❤️‍🔥Britt❤️‍🔥

✨Welcome to my crypt✨ 🦋20s🦋

[lacyydollette]

₊  ֹ  ˖  GARRETT WITH A BLUNT GIRLFRIEND THAT LIKES MAKING HIM BLUSH ᱺㅤㅤ   ୨౿ 

one thing about you was that you were loud, a bit too carefree, and with absolutely no filter. while your boyfriend, garret was no introvert or virgin bride, he was still not used to being with someone just so—so blunt and brash.

and that came with some consequences, because there would be times where you would tease the shit out of him or make explicit comments so causally at all times, it made him flush like a schoolgirl.

that has never happened to him before you. like ever.

before, he was the one making girls blush, making their panties melt, and then came your hurricane self, with an obnoxious smirk making him shy as fuck.

sometimes he’d be left speechless because he always thought he’d be the one doing all that in a relationship.

sometimes he’d be too embarrassed at the fact that he was blushing, so he wouldn’t even know how to respond.

he was a hockey player who shoved people out of the way for a living, for fuck’s sake—why was he so weak for you?

see, and that’s why he tried to resist it, but the more he did, the worse it got

for example, if he just came out of the shower with his naked chest on display and you were there to witness, the first thing you’d do would be let out a whistle

“the things i’d do to lick those water drops off of you clean”

you never missed the deep patch of red flashing across his body as he quickly grabbed a towel, drying himself off before throwing on a shirt and shorts like that would somehow make it better.

then he’d walk over to you, pressing a deep kiss to your lips, trying to regain some sort of composure.

or again, if he was suited up for an event in which he looked so sinfully hot in, and you’d walk up to him as he fumbled with his tie, pulling him by his opened tie and fixing it as you tighten it, making him all red. pressing a gentle kiss to his lips

“what are you thinking about” he’d clear his throat before asking as you gazed at him with dilated pupils.

“how long it’d take for me to take this thing off you, pretty boy” and boom, here goes his willpower.

“you can’t say shit like that to me when i’m about to leave in like five,” he’d groan loudly, putting his forehead on you, adjusting his slacks while you giggled, feeling proud of yourself for getting him so weak.

or the last straw—when he walked into his room after another tiring practice, not knowing you’re in his bed, quickly taking his shirt off, leaving him in only loose sweats that show his boxers band, with a dark happy trail leading to a happy place.

you eyes drag up and down his body from your position in his bed as he moves around in his room before his eyes snap towards you and his whole composure softens realizing your there.

but you’re still staring. still tracking every movement which makes him a bit confused. does he have something on him?

“what?”

“you walk like it’s big” you blurt out, licking your very much dry lips.

“what’s that supposed to—“ he’s midway into his question when dean passes by garret’s room, still in his jersey, and yells out “it means you’re walking around like you’re being weighted down by something and that something is your dick! you’re welcome!” before moving into his room, shutting his door.

your boyfriend, per usual, flushes at the crude words

it was true, he just had a natural sway in his hips and that confident, lazy walk—it exceeded big dick energy.

or when he sat, he took space, thick hockey thighs spreading to make room for himself and his heaviness, it was so obvious that he had to make room for something big to sit like that.

“you get what i mean now?” you mutter, eyes glued onto his crotch as the familiar bulge forms

“baby i’m feeling very objectified at the moment” he murmurs as he closes his door before walking over to you, as he lowers himself on top of you, nuzzling his face into your neck

he was a mess, and it was better if you didn’t look into his face right now.

you just grab his curls as you push his head off of you, before pushing him onto his bed as you straddle him.

“awh poor baby you want me to stop?” you coo as your fingers find his chain resting on his chest, gently tugging onto it

he’s so mesmerized right now, so he shakes his head side to side as you lean back, keeping eye contact as you lean back before slipping a finger into his sweats, slowly pushing them off his legs

“that’s what i thought, big boy” he raises his hips, helping you take his sweats off

you know what, garret decided he liked the fact that he turned putty at the hands of his girlfriend. it was a humbling reality check that he wasn’t the one with all the charm, and his usual tricks didn’t always come to play.

he needed that once in a while.

masterlist guys this is kinda off topic but i’m so obsessed with belmont’s curls

[pucksandpower]

half a heartbeat

Dean Di Laurentis x Maxwell!Reader

Summary: grief doesn’t ask permission before it moves … and neither does Dean. When the passenger seat that should’ve been yours is suddenly empty in every sense of the word, he becomes the only thing standing between you and the void, one milkshake, one held hand, one impossible morning at a time. But comfort has a way of turning into something neither of you meant to feel, and admitting it means risking the one person who’s still standing when everything else has fallen down

Warnings: you’re going to need tissues

Dean tugs at the collar of his suit. Usually, he feels like a million bucks in this thing. Today, it feels like a straightjacket.

He sits in the second row of the church, staring at the polished mahogany casket resting at the altar. The scent of hundreds of white lilies is thick and cloying in the air, mixing with the sharp smell of floor wax. It makes his stomach churn.

“Dean, honey,” his mother whispers, her hand gently covering his. “Are you holding up?”

He looks to his left. His mother’s eyes are red-rimmed, her makeup flawlessly intact but her expression completely shattered. Beside her, his father sits with a stoic, grave expression, his jaw tight. They are high-powered attorneys, people who rip apart witnesses for a living and negotiate million-dollar deals without breaking a sweat. But right now, they just look like two devastated parents grieving a boy who practically lived at their house over the summer.

“I’m fine, Mom,” Dean lies, his voice a low, raspy gravel.

“You don’t have to be fine,” his father murmurs, leaning in slightly. “Not today. Not for a long time.”

Dean swallows hard and looks away. He isn’t fine. Beau is in that box. His best friend. His blood brother. Briar University’s star quarterback, the guy with the golden arm and the shit-eating grin.

Dead.

The word still doesn’t make sense in his brain. It’s a typo. A bad joke. Dean knows a lot of things. He knows how to throw a party, how to close down a bar, and how to charm his way out of a parking ticket. He knows how to live. He doesn’t know how to do this. He doesn’t know how to look at a wooden box and accept that his best friend is never going to throw a football at his head again.

“Hey,” a low voice says from the pew behind him.

Dean turns his head. Logan, Garrett, and Tucker are sitting right behind him, all wearing dark suits, looking equally as wrecked.

“You see her yet?” Logan asks, keeping his voice strictly to a whisper.

Dean shakes his head. “No. Have you?”

“Joanna walked in a few minutes ago,” Garrett says, rubbing the back of his neck. “She said they were right behind her. Beau’s dad is in a wheelchair. Neck brace. It’s … it’s bad, man.”

Dean exhales a shaky breath, turning his attention to the front row. The family pews. Empty so far.

His chest tightens at the thought of you.

You and Beau. Beau and you. The Maxwell twins. You were glued to the hip from day one. When Dean met Beau freshman year, he met you by extension. As a cheerleader, you were always around the athletic department, but even without the pompoms, you would have been there. The three of you became inseparable.

Dean closes his eyes, a memory hitting him so hard it physically aches.

***

“Dude, she’s my twin. You can’t look at her like that,” Beau says, tossing a crumpled-up napkin across the booth at Malone’s

“Like what?” Dean deflects, catching the napkin with one hand and smirking. “I’m looking at her like she’s hoarding the last order of chili cheese fries.”

“I am hoarding them,” you say, pulling the greasy basket closer to your chest. “And if you try to take them, Di Laurentis, I’ll stab you with this plastic fork. I’m not playing around.”

“Fierce. I like it,” Dean laughs, leaning across the table.

“Stop flirting with my sister,” Beau groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Seriously, Dean. You have a new girl in your room every night. Leave this one alone.”

“I’m not flirting,” Dean argues, kicking your shin lightly under the table. “I’m just appreciating her aggressive approach to saturated fats.”

“You’re a pig,” you tell him, though you’re trying not to smile. You spear a fry and point it at him. “And for the record, Beau, I can handle Dean. He’s all talk.”

“I am definitely not all talk,” Dean says, winking at you.

“Gross,” Beau deadpans. “Both of you. Gross. Eat your fries, Y/N, before I steal them myself.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” you gasp.

“Try me,” Beau challenges, his eyes lighting up with that familiar, competitive fire.

***

The heavy oak doors at the back of the church open, snapping Dean back to the present. The low murmur of the packed church falls completely silent.

Dean turns.

You are walking down the center aisle.

His breath catches in his throat. You look completely empty. Your spine is rigidly straight, holding you up purely on autopilot. You are wearing a simple black dress, your face pale and completely devoid of makeup. There are dark, bruised-looking circles under your eyes. Beside you is your older sister, Joanna, gripping your arm, and behind you, your mother is pushing your father in a wheelchair.

Dean watches as you walk right past his pew. You don’t look at him. You don’t look at anyone. You are staring straight ahead at the casket, your eyes locked onto the polished wood like it’s the only thing keeping you anchored to the floor.

He wants to reach out. He wants to grab your hand, pull you into his lap, and hide you from the hundreds of pitying eyes staring at you. But he stays frozen in his seat.

You sit down in the front row. Joanna sits beside you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. You just sit there, perfectly still.

The service begins. The pastor steps up to the podium, his voice echoing through the massive sanctuary. He talks about God, about mysterious ways, about Beau’s bright light. Dean tunes it all out. It’s all bullshit. There is no mysterious reason for a deer to sprint across a dark Wisconsin road. There is no divine plan for black ice. It’s just a stupid, senseless accident.

“And now,” the pastor says softly, stepping back. “Beau’s sister has asked to say a few words.”

Dean’s head snaps up. He watches as Joanna whispers something in your ear. You nod once, a sharp, jerky movement.

You stand up.

A ripple of uneasy tension sweeps through the church. You look fragile, like a stiff breeze could snap your bones in half. You walk up the three small steps to the altar. You don’t look at the casket as you pass it.

You step up to the wooden podium and grip the edges. Your knuckles instantly turn white.

You stand there for a long time. The silence stretches, thick and agonizing. Dean leans forward, his hands braced on his knees, every muscle in his body coiled tight.

“Hi,” you whisper into the microphone. It squeals slightly, and you flinch.

You take a shaky breath, looking out at the crowd. Your eyes sweep over the sea of dark clothing.

