KNIESONICE

the blades aren’t fully warm anymore—summer night air has started cooling everything slowly—but enough that you can still feel traces of heat rising beneath your legs when you sit down beside him.

crickets hum softly in the dark. someone a few houses over in the neighborhood is still laughing around a firepit. the air smells faintly like cut grass and smoke and summertime. all while above you, the sky stretches endlessly black and blue, stars scattered across it in soft silver pinpricks.

nathan leans back onto his elbows beside you with a sigh like he’s a full grown dad. “there,” he says, looking over at you lazily, “perfect.”

you glance over at him with a smile, meeting his gaze. “you say that like you personally arranged the stars.”

a hint of a smirk pulls at his lips, despite the way his eyes flicked upwards in a roll. “I did,” he answers, tone full of teasing.

“oh, obviously.”

he continues, in that usual honey laced, sarcastic tone he does only to annoy it, “took me hours.”

you snort softly, curling your legs beneath yourself on the blanket while he continues to grin over at you, syrupy and warm—just how summer always feels with him.

because summer with nathan always feels softer, somehow.

maybe it’s the way he never rushes anything. the way silence around him never feels awkward. you can spend entire evenings together doing almost nothing and it still somehow becomes one of your favorite memories.

like how tonight started with ice cream from a tiny, family owned shop in ann harbour—your flavour salty caramel, his french vanilla—and a late drive with the windows down, melted ice cream dripping down your hands as you both attempt to lick it off in a giggle filled hurry.

now the night has somehow become this. stargazing in the backyard like some cheesy couple out of an equally as cheesy 90s rom com movie.

nathan shifts slightly beside you before holding an arm out, silently beckoning you into his strong side, and you go without fuss.

you settle against his side, head resting comfortably on his chest while his arm wraps around your shoulders automatically, fingers brushing lazily up and down your arm beneath the oversized hoodie you stole from him earlier—heartbeat is slow and steady under your ear.

honestly, you think you could fall asleep listening to it.

“see that one?” nathan asks quietly after a minute.

you tilt your head back slightly, blinking the sleepiness from your eyes. “which one?”

his soft lips brush the shell of your ear, “the bright one.”

“there are literally thousands of bright ones.”

“the really bright one.”

you snort, absentmindedly playing with his thick fingers, spinning the wedding ring around his middle finger that you’d given him at the beginning of the summer. a small, gentle ceremony with too many flowers and baby blue accents.

it still feels surreal weeks later.

“that narrows it down zero percent.” you murmur.

he laughs softly under you, chest rumbling gently against your cheek before he lifts his free hand, pointing carefully upward in the line of your vision.

“there,” nathan’s voice dips low, vibrating against your ear, “right there.”

squinting—because of course your eyeglasses are inside—you follow his finger through the dark sky until you finally spot it, and you laugh pleasantly.

“see it now?” he hums.

you shrug, feigning nonchalance because you’re a brat. “maybe,” you sing-song.

he smiles at that, turning his head just enough to look down at you. even in the dark, you can still make out the softness in his expression, and you can’t help but to tilt your chin upwards and press a loving kiss to the hinge of his stubbled jaw. which earns you one back against the lips, lazy and lingering.

the two of you fall quiet again after that. not empty quiet, but a comfortable quiet, filled with the distant sounds of loons singing and someone’s tv playing far too loudly.

nathan’s fingers continue tracing slow patterns against your arm while you stare up at the sky together, counting satellites and badly identifying constellations and occasionally pointing out shooting stars that may or may not actually just be airplanes.

at some point, you yawn, loud and unattractive, that small squeaky noise sounding in the back of your throat as you attempt to stifle it.

but your husband notices instantly, squeezing you into his side tighter. “you tired baby?” he asks, lips brushing your temple as he speaks lowly there.

“a little.”

“you wanna go inside?”

you think about it for maybe half a second before shaking your head against his chest, snuggling deeper into the soft, clean cotton of his shirt.

“no.” your voice comes out softer than before. sleepier. “wanna stay here.”

this was never meant to be anything more than a quick thing—you and andrei sneaking away to a coat closet during an annual canes team bbq, with the sole purpose of fooling around for a few minutes to scratch that metaphorical itch.

nothing crazy, because one, you’re not together. well, not really.—just a friends with benefits situation that is definitely way more intense than simply just that, and all of your mutual friends are waiting with smirks for the pin to drop between you. regardless, the second reason is that you don’t want to be cooped up inside some coat closet packed full with expensive jackets and shoes, when the sun is shining outside and hot dogs are moments away from being served.

you’re not missing that, no matter how drool worthy andrei looks today—all loose, unbuttoned linen shirt, short inseam board shorts that never fail in getting you all fluttery, and the veins in his arms all prominent because of the heat.

god, help you.

it started innocent enough—well, innocent enough for the two of you.

with you nestled on andrei’s lap like an obedient dog, both of you all sweaty from the heat but not giving a single fuck about it. the tip of his sloped nose had brushed up a stripe of your damp neck, tickling you and making you squirm against him because he’s a little shit. which obviously got him hard under your ass because his cock was literally nestled into the crease of your ass. which then lead to a whispered proposition about sneaking away for a few minutes—which you agreed to because you’re just a girl.

