#sid’s fics

[arttheclown]

i have written another terrifier fic! this one gives art’s perspective during the infamous slapping scene from T2, as well as the moments leading up to barbara’s death. mind the tags because this one deals with some heavier subject matter than usual. enjoy! 🤡 🖤 🤍

[retrosabers]

the way some of y’all write & describe age gap relationships in fics makes me want to play the law and order svu intro

[yabagofmilfs]

I saw this floating around twitter out of context and had to find the actual post:

yeah 😌

[ceruleanharley]

they had two minutes of screentime, showed up served enemies to lovers sexual tension longing resentment heartbreak and they died. pretty iconic tbh

[purple-obsidian]

no one write jason as good as you.

a gift from god!!!

tysm anon <3 you're very kind!!! i'm glad my horny and depraved mind can produce such blessings to share with you. i might have to disagree, though. i may have a unique style, but i follow quite a few people that write some delicious jason content.

i humbly recommend checking out @mostly-imagines, morgan writes banger after banger. i particularly love their soft dom jason.

if you're a slut for angst like me, @hanasnx does it right and for a whole lot of characters too, not just jason. but i recommend indy's baby daddy jason todd. i cannot stress enough how much i love their shit.

and omg plz if you havent already please follow @killakalx you will not regret it i promise you. kazz has some ak jason stuff as well!

these are just a few of my favs. if you want more jason x reader content, skim my reblogs to see some other amazing writers. guarantee you will find some fics just as good or better than my own.

xoxo sid

[holy-puckslibrary]

just a lil firefighter!sid fluff for y'all :)

gif from @ehghtysevenarchive + per this ask and others

Surely, the chief of Canada's oldest fire department has more important things to do on a crisp morning, the last one preceding a fresh week, than this. He most definitely does. And, yes, Chief Crosby is known for his pragmatic approach to, well, everything.

But neither carries weight here—not when she calls.

Leaky faucet, dead car battery, unreachable spider... It doesn't matter. One ring, and he's rushing home. He can't pin-point when the pattern began, likely sometime shortly between the day you moved into town and his first off-day, but it's a routine he's come to enjoy despite the extra strain on both his schedule and his body; Sidney never thought sharing a property line could be so tedious or time-consuming.

He knows he shouldn't enjoy the distraction as much as he does. You aren't together, Sidney doesn't ever allow his imagination wander that far, but he can't help it. He can't help but help. He rarely turns down anyone in need, which has done wonders for his reputation within the community, but with you... With you, it's different, and embarrassingly so.

He doesn't have the words to explain it. Not that he needs to, it's written plainly across his face.

There's a reason you're regular fixtures in the town's gossip column.

When he arrives on scene—not ten minutes after his F-Series crawled down the gravel drive—Sidney shakes his head and laughs. Collecting his cell and his radio, he slips out of the truck, watching as you fret like a mother hen.

Still in your slippers, you're stood at the base of a decently-sized red spruce wedged between his yard and yours, your crumpled face angled up into the yellow-green needles. You're the very picture of worry, wringing your trembling hands and muttering to yourself.

A stray kitten caught in a tree, that's what's got you in a such a state.

"Well, this is a new one," he bellows in lieu of a greeting, slamming the door shut as his boots hit the ground.

Briefly, your glassy eyes dart in his direction. You're midway through your customary apology when he arrives at your side and quiets you, just as he always does.

"They're more than capable of holding down the fort for however long it takes to rescue our new friend, okay?"

"I know, but what if—"

"But nothing," Sidney huffs, and he dares to take you by the shoulders. And, externally, he ignores the way you shiver under his palms. "If I didn't think it was safe for me to step out for a couple of minutes, I wouldn't. You believe me, right?"

You nod, bottom lip pinched between your teeth.

"Good. Now, how 'bout you keep an ear on this," Sidney sets the clunky satellite radio in your hand, "—and I'll grab the ladder from the shed?"

He doesn't really need your help monitoring the channel, but he knows you'll feel better if you feel like you're doing something. Like him, you find comfort in your utility.

In less than a minute, Sidney re-emerges, rounding the corner with a ladder in hand. You're in the same spot, now fidgeting with the radio, anxiously dumping it from one palm to the other and back again. He follows your gaze to line up the simple equipment necessary for the rescue operation.

Sidney's heart swells as you quietly step forward to spot him.

Lucky for everyone, the ball of orange fur is on the branch nearest to the ground. Sidney needs only to step up onto the first wrung to safetly coax the frightened creature into his waiting hands, he's back on the ground not long after.