“I’m … I’m Beau’s sister,” you start, your voice trembling. “His twin sister.”

You stop, swallowing hard.

“Most of you know Beau as the quarterback,” you say, your voice gaining a tiny fraction of strength. “You know him as the guy who threw the game-winning pass in the championships. You know him as the guy who was always smiling, always laughing. The guy who threw the best parties.”

A few soft, sad chuckles ripple through the Briar football team sitting on the right side of the church.

“But that’s just … that’s just the stuff he let everyone see,” you continue, staring down at the wood of the podium. “Beau was … he was my other half. We shared a womb. We shared our childhood. We shared everything.”

You look up, and for the first time, your eyes meet Dean’s.

Dean feels a sharp, physical pain in his chest. Your eyes are completely shattered.

“He was the most fiercely protective person I’ve ever known,” you say, holding Dean’s gaze. “If I was sad, he wouldn’t just ask what was wrong. He would rip the world apart trying to fix it. He loved his friends. He loved his family. He loved his life.”

You look away, your gaze drifting down to the front row, resting on your dad in his wheelchair.

“We went to Wisconsin for my grandma’s birthday,” you say. The tremble is back in your voice, more pronounced this time.

Dean’s jaw clenches. He knows this part. Beau had texted him right before they left the house. 

“My dad was driving,” you say softly.

Your father bows his head, his shoulders shaking in the wheelchair.

“It was snowing,” you whisper. You let go of the podium with one hand, wrapping your arms tightly around your own waist. “A deer ran out. Dad swerved. He hit black ice. The car spun and hit a tree.”

You stop. You take a breath, but it hitches, turning into a wet, jagged gasp.

“Take your time, sweetheart,” the pastor says gently from behind you.

“No,” you say, shaking your head rapidly. “No. You don’t understand.”

You grip the podium again, leaning into the microphone. Your breathing is speeding up, erratic and panicked.

“I stayed behind,” you say, your voice cracking loudly over the speakers. “My grandma … she asked me to stay a little longer. For another slice of pie. Just a stupid piece of cherry pie.”

“Y/N,” Joanna whispers loudly from the front pew, standing up.

“If I hadn’t stayed,” you say, your voice rising in volume, cracking with a sob. “I would have been in the car. I always sit in the passenger seat. Always. It’s my seat.”

Tears start spilling down your cheeks, fast and heavy.

“Beau took my seat,” you cry out, the sound echoing off the high vaulted ceilings. “He sat in the passenger seat because I wasn’t there.”

Dean is already moving. He doesn’t consciously decide to stand up. He just does.

“Y/N, honey, please,” your dad chokes out from his wheelchair, reaching a hand toward you.

“It should have been me!” You scream, your voice completely breaking. You grip the podium like it’s the only thing keeping you from floating away. “The impact was on the passenger side! It snapped his neck! It should have been my neck!”

“Oh my god,” Dean’s mom whispers behind him, covering her mouth.

“I want to trade!” You sob, looking up at the ceiling, looking at the casket, looking anywhere. “Please, God, let me trade! I’ll take his place! It’s supposed to be me! Put me in the box, please, please let him out!”

You let go of the podium to cover your face, and the moment you do, your legs give out.

You collapse.

You completely fold in on yourself, crumbling to the floor of the altar like a puppet with its strings cut.

“Y/N!” Joanna screams, rushing forward.

But Dean is faster.

He clears the row of pews, shoving past the pastor and dropping to his knees on the hard marble floor right beside you.

“I’ve got her,” Dean barks at Joanna, his voice sharp and authoritative enough to make the older sister freeze. “Give her air. Back up.”

Dean reaches out and gathers you into his arms. You are violently shaking, gasping for air in short, panicked bursts. You are having a full-blown panic attack right in the middle of the altar.

“Y/N,” Dean says, keeping his voice steady despite the absolute terror racing through his veins. He pulls you flush against his chest, wrapping his arms securely around your trembling frame. “Look at me. Hey. Look at me.”

You thrash against him weakly. “No! No, Dean, it’s my fault! It’s my fault!”

“It is not your fault,” he says fiercely, grabbing the sides of your face with both hands. His thumbs brush roughly over your tear-soaked cheeks. “Do you hear me? It was a fucking accident. It is not your fault.”

“I want him back!” You scream against Dean’s chest, burying your face into his expensive suit jacket, your hands fisting in his lapels. “Dean, please, please bring him back. Tell him to get up.”

Dean feels something hot and wet slide down his own cheek. He doesn’t care who sees him crying. He doesn’t care about the hundreds of people staring at them. Right now, there is only you. You are the only piece of Beau he has left, and he will be damned if he lets you fall apart on this floor alone.

“I know, baby,” Dean whispers, his voice cracking as he presses his lips hard against the top of your head. He pulls you tighter, rocking you slightly. “I know. I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

“I can’t breathe,” you gasp, your fingers clutching his shirt tight enough to rip the buttons. “Dean, I can’t breathe. My chest hurts. Make it stop.”

“Follow my breathing,” he commands, forcing his own erratic lungs to slow down. He exaggerates the rise and fall of his chest. “In and out. Come on, Y/N. In and out.”

“I can’t live without him,” you sob, the sound so broken it physically tears at Dean’s heart. “I don’t know how to be a person without him.”

“You don’t have to figure it out today,” Dean murmurs, resting his cheek against your hair. He keeps his arms wrapped like a vice around you, shielding you from the eyes of the crowd. “You just have to breathe right now. That’s all you have to do. Just breathe for me.”

Joanna is hovering nearby, crying into her hands. The pastor is awkwardly standing off to the side. The entire church is dead silent, save for the agonizing sound of your sobs echoing off the walls.

“He would have hated this,” you whisper hysterically, your forehead pressed against Dean’s collarbone. “He would have hated everyone looking at us.”

Dean lets out a wet, genuine laugh, the sound rough with grief. “Yeah. He would’ve called us dramatic.”

“He would’ve thrown a football at your head,” you add, letting out a broken sob that sounds half like a laugh.

“And told me to stop holding his sister,” Dean adds softly.

You grip his jacket tighter, burying your face deeper into his chest. “Don’t let go, Dean. Please don’t let go.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Dean promises. And he means it. He means it more than he’s meant anything in his entire twenty-two years of life. Beau trusted him. Beau loved him. And Beau loved you more than the sun.

“I’m right here,” Dean whispers into your hair, completely ignoring the pastor trying to resume the service. “I’m right here, and I’m not leaving. I swear to god, I’ve got you.”

***

Briar University looks exactly the same, and Dean hates it.

He stands in the middle of the quad, his hockey duffel slung over one shoulder, staring at the brick buildings and the swarms of students rushing to class. The sun is shining. Someone is throwing a frisbee near the library. A group of freshmen are laughing too loudly by the fountain.

It makes him sick to his stomach.

How can they just keep going? How is the bell still ringing? How is the cafeteria still serving terrible eggs? Beau is gone. The loudest, brightest, most invincible guy on this campus is in the ground, and Briar is just … moving on.

Dean adjusts his grip on his bag and forces his legs to move. He has to go to his Development of Sociological Thought elective. He doesn’t want to. He hasn’t wanted to do anything but lock himself in a dark room and drink until his liver gives out, but he can’t. He has to go to class. Because you are supposed to be in that class.

He walks into the lecture hall and immediately zeroes in on the fourth row, middle section.

Empty.

Dean’s jaw clenches. He drops into the seat next to yours, ignoring the sympathetic glances from a few girls in the row ahead. He stares at your empty desk for the entire fifty-minute lecture. You haven’t been to class all week.

“Hey, Dean?”

Dean blinks, snapping out of his daze as the lecture hall empties out. He looks up. Lacey, the co-captain of the cheer squad, is standing awkwardly by his desk. She looks nervous, her manicured fingers twisting the strap of her tote bag.

“What’s up, Lacey?” Dean asks, his voice flatter than he intends.

“It’s about Y/N,” Lacey says quietly, glancing over her shoulder as if she’s sharing state secrets. “Have you talked to her? Seen her?”

“No,” Dean admits, a cold spike of anxiety hitting his chest. “I texted her a few times, but she hasn’t answered. I figured she just wanted space. The funeral was … it was a lot.”

“I know,” Lacey says sympathetically. “But she hasn’t shown up to practice all week. Coach is starting to ask questions. I tried knocking on her door yesterday, but she didn’t answer. I’m just … I’m worried about her, Dean. She shouldn’t be alone right now.”

“She’s not answering her door?” Dean asks, standing up sharply.

“No,” Lacey shakes her head. “And her roommate moved into her boyfriend’s frat house for the week to give Y/N some privacy, so nobody has actually been inside the room since she got back from Wisconsin.”

“Fuck,” Dean mutters, dragging a hand through his hair. “Okay. Thanks, Lacey. I’ll handle it.”

He doesn’t wait for her response. He grabs his bag and takes the stairs two at a time, bursting out the doors of the academic building.

The walk to your dorm takes exactly eight minutes. Dean does it in four.

His heart is hammering against his ribs in a chaotic, uneven rhythm. Space is one thing. Grief is one thing. But radio silence for days, locked in an empty room? That isn’t just taking time to adjust.

He hits the third floor of the dorm building and strides down the hall, dodging a couple of guys tossing a lacrosse ball. He stops in front of Room 314 and knocks. Three sharp raps.

“Y/N? It’s Dean. Open up.”

Silence.

He knocks again, louder this time. “Come on, I know you’re in there. Lacey said your roommate is out for the week. Open the door.”

Nothing. Not a shuffle of feet, not a rustle of blankets. Nothing.

Panic, cold and sharp, slices straight through his veins.

Oh god. He digs frantically into his pocket, his fingers fumbling with his keychain. He, Beau, and you all swapped emergency keys sophomore year. He shoves the brass key into the lock, twists it, and throws the door open.

The room is completely pitch black. The heavy blackout curtains are drawn tight, blocking out every ounce of midday sun. The air is stale, thick, and smells faintly of sweat and something metallic.

“Y/N?” Dean asks, his voice cracking.

He flips the light switch.

You are a small, unmoving lump in the center of your bed.

Dean stops breathing. For one terrifying, heart-stopping second, his brain jumps to the absolute worst conclusion. You are too still. The silence in the room is too heavy. Did you take something? Was it on purpose? Did the grief finally swallow you whole and tell you the only way out was to follow your twin?