a bad excuse about needing help with your dress and snickering coupled with side eyes from your friends later, andrei had your back pressed against the door with his hand down the front of your lacy panties. using skillful strokes and measured movements to quickly bring you to a toe curling peak.

a few minutes—that was supposed to be it, but now your cheek is against the wall, makeup transferred to the paint like art, your tits pulled out from the top of your dress while andrei sheathes himself inside of your pussy from behind, still hidden away in the enclosed, dim coat closet of his teammates house.

his large hands are at your hips, holding you at his mercy. large palms and long fingers wrapped around your front, fingerprints digging into your lower belly.

you’re both trying to be quiet, but it’s hard when it feels so good. and when andrei delivers a particularly hard smack against the glove of your ass, you whine out, eyes scrunching shut as you attempt to grip the wall for dear life. desperate for this to last but also to find another release.

"I knew you'd be a good girl for me and take it,” he grunts, lips brushing your shoulder as he leans over you.

the praise has your knees shaking, more so than they already are. “andrei,” you gasp, but when he nips at your skin it turns into a breathless, flurry of giggles, which earns you another smack on the ass—burning.

aorund his length, your walls clench, spreading more of your creamy arousal around the trimmed hair at the base of his cock. making an even bigger mess, which shouldn’t be so sexy but it is.

“you got so messy on my fingers, I just had to do it,” he murmurs, almost to himself as he continues thrusting into you, so hard and powerful that your nipples keep smacking off the wall like little diamonds. “doesn't my cock feel so much better?"

you can only whimper, but andrei’s not having that, delivering an unbelievably hard thrust into you, leaky head brushing your cervix with it.

“answer me,” he demands.

blindly reaching back, you grab at his wrist, squeezing tight, “yes,” you gasp, too loudly considering that it’s so quiet outside this closet that you could hear a pin drop.

the city’s been stuck in a heat warning for days, and your ancient apartment air conditioning unit gave up sometime tuesday night with a sad little rattling noise that sounded like pure surrender.

which leaves the ceiling fan coupled with the stand alone fan you’ve had since college—when you moved in with mat, he tried to get you to throw it away, because ‘who needs a fan in long island?’ now you’re biting your tongue with an I told you so.

it currently sits three feet away from you making sounds that suggest it’s fighting for its life. and it probably is, simply because of the mere fact that you’ve had to jiggle the plug in the outlet three times now—because that’s the amount of times it’s quit.

“If the fan breaks one more time,” you say flatly, sprawled dramatically across the couch cushions, willing the leather material to cool your overheated skin. spoiler alert: it’s not working. “I’m moving into the freezer—seriously, like bitt naked between the ice cubes and your weird migraine cap thing.”

from the kitchen where he’s likely pressing a bag of frozen peas to the back of his neck, your boyfriend laughs. but it’s not a full laugh—more of the exhausted kind that comes from suffering through the exact same heatwave together for the last week.

“you say that like it’s a joke,” he calls back.

you snort despite yourself, “it’s not.”

and honestly, it isn’t.

you look back across the room at the fan, staring at it suspiciously from your position on the couch, narrowed eyes tracking every pathetic wobble of its blades.

“don’t even think about it,” you mutter at the machine.

“talking to it probably won’t help,” mat says, suddenly behind you with a red spot on his neck that tells you he definitely used frozen vegetables as a cool down method.

“you don’t know that.”

he crosses the living room in gray shorts and no shirt, skin still slightly cool from the shower you both took earlier that unfortunately did nothing to help—because you two are teenagers and getting naked infront of each other always leads the sex.

mat hands you a drink of ice cold water in a condensation laced glass before dropping onto the couch beside you with a groan.

the cushions stick slightly against both your legs immediately. “disgusting,” you complain, “I can feel my organs overheating.”

he snorts softly beside you at that before tilting his head back against the couch.

the heat has made both of you lazy in a strange, delirious sort of way. conversations come slower. movements slower. everything feels heavy. god, even breathing feels like effort.

which means the past few days have looked exactly like this.

for a minute, neither of you says anything. but when the fan creaks ominously, both of your heads snap towards it with a humours amount of panic.

a bead of sweat sits against mat’s temple. “you heard that too?”

“yes.” you swallow. it wobbles again, making your palms sweat even more than they already are. then, the fan suddenly rattles violently for two terrifying seconds before slowing again.

and at that, you sit upright immediately, slick skin leaving a mark on the cushions. “mat,” you warn, like this is something he can control.

“it’s fine.” he soothes, even though there’s sweat between his pecks and he sounds anything but convinced.

you shoot him a wide eyes look, “it made a death noise.”

“It did not make a death noise.”

then—silence. hot, dewy, thick silence as the fan stops completely. and somehow, instantly, the apartment turns into a sauna. even more so.

“oh, I’m going to lose my mind,” you breathe a disbelieving sound., and mat can only laugh as you fall backward against the couch dramatically, forearm covering your eyes like a victorian woman dying of plague.

