#dark!sidney

You could argue that Sidney’s increasing more ‘careless’ after finding himself seeping into your social bubble. His attention pin point focused on you the second his name left your lips. The forbidden peel of the apple glistening with every second he spends hooked on you. The way your face flushes under his gaze is dangerous. The way you stammer over your words when you’re alone with him. The way you preen over his complements and honeyed words.

The risk of the age gap, of the power dynamics, looks like sin to his head. The scoop of vanilla ice cream sliding across the edge of the hot, chocolate fudge dessert. His mouth salivating at the idea of consumption. Of ruin. Gouging himself of the sweetness. How you’d melt on his tongue in the same way. How you’d fill his mouth with your taste. How you’d be even hotter wrapped around his cock.

It’d be easy to twist and manipulate you. Unafraid to wield his public personality and behaviour over your head. A way of dragging you deep into the trenches of his depravity. You’d feel too safe and secure with him, doubting that someone as well liked as him would be as twisted as he is. There’s an increased amount of baked in leeway to everything he does— you’d accuse yourself of overthinking if he does something wrong, so convinced that he was some form of pure angel descending to grace you with even a second of his time.

Luring you so blindly into the trap feels like pure intoxication. So willingly happy to follow him down.

You’re an excited puppy dog jumping all over him, when he offers to take you for a meal. Resting your hand on his bicep, resting your weight against him— blinded in a way that borders on insanity. He does charity. He’s the good guy. There’s no flags he could raise in your head. He’s a blissful quiet, a man you can just trust. Following him around on cloud nine after being the focus of his attention.

You don’t blink when he takes control of every decision— the way he cuts you off when you go to order your own food, bulldozing over your choices under the guise of knowing what’s good and what’s not. Another brick in the wall of his personality, another controlling flaunt of his success. More reasons to smother your doubt, to smother the tiny alarm that exists somewhere in your head.

It deepens the sense of power and control he feels over you, when he forcefully takes over. Wielding the knife slowly to cut your food for you— slow enough to draw your attention, your eyes focused on every directed saw of the metal. A crushing heaviness sliding over your head. Eyes turning half lidded at the dynamic. Your body sliding into the headspace that he refuses to explain, refuses to disturb.

It's frightful— looking in from the outside. The way he throws his PR training and media avoidance in the fire further with each passing day. His prior avoidance of media catching glimpses of his true personal life smudged away by his desire to surround you, to cage you in. To fuel the greed that creeps and hovers under his skin, the need to demonstrate that you’re his.

He pulls back from his responsibilities— making more time for you. His charity work dips, since he already has his claws in. He pulls away from his team, rejecting team dinners and home visits. He keeps up the lie with you, fabricating texts and excuses. He pretends he’s upped the charity work. He pretends that it’s the team pulling out of things, ‘isolating’ him, if anything. Another angle he can work with you, drowning you in the pity you feel for him. Manipulating you into spending even more time with him, taking away your laughable fears of ruining his life.

He has you over more— barbs twisted into your head methodically. He’s concerned about you being alone, so he wants to keep you company. Wants to ‘not put you out’, taking the ‘burden’ of having you over his instead of the other way around. He needs you to be able to adjust to spending your life with him. He needs to see you cuddled against him, obliterating every boundary or concern in your head. To be able to touch you, to hold you over the blanket. The thick fleece muffling the heat from his palms— just enough to keep it comforting and secure.

He ignores you slowly falling into sleep, your eyes fluttering and your reaction to the flashing lights on the TV slowing down with every scene— an excuse to carry you into his bed. To play house with your dozed off body.

Your actions start feeling malicious to him. The naive, cluelessness that he’s taken advantage of coming back to bite him. You start pulling away, having excuses too quickly ready for his invitations. You’re apologetic— his mask truly making you believe that he's unconcerned if you spend time with someone else. If he gets to have a break from wanting you to not be alone. Your view poisoned by outside sources— comments about how busy he must be put on your plate. Sowing the seeds of doubt.

He's unimpressed with your choices, a black mark against the vision of you in his head. He's convinced you to share your location with him— just to ease his brain. To make up for you spending less time together, the ‘least you could do’ spat with a twinge of exposed spite. Irritation flaring with every blip and refresh of your marker. Out of everyone to latch on to, it just had to be the Hughes brothers.

It's concerning to him how you’re fully unaware of the sharks nipping at your ankles. A film of jealously covering his tongue, the faint taste of bile rising up his throat from the looks they send you. The filth so clear in their eyes to him. The burning knife prick against his skin with every casual arm thrown around your shoulder.

