took Azzi’s hand and pressed it to her chest. “Match your breathing to mine, Az.”

Warmth filled Azzi’s chest.

“In,” chest expanded. “Out.” Cool air against her face.

Slowly but surely, Azzi was able to breathe on her own. When she recognized where she was, she broke.

This is so embarrassing. Fuck. What kind of person has panic attacks in front of their boss? Of course Paige wouldn’t want her now.

Heart wrenching sobs came out as fast as her tears. She was pulled forward, head burrowing in Paige’s chest. Paige just let her get it out. Didn’t rush her. Didn’t sigh impatiently. Didn’t do anything. Just held her and let her cry.

After a while, Azzi calmed down.

“Do you want some water? Or tea?” The blonde offered kindly.

“Can you tell me what happened? What set you off?” Paige asked quietly.

Azzi pulled away a little, wrapping her arms around herself. “I thought you were mad at me.”

“Why?” Paige tilted her chin up until Azzi’s eyes were on her.

“I couldn’t make up my mind. Couldn’t answer.” Her voice was small. “I thought… I thought you wanted the right answer. I don’t even know what you like yet.”

Paige nodded. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t asking for a certain answer.” She paused. “Does that make you anxious?”

“I don’t like to be wrong. I don’t like getting yelled at.” Azzi’s eyes dropped again.

“Thank you for telling me that, Azzi. I won’t promise anything, but I’ll do my best to remember that. Was there anything else that you were worried about?”

Paige’s hand dropped to Azzi’s knee, stopping the bouncing she wasn’t even aware of. Azzi’s eyes locked on hers. Paige’s thumb brushed gently over her knee, anchoring her.

“Making choices makes me nervous sometimes. Grant didn’t let me, and when I did, he always said something mean.” She hesitated. “I’m sorry for kicking you out of your bed. I didn’t mean to sleep over.” She finished, cheeks pink.

Paige’s smile bloomed — real and full. It knocked the breath from Azzi’s chest. It was perfect. “That’s okay! I wanted you to rest. And if it’ll help, I can give you suggestions? You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, but if you think it’ll help, I don’t mind.”

Azzi felt her brows crease as she thought about Paige’s proposition. There was an appeal to not having to think through every choice she made, but she wasn’t sure she could completely trust Paige to lead her. Sure, she’d been great so far, but she could change.

She eyed Paige warily before the blonde added, “We could try it out today, and tonight, you can let me know how it felt. If you like it, we can keep doing it, but if you don’t, we can think of something else.”

Azzi felt herself nodding. Her brain hadn’t even finished processing the information.

Her body felt safe before her mind allowed it. Maybe, just maybe, she could believe it was real.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Azzi nervously followed Paige into the kitchen. “So, what now? Are you just gonna control me, but be nicer than Grant?”

Paige had to take a deep grounding breath to keep her temper. “I know that’s what it felt like with him, but that’s not what I want. I don’t want to control you. I want to care for you. But I need your help to figure out what that looks like.”

Her eyes tracked the slim body moving around the kitchen. “I’m sorry. I just don’t understand.” She swallowed, “I– it’s just that this really scares me. And I feel bad because you haven’t done anything to me, but I’m terrified I’m making the wrong choices.”

“That’s why we’re trying this out today, Azzi.” She smiled. “I don’t know if it’ll work, but I’ll keep trying things until we find something that helps you.”

Warmth bloomed in Azzi’s chest. Paige was still being kind — still not shaming her, still patient. Maybe she really could trust her.

“I hated hearing how you talked about yourself yesterday.” Paige’s voice was quiet, hands steady as she chopped strawberries. “You didn’t deserve that. You’re worth so much more than the things he made you believe, and I’ll remind you until it starts to feel true.”

Paige moved to the fridge, “I am gonna make smoothies, eggs, and bacon. Do you like all of those?”

“Yes,” Azzi said, with a nod.

“Good. Thank you for telling me.” She moved around the kitchen, collecting bananas, yogurt, and chia seeds. “Do you want spinach in your smoothie?”

Azzi nodded, eye catching the clock on the Echo Show. “It’s getting pretty late. Can I go get Soleil up?”

“Yes, thank you.” While Azzi was sliding off the bar stool, Paige continued. “After breakfast, I want to speak with you. I want you to think about things you do well and things you struggle with.”

Azzi’s pulse picked up, head bobbing.

“There aren’t any right or wrong answers, as long as you try your best, it’ll be perfect.” Paige finished with a bright smile.

Azzi nodded, trying to carry Paige’s steadiness with her as she walked toward the room with the yellow door. The curly headed girl was sprawled across her bed, mouth wide open. She walked up to the bed, kneeling near Soleil’s head.

“Good morning, Sunny Girl.” Azzi whispered, rubbing circles onto Soleil’s back. “It’s time to wake up, baby.”

A pout formed on Soleil’s lips and a grunt fell from her mouth.

“Mommy’s making breakfast.” Azzi continued, brushing wild hair for her little face.

Blue eyes peeked open and widened quickly. “Azzi, you’we hewe again!” Soleil exclaimed, throwing her arms around the woman’s neck.

“Yes, I’m still here, Sunny Girl.” She said, wrapping her arms around the girl and lifting her to her hip.

“You staying all day?” Soleil’s big blue eyes inquisitive.

She nodded back at the girl. “Mhmm. Let’s go have breakfast.” She finished with a light tap to Soleil’s button nose.

The duo moved back into the kitchen, giggling about nothing as Paige poured smoothies into three glasses.

“Good morning, Pretty Girl,” Soleil wiggled from Azzi’s arms, running to her mom.

“Hi, Mommy. Can I pray for breakfast?” Soleil asked, adorable smile on her face.

Soleil prayed, allowing all three ladies to eat breakfast. The girl bounced questions off both women. How do wainbows wowk? Can we have chicken for lunch? When do I go back to school? But I want Azzi to be my teachew. Can she teach me? So, I only have to go to school in the mownings? Can I go make a bwacelet for Azzi?

After Paige gave an affirmative answer to the last question, Soleil shot off to her art corner in a blur of pink and white.

“She’s the best,” Azzi smiled, watching her run away.

There was a comfortable silence, well, until Paige ruined it. “Sorry to burst your bubble, Azzi. But have you thought about what I asked you earlier?”

“I know what I’m bad at. It’s always in the back of my mind, but it’s gotten louder since I saw him.” Azzi looked at her hands, shame flooding her body.

Paige’s hand came to the back of Azzi’s neck, quieting her thoughts a bit. “That’s okay; that’s what we’re working on. Does it bother you when I do this?” Paige questioned, squeezing a little.

“No,” Azzi said, shaking her head. “It makes my head go quiet. It helped when you did it in the meeting, and it helps now.”

“Okay. So, you like physical touch?” A nod. “Good. So that’s one thing you like. What’s something you like about yourself?”

“I’m kinda – I think I’m good at seeing people? What they feel. What they like. The little things. Like Soleil likes to eat in someone’s lap; it makes her feel bigger. I think I’m good at seeing stuff like that.”

Paige smiled again. “You are really good at that, Azzi. You see everyone, and you care enough to notice and remember things about all people.”

Azzi followed the blonde’s figure as she walked to one of the cabinets, grabbing two mugs and the electric kettle. “Your hands are shaking, which I understand. This is a hard conversation, but you’re doing a good job. Do you think tea will help? It may give you more time to think if you want.”

“Yes, thank you. Do you have chamomile or lavender?” Azzi asked, relaxing a little.

Paige made the tea quietly, letting thoughts race through Azzi’s mind.

She set down two mugs of tea on the island gently.

Paige didn’t push. “Take your time. There’s no rush.”

Azzi stared at her tea, swirling the spoon inside like it could stir up an answer. “I don’t think I’m good at a lot of things,” she started, voice thin. “I mean, I try to be. But I mess things up. Or I get overwhelmed. Or I freeze.”

Paige said nothing, only waited.

“I used to think I was good at teaching. Or at least good with kids.” Her brow furrowed. “But now, I don’t know if I was good or just lucky.”

Paige interjected, voice calm. “They fired you because you are gay. Don’t let them erase all the good you’ve done. You’re amazing with Soleil. That’s not luck.”

Azzi’s shoulders lifted and fell. She looked so unsure, so close to retreating.

“I think I’m good at comforting people. Or at least I want to be.” She muttered.

Paige smiled, not wide, but full of pride. “You are. You’re so good at that, Azzi. You’re gentle, and you listen. I know all your students feel safe with you. Especially Soleil.”

Azzi flushed, blinking hard.

Paige reached out again, this time placing her hand over Azzi’s fidgeting ones. She stilled them with a soft squeeze.

“Now tell me what you struggle with.” A quiet, but firm expectation.

Azzi froze, then slowly unraveled.

“I struggle with making decisions. I second guess everything, and Grant didn’t really let me make choices. And now I always think I’ll mess it up or disappoint someone.”

“Okay, we can work on that. Go on.” Paige encouraged, thumb brushing soothing circles on the back of her hand.

“I get scared of being wrong. And being alone. And of people getting mad at me. Even if they’re not. I try to fix it before it happens. I – I want people to be happy with me. I think they will stay if I can make them happy.” Her breath hitched. “Sometimes I feel like I don’t even know what I want. I don’t know what’s really me and what’s just me trying to be good enough.”

Paige’s hand moved to Azzi’s cheek, grounding her.

“You don’t have to know everything yet,” she said quietly. “But if you want, I can help you learn what feels right for you. And if you get overwhelmed, I’ll be right here. I’ll give you choices, not tests.”

Azzi’s eyes were glassy, lip quivering. “But what if I get it wrong?”

Paige leaned forward, voice low and steady. “Then I’ll help you try again. That’s all this is, Az. Trying.” She tucked a curl behind Azzi’s ear. “And if you want structure, I can give it to you. Gently. Just enough to make the day easier. You’ll always have the final say.”

Azzi nodded, tears slipping freely now. Paige let her feel it, all of it.

“Can you tell me one more thing you like about yourself?” Paige asked.

Azzi thought for a long time. “I’m loyal,” she finally said. “Even when people don’t deserve it. And I keep secrets. I don’t talk about people behind their backs. I – I really try to be kind.”

Paige nodded. “You are kind. You’re thoughtful, and brave even when you don’t feel it. You don’t give up, even when it’s hard.” She paused, gently tilting her chin up. Once blue met brown, she added, “I’m proud of you for telling me all of this. You did such a good job, Azzi. You don’t have to do it alone anymore.”

Azzi nods shakily, voice small. “I’m scared. But I want to learn. If you’ll help me.”

[hunterrrs]

Bike rides, banana bread and being ‘a bullet’: How Sidney Crosby leads Penguins into a new era - SUCH A GOOD ARTICLE (also baby sid buying a car...)

Whether it was when Crosby baked banana bread for the Penguins two years ago or all the times he has recognized something was up with a teammate and checked in on them, everybody seems to have at least one Sid story to share.

Just as striking to these fledgling Penguins has been seeing how Crosby goes out of his way to make every one of them feel like part of the team.

“He’s so welcoming. It’s honestly crazy how he’s a better person than he is a player given how outstanding he is as a player,” prospect Jonathan Gruden said. “But he’s just an unbelievable person who makes you feel like you’ve been here 18, 20 years along with [Evgeni Malkin and Kris Letang]. It’s incredible.”

For Broz, it was that ride on the exercise bikes or sticking around after an informal skate in the middle of July to share pointers with a prospect. For Gruden, it was Crosby texting a young pro who had just gotten called up to the NHL and inviting him over to his house to watch football with the guys.

And for Rutger McGroarty, it started with the text message that Crosby sends many players when they join the organization and quickly evolved from there.

It had been a whirlwind week for McGroarty when the Penguins finalized a trade to acquire him in August. His phone would not stop buzzing as the congratulatory messages poured in. As McGroarty scrolled through them, he froze.

“Oh, it’s Sidney Crosby! Not a normal text you’d get on your average day,” he said. “I was actually sitting next to a couple of my buddies and I showed them.”

A month later, McGroarty was cracking up on the bench at a joke Crosby made.

“He’s a really funny guy,” the 20-year-old said. “It feels like there’s no age gap.”

Crosby sat back at his locker stall at the practice rink the other day, flecks of gray peeking through his black hair and sweat dripping off his chin, as he thoughtfully discussed his leadership style and getting through to Generation Z. For example, McGroarty was literally in diapers when Crosby made his debut.

“I try to put myself in their shoes, but obviously things change. They evolve,” Crosby said. “I think the biggest thing as a rookie is just all the unknowns. You’re in a new league, new team, new teammates, new city. Everything is new. The faster you feel comfortable, that’s a huge part of being able to be at your best.”

Crosby knows his first taste of the league was different, right down to living with Lemieux. He laughed while joking that all these kids won’t crash on his couch.

For the 20th straight season, Crosby is trying to get the Penguins on the same page. They will ice a veteran-heavy team in Wednesday’s season opener. But eventually, the kids are coming — sooner should the team struggle again this fall.

Crosby’s little gestures will help these prospects feel more at home when they arrive. They still may be a bit starstruck. But they will know they belong here.

“It may not seem like it,” Gruden said. “But to a young guy, it means a lot.”

[cherie-doll]

I really really really liked the they are jealous headcanons and I neeeeed a part 2 pleeeease

Maybe with already being in a relationship with them and we are at a fancier party when a random man approaches us and tries to get our number. HOW SID HE NOT KNOW THAT WE ALREADY HAVE A MAN??? What a dumbass.

