My Dad And Flew With The Lead Singer Of Aerosmith And I Rode In An Elevator With The Entirety Of Lovejoy

I think I speak for a lot of people when I say this:

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Glass of water (oil on canvas) Artist / Emma May Riley

goodnight lb. sleep tight, remember the wise words

“why you so mad. it’s only game”

i’m going to read that one knies fic that’s been at the top of matthew knies x reader for forever and then i’m gonna find the saddest woll fic and read that.

was fun while it lasted 🫡

aaand will power continues to show that australian men need therapy a lot more than they need motorsport careers.

let’s play 🏒

they'll show a close up of matthew knies and my fucking internal organs start clenching. my uterus is doing somersaults out here

lock tf in my guys

absolutely devastating idk what to say but so SO SO GOOD

afterglow ⛐ 𝐈𝐇𝟔

he isn’t fighting to destroy. he’s fighting to give.

ꔮ starring: underground fighter!isack x girlfriend!reader. ꔮ word count: 2.5k. ꔮ includes: romance, hurt/comfort. alternate universe: non-f1; descriptions of a fight, blood, injuries. isack is a loverboy, reader is a softie, established relationship e.g. childhood best friends -> lovers, google translated french. title is from taylor swift's song of the same name. ꔮ commentary box: listen. listen. i know i said i would stick to the WIPs i currently have, but i've been unable to function with this idea on my mind. i fully blame @binisainz. this is a short one for now; a bit of a pulse check, i guess, to see if people like this concept/couple/verse? let me know! 🥊 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

The crowd is already howling when Isack ducks through the curtains.

It smells like metal and spit back here. Concrete floor slick with old sweat, the low throb of bass rattling his teeth.

All he can think about is you. How you kissed his cheek this morning, barely awake, murmuring something about the cold creeping through the windows. How you curled back into the blanket like a cat, trusting him to go out and do what he always does.

He told you he had errands. That was technically true.

Now, the ring glares under hot lights. A blood-stained mat. Chain-link fence catching every glare like it’s daring someone to look away. The other guy is already inside—tattoos down his arms, jumping on the spot like he’s itching for pain. Isack doesn’t care. Not about the guy. Not about the noise.

He cares about the little shop off Rue de la Liberté, where he saw the secondhand necklace with the gold locket you’d probably never buy for yourself. He cares about the look you’d give him if he managed to hand it to you without a scratch on his face.

He shrugs off his jacket. Rolls his wrists. Breathes in once, steady. His coach, Christian, says something, but it all comes out muffled. His focus has tunneled. There is only the sound of your voice in his memory, bright and impossible: Promise me you won’t get hurt.

Isack apologizes in his head before stepping into the ring.

The cage door shuts with a clang that sounds like punctuation. The other guy smirks. Isack doesn’t flinch.

You’re not here. He would never make you watch, never want you to be in the audience for any of his matches. This is his world. This den of debauchery, this last resort for the desperate. 

But you’re everywhere else. In every breath Isack pulls in through his nose, trying to stay calm. In the way he keeps his stance low, remembering how you once massaged his shoulder after a bad hit. In the fury that doesn’t quite come, because he isn’t fighting to destroy.

He’s fighting to give.

The bell rings.

Fists fly. 

Somewhere in the blur of muscle and motion, he thinks of your laugh. He thinks of the way you once patched his knuckles with ointment and bandages shaped like stars. He thinks of your birthday, only four days away, and how maybe he can afford the locket. Maybe even a cake.

He takes a punch. Spits blood. Laughs.

For the first time in a long while, he has something worth bleeding for.

Isack fights like he always does. Scrappy, sharp, more heart than polish. He’s not as slick as Ollie or as ruthless as Kimi, but he’s reliable in a way people like to bet on. His jabs are fast, his footwork clean, and when he takes a hit, he doesn’t crumble. He recalibrates. Keeps going.

Tonight, he weathers two solid punches to the ribs. Another jab hooks into his jaw and sends stars skittering behind his eyes. Nonetheless, Isack comes back swinging. Left, right, then a knee when his opponent drops his guard. The other guy staggers. The crowd screams.

Isack finishes it clean. A final punch, heavy and sure. The ref pulls him back. It’s over.

His chest heaves. His mouth tastes like rust. But he’s still standing.

Backstage, Christian is already waiting.

“Nice work,” the manager says, all slick grin and fake praise. He hands Isack a rolled-up wad of euros. Lighter than usual.

