found without looking
brad marchand x f!reader cw: NSFW, 18+, smut w/ plot, fluff, age gap (reader is 27), disapproving parents, mentions of hate comments, praise kink, marriage, usage of pet names like baby + baby girl, brad thinking hes funny asf, established relationship, little bit of a breeding kink at the end (i wouldn't worry about it tho), not proofread wc: 5.7k plot: scenes from a marriage; you begin to realise you don't need to prove you and brad's love to anyone, content with what you have and the little moments that feel larger than life.
You’re not unfamiliar with the expectation of disappointment.
It just hurt a little more when that great weight came from everyone in your life twiddling their thumbs waiting for your marriage to fail and burn into a wreck. It’s easy to understand that as humans: you may act disgusted, hold your stomach as it churns, and mumble your dismay but wondering eyes will always turn to watch as failure implodes on itself. To gawk as the body of a flame turns what once was to dust and ember. And maybe, in your less extreme case, as thousands of fans awaited on borrowed time for your divorce to come as quick as your marriage did. Thanks internet, You would often grumble into his bare shoulder in early morning discussion as he prepared to shatter your heart and leave you for another day of practice. A daily routine that has fallen snugly into place with the recentness of your union, into the newness of your house
What had felt like millions of comments poured in on the daily since the announcement, condemning your relationship with Brad. It didn’t feel bad, per se, you had been through the childish jeering of senior year highschool— in theory this was no different, people making shotgun judgements that rang nowhere close to true but yet this felt like a new, intimate kind of meanness. They have not spent any time in their inconsequential lives to know you or how much you loved your job, how much you valued your friends, your past, your present, how badly you ached for Brad to hit that peak 40 retirement age: so you could force him to settle down in his hometown, so he could settle down in you and your tendencies, how little you cared about his money, how much you absolutely cared when he made offhanded comments about how your features will combine to make the cutest kids and how you scolded him through laughter, telling him not to play with your emotions like that if he’s gonna make you wait another year or two (like you two didn’t agree that would be best), all the intimacies that came and went when you decided to vow your life to be shared with one another, as husband and wife.
No. To them: you were a mistake in the making. You were a distraction from the league, you were what stood between Brad Marchand and every record he has let slip through his broad hands in the past year. And to your family, what cut deepest: you were the personification of a mid-life crisis. You knew they were going to be mean about it, speak down to you as your mother so often did, despite her promise that she never treats you as less than equal. Which is why: you postponed. You postponed their meeting until 8 months in, you had already met Bradley's side of the family. You already came and went from Nova scotia residencies, already laughed and learnt siblings birthdays. And everytime your parents came to town, excuses came from you quicker than you could form them, then came the inevitable begging from your then-boyfriend.
The barrage of
‘Who cares what they think of me? You know what you like. They don’t.’
‘C’mon, baby. Just wanna meet ‘em! Not even that big of a deal.’
And everytime you would jokingly wink and nudge his arm when you saw an engagement ring you liked in a window display. He would hit you right back with a formulated ‘Eh, I don’t know. Might be too early to have a missus when I can't meet her parents. Can’t ask permission to marry ya from a dad I don’t even know.” And there came your perfectly feminine growl, an attempt to sound scary from your part: yet it just made him adore you all the more, grab you into his arms and slot his head over your shoulder as he swayed you side by side. “Not that I need permission- To marry you– I’m just saying. It’s classy. Gentlemanly.” Of course, he wanted permission, he was that brand of guy, just old enough to still value permission from your dad, but understand that it’s not exactly very ‘feminist of him’. If push came to shove, he would marry you over atop your dads decrypted body. “You’re just old.” You would banter. But, it all meant the same: the message was loud and clear. You had to get it over with. He had to meet your family. You had to face the furrowed eyebrows, the upset glares, the disapproving kicks under the table. It was important to him, so, It was important to you.
