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That cheeky thin bikini you slipped on was really doing a number on him; a bulge strained in his swim shorts. At first he started making these sighing sounds like a neglected puppy. When that didn’t faze you, he moved on to more physical attempts, poking your stomach until you swatted him away and fiddling with the delicate strings that hold your nylon blend bikini together. You complained at that point and assumed he got the memo. How wrong you were. 

“Sunscreen. You need sunscreen," he breathes, like the words alone took the life out of him. You could use a refresher; it’s been a few hours since you last lathered your half-naked body up with the greasy salve. 

“You do it for me then," you mumble, turning over to lie on your front. He makes a bewildered noise; you hide your smirk in between your folded arms. The sunscreen in question sits by your beach bag, cap open, lotion melting in the reflection of the sun coming from the water. He moves slowly as if your words weren’t intended for him. Like a prey animal sneaking around a predator, Logan reaches for the small thing and stares. Pretty blue eyes that have dilated double in size flick back and forth between you and the oily bottle. 

A faint touch to your spine. You feel it, just barely. His fingers glide down the skin that protects the bones that keep you upright, levelling over the fabric of your swimsuit. He’s breathing heavily; you can feel the warm currents seep out and hover over your skin. Goosebumps rise in the wake of his touch; you arch your back upwards just a smidge to keep his hands on you. He whines again, this time deeper and more telling. Carefully, he shuffles closer to you until he’s able to pull one leg over your waist. Straddling your waist now, he rotates his hands over your bare shoulders, squeezing the skin there as it ripples under his touch. You snort, and he shushes you seconds after. You can feel the way his bulge presses into the small of your back. He’s hard, and not without reason. 

“Please,” you hear whispered behind you; it’s enough to get you to move. 

“What, baby? What do you want?” 

"You," he confesses, cheeks blushed a bright red. Both from the heat of the sun and the way your skin looks as he touches it. “Please.”

You lift yourself up and turn to lie on your back again, legs slipping open and over him as he crawls closer to lie between you. His chest rests vertically against yours, the plains of his chest rubbing up against your tits as he grinds into you gradually. You let him suffer for a moment, hips bumping awkwardly into yours as he tries to get himself off in his tightened swim shorts. 

He’s moaning into your neck now, mouth opening and closing around the sweat-dampened skin of your collarbone. His teeth graze over, and you nearly push him off, but he just pushes you further into the towel and ground. 

“Oh god,” his hips turn erratic, “I’m going to cum, please—” 

And of course, Thomas is fine. 

He’s hardly said a word since you got to the rented cottage; he just watched. Watched with those slow-blinking eyes, spectating you like it was funny, like your frustration was the most amusing thing there was to do. That only ended up with you growing more annoyed, less at the snow entrapment and more at your oh-so-quiet boyfriend who sits awfully content on the sofa. He doesn’t even seem fazed when you step around the couch to tower over him. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks with his arms crossed over his chest. The woolly sweater he has on nearly breaks you, but you stay strong. 

“How are you fine right now? It’s freezing.” 

He nods in agreement, your statement just serving as a way to contract noise in the space. You grumble and fall down onto the cushion besides him. His arm folds from his chest and coils around your shoulders, tucking you nicely into him and the crevice of the seat. It’s then that you understand why he’s so zen. He’s warm. Skin tepid with natural heat that wafts off of him like the fire stoking in the place in front of you. You crawl deeper into him, hands slipping under the edge of his sweater and splaying across the firm plains of muscle where his stomach is. How rude is that? He’s been withholding his own body heat from you this whole time. Instead of sharing it with you, he’s been watching you struggle like it’s his favourite movie. 

“I hate you," you lie, burrowing into his chest while swinging a leg over his lap until you fit right into him like a puzzle piece. He scoffs, tucking a hand between your thigh and his. 

“Liar. You love me.”

“Barely.” No, entirely. He just doesn’t need to know how much. You pick at the pilling of his sweater; he rubs his hand down your shoulder in slow currents. It’s quiet for a moment, but then he pokes his finger into the fat of your thigh hard enough to make you squeal. 