Isack counts quick, frowns. “This isn’t the full cut,” he grumbles. 

Christian shrugs, too casual. “You got hit too much. Should’ve made it cleaner. Odds dipped in the third round.”

“That’s not—”

“You want the cash or not?” Christian leans in close, voice cold. “Because I can find someone else who wants it more.”

Isack’s jaw tightens. For a second, he sees himself saying no. Walking away. Then he thinks of you, the locket, your birthday.

He pockets the money.

The fluorescent lights make his bruises look worse than they are. He’ll ice the ribs when he gets home. The cut on his jaw isn’t deep. Nothing you’ll see unless he smiles too wide.

Isack walks home instead of taking the bus. It’s a ditch effort to have a bit more money to spend on you. He does mental math the entire way, computing how much he’ll need to get you everything he wants you to have. 

The apartment is peaceful when he lets himself in.

He toes off his shoes gently, careful not to make noise. The hallway is warm, dimly lit by the flicker of your favorite candle on the kitchen counter. It smells like vanilla and something soft beneath it—home, he thinks. It smells like home.

You’re curled up on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, legs tucked underneath you. There’s a book open in your lap, but you’re not reading. The moment he steps in, you’re already looking up.

“Salut,” you say, voice soft but not accusing. “You’re late.”

Isack manages a smile. “Des petites choses à faire,” he murmurs. Little things to do.

You narrow your eyes. For a second, he thinks he’s caught. 

Instead, you shift, patting the cushion beside you. He crosses the room slowly, sitting beside you with practiced ease. Not too stiff, not too slow. He’s done this before—hidden bruises, concealed aches. You press your cheek to his shoulder, humming contentedly.

“I was thinking,” you say lightly, “for my birthday, maybe we go somewhere. Just us. Nothing big. Maybe that little town you always talk about with the old cinema and the broken carousel.”

Isack chuckles and immediately regrets it.

A sharp pain blooms across his ribs. He tries to play it off, but he tenses just slightly. Just enough.

You pull back instantly. “What was that?” you ask, eyes scanning his face. “Are you hurt?” 

“I’m fine.”

“Don’t lie to me, Isack.”

You’re already pushing back your blanket, rising to your feet. He doesn’t stop you when you disappear into the bathroom and return with the first aid kit. There’s a gentle fury in the way you set it down. A kind of heartbreak.

“Shirt off,” you say.

He hesitates. “It’s not that bad.”

“Shirt. Off.”

He sighs, peeling the fabric over his head. The bruise is already forming across his ribs—angry, purple, edged in red. Your eyes spark as you kneel beside him.

“Mon pauvre,” you whisper, dabbing antiseptic across the scrape on his side. He flinches slightly, but doesn’t complain.

“You always come back like this,” you go on. “And you always say you’re fine.”

He watches you work, your touch careful, your brow furrowed in concentration. The only person who’s ever looked at him like he was breakable. You sound weary, and for a moment, it sparks something like concern in him. 

Would this be the night? Would this be the evening you decide enough is enough; you can’t be with someone as battered and bruised and addicted to the thrill as Isack? 

“I just wanted to get you something nice,” he says quietly, trying not to give too much of his plans away. 

You pause.

“Mon amour,” you whisper, lifting your eyes to his. “I don’t need anything you have to bleed for.”

He says nothing. Just takes your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles. “Too late, mon ange,” he says, voice rough. “You’re already everything I’d fight for.”

It had started years and years ago, in the courtyard with the cracked pavement and a broken swing.

You were nine, maybe ten. The older kids had cornered you behind the bike racks, calling you names that stuck like burrs. Isack heard them before he saw you. Your voice was tight and trying not to tremble. He didn’t say anything. 

He just ran at the tallest one, fists flying with all the messy fury of a child who couldn’t stand to see you cry.

He came home with a split lip and a sprained wrist. His mother yelled. Yours baked him cookies. You wouldn’t stop looking at him like he’d hung the moon. He never forgot that.

The fights got cleaner over the years. Less wild, more measured. He trained in secret at first, using borrowed gloves and YouTube videos on his cracked phone. He said it was for self-defense. Everyone knew better. He did it for you.

And now, he still fights.

Not for playground pride, but for rent. For groceries. For birthdays and futures you both pretend to not talk about yet.

He fights so you won’t have to.