So you folded. You folded hard. Under his pressure, under your parents. One you welcomed more kindly than the other.
So, while you could avoid the smug smirk that you usually loved, you hid like a coward and you sent him a half hearted text message while he was states away from you. Playing yet another game.
parents in town next weekend r u down to meet them over steak n wine at my place? cause i know its ur fave lol <3 an attempt at being casual, like this didn’t mean the world to him, like it wasn’t gutting you to think about.
Yah. You know I can’t say no to that. A quick response confirms it.
K. GTG. Love ya baby. Another follows.
You can’t help but grin as you shut your phone to black, he’s playing in 20 minutes: he needs to get off his fucking phone ? is your first thought, but your second is godddddd, he has to meet my parents and he’s so excited. He responded within 50 seconds. Jesus. Your smile still lingers as you try to rub the stress out of your face.
And he did meet your family. You spent hours in the kitchen that day, acting like maybe if you prepared the mashed potatoes perfectly, made it just the right texture, just the way your dad liked it, just like how your mom made it, it would somehow mend the 10 year age gap, the unforgivable sin of finding love outside your dwindling group of peers who had never given you a second look anyway. Brad tried his hardest to be on his best behaviour, tone down his jokes by a mile, have his shirt buttoned all the way up even though you both agree that it makes his neck look weird. A husk of a man you love just because you want to be palatable for parents. And who would’ve guessed. You’re not. He’s not good enough for them by a mile, and not good enough for ‘you’. They say that, like that means anything. Trying to pass it off as trying to be helpful. Like their apprehension was just their hindsight. What did you expect? Everything you loved was theirs to ruin like clockwork. Like the sun was bound to set over the green of the horizon, under your father’s eye there was always a flaw, fully formed: ready to be picked at.
Defiant jazz smokes through the air, cutting of utensils scraping against bespoked clay plates. You can’t remember the last time dinner has been this quiet. Can’t remember the last time your mom’s face rested so stubbornly between disappointment and resentment.
“Could you pass the potatoes?” You cut through the silence, your palm splayed open, expectant. A big fake painted smile gleams at your mother.
“You guys don’t feel like the 10 years is.. too wide of a gap?” Jesus christ. That’s not even what you asked?? How did she even think of that? You look at your boyfriend, his eyes already made their way over to yours, suggesting this is gonna make a great inside joke if this hellish night ends, if you two are ever left to your own devices ever again, if you ever escape.
You go to open your mouth, try and muster up some argument. “We just try and take it one day at a time, yeah?” He beats you to it, nudging you with his elbow, like it’s teamwork. Acknowledgement in its own sense. Like: None of this would be possible without her, eternally grateful. “She keeps me young, I keep her old. You know. The basics.” It’s a half-joke you like, personally. A giggle coming out of your mouth, one you try silence with food (to no avail). It’s Cheesy. But isn’t he just partly cheese, part man. You’ve grown fond of these kinds of responses from him. Your parents? Not so much. Not a laugh, not even an admittance of good humour. You know he’s itching to let out a ‘Huh. Tough crowd, eh?’ but you both know that won’t help it. He’s just trying to entertain you now. Polish you over until you guys can poke and prod and examine the dumpster fire from the comfort of your apartment.
And then your father joins in with “And the distance?”: fuel to the flame as usual, what did you expect? Maybe your mother and father really were made for eachother. Every time your mom would cut you, who else was there but your dad ready to pour salt? In a weird way, you hoped that you and Brad’s puzzle pieces were so perfectly made to click like they were (in a way less codependent dysfunctional way. Just lovers who complete each other until you're old and croaking)
“The distance?” You probed, it comes out like you’re ridiculing him, like you don’t know what he’s talking about.
“You know, he plays for the NHL… The distance?… He’s not gonna be home to take care of you… Well, nine times out of ten, at least.” And to your dismay, that was not a bad argument on your father’s part, you did always get along better with him, finding him more rational. The truth was: you had been unsure about the same thing.