“No, no, no,” Dean chokes out, dropping his bag. He practically tackles the bed, his knees hitting the mattress hard. “Y/N! Hey!”

He grabs your shoulder and flips you onto your back.

Your eyes are open.

A massive, shuddering wave of relief crashes over Dean, making his head spin. You are breathing. The shallow rise and fall of your chest is there.

“Jesus Christ,” Dean gasps, pressing his forehead against the mattress beside your arm. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to stop his hands from shaking. “You scared the absolute shit out of me.”

But you don’t respond.

Dean lifts his head, his relief evaporating instantly. You are staring straight up at the ceiling, but you aren’t looking at anything. Your eyes are completely vacant. Empty. Dead.

Your lips are chapped and peeling, your skin a sickly, translucent pale. There are deep, bruised hollows under your cheekbones, and your hair is tangled in a chaotic, matted mess around your face. You look like a ghost.

“Hey,” Dean whispers, his voice softening into something incredibly tender. He reaches out, gently brushing a strand of hair off your forehead. “I’m right here. I’m right here.”

You don’t blink. You don’t acknowledge him.

Dean’s heart physically aches. He knows exactly what this is. He’s been dancing on the edge of this exact void since the funeral. If it wasn’t for you — if it wasn’t for the desperate need to make sure you were okay — he would be face down on a sticky frat house floor right now, so high or so drunk he wouldn’t know his own name. He would be self-destructing in spectacular fashion.

But he can’t. He has to anchor you, which means he has to anchor himself. You are the only living piece of Beau he has left in this world.

Without hesitating, Dean kicks off his sneakers. He crawls fully onto the bed and lies down beside you. He wraps his arm securely around your waist, pulling your stiff, unresponsive body flush against his side. He tucks your head beneath his chin, wrapping his leg over yours to cage you in.

“I know,” Dean whispers into the crown of your head. He rubs his hand up and down your spine, feeling every single vertebrae through the thin cotton of your t-shirt. You’ve lost weight. In just a week, you’ve withered away. “I know it hurts. I know it feels like you can’t breathe.”

You blink slowly, but you don’t speak.

“I miss him too,” Dean says, his voice thickening. A tear slips down his cheek and lands in your hair. He doesn’t bother wiping it away. “God, I miss him so much I feel like I’m dying. But you’re not dying. I’m not going to let you.”

He lies there with you for a long time. The dorm room is silent except for the harsh sound of his own breathing and the agonizingly slow rhythm of yours. He traces soothing circles on your back, letting the warmth of his body seep into yours.

“Alright,” Dean finally says, his tone shifting. He sits up, gently untangling his limbs from yours. “Party’s over. You can’t rot in this bed forever.”

You don’t protest. You don’t do anything.

Dean grabs your hands and pulls you up into a sitting position. You flop forward like a ragdoll, your head resting against his chest.

“Come on,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around you to keep you upright. “You need to get dressed. And you need to eat before you pass out and I have to call an ambulance. I don’t think either of us wants to deal with the Briar medical center today.”

He stands up, pulling you to your feet. Your legs buckle instantly.

Dean catches you effortlessly, lifting you slightly so your feet are barely touching the ground. “Whoa, okay. Easy. I got you.”

He guides you toward your closet. You lean heavily against his side, your bare feet dragging on the carpet.

“What do we want to wear?” Dean asks, opening the wardrobe. He talks to keep the silence at bay, forcing a casual lightness into his voice that he absolutely does not feel. “Sweatpants? Yeah, sweatpants feel right. High fashion is overrated anyway.”

He pulls out a pair of grey joggers and turns to look at you. You are staring blankly at the bottom of the closet.

“Okay, here,” Dean says gently. He crouches down. “Step in.”

He physically dresses you. He guides your legs into the sweatpants, pulls them up, and ties the drawstring. It’s intimately tragic. Two weeks ago, you would have slapped his hands away and called him a pervert for even being near your clothes. Today, you just let him maneuver you like a mannequin.

He stands up and reaches into the closet for a shirt, but your hand suddenly shoots out.

Your fingers, cold and trembling, latch onto the sleeve of a piece of clothing hanging in the back corner.

Dean freezes.

It’s a grey hoodie. Briar Football printed on the front. Beau’s hoodie.

Dean feels like someone has taken a baseball bat to his ribs. The sight of the fabric, the memory of Beau wearing it just a few weeks ago at a bonfire, laughing with a beer in his hand, is suffocating.

He wants to put it back. He wants to hide it. But he looks at your face. For the first time since he walked into the room, there is a flicker of emotion in your eyes. It’s raw, bleeding desperation.

“Okay,” Dean whispers, his voice completely wrecked. He reaches past you and unhooks the hoodie from the hanger. “Okay. Raise your arms.”

You lift your arms, and he pulls the heavy fabric over your head. The hoodie is massive on you. It swallows you whole, the sleeves hanging past your fingertips. The moment it’s on, you bring your knees to your chest and bury your nose in the collar, inhaling deeply.

A tiny, broken sob escapes your lips.

Dean swallows down the giant lump in his throat. He grabs a pair of your Ugg boots and slides them onto your feet.

“Let’s go,” he says softly.

He puts his arm around your waist, supporting most of your weight, and walks you out of the dorm.

***

Malone’s is packed. It’s prime lunchtime for the Briar athletic crowd, the air thick with the smell of cheap burgers, fryer grease, and loud conversations.

The moment the bell above the door jingles, announcing their arrival, heads turn.

Dean ignores them. He keeps a tight grip on your waist, steering you through the maze of tables toward a private booth in the far back corner. He slides you onto the vinyl seat, pushing you gently toward the wall so you’re tucked away safely, before sliding in right next to you. He doesn’t sit across the table. He sits beside you, his thigh pressed warmly against yours.

“Hey, Dean,” a waitress says, popping her gum as she approaches the table. Her eyes flick to you, her expression turning immediately sympathetic. Everyone on campus knows. “What can I get you guys?”

“Two waters,” Dean says, not looking at the menu. “And an order of loaded fries. The big basket. And a vanilla milkshake.”

“You got it,” she says softly, walking away.

Dean turns slightly in the booth to look at you. You are staring at the scuffed surface of the table, your hands tucked into the oversized sleeves of Beau’s hoodie.

“You’re going to eat,” Dean states. It’s not a question. “And you’re going to drink the entire milkshake. I’m not leaving until you do.”

You don’t respond.

A loud burst of laughter erupts from a table of frat guys a few booths down. One of them, a guy Dean vaguely recognizes from a business seminar, stands up to stretch and looks directly at your booth. He stares, his eyes lingering on your pale face and the oversized football hoodie. He nudges his buddy, pointing openly.

Dean’s blood turns to absolute ice.

“Hey,” Dean barks, his voice slicing through the diner chatter like a knife.

The frat guy blinks, looking at Dean.

Dean leans forward, his eyes narrowed into a lethal, terrifying glare. “Take a picture. It lasts longer. Or keep staring, and I’ll come over there and break your fucking nose. Your choice.”

The frat guy pales, quickly sitting down and turning his back. The surrounding tables suddenly get very quiet, everyone suddenly fascinated by their own food.

Dean exhales sharply, rolling his shoulders to bleed off the adrenaline. He turns back to you. You haven’t moved. You didn’t even flinch at his shouting.

The waitress quickly drops off the fries and the milkshake, avoiding eye contact with Dean before scurrying away.

“Alright,” Dean says softly, his voice dropping completely from the dangerous growl of a moment ago. He grabs a fry, dipping it in ketchup.

He holds it up to your mouth.

“Open,” he says.

You keep your lips pressed together, your eyes fixed on the table.

“Y/N, look at me,” Dean says, his tone firm but incredibly gentle.

Slowly, agonizingly, you lift your eyes. The emptiness in them is starting to crack, replaced by a deep, hollow exhaustion.

“I know everything tastes like ash right now,” Dean murmurs, holding the fry steady. “I know you don’t care if you starve. But I care. Beau cared. He would beat my ass if I let you waste away. So, open up. For me.”

You stare at him for a long, heavy second. Then, your lips part slightly.

Dean places the fry in your mouth. You chew mechanically, your jaw moving without any enthusiasm. It takes you an eternity to swallow.

“Good girl,” Dean whispers, grabbing the milkshake. He pushes the straw past your lips. “Drink.”

You take a small sip.

They sit there for an hour. Dean doesn’t touch a single fry for himself. He patiently, methodically hand-feeds you piece by piece, sip by sip, ignoring the curious and pitying stares from the rest of the diner. Whenever someone’s gaze lingers a little too long, Dean shoots them a look so murderous they immediately look away.

“I’m tired,” you whisper. It’s the first time you’ve spoken since the funeral. Your voice is raspy, unused, and incredibly fragile.

Dean’s heart stutters. He sets down the milkshake, moving his arm to wrap it around your shoulders. He pulls you against his side, tucking you into the crook of his arm.

“I know,” he says gently, resting his cheek on the top of your head. “I know, baby. I’ve got you.”

“He’s gone,” you say, a tear finally escaping and tracking through the dust on your cheek. “Dean, he’s really gone.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, his own throat burning. “He is.”

“What are we supposed to do?” You ask, turning your face to press into his shoulder. Your fingers grip his shirt, twisting the fabric. “How do we do this?”

“I don’t know,” Dean admits honestly, holding you tighter. He kisses your temple, his lips lingering against your skin. “I have no fucking clue. But we’re going to figure it out. Together. I promise you, Y/N. You are not doing this alone.”

And sitting there in the middle of the crowded diner, smelling like grease and grief, Dean realizes it’s the truest thing he’s ever said. You are his tether to the world now. And he will burn the entire campus down before he lets you slip away.

***

The sharp click of the lock tumbling in the door echoes through the quiet dorm room.

It’s eight in the morning, the sun brutally bright as it forces its way through the crack in your blackout curtains. You squeeze your eyes shut, pulling the heavy comforter up over your head. You don’t want to be awake. Being awake means remembering.

“Rise and shine, sweetheart,” a bright, unapologetically loud voice announces.

The comforter is suddenly ripped away, exposing you to the cold morning air. You shiver, curling into a tighter ball, pulling Beau’s oversized hoodie down over your hands.

