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nayeli (nah-yeh-lee)⎧indig. mexican⎧21⎧dilf enthusiast⎧links + rules are below the cut
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⤿ Jason Todd x fem! reader
What’s a girl supposed to do when her jacked boyfriend is covered in grease because he’s fixing his bike with his bare. fucking. hands?
Tags/CW: 18+ MDNI, p in v sex, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), creampie, doggystyle, slight mating press, fingering, oral (f!receiving), cvckdrunk reader, hair pulling, switch dynamics, pvssydrunk Jason Todd, semi!public sex
“If you don’t stop working on that bike im gonna bite you”
That makes Jason look.
Fucking finally.
He lifts his head slowly, helmet thrown somewhere you can’t even begin to care for, grease smeared along his knuckles and the edge of his jaw. There’s a pause—long enough that you think maybe he didn’t hear you, long enough for the hum of the massive Batcycle he drives to fill the garage again.
Then his mouth twitches, right at the corner where his scar begins.
“Y’know,” he says, straightening just enough to roll his shoulders, “most people threaten me with guns.”
His eyes flick to you—sharp, assessing, amused in that dangerous way that makes your stomach dip. He wipes his hands on a rag, not breaking eye contact and walks towards you in slow strides.
“But sure,” he adds, stepping closer, boots heavy against the concrete. “Biting. That’s totally new.”
You’re suddenly very aware of how close he is. Of the heat coming off him. The way his triceps flex when he throws the towel to the direction of the bike, the veins on his forearms pumping with each movement. The fact that he’s still half in work mode—leather jacket open, sleeves pushed up, forearms tense, smelling like motor oil and something so unmistakably him — you’d be crazy not to try to demand his attention. Especially when you’ve done nothing but stare at him for a good amount of, what, forty five minutes now?
“I’m threatening you with a good time, actually.”
Oh that line? Yeah, that usually earns you consequences.
He tilts his head at you like a puppy. “You gonna follow through,” he murmurs, “or is that just trash talk?”
There’s a challenge in it. Not loud. Not cocky. Jason is too soft—despite his massive, enormous muscles—to let himself be cocky with you, but he always indulges you with some sass.
Jason stops a half-step away from you. Close enough that the space between your bodies feels intentional, like he measured it. Close enough that the air shifts—hot, metallic, thick with oil and ozone and the faint bite of gunpowder that never really leaves him. Your fingers trap his chin between them, forcing his jaw to your eye level and you hate it— but you bite your lower lip so hard you feel your skin tingle.
The garage hums around you. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, one of them flickering just slightly. The Batcycle ticks as it cools, metal settling, protesting. Gotham presses in from outside—sirens somewhere far off, rain threatening but not yet falling.
Jason’s gaze drops. Not all the way. Just enough to register your mouth. The pause is fraction-of-a-second small, but you feel it anyway. He stills after, jaw tightening like he caught himself mid-mistake.
“What is it?” He asks, quirking an eyebrow up instinctively.
And you can’t help it— your hand comes to slap against his ass so you can make him jump a tad closer to you. Because, really, how can you even be expected to behave yourself while watching him screw nails with his fingers instead of screwdrivers? Thinking how he could be using his fingers instead to toy with your clit; one big, plushy thumb coiling tight circles on you while he fucks you with his middle finger instead of working on that stupid bike.
How can you be prompted to ignore how absolute snug his leather jacket fits, ready to burst at the seams when his bulky shoulders threaten to make it explode? When he could be using the same muscle to hold you against his chest while he fucks you from behind just so he can kiss you?
“Jesus—” His hand comes up on instinct, gripping your wrist, not to stop you, just grounding himself. His thumb presses into your pulse as your mouth already has found his “Someone’s horny.”
For a long moment, you let your lips brush his, your teeth softly grazing between your mouths When he finally manages to take a deeper breath though, you pounce, biting his lip into your mouth. And instead of hissing, Jason draws you even closer, his hips slamming against yours through your clothes.
“Your fault.” you whisper against his mouth.
He lets out a sharp laugh that dies halfway in his chest, but he’s smiling. Wide and unguarded. The kind you only get when he’s forgotten to keep the walls up. Not that he usually has his guards up when you’re around.
His hands come alive then—one sliding up your side, fingers splaying like he needs the contact, the other tangling briefly in your hair before he remembers himself and settles, sweetly for your shoulder instead. The kiss turns sloppy fast, uncoordinated, mouths chasing each other, teeth knocking, breath shared and uneven.
Your intent is to kiss him silly, until both of your chins are absolutely coated in drool, and you absolutely manage to deliver.
The bike behind him gives an irritated whine as one of the screwdrivers he rested on the seat falls to the ground, like it’s been personally offended.
Jason breaks the kiss just long enough to glance back at it, then at you—eyes dark, pupils blown, lips red and swollen.
“…Guess the bike can wait,” he says.
Jason’s gaze flicks to your mouth again—this time he doesn’t stop himself at all. Doesn’t hide it. His breath shifts, deeper now, slower, like he’s trying to steady something that’s already tipped. He wants you so bad when you’re set on freaking him out, it would be insane to try and fight it.
“Fuck—” he starts, then exhales through his nose, frustrated. “If you’re gonna—”
He doesn’t finish that either.
You close the distance for him.
It’s barely anything—just enough that your breath brushes his cheek, your chest almost touching his. You feel him go still again, like a loaded weapon set on a table. Waiting.
“Stop talking Jay,” you whisper. “I need you naked right now or I'm gonna explode!”
For a heartbeat, he just looks at you. Really looks. Like he’s weighing the risk. Like he knows exactly how badly this could end— someone walking in on you, you are in belfry after all— and he’s choosing it anyway.
Then his hand slides from your wrist to your jaw.
He cups your face with a care that doesn’t match his size at all, thumb resting just under your cheekbone. He hesitates there—one last pause, one last chance to pull away.
He doesn’t take it. Of course.
The kiss he gives you is slow. Hungry, but not rushed to its core. Jason leans in like he’s testing the ground beneath his feet, lips brushing yours first, barely there, a question more than an answer. When you don’t pull back, when you lean in too, shoulders dropping like you're melting in his touch, he exhales against your mouth and deepens it.
Warm. Firm. Careful in a way that feels almost dangerous.
His thumb shifts, tilting your chin up, keeping the angle just right.
The kiss breaks for a fraction of a second, just long enough for him to catch his breath, his forehead resting against yours. "Naked, huh?" he rumbles, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that you feel in your own chest. You take it upon yourself to kiss the rough pad of his thumb, the coarse skin on the inside of his palm and then, even more carefully, the inside of his wrist "You have any idea how much gear I'm wearing? It’s a process."
He doesn't wait for an answer. His hands move from your jaw to your waist, his large palms spanning nearly the whole width of you. In one fluid, effortless motion, he hoists you up, seating you on the edge of the metal workbench.
The cold bite of the steel against your thighs is a sharp contrast to his body heat. Tools rattle behind you—wrenches and screwdrivers clattering as you’re shoved back into his workspace. Jason crowds into the space between your knees, his heavy boots locking you in.
"You're gonna get grease on your clothes," he warns, teasingly, though he’s already reaching for the hem of your shirt, his eyes dark with a hunger that says he couldn't care less if the whole place burned down around you.
"That’s even hotter," you breathe, tugging at his leather jacket, pulling it off his shoulders.
He lets out a rough, truncated sound—halfway between a laugh and a growl—and dives back in, his mouth finding the sensitive dip of your neck while his grease stained fingers fumble with the buttons of your pants. When his palms finally make contact with your bare skin, the heat is staggering.
He breaks the kiss just enough to strip off his leather jacket completely, throwing it blindly over the Batcycle. He looks like a storm—hair mussed, eyes dark and blown out until the blue is just a thin, electrified ring around his pupils.
You're just a puddle for him really.
"You being in civilians tonight was supposed to be for easy access?" he laughs, his voice vibrating deep in his chest, you hum in response, casting kisses everywhere around his mouth. "Unfair."
“Unfair?” You tilt your head back as his mouth migrates to your jawline, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. “I think it’s a tactical advantage, Jay. You’re the one who’s over-prepared.”
Jason huffs a breath against your skin, a dry, jagged sound as he kisses your earlobe. “Tactical advantage,” he repeats, the words vibrating against your throat. “Yeah. I’ll show you a tactical advantage.”
He reaches back without looking, his large hand sweeping a row of heavy sockets and a torque wrench off the bench. They hit the concrete floor with a series of loud, metallic clangs that echo through the rafters, but Jason doesn't even blink. He uses the cleared space to lean over you, his weight pressing you back into the cold steel until you’re lying flat, your legs naturally hooking around his waist to keep from sliding.
The contrast is dizzying—the freezing metal against your spine and the scorching, solid bulk of him pinning you down.
“You’re gonna be covered in grease,” he mutters again, but this time it’s not a warning—it’s a promise. His hands, rough and calloused, slide under the hem of your sports bra. The moment his palms hit your ribs, you gasp. His skin is searing, and the faint scent of motor oil on him feels strangely right in the middle of this chaos.
He doesn't waste time. With a strength that feels effortless, he tugs the fabric up and over your head, tossing it somewhere toward the darkness of the rafters. His eyes rake over you, dark and possessive, before he drops his head to the valley of your chest, his stubble grazing your skin.
“Jason—” you breathe, your fingers tangling in the buzzed hair at the nape of his neck.
“I got you,” he murmurs, his voice dropping into that gravelly register that always makes your toes curl. “Stay right here.”
He pulls back just enough to deal with his own gear. The heavy tactical belt hits the floor with a dull thud, followed by the metallic clack of his holsters. He moves with a frantic sort of efficiency, his movements sharp and hungry. When he finally shoves his shirt off, the flickering fluorescent light overhead catches the map of his body—the jagged lines of scars, the heavy swell of his chest, and the sheer, intimidating breadth of him.
He looks like a wrecking ball in human form, and he’s looking at you with so much tenderness, like he’s more than eager for you to let him do anything to you.
He crowds back into your space, his bare chest slick with a light sheen of sweat as it meets yours. The friction is obliterating—your nipples drag along his chest and for all that’s worth it, you suppress the moan that threatens to spill over. He hooks his hands under your thighs, dragging you to the very edge of the workbench until your hips meet his.
“Now,” he pants, his forehead dropping against yours, his nose brushing yours in the dark. “About that biting threat.”
Jason captures your lower lip between his teeth, pulling just hard enough to make you whine, before his mouth devours yours again. This time, there’s no hesitation. It’s all teeth and tongues fighting and the heavy weight of him trapping you on your spot.
“Yeah?”
“Let’s see.”
One of his hands stays anchored on your hip, his thumb digging into the dip of your waist to hold you still, while the other slides down, shimmying underneath the band of your cotton panties. His fingers, calloused, scarred, tap their way over your mound, teasing just slightly when he feels the hood of your clit on his pads. His whole hand cups you under your underwear, middle finger circling a tight circle at the sopping entrance of your pussy.
When his thumb finds your clit, the contact is electric—a blunt, heavy pressure that makes your back arch off the cold metal.
“Wet already?”
“Forty-five minutes of staring at you screw nails with your hand baby,” you rumbles, his voice dropping into a low, satisfied vibration against your throat. “I almost bust a nut at the sight.”
