#Crosby imagines

[angelsuecult]

it ain’t me babe | s. crosby

Pt. 2

“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.

Part 1 | Part 2

—

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.

[nylqnder]

DANCING WITH OUR HANDS TIED SIDNEY CROSBY

pairing: younger!gf x sidney crosby

summary: after a night of celebrating, one photo changes everything. a private moment goes public, sparking rumors, opinions, and a whole lot of judgment. suddenly, it feels like the world is closing in, and you and sidney have to figure out how to deal with the chaos.

warnings: age gap (12 years, reader is 25), appearances from natemac + charlotte, steph marner and lauren kyle, people online sucking and being rude, angst

wc: 6.32k

notes: based on dancing with our hands tied by taylor swift. obsessed how everyone's collectively agreed that sidcros canonically has a younger gf lmao

Sidney wasn’t the type to bring people along — no charity events, no team functions, nothing that risked exposing too much. Privacy was his shield, one he’d spent years perfecting, carefully keeping his private and professional lives independent of each other. And, in the several months you’d been together, that instinct had only sharpened. No one knew about you, not really. Not the media, not the fans, not even some of his teammates.

But when he asked, voice soft and edged with something unspoken, you couldn’t say no.

He would never admit it. He would never outright say that he wanted you there, that he needed you there. 

But you could hear it anyway — in the way his voice hesitated just a fraction too long before he asked, in the way he didn’t meet your eyes at first, like giving you the choice to say no made it easier for him to ask at all. Sidney wasn’t one to lean on others, not openly, not in ways that could be perceived as weakness. But this? Inviting you to Four Nations, to a tournament where every move was scrutinized, where the weight of expectation that comes with representing your country pressed down like a vice?

It wasn’t just about wanting you there. It was about needing something steady, something certain, in the chaos of it all. You weren’t just a spectator to him. You were an anchor. And even if he’d never say it, this was the closest he’d come to asking you to stay. 

So here you were, in Montreal, tucked into the quiet luxury of Sidney’s hotel room, the hum of the city just beyond the window. His duffel bag sat half-zipped on the floor, his team-issued gear folded neatly beside it. Across the room, Sidney leaned against the dresser, still in his sweats, still fresh from practice, watching you as you stood in the middle of the room with your coat draped over your arm.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you told Sidney who was watching you with that quiet patience, waiting for you to tell him how your afternoon went.

The invitation had caught you off guard. Sidney wasn’t the kind of guy who asked for favours, who made a fuss over things most people took for granted. But somehow, between morning skate and team meetings, he and Nate had quietly set this up.

No one here really knew about you. Sidney had made sure of that — not out of shame or secrecy, but because privacy was the only way he knew how to protect something that mattered. And because of that, you didn’t have the built-in connections the other WAGs had. You weren’t part of the tight-knit circle that formed around a team, the kind of bond that came from years of shared seasons and shared memories from teams such as these.

But then Nate’s fiancée, Charlotte, had texted — a casual, no-pressure invitation to lunch with her, along with Mitch and Connor’s wives, Steph and Lauren. It had been arranged so seamlessly that you knew it had come from someone other than them — Sidney or Nate, most likely, making sure you weren’t alone in a city full of people who knew each other.

He shrugged his shoulders, nonchalant. “I didn’t do anything.”

You gave him a look, dropping your coat and pulling off your heeled boots before sitting on the foot of the bed. “Nate, then.”

Sidney huffed out a laugh, gaze flickering away for a moment before settling back on you. “Maybe.”

It was so like him — so like them — to do something thoughtful and then pretend like it hadn’t taken effort at all. You should’ve expected it.

Still, it had felt strange walking into that restaurant, into a lunch with women who had a history with each other, a rhythm you hadn’t yet learned. The gap between you and them was obvious in some ways — you were newer, younger, and the age difference between you and Sidney wasn’t exactly subtle.

But they hadn’t pried. They hadn’t judged.

They’d just… welcomed you.

“You were right about them,” you said finally, drawing your legs up beneath you on the bed. “They were really nice. They didn’t ask a bunch of questions or make it weird.”

Sidney’s shoulders relaxed slightly, but he stayed quiet, letting you fill in the silence at your own pace.

“I mean, I know the age difference is… noticeable,” you continued, watching his expression carefully. “I figured there’d be some curiosity, maybe even skepticism. But they didn’t make me feel out of place. It was just… easy.”

Sidney let out a slow breath, his fingers tapping absently against the dresser. “Good,” he said simply, but there was something heavier beneath it.

You tilted your head. “You were worried?”

His lips pressed together in a way that meant he was choosing his words carefully. “Not worried,” he admitted. “Just… I didn’t want you to feel like an outsider.”

Something in your chest tightened, warmth spreading through you at the quiet sincerity in his voice. He hadn’t asked you to come here lightly. He hadn’t arranged this lunch on a whim.

“I didn’t,” you reassured him. “It was nice to feel included.”

Sidney nodded, a small, almost imperceptible shift in his posture that told you he was relieved. He glanced down at the floor, then back up at you, his mouth quirking into something almost shy.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said softly.

Your breath caught for half a second, but you smiled. “Me too.”

The days began to blur together as the tournament came into full swing. You’d only just begun to experience the ebb and flow of regular hockey seasons, but with the Penguins missing playoffs last year, you hadn’t experienced the business of meaningful hockey. One moment, you were in Montreal, adjusting to the rhythm of Sidney’s world, and the next, you were on a plane to Boston, the city humming with anticipation for the final game.

It was in those moments, where Sidney was being whisked away to the arena for practice and media, that you were glad to know the other girls now. Mornings you likely would’ve spent alone were now spent getting brunch with the girls or checking out local boutiques together. 

The final game felt different. The energy in the arena, the weight of expectation in the air — it was tangible, pressing down on everyone in attendance. You could feel it in the way the fans leaned forward in their seats, in the nervous tension woven between every play. The stakes were everything. Canada versus the U.S. A rivalry as old as the game itself, culminating in one night, one moment.

You sat beside Lauren in the stands, your fingers curled around the armrests of your seat as the game unfolded at a breakneck pace. Every shift was a battle, every second a test of endurance and will. Sidney was relentless, his presence a steady force on the ice, his every move calculated and precise. And yet, it wasn’t just him — it was the whole team, a collection of the best, playing as one.

The game stretched into overtime, the tension nearly unbearable. You barely breathed as Canada took a faceoff and gained possession in the offensive zone. The entire arena seemed to hold its breath as Mitch passed the puck to a wide-open Connor right in front of the net before he wired a wrister past the goaltender. The building erupted, the horn blared, and suddenly, everything was chaos.

You screamed before you even realized it, jumping to your feet, arms wrapping around Lauren as you both nearly lost your balance in your excitement. The ice was a blur of movement — sticks and gloves flying, players leaping over the boards, crashing into each other with unrestrained joy. The Canadian bench emptied in an instant, the celebration spilling across the ice in waves.

You finally see the 87 on a red jersey joining the throng of players. He wasn’t the first into the pile, likely wasn’t the loudest in his celebration, but the second he reached his teammates, the weight he carried seemed to lift. His grin was wide, eyes crinkling at the corners, his arms tight around Nate as they half-collapsed into the growing huddle. It was rare to see Sidney lose himself in a moment, to let his guard down completely. But here, now, you could see it. The pure, unfiltered joy of winning, of achieving something monumental on the international stage once again.

Your throat tightened, emotion catching you off guard. It was one thing to know how much this meant to him, but another to see it written across his face so clearly. Sidney wasn’t one to need validation, but this — this was different. Winning for his country, leading on the biggest stage — it was everything.

Tears burned behind your eyes, but you blinked them away, unwilling to miss a second. Lauren squeezed your arm, her own excitement mirrored in her bright smile. “They did it!”

You nodded, laughing breathlessly. “I can’t believe it.”

The medal ceremony was a blur of red and gold, of cheers and anthems and beaming faces. When Sidney stepped forward to receive his medal, you swore your heart clenched in your chest. He looked up into the crowd, and for a fleeting second, his gaze found yours. He didn’t wave, didn’t do anything that might draw attention to the connection, but the warmth in his expression was unmistakable. And that was enough.

The bar was packed by the time you arrived, a haze of celebration thick in the air. Team Canada had all but taken over, their roped-off section teeming with players, coaches, and close friends, the space a sea of red and white. Laughter and clinking glasses filled the room, voices raised over the pulse of music and the distant roar of fans still celebrating in the streets.

You had barely stepped inside when you felt a presence at your side, warm and familiar.

“You made it.”

Sidney’s voice was quieter than the surrounding noise, but you’d have heard him anywhere.

You turned, and there he was — still in the team-issued hoodie he must have thrown on post-shower, hair damp at the edges, eyes alight with something soft and tired and incredibly alive. The gold medal was slung around his neck, a casual afterthought despite the magnitude of what it meant.

You exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “Of course I did.”

His hand found yours instinctively, fingers warm against your wrist, brushing against your pulse. He didn’t pull you in right away, but there was something unmistakable in the way he looked at you. A silent acknowledgment. A quiet gratitude.

And then, just like that, the space between you was gone. His arm wrapped around your waist, tugging you close, the solid warmth of him pressing into you. He smelled purely of champagne and beer that had been poured on him post-win. His lips found your temple first, then your cheek, slow and deliberate. He hadn’t had a second to himself since the final horn, but here, now, with you, he let himself pause.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice barely audible over the noise.

You leaned back just enough to meet his gaze. “For what?”

“For being here.”

It was a simple thing, and yet it held so much. For seeing him at his most intense and still choosing to stay. For understanding the gravity of nights like these and letting him exist within them without expectation. For knowing when to stay in the background and when to step into his orbit.

You smiled, fingers grazing the medal at his chest before gripping the front of his hoodie, tugging him down just enough for your lips to brush his. “Wouldn’t have missed it for anything.”

His breath hitched slightly, just for a second, before he kissed you properly, with the kind of certainty that came with knowing, without a doubt, that this was right.

The moment was brief, fleeting — Sidney wasn’t one for public displays — but when he pulled away, his fingers still rested against your hip, grounding you to him.

“C’mon,” he said, voice lighter now, that rare post-win ease still settling into his frame. “Let’s get a drink.”

You let him lead you deeper into the celebration, past teammates who clapped him on the back and playfully nudged him at the sight of you together. He took it all in stride, offering nothing more than a smirk before ordering two drinks, his hand never once leaving yours.

The morning after the celebration felt slow, almost suspended in the quiet hum of a city still revelling in victory. Sunlight streamed through the hotel curtains, casting long, golden streaks across the unmade bed where Sidney lay beside you, his breathing steady, the weight of exhaustion still heavy in his limbs.

His back rose and fell with each slow breath, the muscles shifting beneath skin mapped with faint freckles and the ghost of old bruises. The warm glow of morning light traced the sharp angles of his shoulder blades, pooling in the dip of his spine, highlighting the way his skin gleamed with the remnants of last night’s sweat. A few stray curls clung to the nape of his neck, dark against the pale sheets. 

You shifted slightly, careful not to wake him just yet, reaching for your phone on the nightstand. The moment the screen lit up, your stomach twisted. Missed calls. Unread messages. Group chats that had been dormant now lit up with notifications.

Your pulse quickened. Something had happened.

You shot upright, legs swinging over the side of the bed as you scrolled through the never-ending stream of notifications. Sidney stirred beside you, a low hum escaping his throat as he blinked against the light. “Morning, hon.”

You didn’t reply, rather scrolling through messages and posts to find the root of the uproar. “Babe?” he asked. When met with more silence, he sat up, placing a calloused hand softly on your shoulder. “Y/n? You okay?”

You hesitated for half a second before exhaling sharply, tilting the screen toward him. It didn’t take long for Sidney to make out what he was seeing on your screen. A single image had spread like wildfire across social media overnight — a photo taken at the bar, capturing the two of you in the kind of intimacy that left nothing to interpretation.

The photo on your screen was bathed in the warm, low-lit ambiance of the bar, a moment frozen in time. Sidney stood before you, his smile soft yet intense as he gazed down at you. Your arms were wrapped around each other, bodies pressed close, foreheads nearly touching, lost in a private world amid the dimly lit crowd. The golden glow of the room kissed your skin, the soft waves of your hair cascading down your back as your fingers rested lightly on his bicep.

The comments were filled with vitriol.

Since when is Crosby into arm candy?

She looks way younger than him…

Is this a mid-life crisis thing or…?

Damn, never thought I’d see Sid with a gold digger.

The words made your chest tighten. It wasn’t just gossip; it was venom. Assumptions turned into insults, speculation sharpened into accusations. People who didn’t know you — who had never even seen you before this moment — had already decided exactly who you were.

Sidney pulled back, retreating to his side of the bed. He swung his legs off the side of the bed, grabbed his phone and scrolled through his equally endless notifications. They all contained the same things; questions about who this mystery girl was, asking since when was he into younger girls. The queries about who you were rivalled the amount of congratulatory text he had received about winning gold. 

You glanced over your shoulder, seeing the way his shoulders were tensed up as he hunched over his phone. “Sid,” you started, voice careful, but he shook his head.

“I should’ve been more careful,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “I should’ve known someone would take a picture.”

You swallowed hard. “It’s not your fault.”

He let out a slow breath, running a hand through his hair. “I know, but that doesn’t make it easier.”

Sidney had spent his entire career guarding his privacy, crafting an existence where the only thing the world saw was the player, never the man. And now, in a single night, that careful boundary had been breached.

You crawled across the expanse of the king bed, the sheets rustling softly beneath you as you moved closer. Your fingers found his shoulder first, hesitant yet deliberate, the warmth of his skin grounding you as your palm flattened over the tense muscle. He exhaled at the touch, a barely-there sigh, but he didn’t lean into you. 

“What do we do?”

He exhaled sharply. “We don’t do anything.”

You blinked. “Sid—”

He stood up, your hand falling from his unclothed shoulder as he turned to face you. “People are going to say what they want, no matter what we do. If we respond, it adds fuel to the fire. If we stay quiet, it dies down eventually.”

You knew he was right, but it didn’t make it easier. Your fingers curled against the sheets, frustration simmering beneath your skin. “It’s just… ugly. They’re making it seem like you’re some predator and I’m some money-hungry girl taking advantage of you. And they don’t even know us.”

Sidney’s expression softened. “I know.” His hand found your chin, tilting your head up to look into his eyes. “But I do. And that’s what matters.”

You studied him for a moment, searching for any trace of doubt, but there was none. Just the unwavering steadiness that defined him, the quiet certainty that had always drawn you to him in the first place.

He let his hand fall, exhaling slowly before running his fingers through his still-damp hair. The weight of the moment settled between you, thick and heavy, but Sidney didn’t flinch under it. He just stood there, watching you, waiting.

Then, his phone buzzed again. A call. He glanced at the screen, lips pressing into a thin line before silencing it.

“Who is it?” you asked quietly.

“Geno,” he muttered. After a beat, his phone buzzed again. “Tanger too. Probably checking in.”

Of course. The photo was everywhere. His teammates weren’t oblivious. They knew what this meant — what it meant for him.

Sidney sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “We should pack. Our flight’s in a few hours.”

You nodded, though the tension still sat heavy in your chest. This wasn’t something you could outrun, not even by getting on a plane and heading back to Pittsburgh. But if Sidney wasn’t going to let it dictate his next move, you wouldn’t either.

The hotel lobby was eerily quiet compared to the chaos of the night before. A few lingering fans still loitered outside, hoping to catch a last glimpse of the players before they departed for their respective cities. The gold medal around Sidney’s neck had been tucked away into his carry-on, but there was no mistaking who he was — who both of you were, now, in the wake of the photo.

You spotted them before they spotted you.

The girls stood near the hotel entrance, their voices hushed but animated. You could tell they had been talking about it — about you. The moment they noticed you approaching, their expressions shifted, morphing into something softer. Understanding.

“Hey hon,” Charlotte murmured, stepping forward first, her heels clicking against the marble floor as she pulled you into a quick hug. “I saw everything online. Are you okay?”

You hesitated. There wasn’t an easy answer to that.

“I…” you exhaled, forcing a small smile. “It’s a lot.”

Lauren scoffed, arms crossing. “People are awful. Like, seriously, do they not have anything better to do than rip apart someone they don’t even know?”

Steph nodded, her brows furrowed in frustration. “I don’t get it. As if Sidney would ever be the type to entertain a ‘gold digger’ — like, come on.”

Their voices overlapped, indignation building on your behalf, and the warmth in your chest surprised you. You hadn’t expected this. Not really. You’d half expected them to finally let their fronts up and admit that they thought the age gap was weird, that they agreed with the strangers online who called you an opportunist, who speculated about your intentions, who dissected every interaction like it was proof of some ulterior motive. You’d half expected them to nod along with the cruellest comments, to tell you, gently but firmly, that they understood why people were saying those things.

But they didn’t.

Instead, their outrage was genuine, layered with protectiveness you hadn’t dared to hope for. Their voices rose over one another, dismissing the gossip with a ferocity that made your throat tighten. Something was reassuring about their presence, about the way they made it clear you weren’t alone in this. You hadn’t been part of this world long, but in the span of a few days, they had made space for you in it.

Sidney stepped up next to you, his hand brushing against yours. “We should get going, the cars waiting out front.”

They nodded in understanding, exchanging quick hugs before stepping aside, letting you both pass. As you exited the hotel, the cool Boston air hit your skin, crisp and awakening. Sidney’s hand found the small of your back, guiding you toward the car waiting to take you to the airport.

The chartered flight back to Pittsburgh was quiet. Sidney had never been a man of many words, but this silence was different — it was thicker and heavier. The silence threatened to suffocate the two of you.

You sat beside him, your fingers twisting idly in your lap, the occasional hum of the airplane engines the only sound between you. Every now and then, your phone would vibrate with another notification, but you had stopped checking them hours ago. You knew what they would say.

Sidney, on the other hand, hadn’t stopped scrolling. His jaw was set, shoulders tight, his focus glued to the screen as he combed through the online storm that had erupted overnight. The same cycle of cruel comments, the same intrusive headlines. Sidney didn’t even use social media, at least not publicly. He only had it to keep up with his closest friends and family. 

But that didn’t stop him from looking. From searching his own name. From refreshing the threads and articles that dissected the photo. It was a compulsion, a need to know — even if knowing only made it worse. His grip on his phone tightened with every cruel joke, every twisted narrative about the two of you. You could see the tension in his jaw, the flicker of something raw in his expression, but he wouldn’t tear his eyes away. 

Eventually, you reached over, your fingertips grazing the back of his hand, urging him to stop. He didn’t pull away, but he didn’t look at you either.

“Sid,” you murmured.

A long exhale. He finally locked his phone and set it face-down on the table in front of him. He rubbed his hands over his face before turning his gaze toward the window, watching the clouds roll by.

“I didn’t want this for you,” he said finally, voice barely above a whisper.

You swallowed hard. “I know.”

He turned then, looking at you for the first time in what felt like hours. “It’s not fair,” he said, the words sharp with frustration. “You shouldn’t have to deal with this. I should’ve—”

“Sid.” You cut him off before he could start blaming himself again. “This isn’t just about you. We knew this could happen. We just didn’t know when.”

His lips pressed together, unhappy but unwilling to argue. He reached for your hand then, lacing his fingers with yours, grounding himself in the simple connection.

But even as he held you close, you could feel the shift between you.

The weight of it all didn’t lessen when you returned to Pittsburgh. If anything, it only grew heavier.

Sidney was different. Not distant, exactly, but careful in a way he hadn’t been before. The easy rhythm you had fallen into over the months — the stolen moments, the quiet evenings spent in the comfort of each other — had been disrupted.

Now, everything felt… tense.

You noticed it in the way he checked over his shoulder for any signs of intruding cameras before reaching for you, in the way he kept a careful distance between you in crowded spaces, his hand hovering near yours but never quite closing the gap. He still looked at you the same way in private, still touched you with the same quiet reverence. But beyond closed doors, it was as if he had retreated behind an invisible wall.

It wasn’t intentional. You knew that. This was how he had survived in the public eye for so long — by being careful, by maintaining control.

But this time, it wasn’t just him anymore. It was you, too.

And you weren’t sure how much longer you could pretend it didn’t hurt.

The first fight — the first big fight — came late one evening, when the weight of everything became too much to ignore.

The living room was quiet except for the low hum of the television, its blue light flickering against the walls. Sidney sat beside you on the couch, one arm draped along the backrest, his other hand absently tapping against his thigh. He looked tired — more tired than he had in a long time. The kind of tiredness that went deeper than physical exhaustion.

TNT was on, background noise to the silence neither of you seemed eager to break. Then, Paul Bissonnette’s voice cut through the quiet, casual but laced with something more. Something biting.

“Look at our boy Sid, huh? Maybe all he needed was a new young toy to bring some life back into him.”

The words landed like a slap.

Sidney stiffened, every muscle in his body coiling tight. Without hesitation, he grabbed the remote and shut the TV off in an instant, the screen snapping to black.

You sat in the newfound silence and the air between you suddenly charged.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, Sidney exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “I don’t know how we can keep doing this,” he muttered, voice strained. “Not if this is what people think.”

Your brows knitted together, confusion laced with hurt. You uncurled yourself from Sidney’s side, turning to look at him. “Since when do you care what people think?”

“I don’t,” he snapped, then sighed, shaking his head as if trying to correct himself. “It’s not about me.” He turned to you, his expression raw in a way that made your stomach twist. “It’s about you. The way they talk about you. The things they’re saying.”

You stared at him, heart pounding. “Sid, they don’t know me. They don’t know us.”

“They don’t have to,” he said, voice edged with frustration. “They’ve already decided. And now every time someone looks at you, that’s what they’ll think.”

Anger flickered in your chest, an ember catching fire. ���So what? That’s their problem, not ours.”

