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Maria hated herself. She hated that she was still thinking about him. She hated that she'd come back to this bar several times just to see if he would appear. She hated what she was becoming. She hated that she felt attached. God, the thought made her eyes roll and she felt like she needed to pay some sort of penance.
She should never have stayed that night; she should never have fallen asleep. She should never have let herself fall asleep, have that drink, she shouldn't have done any of those things. Especially not untying him. God but when she'd untied him. Maria had never, ever in her entire life had an orgasm like that. She'd never been made to feel like that by a man. She'd never had a man seemingly care about her pleasure so much.
She hated that when she thought about him, there was a flutter of desire that pooled low in her belly. It was why she'd gone back to the bar. Why she'd gone back more than once. He wouldn't leave her brain, she couldn't stop thinking about him.
Even more depressing for Maria was the fact it wasn't just the sex. It was the way he made her feel. It was the way he managed to get passed every single layer of armor she had built up. It was the way he'd managed to make her so relaxed that for a minute she'd forgotten about who she was supposed to be and what she was doing.
When he didn't show up at the bar, she put it down to fate. Just like she put how she'd ended up doing what she did down to fate. It was fate to have one night and that was it.
She hated the hope that he'd instilled in her though. She never had hope and yet there was hope in her that she'd see him. Even as she'd come back to the bar again, this time for work, she was still hopeful that she might see him. It was a seed, a kernel inside her and though she was trying to suffocate it. It had taken root and was trying to grow.
She needed to focus. To focus on the man in front of her. His transgression, he'd attacked a young woman and been let go by the police. Not enough evidence. Maria had only found out about it because the young woman had been in the bar when she'd come looking for Horatio. Maria had dressed in green this evening. An emerald satin dress, the fabric flowed around her when she walked, and the neckline plunged deeply to just below her chest. Her lips were red. A necklace drawing more attention to her cleavage.
Maria took a look around the room, and that kernel inside her bloomed when in a way that made her feel sick when she saw Horatio Caine at the bar. Fate.
She had a job to do though.
Already though it had thrown her mind off, just seeing him there. She needed to absolutely pull herself together. She had a job to do. Maria excused herself for a minute. She'd pull herself together in the bathroom. She needed to talk to herself.
There was a tug on her wrist and she was pressed against the wall. Her instinct to defend herself stopped when her eyes met those blue ones that had worshipped her days ago. Her fury turned to arousal. She liked the way it felt, him pressing her against the wall. She'd never let a man do this to her but Horatio, Horatio wasn't just any man.
Maria relaxed a little, raised a brow at him and inched her lips closer to his.
"How what feels Lieutenant?" She asked him, though she thought she knew what he was talking about. "I'm having a drink, that's not against the law is it? Isn't that what one does at a bar?" She pressed, teasing him. She wanted him to press her harder, wanted him to claim her. Wanted him to lose his cool again.
Summary: The ghosts from Tommy's past took away piece by piece of his sanity until he became an empty shell. But that's not a problem, because he has someone who can fill this void. | Dark!AU | Word count: 3k5 (not proofread) | Contains spoilers/references to The immortal man.
A/N: This exhausted me I fear no longer have a brain 🫠 but it's all WORTHY to share EVIL OLD MAN with you!!!
The bedroom's ceiling wasn't decorated like Arrow house's was. It was plain. White. With a chandelier in the middle. Still and straightforward like everything in these lands. Last night, a white blast cut through the hills. Birmingham had been bombed. It wasn’t her problem, not anymore. Not since Tommy made sure of it.
Her fingers traced Tommy's ribs so softly it sent shivers down his spine. He laid beside her, quieter than ever.
“I caught that black cat sneaking in yesterday,” she muttered, “On the sink, drinking water,”
“...yeah?” he asked, eyes fixed on the wall, unfocused.
“Took him outside, it was cold so I left him in the garage,”
“He'll sleep on top of the car,” Tommy said, more a statement than a complaint, “that's why you got out of the bed,”
“What?” she frowned, “I thought you didn't know! You were sleeping when I came back,”
“I wake up when you leave the bed,” he reminded her. One of the few things that never changed through the years.
“Yes…” she pouted, softer now, “I forgot,”
“I saw you from the window, you were getting back.” he concluded.
Silence again. Her caresses stopped, only then he looked at her, a heavy stare. Tommy took her hand in his, holding near his chest like he needed it there. Her caresses resumed, her thumb on his rough palm.