And fuck, Jason loves what he hears. He loves when you talk so dirty to him.
His thumb hooks under the edge of your panties, dragging the fabric down just enough to get it out of his way, his palm never losing contact with your skin. He’s being so very delicate; Jason always does delicate even when he’s this far gone. He’s being thorough, his fingers slicking with your heat as he maps out exactly how much you want him, teasing the tip of his finger at your entrance ever so occasionally, until your pussy pulses around nothing but thin air.
Your breath hitches, a sharp, broken sound that echoes off the metal cabinets.
Jason is pinning you down, though while his fingers do their work, his heavy thighs forcing yours wider until you’re completely open to him.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs. It’s not a question. He can feel the fine tremors running through your thighs, the way your muscles jump under his touch.
He leans down, his mouth finding the sensitive curve where your neck meets your shoulder, and he bites—not hard enough to break skin, but enough to leave a mark. He mirrors the threat you gave him earlier, his teeth grazing over your pulse point, trailing down a biting path on his way to one of your nipples, until you’re whimpering his name.
“If you hadn’t responded to my biting threat I would have dropped to my knees and I'd be begging you to put your cock in my mouth.”
“You wanted my attention this badly?” He pulls back just an inch, his eyes dark, hooding with a dangerous kind of intent. “You’ve got it. All of it.”
He slides two fingers inside you with such blunt pressure that makes your hips jerk upward, seeking more. He’s steady, his rhythm slow and torturous, his thumb never leaving your clit from the moment he finds it, grinding in tight, heavy circles that make your vision go blurry at the edges.
All the while he keeps kissing between your hardened nipples like a man starved.
The garage feels like it’s shrinking; the image of you, on your knees, begging for his cock is enough of a mind game to make him so painfully hard, that he feels his cock throbbing inside his pants. Instead of acting on it though, he’s watching you, his jaw tight, his own breathing coming in jagged, heavy pulls as he watches your face come apart under his hand.
“Jason, please,” you gasp, your fingers digging into the hard muscle of his forearms, trying to pull him closer, trying to bridge the last bit of distance.
He lets out a sharp, ragged breath, his forehead dropping against yours again. “Not yet,” he grunts, his fingers curling deeper, hitting a spot that makes your entire body go taut. “I want to see you come on this table before I even think about getting these pants off.”
He increases the pace, his hand moving with almost mechanical precision. And it’s pointless to try to hold it in, he knows every spot that makes you gasp and moan, anyway. Knows when to slow down the pace, or pick it up again. And fuck, he knows that had it been any other day, you would already be pushing his head between your thighs, urging him to suck your clit between his lips.
But the sound your pussy makes for just his fingers tonight?—the wet, rhythmic friction as he fucks them into you—is drowned out only by the blood rushing in his ears and the needy sounds coming from the back of your throat.
Your breath is hitching in short, desperate stabs, your hips stuttering against his hand as the tension coils into a tight, screaming knot in your lower belly, your pussy pulses around his fingers like a vice and then—
Then, abruptly, he stops.
The sudden absence of his touch is like a physical blow beneath the belt. You let out a broken, frustrated sound, your eyes snapping open to find him hovering over you. He’s shaking like you did moments before—not just his hands, but his whole frame. The cool composure he usually wears like armor has completely shattered. His teeth are bared, his jaw worked so tight you can see the muscle jumping in his cheek.
"Jason—" you gasp, reaching for him, your fingers clawing at the hard muscle of his shoulders. "Don't stop. Please."
"I can't," he rasps, his voice a raw, jagged mess, as his eyes betray his exact words, lowering to where his fingers are toying with your slit. "Fuuuck—I can't just watch you. I’m gonna lose my goddamn mind baby.”
He pushes back from the bench just far enough to deal with the rest of his gear, his movements frantic, almost violent in their urgency. His heavy tactical pants and boxers are shoved down and discarded, hitting the concrete with a heavy thud of fabric and metal buckles.
His cock, free of any restraints and oozing in pre-cum, slaps heavy on his stomach.
When he moves back into your space, he doesn’t wait. He can't. He grabs your thighs, his grip bruisingly firm as he hitches your legs even higher over his shoulders, opening you up completely to the dim light of the garage.
He’s huge, intimidating in size, even, and pulsing with a heat that feels like it could melt the steel beneath you. He settles between your knees, the head of his cock catching against your entrance, slicking itself in and along the mess he already made with his fingers.
"Babe, look at me," he pleads, his voice dropping into a guttural growl. “How do you want it?”
You force your eyes to meet his. “Jason, if you don’t break my back with the meanest backshots right now, I swear to fucking god—”
He stops. The calculation in his eyes dies right then and there, replaced by something dark, jagged, and entirely unhinged.
"Screw this," he rasps, the words catching in his throat.
He doesn't just pull his hand away; he drags you off the edge of the workbench. Your feet hit the concrete for only a split second before he’s spinning you around. He shoves you back down, chest-first this time, your palms skidding across the cold steel of the table. The metal bites into your skin, but you’re barely aware of it because Jason is right there like a wall of scorching heat pressing right into your spine.
He kisses your shoulder, the nape of your neck and trails a series of sloppy pecks down your back, his tongue darting out on every single spot, until he reaches your ass. His broad hands spread you open and you arch onto him, moaning in the brattiest tone you can muster, just to urge him.
It only earns you a hard slap on the ass.
"Stay. Right. There," he whispers, his voice a warning and a plea all at once as he darts out his tongue to lick a clean stripe across your pussy, eager to catch the bead of slick that had been threatening to drip down your thighs.
You gulp in utter heat when he moans at the taste, but before you can arch your back further against his face, you feel him get up from behind you.
Jason’s hands return to you with vengeance. He hooks his fingers deep into the soft flesh of your hips, his grip so bruisingly firm it anchors you to the spot and you eel the throbbing tip of his cock pressing against your pulsing pussy. He’s trembling, you’re trembling and you just can’t take it anymore. You just want to cum on his cock for fuck’s sake.
"You want 'mean'?" he rasps, his voice a low rumble right against your ear as his thumbs tug your soaking folds open. "Fine by me.."
He lunges forward, burying himself inside you in one deep, staggering surge.
All air leaves your lungs in a broken, high-pitched cry. He bottoms out instantly, the sheer force of the impact sending a shockwave through your body that makes your elbows buckle against the steel. You barely have time to register the fullness before he’s pulling back—only to drive back in even harder.
He starts with brutal, almost mechanical rhythm. Clack. Clack. Clack. The sound of his heavy boots scuffing the concrete and the rhythmic thud of his hips hitting yours echoes off the rafters. The workbench, heavy-duty as it is, begins to protest. It groans, sliding an inch, then two, across the floor as Jason pours every ounce of him into every hit.
"Jason—!" you sob, your fingers scrambling for purchase on the surface underneath you, knocking over a tray of copper washers that scatter like metallic rain.
"Fuck— you’re so fucking tight, so wet,” he moans, his voice thick with unhinged hunger. “Perfect fucking pussy baby.”
He reaches forward, one hand leaving your hip to coil into the hair at the base of your skull, tugging your head back. He wants to see the way your eyes roll back, the way your mouth hangs open in a silent scream. "I was just... trying to work… And you’ve only been thinking about my dick."
“Yeah, yeah i have. And i still want it in my mouth Jay.”
The workbench screeches against the concrete, harsh and metallic as Jason’s weight and momentum force it back another few inches. He doesn't care about the floor, the tools, or the damage to the shop. He’s focused entirely on the way you’re taking him, on how your pussy squelches and floods around him, on the way your body is being jolted forward with every rhythmic, punishing hit of his hips, every yelp you let out that comes from the back of your throat.
"You want it in your mouth?" he rasps, his voice jagged, unadulterated. He leans down, his chest crushing against your back, his sweat-slicked skin sticking to yours. "Greedy. You’re so fucking greedy."
He doesn't stop. If anything, the pace turns more brutal. He’s delivering on every bit of your 'break my back' request, his hips slamming into yours with a sound like a physical collision. Plop, plop, plop. Every backshot is calculated to bottom out, one gradually harder, faster than the other..
He’s hitting you so bone-deep that your vision is going hazy at the edges, your forehead bumping against the cold steel of the bench with every fuck of his cock into you from behind.
“Please, Jay—please—”
“Please what sweetheart?” he whines, his voice dropping into a guttural, dark register.
He adjusts his grip, both hands now bracketing your waist, his thumbs digging into the soft skin of your belly to anchor you as he pulls back nearly all the way—before slamming home again. “You want me to stop? Or you want me to finish what you started?”
He doesn’t give you time to answer. He’s a storm of muscle and heat behind you, his breathing coming in jagged, desperate hitches. Every time he bottoms out, you feel the vibration of it even in your teeth. Your pussy slick, a swollen mess working around him, begging for the release that’s coiling tighter and tighter in your gut.
“I’m gonna cum.”
“Yeah baby, come on my cock,” Jason kisses the back of your neck “just like you wanted.”
Jason lets out a sound that’s close to a groan, his fingers bruising your hips as he delivers three final, punishing thrusts—each one deeper, meaner, until he’s buried to the hilt. He stalls there, his entire frame going rigid, a choked-off shout tearing from his throat as he finally spills into you, his weight collapsing onto your back.
The garage is silent for a heartbeat, save for the hum of the lights and your shared, ragged gasps. Then, Jason pulls out with a wet, lingering sound of ‘plop’ that makes you whimper, the sudden loss of him feeling just a little overbearing right now.
Before you can even try to catch your breath, his hands are under your armpits, hauling you up and spinning you around. He doesn’t let your feet touch the ground; he just hitches your thighs over his shoulders and settles himself between your knees, his length still hard, still weeping, and looking absolutely lethal under the flickering fluorescent light.
He looks wrecked. His hair is a mess, his eyes are blown out to black, and he’s looking at your mouth with a terrifying sort of focus.
“You said you wanted it,” he rasps, his hand coming up to cup your jaw, his thumb dragging across your bottom lip to pull it down. “Show me.”
He doesn't wait. He crowds into you, his leaking tip pressing against your lips while you’re literally folded in half. He watches you, his jaw tight, waiting for you to wrap your tongue around his pulsing cock.
He reaches out, his thumb catching a stray tear on your cheek before sliding down to trace your lower lip—the one he’d bitten earlier. It’s swollen, pulsing, and parted as you pant for air.
"You said you wanted it," he rumbles, his gaze dropping to your mouth. He isn't asking, like he usually does; he’s giving you exactly what you literally begged for.
Jason looks down at you, his hand coming up to cup the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair once more—not to pull, but to guide.
"Well?" he murmurs, a new challenge sparking in those blue eyes. "I'm not gonna be the only one who's distracted. I want you thinking about the taste of us all fucking day."
~All rights reserved: @/strawberry-nugget, 2026. Please do not copy, over write or steal my work.
A/N: if you liked this just know this is GK!Jason, give than man some love UGH I love him.
Likes and reblogs are so appreciated but comments are the fuel my heart needs to keep pumping fics like this
Taglist: @starfiremylove @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @fanggq @cassiecasluciluce @tigerf-cker @cowboysaveme @osclerc @whosmev @mochiclouds @vanillacici @outpostsworld @deadbeatphobos
Dividers by: @/cursed-carmine
thinking about jack abbot taking care of you after a night out with your friends…
Your numb cheek rests against the cold porcelain of the toilet seat while your arm hangs over the bowl, an act that would usually disgust you—if you were sober.