“Go away, Dean,” you croak. Your voice sounds like sandpaper.

“Not a chance,” Dean says cheerfully.

The mattress dips as he sits down near your knees. You peek out from under your arms. He’s already fully dressed in dark wash jeans and a Briar Hockey t-shirt, his blond hair perfectly styled, looking infuriatingly awake.

“I brought a peace offering,” he says, holding up a plastic cup with a green siren logo. Condensation drips down the sides.

You blink at it. “What is that?”

“Icy, caffeinated heaven,” Dean replies, shaking the cup slightly so the ice clinks. “Venti iced brown sugar oat milk shaken espresso. Exactly the way you like it. I even bullied the barista into adding the extra cinnamon you always ask for.”

Your stomach gives a hollow twist, but the smell of the espresso wafting toward you does something to cut through the fog in your brain.

“I don’t want it,” you lie, turning your face into the pillow.

“Bullshit,” Dean counters smoothly. “Sit up, Y/N.”

“Dean, please,” you whisper, the exhaustion heavy in your bones. “I just want to sleep.”

“You slept all yesterday afternoon and all night,” Dean says, his tone shifting from playful to firm. “You’re getting up today. We have lecture in forty-five minutes.”

“I’m dropping that class,” you mutter into the pillow.

“No, you’re not.”

Before you can protest, Dean’s hands are on your arms, hauling you upright. You flop against his chest, dead weight. He chuckles softly, his chest vibrating against your cheek, and uses one arm to hold you up while he grabs the coffee with his free hand.

“Drink,” he orders, pressing the green straw to your lips.

You glare at him through half-open eyes, but you part your lips and take a sip. The hit of cold espresso, sweet brown sugar, and sharp cinnamon is incredible. It wakes up a tiny part of your brain that has been completely dormant for a week.

“There we go,” Dean praises, a satisfied smirk pulling at his mouth. He pulls the cup away. “Now, up. Go brush your teeth. Put on pants that don’t have a stain on the knee.”

“These are my depression sweatpants,” you argue weakly, looking down at the grey joggers he forced you into yesterday.

“They’re a tragedy to fashion, is what they are,” Dean deadpans. “Up. Now. Or I’ll literally carry you to the bathroom and brush your teeth for you. Do not test me, because I will do it.”

You look at him. His jaw is set, his green eyes completely serious despite the light tone. He isn’t going to let you rot. He is going to drag you back to the land of the living, kicking and screaming if he has to.

“Fine,” you sigh, pushing yourself off the bed on shaky legs. “You’re a tyrant.”

“I’m a visionary,” Dean corrects, handing you the coffee. “Ten minutes, Y/N. I’m timing you.”

***

The lecture hall is packed, the air thick with the smell of cheap body spray and stale coffee.

Dean steers you toward the middle row, his hand resting securely against the small of your back. You keep your head down, acutely aware of the glances thrown your way. You haven’t been back to class since the accident. You feel raw, like you’re walking around without a layer of skin.

You drop into your seat, pulling Beau’s hoodie tighter around yourself. Dean sits right next to you, his thigh pressing against yours. He slung his arm over the back of your chair the second he sat down, acting as a physical shield between you and the rest of the room.

“Just breathe,” Dean murmurs, leaning in close so only you can hear. “You’re doing great.”

Professor Higgins walks in a moment later, dropping a massive stack of papers onto his podium. He’s a terrifying, tenured man who takes his sociology lectures way too seriously.

“Alright, settle down,” Higgins barks, turning on the projector. “Last week, we discussed the functionalist perspective on societal norms. Who can summarize Durkheim’s concept of anomie?”

Silence descends over the room. Everyone suddenly avoids eye contact with the professor.

Higgins scans the room, his hawkish eyes darting from row to row. And then, horrifyingly, his gaze lands directly on you.

“Miss Maxwell,” Fowler says, his voice booming through the microphone. “Perhaps you can enlighten us. How does anomie relate to sudden structural changes in a person’s life?”

The air is instantly sucked out of your lungs.

Your heart hammers frantically against your ribs. Over two hundred students turn in their seats to look at you. The room feels incredibly small, the walls closing in. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Your brain is entirely blank. A sudden structural change. The sudden, violent severing of your other half. The irony of the question is so sharp it physically hurts.

Panic starts to rise in your throat, choking you.

Under the desk, a large, warm hand slips over yours.

Dean intertwines his fingers tightly with yours. He gives your hand a firm, grounding squeeze. His thumb strokes the back of your knuckles, a steady, rhythmic motion.

“You know this,” Dean whispers, his voice barely a breath against your ear. “You explained it to me last month when I almost failed the quiz. Normlessness. Disconnect.”

The sheer, solid weight of Dean sitting beside you, his hand anchoring you to the present, cuts through the rising panic. You swallow hard, forcing air into your lungs.

“Anomie,” you start, your voice trembling slightly before you force it to steady. “It’s … it’s a state of normlessness. Durkheim argued that when society experiences rapid change or disruption, the normal rules and social structures break down. People feel disconnected from their community and their sense of purpose, leading to psychological distress and a breakdown of social order.”

Professor Higgins stares at you for a long moment. Then, he gives a sharp, approving nod.

“Exactly, Miss Maxwell. A textbook definition,” Fowler says, turning back to the whiteboard. “Now, to apply this to modern institutional structures …”

The spotlight is off you. The students turn back around.

You let out a shaky exhale, slumping slightly in your chair.

Dean doesn’t let go of your hand. He keeps his fingers laced with yours for the entire fifty-minute lecture, his thumb lazily tracing circles on your skin. Every time you start to drift into the dark, pulling back into your grief, he gives your hand a gentle squeeze, reeling you back to him.

***

When classes finally end for the day, you walk out to Dean’s car expecting him to drive you back to your dorm.

Instead, he takes a left at the campus gates, heading off campus.

“Where are we going?” You ask, watching the familiar streets of Briar disappear.

“My place,” Dean says smoothly, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel to the rhythm of the radio.

“Dean, I just want to go to bed,” you protest, closing your eyes and leaning your head against the cool glass of the window.

“You’ve been in bed for a week,” Dean counters. “It’s bad for your muscles. Atrophy, Y/N. Science says so. Besides, Tucker is making his famous chicken parm for dinner, and if I don’t bring you, he’ll hold back my portion.”

“I don’t want to see people,” you whisper, the anxiety spiking again.

“They aren’t people, they’re just our idiot friends,” Dean says softly, throwing a quick glance your way. “They know what happened. Nobody’s going to ask you stupid questions or give you the pity eyes. I already threatened Logan with physical violence if he makes things weird.”

You let out a tiny, breathless huff that almost sounds like a laugh.

Ten minutes later, Dean pulls into the driveway of the off-campus house he shares with three of his teammates. The house is a chaotic mess of hockey gear, empty beer boxes, and mismatched furniture.

Dean unlocks the front door and ushers you inside.

“We’re here!” Dean yells, tossing his keys into a bowl by the door.

“In the kitchen!” A deep voice calls back.

Dean guides you down the hall and into the massive, open-concept kitchen. Tucker is standing at the stove, an apron tied over his t-shirt, stirring a pot of marinara sauce that smells absolutely divine. Logan and Garrett are sitting at the kitchen island, arguing over something on Logan’s phone.

They all stop when you walk in.

There’s a split second of heavy silence. You tense, waiting for the awkward condolences, the tilted heads, the sad smiles.

But then Garrett simply raises a hand. “Hey, Y/N.”

“Hey,” you manage to say, your voice quiet.

“Good, you’re here,” Tucker says, gesturing with a wooden spoon. “Tell Logan that a hotdog is legally considered a sandwich. He’s being deliberately ignorant.”

“It’s a piece of meat surrounded by bread,” Garrett argues immediately, pointing at Logan. “By definition, it’s a sandwich.”

“It’s a tube of mystery meat in a bun!” Logan protests, throwing his arms up. “A bun is not two slices of bread! If you ask for a sandwich and someone hands you a hotdog, you’d be pissed!”

“I would be thrilled, actually,” Dean chimes in, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge and handing it to you. “Hotdogs are elite.”

“You’re all idiots,” you murmur, leaning against the counter beside Dean.

Logan grins, a completely normal, easy expression. “See? Y/N agrees with me. The tie-breaker has spoken.”

The tension you didn’t even realize you were holding completely bleeds out of your shoulders. Dean was right. They aren’t treating you like a piece of fragile glass. They’re just treating you like … you.

Tucker dishes out massive plates of chicken parmesan and pasta, forcing the largest portion directly in front of you. You manage to eat half of it, which is the most you’ve eaten in over a week. Dean sits beside you the entire time, seamlessly intercepting any questions directed your way if you take too long to answer, covering for you without making it obvious.

After dinner, you all migrate to the living room. It’s dominated by a massive, obscenely expensive leather sectional couch that Dean definitely paid for.

“Alright, hand over the remote,” Dean demands, vaulting over the back of the couch to land next to you.

“We were watching the game,” Garrett protests from the recliner.

“We’re watching something else,” Dean says, snatching the remote from the coffee table. He navigates to a streaming service and pulls up The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.

“Dude, really?” Logan groans, falling back onto the other end of the couch. “It’s Tuesday. Can we at least watch a movie?”

“Shut up, Logan,” Dean says comfortably, hitting play. “This is high-stakes drama. You learn a lot about human psychology from these women.”

“You just like watching rich people yell at each other at dinner parties,” Tucker points out, sitting on the floor with his back against the couch.

“Exactly,” Dean says, smirking.

He shifts on the couch, sprawling out and kicking his feet onto the coffee table. He casually drapes his arm along the back of the sofa, right behind your shoulders.

The episode starts, filled with immediate, ridiculous conflict about a stolen dress and a charity gala. It’s loud, colorful, and completely mindless.

“Wait,” Logan says ten minutes in, pointing at the screen. “Why is she mad? Didn’t she invite the other lady to the party?”

“She invited her as a formality,” Dean explains, not looking away from the TV. “She didn’t actually expect her to show up. It’s a power move.”

“That’s so passive-aggressive,” Garrett mutters, shaking his head. “Just drop the gloves and fight it out.”

“You can’t body-check someone at a charity gala, G,” Tucker laughs.

