KNIESONICE

the farmer’s market is busier than you expected for a random wednesday in the middle of july—but then again, it is summer.

people crowd the walkways between stalls, carrying bouquets of in bloom wildflowers and paper bags full of fresh produce. somewhere nearby, a local musician is playing an acoustic guitar, the sound drifting through the warm breeze admit the mid day air.

gabe landeskog doesn’t pay attention to any of it though—not the smell of morning baked blueberry pie, or the dirt casing that lingers on carrots and radish. not the happy families or farmers trying to entice you towards their stall.

you—linen dress flattering in a way he’d never think it to be, legs kissed by the sun and sparkling due to the shimmery body oil you slathered on after your shower that morning, your tiny fingers slotted between gabe’s much larger ones, like tow perfect puzzle pieces, swinging between your warm bodies. you, who’s completely oblivious to everything around you in a different way.

you don’t notice the children darting in front of you, halfway through telling him a story about something frantic that happened at work the day prior. that’s when a breeze catches your loose hair, blowing it directly across your face. sticking to your lipgloss and sunscreen.

briefly, you pause. push it away with your free hand, and continue taking.

“…and then she had the nerve to act like it wasn’t even her fault—”

gabe watches behind the tint of his shades, a soft little quirk to his upper lip that dangerously resembles a smirk. he squeezes your hand with his, three times wordlessly to let you know he’s listening.

the breeze returns, and the strand of hair you’d only just tucked behind your ear immediately finds it way back into your mouth.

your cough, half disgusted and half amused, all while gabe snorts like it’s the best thing he’s seen all day—and that says something considering your just passed the sourdough stand.

“I said you should’ve put your hair up,” he teases, knowingly, and you shoot him a look—although you’re more so squinting from the sun than anything more detrimental.

you keep walking, “it didn’t match the dress.”

he gives you a deadpan look, “babe.”

“i’m serious,” you stress.

“I know.”

but his returning grin says otherwise.

you tuck the loose strands behind your ear, again, but it proves to be pointless when thirty seconds later, it happens again—strands blown straight across your vision like a sand storm in the form of peach shampoo and conditioner.

“oh my god,” you swipe your hair back with dramatically more force than necessary. he opened his mouth, probably to gloat about how earlier he said something about you should bring a hair clip babe—so you shoot daggers in his direction before he can.

his response it holding up those large palms of his in surrender.

a few minutes later, the two of you stop at a vendor selling homemade lemonade, and of course you cousins resist dragging gabe over—because duh! they have like, five different flavour options. as you’re digging through your bag for cash, another warm gust sweeps through the market.

the loose pieces of hair immediately fly back into your face, but before you inevitably let out a long, defeated sigh—before you can fix it yourself, he’s reaching over.

his fingers catch the few strands near your cheek, and with surprising gentleness, he tucks them behind your ear, all before you can even get the money out of your purse. before you can even register it. and your heart just about melts.

and it’s not that this is some out of character things from your boyfriend—because gabe landeskog is the biggest, softest lover boy you’ve ever met. but something about the gentleness of his touch in contrast to the swirling heat and the harsh, humid breeze, feels more intimate.

like he saw you getting truly frustrated, and fixed it before it would have the chance to ruin your mood.

his hand drops down your face to round to the nape of your neck, palm just resting on the backside like he belongs there.

the first time willy takes you it’s during the dead of summer, darkness blanketing the clean, linen draped bedroom of the sweden house.

your back is damp with heat and excretion, already half way to a long nights sleep from the hour of foreplay—willy bringing you to one, three or maybe even five orgasms with skillful fingertips and mouth. honestly, you’ve lost count, mind gone numb and foggy with pleasure and that greedy need for more.

the sheets feel cool against your skin, soft like new silk against the sunburn you sustained from lounging by the pool all day, where you were wearing nothing but a tiny bikini that did nothing but drive willy wild—sporting a semi under his white trunks for the entirety of the afternoon. he had dragged you onto his lap before dinner then, shoved his swimsuit down his damp thighs until his cock sprung free, mushroom tip hitting your dewey lips before you took him entirely into your warm mouth, tasting chlorine and the salt of pre-cum, sucking him until spent.

the thought of it now is enough to have you blinking the bleariness from your eyes. you watch him, your chest bare and heaving. willy is bent between your legs, plump lips placing soft, slow kisses up your body. nips at your thighs until your gasp, licks a stripe by your belly button, making your arch into it.

your lashes brush your cheeks as you keep watching, heat washing over your skin as his beard tickles against your ribs. the feeling makes you giggle despite the way your hips wiggle searching for pleasure. your clit catch his leg, and your giggle transitions into a whine—desperate.

willy’s mouth detaches from the fleshy underside of your breast, an amused half smirk on his face. he looks at you like you’re something precious, his own personal doll, and just that alone makes you whimper again—soft yet echoing through the bedroom.