"Quit," you glower, kissing him once on the scruffy skin of his chin. You kiss him again in the corner of his mouth, and then again, and again, until you're wrapped up in one another and can’t even remember what he did to annoy you. It happens lazily. At a natural speed, you don’t even realise your top is peeled off until you feel his hands reaching for the clasp of your bra. Despite how cold the weather has turned outside, the space between you is warm. The fire blazes; wispy flames dance in the blackened space, and wood crisps up and leaves an orange glow through the room. Tom is cosier than any flame, though. He ignites the distance that’s inevitable and pulls you in like it’s the easiest thing he can do. 

"Tom," you whisper into his mouth; he bites at your skin until it stings. “Keep me warm." He will; you don’t even need to ask because you know it’s the one thing he’ll always do, “Safe.” 

Every mark he presses into your skin burns with that aching need for something more. He dips his head lower until it can rest freely on your collarbone; auburn curls graze over your bitten flesh. There’s reason in his hands, and it finds purpose by swirling deep flourishes over your clit until you're shaking. There’s habit in the way he doesn’t stop no matter how badly you try to buck away, because he knows. 

His cock pushes into you slow, every ridge and vein gliding over your spongy walls until he’s at the hilt. He still doesn’t say much, but his breathing pattern grows uneven the more your hips move over him. His hands don’t stop moving all over you, down your back, over your waist, through your hair. It’s never-ending and overrides all of your senses until all you can focus on is him. 

Your pelvis grinds down on him until it leaves that sticky sweaty residue on his inner thighs. It’s gross and makes a crude sound each time you bound down onto him, all squelchy and wet. His cheeks heat up, bright red over his nose. You guide his head to rest on your sternum by his hair; he lets it happen. 

“Oh—” You don’t let him finish the muddled train of sounds. You tug at his dampened tresses hard enough to release a pained noise. 

Mavrik’s been irritating you all day. Not like a typical older-brother-annoying way. Today it’s much worse. Much more focused. Like he has a purpose finally, other than hockey. You thought you’d never see the day he excels in something other than shooting pucks into nets; it just sucks that the one other thing he’s good at is pestering you. 

“Would you fuck off? Please? Kindly?” 

He just laughs and sticks his tongue out at you when your back is turned. You’re busy making lunch, some protein-filled heap of meat and vegetables that he’ll eat no matter what just because you made it. It’s a late lunch; he didn’t come back home till after the time anyone would think was suitable. Justin came with him, and since then he hasn’t stopped watching you. Eyes flicking back and forth between yours and your hands on a chopping board, or over the stove. Your brother hasn’t noticed yet, which is dangerous, because you know the moment he does, Justin is screwed. Literally? Metaphorically? Either way his pretty little head will soon be on a spike. 

Mavrik doesn’t know. You’ve managed to keep it a secret for this long, but if your boyfriend doesn’t quit looking at you like you hung the moon, he’ll soon discover the secret. The secret. The hidden truth. The one thing you weren’t supposed to do as per his protective brotherly rules. He didn’t want you anywhere near his teammates, at any stage of his hockey career, but sometimes things don’t always turn out the way you want. God, he’ll kill you and Justin and then maybe himself if he ever finds out. He nearly has found out, several times. Once you had to hide Justin in your closet with his jeans halfway down his thighs, with kiss-bitten lips. It was stupid, but so thrilling at the same time. 

Something slimy hits the back of your neck, and you squeal. Turning suddenly, you glower at the only suspect, and he bellows out a laugh. His hand points at Justin besides him, who sits there with a blank face. 

“It was him!”

"No, it wasn't," you press, but look questionably at the supposed suspect. He shakes his head, soft curls brushing over his forehead as he raises his hands in protest. 

“No? It wasn’t me, baby—”

Oh, he’s really done it now. 

Mavrik stops laughing. Your heart plummets to your ass, and Justin just blinks with wide eyes. “What did you say?” he asks, turning on the stool to face a shell-shocked Justin. The food on the stove bubbles over; steam pours into the air as it burns. None of you move, none of you breathe. 

"'Baby', you know? Like, you're being a baby. Childish.” he tries, but Mavrik just gapes at him. It’s so beyond silent in the kitchen now. You can hear everything from the television playing in the unit over to your heart beating in your chest. Then, Mavrik moves. You squint your eyes in preparation, but he doesn’t move aggressively like you thought. Instead, he turns and steps off the chair. You both watch silently as he walks to his bedroom and breathe out when the door shuts behind him. 

