#worksbyfawn

In media; the press; fans, and to teammates, even: he would present himself as a good natured all canadian boy, sure! But when push came to shove: he lived, breathed, slept and reveled in his own rotted greatness. Captaincy was second nature to him, it streamed red, coursed in his blood. Prevented him from the pleasures of life: of a wife, of a family, of retiring 35: rich and dumb. He knew it was no one else’s fault but his own: but was it? A team without him was as good as hopeless. Worse than hopeless: Dead in the water. 

Which is why as calm and as collected as Sidney likes to think he is: he did not take lightly to his teammates— your father’s— pathetic, measly, sloppy grievance of a goal: the final goal of the match: what could’ve been Sidney’s third of the night. Hat trick territory.  When he set up that goal: pushed that black disc right into your father’s overpriced stick’s hook, in hopes for it to be passed right back to him: to take it home for the team, to get another record across his belt. And when that record never came? Sidney swore he wasn’t mad as the goal horns blared, hurting his plastic-clad ears. Sidney swore he wasn’t mad when your dad took that goal right off him with his sweaty mitts. He swore it didn’t make his blood absolutely boil to watch your dad celebrate like he had earned anything.

No. He wasn’t even that mad. Not really. He was kind in the locker room. In the post-games. To the rookies’ precious face. His fists weren’t clenched because he was angry. What a ridiculous assumption.

He told himself he was sitting against the metal of the locker room benches, white-knuckling the wooden slates because he could, because he had been feeling out of it lately. Not because he could snap someone in half. Sidney was regulated like that. Top half of his gear off; his boutiqued muscles facing the rest of the team. Palming away at his skates like it was his job to take them off with care and intent. Like keeping his blades pristine would unsour his mood. And when the room of men let out nasally roars, howling cheer when he came in: still in full gear, bouncing up and slapping the top of the doorway like it owed him something. Sidney released a disgruntled whisper from the back of his throat. Not a chance of fixing Sid's attitude now.

Sidney had began to pray for maybe the first time in years: Please, shut the fuck up. 

“You guys see me out there?” A call to arms to the rest of the team. Sidney keeps his head down to his skates to avoid participation in the circle jerk about to commence, eyes rolling into oblivion. Half dressed men from every corner of this dark, mildewed Away locker room begin to bark compliments. 

And for a moment in Sidney’s exceptional career, he wishes he weren’t Captain. He wishes with every fibre in his taught muscle that he didn't have to reward every lousy, snobbish oaf a pat on the back for any old goal a kid on juniors could hit. The irony is not lost on Sid. He set up that goal, it was his. 

“What about you, Sid, huh? I was on fire out there.” Your father chews out, mouthguard pliant between his lips. Sidney lets the world melt away for a second: he watches as your old man settles in front of where he’s located, wringing out spit from his own mouth guard with nothing but contempt and anger running rampant in his mind. 

“Yeah, man. You did good tonight, for sure.” Soft, barely a tone above happy, forced from the deepest parts of Sid’s diaphragm. A good job. 

“Whaddya think? Me, Rusty, Letang and a few of the other boys are gonna go out for drinks?,” A toothy grin comes down at the captain. He forces one back. One that appears, tugs at the corners of his mouth, suggests something with haste and then fades back into normalcy. “...Celebrate the win with us!” He continues, using the end of his stick to poke at Sidney's nude shoulder. He hates that. He hates it so much he can’t bear to think. 

“Nah, not for me, boys… Thank you, though. Gonna rest up, head back to the hotel, we still have a game tomorrow,” The righteousness returns to him, finds itself in his veins, Sidney forgets himself but is always quick to remember, projecting his voice to the boy-splattered room.  “I actually– I remind you all that the responsible thing to do is have an early night. Treat yourself well. Be up early and prepare for tomorrow.” And with boyish charm, like clockwork, the room explodes with groans, scratching at him. Predictability is one of the few things he actually respected from his team.  “Nah, nah. You guys have fun, okay?” Pushing himself up off the bench using your fathers shoulder as anchor, pushing down slightly harder than necessary while making his hockey-patriotic, holier than thou lecture an excuse to leave. Finally, get out of everyone’s sight. His sight. 

And when Sid sits in that hotel bar, he replays the scene. That moment where he launched himself off your father, analysing at how your dad winced at the pressure. Pressure only presumed as innocent collateral to Sid’s strength. Sidney imagines it all. Imagine how badly he could've chewed him out if he wanted to, how publicly he should have shamed and blamed him to the post game reporters.  It is not unlike Sid to be in his own mind, in the past. Picturing how good the hurt would’ve felt to afflict. And then, he spots you. God, you. Unbrushed hair that falls down around your face with no pattern yet seemingly with intent, you look young. Hell, you probably are. You are in the remainder of something half nice. You scream of similarity, you ache and itch at the back of his head. He has seen you before. Maybe, the rookie’s girl? Another washed up WAG? Probably so. You seem nervous though, you falter around, eyes dancing over him. Placing your weight on your left leg and switching it to your right, making eyes at Sid. Does he know you??? 

You look at him, like he’s letting you down, like you need him to pull you out of a crash of waves. Like you’re stuck in inner turmoil in front of him and he’s your life boat. And when he does: when he finally extends that hand: you jump. Jump like you’re afraid of him. 