“what’s so funny?” he murmurs, but without waiting for answer—because in all honesty, he doesn’t need one—he surges back down and takes your peaked nipple into his mouth. suckling and swirling around the rosy bud like he’s done it a million times before.

the half assed response you’d been saying quickly turns into a moan. carding your hand through his grown out hair, your scratch at his scalp and grip the strands like your life depends on it. you can smell his expensive shampoo and pool water, and it’s mouth watering in a way you can’t explain.

eventually, he continues the path up your body, leaving hot, open mouthed kisses up your sternum and across your collarbones. you hide in the crook of his neck when he surfaces, letting out little gasps, full body shuttering with anticipation.

with a firm yet tender hand, he pulls your face back to his, eyes locking through the dark. willy smiles, “so fuckin pretty,” he murmurs. “you tired hunny?”

you pout automatically, shaking your head instinctively. “need more,” you beg, “need you willy.”

he raises a brow, almost surprised. because this hasn’t happened yet. he hasn’t been inside you, not in the way he yearns for. but here you are, in his families european home, naked and barred for his eyes only. perfect, all and only for him.

“yeah?” he’s already pushing your thighs further apart with his own, keeping you spread. the glow from the alarm clock beside catches your folds, glistening and prepped for his cock. the sight has him groaning, raw and unfiltered, balls twitching impatiently.

you can feel him, hot and heavy, bobbing against your clit. not enough to be satisfying—god, not even close—but just enough to drive you crazy. just enough to have your pussy fluttering along with your belly.

your eyes dart down then, and the pure swell of him feels overwhelming. thick in all the right places, tip coloured and angry pink and glistening with the combination of his pre cum and the arousal spread over your mound. his balls look heavy, full of seed that you crave inside of you—fill you up until your big and round.

it feels more intimidating now. between your trembling thighs. you think back to this afternoon, his length heavy on your tongue. the head of him nearing the back of your throat—making you gag and cry and thighs clench desperately.

“willy,” whining, your eyes dart back up to his, “I don’t know if it’ll fit. ‘s too big.”

and if that isn’t an ego boost, willy doesn’t know what is. he reaches down, two thick fingers collecting some of your arousal, making you gasp quietly. he slicks his length with it, from base to tip, up and down until the sound becomes sloppy and obscene.

the corner of his mouth quirks in a smirk as he guides the head of his cock to your entrance, notching it there, not yet pushing inside your greedy little pussy.

you’re sitting on the edge of matthew’s bed, scrolling aimlessly on your phone while he’s half-dressed for whatever plans he had before getting distracted by you instead. it’s quiet in that late afternoon way—sunlight spilling through the blinds in thin stripes across the floor, fan humming softly overhead, birds chirping happily outside on tree branches.

matthew is standing in front of the mirror adjusting his shirt sleeves. or trying to, anyways. mostly, he’s just getting distracted by watching you instead. you’re not even doing anything either, not really. but he can’t help but stealing glances at your reflection—plump bottom lip between your teeth as you smother a laugh, glossy toe nails and feet swinging in the air. loose shorts hiked up just enough to have the crease where the back of your thigh meets your ass.

“you’re not helping,” he says after a beat.

“i’m not doing anything.”

“that’s the problem.”

you look up just in time to see him shake his head slightly, smiling to himself as he turns toward you fully. there’s that familiar look again—soft around the edges, like he’s already decided he’s not getting anything productive done anymore.

“what?” you ask, a wide knowing smile already taking over your face.

“nothing,” he says easily, but he walks closer anyways. stops right in front of your face where you’re lounging on the bed.

you tilt your head up at him to meet his gaze, yours suspicious. “you’re being weird.”

“i’m always weird.”

“that’s not comforting,” you snicker and lock your phone, tossing it to the throw blanket half strewn across the bedroom floor. you pull yourself into a sitting position then, knees bracketing his.

matthew hums like he’s considering that, then leans down slightly. not quite kissing you yet, just close that you instinctively stop talking, whatever half assed response falling flat, breath catching in the back of your throat as your hit with his masculine scent.