Not cause you’re worried that Brad’s gonna go around cheating on you, no. That’s not the type of guy he is. You trust him more than you trust yourself. But, you struggled. You struggled with being without him.
When your relationship was still young, sugary, spry: like you, Brad would joke, the week long roadies still felt like it was stretching at the strings of your heart. The night before, you would lay on his bare chest, a borrowed shirt covering you as your back would touch his front, finding comfort in the divots in his abs, his fingers running gentle circles up and down your arms, you would lament aimlessly, your voice being swallowed by the barrier of your head in the crook of his neck. “I’m gonna miss you.” being the most audible thing he’s heard from you in a while.
“Miss me?” A chuckle as he questions, he’s not laughing at you, he’s somehow laughing for you, reverence dripping from his voice. “Nah, c’mon. Don’t miss me. It’s like– 3 days I’m gonna be gone. You’re gonna be begging me to stay in Vancouver once y’get some peace n’ quiet around here.” He’s sweet. So, so sweet. You could tell he was going to miss you, probably already is. That his sweetened, embezzled, half sarcastic words are his facade to save face, like if you believed them then maybe he would begin to as well.
“Don’t be stupid,” a smile tugging at the corners of your softened lips, digging your nose deeper into the side of his neck, your eyes laced with tiredness, like if you didn’t: the smell of salt and old cologne that was so uniquely him would leave you forever. “I’m gonna miss you, okay? And there’s nothing you can do about it.”
His eyes shut shortly after you positioned himself into the scruff between the back of his head and his pillow, the domesticity of this killed him. He liked it, loved it, even. Loved you, assuredly. It was perfect. This moment was his. This moment was yours. He would probably palm himself to completion at the softness of this in 24 hours time, in some shitty hotel. “I’m gonna miss you too, baby.” It came from him, quiet, melodic, sing-songy, intimate, the last thing he said to you before the syrup of sleep surrounded you both into calmness. It was the only thing that felt right if not the promise of an ‘I love you’. But he had an awareness. It was too early for him to say it, too early to say if he can't make you feel like it's true, can’t prove himself to you.
And it’s only gotten harder. You only miss him more, you beg harder for him to stay, you even shed tears for the longer journeys, it breaks his heart. It’s hard, but it’s worth it. You’ve known it was worth it since the first time he bought you dinner, since the first time you guys drunkenly did karaoke together, since the last time he walked you home but didn’t come up cause he knew you had work, since he began to call you ‘Captain’: chuckling at the story that comes with it (him convincing you to try his gear on, sliding around against the carpet of his basement in your socks, pretending to score wristies as you did your worst impression of him), because he took such good care of you when you were sick, because he fucked you like it was his god given right, because you loved to brush your hands through his hair, loved to poke his sides with your manicured nails when he squeezed by you in the kitchen and how he jumped and muttered that one day, you were gonna get it.
He was worth it.
And what’s the saying?
Distance makes the heart grow fonder.
You two were living proof of that. Your newlywed lifestyle proved that. Your honeymoon, romantic, skin on skin, hair entangled in hair, your sweat now his, sharing saliva in the tropical climate, everything you would've wanted—yet cut short by the starting of the season. And that was okay. It was truly okay, cause now: you were married. Now, the law knew you two were inseparable. The width between days felt thick but you felt better knowing he had a ring beneath every glove, every fight initiated, the gold sparkling in the iris of the camera that stated: I am happily married. So you didn’t mind. He was yours and you were his, and Brad; loyalty thick within: like unpalatable wood underneath the softness of his skin, took very good care of his things.