You sit quietly, listening to four massive, intimidating college hockey players aggressively analyze the social dynamics of middle-aged reality stars. The sheer absurdity of it chips away at the cold, dark wall surrounding your heart.

You let out a soft, genuine laugh when Logan vehemently defends one of the housewives for throwing a glass of wine.

Dean immediately looks at you. His eyes are soft, the corners crinkling just slightly. He doesn’t say anything, but his hand drops from the back of the couch, resting his palm warmly against your shoulder.

As the evening wears on, the exhaustion of the day finally catches up with you. The adrenaline of surviving classes and the heavy, carb-loaded dinner hit your system all at once.

The mindless arguing on the screen turns into a soft hum. The warmth of Dean sitting so close to you is intoxicating. Slowly, unconsciously, you tilt sideways. Your head comes to rest heavily against Dean’s shoulder.

Dean freezes for a fraction of a second. Then, he shifts his body entirely, angling himself to give you better access. He wraps his arm securely around your shoulders, pulling you firmly against his side.

You bury your face into his neck, the scent of his cologne — cedarwood and something uniquely, cleanly Dean — filling your senses. It’s so safe. It’s the safest you’ve felt since the phone call that destroyed your world.

Your eyes flutter shut, and for the first time in a week, you fall asleep without crying.

***

Dean wakes up to the quiet roll of the end credits playing on the TV screen.

The living room is empty. Garrett, Logan, and Tucker must have quietly headed upstairs to their rooms at some point, leaving just the soft glow of a lamp in the corner.

He looks down.

You are fast asleep against his chest. Your face is pressed into the crook of his neck, your soft breath puffing steadily against his skin. One of your hands is fisted loosely in his t-shirt. You look incredibly peaceful, the lines of grief completely smoothed out from your forehead.

Dean stares at you for a long time. His heart aches in a way that has nothing to do with Beau, and everything to do with you.

He gently shifts, sliding his arm under your knees and his other arm around your back. He stands up smoothly, lifting you against his chest. You are criminally light.

You stir slightly, mumbling something incoherent, but you don’t wake up. Your head falls against his shoulder, your face turning into his neck.

“I’ve got you,” Dean whispers, turning off the lamp with his elbow.

He carries you up the stairs, navigating the hallway to his bedroom at the end of the hall. He kicks the door open with his foot and steps inside. His room is surprisingly neat, a contrast to the rest of the house, dominated by a massive king-sized bed.

He walks over to the bed and gently lowers you onto the mattress. You immediately curl onto your side, pulling Beau’s hoodie tightly around yourself.

Dean pulls the heavy duvet back and tucks it over your shoulders. He stands by the edge of the bed, watching you sleep. He should go to the guest room. Or he should sleep on the couch downstairs. He knows that’s what a normal, respectful friend would do.

But Dean feels nothing close to normal right now. The thought of leaving you alone in this dark room, waking up in a panic not knowing where you are, makes his skin crawl.

Quietly, Dean strips off his jeans and his t-shirt, leaving just his boxer briefs.

He walks around to the other side of the king-sized bed and slides under the covers.

He keeps a respectful distance, lying on his back and staring up at the ceiling. The room is dead silent, save for the soft, rhythmic sound of your breathing. It’s a soothing, constant reminder that you are here, that you are breathing, that you are alive.

About twenty minutes later, a soft rustle comes from your side of the bed.

Dean turns his head.

You are seeking warmth. Still completely asleep, you roll across the mattress until you hit his side. You throw one leg over his, tangling your limbs together, and press your face flat against his bare chest. Your arm drapes over his stomach.

Dean’s breath hitches. He goes perfectly still, terrified of waking you.

But you just let out a soft sigh, settling deeper into him.

A heavy sense of peace washes over Dean. He slowly lifts his hand, wrapping his arm around you, resting his hand gently on your back. He pulls you just a fraction closer, letting his chin rest on top of your head.

He closes his eyes, matching the rhythm of his breathing to yours. And for the first time since he lost his best friend, Dean finally falls into a deep, dreamless sleep.

***

You wake up to the absolute pitch black of an unfamiliar room.

For a span of three seconds, your brain is blissfully, mercifully blank. You don’t know where you are. You don’t know what day it is. You are just a person waking up in a warm bed, wrapped in heavy, expensive-feeling sheets, with the steady rhythm of someone breathing beside you.

Then, the fourth second hits.

The memories do not trickle in; they crash over you like a tidal wave of ice water. The screech of tires. The polished mahogany casket. The smell of floor wax and white lilies. The suffocating, gaping hole in the center of your chest where your twin brother used to be.

Your breath hitches, a sharp, ragged sound that cuts through the silence of the room.

You open your eyes fully, staring up at the dark ceiling. You are in Dean’s room. You remember the diner. You remember Tucker’s chicken parmesan, and the ridiculous Housewives argument, and falling asleep on the couch.

And now, you are in Dean’s bed.

You turn your head slowly against the pillow. Dean is lying right beside you, on his back, his face turned slightly toward yours. In the faint sliver of moonlight slipping through the gap in the blinds, he looks completely different. The cocky, effortless charm is smoothed away by sleep. His jaw is relaxed, his blond hair completely mussed. One of his arms is draped casually across your waist, his large hand resting warm and heavy against your ribs.

The sheer intimacy of it should be jarring, but it isn’t. It just feels like a lifeline.

You swallow hard, fighting the familiar, toxic burn of tears building in the back of your throat. You don’t want to cry again. You are so tired of crying. Your eyes are swollen, your head is pounding, and every muscle in your body aches from the physical exertion of pure grief.

But the silence of the room is too loud. In the quiet, your brain starts supplying the highlight reel. Beau throwing a football perfectly spiraled directly into your hands. Beau laughing so hard beer came out of his nose at a frat party. Beau putting you in a headlock because you stole the last slice of pizza.

He’s gone. He’s really gone. The thought circles your mind, a relentless, vicious predator. You try to take a deep breath to quell the rising panic, but your chest feels too tight. It feels like someone is sitting on your lungs.

You need to anchor yourself. You need the noise to stop.

“Dean,” you whisper.

The sound is barely louder than a breath, incredibly hesitant. You shouldn’t wake him. He has done so much for you today — he fed you, he clothed you, he protected you from the stares on campus. He deserves to sleep.

You try to pull back, intending to slip out of the bed and go to the bathroom until the panic attack passes, but the moment you shift your weight, the heavy hand on your ribs tightens.

“I’m awake,” Dean says instantly.

His voice is rough and gravelly with sleep, but there is no grogginess in it. He opens his eyes, blinking rapidly for a second before his gaze locks onto yours in the dark. He shifts closer, his brow furrowing.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, his tone immediately dropping into that fierce, protective cadence. “Are you sick? Do you need water? What do you need?”

“No,” you say quickly, your voice trembling. “No, I’m … I’m okay. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Dean lets out a short, dismissive breath. He rolls onto his side, propping his head up on his hand so he’s looking down at you. His other hand moves from your ribs to gently brush a tangled strand of hair away from your cheek.

“Don’t ever apologize for waking me up,” he says, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. “Never. If you need me, you wake me. Understand?”

You nod, biting your lower lip hard enough to taste copper.

Dean studies your face in the shadows. He doesn’t press you. He just waits, his thumb gently tracing the line of your jaw, letting you find the words at your own pace.

“I woke up,” you finally whisper, your voice cracking completely, “and for three seconds, I forgot.”

Dean’s hand stills against your cheek.

“I forgot he was dead,” you continue, the tears finally spilling over, hot and fast down your temples and into your hairline. “I thought I was in my dorm. I thought tomorrow I was going to call him and complain about Professor Fowler. And then … and then I remembered.”

“Yeah,” Dean breathes out, the word sounding like it was scraped from the very bottom of his lungs.

“It happens every time,” you sob, bringing your hands up to press against your eyes, trying to physically hold the tears back. “Every time I fall asleep and wake up, I have to lose him all over again. I have to relive it every single morning. I don’t know how many more times I can do it, Dean. I can’t do it.”

“Hey. Look at me,” Dean says, gently but firmly pulling your hands away from your face. “Look at me, Y/N.”

You open your wet eyes.

Dean’s face is entirely stripped of the Briar hockey star persona. There is no smirk, no arrogant confidence. He just looks completely broken. His eyes are shining in the dim light, wet with his own unshed tears.

“It happens to me too,” Dean whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “I wake up, and my first thought is always to text him. Yesterday, I saw a stupid meme about Tom Brady, and I literally pulled up his contact in my phone before my brain caught up with reality. I stared at his name for twenty minutes.”

You let out a jagged, broken sound, your fingers wrapping tightly around Dean’s wrist.

“It’s not fair,” you cry, the anger finally bleeding into the grief. “It’s not fucking fair, Dean.”

“I know,” he says, his voice breaking.

“He was twenty-two!” You say, your voice rising in the quiet room. You don’t care who hears you. You don’t care if you wake up Tucker or Garrett or Logan. You just need to get the poison out of your system. “He was twenty-two years old! He was supposed to get drafted! He was supposed to play in the NFL and buy our parents a stupidly huge house and get married and have annoying, athletic little kids! He was supposed to be here!”

“He was,” Dean agrees, a tear finally tracking down his own cheek. He doesn’t bother wiping it away.

“Why him?” You sob, your chest heaving with the force of your breakdown. “Why did it have to be him? Why couldn’t it have been … I don’t know, anybody else? Why did he have to get in the passenger seat?”

“Stop,” Dean says softly, sliding his arm completely under you and pulling you flush against his chest. “Stop doing that to yourself. You can’t play the what if game. It’ll eat you alive.”

“I want to trade,” you repeat the same desperate plea you screamed at the church, burying your face into his bare chest. “I’d give anything. I’d give my own life right now if it meant he could come back.”

“Don’t say that,” Dean chokes out, his arms wrapping around you like a vice. He buries his face in your hair, his own shoulders starting to shake. “Don’t ever fucking say that, Y/N. I can’t lose you too. I can’t.”

The raw, desperate agony in his voice shatters whatever remaining defenses you have.

You break.

You fully, completely break down. The quiet, polite sobbing of the last week turns into ugly, chest-heaving wails. You fist your hands in the sheets behind Dean’s back, clinging to him like he is the only solid object in a world made of quicksand.

And Dean breaks right along with you.