Anyways so this is what I came up with, I hope it is enough to help u get ✨creative✨

Happy new yearrr

literallllyyy (another request from the bottom of my inbox ToT so sorry ˊᯅˋ )

i didn't proofread it's 3am i just want to sleep

part 1

=͟͟͞♡ Price, Ghost, Soap, Gaz, Roach, Alejandro, Rudy, Phillip Graves, Makarov, Keegan, König, Horangi, Nikto

ଓ Price was already in a grumpy mood. He wasn't a huge fan of being out so late, especially since he had returned from mission not too long ago and had been looking forward to some rest. Unfortunately, he had been dragged into this. He had planned on staying near you the entire time so whenever he felt like he's had enough; you two could just walk out hand in hand. Simple plan. What was not planned... was him losing sight of you. He had turned to grab another drink, momentarily letting go of you. Only a second and when he turned back to face you, you were no longer by his side. Maybe you had to use the restroom or something. Until he felt an urge to find you, he didn't like not knowing where you were. He wasn't none too happy to find another fellow trying to pull you away, but he didn't feel like dealing with anyone so he just took you back. Grabbed your hand and walked off. Simple plan, remember?

ଓ Simon might seem amused at first. Asking if you were enjoying the attention you were receiving, hinting at the man who had tried hitting on you. But truth was, he nearly saw red when you had politely smiled at the man who had approached you. Simon wondered, if you had smiled because you found the poor attempt at flirting hilarious. He would cross his arms, standing directly behind this man who has no idea. Until he turns around and is met with the tall and intimidating wall that Simon is. The man nearly jumps out of his own skin. After that, Simon doesn't say much, not even to you or anyone. But he does keep an eye on the other guests there, just in case. Don't get him wrong though! He isn't mad at you, just a little irritated that someone would even try.

ଓ Johnny gets sooo visibly upset. Like this man frowns and crosses his arms as if he were a little kid and refuses to talk to anyone. You're stifling your laugh, trying not to worsen his mood but it really is funny watching him sulk. "Come on, it's just some guy I don't even know, I'm not going to take him seriously!" You tell him. Just some guy? Oh honey, don't even get him started! He was completely disregarded, there was no way that random man hadn't seen Johnny sitting there before, and that's what he's mad about. He's got a much friendly disposition and outward appearance, of course he wouldn't be taken as seriously unless he had gotten physical. Just thinking about it makes you want to laugh all over again but you simply bite your lip and look down. Johnny doesn't like that you're laughing because he doesn't find it funny, at all. But what else could he have done? You turned the guy down all by yourself.

ଓ Kyle will ignore the bastard as best as he can; sending a clear message. He'll keep an arm on you for the rest of the night there, and if you say something about it he'll be like "Yeah, and?". Every time your gaze drifts to the sad looking fellow, Kyle will use his hand to tilt your head away from looking that way. His face is right there, don't bother looking over there, yeah? He doesn't want to concern himself with what other people may try tonight, and you shouldn't either. You can try and get him to talk about it later on, maybe when you've made it home but he won't want to bring it up. You never took him for the type to get jealous but maybe it had been a new side you had seen tonight. He ends up forgetting pretty quickly and is content to be at home with you.

ଓ Roach hadn't been too excited to be around so many people, it was sort out of his comfort zone but he ended up going just for you. He had been sort of clingy throughout the evening; too much for your liking, especially being in public. At such a crowded event it was expected for him to get a little overwhelmed. It was only natural that he wanted to stay close to you. "Give me a moment", you had said. You had needed to use the restroom and then you would be back. He had insisted on following you but you firmly told him to wait instead. But he couldn't bear to see guys ogling you and be expected to sit and wait like a dog. He wasn't good at confronting others, but he had pinpointed his targets. One look at his face would keep you from pulling away once he reached you, tugging at your sleeve to leave; his signal to leave. You don't even get a chance to turn the men down as he keeps pulling.

ଓ Alejandro would never get insecure nor take it to heart if some irrelevant were trying to not only dance with you but also wanting to get your number. Alejandro's smoothly sliding up next to you, as if casually joining the conversation. Except he only listens to half of what this person has to say before he's snaking an arm around your waist. He's dropping the sweet nicknames he calls you like "cariño" to give a clear and direct message of you already being taken, in case the fool hasn't already noticed. He doesn't get physical because there doesn't seem to be reason for it, nor does he raise his voice since the man decides to show better judgement and walk away after seeing you welcoming Alejandro's embrace. Well, who wouldn't? You'd have to be crazy to not want to immediately jump into Alejandro's arms the moment he opens them for you.

ଓ Rodolfo had really been looking forward to this romantic candlelit event as a chance to formally take you out. He had envisioned a perfect night with you, because what could go wrong at a preplanned event? You two had been enjoying yourselves, standing on a balcony and enjoying the view over the city. He had left for a few minutes to grab some refreshments. You assumed no one would bother you, but it seems flies have a way of staying hidden and stuck to the wall before launching at any small entrance. You had been left alone and suddenly a couple of men were trying to coax you into joining an after party with them. The crude jokes followed right after. Rodolfo rarely gets visibly angry, but this was shameless disrespect and to you nonetheless. Of course he was going to intervene and create some space, protectively keeping you behind him.

ଓ Phillip doesn't play when it comes to you. Sometimes a Shadow will make a joke in passing about hitting on the commander's s/o and they'll get disciplined for it even if it wasn't serious. So imagine how much more possessive he'd get when a total stranger is being very obvious and insistent about his interest in you. You tell them you have someone and flash the ring at them that Phillip had bought you, of course Phillip always has you decked out in whatever jewelry you like. Still, that isn't enough to get the man off your back. And enter stage right Phillip Graves! "Everything alright, darling?". All tender and caring towards you but narrowing his eyes as a warning to the stranger who doesn't know when to give up. However, your hand resting on his arm as a gentle reminder helps him to not get too carried away.

ଓ Makarov doesn't bother with dealing with those pesky flies that try to get something out of you. You're his, of course there would be people who would try to get with you. But that was usually when it was clear those men couldn't give you what Makarov can. They're all bark but no bite, Makarov on the other hand, has given you everything you've ever wanted and more. At this fancy and exclusive party, there are only people with high status with all of them having deep pockets. Still, he doesn't let that stop him from showing you off like he usually does. Even if it means some might think you're a toy he can share. But here, he’ll show them that even with all their money and charms, you’ll still choose him over them. He’s leaving it to you to hold his arm, stay by his side, ask for his affection.

ଓ Keegan can't stay away for too long before someone is trying to get you to sit at another table or trying to play matchmaker by partnering you up with one of their single, lone friends. Normally, you'd reject their advances too, but part of you wanted to see how Keegan would react. You knew him to be protective of you even when you were only friends, but you wondered how much more intense he'd be now that you were officially a thing. So you played dumb, just a little wouldn't hurt. Keegan wasn't concerned at first, even leaned back and watched expectingly as he drank from his glass. But he nearly choked when you instead of ignoring them, you sat and listened, politely nodding as if you saw no problem. Did you not know they were blatantly flirting with you? Either way, party is over, he's taking you and going home. He didn't bring you here for someone else to take you on a date.

ଓ König wouldn't even have to confront anyone because the moment someone sees his tall frame towering over them, hovering near you like some entity.. they're gone in an instant. No one is sticking around long enough to find out what'll happen if they continue flirting with you. But little do they know, König might've not even noticed them, he's not the best at social cues or socialization in the first place. He would have just assumed you were making friends, unless he caught the way their eyes lingered on you a little too long. Or if their hands seem to have trouble staying at their sides. Then he'll cock his head, staring intensely and trying to read their true intentions. That is usually enough to get the person to feel uncomfortable and drop the act.

ଓ Horangi wouldn't like how many guys have approached you in the span of like half an hour. You look stunning, it's only natural all eyes would be on you, that's why he was so proud to stand by you. But it's like they completely disregarded him because why were people asking for your number? He's making himself known before you can even politely decline, asking "Didn't you see me? I'm their partner-" and you have to tell him to cut it out before he starts a fight with someone. No one hasn't gotten handsy with you yet, so it would be more embarrassing for a fight to break out all because he got jealous. You do have to admit, you sort of like seeing him get protective like this, it's kind hot idk.

ଓ Nikto shouldn't even be feeling this intense selfishness within him. Why does he suddenly dislike others having eyes? But he's not jealous, is he? He's being completely reasonable, those people should back away from you. You're both here to enjoy your time together as a couple, not to be interrupted by others. Why can't people understand that? He gets irritable seeing one person in particular follow you around, not taking your rejection for an answer, he supposes. But Nikto didn't come here to watch others try to court you, he's had enough and is taking you on his way out. He's seen enough, he doesn't want to go to another one of those dinner parties if it means entitled people will want to try their luck with you.

[coco-loco-nut]

Revelations - part 2

Pairing: Daniel Ricciardo x Reader

Summary: bringing the kids to a gp

A/n: whoooo double drop day! Enjoy!!!!

requests open masterlist part one

——————————————

“You know the drill, stay with me or your dad,” you remind your son and daughter as Daniel parks. Oscar immediately came to visit your home when you got back to Australia, wanting to catch up on the hidden parts of his fellow Aussies lives. The exchange? Free babysitting.

Daniel is such a girl dad, it almost pains you that your daughter likes him more than you, but your son is a mama’s boy so it balances out.

“Florence, keep a tight hold of me,” Daniel says, carrying the four year old on his him. She dozes on his shoulder halfway to the paddock entrance. Your son, Sidney, had a tight grip of your hand. You decided to get here early, before media, so there was a less stressful entrance. Even the video that Red Bull posts of Daniel walking through the paddock blurs out your children’s faces.

“Uncle Maxie,” your daughter stretches her arms out to the Dutchman. He carefully takes her and walks off, chatting away. If it were anyone but Max, you might be concerned.

“Hi Uncle Christian,” Sidney greets his godfather excitedly, the older man equally happy to see his godson. Christian gives you and Daniel the go ahead to walk away and grab breakfast at Hospitality.

“Will you be okay watching them the whole race while being my engineer?” Daniel asks as you both pick at your plates.

“Kelly is going to keep an eye on them, they will be with her in the garage. I think your Mom is coming in for the race tomorrow,” you tell Daniel. You decided to test out their F1 tolerance during FP3 and Qualis instead of just the race.

They do well enough that you feel comfortable with having them in the garage for the race. You do your race engineer work from the garage instead of the pit wall, preferring to be closer with the mechanics and other engineers. Halfway through the race, your mother-in-law carefully hands you a fussy and tired Florence. You let her sit on your lap as you work, holding her close, something that F1TV caught. She notices you talking to her father.

Daniel, overtake is available at the next DRS

Copy, DRS is enabled

Nice overtake, continue to defend. Daddy?

Is that Flo? Tell her I said hi and to let you work.

Copy, focus on your race, please.

Florence is happy to know her dad heard her and quickly falls asleep on your shoulder.

Daniel, box, fresh set of hards are ready for you.

Copy. How are the kids?

Flo is sleeping and Sid is watching with P. Please focus on the race, Danny. Box, box.

Alright Mrs Ricciardo, I see how it is, all business no fun

Someone has to keep you focused, Daniel.

You honestly don’t know how no one had picked up on Daniel’s radio messages to you before your relationship was revealed. He does focus on the race, it’s his job, but every once in a while he does make comments that aren’t racing related. As the last few laps are underway, Florence wakes up from her nap. You point out her dad on one of the screens and decide to surprise him by letting her talk to him.

“Okay Flo, just like I told you,” you gently remove the headphones covering her ears and put the far too big headset on her. Christian is the one who suggested that you do that.

Great race Daddy, P5

Hi Baby Girl, did you help your mama out this race?

I did, just like you told me to.

Good job, I’m so proud of you. Now, let me talk to your mama, she has some special things to tell me. I’ll see you soon sweetheart.

Hey Daniel, great race. Team’s proud of you. Pull in for weigh ins and media. We will have a quick debrief but we are happy with the race.

Copy. Couldn’t have done it without you and the team. Thanks guys.

Kelly and Daniel’s mom entertain the kids while you and Daniel have post-race meetings, but when you get to his drivers room after your last meeting with the engineers, you find him passed out on the couch with your kids sleeping on him. You snap a picture, sending it to one of your Red Bull group chats as well as directly to Max and Oscar.

Social media was loving the radio clips of you and Daniel talking, as well as Florence congratulating her father. Pair that with the videos of her sleeping on your shoulder mid race and every other clip of you and Daniel with the kids, it’s no wonder why your family is trending.

“Dan,” you whisper, gently shaking your husband’s shoulder.

“Hm? Have I been asleep long?” He whispers, trying not to disturb the kids.

“Probably not. Let’s get back to the hotel,” you smile softly, gently picking up Florence so he can get up. He carries Sidney, who is still asleep, while you carry Florence. Thankfully for the both of you, you were ready to leave.

“No more races for them until they are older,” Daniel proposes.

“Unless it’s here, I think I will agree to that,” you nod, brushing hair off of Florence’s head. You realistically know Daniel only has a couple seasons left in him, and that Florence wants to race just like her dad, so it might be better to wait until one of you is available to be with them the whole time. Sidney stirs as you get closer to your car.

“That was fun, when are we going again?”