“I can’t live like this anymore,” you mumble. “tell my family I loved them.”

he gazes down at you, a fond look in his eyes that fills your tummy with butterflies. “you’re unbelievable.”

“no, unbelievable would be digging for the frozen peas for the fourth time today.”

mat makes a noise of disbelief, but he’s still laughing. he reaches over and grabs your ankle then, tugging you toward him across the leather couch until your legs end up sprawled over his lap.

and even though the thought of touching someone else in this heat should be revolting, it’s oddly comforting. but that has more to do with mat, more so than anything else.

“you know,” he hums, thumb dragging lazily up your calf, “you could just come sit closer instead of wallowing in your misery.”

you scrunch your nose up, “I’m too sweaty to be affectionate.”

a slow smirk pulls at his mouth, memories of your shower escapades flashing through his mind—every single wet, lewd second. “didn’t stop your earlier,” mat teases.

your mouth falls open in faux annoyance, and for good measure you dig your heel into his groin. he grabs it before you can do any real damage.

“that was before the fan betrayed me.” you say.

mat just keeps grinning.

the heat has visibly softened him. his hair’s messy from constantly running his hands through it, and now that it’s longer from growing it out all season, it gives him that disney prince look that makes your lady parts tingle. his cheeks are slightly flushed from the temperature, shoulders loose and relaxed in a way they only really get around you.

god, it’s unfair how badly you want to jump his bones again. almost as unfair at how sweaty your back is right now.

“wanna cool off in a shower again?” you prompt, maybe way too obvious considering.

but mat doesn’t even care, because he’s still half hard under his pants. he raises a knowing brow in your direction, “give it a minute babe, my fingers are still pruned.”

immediately when matt sinks into your snug, gummy walls, it’s perfect.

years upon years of friendship and almost moments—from pigtails and braces, getting jealous over his past girlfriends when they called you, with that pitiful smile on their face, and your relationship with matt, cute. fights and sneaking tequila and matt fighting the surge to kiss your tears away anytime you cry, all of that has lead up to this.

boiled and bubbled into a sloppy, tension filled kiss that just screamed: finally!

now you’re pressed flat into his expensive, plush mattress. thighs spread in a way that’s borderline painful, achy in your hips bones but nonetheless welcomed where they bracket his strong hips.

hovering above you, matt is breathing heavily. bare chest damp with sweat, which should gross you out but it does the complete opposite. so much so that you can’t stop yourself from reaching out, a ghost of a touch against his ribs. keeping him close—needing him to be.

“oh my—fuck,” he cuts himself off with a rumbly curse, slowly increasing the speed of his thrusts. one of his impossibly large hands—the hands you used to only allow yourself to dream about touching you so intimately—grabs the back of your thigh, hitching it higher, towards your chest.

it opens you up in a way that feels glorious, and also allows him to fully sheath himself inside you. because of course he’s massive. just a few minutes ago, when you’d pulled him out of his athletic shorts between lazy kisses, you’d been left momentarily frozen at the sheer size of him.

but now, all you can think about is how badly you need him in you. moving at this very pace—right between too slow and too fast. hard enough to leave you breathless but not enough to bruise.

you mewl, lashes fluttering as your eyes begin to close. but you force yourself to keep them open, because you don’t want to miss a single moment of this.

“matt,” your breath catches at a particularly sharp thrust, making your toes curl and heart palpitate in your chest.

he looks up at you, eyes half lidded and hazy in a way that says he’s in this. lost in the feeling of you and your love and friendship.

then, he almost lets out a laugh, a breathy sound that makes you want to pull him down for another kiss. “i’ve been thinking about this,” matt huffs, angry plum coloured tip hitting your cervix like it belongs there. “been thinking about this for years.”

sidney claims he’s not protective—at least, not in that macho, loud, peacocky way.

which yeah—he’s not the type to puff his chest out or start arguments for no reason, and he would never think about making a scene for the fun of it. honestly, at his age, and with the quiet sort of confidence he carries naturally, sidney has long since figured out that the scariest kind of protectiveness is the kind that stays calm.

instead of calling it protective, sidney claims he’s just careful with you. always wants to make you feel safe and happy and at ease. which, ding ding ding babe! that’s called protection.

it’s the subtle things that you noticed first, way back when you guys started seeing one other. like the way his hand automatically settles against the small of your back whenever you walk through crowded places, fingers spread wide and steady like he’s guiding you without thinking about it.

the way he always walks closest to traffic, and how he never fails at unconsciously positioning himself between you and anyone acting even remotely off. doesn’t matter if it’s just at the grocery store between the cereal and bread isles, or at the fanciest hockey event.

take the beginning of this past season for example—you’re halfway through crossing a hotel lobby after one of his charity dinners when a small crowd starts drifting too close, people trying to stop sidney for pictures and autographs, which you can’t blame them. but sidney automatically gets intense and grabby with you.

not rough. never rough. but always immediate.

his fingers lace through yours before he gently tugs you behind him, shielding your body with his without even interrupting the conversation he’s having. he signs two jerseys, smiles politely, says something kind to a little kid waiting nearby—but his thumb keeps rubbing across your knuckles the entire time.

a way to make you feel calm, while also sending a message to anyone who would ever dare to say something. or do something.

he gets even worse when you’re sick. borderline unbearable—seriously, if you didn’t love him you’d probably strangle him.

the first time you get the flu while living together, sidney turns into something between an over concerned husband and a personal bodyguard.

you wake up sweaty and miserable around three in the morning, only to find him already awake beside you, one hand pressed lightly against your forehead checking your temperature with a cute little furrow between his brows—and god, you’re not even suprised by it.