“hi,” he says quietly.

your raise an amused brow, “…hi?”

his hand comes up first, brushing a loose strand of hair away from your face like it’s the most natural thing in the world. his thumb lingers for a second against your cheek, sweeping across the roundest part like it would an apple.

and then he kisses your forehead—soft. easy. like he’s done it a thousand times and will do it a thousand more.

you blink at him when he pulls back slightly “okay,” you say slowly. “what was that for?”

“no reason.”

“that’s suspicious.”

he just smiles a little and then leans in again. this time he kisses your cheek, warm and delicate. you make a small sound of protest that immediately dies in your throat because honestly—there’s no real argument forming in your brain right now.

your lashes flutter, “matthew.”

“what?” he says, entirely too innocent considering he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“you’re distracting me.”

“and you were distracting me,” he says. “i’m trying to get ready for golf with the guys but instead I can’t stop looking at my pretty girlfriend. scrolling on her phone and looking like a wet dream.”

you open your mouth. close it again. the speechless of at all has matthew letting out a soft laugh, like he already knew that was going to happen. before you can respond, he shifts just slightly and presses a kiss to your nose, just as tender as the previous ones.

“stop. m’tickles,” you mumble, but there’s no actual heat behind it.

he tilts his head, studying your face like he’s pleased with the result. “me me,” he says lightly, and you narrow your eyes in succession. so he kisses your cheek again, just because he can. and then your forehead once more, slower this time, like he’s deliberately making it worse for you.

you try to push him away, but your hands only end up resting lightly against his shirt instead, keeping him close despite yourself.

“you’re impossible,” you mutter.

“mhm,” he agrees softly, mouth brushing along your jawline. “but you’re still sitting here.”

you’re both sitting on the carpet instead of the couch—for some reason you nor parker are quite sure of. but somewhere between the third and fourth glass of late night merlot, the rug became a scared meeting ground.

the apartment is dim except for the warm glow of the kitchen light and whatever random sitcom parker put on forty minutes ago that neither of you are actually paying attention to anymore. takeout containers from dinner are scattered across the coffee table, one of parker’s socks is half way off his foot, and your stomach hurts from laughing too hard for the last ten minutes straight.

absentmindedly you slide your hand over the fibres, feeling them tickle your palm—it makes you giggle, happy and drunk and definitely sunburnt.

beside you, parker catches that tiny, breathy sound and is already smiling. in one gulp, he finishes off his drink, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand while putting the empty glass on the coffee table—next to the half finished shrimp curry.

you watch him, grinning too, as he turns back to you. with his hands now free, parker drags you closer. which, isn’t much, because you’d practically been one scooch away from sitting on his lap. but you go willingly—pleased and craving some loving—collapsing into his side.

he nuzzles his noise into the crown of your head, then presses a sweet kiss to the same spot, “what’s so funny over there?”

lazily, you tilt your head back and meet his warm gaze. up close, you admire the dusting of freckles on the bridge of his nose brought out by the relentless sun, and the pink hue on the high points of his face. because of course he forget to re-apply sunscreen after dipping into the lake today.

“nothing,” you murmur, running the tip of your index finger down his nose, then his cupids bow. when you do, parker lets out a noise that resembles a bark, trying to scare you, nipping at your fingers.

you laugh, pulling your hand away.

“that’s what I get for trying to admire my sexy boyfriend? I can’t believe this.”

he snickers and grabs the hand you’ve been holding to your chest like it’s been scandalized, bringing it back to his face. he kisses the pads of all your fingers, a exaggerated pout following suit.

“sorry baby. please forgive me.”

you roll your eyes, but you’re smirking, and parker knows he’s got you.

“fine,” you look back at him, “but only if you give me a kiss.”

he’s already leaning in, “deal,” he drops his tone as he gets close, lips brushing yours in a soft, barley there kiss that warms your skin. you attempt to deepen the embrace, but parker has other ideas.

dipping his head, his lips attach to the sensitive spot of your neck. he blows a raspberry, loud and tickly, making your shriek out involuntarily and squirm away. but his grip is tight, one hand sliding around your waist to keep you there.

he does it until you’re both laughing—you because, well, duh. but parker? he’s laughing, soft yet sweet, because the sound of your joy is enough to have him finding his own.

as you both calm down, laughter fading into the sound of the sitcom still playing on the tv, you both find yourselves more entangled than before. your legs end up strewn across his lap, merlot glass balanced dangerously beside you on the rug (you’ll probably regret that later when it inevitably spills over), head against his shoulder, and both of your hearts beating rapidly.

after a moment, parker nudges you softly. not enough to jostle you, but enough to alert you. softly, he says—“there’s no one else in this entire world that could make me laugh the way you do.”

at that, you turn your head and find him already gazing down at you with that soft expression he gets late at night, or that one time you haggled with someone at a flea market for the sole purpose of it being a write of passage.