The guy who always has a joke, the guy who never lets anything touch him, the guy who floats through life on charm and trust funds, finally lets the dam burst. He cries against your neck, harsh, racking sobs that shake his entire massive frame.

You hold him, and he holds you.

You mourn the boy who was supposed to be your forever partner in crime. He mourns the brother he chose.

You cry for the empty seat at graduation. You cry for the Thanksgiving dinners that will never be the same. You cry for the locker room that will be entirely too quiet, and the passenger seat that will always be empty.

You cry until your throat is completely raw and your eyes burn like fire. You cry until there are physically no more tears left in your body, leaving you hollow and incredibly light-headed.

The room is filled only with the sound of your combined, ragged breathing.

Dean slowly pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are bloodshot, his cheeks streaked with wetness. He sniffs deeply, wiping his face with the back of his hand before reaching out to gently wipe the tears off your cheeks with his thumbs.

“You’re right,” Dean says, his voice a raspy whisper. “It isn’t fair. It’s the most unfair, fucked up, bullshit thing that has ever happened. And it sucks. It completely, totally sucks.”

You let out a watery, exhausted laugh. “It really does.”

“I’m so angry,” Dean confesses, his jaw tightening. He traces the shell of your ear, his touch grounding. “I’m so fucking angry at the world. I’m angry at the snow. I’m angry at that stupid deer. I’m angry at people walking around campus laughing like the world didn’t just end.”

“Me too,” you whisper, closing your eyes and leaning into his touch. “I hate them all right now.”

“We can hate them together,” Dean says without missing a beat. “We’ll be terrible, bitter people. We’ll throw things at happy couples. We’ll key cars. Whatever you want.”

You laugh again, the sound weak but real. It feels bizarre to laugh. It feels like a betrayal, but at the same time, it feels like the first full breath of air you’ve taken in a week.

Dean’s face hardens, his expression turning completely serious. He shifts closer, pressing his forehead gently against yours.

“Listen to me,” Dean says, his voice dropping an octave, carrying a weight that completely demands your attention. “I know I can’t fix this. I know I can’t bring him back, and I know I can’t make it stop hurting.”

You look into his eyes, inches from your own.

“But you are not doing this alone,” Dean vows, his words fiercely determined. “You hear me? You are stuck with me, Y/N. For as long as it takes. For the rest of our lives, if that’s what you need. I don’t care if it’s three in the morning and you need to scream, or if it’s middle of the day and you need someone to just sit in the dark with you. You call me. I will always answer. You will always have me.”

The sincerity in his eyes is blinding. It’s not a platitude. It’s not empty comfort. It’s a blood oath.

Your heart, bruised and battered, swells painfully in your chest.

“Okay,” you whisper, your voice trembling with a new wave of emotion.

You slide your hands up his chest, wrapping your arms around his neck, and pull yourself closer until there is absolutely no space between you. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, breathing in the scent of him.

“And you have me,” you promise, your words muffled against his skin but entirely resolute. “I know you’re hurting too, Dean. You don’t have to pretend to be strong all the time for my sake. When you need to break down, you come to me. Okay? Promise me.”

Dean lets out a long, shuddering exhale, his arms wrapping tightly around your waist, locking you against him.

“I promise,” he murmurs into your hair.

The heavy, suffocating weight that has been crushing you since the accident doesn’t disappear. You know it won’t. The grief is going to be there tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that. It’s a scar you will carry forever.

But lying there, tangled in the sheets with Dean, the weight shifts. It stops feeling like a boulder crushing your chest, and starts feeling like something you can actually carry. Because you aren’t carrying it alone anymore.

“Go back to sleep, Y/N,” Dean whispers, his hand lazily stroking up and down your spine, a repetitive, soothing motion. “I’ve got you. I’m right here.”

“Don’t let go,” you murmur, your eyes heavy with emotional exhaustion.

“Never,” Dean replies instantly.

You close your eyes, listening to the steady, strong beating of his heart under your ear. The fear of waking up to the nightmare is still there, but the terror is gone.

For the first time since the world ended, you drift off to sleep feeling entirely, completely safe.

***

Grief is not a straight line.

It doesn’t slowly fade out like the ending of a sad movie. It comes in waves. Some days, you wake up and the air feels light, and you can almost convince yourself that things are normal. Other days, the ghost of your brother is so heavy you can barely pull yourself out of bed.

But as the brutal winter bleeds into a messy, slushy spring, the good days slowly start to outnumber the bad ones. And the main reason for that is the six-foot-two hockey player who absolutely refuses to let you sink.

Dean is a constant. He is the first text you read in the morning and the last voice you hear at night.

The buzzer blares through the Briar ice arena, signaling the end of the second period. The crowd erupts into a deafening roar.

You stand up, cheering along with the rest of the student section as the Briar Hawks skate off the ice. Down below, Dean pulls his helmet off. His blond hair is soaked with sweat, his face flushed with adrenaline. He glances up toward the stands, his green eyes scanning the sea of blue and white until they lock onto you.

He shoots you a quick, cocky wink before disappearing into the tunnel.

A warm flutter erupts in your stomach. It’s a new feeling, one that has been slowly building over the last few months, completely distinct from the safe, platonic comfort he offered in the beginning. You actively try to ignore it, terrified of ruining the most important relationship you have left, but Dean makes it incredibly difficult.

“He’s staring again,” Lacey says, nudging your shoulder as you both sit back down on the cold bleachers.

“He’s just making sure I didn’t leave to get nachos without him,” you deflect, pulling your jacket tighter around yourself.

Lacey raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow. “Right. Because guys totally look at their platonic friends like they want to devour them whole on center ice. Sure.”

“Shut up,” you laugh, shoving her arm playfully.

“I’m just saying,” Lacey sing-songs, leaning back. “It’s been four months. You practically live at his house. Everyone sees it, Y/N.”

You look down at your hands, tracing the seam of your jeans. “It’s complicated, Lacey. We’re just … we’re surviving together. We lost Beau.”

“I know,” Lacey’s voice softens instantly. She reaches out and squeezes your knee. “And I’m not minimizing that. But you’re allowed to live, too. You’re allowed to be happy.”

You nod slowly, your eyes drifting down to the empty ice.

Happiness feels like a complicated concept these days. It used to be so simple. It used to be standing on the sidelines of the football turf, shaking pompoms while Beau threw a perfect spiral down the field.

You haven’t touched a pompom since the funeral.

The first time you tried to go back to a cheer practice, they were holding it on the indoor turf. You took one step onto the artificial grass, saw the goalposts, and immediately threw up in a nearby trash can. The panic attack that followed lasted for two hours. The realization was sharp and undeniable: you could not cheer for a football team that didn’t have Beau Maxwell leading it. It felt wrong. It felt like a betrayal.

So, you quit.

It broke your heart a little more, losing another piece of your identity, but Dean was right there to pick up the pieces.

***

“You don’t have to do it,” Dean had said, sitting on the floor of your dorm room while you cried over your folded uniform.

“But I love it,” you hiccuped, wiping your eyes aggressively. “I love tumbling. I love the girls. I just can’t look at that field.”

“So tumble somewhere else,” Dean said simply, taking the uniform from your hands and tossing it onto the desk. “Briar has an Acrobatics and Tumbling team. They do meets in the gym. No turf. No footballs. Just you guys flipping around like ninjas. I saw a flyer by the athletic office today. Tryouts are next week.”

You had looked at him, completely stunned by the casual, practical solution. “You read flyers?”

“Only when they involve girls in spandex,” he smirked, the joke landing perfectly, pulling a wet laugh out of you.

***

He went with you to the tryouts. He sat in the top row of the bleachers, doing homework while you flipped and vaulted across the mat. When you made the team, he bought you a celebratory milkshake and forced Logan, Tucker, and Garrett to listen to him brag about how high you could jump.

The third period of the hockey game ends with a resounding Briar victory.

You wait outside the locker room twenty minutes later, leaning against the cinderblock wall. The door swings open, and a blast of hot water, damp towels, and cheap body wash rolls out.

Dean steps into the hallway, a heavy black duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He’s wearing dark jeans and a tight black t-shirt, his hair still slightly damp from the showers. The moment he sees you, the tired line of his shoulders relaxes.

“Hey,” he says, stepping into your personal space. He reaches out, casually tugging on the zipper of your jacket. “Did you see my assist in the third?”

“I did,” you smile, tilting your head up to look at him. “It was almost as impressive as the way you completely face-planted into the boards in the second.”

Dean scoffs, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense. “That was a tactical maneuver. I was distracting the goalie.”

“Right. Very stealthy,” you laugh.

“Come on,” Dean says, sliding his hand down your arm to casually interlace his fingers with yours. It’s a natural, effortless movement. He does it all the time now. “Tucker has a celebratory brisket in the crockpot. If we don’t hurry, Logan is going to eat half of it and feed the rest to the stray cat he refuses to admit he’s adopted.”

You let him pull you down the hallway, the warmth of his hand seeping into yours.

The house is already loud when you walk in. Music is playing from a Bluetooth speaker in the kitchen, and the smell of slow-cooked meat fills the air.

“The king has arrived!” Logan shouts from the living room, holding a beer in the air.

“And he brought Y/N, so try to use polysyllabic words tonight, Logan,” Garrett quips from the kitchen counter.

“I know big words,” Logan argues, tossing a throw pillow at Garrett. “Photosynthesis. Boom.”

You laugh, dropping your bag by the door. You walk into the kitchen, immediately moving to the island where Tucker is slicing brisket. Without asking, Tucker plates a massive portion and slides it across the counter to you.

“Thanks, Tuck,” you say, grabbing a fork.

“Eat up,” Tucker says, giving you a warm smile. “You got a meet on Saturday. Need fuel.”

“Wait, the meet is Saturday?” Logan asks, jogging into the kitchen. “What time?”

“Two o’clock,” you answer through a mouthful of food.

“I’m in,” Logan says, grabbing a beer from the fridge. “I love watching you throw people in the air. It’s violent. I respect it.”

“We’re all going,” Garrett adds, stealing a piece of brisket off your plate. “We don’t have a game until next weekend.”

You look around the kitchen at the massive, intimidating hockey players who have somehow adopted you as their own over the last four months. They don’t walk on eggshells around you anymore. They treat you like a little sister, relentlessly teasing you, eating your food, and showing up unconditionally when you need them.