Like now, in the present: he had returned to you early this morning, while the sky was still muggy and gray. Returned from wherever, in whichever state, to play whatever team. Truth is, you didn’t care. The ‘hockey boyfriend’ sparkle that teenage girls tore chunks of hair out over lost it's fun when it turned into hockey fiancé and then eventually, as all things progress, hockey husband. But, he was home, and god weren’t you just grateful for that. Home, off of work for the next 3 days, intertwined in blanket, you revelled in the scratch of his beard and he, in the softness of your edges and ever so effeminate curves. Breathing each other in. Intimate and isolated from the world.
“Wait-” You slap yourself mentally for interrupting such a sweet moment, lounged in the yellow, morning dew. Brad looks as shocked as you are, his face doubling back “Wait?--” echoing back to you “Wait for what, baby? It’s barely even 10 in the morning. We don’t have anywhere t’be– Do we have somewhere to be?”
“No..” you giggle, slapping his shoulder in playful reassurance. “Nowhere to be, but I do need you to-”
“There it is, you need me to do something for you, very smooth segway, eh?” His words play hurt, but he’s grinning at you like a fool, his chest vibrating up and then back down in tune with his happiness. “Uggghhhh, I always need to do stuff for you, you know? When's it gonna be my turn to make you do all the slave work? Marriages should be fifty-fifty, after all.” Bradley wouldn’t have it any other way, to be honest. He would rather die than have you call someone else for handiwork, that’s his very matrimonial duty.
You lift your brows, “Slave work?” “I meant what I said.”
“Well, okay, poor slave boy.” You play into him, in the mirage of jokes you two share, in the playfulness of everything “Do you mind setting up the washing machine?”
“Oh. I can get that done, yeah, easy.”
You sigh in relief, you hope it was going to be easy cause you’ve had it in the house since Wednesday and every attempt you've made to install it has been nothing short of a disaster. Sure, when the guy the company sent brought it home, he set up its connection to the water, but everything else was a complete and utter mystery to you. You had thumbed through the instructions and everything, but unfortunately, the information would not absorb. It was official by Thursday afternoon this was going to be Brad's job.
Peeling out of bed, you take him by the hand, fingers entrapped in one another’s for no reason but is it not just nice to hold hands? You guide him to the laundry room, smiling, giddy to see Brad do what you lovingly labeled Man work, you loved to sit and watch, a silent observer as you mainly noticed his hands, how dear you loved them, his veins revealing themselves, large thickly capped calloused fingertips doing the most delicate work, somehow gentle with everything around him, you could say it simply, it turned you on, you felt like an unsatisfied (not that he leaves you unsatisfied, god no) housewife who had just watched 50 shades of gray for the first time whenever he did anything with his hands, watching the skin in his biceps dimple and shadows run to be made in the smallness of his abductor.
In attempt to be helpful and make this quick for him, you push yourself onto your toes and open the cabinet above the washing machine, revealing the skin of your stomach as your shirt lifts up, you can tell Brad is behind you, savoring the view as you grab out a long rectangular blue metal box, Brad’s tool box, in the past you jokingly commented that it looked like it was older than you are, the handle gripped with tape, the metal adorned with scratches and silver where the paint has come off, the tools inside don't even come from one set, just stuff he has collected over the years, stolen from past roommates, borrowed and never returned from his dad.
“Here ya go.” You push the box to his chest, a smile, you proposition yourself under him, your face under his, you’re waiting for your thank you for getting that for me kiss.
“Thank you, baby girl. Very helpful.” He says, taking the weight from you, giving you a kiss on the nose followed by another on your lips. Your heart flutters at that. Brad is like a good fitting white shirt, he never goes out of style. He’ll never lose his charm.
You push yourself on to the washing machine, your makeshift throne, hissing slightly at the cold of the porcelain on your skin, especially on the flesh underneath your shorts, shuffling back until the smoothness of legs hang off the side.
Brad watches you situate yourself atop the machine as he bends down to be sat on his knees, manual in hand, unruly guttural noises leave him to mimic the pressure that builds in his lower back, sure he was a star athlete, but thirty seven feels like thirty seven. You giggle at him, trying your hardest not to taunt him. “Old man”, you mumble under your breath through the laughter, audible enough.