“you’re just being sweet,” you murmur.

3. don’t ever let me go | brandon carlo

face claim: camila morrone

overview bullet points: forbidden romance, lemoande, rivalry’s, fast cars, sexual tension & age gap.

4. guess they call it fallin | matthew knies

face claim: hannah bohrer

overview bullet points: melted chocolate, slow burn, halloween, camping & betrayal.

5. the great war | jack hughes

face claim: julia hatch

overview bullet points: boating, lake house summer, enemies to lovers, soapy dishes, orange juice & sunrises.

6. I do, I do, I do, I do | leon draisaitl (coming soon)

face claim: mika abdalla

will’s hat is technically nothing special. just an old, navy coloured baseball cap that’s slightly faded from being worn too much all throughout summer for years and years.

but for some reason, you love it almost as much as you love him. meaning you find yourself stealing it constantly. and every time you manage to slyly (or blatantly, depending) snatch it from him, his reactions are always worth it.

the two of you are walking along the boardwalk near the beach in the cali offseason, shoulders bumping occasionally while a new role model song drifts faintly from an ice cream store nearby. the evening air is still warm from the day, carrying the smell of sunscreen, fried food, and salty water—the ideal summer combination, unarguably.

will in the middle of telling you a story about macklin eating shit on this very board walk a few weeks prior, when you reach up without warning and pluck the faded cap right off his head.

his blonde curls, slightly damp with sweat and the mist from the ocean, fall immediately, givging him that sexy bed head look that is totally unfair for your hormones.

“hey—”

but before he can react, you place it onto your own head and keep walking like nothing happened. hips swinging boris your shorts and smooth shoulder catching the sun like a dream.

will just stares at you for a second in disbelief. but not just from you absolutely robbing him off his hat, but also entranced by the little mischievous smile on your face as you look back at him, lashes fluttering under the brim of the cap.

he makes a noise, half scoff but mostly laugh, “you’re unbelievable.”

you shrug, “it looks better on me.”

“that is objectively false.” he says, but he’s so full of shit because will thinks you’ve never looked better wearing something of his. anytime you slip that navy hat on, you glow.

slowly, he walks the three steps of space towards you, taking your hand back into his.

you just grin, adjusting the hat with your free hand lower over your eyes dramatically. it’s too big though, and it nearly slips down your forehead.

will laughs softly under his breath, shaking his head as he reaches out to adjust it for you, because of course he does. “you do this every single time.”

the fondness in his voice makes you buffer.

“and every single time you let me.”

he meets your gaze again, “that’s because stealing it back feels mean.”

“mhm,” you hum as the two of you begin walking again, boardwalk creaking under your sandles, “so you admit defeat.”

“absolutely not.”

there’s a brief pause where you’re both quiet, but then, quicker than lightning, will reaches for the brim of his cap, attempting to steal it back. you squeal with laughter, dodging away—but he misses on purpose by a mile.

he pulls you into him again, teeth clenched as attempts to seem angry but he can’t stop smiling, so that just backfires, “you’re such a brat.”

“you loooovvvveee me,” you sing, pushing up onto your tippy toes.

will sighs dramatically, “unfortunately.”

your jaw drops and you spin away, speed walking away, but he catches up to you before you get anywhere far. he hooks an arm loosely around your shoulders, tugging you back against his side.

he presses a few quick kisses to your warm cheek in succession, tasting sunblock and salt. “love you.”

you hum, uninterested, but the way your belly swoops says otherwise. “yeah?”

“mhm. more than the hat.”

you shoot him a look over your shoulder, “liar.”

“you look good in that,” mat’s voice is laced with fondness and something inexplicably dirty, eyeing you from the archway that leads to the kitchen. the sundress he’s referring to meats mid thigh, slipping higher as you lean across the counter to grab another room temperature lemon from the wooden fruit bowl—one of those ridiculously expensive ones you begged for, and he couldn’t resist buying for you. because above all else, mat barzal is whipped and gets off on spoiling you.

you shoot him a sweet, faux innocent look as you slice the bottom of the lemon, the knife hitting the matching wood cutting board with a dull click.