He gives the kitten a gentle parting scratch under the chin, then transfers the purring fluff to you. The soft bundle takes to you immediately, nuzzling into your chest like that's where it wanted to be all along.

"I think he likes you," Sidney observes with a cheek-numbing grin.

Your lips are tipped up at the end and there's fan of happiness rooting itself around your eyes. Your mouth opens to reply, but before the words come—

"Well, would you look at this?"

Across the quiet street and a few houses to the left sits an audience of two. Both of which are now cooing as loudly as two ladies in their sixties can manage. Coffee cups in one hand and their cellphones propped up in the other, they fawn over the two of you as if it's live theater.

Sidney curses their sons, who he'd completed the explorer program with as teens, for enabling this technological torture.

"Smile, you two! Oh, Denise is just going to eat this up," one of them, a spitfire in a 4'11 frame by the name of Mrs. Bouchard, exclaims to her co-conspirator, Ms. Johnston.

Then, to no one's surprise and Sid's chagrin, they giddily type out their respective messages to the local paper's equally-nosy editor-in-chief.

"Looks like we're front-page news again," you hum bashfully.

The tabby mewls in your arms. You curl into the little bundle of fur, lips landing between its delicate ears.

Sid studies you in his periphery as he slips in and out of heady contemplation, ultimately deciding he doesn't mind as much as he once did. "That we are..."

—

eek! wait, why do i luv them already 🥹

as always, i would really appreciate if you reblogged my work, left a comment or dropped by my inbox w some feedback :) fandom runs on engagement, and so do writers!! thx a mil in advance!

READ MORE OF THEM HERE!

[sunkissedscribbles]

@inksoakedparchment us core:

[staud]

In the dream I don’t tell anyone, you put your head in my lap. – Richard Siken Song: "A 1000 TIMES" by Hamilton Leithauser

[sportsthoughts]

Day 40 of offseason gifs - In The Room S03E06 - Sid and Geno get ready for the 2014 Olympics

[lavampira]

there’s something so satisfying about writing repressed characters trying to navigate and communicate their feelings, like, pulling teeth to get out the right words for what usually gets bottled up tight, an imperfect but raw sort of honesty in a simple confession

[torukmaktoskxawng]

"Why do you fantasize about fictional blue aliens and not real people?"

Me:

[a-g-u-s-t-d1432]

My lovely men look so sharp

They all look so handsome 🤍

[sighonaraa]

writing emotionally heavy fic is like. not only asking yourself Would He Fucking Say That but also. Would He Fucking React Like That. would he cry about it or shout about it. will he accept a hug right now. does he have the wherewithal to recognize that the people around him are trying to help him. can he pick up what those around him are putting down. where his is own mental state at in this moment. WILL HE ACCEPT A HUG RIGHT NOW.

[yabagofmilfs]

i feel faint

[beggingwolf]

CRYBABY

Jen gives Zhenya a look that could peel paint as he jogs out of the hotel lobby. 

“Not late,” he cuts her off as she yanks open the back door of the big, black SUV, the sort that always turns up for these events. 

“Thirty seconds,” is all she says, voice dry against the soggy, warm Newark air. Zhenya is rarely in New Jersey so early in the year and it sits on his skin like a grime. It’s nothing like the warm blanket of Miami’s heat, which Zhenya already misses even while his hair still carries the faint scent of saltwater.

Jen shuts the door loudly behind the two of them, cocooning them in the cool, air-conditioned interior, and smacks a clipboard right onto Zhenya’s thighs.

“Why?” he grumbles, and she buckles her seatbelt with a loud click as he peers at the itinerary for the NHL’s Media Tour. 

“It’s just like last year, yes?” he asks as he flicks through the pages. 

The English pokes uncomfortably at his brain, and he takes a moment to really look at the letters. He’d spent the better part of his summer carefully leafing through a Dostoevsky novel that had a glossy paperback cover and too-white pages. Between his halfhearted attempts to self-educate and his summer back in Moscow, readjusting to the spikes of written English is an ugly affair.

“Today you’ve got interviews with networks, the off-ice promotional shoot, and a Q&A session,” Jen rattles off, tapping at her phone. “Tomorrow you do on-ice filming.”

Zhenya pokes his tongue against the inside of his cheek, letting the pages fall back in order before dumping the clipboard onto the empty seat next to him. The drive isn’t far; Jen had booked the same hotel the Penguins stay in when they come for games. Zhenya walks into Prudential Center through the back entrance he always uses, adjusting his suit jacket as Jen flashes her badge at the security guard. 