But tonight, the bathroom door is cracked open. You’re brushing your teeth in silence; he sees the way your shoulders shake, just barely. The little sniff you try to hide behind a mouthful of foam.

He leans in the doorway, watching for a moment. You blink rapidly at your reflection, fighting tears, trying to smile like it’s nothing. It breaks him.

He steps forward without a word, wraps his arms around you from behind. His chest presses warm against your back. You freeze for a second, toothbrush paused in midair.

“Chérie,” he murmurs against your temple. “Tu pleures.” 

Darling, you’re crying. 

You shake your head.

He hums, unconvinced. “Even your shoulders look sad.”

You let out a wet, reluctant laugh, and he feels your spine soften against his chest. “Want to tell me?” he prompts.

You spit out the toothpaste, rinse, and lean both palms on the sink. “It just… got a bit heavy today,” you say, watching Isack through the mirror. “Everything. You. Money. I don’t know.”

He rests his chin on your shoulder, swaying the two of you gently. “I know. But we’ll be alright, mon ange. You and me, always.”

Your eyes meet his in the mirror. Red-rimmed but warm. He presses a kiss behind your ear. “No one gets to hurt you, not even life. Compris?” he hums. 

You nod, wiping your cheek. “Compris.”

He hugs you tighter.

In the mirror, you both look a little ridiculous. Tired and young and too soft for this world. But you also look like something solid. Something that doesn’t break.

The sheets are cool against your skin as the two of you slide into bed. You shift to make space, and Isack follows, slower, careful with the bruises he hasn’t admitted to. The bedroom is dim, lit only by the soft glow of the streetlamp outside your window. There’s something about this hour that strips everything down. Even him.

Here, he isn’t the fighter people bet on. He’s not the boy who threw punches for pride or the man who bleeds to make rent.

He’s just your Isack. 

He curls behind you, one arm draping over your waist, his nose pressed into the crook of your neck. You can feel the tension still tucked in his shoulders, the thoughts still churning behind his silence.

You reach back, threading your fingers through his. “You’re thinking about taking another fight.”

He hesitates. Breathes in deep. “Maybe. Just—”

“No.”

You turn to face him fully, eyes shining even in the dark. “I mean it, amour. I don’t want anything for my birthday if it means watching you come home like this.”

He tries to protest, but you cut him off with a hand on his chest.

“You’re enough. Just you. In one piece.”

The silence that follows is thick. He stares at the ceiling like it might give him another way forward. But then he looks at you and sees the worry still lingering around your mouth, the exhaustion clinging to your frame. He thinks of all the times you’ve cried in the bathroom, thinks of the first aid kit that has to get restocked every couple of months. 

He sighs, presses a kiss to your forehead, decides to give you this. 

“D’accord,” he whispers. Alright. “No fight. Not for your birthday.”

You smile, triumphant and relieved all at once, and reward him with a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. Then another. And another. His breath catches when you kiss the tender spot along his jaw, just above the bruise.

He chuckles under his breath. “You always win,” he grumbles, trying and failing to sound upset about it. 

“Only when it matters,” you say before going in to press your lips against his. 

He pulls you close, tucks you into him like a secret, and lets his guard fall entirely. He falls asleep to you softening all of his edges. Chaste kisses, breathless giggles, gentle touches. Isack’s last thought before slipping out of consciousness is that he could live a thousand lifetimes and probably still not deserve you. 

He dreams that night.

You’re laughing in the sun, barefoot in some place he can’t name. Your arms are outstretched, your hair whipped by the wind. You call his name like it’s always meant to belong to you.

He chases after you, light-footed, weightless. The sky is a soft blue. The kind that exists only in dreams. His heart thumps, thumps, thumps in his chest the way only you can make it beat, adrenaline and fighting be damned. 

The dream shifts. 

It bleeds from the sunlight to the darkness, from the sunny outside to your shared apartment. You’re crying. Not loudly, not messily—soundless tears, falling as you stand in a crumbling kitchen with a bill in one hand and nothing in the fridge. He calls for you. You don’t hear him.

He opens the leather wallet you got him for his seventeenth birthday. It’s empty. His hands are bruised, bloodied. His knuckles won’t stop bleeding.

He cannot help you. He cannot reach you. He doesn’t deserve—

Isack wakes with a start.

The bedroom is still dark, but it feels smaller, suffocating. His heart beats in the cage of his ribs like it wants to escape. Beside him, you’re curled against his chest, breathing steady, your hand resting gently at his sternum.