Sidney pushed a hand through his hair, exhaling hard as he stood up and paced a couple of steps in front of the still-warm television. “You don’t get it. It’s not just a few comments. It’s not just gossip. It’s relentless. It follows you. No matter what you do, no matter how much time passes, they’ll keep talking. They’ll keep judging.”

You scoffed, the weight of his words sinking in, settling like a stone in your stomach. “So what, then? What are you saying, Sid?”

He hesitated.

That hesitation — more than anything else — made your chest tighten.

“I love you,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “And that’s why I can’t subject you to the kind of judgment that us being together will bring you.”

Your breath hitched. The room suddenly felt too small, the walls too close. “Are you—” Your voice broke slightly. You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to meet his eyes. “Are you ending this?”

Sidney didn’t answer right away. He didn’t need to. The answer was written all over his face.

He wasn’t looking at you anymore. His gaze was cast downward, jaw tight, hands shoved deep into his sweatshirt pocket like he was holding himself back from reaching for you. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, reluctant. “I just… I don’t want this life to hurt you.”

You let out a hollow laugh, shaking your head in disbelief. “That’s bullshit, Sidney.”

His head snapped up, eyes darkening. “It’s not.”

“Yes, it is,” you shot back, anger rising in your throat. “You’re not doing this for me. You’re doing it for you. Because it’s easier to let go than to fight for something that actually matters.”

Sidney’s jaw clenched. “That’s not fair.”

“No?” You let out a humourless laugh, standing up and getting in his space, forcing him to look at you. “What’s not fair is you making this decision for me. You think I don’t know what I signed up for? You think I don’t know what comes with being with you?”

He stepped back, needing to put a few feet of distance between the two of you to remove the temptation of reaching for you. Frustration was etched into every line of his face. “You shouldn’t have to deal with this.”

“But I chose to!” you said, your voice coming out slightly more raised than you intended. Your voice cracked, hands trembling at your sides. “You don’t get to decide what I can handle, Sid. I’m not a fucking child, Sidney! God. You of all people should know that.”

The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating. Sidney’s chest rose and fell with a slow, measured breath, his jaw locked so tight you swore you could hear his teeth grind. His hands curled into fists at his sides before he forced them open again.

“I know that,” he said finally, voice rough. “I know you’re not a child.”

“Then why are you treating me like one?” Your words came sharp, slicing through the tension between you.

He faltered. His lips parted as if he had an answer ready, but nothing came. He swallowed, shook his head slightly, gaze flickering toward the ground. When he didn’t speak, you felt something crack inside you, something that had already been splintering under the weight of this conversation.

Your laugh was bitter, humourless. “You don’t even know, do you?”

Sidney’s head snapped up, a flash of something — guilt, maybe, or shame — crossing his features. “That’s not—”

“No,” you cut him off, stepping closer, your heartbeat pounding in your ears. “You’re scared.”

His brows knit together, but he didn’t deny it. Couldn’t.

“You’re scared of what they say. Scared of what it means to have something real and complicated and worth fighting for,” you pressed, voice shaking with something between heartbreak and fury. “You’re a coward, Sidney.”

He flinched. The word hit its mark, a direct shot to his pride. For a second, you thought he might lash out, might argue, might fight for himself — for you — for this. But instead, his face softened, the anger slipping away like a tide receding. He exhaled a slow, unsteady breath, and dragged a hand down his face.

“I’m sorry.”

It wasn’t a defence. It wasn’t an argument. Just those two words, heavy with meaning, with regret, with something that almost sounded like surrender.

But you weren’t sure you could accept them.

Your arms wrapped around yourself instinctively, like you were trying to hold yourself together, keep your heart from shattering entirely. “Sorry doesn’t change the fact that you’re willing to let them dictate this.”

Sidney stepped forward, just slightly, like he wanted to close the space between you. “I don’t want to let them dictate anything. I just— I don’t want this to hurt you.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, the fight draining out of you all at once. Because that was the part that made this hurt the most. He wasn’t lying. He truly believed he was doing the right thing. That protecting you meant walking away from you.

But that wasn’t protection. That was fear.

You exhaled sharply, opening your eyes to meet his. “You already hurt me, Sid.”

He looked like he wanted to say something, anything to fix it. But there was nothing he could say. Not now.

The air between you was thick with everything unsaid, the silence pressing in on all sides. Sidney’s face was tense, his shoulders rigid, but his eyes — God, his eyes — were the only part of him that betrayed how much this was killing him.

Your heart clenched, an ache settling deep in your chest. Maybe this was it. Maybe this was the moment you walked away. You took a step back.

But then—

“I don’t want this to end.”

The words came out hoarse, almost broken, and the moment they did, it was like something inside of him finally cracked wide open.

Sidney exhaled shakily, hands raking through his hair like he was trying to keep himself from falling apart. “I don’t want to lose you,” he admitted, voice thick. “But I’m scared, okay?” His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. “I’m scared of what it means to bring you into this. Scared of how they’ll tear you apart. Scared that one day, you’ll wake up and realize you don’t want this life anymore, and I’ll lose you anyway.”

His words hit you like a tidal wave, knocking the wind from your lungs.

That was it. That was the truth of it — not just fear of what people said, but fear of losing you.

You stepped forward, closing the distance between you. “Sid,” you whispered, heart hammering. “You don’t get to push me away because you’re scared.”

His gaze flickered to yours, conflicted and vulnerable in a way you’d never seen before.

“You think you’re protecting me, but you’re not. You’re just making the decision for me,” you said, voice steady despite the way your emotions threatened to break free. “If you want this to work, you need to be more like the Sidney that doesn’t give a damn what the media says. The one who only cares about what happens on the ice and in his own life. You’ve spent your whole career tuning out the noise — why can’t you do that for this?”

He let out a breath, shaking his head. “Because this is different.”

“It’s not.” You reached for his hand, gripping it tight. “It only feels different because you’re letting them make it different. If you want this — if you want me — you need to stop letting them dictate what you do. What we are.”

Sidney stared at you, his fingers tightening around yours like he was anchoring himself to you. And for the first time since this fight started, you saw it. The fight in him.

He wasn’t letting go. He couldn’t.

A muscle ticked in his jaw before he exhaled, like he was finally letting himself breathe again. “I want you,” he said, the words low and certain. “I want this.” His voice dropped even lower, almost like a confession. “I love you too much to let you walk away.”

“Then stop being scared,” you murmured.

You squeezed his hand one last time before pulling your hand gently from his. As much as you believed Sidney when he said he wanted this to work — wanted you to work — the fear was still rooted in him. It lingered in the way his fingers twitched as you let go, in the way his breath caught like he wanted to say something but couldn’t.

You had spent so much time trying to prove to him that love didn’t have to be terrifying, that not every open door led to something painful. But fear like his wasn’t something you could love away. It had to be faced. By him.

So you stepped back.

His eyes flickered with something — panic, maybe, or understanding. Maybe both.

“I—” he started, but the words never fully formed.

You gave him a small, sad smile. “You have to figure this out, Sid. I can’t do it for you.”

The night air wrapped around you as you left his home and for the first time in a long time, Sidney let you go.

The door shut softly behind you, the quiet sound somehow louder than all the shouting, all the arguing, all the things left unsaid between you.

Sidney stood there, staring at the empty space where you had just been, his chest rising and falling with shallow, uneven breaths. His hands clenched at his sides, then loosened, like he wasn’t sure what to do with them. Like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself now that you were gone.

The house felt impossibly empty.

He turned toward the window, catching a glimpse of your silhouette as you walked down the driveway, your shoulders squared, your pace steady. But then, just before you reached your car, you hesitated.

Sidney held his breath.

For a second — just a second — he thought you might turn back. That you might give him another chance to fix this before it was truly broken.

But then you inhaled sharply, set your jaw, and climbed into the driver’s seat. The engine roared to life, headlights cutting through the darkness.

And then you were gone.

Sidney exhaled shakily, dragging a hand over his face as he turned away from the window. His heart pounded, a dull, aching rhythm that matched the pulsing regret settling deep in his chest.

He had been so afraid of losing you.

And now, because of that fear — because of his own cowardice — he might have lost you anyway.

[goldfades]

MORE CONTROVERSIALLY YOUNG GF X SID

ive been having the worst insomnia ever so here's a blurb<3

It started with you staring at the ceiling.

The digital clock on the nightstand glowed red in the dark—2:13 AM. Your body was tired, your mind wasn’t. It wasn’t loud thoughts keeping you up, either. Nothing stressful, nothing particularly nagging. Just one of those nights where sleep felt like an impossible task.

Sidney was next to you, fast asleep, breathing slow and steady, one arm draped lazily across your waist. He was always warm, always solid beside you, a grounding weight even in unconsciousness. You swore he could sleep through anything. Planes, loud hotel hallways, your tossing and turning.

The only thing he ever seemed to wake up for was you.

You sighed softly, shifting under the covers, and just as you expected��he stirred. Not much, just a slight shift in his breathing, the faintest tension in his arm before he relaxed again. His grip around you tightened instinctively.

"You okay?" His voice was rough, sleep-heavy.

You bit your lip, feeling a little guilty. "Mmhmm."

Sid’s face was still buried against the pillow, but he made a quiet, unconvinced noise. Then, without opening his eyes, he tugged you closer. You let him, letting your body curve naturally against his, fitting like two puzzle pieces.

His warmth seeped into your skin.

"You’re awake," you murmured.

He hummed, his lips brushing against your hair. "You’re awake," he corrected.

A soft smile tugged at your lips. You pressed your cheek against his chest, closing your eyes, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

"Can’t sleep?" he asked, still half-asleep himself.

"Mmm." You inhaled the faint, clean scent of his skin, letting yourself settle. "Just one of those nights."

Sid let out a slow exhale, his hand running absently up and down your back. It was so easy, the way he touched you—not in any deliberate way, not trying to do anything. Just holding you, his palm warm against the curve of your spine, his fingers tracing lazy patterns over your shirt.

For a while, that was enough.

Silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t empty. It was full of quiet things. His fingers against your skin. His breathing, slow and deep. The occasional shift of his legs under the sheets, brushing against yours.

You weren’t sure how long you laid there like that. But eventually, Sid shifted, pressing his lips lightly against your forehead.

"You want me to tell you a story?" he murmured.

You let out a soft, sleepy laugh. "A story?"

"Yeah," he said, voice still hoarse from sleep. "Something boring. Put you to sleep."

You smiled against his chest. "So you admit you’re boring."

Sid’s hand stilled for half a second before pinching your side lightly, making you squeak. "That’s not what I said."

You giggled, shifting closer, tangling your legs with his. "Okay, okay. Tell me a story."

Sid was quiet for a moment, thinking. Then:

"Did I ever tell you about the worst pre-game meal I ever had?"

You snorted. "That’s the bedtime story you’re going with?"

"You said you wanted boring," he reminded you.

You sighed dramatically. "Fine. Continue."

Sid smirked, but you could hear it in his voice more than you could see it in the dark. "Okay. So, this was early in my career. Rookie season. We had a back-to-back, and the second game was in some small-town rink. Not a lot of food options, so the guys and I found this one restaurant that looked halfway decent."

You hummed, eyes slipping closed as he kept talking.

"It was some mom-and-pop Italian place. Looked nice enough. I order a simple plate of pasta—"

"Simple?" you teased, voice muffled against his chest. "You?"

Sid poked your side again. "Do you want to hear the story or not?"

You giggled, nestling closer. "Go on."

"Anyway," he continued, "I take one bite—one bite—and I immediately know something’s off. It’s sweet."

You made a face. "Sweet?"

"Yeah. Like, sugary. Like someone dumped an entire cup of sugar into the marinara sauce. I thought maybe I was imagining it, but then I look around and every guy at the table is making the same face."

You laughed softly. "Did you say something?"

Sid let out a low chuckle. "Nah. We were too polite. Ate the whole thing."

"Ew."

"Yeah."

The silence that followed was heavy with warmth, with the ease of being with someone who just fit into your life.

Sid brushed a hand over your hair. "Feeling sleepy yet?"

You hummed, eyes still closed, fingers toying absently with the fabric of his shirt. "Mmm. Maybe."

Sid made a soft sound of acknowledgment, pressing another absentminded kiss to the top of your head. His arm curled tighter around you, his hand resting at the small of your back.

You exhaled, letting go of whatever it was keeping you awake.

Sidney made everything easier.

The way he just was—warm, steady, solid. The way he didn’t try to fix everything, didn’t ask a million questions, didn’t make a big deal of it. Just held you close and let you exist exactly as you were.

You sighed, tucking yourself further into his chest.

"You’re good at this," you murmured sleepily.

Sid’s voice was soft, full of something you couldn’t quite place. "At what?"

You yawned. "This." You curled your fingers around the fabric of his shirt, as if to emphasize. "Us."

Sid was quiet for a moment. Then, voice barely above a whisper:

"Yeah. I like us."

You barely had the energy to respond, sleep finally pulling you under. But just before you drifted off, you felt Sid press one last kiss to your forehead, his grip tightening ever so slightly.

And just like that, you were asleep.

[thatinwardhell]

winner’s spoils | s. crosby

rating: explicit, mdni

wordcount: 3.8k quickie lol. had to get this out after Certain Videos surfaced

warnings: fem!reader, smut, age gap, oral sex (m receiving) (its facefucking!! be advised!!), no reader orgasm, slight?? gender roles just in case. more in a symbiotic sexy way than “go make me a sandwich”

notes: sigh .... after a 3 YR LONG hiatus from any fic writing !!!!!!! it was the four nations that brought me back. pls send in requests !!!!! i'd love to keep writing more lol. vvvv happy 2 be back !!!!

He’s standing above you, legs spread wide, Colossus of Rhodes, but twice as tall and thrice as golden from where you kneel in front of him.

His hand, still wet, still sticky, from the champagne that slid down it, crystalline, only minutes before, is running through your hair, moving it, manipulating it any which way he pleases. He can, of course he can; he’s Sidney Crosby, Sidney Crosby who’s just added yet another trophy to his gratuitous spoils of war, who, even after all these years, still proves his dominance. Aging though he may be, it never fails to knock your knees, to put warm honey between your legs at the sight of him so easily evincing his overwhelming ownership of the young men whose pointed hits and on-ice jeers seem to roll off his back, reminding the world of his complete and total domination. Not that you needed a reminder. 

Your hands fiddle with the drawstring at the waist of Sidney’s hockey pants, pawing relentlessly at them, desperate to unearth the reward you know awaits you beneath them, and the jock you so frequently call disgusting (something about it puts that old, familiar ache in your tummy though: the thing is nearly as old as you are, and you throw a pathetic, watery-eyed glance up at Sidney at the thought that he has been this good at what he does longer than you’ve even been alive. He’s already looking when you do.) 

Sidney seems to take pity on you; precious girl, he usually says in moments like these, but tonight – no, he seems to crave your tongue, your mouth, in more ways than one. You pant, watching with a sense of wonder as he makes a show of pulling the string apart with the sort of practiced effortlessness that only comes with his age. He takes both of your wrists in each of his hands, gently, his calluses scratching the supple skin of your inner wrists, perfumed just for him, only for him, leading them to the waistband of his jock, leaving them there. He wants you to do it, and this is a capitulation that does not go unnoticed. Traitorous pride blooms in your chest; that Sid needs you so badly, so wantonly, that his infamous and over-practiced stoicism seems to slip after his big wins flatters you to no end, and it stokes a different, softer emotion in you at the thought that he needs you at all. You nuzzle the newly-exposed skin of his thighs in appreciation of this small surrender as you draw down his jock, inch by torturous inch, either ignorant or tactless to the party which still rages outside. 

It’s a wonder Sid even found the broom closet at all, a private corner in the midst of a monsoon of alcohol, and spit, and sweat. It’s a wonder they’re not missing him yet, but a man has needs, and though he seems to walk on water like a god, Sidney is just that: a man. You know this better than most, you think, but your one-track mind is thrown off-kilter instantaneously: you have finally found your prize. His cock springs free, and it is just as good as you have imagined. 

Sid blushes from the tips of his elven ears to his long, sloping nose to the thick, muscled cord of his neck at your unabashed appreciation of him, of all of him. You are too enthralled to notice he thinks, but, though you are thrown into a sea of awe at the sight of Sid’s cock no matter how many times you’ve seen it, you know he needs it: he’ll never say it out loud, no, never, but in moments like this, he needs you to tell him he’s good, without the need for words, without touch, by sight alone, in regards to more than his performance. 

You run your nose along the column of it, and your giving to him gives into an act of selfish self-gratification at the heady, virile scent of him. Sid’s all man, and he makes you dizzy with it, mouth dropping open and little pink tongue peeking out to whet both your appetite and your lips, preparing for the Herculean task of taking all of Sid into your mouth. But not now – not just yet. No, now, he is all yours, all yours to stake claim over, completely yours in the tiny broom closet he had dragged you into, the need boiling over in those hazel eyes you love so much. Usually, Sidney insists on showering before he takes you all for himself, but you love this, perhaps more than the musky bergamot soap he always uses postgame. 

Your vinous desire finally blots out your stalwart want to simply appreciate him like this, though – you have never been good at resisting Sid, though he might say the same of you (your pride simmers even higher, at this thought.) You give him as his grip tightens in your hair, reeling briefly in the doglike panting that reverberates through the room, permeated with the desperation only you can bring out in him. 

Your tongue peeks out once again, pressing tiny kitten licks to the very base of his shaft, to the very beginning of the impressive length that you swear inspires the pure and uninhibited supremacy he seems to exert over others. You often tease Sid about his big dick energy, drunk off the blush that rises to his stubbled cheeks at your flattery, but it couldn’t be farther from a mere act of adulation. You’re bad with measurements, and he’s never given you a number, but you know it takes half an hour of prep with his fingers, his sinewy tongue to fit it in, that, after your months, years together, the stretch of him still punches a half-gasp, half-grunt from your lungs that no other man has ever inspired. 

“C’mon,” Sid half-pleads. His accent seems to get stronger like this, though he’d object to you calling his tone a whine. This tugs another sigh from you, your eyes caressing the bright red maple leaf that adorns Sid’s chest. He seems to be Odysseus now, returning home from battle, to you, Penelope, his one and only, or you his Cleopatra and he a bloodied Mark Antony. He fights for his country, his pride, and, drenched in sweat, returns to you for the womanly comfort he can only find in you, for his spoils of war. More fluid drips from the hot, damp seam of you, but you ignore it easily. Sid will take care of you – he always does. Later, he will see the red silk, the cherry lace that covers his prize, but for now, the only thing that interests you is pleasing him. 

You oblige him easily – this is what you can give to Sidney, after so long and so much of him giving to you. All at once, he’s in your mouth, and his head is back against the racks of cleaning supplies that will inevitably be completely vacant, if the sounds of Team Canada’s celebrations outside give any clues. 

You run your tongue experimentally along the thick vein which runs all along his shaft, up to the swollen head of him, now bright pink with anticipation in the back of your throat. Slowly, surely though, you draw back, dragging your slick lips along Sid’s length until you reach the very tip. Just as quickly, you sink down to the base, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes at this familiar intrusion, but you only look up at him the way he loves so much. Both of Sid’s hands drop, now, to your cheeks, caressing them, his callused fingertips tracing the shapely, gentle slopes of your face. 

“Beautiful girl.” Sidney sounds wrecked, in the way only you can make him, gentle and tender just for you, even as he dominates you so thoroughly, so completely. He gives you a pointed look, wordless, but so intimate, so intense that you know what it means. Though you try to nod as best you can, he would know, even in the darkness of the cramped broom closet, even from miles and miles away, that you have said yes to him, that you’re enthusiastically giving your mouth to him, the last in a long line of tributes from those the conquered tonight. 

Sidney thrusts those fucking hips with a miniscule fraction of the power you know he’s capable of, the pure, raw energy contained within the corded muscle of his thighs, his hips, and now it’s not just the slight lack of air that’s making you dizzy. He draws back, allowing you a momentary reprieve before his cock once more breaches the damp cavern of you, this time harder, more powerful. 

Eyes half-lidded, you will him to do more – to take from you as much as he pleases. Sid could take from you everything you have, and you’d still offer more on hands and knees, ass in the air, and, though nausea bubbles in his stomach at the thought of taking anything from you, the offer sits implicitly in his hands, a reminder of your complete and utter devotion. To drive this home, you apply the most suction you can manage in your present position to Sidney’s cock, still sitting heavy, impish on your tongue, and this draws a wrecked moan from him – a moan! Your revelry is brief, cut by a slight cough as he buries himself even deeper, the thickets of hair at his base enveloping your nose. 

Sidney doesn’t flinch at the sound – neither do you. He knows your body better than you do, and, even in the throes of his pleasure, he knows you can take more, wills you to do so, already so tender, so brutal. 

He pulls out once more, and you ache for the loss of him, mouth clinging to the scant bit of him that remains in the relentless warmth, the unforgiving smoothness of your mouth. Sidney looks down at you once more, asking for the last time, with the last scraps of his self-control, for what he knows you will give him. 

You offer up your love easily, as easily as breathing comes in sleep, knowing that, even despite his age, his money, his undeniable success, he still needs this, your reassurance, from you – you drag your nails down his thigh, he groans, and begins to thrust the way you know he can. 

The hot, wet drag of Sidney’s cock against your lips, the pleasure-pain of him hitting your gag is intoxicating. He’s outside himself – you’re grateful, foggily, for the volume of the music outside, of they’d hear the desperate grunts, the sound of skin on skin on skin, Sidney’s panting, as the thighs that not thirty minutes ago propelled him across the ice at speeds and velocities unimaginable to you now propel his cock to where he needs it most. 

Time seems to slow, or speed up, drifting into the amorphous, pleasurable fog you float in. You revel, hedonist, in the feeling of his heavy balls against your chin, the force of his thrusting pushing your head back and forth, relentlessly, a tiny buoy bobbing in the unforgiving and complete story that is Sidney Crosby. He holds you fast, though, as he always does, large hands that once rested solely on the plushness of your ruddy cheeks now banded across your face, thick, brawny fingers now digging into the base of your skull, so gentle, so terrible all at once. 