It’s strange, in some way, to come back to this after his summer. The reporters can’t resist bringing up the Penguins’ ignoble exit to playoffs, their postseason’s tailspin into failure. It’s easier to think of his time back in Magnitogorsk—where he had a K stitched onto his jersey instead of a C, where the media asked him pointed questions in no-nonsense tones—than it is to think about the abbreviated NHL season that had followed. 

It had been an odd year. The KHL had felt familiar and foreign all at once. Zhenya had become Malk once again, and Malk tore it up, almost two points per game. It had been fun to stretch out his old memories and readjust to the international ice size. He’d felt young again while living in his parents’ house, decorating the New Year’s yolka with them and skittering out of the way when Geoffrey, enormous and terrifying, bounded around corners and nearly took out Zhenya’s knees. 

And then he’d gotten the call that the owners and the union had figured their shit out. He’d gotten on a flight back to Pittsburgh during a winter snowstorm, Moscow howling its rage at his departure. It had been a portent of the things to come: his concussion in January, his shoulder injury in March, and then the Eastern Conference Final, where Zhenya’s Penguins had been pushed to their knees by the Bruins. 

Zhenya had barely gotten three months to lick his wounds in Moscow and tan them away in Miami. The new season stretches out in front of him, and he tries to curry hope in his chest as reporters ask him about the new divisions and his Penguins’ chances. 

He’s lingering outside of a conference room, throwing too many texts to Nealsy and pestering him about when he’ll be back in Pittsburgh, when he hears hushed voices approaching. 

He presses himself against the cinderblock wall to make room. Jen abandoned him to make sure he’s still scheduled for the roundtable discussion and Zhenya is already tired. The humidity outside leaks into the arena, and Zhenya feels rumpled and groggy and honestly doesn’t want to deal with Toews’s weighty, complicated conversations or Doughty’s gregariousness. 

“Hey,” Zhenya hears, and he looks up.

Oh. 

Zhenya has been asked about Sidney Crosby more times than he can count. Today, last season, even during the lockout. A stout little thing out of Canada, fast with the puck and strong on his skates. 

He’s bigger now than he was when Zhenya had seen him in Ufa at World Juniors, when the whole of Metallurg had hopped onto a bus, full and sated from their New Year’s dinners, and made a weekend out of watching the Canadians and Russians duke it out over bronze. 

Crosby’s smile is nothing like the sullen, angry expression that had been plastered onto his face when Russia sent Canada home empty-handed. He’s in a dark suit that’s abysmally cut for him—too boxy, an immature, poorly-tailored design that rankles Zhenya’s European sensibilities. His grin is boyish and confident, and Zhenya’s been shown a clip or two of his interviews; he’s good-tempered and answers everything asked of him.

Jen had told Zhenya to take notes. Zhenya had told Jen he was going to get her fired. 

Crosby holds out a hand, and Zhenya glances down at it.

“I’m Sid,” Crosby says. “Sidney Crosby. This is Nate. Nice to meet you.”

Lingering behind Crosby, obviously more nervous and looking like an underbaked piroshki, is MacKinnon. Canada’s two golden boys, blazing into the NHL in the wake of the lockout. 

Crosby’s smile widens, just a bit, and Zhenya finally reaches out and wraps Crosby’s smaller hand in his own. 

As soon as Zhenya engages, MacKinnon jumps forward eagerly, sticking out his own hand. Zhenya gives him a reluctant shake, and MacKinnon’s hand grips tighter. 

“Wow, Geno, like, the Russian bear, right?” MacKinnon laughs, high and delighted like he's a child and not one of Zhenya’s new coworkers. Crosby clears his throat softly but pointedly, and he widens his eyes at MacKinnon in an obvious plea to shut the fuck up.

Zhenya smirks, and when Crosby notices, his ears go pink.

[holy-puckslibrary]

sid to a furry friend's rescue!

florist!reader gets flustered during sid's calendar shoot

parents mentors for the day

chief crosby's got a date... and its not with florist!reader

... was in a bit of a silly goofy mood, forgive me (and be sure to read the endnotes!)

gif from @littlemessyjessi

This is the last thing Sidney Crosby imagined he'd come home to: another man settled in his chair.

His cat is curled in the intruder's lap, and said intruder's hand is curled over your knee. And Sidney's soup—homemade and hand-delivered—split in bowls between you.