[evermarch]

on the mortality of president snow

this post has been in the works since i finished sotr, but i wanted to revisit ballad before sharing my thoughts. one thing i absolutely loved about sotr is that snow was not the #1 Main Antagonist so much as The Capitol, abstractly, because it hammers home one of the most essential points of the trilogy. we have this image of tyrants like snow as all-powerful, hyper-intelligent demigods four steps ahead of everyone else. like a snake charmer, they woo a population into submission with superhuman charisma. we have that concept of snow because that's katniss' view of him, and certainly the view he has of himself in ballad. snow in sotr entirely disrupts that perception. in fact, during each substantial interaction between snow and haymitch, snow appears, more than anything else, weak. in haymitch's words, "he's just a man, as mortal as the rest of us."

in private, snow's fragility is a striking juxtaposition with the young man he presents himself as in his own narrative. in the meeting at the heavensbee home, snow is retching and shuddering from poison. he seethes over how, half a century ago, the heavensbees were rich enough to keep books when he had to burn them. though haymitch doesn't, we know that he's word vomiting about the covey because he’s still not over a girl he had a thing with 40 years ago. the implications of this doomed tribute are so concerning to snow, a man with indefinite and unlimited authority and resources, that he arranges a meeting with haymitch under the guise of warning him that, should his behavior continue, his family will be harmed.

only, that's exactly what happens. publicly, snow and haymitch are caught in a chess match in which, each time the audience is paying attention, haymitch forces snow to forfeit a pawn. when haymitch slow claps over louella’s body, snow has no escape. he is "mocked" on camera by a boy wearing a covey necklace. later, the most snow can do on stage at the victor's ceremony is issue a subtle threat to "enjoy your homecoming." yes, haymitch's family will pay. but that wasn't what snow wanted. it wasn't sid who drank his milk. it wasn't willamae who flooded his watchful eye with its own tears. snow had been unable to kill haymitch, even in the middle of a televised battle royale. amongst the roaring applause for the victor, snow must crown him victorious, kneecapped by the demands of his own people.

not only is snow astonishingly fallible, but he is never solely responsible for any of his horrors. in ballad coriolanus was powerless, and he had to take matters into his own hands. he killed bobbin personally. he used highbottom's weakness against him by poisoning the morphling. only sejanus was not his death blow—but he, a lowly, rank-and-file peacekeeper, reported his friend knowing it would inevitably result in his death, no matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise. in sotr, not a single one of the atrocities snow orchestrates happens by his hand. from lou lou to beetee and ampert to the games themselves to the deaths of sid/ma/lenore dove, each one involves a substantial number of people. each requires scientists and escorts and gamemakers and arsonists and peacekeepers willing to execute his plans.

so why would people back someone so feeble? someone who is not only personally weak, but whose power depends entirely on other people? because it's not snow they're supporting. it's not even the games, for which people still need convincing. it's what they represent. the message, even 50 years later, must be constantly reinforced to every citizen of panem with posters painted in blood to spread the narrative of "no capitol, no peace." in the districts, "no peacekeepers, no peace" means that, without the peacekeepers upholding the system with their guns and whips and ropes, they will be obliterated for their crimes. just like district 13. in the capitol, "no hunger games, no peace" means that, without the games to punish the enemies responsible for "starting" the war, they will forget and try again. and the capitol will fall besieged once again.

this messaging works because both sides still have people who remember the dark days. they remember the brutality of the capitol and the siege of the rebels. to the survivors, capitol and district alike, giving up their rights and self-determination is unequivocally worth preventing a return to war. it's not a conscious choice, of course. it's implicit submission. and the critical point is that people implicitly submit not to their specific role in upholding the system, and not even to snow, but to the narrative. to the opinion of government. to the inevitability of the system itself. and snow, as the #1 peacekeeper, manifests that narrative.

we meet characters from the districts and capitol alike who represent various points on the spectrum of implicit submission. people who swallow the propaganda wholeheartedly like drusilla, someone who lived through the aftermath of the war, who has dehumanized her enemies so much that she channels her cruelty and selfishness to abuse "their" children. ones who, in the face of hopelessness, forfeit their morality, like jethro callow and the booker boys. those who believe, as mr. donner does, that whatever facade of power their wallets provide is enough to spare them from the system which fuels that facade. and people like effie, whose kindness and humanity remains intact, who feel true sympathy for those who suffer in the name of upholding the system, but swallow like sugar the belief that it is for the greater good.

snow, specifically, appeals to each of these people, whether as a villain or as a savior, not because he is so intuitive or charming or brilliant as he considers himself to be, but because no one believes the propaganda more than coriolanus himself. throughout ballad, he constantly questioned his theory of governance, but he never, not once, questioned his core belief that the capitol is superior to the districts. that capitol people are superior to district people. when lucy gray threatened this fundamental reality by becoming someone worth loving, he first tried to distance her from his enemy by emphasizing her covey background. but when he went to 12 and saw her among his enemies, he decided he'd rather kill the piece of himself capable of love than consider that his belief system might be flawed. 40 years later, he's still not past her because she is the lock on the dam which keeps his cognitive dissonance from spilling over.

snow only learns one lesson in those 40 years, the one he adopts in the epilogue of ballad during his gamemaker internship: the value of a group project. he is successful in coming to power because he realizes that, whether they’re the intoxicated capitol crowd cheering on haymitch’s scar or the gamemakers who maysilee and maritte kill, every capitol citizen is fundamentally necessary to upholding the system over which snow now presides. regardless of their degree of complicity in its maintenance, the implicit submission of the feeble-minded masses is what keeps it running. what snow does not learn by the 50th games is that he is one of them.

not, of course, that he had the opportunity to understand that before—it was the heavensbees, after all, not the snows, who got to keep books for reading and not kindling. by the 50th games, however, coriolanus has no such excuse. yet, he still decides to send haymitch the milk pitcher in the arena. he could have had haymitch killed at any point before now, but he needs haymitch to suffer more than just an agonizing death. he needs him to die a selfish being, who deprived a poor, starving girl of her salvation, or live as a pariah, who poisoned her to survive. it is not just haymitch who needs to die. it is his poster. the opposition to the narrative. to the essence of snow's being. but it's that very choice which causes snow's plan to collapse. because his catch-22 is cut off by silka’s axe.

this moment, not his performance of illness to plutarch and haymitch, not his notice of a covey necklace while haymitch stands over a dead girl, not even his crowning haymitch victor, is what best portrays snow's weakness. that best demonstrates that he doesn’t have ultimate control over the depravity of the games and panem’s system of stratification and subjugation. snow fears chaos more than anything in the world, swallows the propaganda and rises to the top of the government in search of unimpeachable control. yet, despite his supreme power, he does not find what he seeks. because the fear, the pain, the oppression, and the deaths do not serve him; he serves them. his efforts are undermined not by some powerful capitol usurper, but by a scared and brainwashed teenager from district 1 desperate to get home to her family and to glory. his authority is undermined by his own belief system.

snow does not learn his true place during the 50th games. but the lesson is still there to be learned. and people do. plutarch, beetee, wiress, mags, and every subsequent member of the rebellion learn that snow is only one step of the battle. coin, too, learns it, training the focus of her most problematic adversaries like katniss and finnick on him so that they don't notice her. but no one learns the lesson better than haymitch. over time, he comes to realize that the threat to be defeated is a pitcher of milk, not a bag of gumdrops. the real enemy, the true antagonist, is not one man who positions himself as the villain, but the movement from where he sources his power. the real enemy has always been the capitol itself. snow was never the snake charmer. he was always just a snake.

which is why, when the war finally comes, haymitch is not among the parade of people clamoring to kill snow, but rather in the control booth directing the mockingjay. undoubtedly, haymitch wants snow dead. but, at this point, he has the perspective to recognize that his failure in the 50th games was snow's failure, too. which is why, when the war is won, he aligns his vote with katniss. because, after 25 years, he's come to know exactly what she's known from the minute she held out the berries. the lesson she learned from peeta, who's always understood that everyone, even snow, is a piece in the capitol's games. that snow’s death changes nothing. because the power is in the message, not the voice. and if the message isn't contained, its voice can change with a flip of a coin.

coriolanus snow is just a man, a mortal being. he has never been who the real enemy is. the enemy has always been the idea, the propaganda, that fueled him. from the words of a ballad and a declaration of love to the guidance of a mentor shifting the aim of an arrow, all four of the victors from district 12 learn in their own time how to fight this opinion of government. they learn not to implicitly submit. and it's because they do so that the the sun did not rise on a reaping ever again.

[aftersunsz]

#1 DAD (SIDNEY CROSBY)

summary: Ever since Sidney learned about Vivien’s pregnancy, he’s determined to be the best dad ever

an: here’s a slightly late Father’s Day post :) also this has a time skips sorry about that :/

what to expect series

November 2016 (3 Months)

“What is my beautiful wife craving this morning?” Sidney asked Vivien as she finally woke up. It was one of Sidney’s rare days off and so far, they’ve spent most of the morning in bed watching episodes of ‘Charmed’. Vivien had recently gotten addicted to watching the show after a work friend recommended it.

“Everything.” Vivien yawned and snuggled up to her husband.

“I can get you that,” Sidney chuckled and kissed the top of her head. “What does my Lovebug really want?”

“Lovebug is craving . . .” Vivien thought about all the ice cream she had been eating lately. She knew she had to eat proper food before ice cream. “Would you hate me if I say our baby is craving non breakfast foods?”

“Technically it’s close to lunch time so . . .” Sidney nodded at her so she could continue.

“Mac and Cheese and some nuggets . . . Oh! And cheese pizza but with the really gooey cheese.” She started listing the foods items.

“Okay . . Does our baby wants anything else?” Sidney started getting up, picking up his pants from the floor.

“And green grapes. They have to be green, Sid. They taste so much better.”

And soon, Sidney was off to pick up everything Vivien had told him she wanted. It didn’t matter that he had to go to multiple stores, he was getting everything his girls wanted.

—

February 2017 (6 Months)

Sidney stood in the nursery that he had just finished painting. The color Vivien had chosen was a pretty light green. The couple had decided to wait until the birth to know the gender. Why? Well when Vivien’s mother, Alice, was pregnant with Vivien, the doctor had told her that she was pregnant with a boy. As a result, Vivien had to sleep in a blue nursery and wear blue and gray onesies instead of pink or purple.

Speaking of Vivien, she was currently at work. While her boss insisted that she could work from home, Vivien wanted to spend her time in the office surrounded by people and not by the TV and vanilla ice creams

Sidney sighed for what seemed like the thousandth time that day and started walking towards the door when he looked at the doorframe. Vivien had recently told him about all the height markings on her childhood bedroom’s door. Like his wife, Sidney also had height markings on his doorframe. He ran his fingertips over where he or Vivien would mark their child’s height. That instantly brought a smile to his lips.

—

April 2017 (8 Months) Game 1

Sidney had reportedly told Vivien to stay home so she could be more comfortable watching the game, but she wasn’t going to miss it. She sat in one of the suites with her and Sidney’s parents and Fleury’s wife and kids. They were all quite protective of her. Every time Vivien moved to adjust her sweater or try to get up for food or water, she would get told ‘are you okay? do you need something?’ It was starting to get annoying for her, but she knew it was because they cared about her.

First period had gone by and still no goal from either team. While Fleury’s wife talked about her kids’ grades in school, Vivien got a text message from Sidney.

“How is he already on his phone? He just got off the ice.” Vivien looked up from her phone to try to find Sidney, but he was already gone. “He’s asking if I’m okay.”

“If you don’t respond right now, he might come all the way here in his gear just to make sure.” Veronique said.

So Vivien quickly replied back.

Yes. I’m with Veronique and our parents. Focus on your game, captain.

Seconds later, his reply came.

If you or lovebug need anything, let me know.

How? You’re going to be playing in a couple of minutes.

Pens staff have my phone when I play in case something happens

Babe, I love you but I am fine 100% please stop worrying and win the game for your lovebug

Yes ma’am

When second period came, so did the goals. Vivien tried her best to cheer for the team, it wasn’t easy celebrating when she was eight months. In the end, the penguins got the win. A win for Lovebug.

[angelsuecult]

uncensored | s. crosby

warnings: MINORS DNI! a whole lot of cursing and smut. some roughness, so please read at your own discretion.

summary: sidney’s feeling in the mood to incorporate something beyond what you might expect. a forgotten phone catches all the nastiest details after a nice night out with friends.

wordcount: 6.2k

a/n: plotless smut with a twist, literally nothing more. also anon i saw ur message and i’ve been having connectivity problems all day which is why i’ve only just got around to uploading but thank u for ur kind words!! i don’t even know how i got this idea but.. also i felt bad that it wasn’t uploaded when i said it would be so i made it extra long! hopefully i can get that request one up today too, if not it will absolutely be up tomorrow. i hope y’all enjoy it! feel free to fill my inbox with your thoughts or requests! i love u little sluts🫶

The evening started innocently enough, the restaurant hummed with life, dim lighting casting a warm glow on the surroundings. Laughter and conversation filled the air as glasses clinked together, the smell of freshly cooked dishes floated through the air from the open kitchen. You were seated at a long table with a group of friends, a mix of familiar faces. Everyone seemed to be in high spirits.

Sid sat beside you, his thigh pressing lightly against yours, a silent connection that had been building since you first arrived. Every time his arm brushed yours as he reached for his drink, or when his fingers rested casually on your knee under the table, you could feel the tension simmering between you both. It wasn’t just the wine making your head feel light, its was the proximity, the heat of his body next to yours, and the way his touch lingered a second too long.

Across the table, your friends were in the middle of a heated discussion about the best vacation spots. You and Sidney were only half-listening, caught up in your own bubble as you sipped on your wine. His gaze flicked toward you, his lips quirking into a half-smile as if he knew exactly what was on your mind. The brush of his hand against your thigh under the table became deliberate, his fingers inching upward slightly.

At some points the conversation shifted toward the upcoming season, with Sidney’s friends asking him questions about training. You could see the way his eyes darkened slightly, how his attention wasn’t entirely on what they were saying but on the way your breathing changed each time his fingers inched higher and higher.

”Yeah, training has been good. Hard but good,” he replied absently, his hand now fully resting on your thigh, his fingers tracing circles that made it hard for you to sit still.

You shifted in your seat, your body betraying you as you fought the urge to react, not wanting anyone at the table to notice the dangerous game you and Sidney were playing. But he noticed. He always noticed. His smile widening slightly, his eyes locking on yours for a moment silently telling you he wasn’t going to stop anytime soon.

You learned in close, your voice low so only he could hear. ��You’re playing a dangerous game, Crosby,” you whispered, shooting him a glance as you tried to focus on the conversation again.