“Do we know each other?” It comes off harsh, harsher than expected. But; Sidney’s intent was also to be harsh. Last thing he needed is someone he doesn’t know acting like he was on their borrowed time. And when you flinch, he cannot help but absorb the power you unwittingly just handed to him. 

“Oh! Sorry, Sidney..,” You begin your sentence like you’re so sure of yourself but halt in the middle: you’ve remembered yourself and you’ve remembered who Sidney is, haven’t you? “Just wanted to say hi,” your awkward tooth heavy smile begins to fade, the way you smile claws at Sidney: so, so, so familiar yet so, so, distant, “We met a few years ago?” you realise you’re an idiot: Why on earth would Sidney Crosby remember you? His head tilts at your words, eyebrows furrowed highlighting what few wrinkles he wears on his forehead, he’s hurrying you, he’s letting you know with minimal politeness that he couldn’t care less to try and remember.  Your lips make an awkward shape, your full name falling off your tongue like you’re embarrassed. You should be. Oh! It’s you! He remembers you! 2 years ago,  your dad played on your 18th, and with that badge of honour your old man finally allowed you in the pens lockeroom where you weaseled yourself into Sidney’s vision of sight, pleading with teen awkwardness, a fucked up haircut, and painted fingernails if Sid could please, please sign your jersey! He smiles, his eyes lighting up at your reminder of identity: repeating your name back to you a few times, you have your father’s last name, what a pretty adornment. It was like a gift, a present with a ribbon on top: kind of like your dad was saying ‘Here, Sid, from me to you!’

“Ah, yes! It’s you, of course, it’s you! I cannot believe I forgot.” Sidney feigns innocence, pushing the barstool adjacent to him with the rubber-soled tip of his shoe open wide enough to suggest ‘c’mon, sit down with me, I won’t bite’ and who are you to deny the captain of the pittsburgh penguins? 

“What are you doing out this way? I thought you guys lived in pittsburgh” He prods at you verbally, examining you like roadkill.

“Ah! I’m travelling with my dad for roadies.” “Do you travel with him often?” He knows this answer. No, you don’t. There’s not a lot his team can get past him.

You shake your head, hair tusseling around you. “No, I wish. This is my first time, actually,”  You continued on with your reasoning, you’re talking too much, but you’re too oblivious to even know that. Sidney eyed you as you effused, nursing down his overpriced health drink. God. Sidney liked to play innocent, sure, but you are. He knows you are.  

“Ah! Well, first roadie! That’s a serious deal in the hockey world. You enjoying it?” Sid cuts you off, interpositioning you. He controls the conversation, not you. 

“Mhm. The travel’s crazy though. Feeling jet lagged, a bit.” 

“Tell me about it? I have 20 years on you and it doesn’t get any easier,” He banters, entertains you, keeps your mind at ease. You giggle, a forced giggle, ‘I want you to like me so i’m gonna giggle’ giggle, but a giggle nonetheless. “Didya watch the game tonight?” 

“Mhm. I thought you played really well.” 

“Really?” Sidney simulates interest. Like your compliment meant the world to him. “Thanks. I thought I played well too.” 

And with no warning Sidney lands on his feet, collecting his jacket off the back of the chair, punching his arm through the sleeves. Oh, is the conversation over? You panic. Your face turning, eyes scrambling to meet him, bending in an unnatural way to meet his gaze. But you just sat down. He knows this though. He knows you’re oh, so worried that your five minutes with him is over. His head tilts again, oh that dreaded head tilt. But this time: there's no longer a feeling of animosity, he’s guiding you. He’s telling you to follow. Ohh.  And you do so: you don’t say much. You don’t even let your throat muster up a sound of shock. You just trail behind him. Like a sunflower to the sun, like a duckling to its mother. You follow him with cloudy eyes. More in your head than in the reality of the situation. You don’t even realise it when he thumbs at the elevator, watching the tinny mercury light up a big metallic button that reads 15, that you’re going up with him. You don’t even feel yourself following behind as his plastic card buzzes you into what you must have felt like the holy grail of hotel suites, until you’re there. And then you’re really there. In your body. In Sidney Crosby’s hotel room. 

Sid walks in, taking his layers off near the door. He doesn’t even say anything. Doesn’t show you around. Disregarding you at entry with his eyes like he would a jacket or a watch, leading you without motion to the small table hidden in the furthest corner of the room. He’s asking you to sit there and watch: watch as he prepares himself for whatever.  You take your time to catch on: still overcompensating from lack of belief. And if you were anyone else: that would be fine. Sure. But Sidney’s resolve with you was quick to burn. His eyebrows lift as you loiter, sit down. 

You realise and scramble: placing yourself politely on the fabric-wearing armchair, not quite sitting right; worming under the tension, tucking your legs underneath yourself. Sitting in silence but you watch in awe. The man in front of you begins to unravel himself. Placing his coat on his bed: along with whatever expensive watch he had thrown on. Your presence meant nothing in the face of routine. Stretching his back as he lets the day fall off him: his black shirt lifts to expose his mid-drift, you eye the elastic of his boxers, beginning to have a staring contest with the few and far in between hairs that lead upwards. When he cracks his knuckles it brings you back to life: your eyes shoot upwards as you find him to your left. At the minibar: searching for something, anything that interested him. 

“You drink?” Clearing his throat, slamming the already heaving pressure back into your mind. 

You begin to mumble, looking for words. God, this is so embarrassing. How do you explain to an icon that you haven’t even touched the side of drunk? He faces you, something remorseful yet not quite nurturing in his eyes. “Have you ever drank? You’re in college, no?” 