"Thought you didn't need a babysitter?"

Sidney watches the gleeful expression wilt on your pretty face—color drained like his bank account succeeding the egregious bid he matched to make bail—with equal measures of self-satisfaction and self-contempt.

"I-I didn't, I just—"

"Settle down, Chief," the ranger laughs. "I knew our little lady here was feeling under the weather, so I thought I'd stop by after my patrol shift and keep her company while you were indisposed."

Sidney glares into the bright cerulean eyes of one Anthony Beauvillier, a park ranger in the Atlantic Coast Uplands region.

If memory serves, he was recently transferred from Waverley to Blue Mountain but resides in Peggy's Cove. This is a 50-minute detour.

In the opposite direction.

The Fire Chief's jaw is painfully tight, his blood scalding. If it were't for his, albeit dwindling, sense of self preservation, Sidney would've marched up those two steps—recently refurbished at his hand, might he add—to forcefully remove the park narc's grubby paw from your body.

Mercifully—for all involved parties, you do so shortly and of your own volition before joining Sid in your driveway.

Guilt smeared over your sickly features, your mouth parts, an explanation hot on your tongue, but all that comes is a grizzly cough that stings Sid's chest just hearing it. Despite his vexation, he's patient with you; he owes it to you both to wait it out. He hopes this is just one big misunderstanding somehow.

But, before you're able, the absolute last person Sidney wants to hear from pipes up.

"Resting, ma biche. You're meant to be resting," Tito attempts to coax you back onto the porch—back to his side—with an outstretched, up-turned hand.

(my doe / my darling — reminder: see end for important notes!)

Not as quick with his French as he'd like to be, he growls at the perceived insult. However, rather than running his fist through the opposition's teeth in your honor, Sidney defiles it.

The park ranger, and everyone else who happens to be out and about tonight, are treated to an unexpected eyeful of their Fire Chief's innermost feelings rushing to the surface. They pour into your mouth with reckless abandon, unconcerned with his public image or the utter lack of privacy; this kiss could be broadcast on the Nightly News for all he cares.

All that matters to Sidney Crosby is making his intentions known, and crystal fucking clear. Staking his claim is just a bonus.

"Well, it looks like my work here is done."

At your dazed expression and Sid's bewilderment, Tito stands from the rocking chair with a genuine smile fixed on his face. As he deposits evergreen Stetson atop his wind-swept hair, he pauses.

"Y'all have a nice night," he winks with a tip of the brim, bidding you farewell before slipping into his government-issued Ram.

As gravel crunches under the vehicle's wheels, gears click into place behind Sidney's burnt umber eyes, now gleaming with clarity.

"Nate and Emmy." — Statement, not a question.

"Please, don't be angry. They just wanted to help because... because I didn't believe that... y'know." You gesture to the sliver of space that still separates you, a bashful little smile pushing up your feverish cheeks.

He couldn't find it in himself to be ticked off about your best friends' not-so-harebrained scheme—which, honestly, deserved more credit than he would ever be willing to give it—if he wanted to. Not while standing so close he can smell the PEI tulips you've been elbow-deep in all month, and definitely not having tasted the whisper of herbal tea lingering on your tongue.

Smirking, he closes the gap with a gentle tug.

"Oh, I know." Voice dropping to a thick hush, his lips hovering a lick above your skin, "D'you believe it now?"

The pinkish skin crinkles around his warm eyes as you pretend to think.

"I could do with a little more... convincing," you ultimately quip. "But, only if you're up for the t—"

The remainder of your cajoling is overtaken by a fit of giggles as he corrals you up and across the porch. The front door slams shut with a satisfying air of finality. Though, not before little Ember slips in with you.

Chief Crosby was thorough by nature, and he'd be damned if he didn't dedicate the evening to dispelling any and all doubts threatening to take root. Feigned, or not.

—

gotcha! teehee 😋 sid really said sick germs?? no match for my LOVE!!! ALSO! tito anon, this ones for you bbyyyyy 💓💓💓💓

***** 'ma biche' was chosen because its typically humorous and rarely intended seriously, + can be considered majorly outdated (even by 60s sitcom standards)—and its not always romantic! ... it also sounds a lot like an english insult, hence sid's reaction lol (at least, according to my french-canadian grandmother who remains very confused by my random call for a french lesson on infrequently used terms of endearment lol) *****

as always, i would really appreciate if you reblogged my work, left a comment or dropped by my inbox w some feedback :) fandom runs on engagement, and so do writers!! thx a mil in advance!