Right now, you can barely open your eyes, and your head is wildly spinning. Your body feels heavy, as if some unseen puppet master is pulling your limbs in every direction.
Your mascara and lipstick are smeared, and the glittery eyeshadow you applied before leaving is now a mess around your eyes.
The short black dress you chose to wear has ridden up high around your thighs, exposing your lacy panties, and you can’t even find it in yourself to care.
You’re too focused on the sensation of your blood pulsing through your veins and your heart beating in your chest.
Your eyes lazily close for a moment, the cool porcelain feeling refreshing against your warm face, before they flutter open when you hear the familiar sound of the front door opening.
You can hear the heavy, familiar footsteps approaching the bathroom, where the rather pathetic scene is unfolding.
“Rough night?” Jack’s voice flows smoothly into your ears.
You close your eyes lightly. “Mhm,” you hum in agreement. “How’d you know I was in here?”
“Lucky guess,” he replies, shifting slightly on his feet.
With your eyes still closed, you smile before finally opening them wide enough to take him in.
His go-bag is still slung over his shoulder; his dark scrubs are now wrinkled, with his stethoscope hanging from his pocket, and his curls are tousled.
“You just got off,” you mumble, a hint of disappointment in your tone.
His eyes widen in understanding for a moment, and he raises his hands to signal you to calm down. “It’s okay,” he began, already noticing you withdrawing into yourself.
You sit up, your head spinning and wobbling as you shake it, struggling to focus your bleary eyes that dart around the harshly lit room, trying to avoid his gaze entirely. “I’m a horrible girlfriend,” you mumble, your voice thick and slurred.
“No—” he starts, his voice steady and calm. He drops his go-bag to the ground with a soft thud, the sound fading into the haze of your thoughts, and moves closer to you, concern etched across his face.
He moves to sit next to you in the crowded space, resting your head in his lap despite your groans of displeasure. His fingers gently run through your hair, brushing against your scalp.
For a moment, you close your eyes, but then you look up at him and see the warmth in his eyes. It only makes you feel worse, stirring up a mix of guilt and shame that clings to you like honey to a spoon.
You let out a deep sigh and pick up your hand to fiddle with his hospital badge. "You just spent the whole night saving people and seeing traumatic things, and now you come home to relax, only to have to take care of your hot, drunk girlfriend," you mumble, your words slurring as you almost pout. Your serious tone brings a smile to Jack's face.
His lips curl into a playful grin as his fingers continue running through your hair. "Appreciate you adding the hot part," he says.
"You're welcome," you mutter, your frown gradually transforming into a slight smile as you continue to fidget with the plastic ID badge.
“Oh, there’s my pretty girl,” he beams, watching you smile, his eyes filled with admiration and warmth as they lock onto yours.
You briefly meet his gaze before looking back down at your fingers. “You better not do this with all your patients, baby,” you tease, feeling your eyes start to close as his fingers massage your scalp.
“Oh, no. Not all of them,” he assures you, tilting his head. “Just the pretty ones.”
You blink awake, a reluctant smile tugging at your lips. "You better be joking," you murmur, your voice tangled with exhaustion and drunkenness.
He tilts his head back and laughs, resting it against the glass panel of the shower.
A gentle quiet unfurls between you, broken only by the rhythmic whisper of his fingers weaving through your hair and your own occasional, unsteady sniffle.
"I'm a mess, Jack," you whisper, breaking the silence.
Jack almost misses it, but he bends down, pressing a lingering kiss to the crown of your head. "Yeah, but you're my mess. There's a difference," he murmurs, his breath warm against your scalp.
You roll over, tilting your head so your gaze meets his without obstruction. “I really like you,” you admit, the words tumbling out, soft and a little shaky.
“I’d hope so. We do live together,” he teases, a crooked grin playing at his lips, the corners of his eyes creasing with warmth.
You study the curve of his jaw, the way the bathroom light halos his features. “You’re really pretty,” you breathe, as if it’s a secret you’ve just discovered.
“Makes two of us,” he murmurs, thumb gently tracing your swollen bottom lip. His gaze lingers on your glassy eyes; soft, concerned, clinical. “Let me get you some water, sweetheart. Need to hydrate.”
You shake your head, stubbornness flickering in your eyes. “No. Don’t need you to take care of me,” you insist, though your voice wavers, betraying your vulnerability.
He eases you off his lap, settling you onto the plush bathmat with care. He rises, giving you a look that's both stern and tender. “I’m getting the water. No arguments,” he says, voice gentle but resolute.
“You need sleep,” you mumble, words muffled by the bathmat, exhaustion heavy in your bones, but a small smile ghosting your lips.
He grumbles something unintelligible—half protest, half affection—as he disappears around the corner. The soft hum of the faucet drifts back, and a smile tugs at your lips, warmth blooming quietly in your chest.
He didn’t need to take care of you, sure.
But he wanted to.
Every single fucking time.
MINI AUTHOR’S NOTE: need this man more than anything ever btw
moots do this to me
Secretary, 2002
random pope moments that make me bark
abbot: er doctor. veteran. combat medic. amputee. widower. goes to therapy. fakes measurements to allow an abortion for a young girl. gives blood while actively treating patients. copes in dark humor. a yapper. talks his friend off a ledge he was just on. listens to a police scanner on his day off. volunteers to come in on his day off. makes sure people know they're doing a good job.
arms...
Too Close for Comfort
Pairing: Joel Miller x Babysitter!Reader
Summary: You’ve been babysitting Sarah Miller forever. One day, you’re surfing the web on her dad’s computer, and you find some…unusual things in his search history.
Or, Joel likes to jerk off to your lookalike on PornHub. It’s time you showed him what the real thing is like.
Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v. Oral (m!receiving). Creampie. Mommy/Daddy Roleplay (HEAR ME OUT!!) Brief boot humping. Squirting. Perv!Joel. Breeding kink.
Note: ‘Just call me if anyone else checks in…and by anyone, I mean any swingin dick’ is a line from No Country for Old Men
Word count: 12.7k
Purple slime had been Sarah’s idea.
It was an innocent thing, really. The four-year-old had practically been bouncing on the balls of her feet, eyes wide and shining with excitement when she’d begged—‘Can we pleeeeease?!’—and who were you to tell her no?
You’d only be breaking one small rule of Joel’s, after all. One silly little admonition he’d made before leaving for work the first day you’d started babysitting for him. That had been over a year ago, and he hadn’t even sounded that serious when he’d said it. He probably wouldn’t mind if you bent the rule this one time at Sarah’s behest.
‘Don’t go in the computer room, please.’
Don’t use Joel’s desktop. Don’t rifle through any of the drawers in Joel’s office—it was a mess, but everything was in its place, according to him. Just don’t go in there.
But in exchange for Sarah agreeing to take her nap that day without protest, you’d promised to order her slime.
Purple, gooey, glittery, sticky stuff for her new collection.
You weren’t sure when the fuck putty had become the plaything of choice for kids in Pre-K, but you hadn’t been in a place to judge; whatever Sarah wanted to do, so long as it was safe for her to play with, was totally fine by you.
It was just one rule.
Surely if Mr. Miller knew how badly his daughter wanted the slime, he’d be fine with you booting up his computer once. That was what you kept telling yourself, anyway.
What kept humming through your mind as the desktop came to life and you toggled straight for Google Chrome.
Be quick, be quiet, it’s fine. It’s fine.
Purple goo—it was safe. Innocent. Completely justifiable.
What could the sweet, old, forty-something and forever polite Joel Miller possibly have to hide on this machine that made it wrong for you to buy this one simple toy?
You reached for the keyboard and inhaled a quick breath.
Then you typed one letter, and your heart nearly seized.
P…
…ornhub.com
It was the very first thing that appeared in the search bar.
You couldn’t unsee it. Instinctively, your hand clamped over your mouth, and your eyes widened. You couldn’t help but read the four URLs that immediately dropped down below the first; they were just so garishly inviting.
Hot, Naughty Babysitter gets POUNDED by her Boss!
Slutty Babysitter Gets Railed from Behind and Loves It
Big Dick Boss Gives Babysitter a Passionate Raw Fuck
‘I’ve Never Done This!’ Babysitter Deepthroats Cock
“Oh…my gosh,” you said, words muffled by your palm.
You couldn’t believe what you were seeing. It was just too bizarre, too far out of character, too unlike your boss.
The man had scarcely said ten words to you altogether that didn’t relate to your job in some way or another. He rarely ever engaged in casual confab, and he certainly wasn’t the type to flirt, or make you uncomfortable in the slightest. Frankly, in all the time you’d been babysitting, you always thought you were just…invisible to Joel Miller.
Not this. Never this.
You were still staring at the screen when you realized that you’d missed one URL title from the list. It was long.
It was the most unnerving one of all, you came to see.
Babysitter Lounging Poolside in Hot Red Bikini Gets a BIG Surprise—Her Old Boss Teaches Her How to FUCK
Your hand lowered from your face. It trembled, contemplating, before coming to rest atop the mouse.
Something about this seemed familiar. Strangely…off.
You couldn’t explain it, but your head and your heart and your hand gravitated to that one odd link in particular. You hadn’t even meant to move the mouse. Or press it with your finger. But there you went, following your instincts like some dumb, brainless ditz, and then the screen was changing. Going dark with the shift to an adult site before brightening anew with the thumbnail.
It was paused on one frame. Your jaw slackened.
The girl staring back from the scene was you.
Or looked exactly, uncannily like you anyway.
It was then that you noticed what she was wearing, too—what you guessed wouldn’t be on her body for long—and you glanced down to your own shoulder. Just like your on-screen doppelgänger, you were wearing the same bikini in a bright, cherry-red hue beneath your tank top.
You wore it under your clothes damn near every day, indulging in the Millers’ backyard pool more often than not, and even being allowed to swim there on the days Sarah had summer camp—Joel had been so obliging.
So accommodating and sweet.
You never thought he’d be seeking your fucking twin online on a porn site after watching you traipse around his property wearing it. Your gut clenched; you clicked.
“Hey, sweetheart! Everything go OK?”
The voice that rumbled through the speakers was low. Male. Vaguely paternal and with a hint of a Southern lilt.
You swallowed, knowing exactly where this was going.
You weren’t sure why you were even watching when you could already predict what would become of it. The camera panned over a body identical to yours; it landed on a face that was smiling and sweet and so like your own you almost had to question whether it might not be you after all. Had you somehow forgotten this secret porn alter ego in a bout of amnesia? You kept watching.
The girl bit her bottom lip and let out the phoniest giggle.
“Yes, sir. Perfectly fine. Do you like my new bikini?”
Be so fucking serious, you thought, critically.
Then you remembered it was porn, not an Oscar-winning film. You saw the camera tilt down to her tits, and you had to admit, she had a great rack. A bit nicer than yours.
For a beat, you wondered if Joel had thought the same.
You had to batter those thoughts away, because the next second brought a big, burly hand onto the screen. It reached for the girl with her perfect, perky breasts and it kneaded them softly. No further pretense or prelude was needed—they just jumped right in and let it happen, like this was a normal thing for a babysitter and a boss to do.