The veins on the underside of him pulse, and you feel them against your lax tongue – you drag it, softly, across the quickened river of blood that sits just underneath the tan skin of him, worshipful. He grunts, appreciative, at this, urges you with the caresses of his calluses against the soft expanse of your skin, your hair, to do it again, and again, and again. You oblige.

Sidney permeates every atom in the tightly-cramped broom closet, too small even for the cleaning supplies contained within it, smaller yet for the heat of two bodies, hardly even flesh, a mess of spit and sweat and sticky, sweet-smelling filth, dripping down your face and landing on the floor with a wet sound. His body is so hot, burning so brightly with the adrenaline typical of wins like these, wins he hasn’t touched with the ruggedness of his fingers in so many months, now within his clutches, now brought under a banner of blood red and snow white, his victory so absolute no one, not in the farthest stretches of obscurity, could deny it. 

The power of him overwhelms you, the scent of him, the feeling of his thighs, spattered with a layer of brown hair and now soaking with saliva, under your palms, a psalm for your taking. The musk of sex is overwhelming – you pity the poor worker who walks in here to clean up after your debauchery (you, briefly, remember the absurdity of your situation: it reads like cheap pulp fiction, at times, you think, that only so many months, years now, he had descended on you, delivered you from the dregs of your monotonous, menial, laborious job and into his arms. You would happily open your mouth, your legs, your arms to him as thanks for this epiphany, but he refuses every time; he says the look in your eyes is enough, the brush of hair and skin and the very thought of your shared bed far too much for him already.) 

But you can smell him, feel him all over, a woman possessed – Sid gives as much as he takes, like this, though he doesn’t know it. You hope he doesn’t notice the way you grind yourself against your heel, the red silk already so soaked through with arousal now completely ruined, only a memory of your decadence in the broom closet. Surely, he would insist that you climb on top of him, to let him run his tongue over the folds of you until you scream and pound at his chest, screaming mercy, mercy, mercy, as he’s so fond of doing, but you’re happy, perfectly happy, like this, serving him. He hates to hear it, makes him feel his age, the power imbalance that infrequently, but profoundly, informs small bouts of jealousy or solitude. But you like to serve him, yes, especially when he’s like this. 

Sid’s so utterly debauched, so lost in himself that even if one of his teammates were to enter, they would hardly recognize their usually so measured captain, completely drowned in the throes of his own pleasure. Sidney’s cheeks, already prone to the kind of ruddiness that inspires poetry or paintings, are flushed a bright cherry red, dotted with sweat and the remnants of champagne, dripping down the long, curved line of his nose (you’d like to lick it off, to suck the liquid from his skin and revel in the salt and the musk of his sweat, the bitterness, then the sweetness of the champagne. But alas, your mouth is occupied.) His salt-and-pepper hair is mussed up in a manner only Caravaggio could imagine, every curl so perfectly askew, which seems to be a habit of your boyfriend’s and one that, admittedly, inspires bouts of desire similar to Sidney’s in you, all over him in the dusk when he comes home, or in the early morning before he leaves. The plush pinkness of his bottom lip is worried to pleasantly between his bottom teeth and the top ones and, had you been more lucid, you would have been able to identify the ones he pointed out to you as implants, replacements for the ones that had been knocked out by one Flyer or another while you were still learning your alphabet. 

Sidney’s thrusts are ragged now, are getting deeper, faster, more desperate, his grip on your head that much more intentional, maneuvering your face the way he wants you. He makes you wonderfully lightheaded like this – so completely and thoroughly possessed. You love being his toy, like this, to sit on your knees and please him, almost as much as you like for him to do the same, to press a worshipful mouth to your ankles, your calves, your thighs, then the part of you he loves very most, apart from your eyes, maybe your laugh or the shape of your teeth, the feeling of your smile; if not what he loves the very most, the one he serves – the one thing that puts ‘Captain Canada’ himself on his knees. This is a secret pride of yours, one that you tell no one, one that is kept safe in the depths of you until Sidney is away on a roadie and his side of the bed, still smelling of that bergamot and musk, is getting cold. 

But he’s close – you know, you know, and you resist smiling around the heady, intoxicating weight of him. You know him so intimately, you think, you could know his orgasm even if blindfolded with your hands behind your back. You like to think you could coax one from Sidney the same way, but you’ll have to wait, to bide your time. Your ears ring with it, watching the way Sid’s crows’ feet bloom across his cheeks, disturbing the stubble there, the way that, when he grimaces like this, teetering on the edge, his dimples pop out, digging graves in his cheeks. 

Sidney’s fingers are doubly hot against your scalp now, dangerously lecherous as they clutch the base of your skull tighter still, pulling you even deeper into him, your nose buried in the wiry brown hair at the base of him. On the precipice of ecstasy, he misses the way your eyes roll back, the way your mouth vibrates at the smell of him, all sweat and manhood, the way you like him, completely in control, yet so entirely under your thumb. You hear a familiar hymn on Sid’s tongue, vaguely, and wonder if he’s been talking this entire time, if you’ve just been so enthralled in the scent of him, the wires of his thighs under your hands, that you missed the oh fuck baby oh fuck yes yes take it fuck yeses. He’s teetering, desperate, flailing for it, grasping at straws as he thrusts deeper still. 

You want him to come, want him to give the reward of his spend so badly that you’re suffocating on it. You’re grinding on your own foot so hard it’s almost painful, desire controlling every movement, every gyration of your hips against your heel, pushing into the floor rolling your swollen clit with the daftness you’ve realized is inherent with orgasms not provided to you by Sidney. You won’t cum like this, certainly, but you don’t need it, no, not when you have him like this. 

You slide the viscous hot pleasure of your tongue along the vein on his underside and he breaks. 

Sidney tenses, your hair now taut between his fingers, pulled to its limits, your face pushed as far into his pelvis as it can go, now suffocated in the truest sense of the word in the man who stands above you, so powerful and so destroyed all at once. His pink mouth is dropped open, completely lax, and you can see the edges of his teeth, where they meet the softnesses of his own mouth, the pink tongue, the reddish gums, the pale pink roof of it, and his eyes have screwed shut, now only two tiny, puckered hints of eyelash and supple, thin skin, barely covering the dark bags which have accumulated under his eyes. Stress, you think, maybe sleep, but, then again, no, he’s always good about that. No worry. You have your ways of keeping him in bed when you need to, of keeping him exhausted in all the ways he wants the very most. He gives smaller, tiny thrusts as the heat of him spills down your throat, and you hum at the taste. Sidney eats well, so virile, so fecund, that he tastes good, strong, heady, and a base, animal part of you revels in the smaller thrusts, the taste of him, pines the loss of his cum; he could be thrusting like that in you, keeping his spend inside of you, where it belonged, where it’d carry on his progeny better than TNT or ESPN could. 

Sidney eases, taut muscles now weak, so spent you swear you can see his legs shake. It’s an illusion, you know, knowing that his legs, so well accomplished, can hold his weight under much more pressure than any orgasm. But you stroke your pride this way, like to think that you can make him weak, can make him strong whenever you please. His hands slips from your hair, returning to your cheeks, where he turns your head back up from where you hadn’t realized it had slumped. The amber of his eyes is so soft, looks so brown in this light, rather than the greenish they look in the bright lights of the media room or the fluorescence of the rink, so much like pools of dark water, undiscovered, unthinkable to anyone but you.

“Swallow for me.” Sidney is so soft like this, so disparate from the man who can level men twice his size without a second thought on the ice. He could crush you between his thumb and his finger, so easy, like this, but he doesn’t. 

You listen, swallow him the way he likes you to, so you keep some of him in you until the next time he can have you. 

“Good girl. My best girl.” Sidney says, so quiet anyone else wouldn't have been able to hear it, said for your ears only. He brushes his hands once more over your cheeks, wiping away sweat, stray tears that may have fallen with the tenderness only he’s capable of. “C’mere, give me a kiss.” 

You oblige him easily, but act as if it’s a chore – you shrug, roll your eyes as you rise uneasily from your feet, steadied into Sidney’s arms at the first sign of unsteadiness, huff a little for dramatic effect. 

He laughs, a soft, easy sound, wraps his hands once more about your cheeks, and presses his lips to yours. Sid’s yours, like this, all yours, away from the cameras, from his teammates, from the rink, and you revel in the softnesses of his mouth, the plush of his lips and the slight scratch of his five-o’clock shadow, and everything else falls away, quickly, easily, just like this. The party persists outside – they’ll have to miss him for a minute more.

[cuteandhughesy]

i couldn’t not request another one lol (if that’s okay!)

can i please request prompt 41. “you’re it for me.” with sidney crosby!

you are the absolute best 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻

“The Other Woman” | Sidney Crosby

summary: you thought your boyfriend sidney wanted you to support him at the four nations face off tournament, so it comes as a shock when you tells you to stay home—only to find out the stomach churning truth. prompt no. 41 from 100 celly list: “you’re it for me.”

[word count] 2.3k

warnings: angst | cheating | break ups | the reader is the other woman

a/n: okay this got like really angsty! my bad. (unedited)

🎵 the other woman by lana del rey

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

your screen is frozen—just like you. you stare and stare and stare. a single tear falls down your face, but you’re mostly too confused to cry—too angry. the phone dims, a tell tale sign that it’s about to turn off, but you don’t let it, thumbing at the screen until it lights up again, illuminating your shock ridden face.

you almost didn’t see the picture. it almost slipped by you. your relationship almost didn’t crumble right before your very eyes. your chest is tight. aching—the beautiful picture of all the wags starting back at you, clad in red pleather team canada jackets.

you were so close to remaining blissfully unaware—innocent and stupid. but you saw it—saw her. a stunning smile and light brown hair, a little older than you but still radiant…with the number 87 patched on her arm.

you had shakily opened the comments and there it was, ‘crosby’s wife looks amazing.’

wife.

you almost threw up. your skin prickled with guilt and embarrassment and so much frustration, not only with yourself but with your boyfriend.

you’ve never really been into hockey. you didn’t pay attention to sports in general—neither did your family. you were younger, only 23, and found interests in other things. a year ago when you met sidney you were instantly smitten. he was charming and unapologetically kind, mature and experienced.

you feel in love quickly—almost impossibly quick. but it didn’t matter, not to either of you. sidney and you were in your own bubble, spending time together privately and in secluded places. you knew he played hockey—even though you didn’t care about hockey, sidney crobsy’s name wasn’t unknown to you.

maybe you should’ve done more research on the man you’re dating—maybe this going on under your nose is your own fault. a simple google search and a little bit of digging you would’ve seen that your boyfriend has a wife.

you would’ve found that you’re the other woman.

you now know that’s the reason sidney didn’t want you at the four nations tournament. he brushed off your comments about supporting him easily, telling you to stay home and relax—you deserved some time to relax. fuck, he even gave you some money to pamper yourself while he was away.

but it was all an excuse.

an excuse for sidney’s wife to remain unaware of her unfaithful husband. an excuse for him to ruin not only your life, but hers.

and now here you are, waiting for him to come over like he told you he was going to do when the plane landed back in pittsburgh. you wonder what excuse sidney told his wife. getting coffees? kris needing help at his house? picking up dry cleaning?

you feel so sick.

it could 20 minutes more before the front door creaks open—it could also be 20 seconds—you’re not sure. time feels like a roller coaster right now. unexpected ups and downs, twists and turns making your stomach swoop.

you get up from your spot on the couch, phone still clutched tightly in your hand. sidney kicks his shoes off by the door—clearly planning to stay awhile. planning to pretend he doesn’t have a wife at home who loves him.

“hey baby,” his deep voice calls from the front door, keys hitting your small oak cabinet next to the shoe rack and large fake plant you’ve had since high school.

baby.

it’s like a slap to the face. did he think you’d never find out? or maybe he just thought you were too stupid and young to figure it out.

you don’t answer him—you can’t. no yet. the sight of your face has sidney faltering, lips twitching into a half frown as you stalk towards him. just before he has the chance to coddle you, you shove the phone in his face.

it takes a moment for the picture to register, but you wait and watch patiently. sidney’s eyes scan your phone, and then he sees her. his wife. his skin turns a shade whiter, face falling before his eyes hoof back to your face.

finally, you find your words—stricken and laced with anger and defeat. “you have a wife? a wife!”

“yes.” sidney doesn’t bother trying to deny it. what’s the point? the proof is there, staring at him. you scoff, pulling your phone away and place it down beside his keys.

“where you ever going to tell me?” you ask him, “is that why you didn't want me to come out to the tournament with you?” he doesn’t respond, and somehow that feels worse than anything he could’ve possibly chosen to say. the bridge of your nose begins to sting, a telltale sign that you’re going to cry. but you don’t want to cry. not yet. “god! here I was thinking that you were embarrassed of our age gap. but no, it's because your fucking wife was going.”

sidney sighs, running a large hand through his salt and pepper hair roughly—he’s frustrated. but not with you. sidney could never be angry with you. you’re too soft—too sweet. he’s only upset with himself. he sighs, y/n. please.”

“does she know?” you push, ignoring his desperate and soft plea. “does your wife now you've been fucking me?”

“no.”

you laugh in disbelief, covering your face with your palms as you feel the familiar hot sting of tears welling up in your eyes. “oh my god,” you whisper pathetically, “I feel sick.” you’ve never wanted to become this person—nobody in their right mind should want to be the other woman.

you’re a girls girl. always. and this feeling, right now, proves why. you’re so embarrassed for yourself—you should’ve been more careful, more diligent about your love life. you should’ve known.

the way your voice cracks has sidney breaking. he never wanted to hurt you, despite everything he’s put you through—even if you hadn’t realized. he frowns, stepping towards you like it’s second nature. sidney is desperate to touch you and console you and make everything better.

“I know,” he breathes, hands enclosing around your wrists, tugging your hands away from your tear stained face. “I messed up.”

you scoff, shrugging off his hold. “you did more then mess up, sidney,” you take a step back, an incredulous laugh leaving you. “you've ruined this. you've ruined my life and hers.”

he shakes his head, “don't say that.”

you sniffle, doing your best to keep ahold of your wave of new emotions. it’s not just about you…nor anymore. you feel for this woman, more than she’ll ever know. you shake your head at him, wiping your cheek with the back of your hand. you’re shaking.

“I don't even know what to say to you,” and it’s true. what do you say to the man you love—a man who just turned your world inside out and back again. sidney is looking at you like he’s hurt. and maybe he is hurting, but it’s at the cost of his own actions, so don’t feel bad.

even if the sight of his emotion struck face is killing you.

you turn away, walking into the small kitchen. you need to distract yourself in some way. allow yourself to have a moment to breathe. your hands are still trembling as you open the fridge, weakly grabbing a plastic water bottle. your bring it to your lips, sipping just enough to coat your dry mouth.

of course sidney followed you, looking at you desperately from the other side of the kitchen island—giving you the space you need. “say nothing,” he says, “just please hear me out.”

you cross your arms defensively after you put the water in between you on the island. the plastic crinkles and pops through the silent kitchen. you sigh with exhaustion, “what is there to hear you out on? i'm not going to be the other woman. I deserve more than that.”

“you do,” sidney exhales desperately, fingers digging into the edge of the counter top like he’s trying to physically hold himself back. give you that space. “of course you do.” there’s a pause then, and you watch as sidney contemplates what he wants to say next.

his eyes stay on you, analyzing you—your mind, heart and thoughts. you want to shrink away from his gaze. it’s too intense and to familiar.

because two weeks ago when he looked at you like this, it was different.

“i'll call it off with her if that's what you want,” sidney says after a beat, voice dropping. he’s firm, definitive.

your breath hitches, “of course I don't want that.” and you mean it. sidney’s not yours, even when you thought he was. and you’re certainly not his—you don’t get to discredit his life of his decisions.

and certainly not his marriage.

the sound of sidney’s palm coming down on the counter top makes you jump. his anger is surprising. he’s always showed you calmness—like he’s always got it all figured out. but this is different. sidney’s lost control. with you with your relationship and with his emotions.

it breaks you. as much as you don’t want to feel anything for him in this moment, seeing him so distraught is heartbreaking. because it’s not like you fell out of love with sidney crosby at the snap of your fingers—you fucking wish it was that easy. but it never is.

because he’s still sidney. he’s the man who held you on the couch after a bad day at work, and cooked you your favourite meal when you’d been to tired to get off the couch. the boyfriend who kissed you with such tenderness and fucked you with such passion. sidney, who in only a year, become your home…your safe place.

he curses, palm flattening as he attempts to recollect himself. sidney’s head falls for a moment, chest heaving with a million unshed emotions. it feels like forever until he looks at you again, eyes glossed over just enough to let you know what truly he’s feeling—frustration, heartbreak, guilt.

“then what?” he asks gently, “what do you want me to do?” you’ve begun crying again, hot tears streaming silently down your face. slowly, you shrug—a response. sidney can’t hold back any longer. he walks around the island, and when he wraps you in his arms, you let him.

it feels good, but not the same. you don’t hung him back, arms trapped between your chests while sidney’s muscled and strong forearms hold your shoulders. you sob pathetically, hiding your face in sidney’s hoodie.

the emotion is raw and painful. you don’t even know what to do with yourself. you want that comfort—need it—and you don’t have anybody in pittsburgh besides sidney. so for a moment you allow yourself to be coddled. you pretend that he’s not the man that hurt you.

you don’t know how to answer him. not right now.

“you're it for me,” sidney mumbles after a beat, lips pressing to the top of your head so softly and tender. “you're my life.” his arms tighten around you, desperately trying to keep you close—to make you hear him. really hear him.

“so is she,” you mumble watery, pushing off his chest. it’s not rough, but firm enough to let him know you need out.

sidney lets you go, but he doesn’t walk away. “no,” he shakes his head, “she's not.”

you swallow. you feel awful. “she's your wife.”

“and you’re the love of my life.”

silence envelopes the kitchen again as sidney’s words settle in your chest. although he may mean what he’s said, that doesn’t make the situation any better. you can’t be selfish with him—not when you’re the third party.

all you can think about right now is if you were his wife. if it was you he was unfaithful with, what would you want him to do. because that’s the answer you’ve been searching for.

“I want you to tell her,” you whisper. sidney’s face shifts like he doesn’t know how to react yet, but you don’t give him the opportunity to figure it out right now. “tell her and figure it out. if she wants a divorce then that's what you'll do. if she wants to work on your marriage, than that's what you'll do. you'll do whatever she wants, sidney, because that's what I want. and if you care about me at all, you'll do what l ask of you.”

a moment passes. sidney looks down at you softly, in thought. slowly he nods his head—that’s the best response he can give right now. but right now it’s enough for you, and finally—finally—feel like you can take a breath.

“i'm sorry.”

“because you were caught?” your response is petty and hurtful—you know that.

but sidney just blinks, “because I hurt you.”

his correction is so sidney. always caring and loving, never wanting you to feel less than. it’s not your fault, and he’s letting you know that without physically saying the words. he takes ahold of your face between his warm palm, thumbs stroking your cheekbones like he’s done so many times.

you wish you don’t love him—you wish you didn’t love the way he held you so perfectly. he knows your cues and what you need when you’re upset, and this right here is proof of that.

and that hurts more than anything.

“i'll tell her,” sidney breathes, “and if she wants to work on it...i'll stay with her. but if she doesn't want to work on it, and she wants a divorce, what does that mean? for us?”

a beat passes, “I don't know yet.”

[cheddaryouthanme]

Hockey RPF writers being known across fandoms as literary masters

When I first started reading MattDrai fics on AO3 I remember thinking “wait what the HELL is going on why is this the most consistently well-written fanfiction I’ve read in any fandom? Is this a thing? Do people know??” And apparently it is and they do.

[literaryslapshot]

Older bf Sid is so kisses to your exposed shoulders

yes! he loves kissing his lil gf (that's his contact name for you)

♡ he always kisses you first thing in the morning. even if you're still dead to the world asleep, he's still going to give you a kiss when he wakes up before getting out of bed.

♡ i don't think his top love language is physical touch, but if giving you a kiss was a love language, it would be his top. any chance he gets he's gonna kiss you.

♡ sometimes when you're laying in bed, you'll just feel his soft lips plant a kiss on your body somewhere. no words, nothing exchanged or acknowledged, he'll just give you a kiss out of habit almost.

♡ when you're getting ready- whether it's for bed or for date night, he enjoys sitting in the bathroom with you and watching you do your routines. coming up from behind you he'll plant a lingering kiss on your shoulder, telling you how beautiful you look.

♡ when you're going on yap tangents, talking about topics that he honestly doesn't know anything about, he has no problem stopping you with a kiss. "i love you- but i don't know what you're talking about."

♡ being with a younger girl like yourself, he's realized just how much he missed having heated makeouts. he feels like he's in high school again, kissing the hottest girl in school under the bleachers. he loves having you planted on his lap, hips grinding on his, and getting lost in the kiss.

[joeyfranchise]

mine, all mine

joe burrow x fem!reader - mentions of maxx crosby x reader

summary: you’re always able to handle joe and his moods. when he’s up he’s up, when he’s down he’s down hard. when you start feeling neglected and someone else starts making comments to joe… he realizes he needs to remind you and everyone around you just who you belong to.

word count: 6k.

warnings: smut immediately under the cut, MDNI! dom/possessive!joe, sub!reader, mentions of maxx crosby (it’ll make sense), spanking, spitting, p in v, oral (m. receiving)

note: finally it’s here! not a threesome as i have previously stated but… i think y’all will like it! for my main girlll @slimshiesty i love you 💕 THEE joemaxx girl!!