He watched her drifting off for the night, movement stopped, breath got heavier. His own version of heaven, if a man like him could ever reach it.
♡
When Tommy returned home, he had escaped death itself. She was still grieving when he knocked on her apartment door in Maida Vale. He'd been granted an armistice and wanted to share it with her.
He had. That couldn't be questioned.
He was still in bed when she woke up, a rare occurrence which put a smile on her face. She stuck to his back, kissing the back of his neck, pulling him back from sleep. His body tensed up, holding her wrist a bit too tightly. Then he softened, looking at her through the side of his eye.
“Still here, Tom?” she quietly joked.
“Yeah,” he answered, not about the bed, “I'm still here,”
She gulped, using the silence as an opportunity to get up. Something that could resemble a smile showed on his face when she climbed on top of him to get off the bed instead of using the empty side.
“I'll make breakfast,” she put her robe on, “and you are gonna eat it.”
♡
Would he ever get enough of it? she asked herself. Moments like this used to be delightful back in Arrow house. Tommy sipping on his cup of tea, hand resting on her leg, his plate almost done. In there, it became routine, the expected. Her younger self would never believe it.
“Will Johnny come today?” she asked.
His icy blue eyes fixed on her, a little more present now, less peaceful. “I don't know,” he sipped his cup, “do you need something from him?”
“I wanted news about Duke and Charles,” she shrugged off, “and the war, it'd be easier if you let me have a radio,”
“We don’t need a radio,”
“I need a radio, you don't have to listen to it, but I want to,”
His grip on her thigh got stronger, not enough to hurt, just enough to make her stop talking. He sighed in annoyance and went back to looking out the window.
The first weeks of his return from the dead were the happiest of her life. She didn't know how to live without him, couldn't stand the emptiness of Arrow house. She was almost happy to see it blow up after Tommy decided to donate those lands.
She knew he liked the peace and quiet, he wouldn't stand living in Maida Vale for long. Nevertheless, she thought the house he bought after was way too far from anywhere.
♡
“Last thing I heard he was planning to get a license to steal guns, Mrs. Shelby,” Johnny explained, placing grocery bags on the table.
“License to steal?” she dried her hands after washing the dishes.
“Yeah, y'know, that's not the word they use, but it is what it is,”
“My god,” she reproved, “what does he even plan to achieve with that?”
Johnny negatively nodded, words weren't needed for them to agree Duke needed some guidance before he got himself hanged.
“And where's Tommy?” he asked.
“Writing,” her voice was soaked with monotony.
“Have you ever read this book of his? He spends all his days writing and going to the graveyard,”
“Never, I mean, I've read some lines about Ruby, he actually believes she comes visit him, that she leaves things for him,” she spat, a mix of pity and annoyance, “tell me what to do, Johnny,”
“Nothing left to do, Mrs. Shelby, the belief comes and goes,"
“Well, it's been around for a while,” she complained, “it needs to go now, I don't know what to do with him,”
“Do with who?” Tommy suddenly interrupted. They turned to him, a lost cause of a man whose eyes were far from friendly, surprisingly, far from sad either. Angry, sparkling with quiet madness.
“Oh, hello, Tom,” Johnny greeted.
“With the-” she stuttered, “the cat sneaked in again I- I don't know what to do to keep him off the sink,”
“I told you to come tomorrow,” Tommy hissed to Johnny.
“Yeah, your wife asked me to come today,”
“Did you?” he asked, she shrunk under her cardigan like a scolded child.
“I got bored,” she pouted.
“Bored,” Tommy mocked, “well, since you're here, tomorrow you're gonna bring a radio for my wife, you know what women are like, Johnny, you’ve got your share,”
“But tomorrow- I'd only get here again late at night, you live too far from anywhere,” Johnny said.
“Grounds to learn who you work for.”
♡
The sickness was completely gone when he came back. No more seizures. The first one had her crying and holding him like a child. Powerless. Since his return, she had sworn to take better care of him.
Tommy was already there when she went to bed that night. A book in his hand, psychology, he was easier to deal with before he started reading. He didn't lift his head when she laid by his side.
“Tom?” she softly called.
His eyes moved off the book, still not looking straight at her.
“You know you shouldn't have treated Johnny like that,”
He was silent at first, jaw clenching before he answered, “He's an employee like any other,”
“You never treated employees like this, not even in the factories,”
“You don't know that,” he turned a page, “you never had to step into the fucking factories,”
“Tsk, that's not what I'm talking about, love,”
“...what is it then?”