He blinks up at the ceiling, jaw tight.

You don’t stir when he carefully slips out of bed. You don’t feel the draft when he shrugs on a hoodie, tugs jeans over legs that still ache. You don’t hear the pen scratch against paper as he writes, just three words:

Running errands, amour.

He places the note on the nightstand. Stares at it longer than he needs to. Then he’s gone.

The hallway is colder than he remembers. The elevator groans.

Outside, dawn bleeds into the horizon. A light wind stings his face as he pulls out his phone. Fingers hover, hesitate, then dial.

It rings once. Twice. Then:

“Christian.” 

Isack swallows hard. “Give me one more match.”

Silence.

Then, a laugh, low and knowing. “Just one?” 

“Just one. That’s it.”

“Same rules. Same cut. You in or not?”

Isack looks back up at the apartment window.

You’re up there, dreaming still. Safe—for now. Isack thinks of the locket, of cake, of the town you want to visit and the food in the refrigerator. 

He thinks of you. He’s always thinking of you. 

“I’m in,” Isack breathes.

The line goes dead. ⛐

gasped out loud when i saw this posted

perv | pt. 2 | s. crosby

after being called out for his perverted actions, he gets a taste of his own medicine.

warnings: smut (18+ ONLY MDNI, piv, oral, for visual purposes only), sidney being a perv,

retired!sidney crosby x younger!fem reader

read pt. 1 here

"i was wondering, if you'd wanna see the real thing?"

sidney was sure he was in a dream. how did he end up here? how did he get himself in this promiscuous situation? oh, right. he was being a perv, that's how.

he was frozen in time. his mouth slightly agape as he was stuck, watching her- the stunning young woman in front of him take her bikini top off. the top strings come undone, gravity making them fall and unfold on top of her stomach. god, he feels like a teenager again, remembering what it felt like looking at a playboy magazine for the very first time. hard. painfully hard.

then she reaches around her back, pulling at the delicate bow that sidney had politely tied for her. then, it falls.

she steps closer to him, reaching for his hand. inside she's freaking out a little bit- why hasn't he said anything? but she pushes the thoughts aside and takes his hand, forcing him to palm her breast. he breathes in sharply, biting his lip.

"y'know sidney, i've heard rumors about hockey players," she whispers, leaning into his touch as his hand plays with her breast.

"probably all bad," he chokes out. he takes his other hand and rests it on her back, pulling her closer to him while he squeezes lightly on her round flesh.

"just mostly, that hockey players only care about themselves in bed," he hums, "they only have one setting when they're fucking women," he raises his eyebrow.

"and what might that be?" he teases, the tip of his nose just centimeters away from hers.

"rough. hard, fast," she runs her hands up his chest, she can feel the toned but soft muscles that are underneath his soft t shirt. she feels his breath pattern change, his eyes have grown a little bit darker by now. "i've even heard that they can't even make a woman cum." he grins, "is that true, sidney?"

by now, his hands have started to play with the strings on the bottom pice of her bikini. he's lightly playing with the bows that are holding it together, teasing to pull them apart.

"partially," he grips her hips, pulling her close to him as he starts to walk backwards into a hallway. "what part is not true?" she responds.

he opens the door to his bedroom. he backs her up to the bed, the back of her knees hitting the mattress and forcing her to sit on the bed. he stands in front of her, taking off his shirt to reveal his broad, tan chest. she takes in a deep breath.

"not true? that i can't make women cum," he takes her legs in his hands, spreading them as wide as she would let them go for him. she bites her lip while feeling his rough hands smooth over her soft thighs. she lays back on her elbows as he sinks to his knees, putting her legs over his shoulders.

he stares at the bright red, thin material that's been keeping him from getting the good stuff this whole time- it's been taunting him. he presses his nose up against her clothed cunt, taking in a deep inhale of her scent. she doesn't know whether to be turned on or turned off, but the feeling of his nose pressed up against her clit is heavenly. he mouths at her pussy a couple times, his teeth grazing against her clit draws a moan from her. he chuckles.

"you sure you wanna keep going?" he asks.