He pinches at the skin of your ankle, smiling and looking up as you yelp.
“Dude!”
“C’mon. You deserved it.” Brad pokes, as he refocuses back onto the instructions, kissing your red spot and wrapping his wrist, smoothing around the ankle bone in apology. “Kay, this is easy, should take me less than ten minutes.”
And so you sat, and watched for those perfect ten minutes, occasionally chiming in from the cheap seats about how he's not doing it right, how he really ought to man up. Brad loved it. Loved how inflammatory you've grown since you two had started living with each other, he often thought he absorbed the kindest, best parts of you and all you got was a bad attitude and a quicker wit. Commonly suggesting that with the way you chirp him, ‘you just gotta consider the PWHL at this point.’ And like clock-work, you always told him that the PWHL was not good enough for you, no, you were coming for his job.
In these moments, you not only were his most dedicated hater but also his biggest helper. Loving it when he was involved in these activities, when he passed you tools, needing you to keep them safe for the time being, and soft when he called upon you to get them back, always thanking you, always telling you ‘you’re the best, babe’, always so good with his manners even in moments many would forget, even when so focused: hes mumbling to himself, but no, he never forgets to credit you, to appreciate you, even as he tinkered with the front of the alien technology.
After what only felt like a blip of time (he often had that effect on you, making time melt), he pushes himself back up. “Should be good. Only gotta plug it in, now.”
“That quick?” “Yup, that quick. Told ya it was gonna be easy.” Brad grips onto the the rounded sides of the machine, showboating, as he adjusts its position easily, moves it from against the wall, leaving enough space for him to walk behind and set it into the electrical board, he doesn’t wince at the heaviness, doesn’t wince at your added weight, it’s all so nothing for him. You squeal, a little, unexpectant of the sudden movement. The world in his hands. “Need to get behind ya, excuse me, baby.” You’re a bit overcome by what just happened and, in layman's terms, desire. It always had you feeling a bit funny when you realised how strong he was, how he could pin you down, no attempt of escape would stick, he could just hold you there, it felt good, it felt safe, and you liked that, safety being an aphrodisiac in itself.
Your head whips uncomfortably to follow him as he walks behind you, wedged between the wall, getting the final affairs in order. Jesus christ, you can’t handle this. It might be the subtle morning haze, his strength, or maybe that he prefers to wander the house shirtless AND you two haven’t fucked since Tuesday night, but you need him.
“Kay, done. Finished. We can finally get a load done,” you heard one word: Load. “I can even do it now, if you want.” Of course, he was referring to a load of clothes but, a girl can hope? Brad positions himself between your legs, hands finding your waist and pecking you, face to face as you're perched upon the machine.
“Good job kiss?” He asks, like it all means nothing if you don’t give him a bit of action.
“Good job kiss.” You repeat, confirmation. Really just desperate to get him close to you. Bradley leans into you, pulling you by your hips to initiate. He starts off delicate, kind, kissing you like he’s afraid to break you, peppering you in love. No. Not good enough for you. You try to be subtle, you try to be careful and natural about it, snaking your hands around his neck to just encourage him that bit more. But, at this point: if you could think clearly, if you weren’t in your cockhungry haze, you would see he’s just being gentle to piss you off now. Your tongue intruding in his mouth clunkily, searching for relief in any sense. Small whines leaving you between every gap. He understands where this is going, the balls in his court, your vigor lighting a flame within him. Your hand is clawing downwards, hand splayed flat against his bulge getting in between you, the growing weight in his shorts and your clothed core. “Hold on,” he steadies you, pulling back to watch your beauty. “This doesn’t really feel like a good job kiss anymore, does it?”