“thank you baby,” you say, squeezing the citrus fruit into a glass pitcher, the acidic juice cracking over the ice. “wanted to look nice for everyone.”

mat hums, a non-committal sound that’s tells you he’s half distracted. suddenly, his hands find your hips over the floral material, squeezing and bunching up the fabric. not enough to expose anything, but just enough to tease.

“might need you to change,” he nips at the lobe of your ear, “can’t have you looking this fuckable with a bunch of my teammates running around.”

you feel his half heard member beneath his linen shorts, pressing against the crease of your ass like its searching for shelter. you laugh, breathily, and arch into it, dropping the disgraced lemon to the makeshift trash can beside the cutting board.

mat continues, “you know schaf has a hard on for you baby, I can’t deal with that today.”

you spin in his grasp and run your fingers over the nape of his neck, toying with the grown out hair there. he’s been itching to buzz it again for summer, and you had to beg him with a blowy to keep it. safe to say, it worked.

“leave him alone,” you murmur, “he’s a kid.”

he rolls his eyes at that, but he’s beginning to grin, all toothy and sexy in a way that makes you clenching you thighs together like a virgin.

“a kid who’s gunna be looking at my girls ass that’s almost hanging out her dress.”

you take your bottom lip between you teeth, while your other hand finds solace under his loose tee, finger tips grazing his v-line and the dark trial of hair that leads beneath his shorts.

“gunna spank me for it?”

mat laughs, low and amused, “can’t hurt that pretty thing baby.” then, he’s lifting you onto the counter, so quick that you don’t even get a blink in before you realize what’s happening. mat pushes the lemons to the side so they don’t get knocked, because you’ve spent all morning prepping that homemade lemonade and he’d be damned if it went to waste.

your sundress bunches around your hips as your legs spread naturally, the counter top cool and sticky against your skin. mat steps between them, and pushes them even further apart with his rough hands, exposing the small triangle of cotton you claim are underwear.

he almost looses it at the sight.

“but maybe i’ll fuck you, right here on the counter our friends will be gathered around soon,” you whimper, completely at his mercy already. mat grabs your chin between his thumb and forefinger, holding you steady. his eyes dart between your pouted mouth and your gaze, unable to tear his away for too long from one before jumping back to the other.

he continues, voice slow like frozen honey, “remind you exactly who you’re wearing this dress for.”

if you weren’t so deep right now, you’d tell mat that his younger teammate isn’t a problem—but in reality, you both already know that. the whole matthew having a crush on you is something sweet, totally lighthearted, and not at all worrisome. but there’s something unexpectedly erotic about the alternative that neither of you seem to care about clearing up.

leaning back on your palms, you watch through half lidded eyes as mat pulls himself out of those crisp linen shorts. he pumps his length from base to achy tip three times, spreading the collection of pre-cum that had beaded at his slit.

you take your bottom lips between your teeth again, pussy clenching in anticipation as he inches impossibly closer. with a free hand, mat pulls your painted to the side, grunting appropriately when a gooey string of arousal connects the material to your lips.

“fucking…jesus,” he nudges his head against your entrance, teasing but not entering. after a few seconds, he pumps himself up towards your clit, collecting your slick and spreading it all over both of your most intimate areas.

you whine, head dropping back between your shoulder as a jolt of pleasure shoots up your spine before settling at the lowest point of your belly. he hasn’t even slide inside yet and you’re already close—it’s almost pathetic.

mat curses again. it won’t take either of you long, he can tell based on the way your nipples have turned to glass points beneath the cups of your dress, and the way his balls are already tightening at the base of his length.

without wanting to waste anymore time of half assed foreplay, he inches himself inside you. slow. inch by inch until the tip brushes your fluttering cervix. you gasp at the feeling, back arching until your covered tits are practically in his face.

now fully sheathed, mat grabs at your hips again, dragging you to the very edge of the lemon scented countertop. “shit, I gotta move. can’t help myself, you feel too good baby.”

your jaw hangs as you finally find the strength to lift your head back up, eyes falling down to the erotic scene between your legs. all you can manage in response is a pleading noise—a half whine, half yes.

and with that, he begins rolling his hips. slowly at first, building that toe curling momentum that has you both feeling fuzzy in the knees. then, the pace increases as you both barley begin to climb the metaphorical ladder. the sounds of your mingled heavy breathing, and the plap plap plap of mat pounding into you echos throughout your home, louder than the hum of the air conditioning and the music playing quietly through the radio.

you grab at his bicep, manicured nails digging into fleshy muscle as your inner walls begin to tighten and pulse around him. “matty—oh fuck—mat i’m gunna cum.”

he lets out a vibrating grunt, because the pure whimsical desperation in your voice is enough to have him twitching with incoming release.