“fuck joe,” you moaned, arching forward so your chest pressed against his. he moaned back in response, his stubble tickling at your neck as he pressed kisses along the column.

your nails raked down his back, leaving the faintest scratches - something he was sure to get teased about at practice. right now though, he didn’t care.

joe was blissed out, kissing at your neck fervently as he thrusted up into you. your soft gasps filled his ears, every moan pouring over his body as you both continued climbing the ladder to your highs.

he’d had a long week, a tough loss to one of the toughest teams. media outlets were all over him, doubters saying he was washed… but you… you were always there. his solace, his comfort, his girl.

joe finally moved from your neck, pushing himself up on his forearms so he could see your face. the breath was nearly knocked out of him as he thrusted into you, your blissful expression clearly affecting him. your gaze was focused downward, watching where your bodies met as you bit your bottom lip.

“fuck baby, you like that?” joe asked, continuing his movements. a small “mhmmm” was his response. you looked back up at him and locked your gaze with his. he leaned in slowly to meet your parted lips with his own, your eyes closing as he kissed you. his tongue playfully prodded against yours, his hips never missed a beat. you were so close you could taste it.

your arms were still wrapped around his neck as you kissed him, and you pulled him closer, thrusting down to meet his hips with your own. his long, dextrous fingers found their way to your clit, rolling over it with a sense of urgency as he was close to his impending climax. you were almost there too, throwing your head back onto the pillows as joe continued toying with your clit and thrusting roughly into you. one final, harsh thrust of his hips sent you over the edge, your climax barreling into you like a freight train. it wracked over your body as you shook with pleasure, your walls squeezing around joe as he came too.

his soft grunts filled your ears as he spilled into you, and finally he collapsed, his face buried in your neck again. the post orgasm bliss was there, but slowly fading due to joe’s heavy body pressing you into the mattress.

“joeeeeyyy,” you whined, weakly pushing at his shoulders to move him, “get off!!”

he laughed at your attempt to move him, the sound vibrating through your body. he moved up to look at you before pulling out, wincing at the sensitivity. “let’s go clean up.” he says, moving off the bed and stepping onto the floor. you let him lift you, which you’d usually argue about, and he carries you to the bathroom before drawing the two of you a nice shower.

you wash each other off and then stand under the water a while, enjoying the steam. you know joe’s particularly enjoying it considering how taxing his job is on his body. you rub his shoulders as the hot water runs down his back, and he throws his head back and moans. finally, the two of you get out and dry off before getting dressed and heading back to your bedroom to get cozy for the night.

as you and joe get into bed, you roll on your side and wiggle your body until only your eyes and the top of your head peek from above the comforter. joe lets out a small chuckle and does the same, scooting close to you as you share warmth. the room is already dark and cozy, and you’ve set a fireplace screensaver on the tv.

“can i tell you a secret?” you ask him, your words traveling through the dark and into his ears. he laughs at you, then answers back in an equal whisper. “tell me.”

“you’re my favorite person ever.” you say, giggling before fully going under the covers. seconds later joe’s strong arms are around you, crushing you into his chest. “you’re my favorite person ever.” he replies, pressing sweet chaste kisses into your cheeks.

“i mean it joey. i love you so much. i can’t wait for you to prove all those doubters wrong, just like you always do.”

you can feel his lips turn up into a smile as his kisses move to your forehead. “thank you, baby.” he says, rubbing your back. your confidence and faith in him is all he’s ever needed. it helps him get through all the tough days, even if he’s being a jerk to you over things beyond your control. he’s always amazed at how well you handle him and yourself with such grace.

you listen to his soft breathing and slowly begin to drift off to sleep in his arms, and he does the same, loving the feeling of your body pressed against his.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

a few weeks have passed, and things seem to be looking up for joe and the rest of the bengals team. they’ve won a few games, lost another, but joe seems to be feeling a little better, not that he’d ever let the media see that. but when he was home with you, he’d let his guard down a little. he always appreciated how open you were and how much you let him talk about his frustrations and even things he thought were going well.

things had been kinda dicey lately since their wide receiver two was out, but they’d been managing the best they could without him, so joe was feeling okay. this week, the bengals were going up against the raiders.

the raiders weren’t having the best season this year, but their defense was always something to be worried about, especially because of their star defensive end, maxx crosby. he was very talented, and you were always worried for joe when they’d play the raiders because you’ve seen how rough maxx can get with some of the quarterbacks.

the week started off okay, you were thankful to work from home and you were able to accomplish quite a lot of work while joe was practicing.

wednesday practice seemed to go okay, joe came home in a great mood.

you were in the kitchen cooking dinner for the two of you when you heard him come in, setting his bags down by the door. he walked over to the kitchen and wrapped his arms around you from behind, burying his nose in your hair and kissing the crown of your head.

“practice go well?” you asked, craning your neck to get a look at him.

“yeah, seems like a lot of the guys are feeling good.” he responds, squeezing you closer to him. “food smells great.” he complimented, leaning down further to place his head on your shoulder. you giggled when his slight stubble tickled your shoulder.

“i’m gonna go take a quick shower, that okay?” he asks, waiting for your approval.

“sounds good, dinner should be done in about ten minutes.”

joe trots off toward the hall bathroom, opting to shower there since it was closer. he kept towels stocked in the linen closet, and sometimes even shorts and boxers too if he was feeling especially lazy and like he didn’t want to walk all the way to your shared bedroom, which you found hilarious.

you busied yourself with plating the food as joe showered, and when you heard the water turn off you took the plates to the table, sitting them down before filling up two glasses with ice and water.

joe dried off and dressed and came to eat with you, sharing funny moments from his day and practice with you. you bored him with information about spreadsheets from work, but truthfully he liked hearing you talk about it. most of the time anything that made you happy made him happy too. after dinner he helped you clean, and you both went to bed in a great mood, snuggled into each other.

when you woke thursday, you were confused.

joe always woke you up and kissed you goodbye before leaving for work. whether it was on the lips, cheek, or forehead, he never missed telling you bye. maybe he was rushing, you thought.

you rolled over and grabbed your phone to check for any messages joe might have sent you, but there were none. you sent him a quick text to ask if he was okay before starting your morning routine.

by 1:00p.m. you had the laundry finished, you swept and mopped the house, watered the plants… you just needed lunch. you decided to make a quick salad, something fast and easy so you could get back to doing chores before working on a few things you needed to finish for work.

you dug all of the stuff you needed out of the fridge and assembled your salad, taking it to the couch to sit down and eat. you decided you’d done enough for the day to deserve watching some trashy reality t.v., so you turned it on and perused through the channels before finding a show to watch.

somewhere along the way of eating and watching you remembered that you texted joe this morning. you pulled your phone from the pocket of your leggings and frowned when your lockscreen didn’t show any notifications.

maybe he hasn’t read it yet.

you opened your messages, clicking on the thread with joe. your heart dropped. right underneath your message you saw a small ‘read 11:14a.m.’

maybe he’s busy. he’s practicing.

you locked your phone and placed it face down on the coffee table, turning your attention back to the show, but your focus was nowhere other than joe, and wondering what you did to upset him.

you sat on the couch a nervous wreck for a long while. you replayed every moment of last night, but nothing was sticking out to you that could have been something that would’ve upset joe. you picked at the skin around your nails nervously.

it was now time to play the waiting game - to see what mood he’d be in when he returned home so you could figure out what was wrong, if anything was. you stood from the couch, remembering you’d left all the ingredients for your salad out, and you grimaced when you realized you’d have to throw the lettuce away because it had been sitting out for far too long.

you cleaned what little dishes you made, put fresh sheets on your bed, finished all of your mundane house-hold tasks. you decided now would be a good time to get your laptop and start keying data into your spreadsheets.

you worked for what felt like hours before you finally heard the garage open. you didn’t move from your spot at the dining table. you’d just let joe come in and do what he needed to do to unwind before starting any conversations.

you heard the door unlock, and joe stepped through, walking straight in and past you and heading up the stairs. alright, just let him shower. it’ll be okay.

you don’t bother him for a while after you hear the shower turn off. when he finally makes his way downstairs he speaks to you, but you’re immediately pissed by the conversation.

“what’s dinner?” he bites, annoyed tone soaking through his words.

“i figured we could order in. i was busy with chores all day and then i started keying some data.” you shrug.

“i didn’t ask what you did today. just asked what was dinner. i’ll place us an order for takeout.” joe replies, and you’re hurt. you’re starting to think you didn’t do anything and he’s just in one of his moods, but he shouldn’t be taking it out on you this way. he heads back up the stairs with his phone in his hand.

you close your laptop and sit in silence, stewing over joe’s harsh response - one he gave you for no reason. he came down to get his food when it arrived, placing yours in front of you before heading to the other side of the kitchen to eat. he ate quickly and retreated back upstairs. you stood and placed your food in the fridge before finding home on the couch for the night.

friday didn’t go any better. once again, joe left without saying anything, didn’t text you all day, and came home and ate in silence.

when he woke up saturday he was surprised to see you already up and in the kitchen, brewing a pot of coffee. he had some pep in his step for some reason, but it was unbeknownst to you because you refused to ask.

“good morning!” he chirps, and you’re piqued by the light tone of his words. you turn around to face him, glowering. “good morning, joseph.” you bite, turning back to the coffee pot. you pulled your favorite mug out of the cabinet and poured a hefty amount into it before placing the pot back on the warmer.

when you turned to walk to the fridge and grab your creamer, you were face to face with joe again. “are you okay?” he asked.

you scoffed, pushing past him. “peachy.”

he looks at you perplexed for a moment before realizing that oh, this is his fault.

“baby, i’m sorry for how i’ve been the past few days. i was trying to get locked in and i should have communicated that better.” he walks toward you with his arms outstretched, waiting for a hug. you place a hand flat on his chest and push him back.

“you need to go or you’ll be late for practice.” you remind him. you grab the creamer and shake it, holding down on the lid, and then you add some to your coffee before taking a long swig. the warm drink filling your mouth and sliding down your throat feels amazing, especially on a morning like today where it’s slightly chilly.

you pay no mind to joe, who looks taken aback by your attitude, but deep down he knows he deserves it. he slides his shoes on and grabs his bag, turning as he reaches the door.

“love you.” he says, hoping you’ll say it back. “mhm, have a good day.” you answer with a smarmy tone.

you spend the rest of the day indulging in self care with an eye-mask, gua-sha, and a nice bubble-bath. you even got pretty far ahead in a book you’d been reading and you took a nap. you knew joe wouldn’t be home tonight so you ordered some thai food, and you enjoyed that on the couch before falling asleep.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

finally, it was gameday sunday. you woke up and showered before fixing your hair and applying makeup. you were still mad at joe, but there’s no way you wouldn’t be there to support him every week.

instead of wearing one of his jerseys or his number, you opted for a black bengals hoodie and some ripped jeans, pairing that with your orange low retro nike dunks.

you grabbed your purse, phone and keys and headed out the door so you could make it to the stadium on time, before a ton of people would be there. once you arrived you parked and got out, going inside to find his teammate logan’s wife. you both had planned to sit lower to the field today so you could see the guys close up on the sidelines.

you found her and made your way down to your seats, watching the guys warm up. logan and joe waved at you both and you waved back, not wanting to make it known that there was trouble in paradise at the moment. they headed back in for a while and then you finally saw them coming from the tunnel, the crowd of fans erupting in cheers.

the game finally started and the bengals offense was looking good, which made you feel excited. at least that’d be a weight off of joe’s shoulders. you cheered along with the fans and you were having a great time as usual, until you saw joe get sacked.

the defender was of course number ninety-eight, maxx crosby. when he finally got off joe, he helped him up before turning in your direction. you weren't sure what he said to joe while they were looking at you, but you knew joe didn’t like it. while you were watching them maxx waved at you, and against your better judgment, you waved back. that was a bad decision.

you weren’t really close enough to joe to see his expression, but you could tell by his poise that he was pissed. it was a known thing through the league that joe was one of the more polite guys at his position, oftentimes introducing himself to the defensive players of other teams during games. he never really talked back to any of them, despite what they’d say, so it came as a shock to you that the next time maxx sacked him, he stood up and smashed his helmet against maxx’s.

you could tell they were in a pretty heated argument, but you hoped it’d only fuel joe to keep pushing and win this game, for them to stomp the raiders into the ground.

the game went on, and you cheered for joe and the rest of the bengals team til the very end, and they pulled off a win. you hoped that’d be enough to keep joe in a good mood, but you never knew with him. you left the stands and went to go find joe before his presser so you could tell him bye and you’d see him at home, but he was already whisked away before you had the chance, so you decided to wait for him.

that was bad decision number two. you were in the hall scrolling on your phone when you saw someone walking toward you in your peripheral. you looked up, not surprised to see maxx crosby in front of you. he was shirtless, wearing nothing but his shoes, shorts, and a backwards cap. he extended his hand to you before speaking.

“you’re burrow’s girl?” he questioned, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. you didn’t extend your hand back. before you could answer you felt a strong arm over your shoulder, and your boyfriend’s dominating presence radiated down the hallway.

“yeah, this is my girl, crosby. go find your fucking teammates or something to do.” joe bit, clearly annoyed. he turned, pulling you with him, and you both walked off down the hall. you could hear maxx laughing behind you.

“good win today, joey.” you said, your voice sounded nervous and unsure. “thanks.” he replied sternly.

when he walked you all the way outside and to his car you were confused. “are you not staying here for a while? team meetings, eating with the guys?”

“no. we’re going the fuck home.” he said, unlocking his car.

“but joe, i drove today. i need to take my car home.” you reminded him. “we’ll come back for it later.” he quipped.

“no, joey. i have too much important shit in my car to leave it here where all these people are. i need to drive it home.” you argued.

“you want me to just let you walk to your car, knowing that fucking asshole is gonna try to find you and talk to you again?” he spits, raising his voice.

“joey, he was just being nice. he didn’t say anything out of the way.”

joe throws his head back in a mocking laugh, before replying. “he didn’t say anything out of the way to you, y/n. you wanna know why we were getting heated on the field?”

you nod your head yes, worried for what he’ll say.

“when he sacked me and then helped me up, he looked up in the stands and asked me if that was my girl with wilson’s girl. when i said yes he told me it was pathetic that you couldn’t even wear my number for me on game day.”

“joe i- i wanted to wear a hoodie in case it was cold.” you lied. you knew you didn’t wear it because you were mad, but now you definitely couldn’t tell him that.

“i brushed it off until he waved at you, and you fucking waved back. the fuck was that?”

“joey, i had no way of knowing what he said.” you replied. “i need to go get my car.” you wanted to avoid public conflict with him at all costs.

“no, i’m not done. he said to me the second time that he felt bad for you, because he could tell i don’t give it to you right. he said a girl like you deserves a man that can hold her down. i wanted to rip his fucking head off. and then, he has the audacity to come introduce himself to you, and you were gonna entertain that? you were really gonna talk to him?” he asked, and he was fuming.

it was embarrassing enough that he was telling you all that had been said about you, but out in the open, where anyone could hear it.. you were fed up. you couldn’t handle whatever mood swing he’d been in all week, so you bit back.

“at least someone was showing me some attention.”

“the fuck you just say?” he questioned, slamming his car door shut.

“you heard me.” you quipped, turning away from him. “i’m going to get my car. i’ll see you at home.”

you turned on your heel and stormed away, heading for your car. you didn’t care how mad joe was or if he was following you, even though you were sure he wasn’t. you found your car after a few minutes of walking and unlocked it quickly, pulling out and waiting in the traffic so you could head home.

what you didn’t know was that joe had raced out of the parking lot, and that he’d make it home before you. he was white knuckling the steering wheel for the entirety of the drive.

when you finally made it home, you bit your lip nervously when you saw joe’s car already pulled in and turned off. you didn’t really want to fight with him, but you knew that’s where this night was headed. you parked your car and turned it off, shoving the keys into your pocket before heading inside, toeing off your shoes by the door. joe was nowhere to be seen, so you tiptoed through the kitchen to make your way to the stairs.

“so, i’m not showing you enough attention and now you feel like you need to seek it out from other men, huh?” joe alleged, his deep voice scaring you as you turned around. you jumped, placing a hand over your heart.

you turned to see him in the den, sitting on the couch with his arms stretched out over the back of it, his large thighs spread. he must’ve taken a quick shower when he got home because his hair was wet, and all he had on was a pair of black athletic shorts.

“joe, i didn’t seek him out. you know that.” you breathed out, heart still racing. he stood from the couch, walking toward you at a slow pace. when he finally reached you, his hand shot up and tucked some hair behind your ear before he used his body weight to push you up against the nearest wall.

“no baby, you must’ve liked it, huh? cuz someone was giving you attention? cuz another man was out there trying to tell me how to give it to you?”

you swallowed thickly. joe’s mood seemed to have done a 180, but you’d be lying if you said you weren’t turned on too. you were embarrassed at how quickly this conversation had led to your panties sticking to your core.

“answer me.” he said, leaning down to rub the tip of his nose along the column of your throat.

“no joey, i didn’t like it.” you whispered, shuddering when his hands slipped under the material of your hoodie to caress your bare skin.

“liar. you liked it. i know you did, because you’re a little slut.”

you gasped as you heard him accuse you, but also… it turned you on even more. you could tell he was in a mood where he wanted to dominate you and you loved when he got extra rough in the bedroom.

“yeah, joey. i did like it.” you lie, provoking him further. “maybe he was right. maybe i need a man who can hold me down, give it to me rough.” joe bit your collarbone in response before throwing you over his shoulder and carrying you up the stairs.

he opened the door to your shared room and threw you on the bed unceremoniously before walking toward you, pulling his shorts off in the process. he was already half hard, he grabbed his length and began stroking it before commanding you to get on the floor.

“on your knees.”

you listened, sliding off the bed and onto your knees for him. he used his free hand to roughly grab your chin, pulling your mouth open. your eyes met, and the look you gave him showed all the assurance he needed as he roughly slid his cock into your mouth.

his hand found your hair, locking his fingers in it as he roughly thrust in and out of your mouth. his head was thrown back in pleasure, you were sure he needed this release after the tough game and week he had, even though he probably didn’t deserve it from how he’d been treating you. you hollowed your cheeks as he continued thrusting, bringing your hands up and placing them on his thighs.

“hands to yourself.” he commanded. you placed them back down by your sides. “only good girls get to touch. you haven’t been very good today.”

he continued using your mouth until he was nearly undone, edging himself. he pulled out and stepped back, and you kept your eyes on him in an attempt to be as obedient as possible. “get back on the bed.” he demanded.

you stood up and sat on the bed, waiting for his next command. he ordered you to strip, so you did, laying back against the pillows completely bare for him.

he crawled up from the foot of the bed and placed his body between your parted thighs. “hmm… you’re so wet baby. what caused that?” he teased, sarcasm dripping from his tone.

“you did, joe.” you breathed, aching for him to finally do something to give you relief between your thighs. “i’m not so sure that’s true.” he snarked.

he placed his hand flat on the meat of your thigh, the size and warmth of it sending your head spinning. “joey, please.. touch me.” you begged, not caring how desperate you sounded. “i am touching you.” he remarks.

“you know what i mean.” you whine, grabbing his hand and moving it down, placing it against your sopping wet core. the tips of his fingers dance gently around your entrance and you shudder, watching him lick his lips as he slowly inserts a finger.

one quickly becomes two, and soon he’s working a third into you, scissoring you open to make sure you can take all of him. your head is thrown back and you’re moaning like crazy as joe continues, he’s working you closer and closer to your high.

“joe, i’m so close!” you moan out, but as soon as the words leave your lips he’s pulling his fingers out, dipping them into his mouth and moaning as he tastes your juices on his tongue. he leans over you and says “open your mouth.”

when you do, he spits right into it. you can taste yourself mixed with his saliva, which only turns you on more. before you can even think anything else his fingers are digging into your hips, harshly rolling you over before placing a smack right against your ass.

“why should i even make you cum, y/n? do you deserve to cum?” he teases, but the irritation is still evident in his voice. “please joey, i need it. i’m sorry for what i said earlier.”

“i don’t think you are princess.” he alleges, landing another harsh smack against your ass.

“i am, joey. i promise. i’m yours, only yours. only you can fuck me right. nobody else.” your voice is strained, you’re on the verge of tears. you need to cum so badly, you need some kind of friction. your response must have satisfied joe enough, because soon enough he’s pressing his tip to your entrance and pushing inside without a single warning. when he’s fully seated in you, you let out a deep breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

he smacks your ass one final time before his fingers find home on your hips, roughly digging into them as his hips thrust against yours powerfully.

after a few harsh thrusts he grabs both your hands and brings them up to the small of your back, holding them together with one of his hands. with his free hand, he slaps your ass hard again as he continues to pound into you from behind.

“say his fucking name.”

“joe— i can’t. i’m…”

“SAY IT.” he demanded. you could feel his eyes burning holes into the back of your head. you knew that’s what this was about but… you couldn’t believe he was asking you to do this.

“m-maxx…” you muttered weakly.

“louder.”

“MAXX!” you screamed, just as joe hit a particularly hard thrust.

“doesn’t hit right, does it? you don’t want him to fuck you, do you?”

“no, joey! only you!” you assured him, burying your face into the pillows. “that’s right. you’re mine. all mine.” you hear the smirk in his words. he continues thrusting and you’re so close, just on the precipice of release.

“nobody else can fuck you like this can they?” he asks, and he punctuates every word with a thrust. “fuck no, joey, only you can make me feel this good. only you can fill me up like this.”

“that’s right.” he agrees, continuing his relentless pace.

“joey, i’m there.. can i.. can i cum for you?” you ask him, begging with a saccharine sweet tone. “cum all over this dick.” he replies, pulling your arms back further. your ass is bouncing against him as he thrusts roughly, and your release finally finds you. stars explode all through your vision and they dance along your skin as the warmth spreads from the top of your head all the way to your toes. joe cums too, the feeling of your walls squeezing around him takes him right to the edge. he wastes no time in pulling out, walking to your shared bathroom to grab a rag and soaking it with warm water. he comes back to the bed and rolls you over before parting your thighs.

joe uses the rag to clean your most sensitive areas, wiping away the mixture of your releases from your skin. he looks nervous now, he always does after he gets rough with you. you reach down and place your hand on top of his, rubbing your thumb along his skin softly.