“Brad.” you warn, but it doesn’t come out like that. Comes out like an incredulous whine, dipping between desperate and desire, like you’re not warning him to behave, you’re warning him you might explode if he doesn’t help you get off. He knows what you’re suggesting, he would never turn you down, this was his job, his duty as husband, but who is he kidding? You guys have been ruining each other long before you two were married, long before you guys even considered this to be a serious relationship.
He sees you in full, sees your tormented state, partly touched and honored you’re still getting yourself so hot and bothered for him after so long. “Yeah? That bad?” he coos. “Yeah, of course that bad. Yeah. Please, babe. I’m horny, you haven’t been home in forever. Just get it over with?”
“Just get it over with?” Brad parrots back to you, your words sounding ridiculous with hindsight. “Well, please, baby, don’t sound so excited.” Grabbing your wrist and moving it off his front delicately, with care to suggest ‘I would never deny you of what you're so entitled’, gaining access to buck into your hips, the friction of your linen sleep shorts slipping on the fabric of his basketball shorts: creating something delicious yet unattainable. His thumb in muscle memory, finding your clit and pressing down through the cloth. You try to angle yourself to make it feel more, but your goddamn fucking shorts are apprehending anything from happening.
“Take them off. Now.” You groan. Your hands clawing at his pectorals for reprieve.
“Mine or yours-” “Mine—Yours— Both. Anything. Please.”
He chuckles, “Yes, ma’am.” Always so desperate under his touch, so needy you turn into some whiny, bossy firecracker. God, he loved you. Loved every side of you, even the rudest, most inapt part of you was perfect. Big pale palms assist your shorts down as you lift your ass off the washer, desperate to get them gone, and his, as they always do, follow into the same pile.
His thick digits find solemnity in your pussy, tracing long lines up and down, situating themselves, checking if you’re ready.
“So wet f’me. And that's what it is, right? All f’me?” You nod obediently as he pushes two fingers into you, pumping briefly, it is all for him, this wetness is what comes of watching him simply just exist and finally, it feels real, you’re getting what you've craved for the past few days, him.
He withdraws now, licking the slick off his fingers, humming like he’s drinking water for the first time after a drought, and damn, is it sweet. The same saliva-wet soaked hand finding his dick and pumping it slightly, running it from the base of your cunt until the end, pushing in with a weighty groan. “Gonna fuck you so good, honey. You deserve it,” Brad purrs into your neck “Waited for me so patiently. My good girl. My perfect wife. Fuck. Missed you." He tells you this like a distraction, cause it is, he doesn’t feel like thrusting yet. Feels like just being in you, his hands finding you, adjusting your stance, your knees now up to your chest, baring your core to him, easy access, feet hanging off the ledge of plexi and porcelain. Your hole flutters around him, like now, you don’t have to beg, cause your body’s doing it for you. He shushes you though, calm, steady like a rock, like you are actually begging. He understands this for you, you always got so besides yourself when you're made to wait.
Finally, Brad sets the pace, to your design. Slow, impactful, passionate: made so you could feel every ridge of him drag through your gummy walls, each thrust felt like it was answering a prayer, like he was a god you prayed to: and now, after being so good, he came to answer. You bite your lip as he drives into you, another powerful shock to your system, trying to quiet yourself, like someone might hear despite this being your home. The sound of wet and skin slapping into one another filled the room, gross yet perfectly fitting, angelic to you in the moment. “Love this pussy, especially when she’s speaking to me.” He blabbed on, you knew he did it to distract himself, to keep himself focused— prolong himself. Brad’s told you in the past he does the exact same thing on the ice, just a habit. He’s all talk.
“Oh god.” You wail, exasperated, clinging on to him, meeting him halfway through his thrust. “Feels so good, B.” You praise, and the truth was: you knew that deep down, he was as sensitive as you were, you knew the praise got him hard, made him feel good to know his futile attempts were not so futile with you. He liked when you vocalised how you felt dizzy when he dug into you. And you wanted him to know, cause you like it when he lets you know, so why not return the favour with a chorus of moans, even if he plays smug?