His response was immediate, his lips brushing your ear as he whispered back, “You love it.”

And he wasn’t wrong. You did love it—the thrill of it, the anticipation, the way his touch made you forget everyone else around you. The tension had been building all evening, and now, with the wine loosening your inhibition and the feel of Sidney’s hand on your thighs, you couldn't wait for the night to take the turn you both wanted.

Across the table, someone suggested heading to a local bar, and for a moment, the attention shifted from the two of you. “What do you think?” Sidney asked, leaning close again. “Should we continue the night or head home?”

You glanced around the table, noting how everyone seemed eager for the night to continue. But you weren’t thinking about them. All you could think about was Sid and the promise in his touch, the way his eyes held yours in that quiet, burning intensity that made your pulse race.

”I think,” you began, your voice low as you reached for his drink, taking a sip before handing it back to him, “we should get out of here.”

His eyes darkened at your words, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Yeah?”

You nodded, biting your lip as you met his gaze, the tension crackling like electricity. He didn’t need to be told again. He flagged down the waiter, signaling for the check, and within minutes, you were outside the restaurant waiting for your car.

The cool night air was a welcome relief as you stood on the sidewalk, Sid’s arm casually draped around your shoulder. You leaned into him, feeling the warmth of his body seeping into yours, the buzz of alcohol still humming in your veins. “I think we had one too many,” you whispered, your lips brushing the fabric of his shirt as you glanced up at him with a lazy grin.

Sidney chuckled, his finger trailing absentmindedly up and down your arm. “Maybe,” he agreed, his voice low and relaxed. He leaned down and pressed. A kiss to the top of your head, the lingering scent of his cologne mixing with the alcohol and the remnants of your evening. There was something about him when he drank, how it loosened his edges and made him playful—more willing to let go.

The car pulled up to the curve, and he opened the door for you, his hand resting on the small of your back as you slid into the backseat. Once inside, the tension that had been building all night felt even more intense in the confined space. The driver asked for your destination, and Sidney gave him the address. As the car started moving, the city lights flashing by in a blur, Sid’s hand slid higher up you lead, his thumb brushing the hem of your dress, dangerously close to where you wanted him most. Your breath caught, and you shot him a warning glance, but it was half-hearted at best. The anticipation becoming unbearable, the slow build from dinner now reaching a point where you weren’t sure you could wait much longer,

“You’re killing me,” you whispered, leaning into him as his hand continued its tortuous path along your thigh.

His grin was pure mischief as he leaned closer, his lips brushing your ear. “Just getting started babe.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine, your body responding instantly to the promise behind them. You pressed your thighs together, trying to keep some control, but Sidney wasn’t having it. His hand slipped between your legs, fingers brushing over the thin fabric of your panties, and you bit back a moan, your hand shooting out to grip his arm.

He chuckled softly, his lips grazing your neck as he whispered, “You’ve been teasing me all night. I think it’s time for some payback, eh?”

You were about to respond when the car hit a red light, and the driver turned around, asking you if you wanted the music to be louder. It was a surprising interruption, pulling you momentarily out of the haze Sidney had you in.

”No, we’re good,” Sid says, his voice steady, though you could feel like tension could beneath the surface. His hand stayed where it was, pressing lightly against you, a silent reminder of what was to come.

The light turned green, and the car started moving again, the city slipping away as you headed toward home. His hand stayed on you, a constant maddening pressure that kept you on the edge of losing all control.

You turned your head slightly, your lips brushed against his ear as you whispered, “I can’t wait until we get home.”

His hand tightened on your thigh, his eyes darkening as he shot you a sidelong glance. “Neither can I.”

When you finally pulled up to the house, Sidney paid the driver quickly, practically pulling you out of the car and up to the door. Once inside, the quiet calm of the house wrapped around you guys like a blanket. The tension from the night was still there, simmering beneath the surface.

The door closed behind you with a soft click, you kicked your shoes off, tossing your coat on a chair, while Sidney lingered by the door, watching you. And you could feel his gaze on your back, heavy and intense, and it made your pulse quicken. You grabbed a glass of water, taking a sip before holding one out to him. “Want some?”

Sid shook his head, his lips twitching into a smile. “Not really thirsty.” He set the glass down, without taking a sip, his steps slow and deliberate as he crossed the room toward you, “I’m more interested in something else right now.”

The silence in the house was immediately drowned out by the heavy sound of breathing. Sidney had barely let you cross the threshold before he was on you—his hands gripping at your hips with a force that sent sparks through your body.There was an urgency between you, a raw need simmering just beneath the surface, set free by the alcohol still buzzing through your veins.

He pressed you against the wall, his lips crashing into yours in a kiss that was as much teeth as it was tongue, hungry, and desperate. You moaned into his mouth, your hands already threading through his hair, tugging him closer as he ground his hips into you. The hard length of him pressed against your stomach, a delicious reminder of what was to come.

“I’ve been thinking about this all night,” he murmured against your lips,his voice low and ragged, sending shivers down your spine. His hands slid below your waist, fingers slipping beneath the hem of your dress, teasing the soft skin of your thighs.

You gasped, your breath catching as his fingers brushed against your soaked panties, the pressure just enough to make you ache for more. “I need you so bad.”

He groaned into your mouth, his hand still between your legs, fingers pushing your panties to the side as he teased your entrance with the tip of his finger. The slickness made him moan, the sound loan and guttural. “You’re so wet already, baby,” he grunted, his voice dripping with satisfaction as his fingers slid inside you, two at once, stretching you just right.

Your head fell back against the wall as he began to pump his finger in and out, the rhythm slow and torturous. The sound of your wetness filled the air between you, that soft, obscene squelch that had you clenching around his fingers, wanting more.

”Sid—fuck, baby,” you moaned, your hips moving against his hand, chasing that friction as your body heated under his touch. “I need you.”

He chuckled softly, his breath hot against your ear as his fingers curled inside you, hitting that perfect spot that made you cry out. “Not yet.”

Your breath came out in shaky gasps as his thumb pressed against your clit, circling in time with the thrusts of his fingers. You could feel the orgasm building inside you, hot and coiled tight, but Sidney wasn’t letting you go that easily. Every time you got close, he slowed, pulling you back from the edge, leaving you panting and trembling in his arms.

“God, I love watching you like this,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire as he pulled his hand away, leaving you on the verge of begging for more. “So desperate for me. So needy, hm?”

Without another word,he grabbed your hand, pulling you toward the couch. He was unbuttoning his shirt as you went, his chain catching the light as it dangled from his neck. You were too far gone to care about where he was dropping his clothes, your eyes focused solely on the way his abs flexed with each movement, how the thin line of his chain glistened with the dim light, practically taunting you.

By the time he pulled you into his lap, both of you had shed your clothes, the fabric discarded carelessly on the floor. He sat back, his legs spread wide as he looked at you, eyes dark with lust, his lips still swollen and red from your kiss, his dick, hard and ready, pressed against your stomach, the tip already glistening with precum as you straddled him.

Your hands moved on their own, sliding down your body as you ground against him, the friction of his cock against your wetness sending shivers of pleasure through you. You moaned softly, your fingers trailing over your breasts, fondling them as Sidney watched you through half-lidded eyes.

“You’re so fucking hot,” Sidney groaned, his hands moving to your hips as he guided you over him, his length sliding between your folds, teasing you entrance. “I want to feel you, baby. I want to fuck you so hard, you wont be able to walk tomorrow.”

”Wait,” he whispered, his voice rough and teasing. “You know what we should do?”

You paused, your breathing heavy as you looked down at him, your heart racing. “What?” You whispered breathlessly.

His grin widened, his hand sliding up your side, his thumb brushing against the curve of your breast. He leaned in, his lips barely grazing your ear, “We should record this. I want to remember this.”

His words sent a shockwave of heat straight through your core, your breath catching as the idea took hold. The thought of being recorded, of watching yourself ride him, was so dirty, so intoxicating, you couldn't help but bite your lip in excitement. Your heart pounded, the pulse between your legs growing even stronger as you leaned back to look at him.

”You really want to record this?” You asked, your voice trembling with a mix of anticipation and arousal. The idea was thrilling, dangerous, and it made your entire body buzz with need.

His eyes locked on yours, his expression serious but filled with desire. “Yeah,” he whispered, his hands sliding down to your hips again. “I want to watch it over and over again. I want to see how good you look on top of me.”

Your body responded to his words before you could even think. “Fuck yes,” you reached for his phone on the coffee table, your fingers trembling. Sidney was already trailing his lips down your neck, his breath sending goosebumps over your skin. He had that hungry look in his eyes again—the kind that told you he wasn’t going to make this easy. You fumbled with the phone, trying to unlock it as his mouth moved lower, kissing the sensitive spot just above your collarbone. His hands never left your hips, kneading and gripping as you stayed sat on top, trying to balance the need to move against him with the task of setting up the camera.

”Sid,” you breathed, your voice shaky as you finally got the camera app open. But the moment the phone was in your hand, he was pulling you closer, his lips pressing wet open-mouthed kisses up the curve of your neck and jaw. The way he groaned against your skin made it almost impossible to focus. “Fuck,” you whispered, your head tilting back as his teeth grazed your skin. Teasing you as he began to slowly rock your hips again.

”C’mon, baby,” he murmured against your skin, his voice thick and low. His lips found yours again, and you melted into the kiss, losing yourself in the heat of his mouth and the way his tongue slid against yours. You managed to pull away just enough to set the phone down on the arm of the sofa, trying to angle it to capture you both. But Sidney was relentless. His hands roamed over your body, tugging you back down to him, your legs spreading wider over his lap as he continued to kiss you, his lips trailing along your jaw, down your neck, and back to your mouth again. The phone slipped from your grasp and teetered for a moment before falling back onto the cushion.

”Sid, baby, I’m trying to set this up,” you gasped, your breath ragged as you reached for the phone again, but his hands were quick, pulling you back to him with a teasing smirk.

“Oh yeah?” He breathed against your lips. “I don’t think I can wait any longer.”

Just as you positioned the phone, he caught your lips again, his kiss more urgent now, demanding. You groaned into his mouth, almost dropping the phone as you lost yourself in the feeling of him. “Sidney,” you gasped, pulling back just enough to place the phone back in position. You quickly hit record, your breathing coming in quick, shallow-bursts as you looked down at him, eyes heavy-lidded with lust.

”There,” you whispered, barely able to focus. “It’s recording.”

His eyes flashed with darkness as his hands gripped your waist, picking up right where you left off. “Fucking finally,” he growled, his voice dripping with need. “You ready for this, baby? I’m going to ruin you.”

You moaned at his words, your nails digging into his shoulder as you lifted your hips, positioning him at your entrance. Your eyes locked on his as the head of his cock nudged inside, stretching you open as you slowly sank down, taking him inch by inch. He leaned forward slightly, his lips barely bushing against the exposed skin of your chest, your chest heaving in anticipation. “I could stare at you all night.”

The sensation was overwhelming, the stretch burning in the best way as Sidney filled you completely. You felt every ridge, every vain of his dick as he buried himself inside you, the delicious fullness making you gasp. “Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groaned his hands gripping your hips so hard you were sure there would be bruises tomorrow. “You feel so fucking good.” Your walls clenched tightly around him, unwilling to let go.

You could only whimper in response, your head falling forward as you began to move, rolling your hips slowly, savoring the feel of him deep inside you. The rhythm was slow at first, your bodies moving together in a hypnotic dance, the tension building with each thrust.

Sid groaned beneath you, his hands tightening on your hips, as he thrust up to meet your movements, his cock hitting that perfect spot inside you that made your breath catch. His chain, cool against your heated skin, swayed with every movement, brushing against your chest as you leaned in to kiss him.

“Holy fuck,” he whispered,his voice low and rough as he buried his face in your neck, his breath ragged against your skin. The vibration of his voice sent a jolt of electricity through your body, and you couldn't help the moan that escaped your lips, your hands fisting in his hair as you rocked against him.

Your body responded to every movement, every shift of his hips, the slow drag of his length as he pulled out, and the deep, satisfying thrust as he slid back in. Each time he filled you, the fullness made you gasp, your body trembling as the pressure built inside you. You could feel his chest rising and falling rapidly beneath you, his breath coming in short gasps as he watched you, the intensity of his gaze giving you goosebumps.

”Look at you,” he mumbled, his voice thick with desire as he shifted, focusing on the way your body moved over him. “So beautiful. I could watch you all night.” His words sent a rush of heat through you, and you couldn't help the way your body responded, clenching tighter as you rode him, slow and steady, savoring every second.

The sounds of your bodies moving together filled the room—the wet, squelch of your pussy, the systemic slap of skin against skin as Sidney thrust up into you, and the soft breathless moans that escaped your lips as you both neared the edge of release. The knowledge that there was a camera filming every moment, capturing the raw heat between you for him to watch later, was intoxicating.

Just as your body began to tremble on the edge, Sid sensed it—he always knew when you were close. But he wasn’t ready to let you go over the edge just yet. He could feel the way your body was tightening around him, so close to release, but instead of giving in, he closed his movements. His movements became relaxed, deep, his pace deliberately drawn out as he shifted.

You whine in protest, your hands scrambling to hold onto him, but he chuckled softly, lips brushing against your ear, “Not yet, baby.”

Without pulling out of you, Sidney shifted, gently guiding you backward,lowering you onto the couch, with a firm but tender grip. His hands cradled your back as you melted into the cushions, your legs wrapped around him, keeping him buried inside. The change in position was seamless, so smooth that it left your breath catching in your throat. And even though he hadn’t left your body for a second, the feeling of being underneath him now, with his full weight hovering over you, reignited the fire that had been simmering between your hips.

”You’re so fucking beautiful,” he breathed, his eyes roaming over your body, dark and hungry as he took you in.