“come on then,” mat huffs, hastily releasing your hip in favour of thumbing at your rosy clit. it’s slick from earlier, which makes it easy to stimulate you oh so perfectly. “shit, y/n, cum all over my dick.”

you can’t help but to let out another unrestrained noise, a mixture between a shout and a mewl as you do just as he said. one rough pump later you’re releasing all over him, a creamy mess that soaks his cock and dribbles down your ass.

“oh yeah,” he grunts, watching your body twitch with your climax. long lashes fluttering with bliss, mouth prettily hung open like an invitation. without thinking, he uses the thumb that had been toying with your clit to put in your mouth, using that leverage to drag your attention back to him.

you moan, lisp enclosing around the digit, lazily suckling like it’s a dummy.

juraj is already in the water, leaning back against a giant inflatable unicorn float like he owns the place, sunglasses on, hair still fripping from jumping in earlier. he looks entirely too relaxed for someone who is about to become your problem.

for the past 5 minutes now, you’ve been attempting to get on your own giant pool float—a flamingo, naturally—but to no avail. you’ve tried climbing, which doesn’t work when everything is slippery. and you’ve tried jumping on from the deck, which left you flailing and your tit escaping from your bikini top. which obviously started a whole thing with your boyfriend. god, you hate him.

“you’re not even trying,” you huff, accusatory, standing at the edge of the pool as you attempt to fix your bikini after another failed attempt.

juraj smirks, and even though he’s got on those ridiculous tinted glasses, you just know he’s eyeing you up. “I am relaxing,” he says simply.

“that’s not fair.” you pout, then splash him because you can. water shooting off your arm and soaking his defined chest. but much to your dismay, he doesn’t even blink, just smirks wider.

you huff again, abandoning your float to climb out of the pool. he watches from his lounging position, licking onto his bottom lip like you’re his own personal summer desert. tasting chlorine and your lipgloss from the quickie you had in the pool house this morning.

water drips down your curves, bikini clinging to every inch of your most intimate areas and giving him a very detailed picture. juraj adjusts his hips, obviously turned on, but you don’t catch it because you’re too busy looking down at your flamingo—bobbing in the water like it’s not out to personally get you.

“I’m getting on this,” you announce, hands on your hips like this is somehow new information.

he hums, “from outside of the pool?”

“yes,” you tilt your chin up, meeting his gaze through his sunglasses, “i’m going to stand on it.”

that gets his attention, “…why?”

“because I can.”

“that is not a good reason,” juraj seems cautious, “you could hurt yourself.”

but you ignore him completely and climb onto the float anyway. obviously, it immediately shifts under your weight, leaving you wobbling as you attempt to steady it and yourself on the rippling water.

but then, it starts to tilt.

“okay—wait—no—” you gasp, arms windmilling as the float slides sideways like it’s actively trying to eject you from the concept of balance.

juraj is telling you to be careful, ready to climb off his own floatie to rescue you.

“I have it,” you insist, voice going slightly higher as you try to stabilize. “I definitely have it.”

“you do not have it.”

“I do!”

then, it tips again, almost like it’s trying to make a point. you attempt to adjust your footing, but it’s too late. you’re gone before you can even shriek your boyfriend name in a desperate plea for help, back into the luke warm water.

the splash echos throughout the backyard.

you surface seconds later, hair plastered to your face, blinking chlorinated water out of your eyes when it starts to sting. coughing like an ipad kid with a cold. it’s almost pathetic. or maybe adorable.

once he realizes you didn’t crack your head open on the concrete floor of the pool, juraj snickers, which turns into a rumbly laugh that instantly has you glaring at him.

“I hate you,” you say immediately.

he raises his hands in mock surrender, “you said you had it.”

“I almost had it.”

“that was not almost anything,” he murmurs, watching over the rim of his glasses as you begin paddling towards his float. when you’re close, your grab the edge, still glaring up at him while he still looks way too entertained.

“you didn’t even help me.”