“Yeah. I’m 20.” You choke out.

“Yeah?” Sidney laughs a little, like that means anything. “When I was your age, drinking was like— The only thing I did.” Batoning the transparent neck of an aged whiskey into his left from his right, he is a left shooter, after all. He lets the maple coloured liquid fall into a crystal cup: you’d never been allowed near the glassware your father had. His calloused hand brought the finery to his lips. He sips, delicately, like someone who knew the procedures of drinking would. He pulls away with wonder on his face. He liked this one: for a hotel’s choice, at least. Sidney approaches, approaches with meaning: bringing himself to your eye level, squatting. A glint in his eye you had not seen all evening. The distance between you was closer than you had ever been to a man. So, so close. Your air is now his, and the reverse for him. 

He puts the glass between your faces, to your perfectly pink lips, and through half lidded eyes he tells you: “Drink.”

You let it in. You let him in. The amber travelling down your tongue, burning you on its way down. Tears being brought to your eyes: Jesus, why does anyone like this shit? It claws at your throat, it is not easy on its way down. It is poignant and it hurts with purpose. Sidney knows this, he knows the alcohol content is strong, even for him. He watches as you squirm, as you try to run from it without hurting his feelings. He finally relents, he finally allows you to pull away from the glass. Coughs begin to fall out of you. His hand finds the skin between your shoulder blades, rubbing it better.

“Aren’t you a big girl?” He coos. “All grown up now, huh. But you can’t handle one drink.” His shift in attitude alarms, shocks you to your core. But also awakens you, he sees it in you. Makes you buzz, a firefly vibrating itself into oblivion. He sees you shift your weight, aligning the seam of your pants perfectly. Your thighs are trying to simulate what only he has. 

He leaves your vision: he’s punishing you, you aren’t allowed to look at him anymore. 

Taking the crystal with him in his webbed hands. He absorbs you, drowns you in silence, he is your lifeboat but: maybe, he doesn’t wanna share the space with you just quite yet. Sid leans against the same dresser he poured your elixir on, feet crossing over each other, he begins to mutter your age, a million ‘20’s’ falling from him, like it would change the facts of the situation the more he let it leave his mouth. 

“20, huh? 20 but can’t hold a drink” He pouts, the pink of his lip facing you, his falsities dripping off him. Palpably trying to tear you at your seams: like you were an unaged doll, made of cotton and he was, well, himself. “Can’t imagine you’ve ever been to a party,” widening his eyes at you, furrowing his brows, he’s not asking. He's telling you. “You popular with boys?” 

You shake your head, eyes full of glass, words becoming void, still working yourself through the burn of the drink and the strangeness in your core. “No.”

“No? C’mon. Seriously? I’m shocked, truly. Guys love girls like you, small, innocent, could hold you in their palms if they wanted to. You’re kinda, what's the right word? Mouldable, aren’t you? I mean 20, you can’t even look me in the eyes, tell me what you want, what you’re feeling: or why a big girl like yourself can’t make use of whatever she’s feeling?” He smiles now, showing you his beautiful manicured teeth, his tongue sliding over his canines: eyes reaching for the roof. “..Do you even know how you’re feeling? Or d’ya just feel and wait for someone like me to come along and tell you.” He’s waiting for a response, your heart blinking red at you like a warning sign. You cannot muster a single word, just a sound, an exasperated suggestion of air leaving your mouth: he cannot help but venerate you, you almost weaken him. “Yeah, I bet guys love you. And you don’t even know it.” It comes from him like a sigh, like of course, you don’t know that. You are too yourself. 

“Tell me. Do you want something from me, huh?” He propositions you. “Seriously, you can tell me anything as long as you use your grown up, big girl words. Which might be hard knowing you.” You double back for a second: he cannot help the hockey inside of him. Chirping, even when trying to coax something deeply wrong out of you. 

Your jaw falls slack, do you want something from him? “I-, Uhm–” 

“Can’t get it out, can you? No. No, you cannot.” Sid answers on your behalf, fills in your blanks. “Come here.” He commands you like he’s training you, his eyes falling to the floor: he’s suggesting that maybe in this moment, you don’t walk. This is your call to action, and you don't want to waste it. You don’t want to be uncool, and surely you don’t want to let Sidney down. This is the first step of many, the first word of a prologue from a book with a million chapters. You let yourself find your knees, palms touching ashen carpet, hair falling in your poor heated face: hiding your glowing cheeks, your sense of direction sullied but yet you seem to manage finding Sid: standing firm, like a lighthouse holds itself strong for a passing boat. The burn of your kneecaps is only remedied by the feeling of Sidney's body heat, the thinnest skin of your leg finding the cap of his shoe.

His thumb finds your chin, rubbing small abstract circles: “There you are.” The rough sides of his hands sweeping strands out of your face, his composure thin, jeans getting tighter, look at you, his teammate's daughter, who crawled over on his whim for no reason other than he said.  “Let’s get a good look at that pretty face.” 