You catch Dean’s eye across the kitchen. He is leaning against the refrigerator, watching you with a soft, affectionate expression. He raises his beer bottle to you in a silent, private toast.

You smile back, the flutter in your stomach returning full force.

Hours later, the house finally quiets down.

Garrett went to his girlfriend’s dorm, and Tucker and Logan retired to their rooms after a highly competitive, aggressively loud game of Mario Kart that you ultimately won.

You and Dean are left alone in the living room.

The TV is playing a muted rerun of a sitcom. You are sitting on the floor, your back pressed against the front of the leather couch, your legs stretched out over the rug. Dean is sitting on the couch right behind you.

“I think Logan actually cried when you hit him with the banana peel,” Dean muses, his voice low and raspy in the quiet room.

“He deserved it,” you say, resting your head back against the cushion. “He bumped my kart into the lava on Bowser’s Castle. I hold grudges.”

Dean chuckles. You feel the vibration of it against the back of your head.

Slowly, his hands come up to rest on your shoulders. He begins to gently massage the tense muscles at the base of your neck. You let out a soft groan, your eyes fluttering shut as his thumbs press into a particularly tight knot.

“You’re tense,” he murmurs, shifting closer so his knees are bracketing your waist.

“Acro practice was brutal yesterday,” you sigh, leaning entirely into his touch. “We’re working on a new pyramid. I got dropped twice.”

Dean’s hands pause. “You got dropped?”

“Onto a mat,” you clarify quickly, opening your eyes and tilting your head back to look at him upside down. “It’s fine, Dean. It’s part of the sport.”

His green eyes are dark, his brow slightly furrowed in that protective way you’ve grown to recognize instantly. “Tell your bases to stop dropping you, or I’m going to show up to practice and have a polite conversation with them.”

“Please don’t,” you laugh softly. “A polite conversation with you usually involves a terrifying glare and a subtle threat of physical harm.”

“It’s highly effective,” Dean points out, his hands resuming their slow, rhythmic massage.

The room lapses into a comfortable, thick silence. The only sound is the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and the quiet dialogue from the muted TV.

You stare up at the ceiling, feeling an overwhelming sense of peace. You miss Beau. The ache is still there, a hollow cavity in your chest that will never fully close. But it doesn’t consume you anymore. It doesn’t stop you from breathing.

“Thank you,” you say quietly into the dimly lit room.

Dean’s hands slow down. “For what?”

“For this,” you say, gesturing vaguely around the room. “For making them go to my meet on Saturday. For checking on me. For … just not letting me drown.”

Dean goes entirely still. Then, he shifts, sliding off the couch to sit on the floor right beside you. He folds his long legs, turning his body so he’s facing you completely.

The playful, relaxed energy that was hovering between you dissipates, replaced by something suddenly heavy and incredibly charged.

“I didn’t do it as a favor, Y/N,” Dean says, his voice losing any trace of humor. He looks at you, his gaze intense and searching. “I did it because I wanted to. Because you’re important to me.”

“I know,” you whisper, suddenly acutely aware of how close he is sitting. You can feel the heat radiating off his body. You can smell the mint of his toothpaste and the faint trace of his cologne.

“Do you?” Dean asks, leaning slightly closer. His eyes drop down to your lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back up to your eyes.

Your breath catches in your throat.

The air in the room suddenly feels entirely too thin. The platonic line you have both been carefully walking on for months is suddenly nowhere to be found. It’s been erased, completely obliterated by the intense, burning look in his eyes.

“Dean,” you breathe out, his name sounding more like a question than a statement.

He reaches out, his large hand gently cupping the side of your face. His thumb traces the line of your cheekbone, his touch feather-light but sending a violent shockwave of electricity straight down your spine.

“I’ve been trying to be good,” Dean whispers, his voice dropping into a rough, strained register. His eyes are locked onto yours, completely vulnerable. “I’ve been trying so damn hard to just be the guy you need. The friend. The shoulder to cry on.”

“You are,” you say quickly, your heart hammering against your ribs.

“But I want more,” Dean confesses, the words tumbling out like he can’t hold them back anymore. He leans in closer, his forehead almost resting against yours. “God, Y/N. I look at you, and it’s all I can think about. I want to hold your hand, and I don’t want to let go. I want to take you on terrible, cliché dates. I want to kiss you so badly I’m losing my mind.”

You stare at him, completely paralyzed.

For months, you convinced yourself that the small touches, the lingering looks, the fierce protectiveness was just trauma. It was just two broken people clinging to each other because they were the only ones who understood the pieces.

But looking at him now, feeling the frantic, desperate pounding of your own heart, you realize it’s not trauma at all. It hasn’t been for a long time.

“Then kiss me,” you whisper.

Dean exhales a sharp, shaking breath. He doesn’t hesitate.

He leans the rest of the way in, his lips brushing against yours. It’s incredibly gentle at first, a soft, hesitant question. You close your eyes and let out a tiny gasp, your hands coming up to grip the front of his henley.

The moment your fingers twist into his shirt, the hesitation vanishes.

Dean groans, a low, guttural sound, and pulls you flush against his chest. His hand slides into your hair, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss. It’s messy and desperate and completely overwhelming. The taste of him is intoxicating. Every ounce of suppressed emotion, every stolen glance over the last four months, pours into the space between you.

You kiss him back just as fiercely, wrapping your arms around his neck, anchoring yourself to him. He tastes like mint and beer and something distinctly, perfectly Dean. His other hand drops to your waist, gripping you tightly, pulling you so close you can feel the heavy thud of his heartbeat against your own chest.

It feels like waking up. It feels like stepping out of a freezing room and into the sun.

When you finally break apart, you are both gasping for air.

Dean rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, his chest heaving. His hand remains tangled in your hair, his thumb stroking behind your ear in a repetitive, soothing motion.

“Wow,” you whisper, completely breathless.

Dean lets out a short, rough laugh. He opens his eyes, looking down at you with an expression so open and raw it makes your chest ache.

But then, the smile fades. He pulls back just slightly, creating an inch of space between you. His jaw sets, a serious, almost anxious look crossing his features.

“Y/N, listen to me,” Dean says, his voice completely level. “I need you to know something. And I need you to actually hear me.”

You blink, confused by the sudden shift in tone. “Okay.”

Dean brings both his hands up, framing your face delicately. “I didn’t do this because I’m sad. I didn’t do this because I’m confusing grief with something else, or because you’re Beau’s sister, or because we bonded over a tragedy.”

You swallow hard, holding his intense gaze.

“I did this because I like you,” Dean states firmly, articulating every single word. “I like you. I like how fiercely you argue about reality TV. I like how you refuse to give up when things get hard. I like that you joined a completely different sport just so you wouldn’t have to quit entirely. You are the strongest, most incredible person I’ve ever met.”

Tears, completely unbidden, prick at the corners of your eyes. But this time, they aren’t tears of grief.

“I’m not trying to replace him,” Dean whispers, his thumb brushing a stray tear off your cheek. “I know neither of us ever can. But I want to be here for you. As yours. If you’ll have me.”

The absolute sincerity in his voice strips away any lingering doubts. He isn’t holding onto you to keep a piece of his best friend alive. He’s holding onto you because he wants you.

You reach up, placing your hands over his where they rest on your cheeks.

“I’m not doing this out of grief, either,” you tell him, your voice steady and incredibly sure. “You didn’t just save me, Dean. You made me want to actually live again. I look forward to waking up because I know I’m going to see you.”

A breath shuddering out of Dean’s chest, his shoulders dropping a massive weight.

“I like you,” you confess, a bright, genuine smile finally breaking across your face. “I’ve liked you for a really long time. I was just too terrified to admit it.”

Dean’s trademark, cocky smirk slowly returns, lighting up his entire face. “Well, to be fair, I am incredibly charming. It was only a matter of time.”

You roll your eyes, slapping his chest lightly. “And the arrogance ruins the moment.”

“I haven’t ruined anything,” Dean laughs, leaning in again.

He kisses you softly, lingering on your bottom lip before pulling back just enough to speak against your mouth.

“I’m going to take you on a date,” he murmurs. “A real one. I’m going to open doors and pay for an overpriced dinner and everything.”

“I look forward to it,” you whisper back.

“Good,” Dean says. He wraps his arms completely around you, pulling you into his lap. You go willingly, curling against his chest, tucking your head under his chin.

He holds you tightly, resting his cheek against the top of your head. The TV drones on in the background, the house perfectly quiet around you.

For the first time in months, you don’t think about what you lost. You don’t think about the empty passenger seat or the quiet dorm room.

You just sit there, wrapped in the arms of the boy who held you together until you were strong enough to hold yourself, and realize that out of the absolute worst tragedy of your life, you somehow found your future.

***

“Hold still, sweetheart. Your tassel is completely tangled.”

Your mother’s hands are warm, slightly trembling, as she fusses with the black mortarboard on your head. You stand in the middle of your dorm room suffocating under the heavy, unforgiving polyester of your graduation gown.

“Mom, it’s fine,” you say gently, reaching up to cover her hands with yours. “It’s just going to blow around in the wind anyway.”

Your mother stops. She looks at you, her eyes already shining with unshed tears. She offers a tight, fragile smile and smooths her hands down your shoulders. “I know. I just want it to be perfect. You look so beautiful.”

“She looks like a giant bat,” Joanna announces from the doorway, leaning against the frame with a cup of coffee in her hand. “A very smart, educated bat, but a bat nonetheless.”

“Ignore your sister,” your dad says, walking into the room. He’s been out of the neck brace for over a year now, though his movements are still careful and deliberate. He looks sharp in a navy suit, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he takes you in. “You look perfect, kiddo. I am incredibly proud of you.”

You swallow down the sudden, thick lump in your throat. “Thanks, Dad.”

The front door swings open without a knock, the hinges squeaking loudly.

“Delivery for the graduate!” A bright, booming voice calls out.

Dean strolls into the living room, completely bypassing the concept of personal boundaries, as usual. He is also wearing his graduation gown, though he wears it unzipped over a tailored charcoal suit. He holds a massive bouquet of blush pink peonies.

“Dean, honey!” Your mom gasps, immediately stepping away from you to pull him into a tight hug. “You look so handsome.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Maxwell,” Dean says smoothly, hugging her back with one arm and handing her the flowers with the other. “I clean up alright. Though the hat is doing terrible things to my hair.”