“you okay?” he asks, sounding more concerned than anything else. “i’m okay. are you?” you reply. he shakes his head yes. you look up at him, eyes meeting again. “was that too much?” he wonders.

“no, i’m okay. a bit uncharacteristic but… you know i like when you get rough like that. but for the record joe, i like everything you and i do. and it was out of line for me to say that about getting attention from another man.”

he gets up to take the rag to the laundry bin before sliding into bed with you, pulling the blanket over you both. “what was out of line was how i’ve been treating you, y/n. i deserved what you said. i deserved the attitude you’ve given me all week.”

you reach up to stroke his cheek, letting him know you’re still listening, you’re receptive to what he’s saying. “i’ve just been nervous and frustrated, i know you know that. obviously the season hasn’t been going anywhere near where we’ve wanted it to and the stakes are higher than ever. and then on top of that, crosby just pissed me off. he does that to all the guys, tries to rile them up but… i think it got to me because i knew i’d been treating you poorly all week. and i’m sorry.”

your thumb runs over his cheekbone before you pull him in for a kiss, your lips meeting with an equal tenderness. “i forgive you, joe. i love you. thank you for saying that.” you say, pulling him closer to you.

“there’s one more thing…” he says nervously, his teeth worrying his bottom lip. “spill it.” you plead, eager to know what it is, especially because he looks so nervous.

he rolls over and rummages through the top drawer in his bedside table, producing a small box. you can feel your heart beating hard against your chest because… this can’t be happening, right?

when he rolls back over to face you he realizes you’re just as nervous as he is, and he laughs before opening the box.

“don’t worry, baby. i’m not proposing. at least not yet anyway.” he winks. you look at him expectantly.

“this is another reason i’ve been moody this week. i was… worried about doing this. i know i want to do it, but i was just a little afraid. after the shit with maxx today though, it feels like the right time.”

“go on…” you tease, waving your hand in a little ‘keep going’ motion. he opens the box and inside it are two small golden bands, one for you and one for him. “they’re promise rings, for us both to wear. i know i wanna marry you one day and.. they’re a constant reminder, i’m yours and you’re mine.” he smiles softly.

you can feel tears welling up in your eyes at the sweet gesture, and all the anger from the past week fades away as he takes the small golden ring from the box and places it on your finger. you do the same for him and he smiles, leaning over to kiss your forehead. you giggle as a thought pops in your brain.

“what’s funny, punk?” he asks you, rubbing soothingly at the small of your back. “it’s like spongebob and patrick! best friends forever, best friends forever, ring!” you sing, and joe laughs loudly.

“i love you baby. i’m sorry for being a dick this week.”

“i love you too, joe.” you assure, patting him on the chest. “i think you’ve more than made up for it now.”

“good.” he smiles, before a devious look crosses his features. he rolls over you, holding you down before hopping off the bed and heading for the bathroom. “last one to the shower is a rotten egg!” he yells.

you hop up and launch yourself off the bed, landing on his back. he was unprepared for it and you both topple to the floor, landing in a fit of giggles. you roll over and joe rolls on top of you, catching your lips in a sweet kiss before he stands and runs to the bathroom door, locking it behind him.

“joey, come on let me in!” you scream, laughing loudly as you bang your fists against the door. “hell nah!” he answers, his own loud laugh ringing in your ears. “i’m not showering with a rotten egg!”

“okay fine, guess i’ll drive back to the stadium and see if maxx is still there, i’ll shower with him.”

the bathroom door slams open and joe rushes out wrapping his arms around you and slapping your bare ass. “like hell you will!” he says, picking you up and carrying you to the shower.

taglist: @slimshiesty @starsinthesky5 @kykysinlovewithafairytale @burrowdarling @bengals-barnesbabe @joeyb1989 @loveyatopluto @toterry @unhingedfangirl @superheroprincess22 @burreauxsworld

[mrsonmyr]

family skate | s.crosby

summary: you bring your kids to skate with Sid

pairing: sidney crosby x female reader

word count: 1.2k

Two small children in oversized 87 jerseys sprinted down to the glass, their tiny hands pressing eagerly against it as they peered onto the ice.

“Daddy!” they called in unison, their voices muffled by the roar of the rink.

Sidney skated by, immediately pivoting back when he heard them. Stopping in front of them, he grinned. “Hey, guys. You having fun?”

“Daddy, look!” Olivia spun around excitedly, showing off her Crosby 87 jersey that nearly swallowed her small frame.

“Hey, that’s my name!” Sidney teased.

“No, it’s my name!” she shot back with a triumphant smile.

“Mommy says it’s our name,” Patrick added matter-of-factly. At six years old, he was both sweet and protective, always keeping an eye on Olivia, who had a knack for getting into trouble.

Sid chuckled. “You’re right, Pat. It is our name. Where’s Mommy?” He glanced around the stands, searching for you.

“She said she was going to talk to someone,” Olivia answered, twisting around as if she might spot you.

As much as the kids had Sidney wrapped around their fingers, they were undeniably Mommy’s little angels. Patrick was a full-on mama’s boy, always seeking your approval, always wanting snuggles. Olivia, on the other hand, was a perfect mix—equal parts Daddy’s girl and Mommy’s shadow. Spending her days at home with you while Patrick was at school, she relished having your attention all to herself.

“Daddy, can Binky come on the ice with me?” Olivia held up her well-loved teddy bear, its fur slightly ragged from years of constant companionship. You and Sidney had been trying to ease her separation anxiety with it, but she clung to Binky as if leaving him behind would be some sort of betrayal.

“I don’t know,” Sid mused, kneeling in front of the glass. “Does he have skates?”

“Livvy, you can’t bring him everywhere,” Patrick interjected, his big-brother instincts kicking in. “What are you gonna do next year when you can’t bring him to school?”

Patrick, now in first grade, took his new role as an older kid very seriously. Though he secretly wished he could still bring his stuffed animals to school, he knew the other boys would never let him hear the end of it. Still, he’d noticed the older kids seemed to give him a lot of attention—especially when his dad was the one dropping him off or picking him up.

“Binky doesn’t need skates,” Olivia declared confidently. “I’ll hold him.”

After retiring from the NHL, Sidney poured his focus into raising his family and working with young players, coaching peewee hockey and leading the Little Penguins program in Cole Harbour. That, of course, included teaching his own kids how to skate.

Patrick took to the ice naturally, skating with confidence and already mastering his stick handling. Olivia, on the other hand, required a bit more persuasion. She loved skating, but only if there was a reward waiting at the end—like a donut from Tim Hortons on the way home.

The buzzer rang, signaling the end of morning practice, which meant one thing: family skate time. As the teenage players exited the ice, Sid spotted you making your way down toward the rink.

“Hi, Mama,” he greeted, stepping off the ice and onto the bench.

“Hi, baby.” You reached up, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. He was still a little sweaty from practice, but you didn’t mind—you’d always loved him like this.

“Is it your turn to skate?” you asked the kids, watching as they practically vibrated with excitement.

They nodded eagerly, and Sidney grinned. “Alright, let’s get you two geared up.”

In the locker room, Patrick was quick to get his gear on by himself, while Sidney helped Olivia with her shin pads and pants. Though Patrick could tie his skates on his own, he still preferred when Sid did it.

“Are you guys ready?” Sid asked, giving both laces a final tug.

Patrick nodded, his brown eyes peering up at you from beneath his helmet’s cage. “Mommy, are you gonna skate with us, too?”

You smiled, stroking his gloved hand. “Mommy’s gonna watch from the bench and take pictures.”

Olivia held out Binky. “Mommy, will you hold him? I don’t want him to get cold.”

“Of course,” you assured her, taking the teddy and cradling it in your lap. “I’ll keep him safe, and we’ll watch you skate with Daddy.”

Before having kids, you’d loved your one-on-one ice time with Sidney. Even though you weren’t the strongest skater, he’d always held your hand, keeping you steady, keeping you safe. Now, your favorite thing in the world was watching your kids skate with him—seeing the pure joy it brought to your husband’s face.

Life had changed so much since becoming parents. Date nights out had turned into quiet nights in once the kids were asleep. Traveling alone had become harder, knowing how much the kids hated seeing you leave. On your last anniversary, Sidney had surprised you with a weekend getaway to Montreal. As much as you’d enjoyed your time together, you’d spent half the trip missing the kids.

“I wonder what they’re doing right now,” Sid had mused, sliding into bed beside you.

“We can’t call them—it’s past their bedtime,” you had sighed, though your eyes betrayed how much you wanted to.

The last time you’d called them while away, they’d both ended up in tears, begging to know when you’d be home. The guilt had been unbearable. That night, you had cried in Sid’s arms, telling him you never wanted to travel without them again. Eventually, you both agreed—short weekend getaways only, and no phone calls unless it was an emergency.

Now, sitting on the bench, you watched as Patrick skated down the ice, expertly maneuvering the puck toward the net. A few feet away, Sid was bent low, skating backwards, his hands stretched out for Olivia to grab if she lost her balance. You smiled to yourself, pulling out your phone to capture the moment. One day, when the kids were older—when they’d rather be with their friends than at the rink with their parents—you knew you’d cherish these memories even more.

After a few minutes, Olivia skated over to the bench, and you lifted her onto your lap, undoing her helmet.

“Daddy says I did so good, he’s gonna get me a Timbit on the way home.”

You laughed, kissing her forehead. “Sounds like a pretty good deal to me.”

[angelsuecult]

it ain’t me babe | s. crosby

Part 1 | Part 2

“i’m not the one you want, babe

i will only let you down”

warnings: none.

summary: you feel out of place at a wedding with Sidney, left wondering where your relationship 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: 7.7k

song: it ain’t me - joan baez

a/n: WHY DID NONE OF YOU TELL ME MY STORIES WEREN’T UPLOADING TO SCHEDULE?? And to the original author of the question please don’t hesitate to reach out if you hate it and would like a different approach!

Part 1 | Part 2

—

You’re barely fastening the clasp of your earring when the knock comes at your door.

Shit.

You glance at the time—Sid’s early. Of course, he is. The man knows you too well, knows you’d be running around last-minute, half-dressed and cursing yourself for not getting ready sooner. He does this on purpose, you swear.

“Hang on!” you call, stepping into your heels and padding toward the door. You take a second to smooth your dress down, inhaling to collect yourself before pulling it open.

And there he is.

Sidney Crosby in a suit has always been a dangerous thing, but this? Slate-gray with that slight blue undertone, crisp white shirt underneath, tie done just right. He wears it like it’s nothing, like he didn’t just knock the breath out of you for a second. The broad set of his shoulders fills your doorway, his stance easy but composed. You know his tailor probably had to fight with him to get the fit just right because God forbid Sidney spends a second longer than necessary picking out clothes.

His eyes flick over you, a slow, deliberate once-over. “Damn.”

You smirk, tilting your head. “That good?”

“That bad,” he corrects, stepping in slightly. His voice is low, edged with something appreciative. “You tryin’ to kill me?”

You roll your eyes, but heat creeps up your neck anyway. “You clean up alright, I guess.”

Sid scoffs, shoving his hands into his pockets as he gives you a pointed look. “Yeah? That the best I’m getting?”

You bite your lip, letting your gaze flicker over him. “Fine. You look—decent.”

His brows raise.

“Passable,” you add.

“You’re full of shit,” he mutters, stepping into your apartment fully now, shutting the door behind him. His eyes don’t leave yours, but his mouth twitches like he’s trying not to grin. “You’re lucky you’re pretty.”

“Oh, pretty, huh?” you tease. “Not stunning? Not breathtaking?”

Sid exhales sharply, shaking his head. “You want a fuckin’ essay or somethin’? You look unreal, babe.” He leans in, voice dropping slightly. “Like I’m about to forget we have somewhere to be.”

You roll your eyes again, but your stomach flips. “Please. You’re so punctual, you’d probably have sex with me and still get us there early.”

That gets a laugh out of him, warm and low. “Multitasking’s a skill, y’know.”

You shake your head, turning to grab your clutch from the counter. “Alright, Romeo. Let me just—”

You pause, sighing. The clasp on your necklace is giving you a hard time, and your nails aren’t helping. You feel Sid behind you before he even says anything, his presence steady and familiar.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, hands brushing against your shoulders as he takes over. His fingers are warm against your skin, careful as he fastens it for you.

You exhale. “Thanks.”

Sid doesn’t step away immediately. He lets his fingers drift lightly over your collarbone, tracing the chain before dipping lower, just slightly. His voice is casual, but you hear the edge of amusement in it when he murmurs, “You smell good.”

You smile, resisting the urge to lean back into him. “You always say that.”

“’Cause it’s true.” His lips brush against the side of your neck, and you can feel his smirk. “What is it?”

“Same one I always wear.”

“Then why does it smell better tonight?”

You laugh, finally turning to face him. “Maybe I put on extra just for you.”

Sid grins, hands settling lightly at your waist. “Mm. Thought so.”

You press your hands against his chest, the fabric of his suit smooth under your palms. “Alright, Crosby. We should go before you get too distracted.”

He smirks but steps back, reaching for the door. “You sayin’ I don’t have self-control?”

“I’m saying you’re full of shit.”

Sid just laughs, waiting for you to step out before locking up behind you.

And he leads you outside, his hand firm and familiar on your lower back as he walks you toward the car. The air is cool, but you barely feel it with the heat of him so close.

He gets to the passenger side first, opening the door like a gentleman—except the cocky smirk on his face ruins the moment entirely.

"Look at me, such a gentleman," he says, voice dripping with self-satisfaction.

You snort, stepping past him to get in. "I was just about to say that. So chivalrous, Sidney. I’m swooning." He lets out a laugh, standing just behind you as you gather the fabric of your dress so it doesn’t catch.

"C’mon princess, in you go," he says, voice laced with amusement.

You give him a look as you settle into the seat. "I can get in a car by myself, you know."

"Sure you can," Sid smirks and leans down, one hand bracing the top of the door as he watches you adjust yourself. "But then I wouldn’t get to stare at your ass while you do it."

You scoff, swatting at his chest. "Jesus, Sid. Buy me a drink first."

"First of all, you love it. Second, you don’t even like the drinks at these things," he says easily, eyes glinting. Then he leans down a little further, dropping his voice. "And third, you know I’m right."

Your face heats, but you roll your eyes as you grab the seatbelt. "Unbelievable."

He laughs, shaking his head as he steps back and shuts the door. You watch as he rounds the car, taking his time, looking unfairly good while doing it. When he slides into the driver’s seat, he throws you a look—one of those easy, amused ones, where his mouth quirks up like you’re the most entertaining thing in his world.

“You always get this high maintenance before you go anywhere, or am I just lucky?”

“Oh, it’s just for you, baby,” you say sweetly.

You buckle up, getting comfortable, and then—instinctively, automatically—you reach for the radio.

Sid groans before you even touch it. "Babe."

You don’t even look at him, flipping through stations like it’s your goddamn job. "What?"

"You do this every time."

"And?"

"And—" He gestures vaguely, exasperated. "You’re not gonna find anything you like."

"You don’t know that," you argue, still pressing buttons, your face drawn in concentration.

Sid rests his elbow against the center console, watching you with an amused kind of annoyance. "You’re gonna cycle through, sigh dramatically, and then just plug in your phone like you always do."

You shoot him a look. "Not true."

He raises a brow. "Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Alright." He leans back, hands on the wheel, clearly settling in. "Go ahead, sweetheart. Take your time. I’ll just sit here, suffering."

"You’re so dramatic," you mutter, still clicking through static and commercials.

Sid just hums, watching in silence. You flip through three more stations before you sigh—dramatically, because fine, maybe he was right. You pull out your phone, scrolling through your playlists.

Sid laughs, loud and triumphant. "See? What did I fucking say?"

You huff, clicking on a song. "Shut up."

"You’re so predictable."

"You’re so annoying."

Sid just smirks, squeezing your thigh before pulling out of the parking spot.

You let the music fill the space, settling into the ride, before you reach up, flipping down the visor mirror. You check your reflection, tilting your head, adjusting an earring that doesn’t actually need adjusting.

Sid glances over. "Oh my god."

"What?" You swipe under your eye, checking for smudged mascara.

"Baby, you look fine."

"I just wanna make sure."

"You spent two hours getting ready."

"Yeah, and?"

"And—" He gestures vaguely again, exasperated. "You’re already fucking perfect. Stop fussing."

“Well, I need to make sure I stay perfect,” you say, adjusting your hair. “Can’t have people thinking you settled.”

Sid barks out a laugh. “Settled? Jesus, babe, I could show up to this thing in a fucking clown suit and people would still think I outkicked my coverage.”

You snort, capping your lipstick and tossing it into your clutch.

Which, speaking of—

Sid watches, shaking his head. "You carrying bricks in there?"

"It’s essentials."

"You don’t need all that shit."

You glance at him. "You questioning my process?"

"Absolutely."

You scoff. “It’s not that bad.”

Sid leans back in his seat, smirking. "Go on, then. Let’s see what you’ve got in there."

You narrow your eyes, but you humor him, setting your bag open on your lap and narrating as you pull things out one by one.

"Phone," you start, setting it aside. "Lipstick. Powder. Rings—"

"Why are your rings in there?"

"Because I didn’t feel like putting them on before I left, obviously," you say, slipping them onto your fingers now.

Sid shakes his head, grinning. "You’re something else."

You keep going. "Hair tie. Gum. Mini perfume, just in case—"

"In case of what? A body odor emergency?"

You ignore him. "Tampon."

Sid lets out a strangled laugh. "Well, that’s a buzzkill."

"You wish it was a buzzkill," you say, shoving it back into your clutch.

He smirks. "I do love an insurance policy."

You snort, giving him a playful shove before going back to your bag. "What else? Oh, mints."

"Why gum and mints?"

"In case I change my mind!"

Sid just shakes his head, muttering something under his breath as you continue your inventory.

Finally, you zip your clutch shut and sit back, satisfied.

Sid glances at you, amused. "You good now? Got everything?"

You exhale, nodding. "Yeah. I think I’m good."

"Thank fuck," he says dramatically, throwing the car into drive.

You smack his arm, and he just laughs, shooting you a look as he pulls out onto the road.

"You love me," you remind him.

He grins, squeezing your thigh again.

"Yeah, yeah. Lucky me."

It takes about thirty minutes to get there. And, like a true gentleman, Sidney helps you out of the car and into the venue.

And it is stunning. High ceilings draped with soft white fabric, chandeliers casting a warm golden glow, round tables set with crisp white linens and floral centerpieces so perfect they look straight out of a magazine. There’s a soft hum of conversation, glasses clinking, and occasional bursts of laughter. A string quartet plays softly in the background. It’s the kind of wedding that is effortless in its elegance, the kind of wedding where you don’t just attend—you experience it.

Sid steps up right beside you, his hand tightens around yours as you take it all in. “Nice place, huh?”

You nod. It is nice—really nice.

And then, like clockwork, it begins.

“Crosby!”

A voice calls out from across the room, and before you can even register who it belongs to, Sidney is already flashing a grin, lifting a hand in an easy wave.

A guy you don’t recognize claps Sid on the back, grinning wide. You barely have a second to register his face before another man steps in, another handshake, another enthusiastic greeting.

Sid is swept up so seamlessly it’s like muscle memory for him. A laugh here, a nod there, a quick remark that makes the whole group erupt in laughter. You smile politely as introductions are made, shaking hands, exchanging names that you instantly forget.

And just like that, he’s gone. Not physically—Sidney’s still right beside you—but it’s like he’s already been swept into a current, drawn into a world that, despite standing right here, you aren’t really a part of.

You feel the exact moment Sid drops your hand. It’s not intentional, not cruel, just... mindless. Which somehow feels worse. And you’re introduced a couple of times—Sid’s younger girlfriend, the polite smiles, the pleasant nods.

Though you're sure they won’t remember your name.

Not when they’re too busy swapping stories, reliving old memories, throwing easy, teasing jabs at Sid—

“Christ, still single? What the hell, man?”

“You holding out on us, or what?”

“No wife, no kids, just hockey, huh?”

And Sid laughs because of course he does. He takes it in stride, throws a few chirps back, and makes them laugh even harder.

You stand there, hands wrapped around your clutch, a smile fixed in place.

Then, without so much as a glance in your direction, Sidney gently nudges you toward the reception area. “Why don’t you go find our table, baby. I’ll be there soon.”

It’s so thoughtless, so effortless, the way he says it. Like he doesn’t even think twice about sending you on your way.

And you? You don’t argue. You don’t tell him you’d rather stay by his side, that you’d rather be included. Because what would be the point?

So you go.

Your heels click against the floors as you weave through the crowd, offering polite nods and small smiles when necessary. People acknowledge you, but only in passing.

A couple at the bar glances your way, the woman offering a smile before turning back to her conversation. An older man—someone’s father, maybe—nods at you as you pass. Another woman, somewhere in her thirties, gives you a glance before returning to her drink.

No one stops you. No one pulls you into a conversation.

Because, to them, you’re just Sidney’s girlfriend.

Not someone with stories of their own, not someone with history or shared memories. No career in hockey so that automatically means your input isn’t welcome. Just the young woman on Sidney Crosby’s arm.

You find your table near the edge of the dance floor. It’s beautifully set—crystal glassware, gold-rimmed plates, a small handwritten place card with your name in elegant script.

But even as you lower yourself into your seat, smoothing the fabric of your dress over your lap, you feel the same lingering disconnect.

Sid is still across the room, engaged in yet another conversation. And then another. And another. And the others at your table have yet to acknowledge your presence.

It happens over and over again.

Someone calls his name, he turns, he smiles. A handshake, a laugh, a knowing nod. The conversations blend together—hockey stories, old teammates, friendly jabs about how he’s still at it, still playing, still single, still Sidney Crosby.

And maybe it’s the wedding, or the company, or the way he’s been effortlessly navigating the room while you’ve been left sitting alone even at a table full of people—but something tightens in your chest.