Maybe in some other universe it was. In a world where a girl your age could just smile, and bat her eyes, and let them roll back gently as a whimper crossed her lips and she begged him, ‘More, daddy, more!’ this was all okay.
The man squeezed the flesh harder. She whined, and he proceeded to push the red nylon aside and expose the whole expanse of her breast—and holy shit, even the nipple looked like yours. Your mouth opened wider, and for a moment, it was like you couldn’t breathe as you watched that old, sun-kissed hand fondle the breast of a girl who looked just like you. Who was peering up at a man who sounded almost like Joel, murmuring, ‘Attagirl.’
You’d heard your boss say that once.
It had been such a silly, off-handed thing that you doubted he even remembered saying it. But one time, you’d struggled to open the passenger door to his truck before he drove you home. Once you’d narrowly managed to pry it open and slide into your seat, he’d laughed and rumbled: ‘Attagirl.’ Your face had warmed.
Just like your cheeks were doing now, all hot and bothered and desperate to hear more. Presently, the man slid the top off of the girl’s chest, and her breasts hung freely. You could hear him groan behind the camera at the sight, and not too long after that, before he could reach to touch her tits again, she was crawling on her knees toward him. Shuffling easily and expertly across the lawn chair and undoing the belt, button, and zip of his pants in a matter of seconds. A hand smoothed over her head, and you could see her preen beneath his touch.
Before she’d even wrapped her lips around his cock, your stomach was churning. Your fingers were stirring from the mouse and moving gently—again, of their own volition, it seemed—toward the waistband of your own bottoms. It was sick, admittedly. So wrong to be wanting to touch yourself to the very same video your boss had indulged in himself, in the very same chair he had done the deed. But you couldn’t help it. Your fingers slipped under the the fabric of your shorts, then your bikini, then your throat let out the tiniest noise upon seeing a cock appear on-screen. It was abnormally large, of course.
Silently, you wondered if Joel’s might not look the same. Your stomach flipped as soon as the girl took it in her mouth, and your index and middle fingers landed on your clit. You barely needed to touch to feel a jolt of pleasure.
Her head bobbed up and down. You felt powerless to do anything else but rub. And circle. And moan the slightest bit when you saw her coat his length with her shiny spit.
You heard that your noises mirrored hers. You didn’t care. Really, it felt as though you were in a trance, and you couldn’t stop watching, or touching, until you’d had your fill. Like Mr. Miller had done himself. It was all too much.
Before you even realized it, five minutes had passed, the man and woman on-screen were shifting from oral to raw, penetrative sex, and you were nearing your peak. Right before the cock that had been lodged down the girl’s throat could slide into her wet, glistening cunt, you felt your stomach lurch. You rubbed harder, watching the fat and leaking tip of the man’s cock tease through her folds, and just as he was about to slide in and you could finally find your release…a door banged open downstairs.
You almost screamed.
As quickly as you could, you yanked your hand out of your pants and clicked out of that browser even faster. The second you heard footfalls on the steps, you scampered out of there. Half-sprinting, half-tip-toeing down the hall and toward the bathroom, before halting at the door. You made your presence known with one light stomp of your foot, pretending to be turning and walking out, and as soon as you did, Joel was right there. Staring.
Sweating.
Scrubbing at his face with one weary hand, before taking a rag and wiping it through his beard. He sighed heavily.
“Long day?” you chirped while trying to mask the panic.
“Like you wouldn’t believe,” Joel answered, voice wan, “How’s my little terror? Asleep? She give ya any trouble?”
Just asked me to buy her a toy online and inadvertently led me to find your internet Spank Bank archives full of women who look like me. Other than that, it was fine.
“I put her down about an hour ago. She was great.”
You forced a smile, and Joel seemed to believe it.
“Perfect. Need me to give you a ride home?”
“No, no, you should stay here with Sar—”
“‘S’alright. Tommy’s right downstairs.”
Of course he’d brought him home.
“No, really, I can walk. It’s fine—”
“Don’t be silly. C’mon, kiddo.”
Kiddo.
Kiddo.
The man had been jerking off to the thought of you for who knows how long, and now he called you ‘kiddo’?
You hated how arousing the nickname sounded from him
You despised yourself for rubbing your clit in his office.
Most of all, you loathed the way your panties had gotten wet the last time you’d climbed into his truck and heard that word crawl off of his old, drawling tongue: ‘Attagirl.’
Reluctantly, you nodded your head. You followed him downstairs and hoped the car door wouldn’t stick again.
He had to stop.
It was no longer a matter of ‘if’ but ‘when’ his dick would lead him straight off a cliff, and today, Joel was starting to think that precipice was looking extra nice. Tempting.
Almost as inviting as the divot he could see at the small of your back, glimmering with a couple hot beads of sweat under the midafternoon sun. He swallowed.
Sarah was at camp today. You’d had the time to yourself, and the weather was blistering hot, and of course, where else would you be but his backyard? He’d told you ad nauseum, ever since you started babysitting his kid, that his pool was open to you whenever you so chose to go.
Presently, Joel wished he could revoke that invitation.
Seeing how you were flipped on your stomach, body all soft and warm and splayed out on one of his deck chairs—wearing that fucking red swimsuit, of all things—Joel was left to ogle from his office window, and inside, he felt like a certified pervert. Arguably, he was. His old, worn hands had all but glided to find his mouse as soon as he’d sat down at his desk and saw you out there, and no sooner had his cursor found Chrome than his cock started to stir. He’d wanted to watch. If not you in all your bare, sun-baked glory, then surely the woman he could see getting her throat and cunt stuffed on his screen.
What the fuck was wrong with him?
Was he really that much of a gooner he couldn’t let his kid’s babysitter lounge outside without stroking his dick?
Shit. He had the bottle of lotion in one hand and the box of tissues in the other in no time at all. He ripped three free Kleenex aside and reached for his mouse once more.
He was pissed at himself. He toggled over to the Hub with a grunt, and in no time at all, had you pulled up.
Joel liked to pretend it was you, anyway.
If he couldn’t have the sweet young thing every swinging dick in this town would’ve killed to have himself, he could rub one out to a girl exactly like you. He could fantasize.
He could skip the video to 8:53 on the dot, as he always did, and he could rub himself raw. It wouldn’t take long.
He always fast-forwarded to that exact part, without fail, because she moaned like you then. He’d never forget it.
It had almost been six months since it happened, and he still remembered that sound as clear as day. You’d been hauling your backpack off the couch in the living room, having stuffed the thing full with more school supplies than you could feasibly carry, and Joel had been in the kitchen, unseen. You’d lifted the bag with effort, and once you had, you let out a soft but audible whine. You dropped the bag back down to your feet, and when you bent to try again, you’d moaned fully. It was like the stretch had made you feel good, or something. You’d huffed and managed to get the weight slung over your back with modest success, then left, but Joel had been changed. Too quickly had he retreated to his office and swore to find any clip where a moan sounded like that.
“Please! Feels like a fucking dre-e-e-e-e-eam—oh, OH!”
Granted, the dialogue was cheesy, but the sound after it was identical to the one you’d made. Joel repeated it.
He hadn’t even noticed, but he’d already lathered his hand and cock with lotion. He was scrubbing vigorously while your twin wiggled her hips and begged her co-star to put it in, to quit teasing her pussy like that, can’t you see I’m practically dripping for you, daddy? Look at it!
Unfortunately, Joel’s head was turned the other direction—away from the screen, and toward the window—watching you where you sat out on the lawn.
He stroked harder. He groaned.
You had just turned onto your back. Your tits looked incredible. Joel reckoned they’d look even better with his dick pushed up between them, and at the thought, his mouth watered. His lips were slightly parted, and he feared he might drool. What a sight he must have been then: jaw slack, lids heavy, cock in hand, and moan after moan bubbling out of his throat. He got closer to climax.
“Gonna teach ya, honey. Teach ya how to please a man.”
It wasn’t long after that that Joel heard the girl whine in pleasure—the man behind her had notched in the first inch and told her to behave—and meanwhile, he watched your chest rise and fall, rise and fall outside. It was calm. Unlike the girl being taught how to fuck poolside, you remained untouched. Spotless. Placid and serene while your hands picked up a magazine and began flipping through it. While Joel’s orgasm crested inside him, he wondered if you’d ever want to try something like that. Roleplay. Or would it be fake at all? Had you ever been touched by a man, shown the best ways to give and receive pleasure, or was it all brand new, like it was supposed to be for the woman on his screen? Joel panted, and he fucked his hand harder. He groaned.
“Oh, daddy, it’s so big! Feels so good going inside me!”
“You love gettin’ fucked by an older man, don’t you?”
“Yes, daddy, yes! Please don’t stop—oh, OHHH!”
Joel wanted to be the only older man you had.
If he wasn’t the first, he sure as fuck could be the last. Give you all the dizzying, euphoric feelings your body deserved and stretch you open gently for the taking.
He could teach you so much, ruin you for any oth—
Shit.
What the fuck was this asshole doing here?
At the back gate, he saw his neighbor Dieter.
The man strolled across the lawn, and Joel’s orgasm receded in a blink. He was walking right over to you.
No. No, no, no. Joel released his dick from its vice grip and felt the thing twitch in indignation. Meanwhile, the sound of skin on skin continued to flood his eardrums from out of the computer speakers, where the happy babysitter-boss duo was hitting a brutal pace. The girl let out one over-the-top shriek of pleasure, and Joel clicked pause. He toggled out of the browser. Then he redirected his gaze out the office window, where his own girl was being accosted by Dieter. His blood boiled with anger.
Who did this creep think he was? The man never so much as looked Joel’s way or approached his property unless it was to ask to be ‘lent’ some booze or else ask after some friend, relative, or coworker Dieter wanted to be introduced to—he was perennially unemployed and a fuckboy bachelor to his core. The last Joel had heard, he’d spent the last year in Los Angeles, or Paris, or some other too-big city to chase his singing and acting dreams
And here he was now, hitting on his poor, defenseless babysitter. Joel wouldn’t stand for that in any world.
Though his dick was still erect, it had softened some, too. His rage facilitated that, and him shoving his length back in his jeans, zipping it up, and all but punching the desktop off made it spongier still. He walked like he was mad at the floor beneath his boots. He wasn’t sure why he was feeling so defensive—he had just been rubbing one out to the sight of you less than five minutes ago—but now wasn’t the time for thinking. He had to act.
Protect, if he had to.
What if his neighbor wanted to go for a swim, too?
Joel would drown the man with his two bare hands if he so much as reached for your bikini-clad form. He stalked loudly down the hall and searched for a less sweaty shirt to wear, then some deodorant, then a comb. He peered in the bathroom mirror and saw his black-and-grey locks all out of sorts, and for a second, he contemplated taking a shower. You’d probably be able to smell his unsatisfied desire from outside. He looked, and felt, a bit unhinged.
Joel decided he didn’t care, before plodding downstairs.
Outside, you lay in the same position he’d seen you last. Your hand was shielding your face. You were smiling.
And beside you, Dieter was grinning even bigger.
Joel made a beeline down the porch steps, then across the lawn, like his life might’ve depended on it. Scowling.
“—but getting cast in Gladiator II would’ve been wild—”
Of course Dieter was yapping about his failed acting career. Of course. Joel could hear him drone on as he approached, though he didn’t register a word of what he said. Instead, he waved a hand. He feigned a calm tone:
“Dieter! How’s it going?”