“jesus,” he mutters softly when you shift under the covers, instinctively turning towards him. “you’re burning up.”

you groan weakly, throat scratchy. “sid, go back to sleep.”

and that fucker just snorts, like you’re the one being ridiculous right now. “not happening.”

that three days of the flue becomes a blur of warm blankets he insists on running through the dryer so there warm and ‘smell like comfort,’ whatever that means. medicine schedules, your stanley cup constantly topped up, and sidney coddling you so intensely that it’s ridiculous.

and then there’s the most simple moments. the ones that show your age gap the most. not in a bad way, just in a way that shows how different you two are. he’s older, you’re younger. he’s more experienced with life, you still collect stuffed animals. and he’s definitely cautious, and you’re like…totally not.

sidney’s spent years learning how quickly things can go wrong, and now that he has you, that caution wraps around everything. like, you’ll straight up, no hesitation climb onto the kitchen counter to reach something from a high shelf and immediately hear, “hey—careful.”

or jokingly and with the sole purpose of winding him up, you’ll mention walking home alone after class and he’s already clearing his schedule so he can be in a position to pick you up. and if he can’t? you already knows he’s calling malkin or letang do it.

and of course you tease him for it constantly.

“sid, I am fully capable of surviving on my own.”

“I know you are,” he hums every time, followed by a tender kiss against your temple that just makes you vibrate.

but his hand still settles on your knee beneath restaurant tables. he still waits up when you’re out late. still pulls you a little closer against his side anytime the sidewalks get too crowded.

your hands are oily, and laced with the organic sunscreen nate insists on buying, because according to him banana boat doesn’t do shit. but you’re not going to argue with him on that, mostly because it would get you nowhere—also because this one smells like coconut and summer, which is oddly sweet.

slick palms slip over the hard ripples of his chest, grazing his pink nipples until they’re pebbled despite the heat lingering all around—sun beating down on your bodies like an angelic, burning light—as you ride him like your life depends on it.

both you and nathan are nude in the comfort of your too big nova scotia backyard, surrounded by nothing by trees and the far away scent of ocean.

it didn’t start like this. in fact, it was only innocent until you started to rub him down with sunscreen because he was starting to turn a little pink. but that ended with the ties of your string bikini getting pulled apart, and nathan’s semi hard dick straining against his swimsuit.

so yeah, what started as tanning has now turned into a low-grade porno, because the two of you can’t help yourselves.

you’re bouncing on his lap, his damp, hairy thighs tickling your bare ones in a way that feels too good to be true. nathan’s got his hands under you for leverage, helping you slide up and down because your hands keep slipping, and you had started whining with sexual frustration.

“shh,” nathan lets out a laugh, abs flexing when you drop down in a particularly sharp way. “you’re okay, stop whining babe.”

at that, you whine again. mostly because you’re so close to the finish line, but also because you’re a little bit of a brat and live for pissing off your naturally pissy man.

it earns you a harsh slap to the ass—all sunscreeny and sexy. enough to make the fat jiggle just the way he likes. god, nathan can’t even see the recoil and he’s fucking grunting about it.

“I can’t,” you say, chest heaving in a way that makes your tits move deliciously. the blue bikini top that you’d once been covered with long joining the rest of the abandoned swimsuit pieces on the deck beside the lounge chair.

you continue without missing a beat, “I need it so bad, nate.”

he curses, all low and grumbly in a way that shoots right down to your clit. “and you’ll get it baby.” one of the hands that hand been under your thigh supportively, trails up your ribs to give you tit a squeeze—your spine arches appreciatively. a long, drawn out moan falling from your lips.

then nathan trails his fingers down your ribs, almost tickling, before they fall over your stomach, past your belly button and finding your puffy, wet mound.

“just keeping fucking yourself like that,” he smirks, watching through his tinted sunglasses as your mouth falls open, too wound up to even sigh with pleasure.

because oh my fucking god.

he’s delivering tight, sharp circles to your clit. the perfect pace that never fails to bring you right to the very edge.

you’re already making a mess where you’re connected. leaking and squirting each time you drop back down and nathan’s mushroom tip nudges that spongy spot inside you. and god it’s so fucking hot—and you’re right there.

you want to speed up—need to speed up. chase that building high that’s warming between your legs. but your hands keep slipping against the expensive sunscreen you’d been massaging hinto his pale skin.