You take a sip of water, suddenly hyper-aware of the weight of your own presence here.

Sid is still talking, still laughing. The people around him are engaged, captivated, drawn in by whatever story is being told.

And you?

You’re just… there.

And just like that, the night drags on.

One hour turns into two. Two turn into three.

In that time, you’ve hardly spoken a word.

You’re still here. Alone.

Still at this table, a glass of champagne untouched, half-eaten food sitting cold on your plate, the candle in the center of the table burning lower and lower.

Laughter, the tinkling of glasses, the low sound of music mingling with conversation. Time moves in a strange way here–too fast in some ways, too slow in others.

Sid’s still across the room. Different circle, same conversation. Or maybe it’s a new one. Maybe it’s the fifth or sixth or tenth. You’ve lost count. But he looks so at ease, so comfortable, like he belongs here in a way you never will. And as much as you love him, as much as you want to believe that you can fit in his world, moments like this make you wonder if that's even possible.

You’re pretty sure you could vanish from this chair and no one would bat an eye.

The first hour wasn’t so bad. You kept yourself occupied, playing with your utensils, checking your phone, sipping at your drink.

But you couldn’t stop thinking about the way he dropped your hand. It might’ve been thoughtless, but that made all the difference.

The second hour was harder. You started feeling it then, the weight of being left with no one to talk to, especially because Sidney hadn’t joined the table for dinner.

Now? Now, you’re just here.

You haven’t spoken to Sidney since you arrived together. The others at your table are talking amongst themselves.

And you? Well you drum your fingers against the table, eyes scanning the room. The dance floor is packed now, couples swaying under dim lighting, some moving a little too slow for the tempo of the song. It’s romantic, in a way.

You love dancing at weddings, and well–Sidney’s far too busy entertaining his hockey groupies. Maybe you should ask that old guy sitting alone at the bar.

You wonder if Sid even knows what time it is.

You hear the sound of someone sitting down at your table. You look up, and a woman in her mid-40s, with perfectly styled hair and a glass of wine in hand, meets your eyes with a bright, curious smile.

“I hear you’re Sidney’s date tonight,” she says, her tone light but carrying that tone of curiosity.

You smile politely, already bracing yourself for the inevitable questions. “Yeah, that’s right.”

She exhales a soft laugh, something like intrigue flickering in her expression. “Wow. How old are you honey?”

The bluntness catches you off guard, but you force a smile. “Uh, twenty-four.”

“Oh!” Her eyes widen, and her hand briefly touches her chest, as if you’ve just told her you’re fresh out of high school. “What a surprise.”

You give a tight-lipped smile, unsure of how to respond. It’s not the first time someone’s commented on the age difference between you and Sid, and it probably won’t be the last. Still, the way she’s looking at you, like you’re some kind of curiosity, makes your skin prickle.

Before you can say anything else, a few other women, all in similar age brackets as the first, drift over to join the conversation. They greet the first woman warmly before turning their attention to you. Their eyes rake over you with thinly veiled interest, and you can already tell where this is headed.

“So,” one of them says, her tone laced with curiosity. “You’re Sidney’s date?”

“That’s what I just said,” the first woman replies with a knowing grin.

You nod, trying to keep your smile polite and neutral. “Yeah, I am.”

“Well, aren’t you a lucky girl,” one of the women comments, her tone a little too sweet. “I mean, Sidney Crosby! He’s, what, 35 now?”

You nod again, not really sure what to say. “Yeah, he just turned 35.”

Another woman, a blonde with sharp cheekbones and a diamond necklace that looks expensive enough to buy a house, lets out a soft laugh. “He’s practically a national treasure. I bet people just lose their minds when they see you two together.”

You smile, hoping the conversation stays at least somewhat friendly, but there’s a strange tension building that you can’t quite place.

One of the women, a brunette in a dress that clings to her figure, gives you a long, appraising look. “You know,” she says with a smirk, “you remind me of that movie with Richard Gere and the fiery redhead. What’s it called? Pretty Woman?”

Your brows knit together. “Oh, you think I look like Julia Roberts?”

She smiles, like you’re adorable. “You could say that. But I was thinking more about the other thing.”

You blink, the implication sinking in.

Oh.

Oh.

Your stomach twists.

The first woman giggles, catching on. “God, that’s awful,” she says, but she’s laughing like it’s not.

“I mean,” the blonde continues, swirling her drink, “it’s not that different, right? Gorgeous younger woman, powerful older guy…”

The third woman smirks. “Except in this version, the guy’s a hockey player instead of a businessman.”

“And he didn’t have to pay for her company,” the first woman adds with a giggle.

You laugh, because what the fuck else are you supposed to do? You laugh, because it’s easier than acknowledging the weight of their words, the way their comments slide under your skin like cold, sharp needles.

“Oh, come on,” the blonde says, nudging your arm. “You’re not offended, are you?”

“No,” you say quickly, shaking your head. “No, it’s funny.”

She smiles, satisfied, then takes a slow sip of her champagne.

The brunette lets out a low chuckle, clearly enjoying your discomfort. “Don’t take it the wrong way, sweetheart. It’s just that, well… you’re so young. Practically a baby. And Sidney? He’s… well, let’s just say it’s obvious why he’s with you.”

You try to laugh it off, but it sounds forced even to your own ears. “Right…”

One of the other women pipes up with a teasing grin. “Midlife crisis, right? Every man gets one eventually. They just want something young and fresh to keep them feeling young, you know?”

The second woman snorts. “Guess it was either a sports car or a twenty-four-year-old.”

“Well,” the third woman muses, tapping a finger to her chin. “A sports car probably wouldn’t keep him warm at night.”

You laugh again, though it feels hollow in your chest.

“Oh, come on, now,” the blonde chimes in again, clearly having fun with the way you’re squirming. “We’re just teasing. But really, how long have you been with Sid? A couple months? Bet he’s just swept you off your feet, huh?”

You open your mouth to answer, but one of the women cuts you off with a snicker. “Oh, I bet he has. Must be nice to have a guy like that, huh? With all that stamina...”

“God,” one of them says with a chuckle, giving you a once-over. “You are young. How long have you and Sid been together, really?”

“Over a year.”

“Over a year?” The other one lets out a low whistle. “Wow, that’s impressive. And you’re already sitting through one of these things? You must be committed.”

“Oh, come on, ladies. I think it’s sweet,” one of them drawls, swirling her wine. “Older men love a hot young thing on their arm. Keeps ’em feeling young.”

“Yeah, but at what point does it get sad? Like, at what age does it start looking more ‘divorced dad’ than ‘hot older guy’?”

“Probably when she graduates college.”

The laughter rolls through the group again, light and airy.

You hum, taking a slow sip of champagne. Though it tastes a little sour now.

“Besides,” another adds, smirking, “I bet Sid loves having someone so...energetic in bed.”

The table howls.

And fuck, you laugh, too, even though it feels more than wrong.

You feel raw, exposed, like they’ve pinned you down and picked you apart piece by piece, all while smiling, all while meaning nothing by it.

And maybe that’s the worst part.

They don’t even realize how shitty it is.

It’s not that the jokes are vicious.

It’s just that they’re at your expense.

And you let them be.

And Sid—Sid doesn’t even know. Why would he?

He’s still across the room, caught up in conversation, in familiarity, in a place that has always been his, while you sit here, drinking shitty champagne and wondering how the hell you ended up feeling this alone at a table full of people.

It's not his job to babysit you, though, is it? But would it have killed him to talk to you outside of dismissing you from his conversation? Or to sit and eat dinner with you? To ask if you wanted a drink. Or even to ask you to dance? Maybe that's why you feel so out of place. This isn’t your world; it’s Sidney’s, and that's perfectly fine. But would it be too much to ask for your date to spend a measly second with you?

Eventually, you slip out of the reception hall unnoticed.

No one calls after you, no one asks where you’re going.

It’s fine. It’s fine.

The air is cooler here, quieter, the distant hum of conversation and music muffled by the thick walls of the venue.

You don’t have a destination in mind, just an aimless need to be somewhere else—somewhere not at that table, smiling through another round of backhanded jokes and polite pleasantries.

And you find yourself in front of the coat check, a long bench against the wall offering a lonely place to sit.

You sink down onto it with a sigh, letting your head tilt back against the wall.

It’s fine.

It’s fine.

The night’s almost over, anyway.

Right?

It’s been four—five?—hours. Who’s counting?

You tug your phone out of your clutch and check the time. Yeah. Five hours.

Jesus.

“You heading out?”

Blinking, you turn toward the coat check counter, where a young guy—early twenties, maybe—leans against the ledge. He’s got a tie loosely knotted around his neck, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a clipboard in hand. His name tag, slightly askew, reads Ethan.

“Not yet. No.”

He raises a brow, shifting his weight against the counter. “Just hanging out by the coat closet for fun, then?”

You smile, tapping your fingers against your knee. “I’m hoping my date will come looking for me, realize I’m gone, and we’ll head out.” You sigh dramatically. “Maybe in an hour or two.”

The guy snorts. “Damn. That bad, huh?”

You raise a brow. “Eh. It’s fine. You work a lot of weddings?”

“More than I can count.” He taps the clipboard against his palm. “Seen it all. Drunken speeches, fistfights, groomsmen throwing up in planters. You name it.”

You snort. “Sounds like a fun gig.”

“Oh, tons of fun,” he deadpans. “Nothing like watching a mother-in-law cry because she hates the centerpieces.”

You shake your head, lips curving.

“So,” he continues, cocking his head, “you on the bride’s side or groom’s side?”

“Neither,” you admit. “I’m a plus-one.”

“Ah. Who’s your date?”

“He’s an ex-teammate of the groom.”

He lets out a low whistle. “So, basically, everyone in there’s a hockey player.”

You huff out a laugh. “Yeah. Pretty much.”

He leans his forearms on the counter, looking amused. “Failed, retired, or current?”

You grin. “All of the above.”

His eyes narrow playfully. “You’re not a hockey player, though.”

You shake your head. “Nope.”

He gives you a once-over. “Yeah, you don’t have the vibe. Too put-together. And you still have all your teeth.”

You laugh, genuinely this time.

He studies you for a beat. “So how’s your night been?”

You open your mouth to say fine, but what comes out instead is—

“Well, I just got called a hooker and a midlife crisis in one sitting, so.”

Ethan chokes. “Jesus Christ.”

You shrug.

“Who the hell’s your date?” he asks again, eyes narrowing. “Because he sounds like he fucking sucks at his job.”

You glance toward the closed doors of the reception, then back at him. “Sidney Crosby.”

Ethan stares at you. Then he exhales a laugh, rubbing the back of his head. “Well, there you have it,” he says. “Old as dirt Sidney with a… how old are you?”

“Twenty-four.”

He raises his brows. “Eh. Not that bad.”

You huff. “Glad to hear it.”

“If it makes you feel better,” he adds, propping his chin on his hand, “I’ve already had to stop three drunk couples from trying to sneak into the coat closet to fuck.”

You lift a brow. “Three?”

He nods solemnly. “One of them was definitely old enough to be my parents.”

You grimace. “Christ.”

“Exactly.” He shakes his head. “So, really, your night could be worse.”

You smirk, tilting your head. “You mean I could be fucking in the coat closet?”

He grins. “See? Silver linings.”

You roll your eyes, stretching your legs out in front of you, smoothing your hands over your dress as you glance toward the coat check counter.

“So,” you say, tilting your head, “is this, like, your full-time gig?”

He shakes his head, adjusting his headset. “Nah. Just part-time. Helps pay for school.”

You perk up. “Ohh. College student.” A slow grin spreads across your lips. “You’re just a baby.”

His mouth drops open slightly before he lets out a scoff. “I’m 22, not 2.”

You hold up your hands in mock surrender, biting back a laugh. “Relax, kid.”

He points a finger at you. “You’re not even that much older than me.”

You pretend to be deep in thought. “Mmm. You say that, but I’m practically ancient in your eyes. What are 24-year-olds to you? Fossils?”

He rolls his eyes. “Oh, please. If you’re a fossil, then Sidney Crosby is—”

“A museum exhibit,” you finish, nodding solemnly.

He grins. “Exactly. So, you're not that much older than me, then.”

You wave a dismissive hand. “In college years, two years is a lot. You’re still in that phase where you think mixing vodka with Gatorade is a good idea.”

He raises a brow. “And what phase are you in?”

You hum, pretending to think about it. “The phase where I know mixing vodka with Gatorade is only a good idea if you’ve got nothing else left in the fridge.”

He leans against the counter, shaking his head. “Jesus man, twenty-four and thirty-five is wild. That’s, like…” He pauses, pretending to do the math in his head. “That’s a whole thirteen years.”

Your mouth twitches. “11 actually. Solid math skills. College is treating you well, huh?”

He grins. “Damn right.” Then, after a beat, “So, what’s it like? Dating an elderly man?”

You snort. “Honestly? Kind of nice. Early bedtimes. Dinner at four-thirty. Always has Werther’s Originals in his pocket.”

He lets out a loud laugh. “No fucking way.”

You shrug, completely deadpan. “No point lying about it. Just last week he was complaining about his knees. His knees.”

He wipes a fake tear from his eye. “Unreal.”

You sigh dramatically. “The burden of dating an aging athlete.”

He grins. “You’re a real one for sticking around.”

You smirk. “Someone’s gotta help him up the stairs.”

“Someone’s gotta help him out of bed.”

You tilt your head. “You joke, but honestly, have you ever seen a hockey player wake up in the morning? It’s like watching an old dog stretch. Takes him, like, five whole minutes to fully stand up straight.”

He’s full-on wheezing now. “Please.”

You hold up a hand. “Swear to God. You know that snap, crackle, pop sound Rice Krispies make?”

He nods, barely holding it together.

“That’s Sidney every morning.”

That’s it. He loses it completely, practically doubled over laughing. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he gasps.

“Anyway, now that we’ve established that I’m a grown-ass man, wanna guess what I’m studying?”

You tap a finger against your chin, pretending to consider. “Hmm. Something in hospitality? Customer service? You seem way too unbothered for someone who has to deal with drunk rich people all night.”

“Business,” he says, then makes a face. “I know. Riveting.”

You shrug. “Hey, business is important. You could be running this whole venue one day.”

“Yeah, or scamming people on Wall Street.”

“Oh, so that’s the real plan.”

He taps his nose knowingly. “Gotta make that coat check money stretch.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “I don’t know, seems like a good ideas. You would get to people-watch, make fun of drunk wedding guests, witness some truly awful flirting…”

“Break up couples fucking in the coat closet,” he adds.

You grin. “Right, that too, you already have the experience.”

“It’s alright,” he admits.

You hum in acknowledgment.

“But I actually wanna do something cool with it, I swear.”

“Uh-huh.” You tilt your head. “Like what?”

He shrugs. “I wanna open my own bar. Something, like, good, though. Classy. Not just some sticky-floored shithole that only serves cheap beer and watered-down whiskey.”

You lift a brow. “So, you wanna open a fancy bar.”

He grins. “Yeah, but cool fancy. Not asshole fancy.”

You smirk. “Big dreams.”

He nods. “Huge.”

You chuckle, shaking your head. “Well, at least you’d be making an honest living. Can’t say the same for me, apparently.”

He winces. “Yeah, hey at least you’re escorting Sidney Crosby to weddings. Could be worse. Like some old scrub no one remembers.”

You let out a dry laugh. “Ha, ha.”

He smirks. “I mean, those people back there seemed pretty convinced.”

“Yeah, well, they can choke,” you mutter, rolling your eyes.

He laughs. “Fair.”

You sigh dramatically. “If only I weren’t so well-behaved.”

He smirks. “If only you weren’t Sidney Crosby’s well-behaved girlfriend. Unlike some people at this wedding.”

You let out a sharp laugh, covering your mouth. “Jesus Christ.”

“What?” He grins, unbothered. “That’s what they think, right? You know, sell your body for some cash.”

You laugh.

He gestures at you. “See? This is a real conversation. None of that fake, rich-people bullshit in there.”

You exhale, nodding. “Yeah. It’s… nice.”

And it is. Really nice. It’s the most you’ve talked all night without feeling like you’re walking some social tightrope. No polite smiles, no fake laughs, no backhanded compliments. Just talking.

You’re just about to say something when Your phone buzzes on the bench beside you. You don’t rush to grab it, already having a pretty good guess at who it is.

Sid: You ready to head out?

You purse your lips, debating. Are you ready? Maybe. Do you care?

You: Up to you.

The typing bubble pops up almost immediately.

Sid: Where are you?

You glance up at the coat check counter, at your new best friend of the evening—who’s leaning against the back wall, scrolling idly on his phone.

You: Bathroom.

Technically, not a lie. Just… a creative interpretation of events.

Sid: Meet me at the coat desk?

You fight the urge to roll your eyes. Oh, you mean the place I’ve been sitting for the past 45 minutes? What a coincidence.

Instead, you just type out a simple:

You: Sure.

“Ah,” he says knowingly. “Your date finally remembered you exist.”

You let out a dry laugh. “Yep. Miracles do happen.”

He holds a hand to his chest. “Wow. I’m so happy for you.”

You roll your eyes. “Ha, ha.” You glance around the empty hall before sighing. “Hate to cut the night short, but, y’know… duty calls.”

He nods solemnly. “Understandable. You’ll be missed.”

You smirk. “Hey, maybe one day I’ll get married here.” You gesture around dramatically. “And I’ll be sure to bring you back as my coat guy, since you’re doing such a stellar job at keeping away the drunks.”

He grins. “I’d be honored.”

You shake your head, glancing at your phone.

And then you wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Because of course, Sidney saying meet me at the coat desk actually means I will take my sweet-ass time getting there.

You lean against the counter, resisting the urge to check your phone again.

Another twenty minutes pass. Then ten more.

“You sure he’s coming?” Coat Guy teases.

You shoot him a look. “Shut up.”

“I mean, I could totally give you a ride home—”

You smirk. “Do you even have a car?”

“…I could get us an Uber.”

You let out a laugh tilting your head toward him. “You know, for someone who was in a rush to leave, he’s sure taking his time.”

He snorts. “Yeah, well, he is old. Maybe he forgot where the coat desk is.”

“Fuck, you’re right. Should I go look for him? Maybe he got lost.”

“Probably wandering the halls like a confused grandpa.”

“Poor guy.”

“I know. Should I page him? ‘Sidney Crosby, please report to the coat check. Your much younger date is waiting for you.’”

You laugh. “God, please do.”

As if on cue, Sid finally rounds the corner, looking not the least bit rushed. He’s still got that stupid effortlessly charming thing going on, tie slightly loosened, jacket draped over his arm. He spots you immediately, his expression softening just a fraction.

“There you are.”

“Here I am,” you say dryly, standing up straighter.

Sid eyes you for a beat, like he can’t tell if you’re actually annoyed or just messing with him. You don’t exactly help him out, keeping your face as neutral as possible.

He turns his attention to the coat guy, nodding in greeting. “Hey.”

“Hey.” He gives him a knowing smirk but doesn’t say anything else.

Sid doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he does but just doesn’t care. Either way, he turns back to you. “Got everything?”

You lift your clutch slightly. “Mhm.”

Sid nods, then slides his jacket back on, rolling his shoulders as he adjusts it. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Yeah,” you say, not bothering to hide your exasperation.

Sid places a warm hand on your lower back, guiding you toward the exit. As you pass the desk, you shoot him a wink. “Don’t miss me too much.”

“I’ll try,” he says, grinning. “No promises, though.”

Sid glances between the two of you but doesn’t say anything. Just tightens his hand slightly against your back as he leads you out.

And just like that, you’re finally leaving.

Hours too late, but hey. Who’s counting?

Sid’s hand stays on your lower back as he leads you to the car. The night air is cool, but not unpleasant, and the walk is quiet. You don’t really reach for him. Don’t hold his arm or lace your fingers through his. You just hold onto your clutch, letting the silence settle between you. Sid doesn’t push it, just keeps his hand steady as he guides you toward the car.

The parking lot is mostly empty now, save for a few stragglers lingering near their cars, caught up in post-wedding conversations. Sid unlocks the car with a click of the key fob, and you both slide in without a word. The door shuts with a solid thunk.

Once inside, the radio hums softly in the background—some classic rock station Sid always defaults to. You don’t reach to change it this time. You just pull out your phone, scrolling for a moment before you open a text thread with a friend and start typing something, not thinking too hard about it.

You: If you ever get invited to a wedding full of ex-hockey players, politely decline.

Sid glances over at you before shifting the car into reverse, backing out of the spot. The drive starts off the same way the walk did—quiet. Not necessarily tense, just…muted. It’s been a long night, after all.

A couple of minutes in, Sid finally breaks the silence. “How was your night?”

You don’t look up from your phone. “Great.”

He waits a beat, like he’s expecting more. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, eyes still on your screen. “Food was a little dry, but no complaints.”

Sid hums. “Okay.”

The car falls back into silence, save for the steady sound of the tires against the pavement and the occasional change in song on the radio. You keep texting, your thumbs moving idly over the screen.

After a while, Sid speaks again. “Did you get to talk to anyone?”

You let out a short breath—almost a laugh. “Sort of.”

Sid glances at you briefly before turning his attention back to the road. “What does that mean?”

You set your phone down in your lap, finally looking over at him. “I mean, the three women who did talk to me were very funny.”

Sid frowns slightly. “Funny?”

You smile, but there’s no real warmth behind it. “Hilarious, actually.”

His fingers tighten around the wheel. “Okay…”

That’s the end of that conversation. Another stretch of silence. The wedding venue fades into the distance behind you, the city lights coming into view ahead.

A few more minutes pass before you shift slightly in your seat, looking out the window. “Hey, can you just take me home?”

Sid glances at you again, brows furrowing. “I thought we agreed you’d just come back to my place.”

You nod. “Yeah, we did. I just…kinda want to go home now.”

Sid’s grip on the wheel tightens just a fraction. “Why?”

You shrug. “I just want to sleep in my own bed.”

