#sidaddy

cw — strangely, a lot of angsty angst; sidney being... sidney (gracie's version); references to a past sexual encounter; not super descriptive smut (pretty tame for me ngl); panty sniffing teehee; voyeurism + f masturbation; kinda sorta exhibitionism/risky location; degradation/name-calling balanced out by some praise; orgasm control + denial, edging then overstim; dacryphila; cameo from two of my fav gentlemen ;)

A newly born fawn can stand within ten to twenty minutes of entering the world and is able to manage walking after several hours—albeit, rather ungracefully. With time, fawns do become more sure-footed and less likely to stumble or fall, usually experiencing pervasive wobbliness and frequent fatigue, which wanes over weeks. In the meantime, however, their weak limbs won't carry them very far. 

A few feet of grass and pavement would be doable. Uncoordinated and slow, though not impossible. 

But you are not a baby deer, regardless of how similar your strides may appear. A resemblance so uncanny that it's the first remark made by each and every party guest you pass on your trek up the driveway. 

Overdid yourself at the gym, you fib with the limp, "Don't worry about it," swipe of your hand through the warm evening air. Either too oblivious or intoxicated, not one bats an eye despite the mountain of evidence piled on your face—and dripping down your inner thighs.

The shameless, self-satisfied sound of Sidney Crosby's amusement slipping through his fingers—ones which still carry a suspiciously tart scent—isn't helping but is just as easily overlooked. 

As you stumble through the party, still bustling as ever, you begin to think he lied when he turned down your parents'—and his—street. When he said the punishment was over, that you'd earned his forgiveness. Just another empty promise strung together with hollow words from his silver tongue. 

He was enjoying your misery too much for it to be accidental. Sidney wasn't overly affectionate or even that warm of an individual. Charming and magnetic, but never sweet or sentimental. It was something you were still grappling with, still trying to make peace with. He wasn't a monster, just cooly indifferent.

Which is why a (stupid) part of you expected some small benevolence after you opened your legs for him—again. 

Like, for instance, returning your panties instead of pocketing them. Or, not making you mingle with half the town with your own shame sliding down past the hem of your skirt—what a concept! 

It could be worse. He did say he planned to hang them from the rearview mirror or stash them in his center console. The chances of someone accidentally stumbling upon the sullied snow-white cotton were significantly lower, with them balled in the back pocket of his well-loved denim, than either alternative. 

Sidney Crosby ruined your night and your mood, but worst of all, several orgasms. All because he didn't "appreciate" the silent treatment. 

Hypocrite. 

"Don't ignore me," said the man who flaked on your father's poker night. 

"Don't ignore me," said the man who hadn't bothered to call, despite going out of his way to ask your mother for your phone number—lead on a job, my ass. 

"Don't ignore me," said the man who brought a date to your parents' anniversary party, then scowled like someone shit in his Cheerios when an acquaintance of yours from high school wanted to walk down memory lane. 

"Don't ignore me," said the man who crashed your attempt to escape his punitive glare of disapproval. 

He was easy enough to ignore even if it was his car you were riding shotgun in. Plenty of buttons to busy yourself with and an endless array of distractions beyond the large tinted window. Sidney Crosby was little more than a gnat buzzing around your head. Unpleasant and obnoxious, but bearable. 

Until the kind, naïve cashier complimented the "adorable couple," and, naturally, asked how long they'd been together. An innocuous question to which the older man scoffed, and promptly corrected her outlandish assumption, leaving her apologetically rosy-cheeked. 

After setting the replenishment of bottles and cans in the backseat, you shut the Range Rover's door a bit too harshly. You weren't surprised to feel his displeasure boring into your temple as the engine hummed to life. 

In no mood for a lecture, you cut off whatever prim, self-righteous bullshit he had to say at the knees, "You're pissed I slammed the door, I'm pissed you were a dick to the teenager who doesn't get paid enough to deal with your awful lack of tact. We're even, alright?" 

"She speaks," was his astute, amused comeback. 

He put the car in reverse and backed out of the spot with his hand braced against your headrest. 

You couldn't stomach his inconsistent ambivalence a second longer. 

Hands thrown up in defeat, frustration burst from your mouth. "Why are you acting like I don't exist? As if...as if—" 

He waited for you to complete your thought, but it's one you'd never finish. You hardly allowed yourself to think it most nights. It shouldn't matter if you matter to him.

But the universe has a sick sense of humor. 

"You're... confusing. I don't—I don't get you." 

Sidney simply sighed, his eyes trained on the vacant road ahead. "You'll understand when you're older." 

"Jesus, what's next?" You couldn't help but snort at the cliché throwaway line. "What I was your age...?' or 'Back in my day...?' I am on the edge of my seat, Mr. Crosby." 

"Quit it. I'm in no mood to deal with your dramatics tonight, kid. I'm already at my limit with you." 

The feeling was very much mutual. 

"Make me." 

A horrible, mocking sound erupted from the driver's side that made you want to curl into yourself and never unravel. The only thing worse than being ghosted, it seemed, was the outright rebuff of your advances. 