He paused for a moment, not moving, just watching you. He leaned on one forearm beside your head, using the other hand to gently caress the curve of your waist, his touch feather-light as he traced the contours of your body. His eyes followed his fingers, lingering on every part of you—the swell of your breasts, rising and falling with each shaky breath; the smooth expanse of your stomach, slick with a sheen of sweat; the way your thighs pressed against his hips, trembling slightly with anticipation.

You could feel him inside you, still hard and thick, but he wasn’t moving, not yet. He was teasing you with the stillness, making you crave it even more. The tension was unbearable, the ache between your legs almost too much to handle, and you squirm underneath him, desperate for him to move, to give you more.

”Sid-“ you whimpered, your voice shaky as you gazed up at him. Your hand slid up his chest, your fingers brushing over the hard ridges of his abs before settling on his shoulders, gripping him tightly as you tried to pull him closer. But he didn’t budge. He stayed still, his gaze locked on yours as he dipped his head down, capturing your lips in a slow, lingering kiss. His chain brushed against your skin as he kissed you, cool metal contrasting with the heat of his body, the soft clink of it against your collarbone was hypnotizing.

When he finally pulled back, his lips hovered just inches from yours, his breath warm on your skin, “I’m gonna take my time with you.” His words sent a shiver down your spine, the promise of what was left to come making your core clench around him involuntarily. Sidney felt it, and a soft groan escaped his lips, his control slipping for just a moment as his hips instinctively bucked forward. He caught himself though, steadying his breath, and with a smirk, he began to move again—slowly this time, each thrust deliberate and controlled.

Your heart pounded in your chest, every nerve in your body on fire as he held you there, immobile beneath him, your legs trembling as he spread them wide. Out of the corner of his eye, Sid caught sight of his phone, still propped on the arm of the sofa, the camera lens aimed directly at the two of you. He had almost forgotten about it in the heat of the moment, but now, the thought sent a wave of heat through him. His breathing hitched slightly, as the realization sank in—every moment of this really was being recorded.

A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he looked down at you, his lips brushing over the shell of your ear. “You remember the camera?” He murmured, his voice low. “It’s still recording us.”

Your eyes flickered open, a soft gasp escaping your lips as the realization hit you, and you looked toward the phone with a breathless smile. “Oh my god,” you whispered, biting your lip as your body trembled beneath him. “That’s so fucking hot.”

Sid chuckled, his hand trailing up your thigh as he reached for the phone. Pushing deeper, he shifted his weight onto one arm and grabbed the phone from its perch, his abs flexing as he moved. He repositioned it on the coffee table, angling it so that it captured the entire scene from the the side—his body hovering above yours, your legs spread around his waist, every inch of your connection visible.

His hands slid under your thighs, lifting them higher, adjusting the angle so he could thrust deeper, his movements now quicker and more intense. The change in position made you gasp, the sensation of him filling you completely almost overwhelming as he hit that perfect spot inside you again.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his lips grazing your neck as he buried his face in your hair, his lips brushing your ear. “That feel good?”

”So good,” you moaned, your fingers tangling in his hair as you pulled him closer, your lips meeting in a messy, desperate kiss. The taste of him—of whiskey and need—was a thrill, and you could feel your body trembling with the intensity of it all, your muscles tightening as the pleasure built again.

Sidney’s hips rocked against yours, the rhythm deliberate, his cock dragging along every nerve inside you with a precision that made your toes curl. The wet sounds of him moving inside you filled the air, the slap of his thighs against yours punctuated by the soft moans escaping both of you.

”Look at me,” he breathed, pulling back slightly so he could see your face. His hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing over your swollen lower lip as he stared down at you with an intensity that made your heart race. “I want to see your face when you finish.”

Your breath caught at his words, your body shaking as you looked up at him, your fingers gripping his biceps, feeling the tension in his muscles as he held himself above you. His arms were strong, veins bulging under the skin, the sight of him—sweat-slicked, muscles rippling with every movement, his eyes dark with lust—had you swinging on the edge of release.

You could feel him getting closer. It was the way his thrust had lost its steadiness, becoming more erratic, how his breaths were starting to come out heavier, rougher against your skin. His hips, though still driving deep and slow, were grinding harder into you, as if he were trying to get even deeper, to claim more of you. The muscles in his arms tensed, his grip on your waist tightening as his finger dug into the soft skin of your hips, holding you down as he fucked you deeper into the cushions.

Sidney groaned, the sound low and guttural, his head dropping to rest against your shoulder as he pumped into you with an unrelenting force. His chest pressed against yours, the heat of his skin mixing with yours, slick with sweat. Every thrust made your breasts bounce against him, your nipples brushing against his firm chest, sending jolts of pleasure through your body. The friction between you was almost overwhelming, the sensation of his hard body pinning you down, his abs tensing and flexing against you with every movement, making you feel every ridge of muscle against your sensitive skin.

“Fuck, baby,” his voice tight, strained with effort of holding back. His mouth was at your ear, breath hot as his teeth grazed your earlobe. “You’re taking me so well—so tight. I’m not gonna last.”

Your body responded instinctively to his words, your hips rising to meet his thrusts, grinding against him in desperate need. You could feel the way his cock twitched inside you, how his movements were becoming more urgent, each thrust harder and more deliberate. Every motion made your legs tremble, your back arching off the couch as your nails dragged down his back, leaving pink trails in their wake.

His chain swung between you, catching the light with every thrust, the metal brushing against your skin and occasionally grazing your lips. The cool sensation of it against your heated skin makes you shiver, your breath barely leaving your throat as it dragged across your bottom lip, slipping into your mouth for the briefest moment before sliding away again.

Without warning, one of his hands slid up from your hip, rough fingers skimming your side until they wrapped gently, around your throat. His thumb brushed over the side of your neck, feeling the quickened pulse beneath your skin, gasping, your body tightening involuntarily around him as the pressure of his hand sent shockwaves of pleasure straight to your core,

”So fucking pretty like this,” he murmured, his eyes dark as they locked onto yours. “You’re mine.” His other hand grabbed at your ass, squeezing hard as he slammed into you, the sound of skin meeting skin was even louder. Your body shook with every impact. You were overwhelmed, consumed by the feel of him—his cock stretching you open, the weight of his body pressing you down, the rough grip of his hands grounding you to the moment.

His breath grew more erratic, chest heaving as he thrust into you, his cock twitching inside you with every stroke. His grip on your ass tightening, pulling you against him with an urgency that told you he was close. His mouth hovered just above yours, the cool weight of his chain slipping between your lips, your tongue brushing against it as you tried to catch your breath. The way his eyes locked on yours, how his gaze flicked between the chain and your flushed face, made your pulse race, your body aching for release.

”I’m so close, baby,” he groaned, his voice thick with need as his hips bucked hard against yours.

You were too far gone to respond properly, lost in the waves of pleasure that kept building with each thrust. All you could do was curse, your nails digging into his back, your thighs trembling against his hips. You tried to speak, but it came out as breathless gasp.

”Fuck—I’m gonna—I’m gonna fucking come.” You panted, your voice shaky, barely able to get the words out between gasps for air. Your entire body was tensing, the pressure inside you folding tight with every deep stroke, his name falling from your lips in broken whispers.

”Sid—fuck—I’m gonna come. I’m—fuck!”

His eyes darkened, his jaw clenching as he thrust harder, deeper, pushing you closer to the edge. “Come for me, baby,” he rasped, his voice strained as he held himself back, waiting for you to unravel beneath him. “Come for me—let me feel it.”

The intensity of his words, the way his chain clinked against your teeth, and the sheer force of his thrusts pushed you over the edge. Your orgasm hit you like a tidal wave, crashing through you with a force that had you crying out, your body trembling beneath him, Your muscles clenched around his cock, milking him with each pulse, your legs locked around his waist as you rode out every last wave of pleasure.

His eyes stayed locked on yours, watching every second as you came undone beneath him. His chain slipped between your lips again, the cool metal catching between your lips as your body shook with each spasm. The sight of it—the way you took it in your mouth, how your lips parted around it as you moaned his name—had him losing his mind. His grip on your throat tightened enough to make your heart pound even harder.

He couldn’t hold back any longer, The sight of you, the feel of you squeezing him so tightly as you came, was too much. His hips stuttered, his chest pressing flush against yours, his abs flexed, sweat slicking his skin as he dove into you one last time, his cock buried deep inside as he let go.

“Shit—I’m gonna come,” he spat, his voice thick and desperate. His hips jerked hard against yours, and he slammed himself into you, his forehead pressed against yours as he came, hot and deep inside you. His cock pulsed, spilling a thick load into you as his body trembled, the pleasure rolling through him in heavy waves.

His eyes never left yours, his gaze locked onto you as he watched you ride out your orgasm, his release spilling further into you with every rough thrust. The weight of him above you, the way his body shuddered with each spam, only heightened your pleasure, making you tremble beneath him as you milked him dry.

He groaned, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his grip on your throat loosening as he collapsed against you, his body spent but still connected to you in every way, his cock still throbbing inside you. His face nuzzled against your neck, placing soft kisses on your damp skin savoring the moment as your hands played with the damp hair at the nape of his neck.

Then it hit him—the camera.

“Jesus,” he muttered, the low sound of his voice pulling you out of your daze. His chest rumbled against yours, his hand sliding down to grip your hip as he slowly shifted his weight, sitting back just enough to reach for the phone perched on the coffee table.

His other hand still gripped your thigh, holding you open, connected, as he grabbed the phone with a smirk. “Gotta finish this off,” he whispered, the phone now in his hand as he leaned back, keeping the camera trained on where you were still joined. Your body trembled under him, still sensitive, still buzzing from the orgasm that had wrecked you just moments ago. You felt the slow grab of his cock as he began to pull out, teasing you with the movement, making you gasp softly. The sensation gives you goosebumps, the emptiness leaving you aching even though you were completely spent.

Sid focused the camera on his cock, still half-hard as he slowly pulled it free, glistening from both your releases. The tip of him was coated in a mixture of his cum and your wetness, his hand gently wrapping around his base as he drew out the moment, making sure the camera captured every inch of him sliding out of you.

A soft moan escaped your lips as his cock slipped free, the wet sound echoing between your bodies. As soon as he was out, you felt it—the slow, messy seep of both of your releases spilling from you. It was slow at first, a thick trail of white slipping from your swollen pussy, mixing with your slick as it dripped down your thighs, pooling on the couch beneath you.

Sidney kept the camera trained there, watching as more of his cum leaked from you, his voice a low murmur of appreciation as he recorded the sight. “Fuck, look at that.” His thumb brushing against the slick skin of your inner thigh, “Look how messy you are—you look so good like this.”

The heat in his voice, that possessive edge, made you pulse again, even though you were completely spent. He zoomed in slightly, focusing on the slow drip of his release slipping out of you, spreading over your thighs. His free hand moved down to your ass, giving it a firm squeeze, as if to emphasize the ownership behind his words. You reached down, fingers brushing lightly against your entrance, feeling the warmth of both of your releases still coating your skin.

“God, you’re so fucking perfect,” he groaned, shifting the camera again to catch your face, your lips still parted, your eyes heavy-lidded with exhaustion and pleasure. “Look at you. So fucking beautiful, so full of me.”

Sidney shifted closer again, his hand slipping up to your stomach as he leaned over, the weight of him pressing against you in a familiar, grounding way. The camera lingered for a few more seconds, capturing every last second of that raw, intimate aftermath before he set it aside.

His body collapsed onto yours, both of you still slick with sweat and desire, but this time the moment felt softer, more tender. His lips brushed against your forehead, and you could feel the rapid beat of his heart calming as he pressed against you.

“That was fucking insane,” he whispered, his voice a low rasp, filled with both exhaustion and satisfaction. His fingers threaded through your hair as his lips ghosted over your skin, the weight of the moment sinking in between you both.

You gave a soft laugh, your body relaxing beneath him, the feel of his warmth settling into you. “We really made a mess, huh?” you teased, your voice barely more than a breath.

Sidney chuckled, his chest rumbling against yours. “Yeah,” he murmured, his lips brushing yours, “but we made a fucking masterpiece. Guess we’ll have to watch this again later,” he suggests, planting a kiss on your cheek. “Maybe even make a sequel.”

[tinesleftnipple]

Episode 30 random observations

Is Pei su wearing GARTERS??? (possibly kneepads)

Pei su, LWZ is going to nag at you for not wearing long underwear

Information on ZZL: Immigrated to Xinzhou 34 years ago. Worked at a lumber factory, then at a car rental before age 20.

WRB finally changed her earrings. Still red though

"Enlightening"

Guy in the back sleeping on the job tsk tsk

LWZ has tears in his eyes...

Clock shows almost midnight when ZZL arrives

The script says FSY's decoy was a puppet but here they used a real person

LWZ sweatinggg

Ass shot (sorry)

With the zip tie Pei su is always in some sort of prayer pose

The only similarity between Pei su and Pei chengyu is their silk pajamas

FSY gets shot through the shoulder

They can clearly carry people out on stretchers. LWZ just wanted to carry Pei su out himself

ZDL's texts to his ZZL: "dad it's my fault" "it was just a dare just now" "I didn't think these bastards would send it to you" (didn't think they would include a swear in here lol). Also, time is 00:10 on December 1st. "Bomb" tied to ZDL showed less than 10 mins when ZZL arrives

Pei su leaves the hospital on December 31st

Pei su reading up on Criminal Psychology while in hospital

The color contrast. ZDL is in his own abyss. Pei su has stepped out into the light. (also Pei su wearing sneakers)

Literally just got out of the hospital and here he is getting injured again. LWZ cannot let Pei su out of his sight

Very blatant imagery of light breaking through the clouds

Fashion icon must color match bandaid to outfit

Indents on Yang xi's wrist from the handcuffs

Scrolling message on the news: the past year was a year filled with hardships and trials and tribulations. The new year is imminent, and the dawn of hope will arrive...