And he slowed down, too.
Just as he drew in, his neighbor volleyed a look his way. Joel couldn’t miss how his smile twitched down a little.
“Joel.”
Accepting a cordial hand in greeting.
“Doing alright, how ‘bout yourself?”
Joel nodded fine, just fine and offered some offhand remark about not having seen him since last summer, and Dieter couldn’t resist the chance to puff up and mention a school he’d been attending. Joel didn’t hear it, or give a shit. His gaze was already trained on you. Your own flitted from Dieter, to Joel, then to Dieter again, and your lips were smiling kindly enough. You seem humored.
“Mr. Bravo just got back from Berlin,” you beamed.
Then Dieter met your look and shook his head.
“Dieter, sweetie, Dieter. Or Dee, if you want.”
Joel almost wanted to vomit in his mouth.
“Germany, huh? What brings you here?”
No sense in beating around the bush.
Joel meant to ask why Dieter was here, in his backyard, with his babysitter, of course. Why the fuck he was eyeing you like that, like your tits were two Emmys and the only way to earn it himself was to stare as long, and as hard, as possible. Joel cleared his throat instinctively.
Dieter blinked and cast a glance back to him.
“Oh, here. Yeah. I, um…I just wanted to see if you had that— that—” He snapped his fingers, “That leafblower.”
Leafblower?
He was so full of shit.
“My leafblower,” Joel repeated.
It was fucking July, for crying out loud.
Evidently, his neighbor didn’t seem to care. He met Joel’s gaze with an even look, and he nodded his head.
He doubled down: “Yeah, the leafblower. I’ve had some debris pile up in my yard since I’ve been gone, y’know.”
“Are you gonna be in Austin long? Or are you going back overseas once you’ve had that casting call?” you asked.
You cocked your head with genuine curiosity. Joel grit his teeth, but he tried not to let his discontent show anyplace else on his face. A muscle might’ve jumped when he saw how smugly Dieter smirked at your intrigue.
“Oh, I’ll be here long enough, don’t you worry,” he said.
That was it.
Joel gestured to the shed in the back corner of the yard, about to tell Dieter that the leafblower was in there, go knock yourself out, when his neighbor cut in once again.
“In the meantime, maybe I’ll have you babysit for me. I hate to steal Sarah’s pal, but maybe you can split your time between my place and Joel’s. What do you think?”
You blinked a little quicker, like you weren’t quite sure what to say at first. Joel took the chance to interject.
“You don’t have any kids, Bravo,” he practically growled.
“I know. I’ve got cats, though,” Dieter just grinned back, flitting a cheeky look to you. “And you have no idea how naughty those pussycats can get while a man’s away.”
That was really all Joel could take. He didn’t even let you answer; he just pointed to the shed and made a fist with his other hand at his side. His chest was heaving breaths.
“You and her can chat when she’s off the clock, how ‘bout that? Leafblower’s in the shed. Door’s unlocked.”
His words didn’t invite protest of any kind. Dense as he was, Dieter probably sensed that he’d ticked his neighbor off with the suggestive comment to his babysitter, and he backed away, both literally and figuratively. He bid a quick, cavalier goodbye with a shit-eating grin stretching his lips, and then he went to the storage shed and left.
You were still blinking, still creasing your brows tight, by the time the back gate had slammed shut behind him. You watched after him, teeth gnawing at your cheek.
“He seemed like a funny gu—”
“What do you think you’re doin’?”
Joel’s words appeared to sting like a slap in the face. You jerked your head back to him, seeming to say, ‘What?’
“You know what. Don’t play innocent now,” Joel griped.
You continued to stare, then started to shake your head.
“Mr. Miller—”
“Don’t Mr. Miller me, either,” he snapped, far shorter than he’d ever spoken to you before. His nostrils flared, “You’re old enough to know better. You did all of that.”
“All of what?” you shot back.
“Attracted men like Dieter into my yard.”
“He’s your neighbor! What do you expect?”
Offense marred your tone. He didn’t entirely blame you.
“No, no—he never sticks his nose over here unless he sees something he wants. You were flaunting yourself.”
At that, your mouth fell open.
“Are you fucking kidding me, Miller? Are you serious?”
“Language, young lady—”
“I don’t give a shit.” You stood up from your chair. Your eyes flashed with ire. Just like his hands had before, yours curled into fists. You stood your ground with him. “You invited me to come swim here whenever I wanted to. You did that, asshole. What did you expect me to sunbathe in, army fatigues and fucking combat boots?”
Joel blinked hard at that. He didn’t like being mocked.
“Still shouldn’t be that damn skimpy. And I said lang—”
“Yeah, yeah. Thanks, dad. Don’t act like you’re mine.”
Don’t act like you’re mine.
Joel’s chest tightened. His gaze seared into yours, almost as though he were as angry as you were now, but deep down, the man only felt remorse. Resentment. Whatever rage he harbored now was reserved for himself
He shouldn’t have gone there.
He shouldn’t have masked his own jealousy with pseudo paternal scolding. He looked like a dickhead doing that.
And you weren’t shy to let him know it in the slightest.
Presently, your finger was jabbed in his face. You were planted less than two feet from where he stood, and though you were noticeably dwarfed by his size, your next words had him beat by a foot, if he’d had to guess.
“I watch your kid, Joel. I am not your daughter. If you don’t want me hanging around here in my hot red bikini, then you can just say that. But don’t blame me for him.”
Joel bristled at your words, though he wasn’t sure why. When he opened his mouth to speak again, you added:
“And don’t blame me for that, either.”
Suddenly, he realized your finger was pointed at his legs.
Or, rather, what was poking up stiff between them.
Joel’s cheeks heated up to a thousand degrees.
You’d just caught him. You’d seen his arousal.
And you were turning on your heels again.
Before Joel could even try to summon the words to his tongue, you were grabbing your things. Shoving your shoes onto your feet. And Joel had only to stand there.
Feeling stupid and inert beside you.
As you went to the back gate, he somehow managed to call that you didn’t have a car, let him drive you back.
You didn’t even dignify his words with a verbal response.
You just raised your middle finger over your shoulder.
And then the gate crashed shut behind you.
You would be walking home that day.
Two big eyes and round cheeks were all you could see.
Then, they darted beneath the covers and were gone.
“Oh no, where’d sweet Sarah go?” you wondered aloud. Sitting at the edge of the bed and pretending not to see where she’d just dipped her head under the blankets, you furrowed your brows and proceeded to pat around you.
Everywhere you felt with your hands, you completely ignored the big lump under the duvet. It was a game.
A silly one at that—hide-and-go-seek was generally best left to places where you couldn’t figure out her location in the blink of an eye. But you played along. You heard a soft giggle. You continued feeling around the twin-sized mattress like this was the most bewildering puzzle of all.
“Whe-ere’s Sarah?” you sing-songed.
You heard a shuffling of limbs, a sniffle.
Your palm tapped right by those little feet.
And as soon as you did, she screamed. At four years old, Sarah hadn’t quite mastered the art of being stealthy.
You’d cut her some slack. You always had.
Blindly passing where her body lay, you glided to the opposite side of her bed and tapped inquiringly there.
“Is she…here?” You got a pillow.
“No!” Sarah shrieked back.
Such a helpful, obliging kid. She’d make a terrible spy.
“Is she…up here?” You rapped the headboard twice.
“No!!” she squealed.
You glanced over at the clock on her nightstand. It was approaching bedtime. Taking note of this, and knowing you couldn’t keep up with the charade for much longer, you let out a sigh. You stood from the bed, looked around the room with dramatic éclat, then started to walk away.
“Okay…I guess if Sarah’s not here I’ll have to leave…”
The second you said that, Sarah threw the covers back. She jumped up in bed, and she stomped her little feet.
“No! No! I’m here! I’m here!”
You spun on your heels, eyes wide with faux surprise.
“Sarah!”
And then you rushed back over, just in time to watch her drop to the bed and flash you a wide, exuberant smile.
“Your Sarah,” she corrected.
She adored it when you called her that. Your Sarah.
You nodded your head in agreement, “My Sarah. Sorry.”
She nodded too, like she’d just reminded you of the most important thing, and then she slipped back under her covers. She let you drag the purple duvet over her frame, all the way up to her chin, and when she was all snug inside, she gave another smile. She kicked her feet again.
“Stay,” she commanded, tone still sugar-sweet.
“I will, baby. ‘Til your daddy gets back, I’ll be here.”
“I mean forever!” Sarah dragged out the last syllable, and, not yet content with the answer you’d proffered, tried swaying you again, still more emphatic, “For-ever!”
If your daddy wasn’t such an ass, I might consider it.
Instead, you smiled back at her and shook your head. You smoothed the hair away from her face, then you leaned in and kissed her forehead with a gentle peck.
“Then my family would miss me. I gotta see them.”
“Says who?” Sarah’s pout was unmistakable.
Before you could reply, she cut in again.
“You can be my family. My mommy.”
Your throat constricted at those words. You weren’t sure what to say, or how to assuage your sweet Sarah then.
Again, you were about to open your mouth to speak, when your pint-sized companion piped up again. This time, her voice was softer. Surprisingly delicate and low.
“I want you to be my mommy,” she told you quietly, “Then you’ll live here. With me and daddy. And you’ll never have to go home again and we can play all day!”
Your heart ached. You kissed the tip of her nose and turned away, momentarily, to hide the hurt on your face.
Sarah Miller deserved much more in a mother than you.
When you looked up again, her grin was big. Hopeful.
“Don’t you wanna be my mommy too?” she asked.
“‘Course I do, baby,” you answered without hesitation, “But…don’t you think your daddy should have a say too?”
Somehow, her face got even brighter.
“He will! He— he…”
Sarah trailed off a second, as if considering her words. She didn’t understand what marriage meant. You’d help.
“Your daddy,” you finished for her, speaking slow and soft as you leaned in close, “is a good man who deserves a good woman to make your mommy. Don’t you agree?”
She bit the inside of her cheek.
“Yeah, but—”
“And a mommy’s gotta be someone he really loves.”
“But he…”
She was thinking again. You could tell. You pressed on.
“He is gonna find someone great someday. He’ll love you and her to bits, and y’all will get to play together all day.”
“But he loves you!” Sarah cried, at length.
A beat.
Your breath faltered.
The girl’s words had scarcely hung in the air for more than two seconds, and their meaning hardly registered in your brain before your own were coming out fast. Certain
“Your daddy doesn’t love me, baby. I’m just his friend.”
“Yes, he does! He told me so himself!”
Again, you shook your head.
“You misunderstood him, sweetie.”
You tried to smooth her hair back again, but Sarah’s head bucked away. She scrunched up her nose in clear protest and refused to let you cradle her face until she’d spoken her piece. When she did, her voice was pleading all over:
“Daddy loves you, he told me. You can be my mommy.”
And for what seemed like the hundredth time that night, you felt your heart balloon in your chest. Your gut clenched—but not for the reasons she or you wanted it to. The truth was that you didn’t have the words to tell a four-year-old girl that her father didn’t love you like that at all, that his head and his heart were anywhere but with you, and that, if you were being honest, you were furious with him. How he could so much as hint at such nonsense was beyond you. His little girl dreamed of having a mother. It was stupid and senseless and cruel to even suggest that that woman could be you. You sighed.