For a long while, the only sound was the gentle, steady hum of the AC; Sidney wasn't a "radio person."

Eye-roll. You started to think you weren't a "Sidney person." 

After your fourth or fifth—you'd lost count by now—Sidney looked at you in his periphery. His coal-black stare made you giddy in a way that made you feel equally as silly.

You hated wanting him more than you could ever hate him. 

With an exaggerated sigh of his own, Sidney stuck out his hand. Palm up, directly over the center console. 

"What the hell am I supposed to do with that?" you spat, brows pinched in confusion. 

You felt his growl in your ribs, but that twinge was nothing when compared to what his subsequent command did to your mind and body. 

"Take off whatever excuse for undergarments you put on with in me in mind, and put them in my hand." 

Time froze, and so did you. 

"I won't ask again." 

You don't make him. 

You bunched your skirt up to the creases of your thighs without another peep, and your heart pounded so roughly in your ears that it made your vision blur and blacken around the edges. Nervous fingers trembled as they hooked into the delicate garment and pulled them down your thighs. As you lifted your rear, cold air flooded the intimate place, and you nearly lost your nerve. With the soft cotton stretched impatiently at your knees, your head whipped from side to side to scrutinize your surroundings. Then, with the coast as clear as it would ever be, you surrendered them.  

He chuckled at your paranoia, finding it oddly endearing, and continued to do so even after his prize was secured, bundled safely in his clutches.  

Mr. Crosby brought them to his face. He inhaled deeply, much to your chagrin, and he kept them squarely under his nose for three intersections in spite of your palpable embarrassment. There was more to blame your squirming on than just the chill of the air conditioning. 

"Can you... like, not?" you mumbled as you shrunk into the passenger seat, mortified. 

"What's the matter? Feeling shy?" He laughed into the creamy center of the fabric. 

You swear his tongue slipped out, but it was too dark to know for certain. Your body didn't need confirmation to tremble. Out of discomfort... or fear... 

Arousal? 

"—you weren't five seconds ago when you stripped in my front seat for anyone to see. Or when you let me fuck you with your father on the other side of the door. Me, his best friend. But that's where you draw the line?" 

You, quiet as a mouse, shifted uncomfortably on the cool leather until your gaze couldn't leave the neighborhoods blurring together beyond the dark glass. 

Sidney Crosby wasn't the most delicate with emotions, but this was cruel even for him. You know he can see right through you, and to leverage your... whatever you feel just to belittle you for his own amusement wasn't something you thought to worry about. It wasn't a possibility you considered, but maybe you should've. 

You don't turn at the sound of your name, but you do hum in acknowledgment. 

"I'm not poking fun at you, kid, I promise." 

The sincerity in his low timbre tugged on your heartstrings, and soon, your eyes were back on the opposite side of the SUV. 

He wasn't looking at you, but his attention never split or wavered. "I asked you to do that because I'd been thinking about you—and the way your sweet pussy smelled—since Christmas. Five fucking months... tormented by the memory. I apologize if I took it too far." 

Some emotion, one you could not bear to label, bubbled up your throat as you chewed on his words. Fearful you might be eclipsed by a shadow of doubt, you shoved it right the hell down in favor of your preferred fall-back. 

"Make it up to me?" 

You knew you were offering yourself up on a silver platter. And you did feel unsure about it—the action, the potential consequences, and the plethora of ways you would, more than likely, be hurt. However, when regret crept in, belated and benign, it hadn't mattered. 

"Tempting. Later—if you behave. Right now, I want to watch." 

Your stupid, malleable heart flipped over a cracked door.

Throat clenched, you gulped. "What about... Shouldn't you focus, I don't know, on not killing us?" 

"Shouldn't you focus on the ache between those pretty thighs?" 

One light change. From green to yellow and finally, red—that was all the time you required to heed Sidney's sardonic counsel and cave to your body's needs. That was how quickly you wound up with one knee hiked up and bent, resting against the soft material of the center console. Your eagerness displayed proudly, glittering as it caught in the streetlights that lead back toward reality. 

Sidney Crosby had you halfway to spread-eagle in the passenger seat of a moving vehicle with your hands up the skirt he wanted to burn—and he refused to let you cum. 

Every time you got close, he made you stop. A few times, he even barred you from touching yourself anywhere at all. He would coach you to the brink, pushing you closer and closer each time, but Sidney always stopped you short of the finish line. He repeated this pain-pleasure torture until you were sobbing at his side, a smirk splayed wide across the lower half of his otherwise stoic face. 

"What's wrong?" He asked as if he cared. 

"It's not—I need... I-I need more—need you." 

You hardly recognized your own voice. Too pitchy and distant, you wouldn't have, if not for the way the words scratched your delicate throat as they came up. You choked on your own salty tears. 

He liked making you cry a little more than could be considered healthy. But what he liked even more was how, even with the ability to take pleasure at your own hand, you wouldn't. You couldn't. You needed him—his approval, his permission, his touch. You were useless without him. 

"Tough shit, slut," Sidney replied. 

Free of malice, you would've considered the name affectionate—an endearment, almost—if it came from anyone else. 