Pei su heard LWZ wasn't at Tao ze's place yet and didn't even bother taking off his shoes

Newspaper on LWZ's office desk: Zhaonan group involved in gangs for 20 years; SID ex-group leader with last name Zhang was their protective umbrella behind the scenes

Similar dress style as... Pei su?

Pei su lit 2 firecrackers and then stands cutely in the center with his head tilted waiting for LWZ to turn around is... that is... that

Pei su sits on the corner of LWZ's coat. Also lip reading and instead of "we agreed to go together to Tao ze's place", Pei su says "we agreed to go home together"

With the end montage they made it SO OBVIOUS placing LWZ+Pei su with the other couples that they are also a ROMANTIC couple

[p0orbaby]

Why Do I Give You the Worst of Me (1)

summary: love and bad decisions collide as you struggle to balance a tour and a relationship that’s spiraling out of control

warnings: 18+ adult themes throughout

a/n: another series i’m hoping i don’t regret committing myself to… not sure how many parts it’ll be, i don’t plan anything

word count: 3.1k

-

You wake up face-first on a sofa that smells like cigarettes, spilled beer, and faintly, vomit. Not yours, you think. The synthetic fabric is scratchy against your cheek, and when you open your eyes, it takes a moment to realise it’s morning—sunlight cutting through the cracked blinds, striping the floor with dusty light. The sofa is mustard yellow, ugly in a deliberate, trying-too-hard-to-be-retro way. It doesn’t belong to you. Nothing in this flat belongs to you.

There’s a girl in the kitchen, humming softly to herself as she pours cereal into a bowl. You don’t know her name, but you know she wears Chanel No. 5 because it’s all you could smell last night when she leaned too close, whispering something you didn’t quite catch. Her hair’s a mess now—like spun gold caught in a tangle of barbed wire—but her makeup is still pristine. She’s the kind who sets her eyeliner with setting spray before going out, even if it’s just to the pub. You admire the commitment, if not the execution.

Your head throbs—a deep, insistent ache behind your eyes that reminds you of last night in bits and pieces: the gig (decent, though the sound guy fucked up your monitor levels), the afterparty (loud, sweaty, a haze of bodies and smoke), the lines of coke on a chipped coffee table, the bartender who kept giving you free shots because he recognised you from that NME interview last month. At some point, someone tried to fight you, though you’re not sure why. You vaguely remember smashing a bottle of tequila against a wall and laughing as glass shards rained down like confetti.

You roll onto your back and stare at the ceiling, which is peeling in a way that suggests years of neglect, a building held together more by stubbornness than actual structural integrity. There’s a stain in the corner that looks suspiciously like mould, but you don’t care enough to investigate. The flat isn’t yours, after all. You were invited here by someone whose name escapes you now—a bassist from another band, or maybe it was their girlfriend? They’re gone this morning, anyway, leaving behind only the detritus of a night well-lived: empty bottles, crushed cigarette packets, a single black stiletto abandoned near the door like a fairy-tale gone wrong.

You light a cigarette, despite the pounding in your head and the fact that you’re pretty sure it’s technically illegal to smoke indoors here. The girl in the kitchen glances at you but doesn’t say anything. You’re not sure if she’s annoyed or indifferent; you don’t care. The smoke curls lazily toward the ceiling, and for a moment, you let yourself enjoy the quiet. Mornings like this are rare—where everything is still and soft, where the chaos of your life is temporarily held at bay by the thin walls of someone else’s flat.

Your bass is propped up against the armchair, scratched and battered in a way that tells a story if you care to look closely enough. It’s a Fender Precision, black with a white pickguard, the same model Sid Vicious used to play—not that you’d ever admit that’s why you bought it. The neck has a gouge near the third fret from when you threw it at a sound tech who deserved it (and missed). The strap is leather, worn smooth where it rests on your shoulder, and the bridge still has flecks of blood from the time you played so hard your fingers split open mid-song. You keep meaning to clean it, but you never do.

You check your phone, which is cracked and sticky with something you don’t want to identify. No new messages, except for a text from your drummer that reads: “u alive?” You don’t bother replying.

-

You’ve been in the band for five years now, though it feels longer. It started as a joke—a group of friends fucking around in someone’s garage, trying to see who could play the loudest, the fastest, the most obnoxious. Somewhere along the way, it became serious. There was a DIY EP, recorded in one manic weekend on borrowed gear, and a string of gigs in dingy pubs where the audiences were more interested in drinking than listening. Then came the break—a slot supporting a bigger band, one of those industry darlings who’d already started to hate themselves for selling out. The kind of band that wears matching outfits ironically, even though everyone knows it’s not ironic at all.

Now, you play sold-out shows to crowds who scream your lyrics back at you, though most of them probably couldn’t name your second album. Your face has been on the cover of Kerrang! twice, though you didn’t bother reading the articles. You hate interviews, but you do them anyway because your manager insists. You’re better at the photoshoots—smirking at the camera in a way that suggests you don’t care (you do).

The band is your life, though you wouldn’t call it that. Calling it your life makes it sound like you have some sort of plan, and you don’t. You’re just here, playing gigs and writing songs and doing whatever it takes to keep the wheels from falling off.

Your bandmates are a mixed bag of personalities, each one a walking caricature in their own way. There’s Matt, the drummer, who swears he’s been abducted by aliens and won’t shut up about it. Alex, the lead guitarist, is constantly high and insists on bringing his cat on tour, which you find deeply annoying. And then there’s Holly, the singer, who somehow manages to be both the most chaotic and the most responsible member of the group. She’s the one who organises rehearsals, books the studio time, and keeps you all from self-destructing entirely. You love her for it, even if you’d never say it out loud.

The girl in the kitchen finishes her cereal, rinses the bowl, and leaves without saying goodbye. You watch her go, not because you care but because there’s nothing else to do. When the door slams shut, the flat feels even smaller, like the walls are pressing in on you. You stub out your cigarette, grab your bass, and leave too.

-

Outside, London is already alive, though you wouldn’t call it awake. The streets are sticky from last night—spilled pints and kebab wrappers crushed into the pavement, cigarette butts floating in puddles of something that smells suspiciously like piss. The air has that distinct urban flavour: exhaust fumes mingling with fryer grease and the faint tang of wet concrete. You pull your leather jacket tighter around you, not because it’s cold (it is), but because it completes the look.

The jacket is vintage—or at least you tell people it is. In reality, you bought it at a high-street shop three years ago, and it’s held up surprisingly well, considering the abuse it’s endured. The lining is torn, the cuffs are frayed, and there’s a mysterious stain on the back you can’t quite place. But it’s yours, and it feels like armour. The boots, on the other hand, are real vintage: a pair of Dr Martens from the ‘90s you found in a thrift shop in Brighton. They’re scuffed to hell, and the left one squeaks when you walk, but you refuse to replace them because they’re authentic.

You head toward the Tube station, your bass slung over one shoulder like a soldier carrying a rifle. People stare, but only briefly. In London, no one has the energy to care for long. The morning commuters are a mix of suits and students, their faces blank, their eyes glazed over as they clutch takeaway coffees in one hand and their phones in the other. You feel out of place but also weirdly superior, like you’ve cracked some code they haven’t even realised exists yet.

You hop on the Northern line, ignoring the signs that politely request passengers to “refrain from eating or drinking.” You’re not eating or drinking, but you do pull out a cigarette, which is arguably worse. It’s a roll-up, so you convince yourself it doesn’t count. An old woman glares at you, clutching her handbag like she thinks you’re about to mug her. You offer her a crooked smile, which she does not return, and you put the cigarette back in your pocket because she reminds you of your nan.

The train screeches into motion, and you pull out your phone. The lock screen is a photo of your bass, which says a lot about you. There are a few notifications—mostly spam emails and an unread message from Holly: Rehearsal at 2. Don’t be late, dickhead.

You glance at the time. 11:47 a.m. Plenty of time.

-

The rehearsal space is in Camden, a dingy basement that smells of mildew and unwashed socks. The walls are lined with egg cartons painted black in a half-hearted attempt at soundproofing, and the floor is sticky for reasons you’d rather not think about. The room has seen better days—probably in the ‘80s, when it was still a nightclub and not a haven for struggling musicians. There’s a single fluorescent bulb overhead that flickers ominously, and a space heater in the corner that’s never worked.

Holly is already there when you arrive, tuning her guitar with the precision of someone who takes this far more seriously than you do. She’s wearing a denim jacket covered in patches for bands you’ve never heard of, her hair tied back in a messy ponytail. She looks up as you walk in, her expression equal parts exasperation and relief.

“Christ, you smell like an ashtray,” she says, wrinkling her nose.

“It’s called branding,” you reply, dropping your bass onto the floor with a thud.

Matt and Alex show up ten minutes later, looking even worse than you do. Matt has the kind of face that always looks slightly hungover, even when he’s not, and Alex is wearing the same shirt he wore yesterday, now with an impressive new stain across the front.

The rehearsal starts late, as it always does, and quickly descends into chaos. Matt insists on playing a drum solo during every song, despite the fact that no one asked for it. Alex keeps stopping mid-riff to check his phone, claiming he’s “waiting for an important call,” though everyone knows it’s just his dealer. Holly shouts at both of them until her voice cracks, then turns her frustration on you for being “completely fucking useless.” You take it in stride, plucking random notes on your bass and pretending to care.

-

At some point, Holly storms out, leaving the three of you to your own devices. Matt immediately pulls out a joint, which Alex lights with a lighter shaped like a naked woman. You lean back against the wall, your bass resting against your thigh, and watch as they argue over which fast-food place to hit up after rehearsal.

“McDonald’s is closer,” Alex says, taking a drag.

“But KFC’s got the gravy,” Matt counters, waving his arms for emphasis.

“It’s not even real gravy,” Alex snaps.

“None of it’s real,” you interject, flicking ash onto the floor. “We’re all just cogs in the capitalist machine.”

They stare at you for a moment, then go back to arguing.

-

By the time rehearsal ends, it’s dark outside. You pack up your gear, ignoring Holly’s death glare as she reminds you for the millionth time that you need to take this more seriously. You nod, mumble something about “artistic integrity,” and leave before she can yell at you again.

Back on the street, the air is crisp, the kind of cold that bites at your skin and makes you wish you’d brought a scarf. You light another cigarette, even though you’ve already smoked half a pack today, and head toward the pub.

The pub is your sanctuary, a place where time slows down and the only thing that matters is the next round. It’s a dive, the kind of place where the carpet sticks to your shoes and the jukebox is permanently stuck on a rotation of The Clash and The Smiths. You know the bartender by name, though you’re not sure if he knows yours.

You order a pint and settle into a corner booth, your bass case propped up beside you. The first sip is like a warm hug, washing away the stress of the day. You’re halfway through your second pint when you see her.

-

You don’t notice her at first. Not properly. She’s part of the blur—the dim bar lights catching on glasses, the low hum of half-drunken conversation, the vague sense that you’ve been here before even if you haven’t. She’s leaning against the counter, waiting for her drink, and it’s not until the bartender—a man whose name might be Pete but who you’re pretty sure is just “Oi, mate” to everyone who comes in—hands her a gin and tonic that you actually see her.

And it’s a gin and tonic. Not a lager, not a rum and coke, not something ironic like a snakebite or one of those craft beers with names like Hops and Robbers. It’s a G&T, clean and crisp, with a slice of lime balanced on the rim like it’s posing for a stock photo. The glass is crystal clear, and so are her nails—short, practical, painted the sort of soft pink that suggests she doesn’t chew them during stressful moments (unlike you). She takes the drink with both hands, like she’s steadying herself, and there’s something about that—the deliberateness of it—that hooks you.

You tell yourself you’re just looking because she’s there. Because it’s either her or the guy at the next table who’s been droning on about Bitcoin for twenty minutes straight. But it’s more than that. There’s a stillness to her, an odd kind of clarity that doesn’t fit in a place like this, like she’s wandered in from a parallel universe.

She turns slightly, and you catch her profile: sharp nose, strong jawline, cheekbones that could cut glass but probably wouldn’t because she seems far too polite. Her hair is blonde—not platinum, not peroxide, but the kind of natural gold that makes you think of expensive shampoo and childhood summers. It’s tied back loosely, wisps framing her face in a way that seems accidental but probably isn’t.

She’s not wearing makeup. Or maybe she is, but it’s the invisible kind—the kind that takes forty-five minutes to apply but looks like you’ve just rolled out of bed looking flawless. Her jumper is navy, oversized enough to suggest she might have nicked it from someone else’s wardrobe, paired with jeans that sit perfectly at her hips without being skinny. On her feet are white trainers—clean, like freshly ironed bedsheets—Adidas, the classic three stripes in black, laces tied neatly, no fraying ends.

You’re staring. You know you are. But she hasn’t noticed, so it doesn’t count.

The bartender mutters something to her, and she laughs. Not the loud, performative laugh you hear from most people in bars, but something softer, like it’s meant for her and her alone. The sound is so out of place in this dingy pub that it feels almost sacrilegious, like someone’s brought a cathedral choir to sing in a nightclub.

You tell yourself to look away. You don’t.

Instead, you light a cigarette, even though the pub is strictly non-smoking. You do it for the aesthetic, the same way you do most things. There’s a half-empty pint in front of you—lager, flat and warm, probably with someone else’s fingerprints on the glass—but you take a sip anyway, because what else are you going to do?

She turns then, her gaze sweeping the room, and you’re caught like a deer in headlights. For a second, you think she’s looking at you, but she’s not. She’s looking past you, at the dartboard on the wall behind your head. Her expression is curious, like she’s trying to figure out why anyone would bother playing darts in a place like this.

Then her eyes meet yours, and the world tilts.