“Look, I'm sorry I contradicted your order, I just wish my actions wouldn't backfire into other people,”
He glanced at her, negatively nodded and went back reading.
“Oh c'mon,” she whined, “forgive me, eh?”
Cupping his face, she brought him closer and peppered his face with kisses. He let her. “Hm?” she asked again. Tommy looked at her, put the book aside and pulled her under his arm.
Like it settled everything.
♡
“I wish it was just you and me in Gretna Green,” he told her once. Their honeymoon wasn't long, the business didn't allow it, but his preference was clear. Tommy spent so much time surrounded by upper class scum that his definition of peace became just them. Together. Alone.
He somehow achieved that, but life kept knocking on his door and refusing to go away. Duke became a problem. She knew it. Tommy knew it. All of Small Heath knew it. Yet, the only man able to stop him switched between the office, bedroom and graveyard.
Johnny wasn't visiting as much anymore since he brought the radio too. She assumed that was bad news. The world needed Tommy almost as much as she did.
“We could go to the Garrison,” she let it slide one evening, when he came down for the evening tea, “see Duke, see people,”
“Duke?” he asked, as if the idea was absurd.
“I thought it’d be nice,” she shrugged, “the rumors keep coming and… it’s been a while,”
The silence was long. Longer than it would have been with any other request of hers.
“I'll take you then,” he concluded, “but we won't stay long,”
“Hm, no reason to anyway,” she smirked, trying to humor him up a little, “y'know, he's like his father, doesn't speak much.”
♡
The Garrison used to be the Blinder's own personal kingdom. Now it looked like a whorehouse. People didn't stop dancing when Tommy walked in, nor did the music. He ignored it all, locating his son on an armchair by the corner. His arm wrapped around her waist, guiding her through the crowd. It felt suffocating and safe at the same time.
Blue eyes widened at the sight of them, exactly like his father's. His powerful, fearless posture cracked. He stood up, not welcoming, non verbally questioning their presence.
“She wanted to see you,” Tommy greeted. Her polite smile dropped.
“Tommy-” she scolded and corrected, “your father thought it’d be good,”
Duke looked between them like he was putting something together. He remembered her, remembered the shadow behind his father when he was brought from the camp. A gentle ghost. Probably the reason why Tommy came.
“Yeah,” he said, not convinced, “shall we go to a private place?”
They followed to the back of the pub, where no one dared to enter. It was dusty, lights off, she was certain that Arthur would never let it like that. Duke turned on his heel, staring at them like they were invaders. Everything was awkward until she spotted the scar in his temple.
"What happened to your face?" she guided his face to the side, fingers brushing his jaw.
Duke leaned back, not used to being touched so softly, nothing transactional, no hidden intentions. He huffed under his breath.
“Don’t huff at me, you little-” she stopped herself. She wasn't his mother. She couldn't cross that line, “you’ve got to be more careful, what if it had hit your eye?” she said instead, softer.
Tommy watched the scene, dangerously silent. Her hand lingered a second longer than it should have, not really touching his face, just making mention.
Duke's eyes flickered past her, that was when he saw it. The darkness in his father's eyes. Dark knew dark.
“Right,” his tone changed, more collected, "well, some things happened since you left,”
He gestured toward the chairs. She sat. Tommy didn’t, standing behind her.
“Drink?” he offered, already reaching for the bottle.
“She doesn’t drink,” Tommy interrupted, not even looking at her. He didn't seek her permission or approval. He didn't truly need it.
Duke paused halfway from getting the glasses and leaned back on the chair. A glimpse of annoyance showed on his face. He took his cap off and threw it on the table. “So, what is it then?”
“Well,” she sighed, “we came because your father wanted to see you,”
Tommy’s gaze shifted to her. That was just not true.
“Johnny told me what you’ve been up to, you-” she started.
“People talk,” Duke dismissed.
“They do,” she nodded, “and they complain, you can't rely solely on their fear to grant your safety,” there was no judgement in her voice. She was used to talking Shelby men out of crazy ideas. Sometimes, Tommy actually listened.
He blinked, and didn't interrupt this time. Tommy shifted slightly behind her. She carried on.