“I can’t,” you cry, figuratively and almost literally, briefly slowing your movements. your thighs are burning now, and you can only roll your hips against his in desperation—trying to keep some sort of stimulation while also wanting to cum.

and that’s all it takes for nathan to move. in one swift movement, he grabs under both thighs again and uses that leverage to pick you up until you’re both standing.

the smell of chlorine like chemicals and your boyfriends familiar woodsy cologne is all you can smell as you straddle his lap.

hot water laps up between his naked torso and your bare belly, each time you drop down onto his tall, aching length, it splashes up as high as your tits—which have since been exposed when michael hooked the small triangle patch of material to the side a few moments ago, giving himself a nice view of your pebbled, raw nipples.

every now and then, mostly because he can’t resist you, he’ll even lean down and capture your tits in his mouth. tongue sinking aorund your nipples. nipping at them like sweet chocolate chips. which only makes everything feel hotter.

“shit baby,” he grunts, the mit of his palms gripping the thickest part of your ass, keeping you sliding up and down his cock beneath the water. “fuck, you’re so sexy like this.”

you mewl in response, head falling back until your throat is exposed. immediately, michael leans forward and licks a strip up the column, tasting your sweat and the hot tub chemicals that sit there.

the feeling as you gasping, dropping down into his lap with a hard, forceful drop. it has you both groaning out, your clit smacking against his pelvis while his balls sit snugly near the crease of your ass.

you kiss him, brief and salty to fill the lull between you. “I love you,” you whine as your hips begin to roll. slowly at first, finding the angle that feels the best before speeding up.

he curses again as your nails dig into his broad shoulders, a tactic to keep yourself steady and grounding while your body rolls back and forth—sending water over the porcelain edge of the tub and onto the wooden deck below.

only when you start to get erratic does michael speak again, gripping at your hips to stop your vigorous movement. “fuckin hell baby, slow down before you hurt yourself.”

you pout, nipples poking his chest and walls fluttering around his leaky length nestled inside you. “but i’m close. I need it.”

“babe, you literally ducked the wrong direction!”

“I panicked!”

brandon doubles over laughing near the makeshift baseball setup in the backyard, one hand braced against his knee while the other still holds a tennis ball. not the one he’d just absolutely launched at you though, no that one’s sitting uselessly by your bare feet.

you glare at him from beside the lawn chair you nearly fell into trying to avoid it.

the summer evening is warm and golden around you, the grass still damp from sprinklers earlier in the day. somewhere nearby, someone’s grilling dinner, while music drifts faintly from a neighbor’s backyard, a low hum over the cicadas buzzing in the trees.

and meanwhile, your boyfriend is laughing at your near death experience.

“stop laughing,” you complain, pressing a hand dramatically to your chest. “that thing just came at me like a missile and it’s your fault.”

he straightens, looking at you like you’re being dramatic. which you are, but like whatever. “it was a tennis ball that I didn’t even throw hard.”

“still was violent.”

brandon grins helplessly, cheeks flushed from both heat and laughter. “baby, you turned your head into the ball. it wasn’t even coming near those pretty cheeks.”

your lips flicker from the dumb compliment, but you’re still glaring despite that. “I didn’t know where it was going!”

“what do you mean,” he chuckles, “It was going towards the bat.”

you narrow your eyes immediately, completely ignoring the fact that he’s right, because duh. “you’re enjoying this too much.”

“you looked so confident!” brandon says between laughs. “you were talking all that trash five minutes ago.”

“because I thought I was athletic.”

he points his finger at you, “that was your first mistake.”

you gasp in mock offense. then immediately bend down to grab another tennis ball from the grass and throw it at his chest in retaliation.

but he catches it easily—smug, even. which only annoys you more.

“oh, okay,” you mutter, rolling your eyes. “such a show-off.”

brandon loses it again, and the sound is ridiculously contagious—bright and loud and completely unfiltered in a way that always makes your chest feel warm. like always. he laughs with his whole body, head tipping back slightly, shoulders shaking while the late sunlight catches against the messy strands of hair curling at the edges from sweat.

so unfortunately for your dignity, you start laughing too. even though you’re still half heartedly annoyed

“okay,” he says eventually, calming enough to walk back toward you. “c’mere.”

you squint accusingly, “I don’t trust that tone.”

“you’re fine. i’m helping.”

“you said that last time before throwing a fastball at my skull,” you protest, even though you’re already moving towards him, grass tickling your exposed ankles.

he dips his chin down, holding your gaze. “it lightly grazed your cheek.”

your mouth pops open, mock offended once again, “it almost ended my life.”

brandon snorts before stepping behind you, close enough that warmth immediately settles against your back. one of his large hands reaches around to adjust your grip on the bat, rough yet gentle in a way that makes the area between your legs flutter pathetically.

once he deems you to be gripping it correctly, his mouth settles near your ear, soft and whisper like. “there ya go.”

your breath catches, goosebumps rising all over your sun warm skin despite the heat. “you’re distracting me.”

“you’re easily distracted.” he breathes a laugh.

“that sounds judgmental.”

“it’s observational.” he hums just as you lean back slightly into his chest anyway.

the teasing always softens like this with brandon. one second he’s laughing at you for nearly getting taken out by sports equipment, the next he’s all warm hands and quiet affection without even realizing the shift happened.

“okay,” he says after a beat, hitting your hips once affectionately before pulling away. “ready?”