“Do you? Do you want something from me?” He prompts you a final time. Your eyes begin to cloud, it can be overwhelming, can’t it? “I want something from you.” Sid’s thumb finds your lower lip, the same one that shares your father’s pout, a stark reminder of who you are to him, one that cannot help clawing at his boxers, tapping idly. Your mouth falls open, you don’t know why it does that but it does, and there he finds jubilation. Sid’s thumb rests on the small divot on your tongue, and what makes him all the harder is that he didn’t even have to suggest anything: you just rode Sidney's approval like a high and the high like instinct. You close your mouth, going limp like the only thing holding you up were his index and his pointer, feeling like a thousand bricks were laid in your head and that Sidney was the only thing stronger than the never ending cement. 

To Sid: the way you look is as close as something can be to perfect, besides maybe a good wrist shot, the weight of the stanley cup, a thousand metals. You are enclosing on perfect going dumb at the taste of the salt on his fingers. He curls his wrist: gaining leverage to maneuver his fingers in and out, just subtly, just enough friction for you to feel like you’re doing something useful. You’re not good at what you're doing, your passing oral fixation is not apparent. His breath jumps, he is awfully reverent to your uselessness for someone who wrings out his team of all weakness. Your eyes flutter towards him, upwards, uncomfortable for you. More than easy for him. 

“You’re not really good at this, are you?” Sid coos,  aiding you in the learning process. He pulls his fingers into a hold in your mouth, and you cannot help but let a small whimper leave your incredulous lips, “No, you’re not. But, that’s okay. You’ll learn.” Sidney uses his right hand to brush your jaw, cleaning up the drool you’ve painted yourself with. 

He grins at you, a knowing smile. Like he just got the greatest idea, a thought that almost made up for making that god-awful pass that cost him a hat trick.

“You ever given head before?” Once again, he knows this answer. But he wants to hear you say it, wants it to come from you. “Huh?” Sid goads, ripping his fingers from your mouth, delicate strings of spit connecting your lips and his fingers. Faux disgust drips off him, yet he remains enamored at the mess you’ve made. A scoff falling from his lips.

“We can’t have that, can we?” musing at the disarray you’ve left behind. He tuts, disapprovingly. The pads of his index and his pointer find your cheek, rubbing your saliva into the round of your face. A sensory nightmare for you, usually. But you can’t feel anything but the overwhelming lack of stimulation in your hips. He fists at your hair, a whine escapes you: you tried your hardest to keep it stuck in your stomach, you try your hardest to seem more experienced than you are. 

He looks at you, his most perfect sacrificial lamb. A kicked animal at his feet (almost literally). “Go on,” a smile returns to Sidney “Give it a go, why don't ya? We all start somewhere.” You almost forgot: silly you, he’s doing this for you. To help you, to get you all ready for your final, most tumultuous year of college: not so he can scratch that perverse itch, not so every time your father fucks him over he can think ‘your daughter gave me head and you can’t do shit about it’. His fingers tap at the side of your temple, encouraging you to begin. 

Your manicured nails claw at the metal of his belt, invigorated to please, you struggle to get past the leather, excluding you from what you already shouldn’t have. You should consider this a sign, but your mind can’t process left from right at this moment. Your cheeks begin to redden, do guy’s belts usually take this long to take off? You finally manage it, a smile presents itself. Sid can’t help but coo, you’ve not even begun to do anything of worth yet you’re preening at slipping a belt from the band of his jeans. 

Your eye’s meet with the hardness in his boxers, black fabric covers what you so badly sought. Your hand ghosts over it, the warmness of your palm making contact with his length. His resolve has yet to snap, he understands the newness of this to you. You travel up and down against the cotton once or twice, exploration. One small step for mankind.

You pull at his underwear, desponding at how they cling to the roughness of his jeans. After fidgeting with the fabric, his cock springs free, nerve wracking in its existence. You feel dizzy at the sight, you weren’t an invalidate, by any means, you had watched porn (in rarity), when desire overcame you, when you felt you were gonna burst at the seams, when you longed to be touched by anyone or anything, but here it was: here Sidney was. Grown, erect, unadulteratedly himself. A whole different thing, not anything like you could’ve imagined. 

Your tongue licks at his tip, precum meeting you in your efforts. You don’t know what you’re doing, you try and act in confidence, you know he can probably sense your fear: like most apex predators so often can with their prey. You accept your fate and bite the bullet, taking his weight in your mouth with as much grace as you can manage. You don’t do any of the stuff he likes, what he usually expects from a partner (whoever that may be, in their lack of significance), you don’t swirl your tongue around his cockhead, you don’t play coy and kiss around it, or thumb over the slit. You just take him in your mouth. Medieval. Torturous. Erotically naive. 

Cocking your head back and forth, in what you can only assume is the correct way, moving from base to tip: and then repeat, over and over again. Wincing when your nose brushes against the fuzz that adorns his pubis. Sidney stares at you, drinks you in, if you would take a moment: unfocus yourself, you would see a light in his eye many have not seen since 2009. He has never been harder, this is what his wettest dreams are made of. Albeit, your actions aren’t driving his libido. It’s the situation. Sidney believes this to be, as most things in his life tend to be, a showboating exercise, holding the girth of him in your jaw. It’s not what you’re doing to him, it’s what he’s doing to you. Breaking what’s most delicate, the feeling of pleasure, as euphoric as touching art in an art gallery and never getting caught. The power you have relented to him. How he stands over you, looking at you with pity. Taking what should be a special moment between you and a boy your age and making it his: a moment of pure, guttural release. That’s what's truly getting him there, not whatever second guessed blowjob you’re giving him. 