“because you were very determined.”

you pout again, attempting to clamber up onto his unicorn but of course, predictably failing. “but I was struggling.”

not wanting to watch you struggle anymore, because he is a lover boy at heart, juraj grabs onto your bicep and easily pulls you out of the water and onto his float. well, more accurately, onto his chest. without even thinking, or letting out that little breath that would tell you he’s struggling.

you immediately take place, your chest to his, bare prickly legs sliding between his. the summer heat beating down on your back.

juraj pulls the triangle of your top back into place, because of course it got dislodged again. then, he taps your forehead gently, a wide, toothy grin on his face.

“you were very brave.”

⊹˚₊full fics⊹˚₊

Will Smith

➱ twinkling lights & that one justin bieber christmas song ✿ 🌲

✎ christmas decorating at your boyfriends home turns into an ordeal when his brothers can’t stop teasing him about his lack of pda

⊹˚₊blurbs⊹˚₊

Macklin Celebrini

wet n wild prompt no.15

wet n wild prompt no.29

Will Smith

wet n wild prompt no.10

Michael Kesselring

prompt no.40: “we should get a cat.”

prompt no.34: “look at that shiner.” “have some sympathy.”

christmas prompt: ho ho ho holy shit you look good

⊹˚₊full fics⊹˚₊

Joseph Woll

➱ always, forever running back to you ✿

✎ joseph sees you preforming in a small, cozy bar in toronto and he’s immediately enamoured with you and your voice. joseph needs to knows you.

trope(s); meet-cute | insta love

➱ match made in…statistics?!? ✿ ♕

✎ after years of failed relationships, joseph woll decides to hire you—a relationship expert who's been getting couples together for years.

trope(s); friends to lovers

➱ chemtrails over the country club ✯

✎ another season of sunburned shoulders and late night staff parties, of alcohol fizz and laughter echoing off tennis courts. another season of pretending nothing is changing while everything quietly tilts beneath your feet. because this year, the country clubs two golden boys want you, and you don’t know who to choose.

trope(s); love triangle | friends to lovers

Simon Benoit

➱ dazed & confused ✿ ✯ ♡ ♕

✎ working for the leafs social media team was nothing short of uneventful - especially when the leafs new french defence man is adamant on making you flustered.

trope(s); mutual pining | forbidden romance | he fell first

⊹˚₊blurbs⊹˚₊

Jamie Drysdale

prompt no. 17: a stranger letting you have their seat on the train/bus (meet cute)

christmas prompts: “you know you didn't have to get me anything.." + “in front of the fireplace, cuddled up under a blanket with a hot drink.”

Trevor Zegras

prompt no. 22: "are you sure I look fine?" "trust me, you like real fine."

Joseph Woll

prompt no.14: “just sit down and let me pamper you”

vol. 2 prompt no. 10: "you've been pouting ever since I went out on that date, what's up?"

wet n wild no.12

Simon Benoit

vol. 2 prompt no. 3: showering together (non-sexual)

prompt 017: in the trenches of snow forts, amidst a war of a snow fight! who will win? 🍼

the air is warm enough that your skin still holds the heat of the day, even as the sun finally dips below the horizon, leaving nothing but its sticky temperature and the beginning of evening sky—the first few stars begin to twinkle in setting suns adjacent, like a promise.

a happy jolt finds itself in your belly.

throughout the small beach of your hometown, families and friends alike gather in patriotic celebration. kids run around the grassy portion of said beach with flags painted on their faces, parents watch them from campfire chairs they’d previously dragged out from the back of their sheds. sunburnt teenagers and old couples who watch everything unfold with soft grins. all of you gathered to witness the most anticipated, classic form of celebration.

fireworks.

you look away from two little girls playing with their red and white pom poms and towards the broad back in front of you. and not just any back, but joseph’s specifically. because you’re trailing behind him through the crowded park, trying—and failing—not to smile every time he glances back over his shoulder to make sure you’re still there.

which, you’re hands are clasped together—sticky from the funnel cake you’d shared earlier at a picnic bench, and sweaty from the lingering scorching temperatures—so it would be impossible for you to get left behind.

it’s ridiculous, really.

because by now, you’ve been on a handful of dates already. held hands. kissed. and yet every little thing still makes your stomach flip like he hasn’t already explored your mouth with his tongue. and vice versa.

before you can start getting truly flustered at the idea of making out with him, joseph finds an open patch of grass overlooking the river, and before any one else still trying to find a spot to watch the fireworks can steal it, he drops your tote bag from his shoulder with a triumphant grin.

because obviously he’s carrying your bag after he moved the slightest sun burn on your shoulder—insisting he’d rather look less masculine than have your skin rubbed raw.

somehow, it’s one of the most romantic things you’ve ever experienced.

he drops your hand in favour of grabbing the gingham sheet out of the tote. as joseph begins to unfold it, he looks down at you, a half smile already on his face. “good?”

you nod, quick and enthusiastic and take a step towards him. close enough that you can brush your fingers under his light coloured t-shirt, tease his soft skin, without the families beside you noticing.