“You don’t have to prove anything, not like this,”
Duke’s gaze dropped. He didn't need a mother. He had avenged his, but when she spoke so softly-
“Yep,” Tommy talked to her, yet looked straight at his son, “if he's going to rule my kingdom, he does it properly,”
“That's not what I'm talking about, I'm talking about him getting himself killed,” she answered sharply, then looked back at the boy, “not proving a point,”
“I can handle myself,” Duke spoke to her softly, choosing to ignore Tommy.
“I know you can,” she said, “that’s not the problem,”
“It is,” Tommy insisted, “thinking you're above the fucking world, might as well hang yourself already,”
“Will you let me finish, love?” her voice remained calm. But he noticed it. Not loving as always. Fucking ironic.
He went still. Jaw clenching. Mind slipping away. Duke noticed, waiting for him to lash out.
“You're making enemies,” she returned to Duke, “and you don't have to,”
“We're leaving.” Tommy announced. The room went still. She looked back at her husband, at the boy and at her own feet. Picking up her purse, she exhaled, nodded and left.
♡
Tommy's knuckles remained white from all the strength he held the steering wheel on the way back. The drive was quiet. Not the soft, comfortable type they were used to. Tense. Dangerous.
At home, he didn’t follow her inside right away, watching her from the door while she put her purse on the table. She felt his gaze, turned to him, head low waiting to get told.
“Take that off,” he ordered, his voice low. She hesitated, confused. His eyes dropped to her outside coat and she obeyed. Also dropping it on the table.
He carried on, “you embarrassed me in front of him,” a pause, “don’t do that again,”
“I was trying to help,” her voice faltered.
“Not your place,”
“...I know,” she admitted defeat, rubbing her watery eyes, “I know,”
“Good,” he muttered, “come here,”
She approached him slowly. Wrapping her arms around his waist and resting her head on his shoulder. He collected her in an embrace that was almost comforting.
Almost.
♡
Her wet hair dripped on the wooden floor. The house was quiet, pitch dark, there was no moon in the sky, outside, the land was disturbingly still. A warm shower was all she needed, the water washed the awful day off her shoulders.
All she needed to finish the night was Tommy, to be close to him, where it was comfortable, warm and safe, for to be in an emotional battlefield with him was just as bad as being in a true battlefield facing the Germans.
Heading to bed with her muscles sore, she pushed the bedroom door. It didn’t open. She tried again. Nothing. Her voice got stuck in her throat. She wouldn't call him. She knew better.
Tearing up, she looked to the end of the hallway, she could've gone to the sofa, but-
She was just trying to help.
Tears crept into her eyes again, she squeezed the door handle in frustration. Of course it wouldn't be that simple. What was she even thinking? Nothing was ever simple with him.
Sniffing, she decided to sit by the door. Her robe still damp, hair cold against her neck, sending shivers down her spine.
She didn't mean to fall asleep there, didn't know exactly what she was waiting for. She knew Tommy wouldn't open the door and the hours passed.
Her mind just… drifted off from exhaustion.
The feeling of Tommy jumping past her woke her up. She was so cold. Her back hurt badly from the awkward sleeping position. The door was open. Tommy looked down to her, no remorse in his face.
“You'll get sick,” he drawled, he didn't have to say more for her to understand the instruction of getting warm.
It was over now. Things would go back to normal.
♡
Tommy was getting worse through the months. He had slipped to a place she couldn't follow. His office, once more or less tidy, became a mess of paper sheets, a child red scarf became a medallion in his hand.
And like this the days went by. Tommy collected himself in his office and only came out at night. Every tiny moment of normality was gone.
She spent her time by the radio, one hour or two until she got tired of people talking in her ear. A gentle ghost. Waiting for the night to come so she'd see him again.
When it came, quiet and cold, she was already in bed. The smell reached first, opium, in his skin, his hair, his clothes. Takes place of what once was cigarettes and french cologne. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t greet, didn’t look at her properly.
Tommy took off his coat and sat at the edge of the bed, shoulders tense, head low like something was pressing it down. She watched him squeeze his eyes shut as if trying to come back, it was no use, the frightening glassiness remained there. He sighed, licking his lips.
“Tom?” she tried.
No answer.
“…Tom?” she tried again.
This time he moved, but still wasn't listening. He grabbed her wrist, a bit too strongly, and pulled her close. She went with it, wrapping herself around him like a kid with her favorite blanket.
“You know I love you, right?” she whispered, as if magic words could bring him back, “and you can talk to me,”
His breathing changed. Not calm. Slower. Her cheek pressed on his back, she settled there, waiting for him to get his fill of her.