He grips onto your skull, like if he pressed any harder, maybe just maybe, his hands could slip right through the blood and muscle and get his fingers in the folds of your brain. Leveraging what he can, taking control in this moment, he’s using you. Pushing you into his pelvis, cushioned by a bed of curls, choked gags being released into nothingness, falling upon deaf ears. God, this is perfect. 

Sid made a vow to himself that he would use self control, that if he knew anything, he would know to prolong this: but your unsure kitten licks, your nails digging into his thighs for support, the way you scramble for breath when he lifts you back for fresh air. Sidney wants nothing more than to paint your tongue with himself. There is no point prolonging the inevitable, he gives in, speeding up, hips bucking to meet the back of your throat. For every time you feel like he’s bruising an already open wound, he’s pushing himself closer into completion. And that final time you gag, your eyes meet his, looking for a sign, for anything. He withdraws from you, taking over, pumping himself to mock your motions. You don’t even know you’re supposed to get yourself all pretty and present yourself with cheeks hollowed, mouth open. Poor girl. He grips your jaw to correct you, thumb digging into your buccal fat: iron grip forcing your mouth open. 

He doesn’t acknowledge your presence at this moment, doesn’t ask if it’s okay if he finishes in your mouth. That’s not how this is going to work, not between you two anyway. He just continues rubbing himself over you. The way you look at him, the way you buzz in his hands even though he is treating you so poorly: he can’t handle much more. “Tongue out.” a command from Sidney you are so obliged to follow. You watch with awe, with excitement: as he bolts his eyes shut, blissful groans escaping him gruffly, it all hits him. A snap of what you can only assume has been building up within him for a while. White hot lines of cum landing on your tongue, a jackson pollock of himself.

His mind's eye captures this moment, he catalogues this: stores the situation, your vacant eyes, the flatness of your tongue, the stiff coldness in the air, everything in the forefront of his mind. 

“Swallow, yeah? That’s what big girls do.” Grasp loosening from your jaw, allowing you the independence to do so. You shut your mouth, letting the flavour sit with you for a second. Nothing you’ve ever quite tasted, not as bad as you imagined: but there was a certain Sid-ness to it. An aphrodisiac in itself because of its association with him.  

You drink it down, swallow every last drop of his seed. You’ve learnt this time. Your tongue falls out against your chin, proof that you’ve followed his bodiless task. “Good girl.” Sidney purrs, like it has no weight on him, like it means nothing, condescending and full of air: he says it but you know he thinks you are full of filth, filth that he needs to pressurise into perfection. “It tastes good, huh?” poking at you once more. Trying to get you to bubble over. 

“Uh huh.” you choke out, the most you can manage over your state of mind. You should’ve known that wouldn’t have been enough for Sid: “Mm?” “Yeah. It tastes good, Sidney,” searching for any sign of approval on his face, your brain going into overtime trying to figure out what you’re missing. “Thank you.” Your continuation seems to be the final piece. Now, he’s satiated, pride flaring in his chest.

You cannot forget your manners. You were raised better than that. 

“Yeah. I bet it did. I bet it felt good to finally have some purpose, huh?” The meanness in his tone has grown familiar, and although your ego bruises as your eyes shoot away, Sidney watches as your thighs cling to each other, clenching around nothing, in hopes for something. “C’mon. Don’t act all shy. I see the way you react when I treat you the way girls like you should be treated. ” 

He points at the taboo, what you hoped so deeply he would ignore. But you liked it, he knew on your behalf that you liked it, you liked being under Sidney’s knife, a mental game of pulling you open and looking at all your blood and mental entrails: the rawest, most erroneous, unkempt part of you, and fucking it into completion. 

“I bet you’re wet right now.” Sidney has you to a point, you can feel your panties, dampened, sticking to your folds. “What do you do in situations like this, huh, pretty girl? Play with yourself?,” His head shifts, wordlessly telling you to get off your knees, and sit on the bed. “Do you wait around like you are for me, now? Or do you fuck yourself on your fingers?”

“It’s not rhetorics, answer me.” A low growl.

“No, Sidney.” A pathetic mewl from your lips, your voice not quite one you recognize, high pitched and a bit unsteady. 

“‘No, Sidney’ what? ‘No, Sidney’ as in you’re so fucking dumb that you don’t even know how to get yourself off? Or ‘No, Sidney’, I’m just so greedy, I feed my pussy at her every whim?” The truth was that you were at odds with your body, every time you felt one way: your body would betray you with a crueler reaction, a wetness in your hole to your posture being manhandled into conformity by your golf coach, a small moan every time you were pushed around by your romantic literatures professor. You knew your body like you knew calculus, taught the bare minimum: enough to get by. You seldomly touched yourself, and when you did, you placed nervous, unrehearsed circles on your clit, bumpily getting yourself where you needed to be. 

With a misplaced grunt, Sidney pushes you into the sheets. Hair spilling around you. 

“No, Sidney,” A heady cry more than a sexy, calculated, performed response. “I don’t touch myself.” You continue. Sid almost swore the way you said it was a most-formulated call to action.

“D’aww. Poor, poor girl. Must be so horny. Dumb girl. Want me to fuck it better?” This he offers, this he craves, this you’ll share. It’s just like all the fantasies he’s palmed himself, in the dead of cold, hours of the night, to. 

The calloused pads to his most overworked fingers catch themselves in the elastic of your waistband. He waits for you: it’s your turn to add lines to this stanza. “Yes, please.” Whining now. You push your eyes up to him, lip pouting, creases forming on your chin. You know that Sidney can’t say no when you ball yourself into your smallest, most inconsequential self. “Sidney, please.”