“great,” you answer.

the sheet unravels in his hands, but before he places it down, he steals a small quick, public appropriate kiss. but it still sends your stomach on a mini roller coaster.

the sheet eventually gets to the ground after a sudden gust of wind tries to take it away and you’re both left laughing and scrambling. eventually, you’re both sitting on your bums, pressed so close together that the sudden coolness that graces the beach doesn’t chill you.

your pinkies brush, but neither of you acknowledge it. mostly because you’re scared that will make him move. spoiler alert: it wouldn’t.

his low voice cuts through the screaming kids, “we’ve got our blanket—“

“sheet,” you correct, teasing, which makes him playfully roll his eyes.

“sheet,” you bark out a laugh as he continues, somehow pressing himself closer to you, “and all the snacks I loaded up on at that store, so I think we’re all set for the fireworks.”

you purse your lips and wrap your hands around his bulging bicep, “with the amount of gummy frogs you insisted we needed, I think we’re all set for next years all well.”

that makes him laugh, bright and unfiltered with his head slightly tilted back. exposing his adam’s apple and neck muscles.

your pulse skips at the sight.

he looks at you, a syrupy look in his gaze, “you won’t be saying that when you’re grubby hands are in the bag stealing some.”

“grubby!?” you exclaim, amused. but when you try and pull your hands off of him, joseph grabs them, not allowing you to go anywhere—even in your display of faux irritation.

he brings them to his mouth and presses a kiss to the back of your hand. “I like them though, so i’ll allow it.”

the sky is fading from pink to navy, and families begin to properly settle onto their own little blankets and sheets. kids are covered in glow sticks, and nearby, someone is playing music from a portable speaker. that lana del rey song that feels patriotic in the best way at.

the smile he gives you is small and shy after that. the kind that makes your heart feel entirely too big for your chest.

“you okay?” he asks, “cold or anything?”

shaking your head, you bring your knees to your chest, “i’m good. perfect, actually.”

his grin widens when the answer comes out a little too quick and honest. “that’s good.”

the first firework explodes overhead before you can gather your thoughts. a burst of red that blooms across the night sky. then gold. then blue, and the crowd lets out a collective gasp of astonishment like they’ve never seen it before even though it’s the same every year.

but maybe that’s the beauty of it.

you break eye contact to tilt your head back to watch. and eventually, joseph forces himself to look away from you and follow suit.

the fireworks reflect in the water, painting everything in flashes of colour. it feels like something out of a movie. grand flashes of colours and bursts so big they almost make your shy away. soon enough, you catch yourself gasping along.

but after a minute or so, you feel a familiar gaze back on your side profile. and before you can’t stop yourself, you look over at him.

“what?” you ask, laughing.

joseph just shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says, but the fond look on his face says otherwise.

you squint at him, face light up in gold light as a firework twizzles upwards before booming. but before you can’t stop yourself tease him further, he leans in—not for a kiss. not yet—but instead his lips find the shell of your ear, warm and soft, making your shudder pleasantly.

“just thinking that watching these fireworks with you has made this the best summer, like ever.”

the words are simple, honest like your earlier statement, and yet somehow that makes them hit harder. hard enough that your heart is doing dangerous things in your chest.

you turn into him, voice low as your whisper back. the fireworks continue above, but that doesn’t stop either of you.

“that’s a pretty bold statement,” you say against his ear, “we’re only in july.”

joseph grins, “i’m confident.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself.

he leans over and presses a quick kiss to your temple.

the gesture is so sweet and unexpected that your brain completely short-circuits, but when he pulls back, despite the smile on his face, he turns his attention back to the fireworks like it’s nothing. like it’s easy.

and suddenly the fireworks, the crowd, the music, the entire celebration feels distant compared to the feeling of his torso pressed against yours. the ghost of his words against your skin. the kiss fluttering at your temple.

maybe the fireworks are beautiful, and maybe the night is perfect.