But, despite your every thought and feeling to the contrary, you knew you had to soothe the girl with some small semblance of hope. Something to hold her over for the night, so she didn’t cry herself to sleep thinking that you didn’t want to be her mommy. Gently, you leaned in.
You lifted the covers back up from where they’d fallen. You tucked them snug around her torso, and you paused.
Your tone was measured and soft when you spoke next:
“I don’t know about your daddy, baby. What I do know is that I would be the luckiest lady alive to get to be your mommy, alright? I’m not going anywhere, I promise.”
And you meant it. You saw one look light up her face, and every ounce of anger that had been provoked by her father was forgotten in an instant. Her grin ensured it.
“Anywhere,” she parroted back.
“Anywhere,” you said, again.
Then you kissed the crown of her head, wished her sweet dreams, cut the little light off. You left the room quietly.
It was only when you were out of there and far enough away down the hallway that your skin started to burn.
You couldn’t help it. Anger was fast to trickle back.
This feeling was only compounded when the next moment brought a sound to the landing on the stairs. You glanced over down the hall, muscles all tensing at once, and when you saw him there, it was as though your rage just bubbled over. Your jaw clenched; your stomach flipped in a way so decidedly unlike how it had done for him two days ago, in his office, and suddenly, your throat was working again. You kept your voice low this time, keen not to draw Sarah’s attention out there, but the words you used were clear. Quiet. Doubtlessly effective.
Even in the dark, you saw his brows jump when he heard:
“Joel, we need to talk.”
It had been two years since he’d had a woman in here.
Joel wished it were under any circumstances but these.
Presently, your eyes were ablaze. The two of you had just stepped into his room and shut the door behind you, and with the click of a latch, you hadn’t thought to hold it in:
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
He blinked.
Well, many things.
Joel wouldn’t have had the space to explain it all if you’d given him a week, and still, he had to say something. He blinked again, made a sound in his throat as if to clear it, then shook his head. His shoulders sagged in his jacket.
“I…I’m sorry.”
For the other day. For getting caught up in his own anger and taking it out on you. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was apologizing for now, or what he should say, but he thought it best to start there. He shrugged his jacket off and set it over the back of the nearest chair. He turned to you again, where you were standing with a warning look.
“Don’t say sorry to me,” you said. “Say sorry to Sarah.”
Sarah?
Before he could speak, you went on.
“You’re just setting her up for heartbreak, you know that? I mean how selfish— how stupid could you possibly be?”
You pursed your lips like tears might threaten if you didn’t. This caught him off guard—his daughter? What could he have said or done to hurt her in any of this?
“What are you talking about?”
“You said I’d be her mom, Joel!”
He winced. You furrowed your brows and set your mouth in a line—really trying to fight the emotion behind it—and, while all the rest of you bristled in anticipation for what was to come, Joel softened. He didn’t mean to. He didn’t want to be the guy who lost his head at the thought of seeing you cry and forget the whole reason you were upset with him in the first place, but he couldn’t help it. Though you looked like you wanted to kill him right then, Joel drew closer. He shifted toward you.
“Did— did she, uh…call you…mommy?” he said, pained.
“Yeah. And you let her believe she could,” you spat.
He hadn’t meant to do that, either. Sarah had been calling you that for a while when you weren’t around to hear, and after enough times telling her otherwise, he’d just stopped correcting her on it. Sarah wanted a mother. You were the closest thing she had, and who was he to sabotage that? At the time, he’d just wanted to…pretend.
That was a running theme he had going with you.
Right now, you didn’t seem to care about that.
You just rolled your eyes in that cool, juvenile way when you didn’t hear a response from him, and he had to bite his tongue from saying something worse. He hated when you did that. It made him remember your age—the reality of you being his kid’s babysitter and how guilty he should feel for wanting to do something more about that eyeroll.
He wasn’t your father.
You weren’t Sarah’s mother, either.
You most certainly weren’t the girl on his computer screen, as much as he would’ve liked to see you that way, and even though you were standing here in his bedroom.
That was all fantasy. Make-believe. This was his reality.
You were visibly pissed and wouldn’t budge an inch.
“Is it really so bad if she says it?” he grit out.
Your eyes widened. You scoffed.
“Of course it is, Joel!”
You backed away.
He hated seeing that, too. He hated having you move from him, not toward him, wearing that scowl on your lips as you did. His fingers twitched—itched—at his side.
“Sarah’s young. She doesn’t…mean anything by it. She’ll grow out of it soon enough. And I don’t want to hurt her.”
“You’ll hurt her even worse by not telling her the truth!” you snapped. You sounded exasperated saying it now. “We’re not a family. I’m the goddamn babysitter, and— and— you’re Sarah’s father. Act like it, for Christ’s sake.”
That set his teeth on edge.
Joel felt the urge to fight back, but narrowly refrained. He flexed his fingers, and he bit down hard to keep the vitriol at bay. Because that was exactly what fathers did. They controlled their anger; even when faced with a smart-mouthed babysitter who wore his patience out.
Even when your arms were folded over your chest in that impossibly tight, white tank, and your tits looked like they might spill from the fabric at any given moment. Joel swallowed and refocused his gaze before going on.
“Don’t tell me how to be a father.”
Something flared in your eyes.
“Why? I’m fucking right.”
“Language, young lady.”
That only seemed to irk you worse; your hands flew up.
“Yeah, well,” you started, accusing, “If we’re playing house, I might as well be allowed to say what I like.”
“We are not playing hous—”
“But you want to, right? That’s why I’m always here.”
“No, I need a—”
“Maid? Mommy?”
You paced closer. Joel’s jaw clenched.
“Obedient little housewife?” you sneered.
Your eyes were shining like two derisive pools. With every blink, you seemed to mock him more. Goad him on and beg for your reward, though you hardly knew what it was.
“C’mon, Mr. Miller,” you chided, voice low, “What is it?”
What he was, or what he’d stand to take. It wasn’t this.
“Keep runnin’ that fuckin’ mouth, I’ll show you what.”
The words flew off his tongue before he could stop them.
It was a reflex—something that had been stewing in his mind since the second you’d set foot in his room and went on provoking him. But it was wrong, of course.
He was wrong for even thinking it, much less saying it.
Now your eyes were round, and your mouth was slightly agape, and your brain was likely working a thousand miles a minute to process what had just been said.
Joel had to fix it.
“That— that ain’t—” he began, already hating himself.
To his surprise, and embarrassment, a laugh rang out.
Its sound was explosive and short. It split the air with such hot, bitter force that his words dropped off. His gaze had no choice but to remain plastered on yours.
“Oh, I bet.”
You grinned, humorless.
You didn’t appear shocked in the slightest. In fact, his remark seemed only to embolden you then, as you teased that smile wider, drew yourself closer, and tipped your chin up. You looked doubly enlivened by his last admission. Vindicated in some strange, inexplicable way. Your breaths were warm, and the swell of your breasts came to hover just inches from his chest when the last thing he needed to happen, happened between you next.
You pointed again. Joel didn’t need to look down.
“‘Don’t tell me how to be a father,’” you repeated his words from before, voice taking on a low, faux baritone.
Your amusement was clear. His cock was hard.
It seemed you’d never let the latter slip past you.
“Is that what we’re gettin’ at here, Mr. Miller?” you asked, tone now precocious. Probing, “You showing me what a great daddy you are, and me being the mommy you al—”
“No.”
Joel pushed off. He didn’t want to hear another thing.
He headed straight for the door, prepared to usher you out of it. This conversation had taken an irreparable turn.
When he reached for the handle, though, he had to stop. Your voice made him stop, echoing from the opposite end of the room. Joel turned, and he saw you on his bed.
“I’m just curious. Is that really what you meant?”
You were sitting at the foot of it, legs casually hanging off. Your look was innocent, and still more knowing than Joel could bear. The heat left to swirl in his groin nearly suffocated him below the waist, and he inhaled deeply.
“Mean what? I didn’t…mean anything.”
His touch fell from the doorknob all the same.
Your feet were swinging when he faced you completely.
“Just like you didn’t mean for Sarah to call me mommy?”
Maybe he had meant it more than he let on. He couldn’t answer. Joel felt every bit the creep he knew himself to be—decades your senior and letting you rest on his bed, soft, smooth legs kicking back and forth as he watched.
He was good at that, wasn’t he? Watching. Waiting. Aching from the comfort of his home office while he watched those filthy clips on repeat, images of you flitting through his mind at every stretch, moan, and whimper. His will was powerless to his perverted needs. He had only to defend himself against their influence by planting his feet firmly in place and refusing to move.
“You wanna teach me, though. Don’t you, daddy?”
It was as though your words reached him from another place. Somewhere deep within the recesses of his mind—his memory—and the tone of it stirred him. It was familiar, in ways you couldn’t have possibly understood. Unless you were living in his head, there was no way in hell you could’ve known what those lines meant to him.
‘Gonna teach ya, honey. Teach ya how to please a man.’
It made him ache.
Joel still wouldn’t move, but you could come to him.
He blinked once, and you were there. Off the bed. Walking to him. Down on your knees in front of him.
This had to be the work of his own sick imagination.
He groaned at just the sight of your smile, curving slow.
And then you peeled off your top, revealing the bright, nylon, cherry-red fabric he’d seen far too many times on his computer screen and off it—on you, by his pool. Joel sucked in a breath and shook his head, gaze darkening.
“Thought you didn’t wanna play mommy,” he growled.
If this was all just in his head, he could talk as he wanted.
“I don’t,” you answered him soberly. Suddenly, your chin was in his hand. Your eyes were still glistening up at him. “But you need to get this out of your system. Just once.”
Out of his system.
Joel was out of his fucking mind with desire.
“Just once?” His voice cracked as he said it.
Only one time. That was alright. Forgivable.
From what he half-believed to be a figment of his own perverted mind came the word from your lips: ‘Once.’
The next had the thumb that was cupping your chin slipping between those same lips. Still smiling while your mouth slid down to his knuckle. You sucked him gently.
And in just one glimpse, one fleeting second on that lone, thick thumb, the sight below him had every other obscene thing entrenched in his memory beat by a mile. You were better than everything else he’d seen or tried to dream up. You were real, he hoped, sliding your shiny wet lips up and down the surface of his skin, and when you pried them off, and you asked for his cock, he had no choice but to oblige. He had to rack his brain for words.
This was his babysitter, his daughter’s companion, his—
“Sweet fuckin’ girl,” he said when he first felt you there.
Before he even knew what became of his belt, buckle, and zip, the base of his cock was in your hand, and your lips were hovering precariously over the tip. Your breaths were soft and hot. Your graze drank him in with curiosity.
“Should I kiss you here, daddy?” Your mouth lowered.
“Right there, sweetie,” Joel breathed out.
He truly couldn’t believe it when the warmth of you enveloped his tip. When the first lick of your tongue came to collect the bead of precum sitting at the slit and he damn near bucked his hips up. You licked at it again.
And again. And again. And again.
You whimpered lightly, enjoying the taste.
The second you pulled your mouth away, Joel hissed.
“Baby, please—” he started, tone strained.
“What? Where does daddy want it?”
The question was so innocent.