“Oh, with good manners and everything, huh? Must need it bad.” Sid assists, taking off your pants in the process. Leaving you in your underwear. Sopping wet, in their proclamation. ‘They’re nice’, you had thought a million times before as you stared at the way the fabric cupped your ass in the bathroom mirror. Polka dotted, navy and white. You had bought them from wherever, so long ago. “Aww, these are cute, aren’t they?” Sid ridicules, snapping at the hemline of your panties. The sting makes you yip, as the fleeting pain spreads through your hips. 

And once again, you feel embarrassment heat the tip of your ears. You turn, trying to hide your face in your display of hair, something Sid deplores, you can tell by the way he pinches at the delicate skin above your thighs like he has the right to do that, like that is something he is owed. God, Sidney Crosby is calling you cute. You would’ve been honoured if you were still standing at that bar with him. But ‘cute’ isn’t exactly language you used for a fucked through femme fatale you just wanna sink your teeth in. Cute is a teddy bear for valentine’s day, cute is a baby duckling. Cute is a little thing, small, aloof, helpless, embedded in its behaviour, yet insecure in exactly that. Cute is you and your polka dot, not lacey at all, panties. And finally, he reaches down and pulls down that final layer that protects what he has been eagerly waiting for so, so, so long. For a moment, he spaces out. 100 different ideas of how he plans to fuck you begin to materialise in his head as he seemingly stares daggers at your cunt, he places a powerful swat at swollen clit, drowned in your own slick. Shutting your thighs as your pitiful hole clenches around emptiness, a pit in your stomach revealing itself. 

“Please.” You wail, please no more? Or please, cause you can’t wait any longer and just need him in you? 

“Patience. Jesus Christ. Did your dad ever tell you ‘no’, or ‘wait’ or ‘shut the fuck up’ at all in your childhood? Or did your piss poor attitude get you everywhere?”

You liked this colour on him, the colour that belittled you, that held your neck to his pointed heel. He spoke to you like you were to be broken in, fixed. Like maybe, at the end of the day: you were just the virgin highschooler who eventually became the virgin college student that no one would dare touch with a 10 foot pole. But he saw past that. He would touch you. And in his infinite wisdom, he should be making all your choices for you. Maybe what was best for you was being split open on his cock until you cannot form words cause you’re so pretty for him: you don’t even need words anyway. You can just be his toy. His plaything for when the world of hockey eventually lets him down. An approximation of what he truly desires, but yet is just out of reach. His most exquisite collateral to a breakdown 20 years in the making.  

Sid pumps himself back to life, your legs being held open by his non dominant. A deep breath in, like he’s preparing himself. Nervous for what this implies, even though you couldn’t list one way this affects him. Rubbing his leaking tip through your folds, jumping every time his cockhead briefly adjoins your clit. You squeak in response, more than audibly. 

“Relax for me.” The kindest he’s sounded all night. You untense for him the same way you clumsily splotter water onto a stain in a shirt you’re already wearing, only so you can look presentable, but the shirt’s not truly clean. And you are certainly, not really, relaxed at this moment.

You breathe deep as he lines up his cockhead with your poor, weeping, tight hole. And when Sid pushes in, the gasp you let out is loud. You almost wish you could’ve had it caught in your hands, but they are balled up trying to wring the pressure out of your head vicariously through the sheets. 

Sid is heavy within you, it isn’t porn, he isn’t damaging your insides with his largeness, but this is also no easy feat. No prep, just your slick as far as you have hope. And to your credit, he is having very little issue traveling through you, slowly approaching half way through his length as you squirm beneath him, the entire time his eyes searing hotly into yours. If he wasn’t trying to make this moment absolutely fucking terrifying for you, he would be telling you how hard it gets him that he gets to see the unknown vacancy in your eyes as he takes your virginity. But Sidney knows the limits, and Sidney knows that makes him come off scarier than intended. Sidney will tell you that during a future escapade. Maybe in a year's time, when you two retrace this memory.

As Sid bottoms out, the pain becomes a bit more apparent. It’s a lot. Your moans are less so moans, more so a confused mixture of wet cries, and overstimulated mewls. For every feeling you get that it’s too much, that your insides are hurting, a wave of pleasure will water it down. You don’t even know what you want, right now. You are swimming in a body of ocean you never thought you’d be allowed in and the waves are more daunting than you had imagined. 

Tears forming, big, splotchy in your waterline. “Sid-” “Shh. Sh. It’ll be okay.” He’s quick to comfort, but more because he’s played this game before. Years ago, before you even existed. He knows this drill. He doesn’t need you crying. Not now at least.

His palm finds your bare navel, exposed at your shirt which is lifted around the dips of your breasts, you can see him focusing, his hand moving downwards as he mumbles. Ah ha. He’s found it. At least, around there should be right. He presses right down like he’s digging for something. You hiss at first, but it falls out of your mouth lazier and lazier as it goes on, you understand now. He’s searching for himself.

“You feel that, kid? Feel my big cock inside you?” You’re just holding him now, blabbering blissful praise incoherently at him as he dangles pleasure in your face. The pressure becoming sweeter. He’s not even begun to thrust, this scene is lazy. Almost domestic, if you squint. Sidney would enjoy playing house with you, after all. 