Sid exhales through his nose. “You like my bed.”

You nod again. “I do.”

“But you don’t want to sleep in it tonight?”

“Not really.”

Sid doesn’t respond right away. Just keeps driving, his expression unreadable. He’s confused, you can tell. The change of plans is throwing him off.

You pick at the hem of your dress. “It’s fine,” you say lightly. “We can just go back to your place and I’ll call an Uber to take me home.”

Sid lets out a small, humorless laugh. “I can take you home. It’s not a big deal.”

You look over at him. “Great.”

But it doesn’t feel great. It feels weird. Off.

Sid’s jaw flexes slightly as he makes a turn, the city lights casting shadows over his face. “Did something happen?”

You shake your head. “No.”

Sid doesn’t look convinced. “Then why are you acting weird?”

“I’m not acting weird.”

“You are acting weird.”

You sigh, leaning your head back against the seat. “I’m just tired, Sid. It’s been a long night.”

Sid exhales sharply. “Yeah, no shit.”

He exhales sharply through his nose, clearly confused. The tension in the car thickens, stretching between you like a tightrope. The night has been long—too long—and the last thing you want is to get into it with him right now.

But Sid doesn’t just let things go.

A few minutes pass before he speaks again, his voice edged with frustration. “You’re gonna tell me what’s wrong, or are we just gonna sit here pretending everything’s fine?”

Your fingers curl around the hem of your dress. “Nothing’s wrong.”

Sid lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Yeah. Okay.”

You glance over at him, irritation creeping into your voice. “What do you want me to say, Sidney?”

“How about the truth?”

You exhale sharply, shaking your head. “Jesus Christ.”

Sid shakes his head too, gripping the wheel tighter. “You were fine earlier. And now, all of a sudden, you wanna go home, and I have no fucking clue why.”

“Maybe I just want to sleep in my own bed for once.”

“That’s bullshit,” he mutters.

You scoff. “Excuse me?”

He rubs a hand over his jaw, voice tense. “You stay at my place all the time. You’ve never had a problem with it before.”

“Well, maybe tonight I do.”

Sid glances at you, his eyes flickering with something unreadable. “So what happened?”

You look straight ahead, jaw tight.

Sid’s fingers tap against the wheel. “Jesus,” he mutters. “If you don’t wanna be here, just fucking say it.”

Your stomach twists. “That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what it feels like.”

You inhale slowly through your nose, trying to keep your temper in check. You’re both tired. You’re both irritated. And this is getting nowhere.

Finally, you exhale. “Just take me home, Sid.”

He presses his lips together, nods once, and changes lanes. The rest of the drive is silent, thick with unspoken words and unasked questions pressing in from all sides as Sid pulls up to your apartment building. The soft hum of the engine is the only sound between you. The streetlights cast a dull glow through the windshield, illuminating the set of his jaw, the furrow of his brows, and the way his fingers tap once against the steering wheel before stilling completely.

You unbuckle your seatbelt, pausing briefly before grabbing your purse from the floorboard. "Thanks for a great night," you say, voice light, almost distant.

Sid doesn't answer right away, just stares ahead at the dashboard, his lips pressing into a thin line.

You're already reaching for the door handle when he finally mutters, "Yeah."

You hesitate, gripping the strap of your purse a little tighter. But you don't look at him. You can't. Not when you’re already hanging by a thread.

So you just slip out of the car, closing the door behind you with a soft click.

No I love you.

No goodnight kiss.

Nothing.

Sid stays parked, his headlights illuminating the pavement in front of your building. You know he’s waiting. He always waits. Won’t leave until he sees the light in your apartment turn on. A silent reassurance that you made it inside safely.

You fish your keys out of your purse and make your way up the short set of stairs to your building entrance, the lump in your throat growing tighter with every step.

This is the right call.

At least, that’s what you keep telling yourself.

You unlock the door, step inside, and flick on the hallway light. A soft glow spills out onto the pavement outside.

You don’t have to turn around to know Sid is still there. Still watching.

You stand there for a second, fingers curling around the doorknob, waiting—listening.

Any second now, you’ll hear his car pull out of his usual parking spot.

Any second now.

But the street outside stays quiet.

Your chest tightens.

You could turn around. Walk back down the steps. Open the car door and say, Hey, sorry for being weird tonight, I just—

Just what?

You should’ve just talked it out with him. Should’ve let him in instead of shutting down. He deserves more than this. So, why do you feel like he did something wrong tonight?

You squeeze your eyes shut.

No.

You made your choice.

Maybe—maybe in some sick and twisted, selfish way, a break will be easier this way.

At least, that’s what you keep telling yourself.

Maybe if you make the distance now, if you start pulling away, it won’t hurt as much when you finally tell him what you’ve been feeling. That you’re not the one for him. That tonight made that painfully clear how you just don’t fit into his world. That you’re not the match you thought you were.

It’s not his fault. It’s just… how it is. And he deserves someone whose hand he won’t stupidly drop, whose presence he won’t carelessly dismiss.

You squeeze your eyes shut, inhaling a slow, shaky breath. Then another.

Still, you don’t hear the car move.

Dragging in a slow breath, you step further into your apartment and close the door behind you. Your throat tightens. You press your palm flat against the door, like you can feel the weight of him still out there, just on the other side.

Even then, you don’t hear Sid drive away.

You stay exactly where you are.

Listening. Waiting.

Hating yourself for hoping he doesn’t leave just yet.

—

[lightsoutmatthews]

Pipeline Punch - Sidney Crosby

summary: You love energy drinks, Sid? Not so much

pairing: Sidney Crosby x female!reader

word count: 1.4k

warnings: age gap (reader is described to be in mid-twenties), hints to sexual activity (nothing explicit on page)

authors note:

sponsored by my moster addiction that´s keeping me alive during hockey games in the middle of the night

-----------------------------------

The apartment was quiet. Sidney was still at practice, and you had instructed him to stop by the store after, just to have a little more quiet time.

Working on your master’s thesis had been draining you these days. There was a month left before you had to hand it in and while you were finished with all your research you still had many pages to write for the actual piece to be completed.

Sidney tried to support you in any way he could, staying longer at the rink to give you time alone, quietly reading in the bedroom while you worked in the dining room but also by making sure you took breaks.

He cooked your favorite meals for dinner, so you could enjoy half an hour eating before going back to work. When you laid in bed at night, he rubbed your back and told you how proud he was of you, or he worshiped your body actually showing you just how proud he was.

You enjoyed it and you were thankful for everything he was trying to do but sometimes you just needed him gone for a little while longer. Hence while you send him grocery shopping with a list that was probably half consisting of things you didn’t actually need.

Taking a break from writing you walked over to the kitchen to grab another energy drink. You were practically running on them at this point. Long nights and early mornings didn’t mix well with your sleep schedule, so coffee and Monsters were keeping you alive and your brain more or less alert.

Picking up the last one of your favorite flavors, pipeline punch, you were happy you put down “a case of monster” on Sidney’s shopping list. You didn’t have the motivation to go to the store yourself. You could order it but even picking up the phone and doing it seemed like too much distraction from work.

Taking a quick peek at the device when coming back to the table, you saw that Sid had texted you a few minutes prior.

Sid: I´m at the store, what kind of Monster do you want again? And don’t say ultraviolet, that can looks radioactive, I´m not bringing that into our house.

You chuckled at your boyfriends question. Being a hockey player, he was really looking after what he put into his body, especially during the season and always side eyed you when you grabbed a can out of the fridge. He would never dare to take a sip of it, as he told you a million times.

I Pipeline Punch (pink can), juiced monarch (peach can with yellow logo), ultra white (white can) and ultra peachy (peach can with silver logo).

I just grab two or three of each

I thank you, you´re the best x

You could picture his reaction to that exactly. He would roll his eyes, mumble something about how unhealthy it is and then pack exactly what you told him. He was considerate like that. Never thinking about making you live his lifestyle.

When you returned to your computer you sighed loudly. The page starred back at you, the graph you just pasted looking completely wrong.

You told yourself you would finish editing this and the rest of the theoretical background tomorrow so you could go to Sid´s game in the evening but so far it wasn’t looking good.

Initially you just wanted to put and edit the graphs showing your research before diving into completing the theoretical background for the topic. But none of your graphs looked right when you pasted them into the document, the captions didn’t look like you envisioned it either.

So, instead of to keep fighting with the computer you closed the document and opened the one for the theoretical background. Taking another sip of your monster you began typing.

-----------

You weren’t sure how long you sat there but when two large hands suddenly gripped your shoulders you looked up for the first time in what felt like forever. “Working hard?” Sid asked before placing a kiss to your cheek.

“You have no idea. I fought with my graphs for like two hours earlier,” you sighed. Sid began rubbing your shoulders and you relaxed into his touch. “I´m sorry, honey.”

You leaned your head back and he pressed a soft kiss to your lips. “How much do you have left in that chapter?”

“Not much, a few sentences maybe.” he let go of your shoulders, his movements sounding like he was ready to leave you alone again. “I´ll put the groceries away, meet me in the kitchen when you´re finished?” You just nodded before getting back to typing, trying to finish this as quickly as possible.

Ten minutes later you joined him. Your laptop put on its charger in the living room, retired until you´d have to get back to it tomorrow. Sidney was putting away the pile of groceries that had stacked up on the kitchen island.

“Did you get everything?” You asked with a chuckle as you inspected the mountain of your favorite snacks that was piled on the carton of monster. The half empty can you opened earlier still sitting on the dining room table. “Yeah. But don’t think I don’t get what you did.” A smile spread across his face.

“I didn’t do anything,” you chuckled. “Sure, your sudden hunger for…” he grabbed one of the packages on top of the pile. “… dinosaur cup cake mixes and…” he grabbed the next box. “… Oreo flavored popcorn, wasn’t suspicious at all.”

“My brain wants what it wants.” You laughed. He dropped the groceries he was holding and walked over to you. Wrapping his arms around your waist you leaned against his chest. He placed a kiss to the top of your head before softly creasing over your back. “I hope you didn’t mind.” Your quiet confession made him lift your head up to look him in the eyes.

“Sweetheart, you could ask me to buy you the most outrageous things imaginable and I would find a way to make it work. You needing some sweets and an outlet in baking dinosaur cupcakes is nothing.” A lingering kiss was placed on your lips before he turned back around to finish putting the groceries away.

-------------

An hour later dinner was simmering on the stove while Sidney was preparing a salad and you were setting the table. The forgotten Monster can still sitting next to your plate. When you picked the can up to take another sip Sid entered with the bowl of salad in one and the bowl of rice in the other.

He grimaces as he spotted you drinking your favorite drink. “How you drink this every day is beyond me.” You playfully rolled your eyes. “You´re too old to get it, babe.” He stopped mid movement and huffed.

“Not everyone can still be in their mid-twenties and not get heart problems from drinking a can of energy drink every day,” he chuckled. “You´re telling me you drank that when you were in your twenties?” He shook his head. “Absolutely not. But my teammates certainly did.”

The image of Kris or Geno drinking energy drinks around him, him having a similar reaction to when he saw you doing it made you laugh.

“You should try it,” you held out the can to him, waiting for his reaction. He eyed it suspiciously. “Come on, I´ll let you pick the movie later,” you offered. He sighed and wiped a hand over his mouth. Then he reluctantly grabbed the can.

A satisfied smile spread across your face when he set it at his mouth to take a sip. He grimaced again when the liquid touched his tongue, and he set the can down quicker than he shot a slapshot in a hockey net. “Christ, I don’t know how you drink that shit.”

A warm laugh bubbled out of you. Everything about this situation was so NOT Sidney Crosby. “Worth it for picking the movie?” you laughed.

He rolled his eyes. “We both know you will end up convincing me to watch your show because you couldn’t watch it all day.” You laughed, because he was right.

He vanished back into the kitchen, coming back with the salmon and sauce a second later. Before he put it on the table, he leaned down, so his mouth was lined up with your ear. “But I hope you remember you still owe me something for scoring that hat trick yesterday…”

Goosebumps immediately spread all over your arms. “… because I´m thinking about cashing it in tonight.”

[goldfades]

i need to be sidney crosbys controversially young gf… maybe something for that… heh

my new fav concept, hope you enjoy!

It started with whispers.

The kind that curled around the edges of locker rooms and crept into post-game interviews, barely concealed behind tight-lipped smirks and knowing glances. The kind that made headlines in tabloids next to blurry photos of a dinner reservation that should have been private. The kind that weren’t unexpected, not when a 37-year-old hockey legend started dating a 21-year-old who had no business being in his world.

Sidney Crosby was used to the noise. He’d spent two decades as the face of a franchise, his every move dissected and debated. But this? This was different. This was personal.

And you—well, you were the subject of speculation, fascination, and, in some corners, outright disapproval. The girl too young, too fresh, too much of a contrast to the quiet, calculated, carefully managed existence Sidney had built. The age gap was undeniable, a 16-year stretch that gave people ammunition, as if they hadn’t already decided what they thought about you.

It didn’t help that you weren’t some seasoned socialite or a familiar name in hockey circles. You weren’t a sports reporter or a PR darling, not a longtime fixture at games. No, you were something worse in the eyes of his critics—young, new, and entirely yours.

They didn’t know about the late-night conversations, the ones where Sidney’s usual reserve cracked open just enough for you to slip inside. They didn’t see the way he softened when you spoke, or how he looked at you like he was trying to memorize every version of you—the excited, the sleepy, the frustrated, the amused.

They didn’t know that you never sought him out, that he was the one who lingered after your first meeting, the one who texted first, the one who—despite all logic, despite knowing exactly what kind of reaction this would spark—had made it clear he wanted you.

But they knew enough to talk.

"She’s barely old enough to drink."

"What could they possibly have in common?"

"Sid’s having a mid-life crisis."

The comments should have been easy to ignore. Sidney wasn’t the type to entertain gossip, and you’d never cared about the opinions of people who didn’t know you. But still, the weight of it settled into your bones some days, making you wonder if you were an anomaly in his otherwise perfectly controlled life.

Because he was Sidney Crosby—captain, legend, a man whose legacy had been cemented long before you were even in high school. And you? You were just the girl people assumed was temporary.

And maybe that’s what made it all the more exhilarating.

The funniest part? You and Sidney actually found the whole thing hilarious.

The first time you showed him a comment under some sports gossip post—"She’s basically a child. This is so embarrassing for him."—he just blinked at you, unimpressed.

"Didn’t realize I should be embarrassed for enjoying my life," he said dryly, barely looking up from his coffee.

You snorted. "Yeah, well, you should probably start wearing knee braces to dinner so people know how frail you are."

From then on, it became a running joke.

Like when you posted a dimly lit photo of your hand wrapped around a wine glass at a fancy steakhouse, the edge of Sidney’s plate barely in frame, and captioned it: Dinner with my old man 🤍

Or when you caught a candid of him rubbing his temple after a long day and added it to your Instagram story with the text: He’s got a headache from all the whippersnappers in his life.

Or, your personal favorite, when you recorded him tying his skates before practice, zoomed in on his face as he focused, and added: D1 Grandpa Energy.

The chirps were constant, and he took them all in stride. In fact, he played along—leaned into it, even.

"Think I should start stretching before we go out?" he mused one evening as you got ready for dinner. "Maybe bring a heating pad?"

You grinned at him in the mirror. "I already put Icy Hot in your bag. Just in case you pull something walking to the table."

He rolled his eyes, but you caught the twitch of his lips.

Despite the internet losing its collective mind, the reality of your relationship was effortless. Sidney was steady, calm, and deeply private. You, on the other hand, were unbothered, playful, and just reckless enough to make things interesting. You balanced each other out in a way that worked, even if people didn’t understand it.

You loved how Sidney never treated you like you were some silly, naive kid. He respected you—your thoughts, your humor, your way of seeing the world. And you, in turn, loved teasing the hell out of him, keeping him on his toes in a way no one else really dared.

Like the time you went with him to a team dinner, and while everyone was talking hockey, you casually turned to him and went, "Tell me again what it was like growing up without color TV?"

The table went silent for a beat before someone—probably Letang—burst out laughing. Sid just gave you that look, equal parts unimpressed and amused, before shaking his head.

"She’s funny, huh?" he muttered, reaching for his drink.

"A regular comedian," you quipped, clinking your glass against his.

That was the thing—no matter how much outside noise tried to define your relationship, the two of you had already decided what it was.

It was simple. You liked each other.

Sidney didn’t buy you expensive things to impress you. Sure, he could, but he knew that wasn’t why you were here. Instead, he showed up in little ways—the way he always made sure to order your fries extra crispy because that’s how you liked them, or how he’d automatically pull you closer when cameras were around, just to make sure you didn’t get overwhelmed.

And you? You made sure he laughed. Really laughed. The kind of laugh that shook his shoulders and made his eyes crinkle, the kind of laugh he rarely let people see.

You were good together. You fit, even if people couldn’t wrap their heads around it.

And honestly? That just made it more fun.

It was nearly midnight, and the two of you were on the couch, deep in a heated argument over absolutely nothing.

"I'm just saying, people who don’t let the cereal sit in the milk for at least thirty seconds before eating it are a danger to society," you declared, pointing your spoon at him.

Sidney, reclined against the cushions in his sweatpants and a faded Team Canada hoodie, exhaled through his nose, unimpressed. "That’s ridiculous. You want it soggy?"

"Not soggy, perfectly saturated," you corrected, scooping another spoonful of Cinnamon Toast Crunch from your bowl. "It enhances the experience."

Sid shook his head, glancing down at his own bowl—practically dry because, of course, he barely let the milk touch his cereal before shoveling it into his mouth like some kind of barbarian. "There’s no way you actually believe this."

"I do," you said, dramatic as ever, settling further into your spot next to him. "This is a hill I will die on."

Sid sighed, took another bite, and then, without missing a beat, shot back, "Guess you’d better hope I go first then."

You gasped, shoving his shoulder. "Did you just—"

He fought back a smirk, chewing methodically like he didn’t just say something that made your jaw drop. "You’re too young to be making retirement home decisions, anyway," he added, extra casual.

"Wow," you scoffed, setting your bowl down. "Big words for someone whose lower back cracks every time he stands up."

He snorted, finally breaking into that slow, warm smile that made your stomach flip.

It was moments like this that made you realize why, despite the comments and the noise, this relationship worked.

You weren’t intimidated by him. Not by his reputation, not by the weight of who he was. You poked fun at the untouchable Sidney Crosby the way most people wouldn’t dare, but you never disrespected him. You met him as a person, not as a legacy.

And Sid—Sid liked that.

He liked how quick you were, how you made fun of him without ever making him feel small. How you never treated him like some god on skates but also never downplayed how much he meant to people. It was a balance no one had quite figured out before you.

He let out a deep breath, stretching his arm along the back of the couch, his fingers absentmindedly toying with the ends of your hair.

"You done bullying me for the night?" he asked, amused.

You hummed, considering. "Depends. You gonna admit my cereal method is better?"

"Absolutely not."

"Then no."

He chuckled, shaking his head before wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you in. You melted into his side like it was second nature, warm and easy.

The whole world could talk. The whole world could speculate. But in here, in this quiet moment between bowls of cereal and bad jokes, you fit like you were always meant to.

[rowdyluv]

Sleepless in Pittsburgh

Summary: Sidney and Y/n are supposed to be taking turns getting up at night to take care of their infant.

Warnings: none?

Notes: request @thedevilrisen

In the quiet sanctuary of their suburban home, Sidney and Y/n danced a nightly ritual that was as tender as it was tiring. Their baby girl, a delightful bundle of eight months, had just been fed and was now nestled in Sidney's strong arms, her eyes drooping as she fought the call of sleep. The nursery, a soft palette of pastels, hummed with the gentle white noise machine designed to help soothe her, a modern lullaby that filled the room. Y/n, her hair tied back in a loose bun, moved quietly, finishing up the bedtime routine. She glanced over at Sidney, who wore a look of quiet determination, his soft gaze fixed on their daughter's sleepy face. His eyes filled with raw pure joy and love. Emotions that strong had only ever been shared with her before.

With a soft sigh, the baby's eyes finally closed, and Sidney carefully placed her in the crib. The couple exchanged a knowing look, one that spoke of shared responsibilities and silent promises. They had agreed to take turns getting up in the night to ensure that neither was overwhelmed by the constant wake-up calls. It was a plan that had worked well, or so Sidney thought. Y/n had been shouldering more of the childcare lately, and it was etched on her face, in the dark circles beneath her eyes and the way she moved with a slightly slower grace than usual. He felt a twinge of guilt, but also a fierce protectiveness. He knew she was tired, but she never complained, not even when he could see her stifling yawns. She would never complain about being tired because of a little extra responsibility on her because Sidney was a little more busy with work. She knew way before the thought of having a child ever entered her mind that this would be a different rodeo.

Sidney held out his hand to Y/n, and she took it gratefully, her own feeling small and cold. They padded out of the nursery together, the floorboards creaking slightly under their weight. As they entered their bedroom, the room was bathed in the soft glow of the moon, which streamed through the curtains and painted intricate patterns on the wooden floor. The room was a sanctuary of their own, filled with the faint scent of the vanilla candles Y/n had lit earlier to create a calming atmosphere. Their bed looked inviting, the crumpled sheets whispering of a much-needed rest.

Sidney could see the exhaustion etched in every line of Y/n's face as she climbed into bed. Him being gone for road games and simply being so worn out from home games, she was getting up more often than not. Plus she was here all day with the little one and it was taking a toll on her. He had noticed it in the way she had been quieter than usual, and how she sometimes forgot simple things like where she had put the baby's pacifier, and it would still be in her hand. As he sat down next to her, his thoughts swirling with love and concern, he made a silent vow to do more. He didn't want her to bear this burden alone. He couldn’t become that type of dad.