It’s not love at first sight, not really. Love at first sight is for Disney films and Hallmark cards and people who shop at Waitrose without looking at the prices. This is something else. Recognition, maybe. Like you’ve seen her before in a dream or a half-remembered story someone told you once. Like you’ve spent your whole life waiting for this moment without knowing it.

She holds your gaze for a second longer than is polite. Then she looks away, back at her gin and tonic, and you realise you’ve been holding your breath.

-

You don’t approach her right away. That would be too obvious, too predictable. Instead, you wait, watching her out of the corner of your eye while pretending to scroll through your phone. It’s a shitty phone, cracked and outdated, but you’ve never bothered upgrading because you secretly enjoy the low expectations it sets. No one looks at you and expects success when your phone screen is held together with Sellotape.

She moves to a table in the corner, near the radiator, and sits down alone. No book, no laptop, no visible excuse to be here other than the gin and tonic in her hand. She sips it slowly, methodically, like she’s savouring it. Like she’s savouring this.

You wonder what her story is.

Is she waiting for someone? A friend, a boyfriend, a clandestine meeting with a lover? Or is she just one of those people who can sit alone in public without feeling like a target? You’ve never understood that kind of confidence—the kind that lets you exist without an audience, without a role to play.

You take another sip of your pint, then decide, fuck it.

You stand, grab your bass (because leaving it behind would feel like abandoning a child), and make your way across the room. Your boots squeak against the sticky floor, and you curse them under your breath. She looks up as you approach, her expression unreadable.

“Mind if I join you?” you ask, gesturing vaguely at the empty chair across from her.

She hesitates, just for a moment, then nods.

“Sure.”

Her voice is soft, but not shy. Measured. Like she’s weighing every word before she says it.

You sit, placing your bass case carefully against the table leg. For a moment, neither of you speaks. You’re not sure what to say, and she seems content to let the silence stretch. It’s not uncomfortable, exactly, but it’s not easy, either.

Finally, she breaks it.

“You’re in a band,” she says, nodding toward the bass. It’s not a question.

You smile. “Yeah. What gave it away?”

She raises an eyebrow, and you realise it’s a stupid question.

“What’s the band called?”

You tell her, and she nods, like she’s vaguely heard of it but couldn’t name a single song.

“I’m Alessia,” she says, holding out her hand. Her grip is firm, her skin warm.

“Nice to meet you,” you reply, and for the first time in a long time, you actually mean it.

[alltimecharlo]

after seeing Sid protective of mack today I feel like Will would be the type to pull some strings and reach out to Sid to thank him for taking care of his boy

amazing anon - love this!! fic under the cut :)🩵

Will's not the jealous type. Not really. He's just—aware.

Aware of every camera angle that catches Mack on the bench beside Sidney Crosby during the Canada v Latvia game, every time Sid leans in to say something to him. Protective, sure, that much is obvious. Encouraging, too, probably, from the way Mack keeps nodding, mouth twitching at the corners.

It’s not like Will doesn’t appreciate it. He really does. He’s not there, after all. So if someone’s going to look out for him, it may as well be the guy everyone listens to. The Greatest Ever, or whatever.

Still. Will wants to say thank you.

He opens his phone and fires off a text to Toff.

Will: hey man you got crosby's number Toff: LMAO what did mack do now Will: nothing just wanna thank him Toff: bro. are you texting sid the kid like a proud boyfriend rn Will: shut up and send the number please

Ten minutes later, he has it. Will stares at the contact for a full thirty seconds before composing the most professional message he can manage.

Will: Hi Mr. Crosby, this is Will Smith from the Sharks. Sorry to bother you, I just wanted to say thanks for taking care of Mack at Worlds. I know he can get in his head sometimes, and it means a lot knowing he's got someone like you looking out for him. Appreciate it a lot. Hope the rest of the tourney goes well for you guys.

He sends it before he can overthink. Nearly chucks his phone across the hotel bed.

It pings ten minutes later.

Sidney Crosby: Hi Will, thanks for the message. Mack’s a great kid and a huge part of this team. You don’t have to worry about him—we’ve got his back. You should be proud of him. Sidney Crosby: P.S He talks about you a lot.

Will stares at that last line for a while.

Then grins so hard his cheeks hurt.

♡

[phoebeegreen3]

Capri Persson (F1) ⸺ 04. MY BIGGEST FEAR

🏎 SUMMARY: What if the best driver of recent years isn't actually him? What if the best driver is actually hiding something else? Would he still be the best? Or just a simple fraud? 📓 GENRE: secret identity / rivals to lovers / he felt first, she felt harder / soulmates / slow burn 📧 WORD COUNT: 3639 📬 PARTS: book one (two parts) / CP9, book two (one part) 🏁TAGLIST: @heyyurl @dreadity @moonchouus @wierdflowerpower @anunstablefangirl @deaddumblbumble @a-bbles @freyathehuntress (let me know in the comments if you want to be part) 🏆 CAPRIPERSSON.MASTERLIST

Melbourne, Australia. April, 2023

I was beginning to believe that it wasn’t necessary to arrive just in time for Grand Prix weekends. I could arrive early, wander aimlessly through the paddocks, watch others endure the weight of the press, the photos, and the cheap questions thrown at them by the worst journalists in the industry. I liked drinking coffee in the hospitality area, sitting near the windows to watch everything others had to suffer and I was lucky enough to avoid. I hadn’t noticed how many things they had to do that I had negotiated with the federation not to. The Netflix cameras harassed anyone they came across, and even though I was part of the group of drivers who entered F1 after Netflix and its whole production, I was grateful not to have a camera on my shoulder 24/7.

I hadn’t seen Carmen again since the Saudi Arabian GP, but I had made sure to send her a new pair of pants to replace the ones she gave me to help me out of a jam, along with a thank-you card. She had been very kind and warm to me, and I felt a strong need to return the gesture, even in the smallest way. If she hadn’t given me a nudge to ask for feminine hygiene products, I might not have even been able to race due to the discomfort. I could handle a flooded track, but menstruation was another matter.

I returned to the motorhome when I got a message from Sarah—my masseuse, trainer, and companion since I started racing. Sarah and I weren’t the closest people in the world, but along with Jean, she was one of the only people I’d known since the beginning, and she had always done an excellent job with me. So we were like a strange, long-term, open marriage.

"Did you miss me in Saudi Arabia?" she smiled when she saw me, and I gave her a welcoming hug.

"You can’t imagine what happened to me."

"Having kids sucks. Don’t do it," she joked, and I laughed as we started warming up. Sarah had become a mother two years ago, but Sid—her son—had gotten sick a few weeks back, and if she wasn’t the one helping me train, it wasn’t going to be anyone else. So when I couldn’t have her around, I just did what I could on my own.

"... and since we started, Nyck hasn’t stopped crashing the car. I don’t know what’s going on, he’s good. He has a lot of potential, and now he can’t even blame the car because it’s obvious it works with me," I explained to Sarah what she had missed so far. "I don’t want to think about it, but I don’t know how much of a future he has if this continues."

"Haven’t you thought about talking to him?" she asked from behind me while helping me stretch.

"In three years of sharing with Gasly, I’ve never said a single word to him. What makes you think I should talk to Nyck?"

"The fact that you’re scared of having to change teammates again. I don’t know, think about it. Maybe it’s time to start telling everyone the truth—as a sign. You could even encourage him, you’ve been in his shoes too."

"No, no. I was a rookie too, but I never had to retire from more than two races in less than half a season," I explained.

"Is it really that bad?"

"He’s not bad, don’t get me wrong, he managed to finish Saudi Arabia. But for how the season’s going, it doesn’t look good, and Franz has already hinted that the team bosses are starting to move pieces."

I stared at a fixed spot in my motorhome room while Sarah gently massaged my shoulder blade as I sat. I was deeply worried, not just about Nyck but about the constructors’ championship. At this rate, it didn’t matter how much I won if he kept causing problems.

"I barely talk to my teammates, and when I see they’re at risk of being replaced, I grow fond of them. I don’t know if I can get used to someone new all over again," I shook my head, and then I heard the door open without warning, making my whole body tense—until my eyes met those bright, playful blue eyes laughing at my reaction and that ridiculously blond hair.

"You’d die to have me as your next teammate, wouldn’t you?" he laughed teasingly, but with his usual innocence, and I jumped off the massage table to hug him tightly, bumping into his chest.

"Finally, you show up! Has being part of Mercedes gone to your head?" I punched his shoulder, and he laughed loudly.

"You’re dying of jealousy, that’s what’s happening."

"At least I’m a full-time driver, not a reserve," I teased, and he laughed even though it stung.

"Low blow, Persson. Extremely low blow," he shook his head.

"I’ll leave you two alone. Good luck, Capri," Sarah said, picking up her things and leaving the room, closing the door behind her. Mick sat down with his characteristic shyness on one of the couches, and I handed him a water bottle.

"I waited for you all winter. Do I need to send you a formal invitation to remind you we’re friends, Schumacher?" I pulled my suit out from where I had it stored and laid it over my leggings and T-shirt.

"Sorry, I know I should’ve called, but you know… Dad," he sighed.

"I know, Mick. You don’t have to explain anything to me," I turned to him, giving him my full attention, and he smiled wistfully.

My friendship with Mick wasn’t something I had planned; in fact, it was a strange accident back when we used to race together in F3. Before the Baku race in 2017, I had to use the restroom and, to avoid holding things up, I ran into the nearest one. I took off my helmet to go into the stall and came out to wash my hands without it, thinking no one would come in since everyone was already getting ready for the race—but I was wrong. A rushed Mick came into the bathroom, and his already big eyes seemed to take up half his forehead in shock.

"I can explain after the race," I said first.

"Okay..." he replied, still stunned by the news. After a great race, we met again at one of the paddock cafés.

"So..." he took a few seconds to say something once he sat in front of me, but even trying, no words came out of his mouth.

"I thought it’d be easier, but there’s not much to explain," I swallowed hard from nerves, and Mick slowly nodded, still amazed.

"How did it happen?"

"When I realized I didn’t want to be seen as the only woman on the track but as a driver like the rest of the guys," I explained, confused by my own words. I had never told anyone that and never planned to—except Mick at that moment. "It doesn’t affect anyone, and I race under the same conditions as the others."

"Then why don’t you tell everyone that you’re... a woman?" he asked, the echo of his surprise present in each word and his hesitant tone.

"Because I’ve already accepted that no matter how much inclusion and equality they promote, if they find out Capri Persson is a woman, they won’t see Capri Persson anymore. They’ll see ‘the girl on the grid,’" I explained without looking him in the eyes, fixing my gaze on the coffee I had ordered but wasn’t drinking.

"Aren’t you proud of being the girl on the grid?" he kept asking, innocently.

I thought about it for a few seconds, looking out the window at the rest of the paddock.

"No," I shook my head. "I want to be Capri Persson."

Mick sighed and nodded, never taking his eyes off me, as if still processing everything. He was the first to make me understand how heavy it was for the world to accept certain truths about Capri Persson. But Capri wasn’t an alter ego—it wasn’t a game to me. My real name is Capri América Persson, and I wanted to be recognized as such. Not as the only woman on the grid, because no one recognizes Ayrton Senna for being a man on the grid. Everyone recognizes the name, the legacy, the story—not just a label.

"I guess now that I know, I’ll have to sign a few things, right?" he asked, a little worried.

"You know too much now," I narrowed my eyes at him, jokingly threatening, and he laughed. "We can be friends, and that’s enough. Let’s not make it bigger."

"Okay, sounds good," he smiled, placing his hands on the table to get up.

"Mick," I called, and he turned to see me holding my pinky up toward him. "Do you solemnly swear not to disclose anything discussed in this private meeting of two premature friends?"

Mick smiled, showing all his teeth with that contagious grin.

"I swear on my family," he said, linking our pinkies.

"You’d better. Now you know too much. It’s our friendship or your death," I joked, and he laughed so loudly that everyone in the café turned to look at him, and he quickly covered his mouth.

"You’ve got a great sense of humor when you’re not trying to kill us on the track."

After that, Mick was the only person I could lean on, but then I moved to F2 and then F1, and he stayed in F2. We couldn’t see each other often, and I accepted that making friends in the paddock was tough. We didn’t have time to meet outside races, and when everything happened at the end of last season, Mick checked in on me, but his father was going through health issues he didn’t want to talk about. Then he moved from Haas to Mercedes, and we lost touch. It was like realizing your high school friends now had completely different lives from yours, and despite the friendship, they were strangers. It was accepting that we’d grown up, that we weren’t 17 or 18 anymore, and that we didn’t race together anymore.

"Don’t you want to talk about it?" he asked as I zipped up my suit.

"No, I don’t want to talk about it."

"It wasn’t a bad season, anyway. You were runner-up," he crossed his arms.

"Are you going to keep talking about what I said I didn’t want to talk about?"

"Sorry, I forgot you’re a trust-issues character written by Taylor Swift," he raised his hands in defense as he began to pace the room.

"Excuse me?"

"Never mind. Too much time with Laila," he muttered, and I laughed.

"I love Taylor Swift, but this isn’t about my trust issues. How would you feel if, in the last lap, the last corner of the entire race, of the entire season, you crashed into the wall when you were just seconds—milliseconds—from the finish line and becoming champion?" I challenged, getting worked up. Mick handed me my helmet. "I was so close, Mick. So damn close..."

"Things happen for a reason. God must’ve wanted it that way..."

"I don’t believe there’s a God out there, Mick. I’m sorry. Maybe it’s the perfect comfort for other drivers, for you, for everyone. But not for me. God was never there for me, and I stopped believing in that a long time ago," I took the helmet and put it on while Mick watched me and adjusted the cables.

"You must believe in something when you go out there," he suggested.

"No," I shook my head simply. "Ordinary people need to believe in something to keep from being afraid."

"Let me guess—you’re not ordinary?"

"No, Mick," I laughed, knowing exactly what I’d say. "I’m not afraid."