Even if, for the last few weeks, she feared all of her wasn't quite enough…
Tommy took her hand in his, pressing it tighter against his chest hard enough to hurt. She gulped, adjusted herself anyway, using her free hand to trace random patterns on his ribs.
“It's okay now, there you go,” she murmured, barely audible.
Long minutes passed, she felt his back muscles loosening against her chest. They didn't have to say anything. When Tommy reacted again, he still didn't look at her properly. He pulled her under him, guiding her leg around his waist. Not passionately, not intense. A habit, a need, like his whiskey, his opium, his cigarettes.
He firmly pressed his forehead on hers, rubbing his face on hers in nearly ritualistic manner. A claim. As intimate as burning his initials on a horse. She didn’t resist, didn’t question, didn’t ask him to slow down. Her hands found his shoulders, grounding, familiar.
And for the first time that night, he stood on the edge between the living and the dead.
♡
There was a mix of happiness and bewilderment in her chest. Tommy had left the bed early that morning and she wanted to get breakfast ready for when he came back from the graveyard.
However, three confident knocks on the door interrupted her routine.
She served the tea hesitantly. The woman's eyeliner lightened her eyes, the black curls framed the delicate face. Undeniably beautiful.
“Thank you,” her accent was thick.
Sitting down on the kitchen table, she realized being alone with Tommy for so long made her awkward in front of other people. God, she was a social butterfly once.
“How long have you been married?” Kaulo asked.
“A while,” she sipped the tea, “hm, fifteen years,”
“You're Ruby's mother?”
“No,”
They were quiet after that. Purposefully. Kaulo shamelessly observed the house. The walls, the furniture, everything screamed broken, not a king, not a devil, not a gangster. Sizing up the wife, Kaulo continued, “You’ve been here a long time,”
“Yes,” she answered, glad to move out of the Ruby subject, “we moved a few years ago,”
“It suits you,"
“…what does?”
“This,” she gestured vaguely, the stillness of the house, the isolation, “being far away from everything,”
Her eyes dropped, was Kaulo able to see something she couldn't?
“Well, Thomas likes to be away,”
“And do you?”
“Ah,” she scoffed, “I haven't paid a single bill since 1925, I don't have much say,”
“Not everything is about money,”
“Yeah, I know-”
Steps were heard from outside. Tommy got in. Boots covered in mud. Head low and shoulders heavy as always until he noticed the presence of a stranger.
“Tommy,” she started, “this is Kaulo…?”
“Chiriklo,” Kaulo completed, “It means-”
“Blackbird,” Tommy interrupted.
Kaulo stood up, she mirrored. From the look on his face, she knew she shouldn't have let anyone in, “Tom-”
“Get out,” he ordered.
“Tommy,” she gasped, shocked with his reaction.
“You still speak the lingo, that's good,” Kaulo said.
“No,” opening a drawer, Tommy took a pistol and pointed it at her, “get out of my house,”
Kaulo looked at his wife, at the worried look on her face, and smirked. Tommy noticed, slightly shifting his aim.
“Step back,” he told her. She obeyed, hands starting to shake. Then he went back to the invader, “out of my fucking house,”
“There's no running away from your destiny, Mr. Shelby,”
He snapped, shooting the floor near her feet. The wife jumped. Kaulo kept still and added, heading towards the exit, “You've been dead for a long time now, your crook won't stand it too long,”
Alone again. Tommy lowered the gun. The blackbird had come for him.
His eyes met his wife's frightened, delicate figure leaning by the sink.
꒰ ♡ notes ♡ ꒱ > To add on to the nervousness of posting my second Oscar fic, I just had to full send the dark!au version too. Well at least you can say that I don't half ass things. Also new banner format— not great, but okay.
꒰ ♡ warnings ♡ ꒱ > dark!au. dark!Oscar. I spellcheck nothing, ever. George jealousy. He an angry boy. Trying to manipulate the media. Oscar has a very intresting way of watching you in the form of stalking. No smut but he does want to be home inside of you.
Word count: 782
He’s never considered quitting more in his life, or at least swapping teams. Problems purely involving him don’t spark the match of anger, especially not enough yo encourage any drastic decisions. But now they’re involving you— he finds his restraint is torn to shreds when it comes to you.
A twisted spear of anger that strikes at him relentlessly, goading his reaction on. Striking and slashing with every moment, snowballing together.