It’s too dangerous for you to be around them. Too fragile to shoulder the hurt they’ll push on you. The rumours he hears about them, their social media activity. It's despicable to him. The casual disregard and poison towards you, covered up by boat trips and locker room talk. The sexist jokes that would break your heart thrown back and forth with a practised ease when they’re separated from you.

They’d corrupt everything pure about you. Would hurt you in ways he couldn’t let himself allow. They’d dismantle you piece by piece and build you into something stained. Someone he could no longer influence, could no longer save.

You need him to save you, to provide for you. To lock your purity behind bars, a glass cage designed to keep you frozen. You need his good influence to smother you as a blanket of warmth and protection. You need him to shield you from anyone or anything that wishes you harm.

He strikes a balance. His arms wrapped around your body just a fraction tighter, wishing he could join you with his skin. Could join you with metal encapsulating your finger. Demanding you text him more, pushing forward ignoring any boundary walls. He has the locker room conversations recorded— his reputation opening every door. The video branded into his phone. The sight of them laughing at you, belittling your talents, your friendship, your personality. Every second of venom ready to be wielded.

The Olympic call is awfully timed. The world plotting against him, only fuelling his rage and need to isolate you. The news dropping when you’re away from him, stolen away by them. You're so enthusiastic about being invited to go with them, so excited to watch everyone close to you play against each other. Forcing him to concede, to let you go. The phone violently thrown at the wall, the screen cracking mimicking his control being stretched thin. His knuckles whitening with the thought of you being with both of them— in the same room. Sleeping together, vulnerable.

Visions of them taking physical advantage of you, manhandling you together. Constricting your limbs in their hands, trapping you with depravity. Smothering your light, painting your skin with their sin. A trapped rabbit, stuck with them for days on end. When he’s too busy to track you, to check in with you, to save you.

His breathing’s harsh and ragged when he rests against the doorframe of the room you share with them— would and concerned after the brutal tournament. The doubling down on their actions visible to everyone, the shutters lifted. His nails stabbing into the shoddily painted wooden frame at the sight of faded tear tracks sliding down the soft skin of your cheek. Impurity trying to escape from your body, sin drained with every drop.

He thinks he’s having a panic attack, witnessing the crime scene you were sucked into. The arms looped around yours in the bed, keeping you in place. One hand sinking into his own flesh as a punishment for leaving you to this fate— no matter how much he was forced into submission. The uneven rise of your chest, the subtle shakes of your body. It's heartbreaking and nerve damaging. Shattered porcelain. His rage wants to lash out, to strangle your captors. A white hot heat hijacking control of his muscles.

You need him to take control. You need him to help you. A mantra driving his body deeper into the room, each footstep a turn of the key in the lock. His arms reaching for you just as he’s practised when you play house. Scooping up the shattered segments. It’s his fault for not wanting to frighten you, thinking you need to take it slow. He doesn’t think the videos will leave you, or their behaviour. You’ll doubt your self worth, you’ll doubt your own intelligence.

You’ll lash out, questioning how you were blind to their actions and feelings. They’ll have done damage— clearly forcing you to stay with them after. A brutal torturing, too stupid and dangerous to treat you like you deserve.

You look injured, draped in his arms. His one arm under your legs, the other smothering your back. Weak, scared, traumatised. He’ll fix it. He’ll save you. He’ll worship you. He’ll make you forget everyone but him.

He’s giddy— when you’re in his car. The simple act of sorting your seatbelt fills him with even a scrap of joy to combat the seething feelings. His first real act of protecting you, even when you’re fast. The first hour of your true time together, unshackled from the restraints he’s tied around himself.

His head pushing back against the headrest, breathing through the need to cage you in against the seat, to be a physical shield against the world that’s dared to harm you. To choke on your scent, to kiss every inch of your skin. To glue you back together, to press his tongue as a balm against your cracks.

You’ll only know his bed. Your every whim spoiled, safe from the dangers of men, safe from having to make decisions, to do anything that isn’t revolving around him. No work, no friendships to manage. Nothing to hurt you.

Sinking to his knees next to you on the couch, forcing himself as low as he can go— he needs to be unthreatening, safe for you when you wake to face the music. His fingers twisting through your hair, his breath against your face, matching with yours. He swears you seem more at peace, now you’re with him. The furrow of your forehead softened. He’ll dismantle every doubt in your head, drowning you with his love.