“I know after this, you won’t be so cockhungry and maybe finally we can get you acting good. Yeah. Just needing me to fuck the stupid out of you. Is that it, baby? Are you so dumb that you needed me to take your virginity so you can finally get your act together?” Your pussy flutters at his words, which only feeds his ego more, if you looked hard enough, if your eyes could focus, you swore you would have seen his head getting bigger in real time. “Or will it make you worse, a dumb little cockslut who likes it when I’m mean to her cause for once in her life she’s being seen for what she is? Am I gonna have to fuck you often for you to be good?”

You just claw at him, not sure enough of yourself to respond, your arms beam down his bare chest, trying to cling onto something, but nothing sticks. Your grip finds his bicep as finally, he begins to move. Slow, lethargic as his hips withdraw, leaving you for the first time in your life: feeling hollow. You had never before in your life been full, but what ached you all the more, is you had never been so close to empty. And you had begun to realize, it was not a feeling you liked. You sob as he withdraws to his tip.  “More. Need more, please.” You choke out. “Jesus. Fucking needy. Obviously, you need more. Nothing’s ever enough for greedy little girls like you, just take, take, take." The crudeness of his words punctuated as he slams back into you, like he would’ve been kinder, slower, sweeter, more intimate if you hadn’t overstepped. A cry ripped from your throat as the white hot pain morphed into uglier, unfamiliar pleasure.  

“There you go, you like that, don’t you?” His movements unrestrained but also, strangely aware of your limits, any boy your age wouldn’t’ve known this was an appropriate pace, but it was. Sidney knew. God, you were so glad Sidney knew. Strong, consistent, fast, but not aggressive. You felt like every bone had been ripped out of your body, like you were jello, to be molded. Like you were melting into the sheets.

Pleasure being ripped through you every time his pelvis met your cervix. Every time, his fuzz meets yours, stimulating your engorged clit just that little more. You were so drunk on it. Drunk on it all. 

“Look at you. Learning so quickly,” His right hand digging deep into your sacrum, Sid feels dizzy at the way he can feel himself, and it doesn’t help it only feels better for you. His left finally meets your bundle of nerves, flicking it back and forth with reliable spirals. “I know you love it. Even if you wanted to pretend you hated it, you couldn’t. Crying like this is the first time you’ve ever eaten. Fuck. You’re drooling. Literally drooling.” And for every time you try to retaliate, you try to stand your ground: He lands another swipe at your clit, it makes you jump, hips bucking to try and run away, even though it's apparent that's the last thing you could want. And all he can do is laugh. Laugh in your face like it hurts you, like it doesn’t make you clench harder and harder on his length. Like you’re trying to pull him in and swallow him whole. 

A line of spit falls from his lips, falling down into your pussy to be fucked into you. It’s a new type of sensation, a new kind of warm to every other warmness you’re feeling. You begin to shake, shake like a leaf being encouraged through the air by a summer breeze. You’re so close, you realize. It’s all so in your stomach. You might cry if you come right now. 

“Gonna- Gonna cum, Sid.”

“Of course. Of fucking course you are, baby.” An exasperated sigh that falls out of him right onto you like a weight: like oh, of course you’re gonna cum cause you’re some insatiable beast with a high sex drive that he needs to squander before he can focus on important stuff, like oh of course you’re gonna cum, I’m Sidney fucking Crosby. I could be spending the night with a super model, my dick is as big as a red oak and I fuck like a rabbit on ketamine and yet I choose you, lucky you! You’re gonna cum! “Cum, then. Show me. Since that’s all you know how to do, apparently.” 

And god, do you ever. Wide, expansive, white hot pleasure blinding you as you bolt your eyes shut. Attempts to squirm away from him, hips bucking themselves tired. Beautiful, arousing tears fall to your jaw like you’re a sculpture to be marveled. Sid helps you ride out your orgasm, finally, malleable, truly relaxed for him; as your body limpens under his touch. 

Your heart beats like a drum in your chest, loud and consistent, unsuccessfully attempting to ground you in your less than mindful state. It would be working if Sid wasn’t still driving into you. You're conscious enough to know that you’re too sensitive for this. Too much, you assume. Your pussy’s still fluttering, taking new life. Hips still bucking, electric with aftershocks.

“One more.” He asks from you. One more, he promises himself.

“Can’t,” 

“Can.” He rebuts. Well. He does know what’s best for you. 

Sidney speeds up, grabbing your legs and throwing them over his right shoulder, pinned together at the ankles, the tension of being held together digs into your clit. This one is more for him, as much as he liked to give, he wasn’t coming out of this unsatisfied. He pushes into you like he’s trying to knock something loose in you, like he already hasn’t. 

He listens to your gasps and moans, as he tries new angles, fucking up into you, or to the right. Trying to find that sponge in you, that sweet spot that makes every girl squeal. He just needs to find yours, and then he can revel in the squeals, revel like he does in arenas full of hungry desperate fans and their screams, but he much prefers the prior. 

And when Sidney finally finds it, finds that spot in you that squishes underneath his tip like it is clay in his hands, makes you yelp, scream, like if you don’t scream: he won’t know to never stop. The mix of it, the pain that transforms to pleasure, the squeezing, the presence of weak aftershocks, and the suppleness of your g-spot. You are so close, He is so close. You two are close. 

Still weak from your first orgasm, your second hits you hard. Powerful. Clenching around Sid’s dick like you might never have it again if you let go. Twitching in  his hands. He pulls out quickly in fear of what will happen, which is met with a loud involuntary moan. 