It was clear you wanted to hear him guide you through it, as evidenced by the way your lips twitched at his hand smoothing down and over the crown of your head. Joel held it like he might never get this chance again, and, at once, his voice lowered along with it. He scarcely recognized himself with how gently he spoke then.
“Let daddy show you,” he said, “Open your mouth.”
And you did.
Your jaw fell slack, your lips split apart, and your eyes peered up with a wide and open stare. In a look, you seemed already to say that you trusted him to fill it.
No sight on a screen could’ve made him so hard.
He fed you an inch, eyes locked with yours as he did. His cock slid in another, and another, then stopped. He pulled back. The wetness and the warmth of your mouth nearly did him in, and the way you whined for more had him fisting your hair tight. Trying to keep his composure.
“That alright, honey? Feel…nice goin’ in?”
“Yes, daddy,” you hummed obediently.
Your mouth opened wider.
“More, please?”
Your tongue was flattened in a second. Joel slid back in, and his shaft was greeted by the slick, shiny cushion of the muscle underneath. He sank in. He invaded every inch of your mouth he could find, and he breathed out.
“Just like that, sweetie. Takin’ daddy so well.”
What little gurgles he heard stifled between your lips at that, spit drooling gently from either side, he only found more endearing. When he pulled back and saw strings of your spit trail after its path, he felt delirious. You were real, coating the whole throbbing length of his cock with your saliva and your precious soft whines, and you were sweet for him. Pliant for his cock. Jaw obliging and inviting and hanging wide open for him to fuck again.
He let you have it. He slid in once, grazed your throat, slid out again. He cupped your face in his hands and thumbed your cheeks. He coaxed your lips wider for him. You took it all well; you responded to every tender little directive from the man who was stuffing your mouth, ‘Faster now, atta girl’ and ‘Take daddy deeper’ and ‘Keep that pretty mouth open and those eyes on me.’ Joel was so caught up in the feel and the friction and the intimacy of every passing moment that he almost didn’t see when you started to shift your legs. Parting them.
And, right when the head of his cock had reached the back of your mouth and was teasing down your wet, open throat, he felt it fully: your whimpering plea.
You grinding your cunt against the toe of his boot, and peering up at him with eyes all wet, wide, and needy.
You rutted your hips. It looked like you couldn’t help it.
It seemed as though it were a mere spasm of the body that you couldn’t control—like his cock down your throat was too good for your sense or your oversexed mind to handle. He’d scarcely stirred in place when he felt you humping him, whines rippling down his length with every bob of your head as you keened for some kind of release.
Joel had never seen anything like it. He didn’t know what to say or do except stroke his hand over your scalp and pin you with a look. His cock twitched in your mouth.
“Is that how we ask to get fucked in this house?”
His tone surprised him with how steady it stayed.
Your mouth still full of him, you tried to shake your head.
What came next was more instinct than logical thought; Joel pulled you off his cock and onto your feet. His touch on your body was soft. He couldn’t pinpoint a reason for his being so gentle, but every second that elapsed now seemed to demand it. He was teaching you to please. There could be no better place for kindness than here.
He’d lead you to the bed and guide you down himself. He’d tell you to open your mouth and then he would kiss it, and lick inside it. Maybe spit inside it, too. He’d tug at your bikini straps, watch your breasts give way to the pressure of the pull before bouncing right back in place. He’d take off your top. Latch his mouth around a nipple, swirl his tongue across the skin, and he’d kiss you again.
Joel did all these things, and you let him. You met him with whimpers, with wide open legs, and eventually, with your feet digging into the covers beneath you, begging, ‘Daddy, please put it in.’ Your gaze was febrile as you did.
Whether you meant it, or were simply pretending for him, gave Joel pause. Just as you’d tried to yank your jean shorts down your legs, he dropped his hands to your own. He stopped them in their path. He leaned closer.
“Do you know what you and me are about to do, hm?”
His question was barbed but sweet. Testing the waters.
Were you game to keep playing house? Did you want it?
These things mattered to Joel; whether the wetness between your legs was meant for him and him alone. Whether you needed him there, like the breath in your lungs. He wouldn’t fuck you if he wasn’t. He might feel lonely at times—desperate to feel your cunt squeeze his too-old cock like your life depended on it—but he was a man who wanted to be wanted, too. An instant of clarity hit, and suddenly he was asking it, plain and in your face:
“Do you wanna do what mommies and daddies do?”
Your mouth fell slack. Again. You nodded.
Either you were the single best actress, or you wanted it. Hoping desperately for the latter, Joel kissed the side of your face. You turned your head, quickly, and captured his lips in yours instead. You pulled him down to you.
“Like this?” you murmured, words muffled against him.
You wrapped your legs around his waist and then ground your clothed lower half with his—Joel’s cock was tucked haphazardly back in his boxers, and his jeans, unzipped, hung just underneath them around his hips. He felt like a teen again, clothes thrown askew and hormones all wild.
Except he wasn’t. He was a grown man, in his own bed, with his child fast asleep down the hall. He thanked his lucky stars that their rooms were as far apart as possible, and that he no longer had to worry about the prying eyes of his mom or dad trying to catch him out after curfew. This wasn’t high school, or a night out in college, or the time a condom had split and Sarah had been conceived.
Now if he could just make sure she didn’t get a sibling…
Kidding.
“Pill,” Joel choked out, just as your legs drew him in to meet your movements, “Are— are you on the pill, or—”
Am I going to have to hit up a Texaco at 10 PM to get some rubbers and admit I haven’t gotten laid in a year?
You grinned.
“IUD.”
That works, too.
Joel probably shouldn’t have seemed so eager. He probably shouldn’t have taken your face in his hands and kissed you so hard, either. But his skin was ablaze; his eyes were wild; his limbs were molten; and his head—you didn’t want to know where it was. What he was thinking.
What he wanted to tell you while he tugged his cock back out and started working his hand up and down it. It felt too intimate, too depraved, to be spoken aloud.
Then, to his shock, you said the words yourself:
“Show me how you’d make me a mommy anyway.”
If not for protection. If not for common sense. If not for that thrumming, pulsing, warning repetition in his head: Do not get her pregnant. Do not give your kid a sibling.
But this was all pretend, wasn’t it?
Joel yanked down your shorts, practically tore them from your legs, and situated himself between them, breathing hard and fast, before he nodded his head and kissed you. With his one free hand, he held the base of his dick, and he guided it closer to your slick, puffy, aching entrance through the barrier of your red bikini. He rutted his hips.
You were bare beneath him, save for that one scrap of fabric between your lower half and his. You smiled, and you wriggled your body against his, and you drew him in. Joel groaned when he felt you slide your bottoms to the slide and let him feel, for the first time, how wet you were. How warm, inviting, and tight that cunt must be and how badly he needed it. How desperately he had to be buried inside that heat—he all but panted the words:
“Can daddy put it in?”
You spread your legs wider. You nodded.
Then he did. Without one breath of a thought to the contrary, he pushed the head of himself past the fabric, through your folds, into that wet and precious spot he’d only dreamed he’d ever feel, and he let out a full-throated moan. He felt your walls contract, heard the tender little squelch of your body making room for his length, and he damn near blew his whole load right there. You felt good.
Your chest rose with a breath, and your eyes widened.
Like you hadn’t just had him down your throat, drenched in your spit and gliding in and out: “He’s so big, daddy.”
Joel’s lips kissed your cheek. His tip kissed your cervix. You whined a little, and he pulled you in closer to him.
“I know, honey, I know,” he cooed, rocking you with the softest motions, “Ain’t that what mommy likes, though?”
Your lips parted again. A strangled whine of assent slid out, just as his hips withdrew himself back to that shiny, bulbous head, and then he fucked back in. Back and forth, back and forth, Joel sent your body bouncing with every thrust. He felt you clench, and the strokes sped up.
The bed creaked underneath. It seemed to shake the whole room. In truth, there wasn’t a thought in Joel’s head except for the ones relating to you and how good you took his cock, but somewhere, not far off, there was the instinct of a father idling too. With every stab of the headboard against the wall and every moan of yours under him he had to smother with his lips, he was reminded you two had to be quiet. He leaned in.
Grazing your ear with a stubbled chin, and fucking you gently into his bed, Joel sank his weight even lower.
“Can mommy stay real quiet for daddy? Can she try?”
From the way your eyes were glazed, he expected you to nod. And you did, just barely, heels digging in the mound of his ass and your fingers finding his sides. But then you slid a touch up his ribs; you squeezed the flesh. You let him pound your cunt for a few more precious seconds, and just when he thought that was the end of it, you tilted your head to him. Your nose bumped his, and you grinned, flashing the single most pretty, fucked-out look.
“Feels like a fucking dream, daddy,” you breathed.
Joel balked. He almost stopped right then and there.
Please! Feels like a fucking dre-e-e-e-e-eam—oh, OH!
Oh.
You couldn’t have known that.
There was no shot you knew where the fuck those words were from. Or what they meant. Joel furrowed his brow and kept rutting his hips, hands tightening in the sheets beside your head as the scene from his naughty all-time favorite film flickered briefly through his mind. No shot.
Then your legs wound around the backs of his even tighter, and your eyes were all but shining with a fresh, twisted glint. With a measured tone, you went on for him:
“He’s so big, daddy. Feels so good going inside me.”
You even mimicked her tone. Joel paled above you.
His hips stalled a moment, and your cunt hugged him tight. Your teeth nipped at his chin, playfully, and before he could even try to speak again, your lips were there.
At his ear, whispering what he’d dreaded hearing most.
“You should really clear those PornHub searches after you’re done. Or at least lock your office while I’m here.”
Joel’s thrusts stopped completely.
He was about to search for his voice again, when your walls clamped down around him, and his vision went swimming. His cock pulsed inside you, and he groaned.
Then his hips picked up; it wasn’t a conscious decision. He just needed to fuck, needed to finish, needed to see the light twinkle and burst behind your eyes while he stuffed your cunt full. It didn’t matter what you knew—your lips were curled in such a sweet, smug smile below him, there was likely no use in trying to explain himself now. Joel just gritted his teeth, and he tried smiling back. He fucked you faster, and harder, than he’d done before.
When you clawed at his back, the pace grew merciless. Every inch of the space around him, it seemed, was filled with the sounds of skin slapping skin, whimpers, and moans. As before, Joel almost didn’t recognize his voice.
‘That so?’ was all it could manage to get out at present.
With your cunt fluttering repeatedly, hips rolling with his own, and those lips letting moans spill out one after the next, it was all he could do to try to keep his composure.
Joel kissed you, and then he flipped your body around. He moved back to find the headboard and rest himself against it, got your legs straddling his, and slid you down
Down, down, down on his cock. Stretching you out. Then moving you back up again. Making you bounce in his lap and have your hands fumble to find his shoulders. You squeezed his biceps and moaned, and at the same time, his slick-smeared lower half rutted to greet yours. Your essence drenched him; he could feel it soak straight through the black-and-gray hairs at the base of his cock.
You looked perfect like this—better than any girl on camera could’ve been. Your hips rolled, and you moaned while sliding up and down on his dick, again and again. Joel felt the trembling pulse through your body and his, groaned at the grip of your cunt around him, and helped you ride him. With one hand at the small of your back and the other cupping your face, he held you close to him. Your pace quickened, and the hand at your chin made its way to your throat, to hold you firmly there.