Brad looks like heaven from this angle, reaching down to rub practiced circles on your button. His hand catches the small of your back, reassuring, he’s here for you, making that so known that in fact: he pushes your stomach further into him, finding the perfect spot to leave marks upon the softness of your neck. Nipping playfully, the skin ricocheting back into conformity for every time he pulls too far.
Your muscles relax as you are pushed further off that cliff, you are dangling centimeters from oblivion. “Keep going, don’t stop. Really close.”
“I know you’re close,” He smiles, tapping at your clit idly, as he digs into you, fast yet uneven, he is close as well. “Your legs tremble when you’re close, baby. It’s cute.” And god, if that doesn’t just send you over the edge, your body pushing forward, your neck finding itself in the crook of him, just how much he knows you. Just how much he knows about your body. How much he observes and notes down to make sure he’s not the only one getting off. “Aw. Well, there you go. Cumming. Good girl, really good girl.” Assuring you, rubbing circles in your back.
You just came for the first time in days because your husband is genuinely a good guy. Huh. If that doesn’t say a lot? You bare with the overstimulation as much as you can, writhing in his hands as he tries to follow you quickly, still rubbing at you to encourage the fluttering, the aftershocks of your pussy, feels good: the tightening and untightening around him, how much you try to keep quiet, but the moans wash over you as you untense. It’s so much. It’s too much. It’s just enough.
“My gorgeous fucking girl. Yeah.” He punctuated with a final thrust, the feeling of his cum painting your walls satisfying you despite it overwhelming your senses all the more. One prolonged groan follows as he shutters a deep breath, pulling out of you. His favourite part, watching as his cream fell from your folds, being breathed out slowly. The way you would lament and whine, like it was lowering the chances of actually knocking you up— like you haven't had the implant for the duration you've known him. And in perfect timing, here began your whines. Sad at the feeling that his cells are pouring out of you. “Don’t worry, gorgeous. Got’chya.” His index catching the sperm on his finger, collecting it and pushing it back as you shiver at the added sensation. “Cause we couldn’t wanna waste any? Would we?”
“No..” A grin. You usually don’t respond in this state. “Yeah, no.” He kisses you one final time, grabbing your waist and helping you down from where you sit, slapping your bare ass and watching the skin bounce in response as you reach the cold tile of the floor again, you yelp, shooting him a look. Smiling as he admires his handiwork. Both you and the machine. This is what being a husband is all about, he reassures himself.
“Was that good for you, honey?” You soften under him again, looking up, hand on his chest, still amazed at him, he always checked in, always made sure, always really cared.
“Yeah. More than good. Thank you.”
“And, hey!” He shoots up, tapping your shoulder, as he reaches for your panties on the ground, throwing them into the iron box. A stupid fucking grin on his fast. “Look. First load on the new machine.” And as much as you pretend you cannot stand him, a small laugh leaves you, shaking your head as you slide your shorts back on. “Actually, no. I take it back. You got the first load on the new machine.”
“Oh my god. Jesus Christ, Bradley!” “What? C’mon. I thought that was funny.”
God. You love him. You love your stupid husband. You love your dumb insatiable, hot, overhated, overworked, sensitive yet inherently masculine, kind husband. You couldn’t care what anyone had to say anymore. You were so content. So full of love and life since you’ve met. You realize in moments like these: that anyone who hates what you two have, who is scornful for no reason but they can be is: is just jealous, jealous of you, jealous that they don’t have a Brad Marchand of their own.
fawn's notes: MARCHHYYYYYYYYYY!!!!!!!!!!! my plans are for this fic are just to come back and write another installment whenever im HORNED UP!!! i will also probably open requests on this series as well bc im interested to see what ideas u have for marchy and wife!reader OK! WELL.. BYE ! ILY!
p.s. next order of action is TAOTD 2. whos excited?