"You get what you deserve, and you haven't earned my fingers, let alone my cock. I'm damn sure of it." 

You made a wet, woeful sound that almost made him pity you. Almost. If he hadn't been driving, he might have given in just to squeeze out more pathetic whimpers. 

He was glad to have resisted the urge in the deserted parking lot to bend you over the hood of his car, and he was proud of himself for not jerking the car onto the shoulder to take you in the backseat. Sidney's resolve had dwindled significantly as the drive dragged on, chipped away by your sad eyes and even sadder sounds and the guilt he couldn't stifle. 

Sidney couldn't give you what you wanted, but he could provide a substitute. A poor one, by both your standards, but you'd make do. 

"Alright, alright. Quit your whining. If you want to cum tonight, you'll do the work yourself. Go on, big girl, you wanted to be grown so badly. Take care of the problem like a grown-up." 

You listened, and you stumbled over the edge almost instantly. 

Your fingers were desperate to make the best of a bad situation. A mixed bag, in reality, one you won't bother to sort through until it's unavoidable. And, before long, you were writhing into your own touch, imagining it was his instead like you have every night since he had you in the bathroom at your parents' holiday party. 

Until headlights flashed, bright and commanding like the alarms that failed to sound in your head whenever Sidney Crosby was involved. Three fingers remained knuckle-deep when your body, still reeling from your latest peak, seized up in fear.  

"Did I tell you to stop?" came his strict, no-nonsense censure. 

Your head wagged; he knew your answer without needing to look. 

He offers you the hand that took your panties from you. This time, though, you didn't need further instruction. As you suckled, his thumb massaged your warm tongue. 

"Stop thinking. You don't have to worry about anything ’sides fucking your fingers the way you'd fuck mine, and sucking my thumb the way I know you'd suck my cock." 

When he pulled to a stop at the red light, he took full advantage of the momentary reprieve. Sidney leaned so close, the heat of his lips pressed to your skin without ever truly touching you. It was pure maddens, but his words were worse: "—maybe I'll let you. If you're a good little girl and prove, you're worthy of the honor." 

Tears streamed down your hot cheeks. The salty, silvery rivers glistened in the passing lights of house lights and other cars. Sidney's fingers twitched against the wheel as they resisted the urge to scoop them up and suck them down. 

What a waste. 

His thumb slipped from your mouth as your grip on his wrist and forearm slackened. Sidney braced himself for whatever trivial complaint you meant to voice this time. 

"But... but I—fuck... N-No more... can't—can't do it, can't do another one. P-Please—don't m-make me..." 

If he hadn't been so irritated, he would have found your garbled, sputtering mess of a plea humorous. Instead, he felt it was an inconvenience. Sidney did not understand why you were behaving like an insolent brat when you getting the attention you tugged his sleeve for. 

"First, you beg for it, and now you're whining to stop. Which is it? Make up your mind and use your big girl words." 

You did. 

And you're still wearing the product of your repeated efforts nearly an hour later, your head as fuzzy as ever. Several times, your spaciness has been commented on or lightly joked about, but you lack the energy to give a shit. You're too out of it to even muster up annoyance. 

Deciding to call it a night, you quietly slip away from your parents. They're too wrapped up in playing gracious hosts to notice, accepting overpriced, useless gifts and congratulations like it's their full-time jobs. 

On the way to your bedroom, you're intercepted. 

"There she is, Miss Master's Degree! How've you been, honey? Keeping out of trouble?" 

You allow yourself to be scooped up by the younger of the two brothers huddled in a corner of the family room, and a genuine smile isn't difficult to find. 

"Knock it off, Tommy," Mr. Miller chides after your feet have been returned to the ground. "You of all people should know how, and I quote, fucking lame the Adult World is. I'd be more concerned about her dying of boredom than getting into any trouble." 

"Oh, don't worry. I've found ways to amuse myself," you reply with an easy laugh. 

Neither catches the innuendo, but it reaches the intended audience. 

Hearing the familiar grumble of ire, you politely excuse yourself. "I am so sorry, but I need to lie down. My head is killing me." 

Mr. Miller's warm brown eyes glisten with paternal sympathy. He rubs between your shoulder blades. "Of course, sweetheart. You've had a crazy last couple of months. Stop by when you're feeling better, okay? Sarah and Ellie miss their favorite babysitter." 

You smile and nod an affirmative before stepping away. 

Your spot between the brothers is swiftly filled by two of their endless admirers, eager to chat up the introverted widower with two pre-teen daughters and his flirtatious veteran of a younger brother. You don't blame them. They were as easy on the eyes as they were to talk to, and, in a world of boys, two southern gentlemen were a rare commodity. A hot one, too. 

The younger Miller wouldn't have caused any brows to rise if you brought him to Thanksgiving. 

With your hand coasting over the banister, you find yourself wishing it were Tommy—or even Mr. Miller, you couldn't get off your mind instead of... 

Shaking your head, you trot up the stairs, slipping into the darkness without a second glance. You weren't kidding about the migraine. 

He waits fifteen minutes before disappearing into the same shadows. 

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