“no.”

he presses a quick kiss against the side of your head, not blinking an eye at how you’re all damp with sweat. “you’re dramatic.”

you send him a look as he crosses the yard once again, picking up another tennis ball, “you love it.”

“I really do.” then, he tosses the ball in your direction like a high school pitcher who does it for fun.

and this time, it connects with your bat. you don’t even get a real swing on it, but you technically still hit it, and your jaw drops open like you’ve just hit a gram slam in a world series.

“oh my god!” you cheer, dropping the bat with a dull thump.

brandon’s face lights up instantly. “there you go!”

“I did that.”

“you did.” he nods, fond.

you hum triumphantly, “i’m basically a professional athlete now.”

“let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

but you ignore that comment and the claps he’s delivering you that sound suspiciously sarcastic.

“thank you,” you say graciously. “if like to thank my coach for believing in me despite repeated facial injuries.”

he snorts “you had one near miss.”

“it was traumatic.” you remind him stupidly.

“sure, baby.”

you grin as he walks back over toward you, shaking his head fondly. then, without warning, brandon reaches out and hooks an arm loosely around your waist, tugging you into him until your laughter dissolves into a surprised squeak.

“what are you doing?”

he licks his bottom lip, “you looked cute celebrating.”

you roll your eyes automatically, “so embarrassing.”

beneath you, the pavement is so hot that you wouldn’t be surprised if the soles of your adidas’ were melting right off. which means you’re already irritated in general, never mind throwing stupid street hockey in the mix.

arber snickers, the collar of his shirt damp with perspiration. “you were holding it at shoulder height five seconds ago.”

“it wasn’t, but whatever.” you grumble, annoyed by also not really, which he reads immediately.

“babe, you almost took my head off.”

you turn away, “you’re dramatic.”

behind you, he laughs, loud and clear like he isn’t currently dying from the montreal heat wave.

the two of you have been out on the quiet neighborhood street for almost an hour now, the summer sun hanging low enough to cast everything gold. the warm air sticks to your skin in a way that feels illegal, oversized shirt you’ve got on clinging to your back against your prayers.

road hockey was apparently supposed to be easy. fun, even. that’s what arber told you while already dragging you outside with two sticks from his collection in the front closet, a cheap net, and entirely too much joy on his face.

but now? you’re unbelievably sweaty, competitive, mildly bruised, and ninety percent sure he’s been making up rules just to mess with you.

a few minutes later, you drop your arms in defeat, turning in your heels to him. he’s already grinning, knowing you’re going to complain. which you do—“you can’t just steal the puck from me every time,” you adjusting your grip on the stick.

you’re obviously not holding it right anyways, and arber fixes the placement for you before you can blink. sweaty palms and dominance. “i’m literally teaching you defense,” he teases.

“you’re bullying me.” you pout.

he kisses the pout away, which only makes you roll your eyes. “same thing.”

then, arber grins, leaning casually against his tall stick like he doesn’t have a care in the world. which is unfair, honestly. even sweaty and overheated, your boyfriend still somehow looks annoyingly good—dark hair damp at the edges, chain glinting against sun tanned skin, smile lazy and smug in a way that makes you want to both kiss him again and hit him with the stick.

“okay,” he says finally, straightening again. “try again. keep your hands looser this time.”

you huff, wanting to go inside, call it quits and chug some sugary lemonade. but also like, out here you get to ogle and be all close to your sweaty, sexy man. so like, rock and a hard place.

“I am loose.”

his eyes dart between your hands and your eyes. “you look like you’re trying to strangle the stick.”

the only presence you give him is a half hearted scoff, then immediately take the worn down rubber puck, and start moving toward him again.

this time goes slightly better. you actually manage to keep control of the puck for more than three seconds, weaving around badly cracked pavement while arber pretend skates backwards on sneakers in front of you like it’s second nature.

“see?” he says encouragingly, grinning proudly. “that’s good.”

you take a moment to wipe the sweat from your forehead. “you sound surprised.”

“i’m a little surprised.”

“rude.”

his grin widens, moving closer until he’s in front of you again. “you’re so cute when you’re mad.”

your attention flickers upward for one fatal second, and arber takes the chance to steal the puck cleanly away from you for the umpteenth time today as you fall for the stupid distraction.

“oh my god,” you groan loudly, not even attempting to chase after him. because you’re so flustered from him and the heat you’d probably fall and rip your knees open.

he just bursts out laughing like your humiliation is the highlight of his day, coming to a slow running stop in that hot way guys do. “you walked right into that one.”

your squint accusingly at the finger he’s got pointed at you. “i hate you.”

“no,” he smirks, “you don’t.”

and yeah, you absolutely don’t.

which becomes even more obvious a few minutes later when things go horribly wrong. because of course they do.

it happens relatively quick—he tosses the puck back toward you after retrieving it from near the curb, and you try to stop it the way he showed you earlier. except your timing is terrible.

because instead of trapping the puck cleanly, your stick catches awkwardly underneath it, and the lucky launches upward and directly into arber’s face with a familiar, sickening crunch.