“Quiet, Slut.” He hushes, running his fist from base to tip like he might lose this moment. Might lose the opportunity to come all over you as you short circuit, as you worm, as you twitch. Teeth digging into his upper lip in concentration. He squeezes the pink head of his cock, and as if a command was given: cum spits itself all over your stomach. All over. Painted in his remnants.

Well… there you two are. Messes of each other’s making. Sidney takes deep breaths as he stands over you. Taking recon of what he’s done. This must’ve been how it felt when temptation was offered to Eve, although he is unsure if he is Eve or the serpent, if you are the great temptation or if he is? 

Sid approaches the bathroom, wetting a towel, holding it underneath the sink, the cloth becoming oversaturated as his eyes go void, he closes in on his own mind again. 

He comes back, silent. Like he’s planning. Like there’s more in store for you two. He makes delicate lines around your stomach, a wet trail following, cleaning up his mess to his dismay, a small tut coming from his pursed lips as he does so. He then examines your pussy, blood intertwined so closely with your slick, you wouldn’t have known if you weren’t looking for it. Sidney did always take very good care of his things, to be fair. He wipes you down, one final sense of pleasure shoots up at you as the rough of the towel touches your pussy. Reactive even in your most dead state. He lets you rest for five minutes before prompting you again. “Not bad for your first time.” He forces out the kindness almost, like he’s not done stripping you of your worth, not done fucking his resentment into you. A long sigh falls from him, like he has to remind himself he’s not finished playing with you, there will be a next time. It, unfortunately, can wait. 

Sid taps at your thigh, encouraging you to get up, even in your limpness. You do have to return to your father before he believes you to be missing. “I’ll help you get dressed.” Offered half heartedly, your sweat soaked palms rest on his shoulders as he steadies your dizzy body, as your shirt falls back into its correct position, as he pushes your ruined panties up your thighs, hitting you with a little slap to your mound after the fabric returns, just cause it makes him smile, just because it reminds you that you are subjected to his every whim. He helps you step into your pants. “Shame you gotta put your clothes on, cover up everything nice about you.” Brushing hair out of your face, it’s weird. He just helped you get dressed, took your virginity, he has you by the small of your back as he walks you to the door, intimacy bloomed around you two, yet he’s still picking you apart. And, you still love it. 

“You know how to get back to your room?” “Mhm.” “Okay, good.” He smiles, a full smile. “I’ll get in contact with you when I can, okay?” Sidney already has this down pat. Already knows you’re gonna wanna see him again. And, he is more than happy for that to happen. You know that. You both do. But, it’s gotta be on his terms. Like most things— like all things in his life are.

So, no. Sidney was not a particularly malicious man, not in his head. That’s not how he would choose to describe it. But when he walked into the locker room, the room beginning to chirp at him because obviously they heard your high pitched, lustful, yelps. When they made him describe the experience in detail. When Sidney got to smile and look at your dad, when he asked “Was she hot?” and Sidney gets to gloat: “Yeah. Like you wouldn’t believe.” That deep, satisfied, full like he just ate the feeling he got from that certainly didn't help.

Your dad was patting him on the back, celebrating him, howling at him, begging for more details of how Sid ravished his little girl. And he doesn’t even know. So, maybe, If you consider that malicious? Then maybe he was. But maybe, he just wasn’t one who took kindly to wounded pride.

fawn's notes: FIRST OF ALL: apologies for the formatting, the small text just wont stick for some reason ???? AND SECOND OF ALL : hi!!!! hope u loved!!! THIS IS DEF getting a part two, i rlly wnana give brad marchand some love next cause.. duh/??!?? but then after that. or maybe. before. TAOTD is gonna get a chapt 2even if u all hate it. BUT YEAH. NEXT ON MY LIST. IS THIS OR MARCHY!!! anyway give birds UPL WORK SOME LOVE !!! BOOOOYAAAAHHHHHHH ALSO!!!! one last thing i swear but if u feel so inclined please give love in the replies if u liked it...... i love tohear ur ideas and also compliments cause who doesnt

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!

“Oh! Sorry, Sidney..,” You begin your sentence like you’re so sure of yourself but halt in the middle: you’ve remembered yourself and you’ve remembered who Sidney is, haven’t you? “Just wanted to say hi,” your awkward tooth heavy smile begins to fade, the way you smile claws at Sidney: so, so, so familiar yet so, so, distant, “We met a few years ago?” you realise you’re an idiot: Why on earth would Sidney Crosby remember you? His head tilts at your words, eyebrows furrowed highlighting what few wrinkles he wears on his forehead, he’s hurrying you, he’s letting you know with minimal politeness that he couldn’t care less to try and remember.  Your lips make an awkward shape, your full name falling off your tongue like you’re embarrassed. You should be. Oh! It’s you! He remembers you! 2 years ago,  your dad played on your 18th, and with that badge of honour your old man finally allowed you in the pens lockeroom where you weaseled yourself into Sidney’s vision of sight, pleading with teen awkwardness, a fucked up haircut, and painted fingernails if Sid could please, please sign your jersey! He smiles, his eyes lighting up at your reminder of identity: repeating your name back to you a few times, you have your father’s last name, what a pretty adornment. It was like a gift, a present with a ribbon on top: kind of like your dad was saying ‘Here, Sid, from me to you!’