"Whatever you say," he chuckled, and I took a deep breath, getting ready to leave. "There’s a party on Sunday, just a regular thing. Everyone’s going," he said.

"Okay, sounds fun. I hope you have a good time."

"Yeah, I hope so too—because you’re coming," he replied, adjusting the collar of my suit.

"No, I don’t think so."

"That wasn’t a question, Capri."

"I don’t have anything decent to wear." That was partly true. If I knew there wouldn’t be any important events that weekend I had to attend, all the clothes packed in my suitcase were either sportswear or team-branded outfits. Not much else.

"Well, I’ll take care of that with Laila, because I’m sure you'll tell me you don’t have time to shop for anything. You're going to that party whether you like it or not."

"Reasons?" I stopped him before he could cross the door convinced the conversation was over. No way. Mick looked at me, confused. "What are the reasons I should go?"

"There are plenty of reasons."

"Then pick the best one to convince me."

"That you start seeing the other drivers as your teammates, not your enemies," he crossed his arms with a satisfied smile.

"Good thing I told you to use the best one."

That Friday's practice went pretty well, we had done a great job and Nyck had managed to escape his streak of bad luck, setting a record for the fastest lap count of his season so far. It was a big achievement for my teammate, so when I got back to the garage, I didn’t hesitate to give him a thumbs-up. That was as far as I’d go. Franz and the team looked happy and confident, and we were all excited about the results since the cars didn’t have any issues requiring major changes. Saturday's qualifying session was perfect — I placed behind Alonso and ahead of Max, securing third position. The race atmosphere already felt as close as victory, but everything went to hell in the pits on Sunday.

When you're going 375 km/h, you never imagine that your worst enemy will be the moment when everything stops. Pit stops are one of the most normal things in F1 — necessary and part of the strategy — but your car refusing to move? Not normal.

"What’s happening?" I almost screamed inside the car in the pits with the entire crew around me waiting for me to go. I changed gears, hit the accelerator, but nothing happened. I could hear the cars passing on track and mentally counted the positions I was losing. Your mind splits into hundreds of pieces to think separately and form conclusions while trying to get the machine working.

"What the fuck is going on?!" I shouted over the radio and exchanged glances with Franz and John from their spot across the pit lane.

"Keep trying, we’re working on it," John said over the comms.

"Well, it doesn’t look like it, because this shit isn’t working!" I cried out in frustration, pressing every button I could to get the car started.

I couldn’t lose my position — and I already had. I couldn’t drop below fifth — and I was already tenth. I hadn’t worked so hard all weekend just to end up here. I wasn’t getting out of that car until I crossed the finish line in first place. I wasn’t going to give up.

I had never retired from a race in my entire F1 career until... that day.

I had a flashback — one of those no driver should have in the middle of a race, especially not while trying to revive a dead car. But seconds felt like years in that moment, and I hadn’t felt anything like it since Abu Dhabi. The sound of the cars flying by, the panic in my chest, the heat on my neck and ears, the pounding heartbeat, the wildfire growing silently inside. I had never retired until Abu Dhabi. I had never given up until then, and now... now everything came rushing back like it was the first time.

But unlike back then, I didn’t step out of the car defeated. Somehow, I found the solution buried in those bad memories and that overwhelming desperation that clouded my ability to process the present. Without saying a word and in less time than a regular pit stop, I was back on track.

If I had been just any other driver with 26 laps to go and a massive disadvantage from last place, I would’ve started praying. But I didn’t have time for that kind of nonsense, so I started racing.

Even Nyck was four positions ahead of me. In moments like that, you can’t think about failure. You can’t dwell on the frustration spreading through your system like bad medicine administered in the pits. You can’t focus on the rage flowing through your body like fuel in the car. You can’t overthink.

"Distances," I asked over the radio, and John replied immediately. I had already passed Magnussen and Albon was ahead, with 25 more laps and a goal to chase.

"Don’t mess this up," I whispered to myself. "Don’t you dare, Persson. Not again."

"Good, Capri! Good!" John shouted over the line when I pulled off a double overtake on Sargeant and Leclerc. "Nyck is ahead of you, we’ll tell him to let you pass."

"No. I’ve got 25 laps ahead of me, I can waste one on him."

"Capri..."

"Let him build his confidence, okay? He needs it." I concluded, and I wasn’t lying. I wasted half a lap battling Nyck, and although it meant nothing for the competition, I knew he needed that. How would he feel after seeing I couldn’t take down the rest of the grid, and now the two of us were fighting for position? It’s not the same comparison — I don’t even know if Lewis had the same intention back then — but I remember the first time I felt like a giant for fighting Hamilton for a position. I gave it everything, and I wasn’t going to back down — and neither was he — and although he passed me and I ended up third... I had made things hard for Hamilton, and no rookie gets to enjoy that. But I sure did.

Ahead were Ocon and Gasly — another double overtake — before I reached Carlos Sainz Jr. Son of a bitch. He was good, I wouldn’t deny it — extremely good. But not good enough. When I passed him, he tried to take the position back from the outside, and that’s when his confidence crumbled. If you’re going to break the rules, at least do it right.

Twenty laps to go. Ten places to steal. I couldn’t fail.

"Capri," John called. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"Your heart rate, Capri."

"That’s what happens when you actually race, John. If you don’t have anything important to say, we’ll talk later."

I hated those unnecessary interruptions, but he was right. The moment he mentioned it, I became aware of the sensation — like my heart was about to burst out of my chest, like I didn’t have full control of my head, and while I raced, I fought my thoughts, my memories, that memory. I passed Zhou and had a flashback, overtook Piastri and another memory came rushing in.

It felt like I was driving straight and brakeless back in time, to that moment, that pain, that disappointment, that irrational force I couldn’t fight. It was bigger than me. Stronger than a race car at nearly 400 km/h.

"That was brilliant, Capri! Keep it up!" John exclaimed with excitement, and I didn’t even understand what had happened until I checked one of the mirrors. Triple overtake on Hulkenberg, Norris, and Pérez. Impossible. I gripped the steering wheel tightly, trying to focus on the race, on the data John was relaying, on feeling the car as an extension of myself.

"P5, Capri, that’s amazing. Six laps left. Stroll is 0.132 ahead. If you pass him, it’s enough. You’ve done an incredible job in 20 laps."

"It wouldn’t be incredible if I finish fifth," I replied, and I could picture John shaking his head. "Positions?" I asked.

"Verstappen leads, followed by Hamilton, Alonso, and Stroll."

"Come on, Capri. Do it," I told myself, holding back tears. I couldn’t control it anymore. I gripped the wheel tighter so no one would see my hands shaking. Sometimes I couldn’t breathe, and I found comfort in the strategy John and the team had prepared for me. I passed Lance quickly, then Fernando. Just 3 laps left. Lewis and Max. My tears mixed with sweat as I fought sentimental thoughts pulling Abu Dhabi back into my mind like a magnet.

"Capri, you’re doing an excellent job," I heard John say again and again between race data. It was the final lap, and once again it was Max and me, at war for first place. There was far more at stake than anyone could see. Would these tormenting memories help me understand how much it hurt to lose against Max? Would everything I had endured over the past 26 laps help me learn I couldn’t keep coming second to Max Verstappen? Did I need anything more to pressure myself?

Apparently, I did. And that "more" was about to show up. The gap between our cars was almost nonexistent, but Max wouldn’t let me through for anything. He made aggressive moves, and I tried attacking with equal aggression, but nothing worked. I could hear the crowd’s screams getting closer, and I tried. I gave it everything I had to overtake him, but our tires made contact, forcing me to fall back by a few hundredths — giving Max a quarter of a second lead over me. And as we reached the finish line, I saw him cross it first.

This time, I didn’t pretend to be okay. I didn’t wave as I got out, I didn’t even celebrate. I ran to the motorhome and ripped off my helmet, struggling to breathe. The look of panic on Jean’s face burned into my memory as he called the medical team. It would have been less ridiculous if they had diagnosed me with a terminal illness right there, but my soul sank when, in less time than my pit stop had taken, the team doctor said I had suffered a panic attack.

There I was again. Me and my worst enemy, living in the same body. Me and my greatest fear.

🚥PREVIOUS: 03. ABOUT THE TEAM

🏁NEXT: 05. FEMALE DISAPPOINTMENT

[melanieph321]

Kenan Yildiz x Reader - Claim Me Part 3/3

Part 1 Part 2

Summary - Reader is Dusan Vlahovic sister and is dating Kenan. However, Reader has yet told her brother of the relationship as he is very protective of her.

Enjoy!

With your heart in your throat, you stepped out of the bathroom stall. Dusan stood frozen, his enraged eyes shifting between the you and Kenan who immediately threw his hands up in defense. "Look, I know it looks bad...."

"I'm gonna kill you!!!"

You screamed as Dusan, like a bull on ecstasy, lunged for Kenan's throat, wrestling him down onto the bathroom floor.

"Dusan stop it!" You cried.

"If you ever...touch....my sister again...."

"Dusan please!"

Blood ran down Kenan's face. A result of Dusan's punches. He kept at it despite Kenan showing no sings in wanting to defend himself.

"You fucking, bastard. I knew there was something wrong with you, always staying close to my family."

"Dusan stop, you're hurting him!"

Your cries alerted people into the men's bathroom. Almost everyone on the team burst through the door, witnessing the horrific scene. Dusan, on top of Kenan, his fist raised and ready to strike again.

"Hey, come on, man!" Thankfully, they were quick to get Dusan off of Kenan, pinning him to a wall.

You rushed to your boyfriend's side, falling onto your knees beside him. "Oh, my God, Kenan, I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry."

"Y/N?" He gulped. Blood was seen running from his nose and mouth, making it difficult for him to speak. The restaurant staff were quick to alert an ambulance to take him to the nearest hospital. You wanted to ride in the car with Kenan, however. your sister told you not to, as it could upset Dusan even more. However. You couldn't give less of a fuck about your brother right now. How could he, you thought. You had never expected him to approve of your relationship but never in your life did you imagine that it would come to this.

Three days later Kenan was out of the hospital with a couple of stiches to hus face, however, he ignored your calls and you knew that he was ignoring you since he did pick up when you called from your sisters number.

"I never wanted to get between you and your brother." Was all he said before hanging up on you.

You were heartbroken, something your brother noticed, mainly because you stopped talking to him whatsoever.

"Come on, Y/N. It doesn't have to be like this." He said.

"Dusan, you literally beat up my boyfriend, your own teammate."

"Boyfriend?" He frowned. "Since when? You're just a kid."

"I'm not, and that's exactly my point." You sighed. "I know you just want the best for me, but you're treating me like I'm still a child," you said, voice firm. "I'm not a little girl anymore. I can take care of myself and make my own decisions."

Dusan looked taken aback by your words, but he slowly nodded his head in understanding. "I know, sis. I know you're not a child. But to go behind my back with one of my teammates of all people. You don't know him like I do. He might not be the best guy for you."

"It doesn't matter, Dusan, because who I chose to date is my choice, not yours."

Dusan thought for a moment as it all seemed to dawn on him. "So the two of you have been seeing each other for a long time?"

"Yes, Kenan is my boyfriend. But I'm not so sure anymore since he won't pick up any of my phone calls, perhaps afraid that....." Your voice broke.

"Hey, hey...." Dusan rushed to your side, wrapping his arms around you. "It's my fault, I'm sorry."

"Yes, it is, your fault." You sniffled,  but found comfort in his embrace.

"I'll fix this I promise."

You looked up. "How?"

"Trust me, I just need some time with the kid."

"Do not hurt him!" You exclaimed.

"I won't. I promise you that something like that will never happen again."

Two weeks passed. Although you and Dusan reached common ground, Kenan still refused to take your calls or messages, and you were not having it. If he wanted to break up with you he should do it to your face, like a man, not ghost you like some fucking side piece.

Taking matters into your own hands, you showed up at his football training, hoping to find out what was going on. As you watched him play, you were surprised to see him and Dusan interacting with each as if Dusan didn't beat the shit out of him the other day. They were goofing around, laughing with one another, that is, until they spotted you.

"Y/N, w....what are you doing here?" Kenan said, approaching the fence where you stood.

"Yeah, sis, this is a closed practice."

You ignored your brother and looked to Kenan. "We need to talk." Hearing those words, Dusan didn't waste no time sticking around, leaving you to it.

"Couldn't it wait?" Kenan mumbled, and for some reason, he struggled to meet your eyes.

"No, Kenan, this can't wait. I want you to break up with me to my face so I don't have to stick around, hoping for you to call me, wondering what if."

"Break up? Why would I..."

"Oh my God." You gasped as Kenan raised his head to look at you. He had a black eye the size of a tennis ball and stiches on his upper lip. The aftermath of your brothers work.

"It looks worse than it is." He said, lowering his head. "I didn't want to scare you showing up looking like this. I mean, Dusan and I are cool now, but perhaps this would remind you of what he did to me."

"Kenan, I'm so sorry, this is all my fault."

"It's not." He said, quick to raise his head. "None of this is your fault, Y/N, and don't ever think that you..."

"But it is Kenan." Tears rand down your cheeks. "We should have told my brother about us like you wanted to. Keeping it a secret only made things worse."

"Well, the secret is out now." He smiled, although it looked painful to.

"Oh, Kenan." You reached for his hand through the fence.

"I have to go back to training, but I can come by later tonight if you want?"

You nodded. "Okay."

He leaned forward, initiating a kiss through the fence. However, you hesitated.

"It won't hurt." He assured you.

You didn't look convinced.

"Okay. Maybe it will hurt a little but it will be worth it."

You smiled and leaned forward, capturing his lips as the cold fence pressed against your cheeks.

"I love you."

He said it first.

Or maybe you said it first.

It didn't matter, he loved you and you loved him. Now the hole world would know.

The End

Part 1

Part 2