Gently, he kissed the top of her head, his lips lingering for a brief moment, a silent promise of support. She leaned into the touch, closing her eyes and letting out a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the world. They both knew the baby could stir at any moment, but for now, they had a few precious minutes to themselves. Sidney pulled the covers up to their chins and wrapped an arm around her, feeling her body melt into his warmth. The room was silent except for the steady rhythm of their breathing, which synced up almost immediately.

They lay there, the moonlight playing across their faces, the lines of fatigue standing out in stark relief. Sidney studied Y/n's features, the way her eyelashes fanned out on her cheeks, the soft curve of her nose, the gentle slope of her neck. She was beautiful, even exhausted. He felt a pang of regret for the moments he had missed, the nights he had been away for his games, unable to share in the middle-of-the-night moments that had bonded them so deeply.

The sudden wail of their baby girl pierced the quiet, jolting them both awake. Sidney sat up, his heart racing. Y/n's eyes snapped open, and she started to push herself up, but he placed a firm, reassuring hand on her shoulder. "I've got this one," he whispered, his voice low and steady. She looked at him, a mix of surprise and relief in her eyes, and nodded, collapsing back onto the pillow. Asleep almost instantaneously.

Sidney slid out of bed, his bare feet landing softly on the cool floor. He knew the drill by heart now; tiptoe to the nursery, check on her, soothe her, lay her back down, and maybe get a little more sleep before the next round. The crib's mobile twirled gently in the dim light, casting shadows on the walls. He picked her up, her small body fitting perfectly into the crook of his arm, and cradled her close to his chest. Her cries grew quieter, and she nestled her head into the nook of his shoulder, seeking comfort. He rocked her gently, feeling the weight of her trust in his arms, and he was filled with a fierce love that seemed to surpass any tiredness he felt.

As he sat in the rocking chair, he couldn't help but think of the times he'd seen Y/n do this. The way she'd coo and whisper sweet nothings, the gentle strokes of her hand on their daughter's back, the way she'd rock back and forth with such a natural rhythm. It was moments like these that made him realize just how much she did for their little family. And it was moments like these that he realized he needed to do more to share the load of work.

After soothing their baby girl back to sleep, he gently placed her back into the crib, the soft cradle of the mattress welcoming her tiny form. As he backed away, her eyes fluttered for a moment, as if she was searching for the source of the movement. He held his breath, willing her to stay asleep. When she finally settled again, he let out a sigh of relief and turned to leave.

Sidney tiptoed back to his and Y/n’s shared bedroom, his steps measured so as not to disturb the peaceful silence. He slid into bed next to her, feeling the warmth of her body as she stirred slightly in her sleep. He watched her for a moment, her chest rising and falling evenly, and allowed himself a small smile.

The digital clock next to the bed read 4:00 AM. He knew that this was likely not the last time the baby would wake up tonight. It was a cycle that had become all too familiar. But this time, something was different. He couldn’t shake the feeling that Y/n needed the rest more. He’d been up three times now, her twice. He didn’t want her up again if possible.

So, he made a decision.

He would stay in the nursery for the rest of the night.

Sidney carefully picked up the baby again and made his way to the rocking chair, the old oak creaking gently as he sat down. The chair had been a gift from Y/n's mother, a relic from her own parenting days, and it held a certain charm that filled Sidney with warmth. He tucked a blanket around both of them, the soft fabric brushing against his skin, and began to rock. The chair's steady motion was almost hypnotic, and he found himself slipping into a light doze, his eyes flickering open every few moments to check on their daughter.

The baby's breathing grew even, her tiny body relaxing in his embrace. He felt her heartbeat against his chest, a gentle reassurance that she was safe and loved. The room was bathed in the glow of the nightlight, casting a soft blue hue across the nursery. He studied her features, so much like Y/n's, and felt a swell of pride that washed away his weariness. He whispered a promise to her, one that only the two of them would ever know, to be the best father he could be for her.

"I'll always be here for you, little one," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "I'll protect you, love you, and support you, no matter what life throws our way." He kissed her forehead, feeling the warmth of her skin and breathing in her sweet baby scent. It was a promise that seemed to echo in the stillness of the room, a vow that filled him with purpose and resolve.

Her tiny hand curled around his finger, and he marveled at the way she held on so tightly. It was as if she understood the gravity of his words, as if she was already counting on him to be her rock. He stroked her cheek with his thumb, feeling the velvety softness of her skin. "You're going to have the best life, I promise," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "You'll never have to doubt how much you're loved by your momma, by me, or my teammates. The new ones that find their way onto the team will love you.”

Y/n's voice, soft and warm, floated into the nursery from the doorway. "You'll just have to figure out who loves you most," she said with a tired smile, her eyes still heavy with sleep. Sidney looked up to see her leaning against the doorframe, her silhouette framed by the dim hallway light. “Did you forget that this was on?” She shook the baby monitor. “Your chatter was interesting to wake up to and not find you in the bed.” She giggled.

"I guess I did forget," he laughed, the sound low and rich, bouncing off the walls of the quiet room. It was a rare moment of levity in the tapestry of their sleepless nights. The baby stirred slightly at the sound but didn't wake, her grip on Sidney's finger tightening. Y/n's smile grew, the shadows playing across her features as she padded closer.

"Thank you," she murmured, her voice a gentle caress in the night. "I know you're tired too, but you're so good at this." She leaned down to kiss him, her hand brushing against his cheek. He could feel the heavy truth of her gratitude, and it was more invigorating than any cup of coffee could ever be. “You have your hockey career that is so demanding, that supports us, and here you are still trying to take on the bulk when you can.” She kissed him once more.

Sidney beamed with happiness, his heart swelling with love for both his wife and their daughter. "This is nothing," he said, his voice earnest. "You're the real MVP here, Y/n. I just want to make sure you get some rest." He grinned at her, his eyes shining with affection. "I think I'll stay right here with my baby girl for the rest of the night."

Y/n returned his smile, her eyes sparkling with unshed tears. She knew Sidney was tired, too, but she couldn't deny the comfort his offer brought her. "Are you sure?" she asked, her voice a mere whisper. "You have practice tomorrow."

A simple nod and a genuine smile was all Sidney needed to give her and she was off to bed. Sidney however, was in the rocking chair until 8am holding his little girl happily and lovingly.

[cuteandhughesy]

I Love You, I’m Sorry | Sidney Crosby (part 2)

summary: after you found out you were the other woman, you broke it off with sidney—making him promise to tell his wife. now your life has changed drastically, and you don’t know what’s going to happen with the love of your life. because even if sidney and his wife end their marriage, you don’t know what that means for your shattered relationship.

[word count] 2.9k

warnings: mentions of cheating | unedited

a/n: a highly anticipated and requested part two of the other woman! hope you guys enjoy this <3 this isn’t anything that detailed or crazy, but still gives a few unanswered questions you may of had.

🎵I love you, I’m sorry by gracie abrams

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

sidney crosby's wife knew that her husband was involved in some kind of infidelity. it was easy to tell. especially when she started to notice that sidney was happier. he no longer ate dinner alone, and he no longer slept on the couch with nothing but the throw blanket off the back of the couch. he was cracking jokes, and seemed interested in conversation, listening to what she was saying.

that's when she knew. it hasn't been that way in their marriage for years—so positive and content. sidney and his wife had unequivocally grown apart. fallen out of love. there was nothing that could be done between them. they tried therapy and time apart, endless conversations and sometimes nothing but silence. they weren't meant for each other—not anymore.

so when he started changing, sidney's wife automatically knew. of course, it didn't feel great. she was an outcast in her own (failed) marriage. but, it would've gotten to this point, with one of them, sooner or later. sidney just so happened to find you first.

although, she has to give credit where it's due—sidney was good at physicallly hiding you. there was never any perfume stuck to his clothes, or lipstick on his neck. never any unknown callers trying to reach him at ungodly hours of the night, and definitely no unidentifiable panties hidden in his laundry.

his wife isn't even upset with you—whoever you are. her and sidney's entire relationship was kept so private that it's almost impossible to know unless you've gone digging. chances are, you're not even a hockey fan. chances are, you're in love with her husband—just like she once was.

sidney shuts the door with a soft and sad click, barley audible from where his wife waits, sitting straight backed on the couch, posture almost rigid with her feet together and expression intangible. sidney kicks his shoes off next to the shoe rack—he told her that he was going for a run. or maybe stopping by a genos. she can't remember the excuse—before becoming visible by the grand archway between the hall and living room.

there's something on his face—something sad and heartbroken—and his wife falters. is he hurt? is somebody else hurt? did something happen?

her mouth opens and closes like a fish, waiting for sidney to say something. say anything. but he simply just walks into the room and takes a seat on the chair across from her. clearly, whatever has happened doesn't concern his wife enough to tell it out. or maybe...it does, and that’s the cause of his silence.

sidney's hangs his head for a beat, taking shallow breathes while she continues to wait patiently. there's something there, nagging in her gut, telling her that this is it. this is the moment that everything will really change. and for some reason, that brings a great deal of relief.

tiptoeing around one another and secrecy isn't fun. it's exhausting—and so is pretending not to know that her husband has a girlfriend. a girlfriend who he undeniably loves, maybe more than he ever loved her.

just when she thinks that sidney isn't going to say anything, he inhales a short, sharp breath. "I'm in love with somebody else."

and there it is. she'll admit, it does sting hearing it out loud, even though she's not shocked by the information. after all, she's known as long as sidney has.

"I know."

those two words have sidney snapping his head up in her direction, confusion laced across his deep features. maybe, his wife did know. he can't decide if that makes it better or worse. had he not been hiding it as well as he thought he had?

"i'm sorry," he tells her softly, "I was being selfish and in the process I hurt everyone around me. it wasn't fair."

she nods, but doesn't say anything for a long moment. her lips are pursed, something that indicates she's deep in thought. it makes sidney almost nervous. "did she know that you were married?”

"no," his voice almost cracks, emotion from your breakup mere minutes ago still fresh on his mind, weighing on him heavily. "she just found out."

another nod. "okay." just as she suspected, you knew nothing about the marriage. and sure, sidney could be lying to lighten the blow. but she knows him—knows that when he lies he rubs his knuckles. right now, sidney is as stiff as a board. it's the truth. the sick and disappointing truth.

"we need a divorce." his wife say firmly, tone final, her gaze unwavering as she looks at him. "and I think we have for a while."

sidney clears his throat and sits up a little straighter, "yeah, you’re right. and i'm sorry for letting all of this go on for as long as it did. I think we were both unhappy."

“you’re right.” she runs a hand through her short hair as she continues, "and I don't know if this girl is planning to be with you after this—or you her—but if you do stay together, treat her better than this. treat her like you love her—like you claim you do."

and those words resonated deeply with sidney. he has to be better than before—he has no choice. sidney knows he went about this entire situation the wrong way. the cheating, the complete disregard and mishandling of not only his wife's feelings, but yours as well, is nothing but immature and disgusting. frankly, it’s completely unacceptable.

telling his now soon to be ex-wife was the first step in his journey of growth and healing. it wasn't much, but it was something. and sidney? he's doing it for you. because no word of a lie came from him in your conversation today, and seeing you so heartbroken because of him was just fucking unbearable.

sidney loves you, more than he's loved anything in his entire life. friends, family, hockey...none of that hold’s a torch in comparison to you. and he knows it will take process and hard work to earn your trust and respect back, but sidney will stop at nothing to keep trying.

he wants things with you that he's never wanted before, and he's not about to abandon his new dreams or you because of his own awful lies and mistakes.

just before he left your place today, both of you still solemn with tears lining your misty eyes, he'd asked you in a whisper what do you need from me right now? and your response was nothing expect a watery, time.

sidney will work with you, no matter how long it takes.

— 7 months later

you drag the pad of your thumb over the clementine in your hand, feeling the dimples and imperfections that hide under the peel. you toss it back in the pile, and repeat the process on a new one. once you decide this one is fine, you put it one of those green tinted plastic produce bags provided at the end of every isle, and then reach for another clementine.

the past seven months—or in other words, since your breakup with sidney—has consisted of a lot of routine. getting up, going to work, coming home to shower, going to the grocery store when necessary, back home to cook and then eat alone, watching an episode of whatever reality show you're into for the week, and then bed.

and then repeat. it's nice because it keeps you distracted. the less time you have to think about sidney and your—unbeknownst to you—scandalous relationship, the better. because when you do think about it, you're just reminded of the heartbreak and tears and the fact that you still love him. of course you still love him. sidney crosby was everything you've never had before, and you know, no matter how hard you try and find someone else, they won't compare to him.

you pick up another clementine after deciding the last two weren't ripe yet, a small frown pulling at your lips at the vibrant orange fruit in your hand. you don't ever really buy them—he'll, you don't even like clementines or any kind of citrus fruit. but sidney did—you're sure he still does. you used to buy them all the time, back when you were unaware of his whole other relationship.

with a shake of your head, you put the fruit into the produce bag—making it a whopping three in there—and toss it in the toddler seat of the grocery cart. three is good, because anymore than that you'll just feel bad about waisting. three though? you can put one in your lunch and pass it off to your co-worker, and one can fertilize the compost, and the third can just wither away in the fruit bowl until you have no choice but to toss it.

you grab the handles of the cart and push it forward, but you're brought to an abrupt halt at the sight of broad shoulders and salt and pepper hair that you know all to well as he just rounds the corner into the citrus isle.

you're frozen as your eyes meet, goosebumps rising over your skin like you're in the frozen isle and not the fruit one. your grip on the cart becomes impossibly tight and borderline painful—it feels like your knuckles might splinter. but if you don’t ground yourself, you might collapse.

sidney crosby blinks in surprise, eyes falling over your sundress covered figure. he's holding his breath, too scared that if he breathes you'll be gone. a bunch of bananas are the only thing in his basket, and they, as well as the plastic basket, almost clatter to the ground as sidney's limbs go weak at the sight of you.

eventually, after what feels like an eternity of uncertain silence, he exhales. "y/n." your name on his tongue sounds so foreign but yet so familiar that it makes your chest expand and expand until it aches. you haven't seen sidney since he walked out of your apartment seven months ago.

he looks the same, maybe a little tired but still the same. soft eyes and strong jaw, plump limps that you used to kiss and arms you used to hold. he still smells the same too, and it makes you want to cry. as much as you tell yourself that you didn't miss him, your body betrays you—heart racing and skin tingling like it knows sidney is near.

"sidney," you swallow, a barley there smile gracing your face—polite and very customer service like. "hi."

"hi," he breathes. "how have you been?"

you pause, lips parting in a sharp inhale as you think. for a brief moment, you allow your gaze to flicker elsewhere. away from the eyes you fell in love with. when you do look back at sidney, he's still got his eyes trained on you. "i'm okay, yeah." you breathe, "and you? how have you been?"

"busy, like usual." sidney runs a calloused hand through his hair. "training camp is starting up, and i'm definitely getting older because my body is feeling it more than usual," he laughs weakly, playing it off like it's a joke. but nothing is funny about how his joints ache more often than not. and how he needs extra time in conditioning. but sidney's not going to get into that right now.

you smile breezily, kind of like you understand what he's actually saying, but also like you're not listening at all. that tugs at his heart rudely, but sidney can't blame your disinterest. after all, he's the one who fucked this all up—sidney is shocked that you haven't turned heel and ran the other way yet. he’s taking this interaction, not matter how short, as a victory.

you look around again, as if you're searching the area, sidney thinks. or maybe, you're looking for someone. a feeling of dread settles over him. are you looking for your boyfriend? have you moved on? does some other guy get to hold you and touch you and bury his nose into your neck, right on the spot you spray your perfume?

but then—"are you here by yourself? or has your wife decided to join you?" you tone is casual, but the question is anything but. naturally, you're curious about it. how could you not be?

are her and sidney still together? did he even tell her about you and your relationship? the questions have been nagging at you for months, and before your brain could logically process it, you were spewing them out between the apples and peaches.

sidney blinks in surprise, but recovers quickly. "oh, umm, no she's actually...we're in the process of separating."

this time, it's you blinking in shock. "oh. i'm sorry I didn't mean to pry-"

"don't apologize, y/n." sidney cuts you off easily, like he knows that if he didn't, you'd go on a ten minute ramble about feeling sorry. "I told her by the way. told her everything."

and there it is—the conformation to the never ending, nagging, long list of unanswered questions about what happened. more specifically, what happened after sidney walked out of your apartment door and never walked back in.

and most importantly, sidney fulfilled the only wish you asked in that moment of shared heartbreak between you.

you breathe again, this time laced with something that feels like relief. "good, sid, that's the right thing to do."

"yeah." the side of his mouth tugs up in a lopsided smirk, one that always used to turn your stomach inside out. hell, it still does.

you kiss your teeth, eyes once again diverting away from sidney's. there's a little bit of awkwardness stewing between you—there's bound to be after everything. your hands squeeze the handles of the shopping cart, and with a shrug of your shoulders, you’re owning your mouth in a breezy goodbye.

"sorry, i'll leave you to it." you say quickly, the wheels of the cart squeaking across the dull tiles below. you see no other option right now than to walk away, even if there's a million things you wish you could say instead. but you know that right now in such a state of shock, you won’t be able to find the right ones.

sidney's not yours, not anymore, and in all honesty he never was. this whole situation is messy and weird and you're left feeling trapped and awkward.

but sidney's not ready for you to leave yet. like you, there's so much he wants to say, expect he's no longer wanting to hold back. "I did it for you." sidney's deep, rumbling voice has you faltering, shopping cart wheeling to a stop just before you can pass him fully.

you gaze up at him, a mixture of curiosity and fear on your face. without missing a beat, sidney continues, "and I didn't reach out because...you deserved the space and time you wanted to think about everything. to think about us." his final admission is strained and desperate like he's been holding those words in for far too long.

your shoulders, which had been held high and tight, fall as you take everything in. a breathy sigh passes through your lips, "we can't do this here." if somebody you know is here, or a penguins fan...or somebody who knows his ex-wife...and you're spotted together having a conversation in the grocery store, it will burn long and bright until you're both inevitably seeking cover.

sidney watches the way your eyes flicker around the store once again, frantic gaze and lips pulled into a pout like they always do when you're worried. if this was 8 months ago, he'd swoop down and kiss your pout until it went away. the thought of kissing you right now is so overwhelming that sidney has to reach out and grip the edge of the apple display to hold himself back.

"you're right." sidney's words have your attention once more. "come to my place tomorrow. i'll make you breakfast and we can just talk. I miss you selfishly." his last words comes out in a hushed whisper, gaze darting between your eyes to ensure you're actually understanding what he's implicating.

sidney crosby can't fucking breathe without you.

something he can't decipher flashes over your face. "you want me to come to the home you shared with your wife?" your tone is strained, like you can't even fathom saying it out loud—stomach twisting as a nauseating feeling prickles your skin.

but almost immediately once you ask, sidney is shaking his head. "ex-wife. and no, i'm in my own apartment. it's just easier with...everything." everything being the divorce and dealing with his own heartache with your breakup. it's lonely and that goes without saying, but it's better than dealing with looks from his teammates and frowns from his family.

at least when he's alone, he can close his eyes and think of you. because the thought of you, and a moment like this one between you right now, is one of the only things keeping sidney going.

at first, you're unsure what to say. hesitance washes over you, and it's clear just by the way your face changes. but there's something else there, something inside you that wants to hear him and whatever kind of—apology? closure? a combination of both?—he wants to give you.

even if you don't forgive him, you deserve a clear headed explanation at least. you want him to be sorry, and most of all, you need to hear him say it. and that? that's the answer in itself. after a long beat, you respond—"okay...i'll come then."

his relief is undeniable. sidney lets go of his hold on the apple display and runs a hand over the back of his neck, a breathy laugh passing through the air between you. "okay, yeah." he grins, "i'll text you my address, okay?"

and much to add to his already upmost relief, you nod.

sidney is not a cheater. before meeting you he's never even been tempted to act unfaithful towards any of his partners. it's embarrassing and disgusting and just completely disrespectful. and he will never ever do it again—especially not to you. because you? you're it for him. sidney is planning his life with you. a life that's going to last for longer than eternity.

and sidney knows it's going to take a long time for him to earn your trust back, and you agreeing to breakfast is just the beginning. but he's got time, and sidney has no desire other than to use it wisely.

[oscquinn]

❛ you look like you were jealous. ❜+ a deep, slow, and deliberately intense kiss filled with passion and desire with Sid and younger reader where maybe one of the young guys was checking her out

sonia ur mind... ily girl

"you look like you were jealous." + [ seductive ] a deep, slow, and deliberately intense kiss filled with passion and desire from these prompt lists (i, ii), part of my mini writing event, now closed!

sidney crosby x f!reader, rated t. posessive sid :)))

you’re minding your own business, sipping a cocktail and chatting with one of your friends, when a pair of large hands land on your waist. “hey,” sid mumbles, low and plain. he turns you to face him, one hand pinching your chin between his thumb and forefinger. 

you aren’t aware of it, but the college guy to your left has been eyeing your ass for a solid ten minutes now. he's younger, closer to your age. he probably thinks he could fuck you properly. little does he know how good you already have it.

sidney needs to show him you’re taken, to show him that you’re his and his alone. he makes sure you’re angled so the asshole can see exactly how he kisses you. slow, deep, passionate. your cheeks heat up, fingers clutching at his shirt as his tongue smooths over your lower lip. you let him slide his tongue into your mouth, unable to stop the whine that escapes you at the action. 

sid glances to the side when he finally pulls away, letting out an amused huff at the boy’s absence. he must’ve slipped away during the kiss.

your boyfriend’s amusement clues you in to what’s really happening. “you look like you were jealous,” you tease, reaching up to wipe a smudge of your pink gloss from below his lip. 

he shrugs, arms circling your waist again as you turn back towards the bar and your drink. “not jealous, just marking my territory.”

you snort at that, “you’re insane,” you chirp.

“hm, but you love me don’t you?” sid asks, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. 

“mmhm,” you respond, grinning as his lips find yours again. 

© oscquinn, 2025. click here for my inbox.

[acekazoo]

nhl players as textposts part ???