“oh my god—“ you gasp, dropping the hockey stick with a loud clatter as your rush towards him.

you watch as he recoils instantly, hand flying to his nose while the puck falls uselessly onto the pavement beside him.

you stomach drops. “oh my god,” you repeat, already grabbing at his face like you’re trying to see the damage through his hand.“oh my god, I didn’t mean to—”

“i’m okay,” he says immediately, though his voice sounds pinched like he’s lying but trying to not make you feel bad. which, too late because you’re shaking with guilt. only worsening when blood starts dripping through his fingers.

your eyes widen. “babe, you’re literally bleeding.”

arber winces, “little bit.”

“a little bit?!” you stare at him in horror. “I just nailed you in the face with a puck! it’s more than a little bit.” you’re crouching down now, sitting pretty in front of him with your bare knees on the hot pavement.

his nose is throbbing like something is definitely wrong, but all he can focus on is how you look. worried yes, but also unfairly pretty.

your small, warm hands settle on either side of his head, eyes darting around to asses the extent of his injuries. after a beat, you tut your tongue, “why does every game with you end with someone bleeding?”

and at that, he starts laughing.

“stop laughing!” you beg helplessly. “you’re making it bleed more! god, it’s probably broken arber.”

“it’s not broken.”

you take your bottom lip between your teeth, “it better not be.”

still holding his nose pinched shut with one hand, he nudges your knee lightly with his own, gathering your attention that had been previously settled on his injury. he smiles at you, completely unbothered, which is just so him that it hurts worse than the guilt.

“it’s okay.”

“i’m sorry,” you tell him quietly, playing with the fingers on his free hand.

he almost wants to roll his eyes at that, because arber knows there’s nothing for you to be sorry for. “listen,” he starts, “i’ll forgive ya if you come inside with me and fix me up.”

a tiny, half hearted grin begins to pull at your lips.

—

arber sits on the closed toilet lid while you stand between his knees in the bathroom, gently dabbing at the dried blood beneath his nose with a damp washcloth. and despite the nastiness of it all, the whole scene feels absurdly domestic.

his hands rest loosely on your hips while you concentrate, brows furrowed with lingering guilt.

“I feel bad,” you mumble for the hundredth time since he’s sat down.

“you shouldn’t.” he tells you, voice barley louder than the sound of the fan running above head. “you’re panicking more than I am.”

“because there was bleeding!”

arber smiles softly then, not a teasing one. just fond. “you’re cute when you worry.”

you roll your eyes automatically, though your shoulders finally start relaxing now that he’s clearly okay.

and then—“would you still of loved me if the puck made me ugly?” he muses, grinning lazily up at you like he think he’s the funniest guy on the planet.

you just stare at him flatly. “your ego surviving that hit is actually incredible.”

he laughs again, softer this time. and then, before you can step away properly, one of his hands slides gently to the back of your thigh, tugging you a little closer between his knees.

your breath catches slightly.

“you know,” he starts quietly, looking up at you with that warm, unfairly affectionate expression he gets sometimes, “I think getting injured was worth it.”

“oh, absolutely not.” you try to glare at him, but it doesn’t work very well when he’s smiling at you like that. and especially not when he tilts his head slightly and murmurs, “c’mere.”

the kiss between you is soft. sweet in that lazy, lingering way sticky, summer kisses always seem to be.

arber’s hand stays warm against your thigh while yours slide carefully along his jaw, avoiding the sore spot near his nose as you kiss him back.

when you finally pull away, he’s still smiling if full force.

“you taste like gatorade,” he notes.

you snicker, “you taste like blood.”

“that’s kind of romantic.”

luke’s rough palm sits rough and heavy over your salvia slicked lips, stifling your dirty moans and soft whimpers. because not even the cicadas—no matter how loud they are—can cover the sounds you’re making under him.

outside, the quaint campsite is taken under by the night. a navy hue lightly illuminated by the expanse of stars in the sky. the embers of the fire are still glowing hot, casting the briefest orange light on the nylon tent. you’re and luke’s, and also jack and quinn’s—barley a few feet away, unsuspecting of the way their baby brother is currently pounding into you.

your thighs bracket his hips, feet hooking around him as if trying to pull him closer. deeper. and it works, without needing to hear your words, luke’s rolling his hips against yours perfectly, until every intimate part is touching and sliding together deliciously.

he grunts with it, sounding into the crook of your sweat dampened neck. and he’s careful with it too—careful to not allow the sound of skin slapping together to be heard. thrusting deep and slow instead, balls nestled against the crease of your ass and jumping there anytime your walls slicken and clench around his length.

“oh baby,” he grumbles, the sound vibrating deep in his chest—pressed against yours so tightly that it’s almost hard to breathe. but you love it.

again, you whimper against his palm, one of your hands gripping at his wrist in an attempt to…you don’t even know. ground yourself? free yourself? both, maybe?

then, through the wilderness’ version of quiet, the sound of a zipper sounds, followed by a body stumbling out.

luke stops himself from continuing pleasure, not because he really wants to, but because your eyes go all wide with confusion and he doesn’t want to like, upset you.

you both hear jack say something quietly to quinn, something about coming right back, and then twigs snapping under his adidas slides. right between your two tents.

shit.

slowly, luke drags his hand down your face, settling near the base of your throat.