“Are you crazy?” you question, cheeks hot enough to rival the surface of the sun. Justin whines lowly with glossy eyes, like a kicked puppy. It would be endearing if not for his previous fuck-up.

“I’m sorry, okay? I wasn’t thinking.” 

You feel bad, just for a moment. The way his face pales into a saddened, pleading expression. But then before you can even think about comforting him, Mavrik marches back through the room, and you both freeze up again. He walks past the kitchen counter. “We are going for a run,” he says, nodding towards the shaking leaf of a boy. “Forget lunch. We need to talk.” 

Before anyone can protest, the front door slams behind him. Justin moves at an exhilarated speed, slipping his shoes on clumsily. Just as he’s about to travel out the door with your brother, he runs up to you and wraps his arms around you. You gasp into the hug, hands at your sides, until he whimpers again. They circle around his waist, digging into the cotton fabric of his shirt. 

“Don’t forget about me, okay?” he mumbles into your hair, pressing a long kiss to the crown of your head. “I want roses at my funeral."

You laugh into his chest, tilting your head up to mouth at his jaw, “He’s not going to kill you.”

Your legs are spread apart just enough to reveal your cunt, fluttering with want. He mirrors you, sock-covered feet just shy of the outsides of your bare thighs. It’s cramped; he’s too lanky to ever be this small, but somehow it just works. Your back is angled to rest up against the door; the wood centres you to the earth, and you’re not sure how stable you'd be without it. Michael keeps you steady too, his swarming presence, his smell, his eyes as they trace over your half-naked form. 

You feel peeled back. Like the casing of an orange, the fresh fruit lay bare and awaiting for him to devour. He observes you as such, a darkened gaze scanning over the most intimate. His cock sits heavy in his hand, but it feels less repulsive as it would be in any other scenario. Instead of some offputting display of male pleasure and control, it’s a collision of devotion. Like two galaxies merging into one, stars form and thrive as it happens.

Typically that takes hundreds of billions of years to happen; fortunately for you, Michael’s only been your boyfriend for a year, and you’re already fused together like Earth and Theia.

A sound leaves his agape mouth. A wrinkle of hunger, it takes over his senses like adrenaline. Your speed picks up, fingers grinding over your clit until you can’t stop shaking. He slicks his hand down at a pace you can’t quite keep up with, callouses catching bulbous veins until those noises start pouring out of him uncontrollably. 

Suddenly you stop, hand stilling at your quivering flesh as he chokes. But he stops too, the both of you unmoving now as you peer into each other's eyes. Michael’s expression scrunches up in disappointment; he’s clearly unnerved at the abrupt ending of euphoria. You smirk, small and hardly noticeable. 

He notices. 

“Why’d you stop?” 

“Why’d you?”

He grumbles and tries to start jerking off again, but you kick the corner of his thigh. His eyebrows string together, bottom lip jutting out in some childish way of showing contempt. You like teasing him, pulling at the strings that bind his restraint together until they start to fray and snap. The end result is always worth it, even if afterwards you’re unable to walk properly for a couple days. 

You start moving again, hand slipping down low enough to slide a finger in. He mumbles something incoherent, but you’re sure it was something along the lines of desperation and greed. The pleasure blinds you for a brief second, eyes fluttering to the back of your head as you tilt it back against the wooden door.

He flicks the edge of his foot against your thigh in protest; he always needs your eyes on him to finish. He must be close then; his strangled pace grows ragged as he exhales with deep bursts. You’re close too, that verge of desire only moments away. You’ve taunted him with the brink of release enough today; it’s been over an hour since you first sat down across from him. It's only fair to give him what he wants. He’s been good today anyway; he hasn’t tried anything else you’d deem punishment worthy. 

He finishes with viscous spools of cum that hit the margin of your shin, coating the skin with a sheen of eroticism. It’s gross, honestly; maybe you’ll convince him to clean it up later with his tongue. You come only seconds after, hips shifting erratically as that bundle of nerves is urged out of its confinements. Your eyes lock with his once more and his cheeks hollow out.