A sharp slice against his side, each time George crosses the line first.
A beading of red against the line of his jaw with every electrical fault.
A stab again his thigh when he watches George openly having the time to indulge in his win and his love. A pain he multiples when he watches both of them, his teeth clenching at the shared affection.
It was his, with you. It’s always supposed to be his. Last season he was winning. He wasn't hounded by team meetings and this brand of frustration. He was free to watch over you, to protect you, to consume you.
Yet now it's all ruined. Through no fault of his own. His frustration bleeding out with every clipped radio message, with each violent thud of his fists against the steering wheel. His calm facade hanging on for dear life. Every acceptance of blame makes him want to explode, to lash out. They’re taking you away from him and he's powerless to do anything about it.
It’s not enough for them to demand that he spends more time working with them, more time in the sim, more time away from you. They take and they take from him. Planned weekends with you. Time he spends watching you sleep. Time he spends watching you, monitoring you. Time he spends protecting you from the lurking danger he feels every single second of the day, when he’s away from you.
There’s a perverse cruelty to it. One he can’t just take lying down. Blow after blow would make anyone snap.
There’s an attempt to cause problems, to twist the attention he receives from the media. To switch the angle of the trained daggers pointed at him. Comments dropped about the illegal nature of other cars. Errors made by drivers. Errors made by the team— ones he would usually gloss over in front of the microphones, deflecting the damage onto himself as usual. The shake of desperation in his hand, hidden by the media pen barrier. He needs this to work. To get back to you.
He held onto some form of optimism after the first race disaster. You’re his priority, not the car. Deluded into thinking that free time meant he could join you, stalking you— protecting you— through the paddock and hospitality. A warm, guiding hand on your lower back, nails sinking into your skin on the softest side of violent and claiming. Only to be met with a sharp tug on his wrist, dragging him to sit with the team.
It takes everything in him to not cause a scene, to settle for hitting the tip of his pen against the wooden table. Ignoring every glance sent his way, eyes flickering to the data on the tablet and the broadcast on the screen. The repetitive motion escalating with the rage in his chest. Constantly grabbing water to have the chance to pace himself, to calm himself with his heavy thuds against the floor. To get away from the act.
Fighting the urge to strike with the pen, physically lashing out at each tap of his shoulder. Each comment about him getting to relax and how it must be nice. Every smile that crosses anyone’s face— there’s no room for it. He needs the car fixed. He needs the situation fixed. He needs his time with you back. You’re vulnerable on your own.
You’re an animal he needs to protect from harm. Soft, precious, and so warm inside. If you’re here, there’s too many threats surrounding you. Men waiting to pounce, wolves circling your feet. If you’re at home, he’s away from you. Forced to trust that you aren’t lying to him about taking care of yourself over text. It's never to his own standards.
He needs his nails dug into the soft skin of your body. He needs his eyes fixated on every twitch of a muscle. He needs to be close enough to share his air with you, close enough to lap at you with his tongue, to taste your skin. He needs to feed you himself. He needs to be buried as deep as he can possibly reach inside you, with your limbs wrapped around him. That’s what he needs.
I also had some thoughts about a dark!Oscar who’s growing infuriated over the fact that he can’t watch you when he’s had his DNS’s. He keeps getting shepherded into hospitality to watch the races with his team instead of being able to find you.
He’d usually be distracted enough with the actual racing, but now he’s being forced to sit down and act normal. All while anything could be happening to you.
But that’s also even more nervetown.com for me because I’ve only ever done one Oscar fic.
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Also people who wanted dark!crosby from me: I have now technically made a note about him ‘kidnapping’ reader from the brothers at the olympics. Because he doesn’t trust them to even watch over you any longer. He thinks they’ll be a bad influence on you, will put you in harms way, hurt your feelings.
I get nervous writing someone else. But maybe. Maybe he plays on how ‘sad’ he is and how much he needs you around. Maybe.
I would most definitely be interested in seeing what you could or would do with a dark Sidney Crosby x reader… we don’t get many dark Sidney fics ever, mainly since it’s so hard for people to imagine the hockey poster boy of kindness and integrity in such a manner lol.
BUT YOU SEE. THAT ONLY MAKES ME SEE THE VISION MORE.
The idea of him being so perfect and kind on the outside? Only to be dark with you? How nobody would question any of his behaviours because he's just so nice? How he's so respected that he could make pretty much any demand he wanted, even in public, and people still wouldn't bat an eye??