“luke,” you whisper, brows drawn together with worry.

your boyfriend shushes you, so quiet you don’t even really register it. mostly because you can hear jack peeing now, way too close for comfort for a multitude of reasons. but you don’t have a chance to dwell on that before luke’s leaning down and capturing your lips with his.

the kiss is slow and sloppy in a way that as your toes curling around his thighs, tongues sliding together in a messy, spitty dance. you both taste like cheap beer and the burnt skin of marshmallows, but somehow the combination works, and makes everything feel that much sweeter.

without taking his mouth off yours, luke begins thrusting into your heat again. still slow, almost antagonizing so, but nonetheless amazing.

you whine against his tongue, gripping at his ribs, then hips, then bare ass as if attempting to pull him in deeper.

and it’s definitely because it’s sweltering outside, and inside for that matter. sweat soaking under your arms and making your upper lip salty—which is just only adding to the overstimulation you’re feeling right now.

so the second you walk into your condo, you kick your shoes off near the door with more aggression than the situation calls for, and let out a tired groan.

immediately it gets the attention of your boyfriend, cale, who looks up immediately from where he’s stretched across the couch, phone in hand because he’s definitely scrolling sports highlights like he’s not sick of them.

“there she is,” he grins like you’re the best part of your day, which makes the whole bad day grimace on your face falter, because you’re so in love with him it’s not even funny.

you put your keys in the little bowl on the side table before shuffling towards him. barely managing a half convincing smile before collapsing dramatically beside him. “I think I’m dying.”

he laughs softly, setting his phone down. “long day?”

“sooooo long.” you whine just as cale holds his arm up for you to tuck yourself into his side, which you do without question.

the condo is cool compared to the humid summer evening outside, even with the balcony door cracked open just enough to let warm air and distant city noise drift through. you can smell his cologne woven into his shirt, along with laundry detergent and whatever way he cooked his chicken for lunch. you get if you got up and checked, you’d find a portion left over for you.

it’s so familiar and homey that you honestly could fall asleep on the spot. well, almost.

because your makeup still feels like cement on your face and your scalp is starting to itch from product build up—and you’re definitely still clammy to the touch.

but cale is seemingly unaware—or maybe just unphased—by all of the above. because he settles in like this is the position until bedtime, even presses two sweet little pecks to your oily forehead like your makeup isn’t currently separated.

you groan again, rubbing at one eye. “I still have to wash all this off.”

his brows pull towards his nose, eyes flickering over your face while you continue to pout. “what?”

“my makeup,” you huff and pull away from him, although it’s a struggle because you’re exhausted and want nothing more than to get those little kisses again. “I feel dirty,” you state.

cale catches your wrist gently before you can continue to smear mascara everywhere. “hey,” he chastises even more gentle than his touch, cheeks rosy like always, “don’t. you’re gunna get it all over.”

you roll your eyes, even though your stomach swoops at that. “i’m tired.”

“I know.” his thumb brushes lightly over your knuckles before he tilts his head toward the hallway. “c’mon,” he says quietly, already helping you off the couch. “let’s get you cleaned up.”

and your heart turns to mush.

a few minutes later, you’re sitting on your shared bathroom counter that’s attached to your bedroom, while cale stands between your knees with the softest expression you’ve ever seen on him.

with a gentle hand, he uses a makeup removing wipe to get rid of the bulk of makeup on your face, using nothing out tender strokes around your eyes, over your cheeks and forehead. traces your cupids bow like he can’t help himself, which makes your snicker to yourself.

but despite yourself, it feels like heaven.

“this is very intimate,” you mumble after a beat.

your boyfriends just hums, because he’s like, way too focused to properly comment on that. which is unexpectedly endearing.

one hand rests lightly against your jaw to steady you while the other continues to wipe away the smudges mascara beneath your eyes. brows furrowed slightly in concentration, so much so that you have to resist leaning forward to kiss away the dimple there.

“you’re very focused right now,” you note, voice barley above a whisper because the moment feels too fragile to be any louder.

on either side of his hips, your legs swing back and forth like a kid, brushing up against his shorts.

cale grins at that, but doesn’t take his steadying hand off your jaw. “this is precision work.”

you laugh softly, and the sound makes his smile grow a fraction.

little by little, the day starts melting off you. the makeup continues to disappear, but it’s followed by the tension in your shoulders dispersing. then the exhaustion sitting heavy behind your eyes suddenly falling away.

suddenly, the heat feels different. and it has everything to do with the man standing between your thighs like he belongs there—taking care of you like you’re his everything. maybe you are.

after that, you both get into the shower. water not too hot but nowhere near cold. cale washes you down, massages off all signs of sweat and the day, and pays extra attention to your scalp—removing all build up with the ridiculously expensive shampoo he always buys you because he insists you deserve it.

when your conditioner is sitting, hair lathered and heavy down your spine, he leans down and kisses your gently. it lingers, but doesn’t deepen—it’s doesn’t need to—it says a million things words can’t.

“thank you,” you whisper against his mouth, eyes already starting to flutter closed as the combination of the lengthy day, sweltering heat, and your boyfriends gentle care begins to catch up with you.