"now you're asking for consent? after taking pictures of me, groping my breasts, and putting your nose in my pussy?" she laughs, untying her bottom piece and shimmying to get it off, tossing it onto the floor. "get to work sidney, show me you're not lying about that rough and fast part."

he takes a rough grip on her thighs, fingers digging into the soft flesh of her thighs there's going to be bruises in the morning. he doesn't care, she asked for it to be rough. he spits on her pussy, taking his tongue and pressing it flat against her clit, shaking his head side to side.

out of pure physical response she spreads her legs wider, arching her back off the mattress. she moans, feeling the hot, wet friction against her clit. sidney pulls back to get a breath, kissing the inside of her thigh just briefly before sucking at her folds. inserting his tongue into her hole, then licking up a stripe along her wet cunt.

she's giggling out of pleasure, gripping the sheets and moaning into the air. she takes a hand and stuffs it into his salt and pepper hair, gripping tightly, as if she is holding him in place. "don' stop," she breathed out, grinding her cunt up against his mouth. she feels him smile against her, what a dirty dog.

he starts to lap up her juices, licking fat stripes up and down her cunt. she's giving him the loudest moans he's ever gotten, letting out a string of curses with his name mixed in with it.

"please," she inhales sharply when he wraps his lips around her clit and sucks harshly, "ohmygod- fuck i'm cumming sidney!" she shrieks, gripping onto his hair he thinks she might pull some of it out.

with just a few short hard sucks, she cums on his tongue just like he wanted her to. squeezing her thighs around his head, his ears ring just a little bit before he spreads them with his hands. one more lick to her cunt, getting every last drop on his tongue, he swallows everything she just gave him. dirty.

she sits up, brushing her hair back with her fingers and reaching for the waist band of his shorts. she pulls his hard cock out, grinning at how big he is. that gets his ego going.

she licks her hand, jacking him while looking deep in his eyes. this girl is going to kill him- and they only met twenty minutes ago.

"goddamn- lay back again. all the way on the bed," sidney climbs on the bed with her, keeping her legs spread as he stood on his knees in between them. he picked her up by the back of her thighs, pulling her against him to line his dick up with her aching hole.

he took his thumb, pressing it against her clit as he drug his tip through her folds. he got a kick out of watching her facial expressions, her eyes screwing shut as he teased her pussy. "ohmy- please put it in sidney-"

she let out a sharp gasp as he started to press inside of her, hearing him moan as he slipped inside her tight hole. "suckin me in baby," he pressed the palms of his hands on either side of her head, inching in all the way in her cunt until he couldn't go any further.

he saw tears brimming her eyes, for a second he felt bad but then he felt her thighs squeeze around him, pulling him forward as close as he could get. "it hurts so good," she breathed out, dragging her nails down his chest.

"yeah? you like your hole stuffed full of cock don't you?" she nodded her head while he started to thrust. starting off slowly, grinding into her in and out, in and out, in..and...out.

"keep going," she arched her back and moaned, locking her hands around his neck to try and bring him closer but he isn't budging. he wants to stay above her, to watch, to analyze. see how she's reacting to his big and bad attitude.

he hasn't picked up his pace, he's stayed slow and steady for at least a minute. it's driving her crazy, he can tell. and he loves it.

"c'monnnn sidney, is that all you got?" she whines, nails scraping down his shoulders, trying to get him to do something. "thought you were s'posed to be...fuckin' rough..or something," she whined in between thrusts from sidney.

"you want rough?" she nodded eagerly, "yeah baby?" he pulled out just halfway.

then suddenly he pushed back in, and started to push her halfway off the bed. the only part of her on the mattress were just her hips and nothing else. "fuckin' take it then," he said through gritted teeth.

holding onto her hips with an iron grip he fucked her hard, rough, and fast. just like she asked. the bed was creaking with every thrust he made and she was moaning and whining with every deep thrust she made, hitting her g spot every time.

he was deep inside of her, and she was so overwhelmed with pleasure. she shrieked again when she felt her orgasm coming along fast, her hands gripping onto the carpet underneath her while she felt him abuse her cunt with every snap of his hips.

"fuckin' cum baby, cum hard for me please-" that was all he had to say before she was screaming his name in pleasure, her orgasm coming like a tidal wave over her body. she felt her arms give, before she was going to fall completely sidney held onto her legs, using his strength to pull her up and face him again.

still inside of her, he kindly brushed hair out of her face and brushed his hands along her flushed cheeks.

"was that enough for you? or you want more?" he teased, both of his hands gripping her ass hard to keep her in place.

she's still catching her breath, but she lets out a light laugh, "give me all you got, captain."

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