Joel had a thumb on your pulse and his eyes raking over your writhing form when he felt compelled to talk again.
Share a truth, since all the rest was coming out anyway.
He didn’t think so much as feel it flow from there, like the blood rushing through his veins. Joel winced at a fresh influx of pleasure and let you grind on him twice more. Then he was gripping you tighter, fucking up into you harder, and he was skimming his teeth along your skin. As a knot coiled deep within his stomach, he let it out:
“Wanna cum inside this pussy, baby. Fill her up with me.”
The head of his cock struck a dizzying blow to someplace close to your cervix, and you held him tighter.
“Yeah, Mr. Miller?” You couldn’t help the teasing tone.
You fought a breathless laugh, then were forced to suck in a gasp of air just as quick; his length sheathed itself inside you completely, and Joel’s grip constricted on your throat. He kissed you. He lapped his tongue into your mouth while he fucked up into you, again and again.
You whined, and he mumbled against you, “That’s right.”
You hissed at him deep in your guts, and he went on:
“Gonna stuff her full. Make her wet and messy and drippin’ with me. Show mommy how much daddy lov—”
He cut himself short. His balls were heavy, full, and ready to paint you white, but that line was a touch too far, even now. He couldn’t say it outright and not sound like a fucking creep, no matter how deep in this roleplay you happened to be. Joel squeezed your hips and grunted.
And, for what felt like the fifteenth time that night, you surprised him. Your chin tilted to his, your lips brushed against his mouth, and you smiled, again. It was tender.
“How much does daddy love me, hm? Show me.”
Your walls clenched at the end of the last sentence, and Joel couldn’t help but groan in your mouth. His eyes lifted to yours, and in your gaze, he found anything but incredulity—you already knew what he felt, somehow.
“Sarah tell you that, too? That I love you?” he growled.
He’d said it once. At the time, he hadn’t thought he’d meant it at all, but the words just sounded so good when it came to you. Sarah had asked him if he’d wanted you to be her mommy someday, if he loved you like a daddy loves a mommy, and he’d said he did. Looking back, it hadn’t felt half as good as it did right now: peering into your eyes, feeling your warmth swallow him whole, and sensing you were nearing your climax, all because of him. It made him want to say it over again, now face-to-face.
Be it roleplay, fantasy, fixation—he needed to say it now.
“Daddy does love you,” he went on, before you could even respond. His pelvis rutted against yours, and his gaze stayed steeped in desire as he felt you grip harder, “Loves you so damn much he wants to stuff a big load in that pretty little cunt. Make you his. That alright by you?”
Your gaze went blank in an instant. Your lips twitched.
Something delectably wet, tight, and far too tempting shuddered someplace inside you, and with pride, Joel sensed the remnants of it leak out and smear his tummy. You liked that idea. Still, you seemed hesitant as your teeth snagged your bottom lip between them. You drew one steadying breath, and you slowed your movements.
“I’ve never…had that,” you admitted quietly.
Then that sticky-sweet embrace your cunt held him in got even wetter. Like your mind wasn’t fully on-board, but your body was all in. You were close, by the feel of it.
But Joel would only give what you were fully ready to take. At length, he lowered one hand to the small of your back, and his thumb rubbed at the skin. He let you feel him in only the shallowest of strokes, bouncing you softly
“Ain’t gotta be inside, then,” he murmured, assuring, “I’ll shoot this load wherever mommy tells me to go, alright?”
That made you whimper.
From there, your mind seemed to be decided all at once.
“Cum inside. I-I want it.”
Joel swallowed thickly.
“You sure, sugar? I can—”
Suddenly, your hips were stirring. They started up quicker than before, and your hand was swift to plant itself flat on his chest, as though to stabilize yourself.
“Cum. In. Me.”
It was the most decisive, and desperate, you’d sounded all night. Your gaze flitted to his, and in it, he saw a plea.
With a look like that, Joel knew he couldn’t make you wait. He wouldn’t make you wait. Trying not to smirk as he did, he leaned in and kissed you, and felt you drip more arousal as something knotted in your belly. He smoothed your hair away and delivered the gentlest thrusts from below—he knew it wouldn’t take much.
“Mama goes first,” he prodded. He felt you tense, and clench, and leak a little more down his front, and when the head of cock nicked a soft ridge, he groaned, too. “Cum for daddy now and he’ll give you his load, OK?”
Then his touch slipped between your legs. You keened.
“Daddy, I—” you hiccuped, grip tightening like a vice when his thumb found your clit and started rubbing.
Joel circled faster.
“Breathe, baby. Breathe.”
“I can’t,” you cried, “Feels too—”
Good. Your body seemed to finish for you.
It started with a pulse. Then a pinch. A trickling warmth. Joel hardly knew what else to do but keep rubbing that little pearl between your folds, even when you started to gush around his hand. It wet his tummy; it drenched all the hairs around the base of his cock, and still, he kept thumbing your clit and rocking you back and forth above him. He let you cry out and bite his shoulder while your climax tore through you, and though he knew you had to be quiet, he couldn’t help but relish the sound. He smiled
“That’s it. That’s my girl. Give it to daddy.”
And, while he also told you to keep breathing and let him have it all, he was right here—in a matter of seconds, he was slipping off, too. He couldn’t hope to try and stop it. With one more pulse of your walls, you groaned and got your wet, spent, needy hole stuffed full of him, just how you’d asked. Joel flooded your insides with his seed and kept you fucked straight down to the hilt so he wouldn’t see a drop of himself escape. He hugged you tight and heard you whine at that primal sensation, getting pumped with rope after rope of his cum, then he felt your limbs go limp. Joel kissed the side of your face. He cradled you, held you securely in place, and let the last of his spend paint your walls in a couple more gentle spurts
When it was over, he stroked your back. He sensed the aftershocks of your climax pass through your tired frame, and he made sure not to rock you too hard against him. He just wanted you to feel that he was there, if the heft of his cum and his cock still deep inside you wasn’t enough.
His head grew clearer, too. While still drawing short, ragged breaths in time, he managed to find the words that had evaded him before—what he should’ve said.
“‘M’sorry,” he mumbled into your hair.
You just nuzzled your face deeper.
“Don’t be.”
“But I—”
Then you tilted your head—enough for your gaze to meet with his, briefly, and tell him all that he needed to hear.
“You’re a good dad, Joel.”
He opened his mouth, but you were already pressing on.
“And I don’t…mind if Sarah calls me what she wants for now. I’m sure you’ll find someone great to be her mom someday, and then this whole thing won’t even matter.”
For some reason, the sound of it made Joel wince.
He couldn’t quite place the feeling, but he knew he didn’t want you thinking that. His grip constricted around you.
“No,” he muttered, indistinct. Defiant.
“No?”
You almost laughed.
It was insane, admittedly—just last night he’d been dreaming of the feel of you in the grip of his fist, wishing for nothing but his own release and a fleeting thought of your body underneath him, and here he was, doing this.
You’d said it was a one-and-done deal, and maybe it was.
But for him, maybe, it wasn’t. He’d be remiss not to try.
If you shot him down and left him to pine and meander through the manifold archives of PornHub for the rest of his horny life, that would be alright. At least he had tried.
With these thoughts thrumming through his brain, Joel was about to pull you closer and venture to speak again, when, for the second time, his words were cut short. His voice was presently supplanted by a sound that startled you both, and in a moment, he recognized what it was.
A knock.
“Da-a-a-a-a-a-addy?”
Shit.
He nearly caught a knee to the gut with how quickly you tried scrambling off his lap, limbs revived and frantic and desperate to get your clothes back on before that tiny voice could resume its speech—or get a hand to the door
“Yeah, sweetie? Give— give daddy a—” ‘Fuck!’ he cursed under his breath as he tripped over your shorts on the floor, “—a minute. I’ll be right there. Just gimme a sec.”
Joel fell. You floundered. His hand snagged the edge of the bed before he hit the ground fully, while you set off across the room to fight the strings of your bikini top and wrestle the thing on. The second you sensed that battle was lost, you grabbed your shirt instead. You were just yanking it on, and Joel was just regaining his bearings and about to chuck your shorts your way, when a voice through the door stopped the two of you cold—again.
To your horror, it was hopeful. Too sweet to be real.
“Can I sleep with you and mommy tonight?”
You could’ve soundly beat Joel’s ass with that pretty, skimpy swimsuit in your grasp and not regretted a thing, if he had to guess by the look you were flashing him now.
He didn’t blame you. His hands shot up in silent defense.
“Mommy— mommy’s not here, honey. She went home.” Joel shortly tried, and failed, to keep the pretense of innocence alive, all while dodging the first swing of your bikini’s bra at his head. He ducked; you struck a lamp.
He jumped back, a wordless grin stretching his lips as he righted that fixture fast. With one look, it seemed to say:
I’m so, so sorry, baby.
But inside his head, he couldn’t help but admit this was a little bit funny. Probably sensing this, you swung again.
“Yes, she is! I heard her,” Sarah huffed outside.
Joel was sliding up his jeans. Apologizing with his eyes and also trying not to crack an even bigger smile at you.
“Don’t be silly, Sar—”
“You’re having a sleepover!” she accused.
Well, in a manner of speaking.
Joel had just buckled his belt and redid his zip when a flash of red nylon smacked him in the face. Playfully.
You were evidently beginning to fight a grin like his, dropping the feigned indignation and pacing closer.
“Sleeping my ass—” you started in a whisper.
And you were about to chase him again, or else propose jumping from the window to get out now and save face, maybe, when Joel felt an old, familiar feeling crop up inside him. Like before, it wasn’t the kind of urge he could fight; his instincts took over, and he did it swiftly.
Admittedly, the timing was terrible—but he kissed you.
He pressed his lips to your own and relished the feeling. He grabbed both sides of your face and walked you back to the bed—the same one drenched in sweat and your release, which he’d definitely need to change in a minute—and for a fleeting moment, it was all he needed. Your mouth was on his, grinning a little and promising silently that if Sarah ever does walk in on us, I’m gonna kill you.
Against his better judgment, he pushed you back on the bed. He dropped his weight over your body and kept the kiss ongoing, feeling need surge inside for something far beyond the physical. It couldn’t be ‘one-and-done’ here.
But for now, at least, in spite of his feelings, it had to be.
Joel didn’t want to let go or stop kissing, but the next second left no room for much else, unfortunately. His daughter’s voice returned, and the words that followed proved impossible to ignore, for either one of you then.
All color drained from his face, and your eyes widened.
“I heard mommy screaming before. Is she alright?”
barbara kruger - untitled (your devotion has the look of a lunatic sport), 1981-1983
gelatin silver print
Black Cat + Golden Retriever
Sid is just like, *tap. tap. gimme affection.* Like a black cat
[SID] after the game against the avs 04.03.2025 (x)
it ain’t me babe | s. crosby
“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!
—
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 spare 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.
Eventually, you find yourself in front of the coat check, a long bench against the wall offering a convenient 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. “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.
“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 gig. You 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.”
“It’s decent,” he admits. “Pays the bills.”
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’re 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.
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.
sidney crosby vs technology (2020, 2021)
new season, new installment of sid vs technology
an extremely emphatic FUCK
[SID] before the game aginst the us 19.02.2025
i want that fucking chain swinging in my face (respectfully)