“Your hair is indestructible, Di Laurentis,” Joanna snorts, taking a sip of her coffee.

“Jealousy is an ugly color on you, Jo,” Dean shoots back with a perfectly executed smirk.

He steps past your mother and walks right up to you. The playful arrogance drops from his face the second he meets your eyes. He reaches out, his knuckles brushing lightly against your cheek.

“Hey,” he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave, meant entirely for you.

“Hey,” you whisper back.

“You doing okay?” He asks, his eyes searching yours for any sign of a crack.

Graduation day. The day you and Beau talked about since you were freshmen. The day you were supposed to take thousands of ridiculous pictures together, throwing your caps in the air and spraying cheap champagne on the lawn.

“I’m okay,” you say honestly, giving him a small, reassuring smile. “It’s heavy. But I’m okay.”

Dean leans in and presses a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. “I’m right beside you today. Every step.”

***

The football stadium is packed. Thousands of parents, grandparents, and siblings fill the bleachers, fanning themselves with commencement programs under the late spring sun.

You sit in the folding chairs on the field, surrounded by a sea of black gowns. Dean is twelve rows ahead of you, seated in the D section, but he turns around every five minutes to catch your eye and flash a ridiculous, exaggerated thumbs-up.

The heat is sweltering, and the speeches drag on. The valedictorian talks about the future, the dean of students talks about perseverance, and the university president talks about the legacy of the graduating class.

You tune most of it out, your fingers twisting the fabric of your gown.

Then, the tone of the ceremony shifts. The university president steps back up to the podium, adjusting his glasses. The low murmur of the crowd immediately quiets down.

“Before we begin conferring the degrees for the graduating class,” the president says, his voice echoing through the massive stadium speakers, “Briar University would like to take a moment to honor a student who is not sitting on the field with us today.”

Your breath hitches. Your heart starts hammering a frantic, heavy rhythm against your ribs.

“Beau Maxwell was a vibrant, exceptional part of our campus community,” the president continues. “He was a leader on the field, a dedicated student in the classroom, and a beloved friend to many. Though his time with us was tragically cut short, his impact on this university remains profound.”

A heavy, solemn silence blankets the stadium.

“Today, we are honored to award Beau Maxwell a posthumous honorary degree,” the president announces. “Accepting on his behalf is his sister.”

The crowd erupts into applause.

It isn’t polite, golf-clap applause. It is thunderous. Down in the front rows, the entire Briar football team stands up, their cheers echoing across the turf.

You stand up, your legs trembling so violently you aren’t sure they will hold you.

“You’ve got this,” Lacey whispers from the seat next to you, giving your hand a tight squeeze.

You step out into the aisle. The walk to the stage feels like walking underwater. The applause roars in your ears, a beautiful, devastating sound. You keep your eyes locked on the wooden stairs leading up to the platform.

You walk up the steps, the heat of the sun beating down on your black cap. The university president meets you halfway across the stage, holding a leather-bound diploma cover.

He hands it to you with a gentle, sympathetic smile. “Congratulations, Miss Maxwell. He would be very proud.”

“Thank you,” you whisper, clutching the leather tightly against your chest.

You turn to face the crowd. You look down at the front row of the bleachers. Your dad is crying, unabashedly wiping tears from his cheeks while your mom holds onto his shoulder, openly sobbing. Joanna has her hand over her mouth.

Then, you look down at the graduates on the field.

Dean is standing up. He is the only one in his section on his feet, clapping entirely entirely too hard, staring at you with an expression of such raw, overwhelming pride it completely knocks the breath out of your lungs.

A single tear slips down your cheek. You grip Beau’s diploma, close your eyes for a fraction of a second, and send a silent, desperately aching thought up into the sky. We did it, B.

You walk down the opposite set of stairs.

You don’t even make it back to the aisle before Dean is there. He slipped out of his row, ignoring the ushers, and meets you at the bottom of the steps.

He doesn’t say a word. He just pulls you into his chest, wrapping his arms securely around your shoulders. You bury your face into his neck, letting out a single, shaky breath against his collarbone.

“I’ve got you,” Dean murmurs, kissing the top of your head. “I’m right here.”

***

The rest of the ceremony moves smoothly.

You sit back in your seat, holding Beau’s diploma in your lap, watching the Ds get called.

“Dean Di Laurentis,” the announcer booms.

Dean struts across the stage like he completely owns the space, flashing a blinding, camera-ready smile as he shakes the president’s hand. From somewhere near the back, Logan, Garrett, and Tucker let out a series of deafening, aggressive whoops.

“That’s our boy!” Logan screams at the top of his lungs.

Dean laughs, grabbing his diploma and pointing directly at the hockey section before his eyes scan the field, finding you. He winks.

Thirty minutes later, they hit the Ms.

You walk across the stage for the second time today. This time, the weight on your chest is lighter. You accept your own diploma, smiling genuinely for the photographer. As you walk down the stairs, you hear Dean’s voice cutting through the crowd.

“Yeah, baby! That’s my girl!”

You shake your head, laughing under your breath as you walk back to your seat.

***

Dinner that night is a spectacular, chaotic collision of your two worlds.

Dean’s parents booked a massive private dining room at a high-end Italian restaurant downtown. The mahogany table easily fits both your family, the Di Laurentises, and somehow, Logan, Garrett, and Tucker, who simply invited themselves and refused to take no for an answer.

“I’m just saying,” Logan argues loudly, waving a breadstick at Dean’s father, “if you’re a corporate lawyer, you basically argue for a living, right?”

Peter Di Laurentis throws his head back and laughs loudly. “That is a severe oversimplification, Logan, but yes. Essentially.”

“See? I’m practically a lawyer,” Logan declares, biting into the breadstick.

“You failed Business Ethics twice, Logan,” Garrett points out dryly, taking a sip of wine.

“Ethics are subjective,” Logan dismisses immediately.

You sit between Dean and your dad, watching the beautiful chaos unfold. Your mother is deep in conversation with Dean’s mother, discussing the horrors of trying to find good tailoring, completely bonded over their shared fussiness. Joanna is mercilessly roasting Tucker for his terrible taste in country music, and Tucker looks completely thrilled by the attention.

Dean slides his hand under the table, resting his palm warmly against your bare thigh. He traces soothing, absent circles with his thumb, completely relaxed as he leans back in his chair.

“This is nice,” you murmur, leaning closer to him.

Dean turns his head, his green eyes soft in the dim lighting of the restaurant. “Yeah? Not too overwhelming?”

“No,” you say truthfully, looking around the table. “It’s exactly what I needed. It feels … full.”

Dean’s gaze drops to your mouth for a second before he looks back into your eyes. He squeezes your thigh affectionately. “Good.”

“Dean, pass the burrata, will you?” Your dad asks from your other side.

“Absolutely, sir,” Dean says, leaning forward to hand the plate over.

“And drop the sir, kid,” your dad adds, smiling warmly. “I think we’re past that.”

Dean smiles, a genuine, uncocky expression. “You got it, Mr. Maxwell.”

Your dad chuckles, accepting the plate.

The dinner lasts for hours, filled with multiple toasts, entirely too much wine, and endless storytelling. They toast to your graduation, to Dean’s, to the future. And halfway through the night, your dad raises his glass, his hand perfectly steady.

“To Beau,” your dad says, his voice thick but strong. “He’s the brightest star in the sky tonight.”

“To Beau,” the entire table echoes, raising their glasses.

You clink your water glass against Dean’s wine glass. You don’t cry. The ache is there, a phantom limb that you will always carry, but surrounded by the people who love him, the love you feel for your brother completely overshadows the grief.

***

By eleven o’clock, the families have gone back to their respective hotels, and the hockey boys have gone out to terrorize a local bar.

You are sitting in the passenger seat of Dean’s car, completely exhausted but utterly content. The streetlights wash over the interior of the car in rhythmic, yellow flashes.

Dean pulls up to a red light and shifts the car into park. He turns to look at you.

“You look tired,” he observes softly, reaching over to run his knuckles down your cheek.

“I am,” you admit, leaning into his touch. “It was a long day. A good day, but long.”

“Do you want to go home?” He asks, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. “I can take you back to your dorm. Or my place.”

You think about the quiet of your dorm, or the massive emptiness of his house without the roommates there. Neither sounds right.

“Actually,” you say, a slow smile spreading across your face. “I’m kind of hungry.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “You just ate half a pound of handmade pasta.”

“I stress-ate pasta,” you correct him. “Now I’m actually hungry. For garbage.”

Dean barks out a laugh, shaking his head as the light turns green. He shifts back into drive. “Garbage, huh? Your wish is my command.”

Ten minutes later, Dean pulls into the familiar, pothole-riddled parking lot of Malone’s.

The neon sign is buzzing loudly in the cool night air. The diner is practically empty at this hour, save for a couple of truckers in the booths by the window and a tired-looking waitress wiping down the counter.

You walk inside, the bell jingling above the door. Dean doesn’t even hesitate. He walks straight to the back corner, sliding into the exact same vinyl booth you sat in all those months ago. You slide in right next to him, pressing your hip against his.

It feels like a lifetime has passed since that day.

The waitress walks over, pulling a notepad from her apron. She does a double-take, looking at Dean in his tailored suit and you in your nice dress, a contrast to the hollowed-out versions of yourselves she saw in the winter.

“Well, don’t you two look fancy,” she says, popping her gum and smiling genuinely. “Graduation?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Dean smiles back, flashing his trademark charm.

“Congratulations,” she says. “What can I get you? The usual?”

Dean looks at you, his eyes dancing with amusement. “What do you think, baby? The usual?”

“Two waters,” you say, perfectly deadpan, reciting the order from memory. “And an order of loaded fries. The big basket. And a vanilla milkshake.”

Dean bursts out laughing, throwing his head back. The waitress chuckles, writing it down quickly. “You got it. Be right back.”

As she walks away, Dean wraps his arm entirely around your shoulders, pulling you firmly against his side. He presses a kiss to your temple, lingering there.

“You’re a brat,” he murmurs against your skin.

“You literally forced me to drink a milkshake against my will,” you remind him, resting your head on his shoulder. “I think I’m allowed to tease you about it.”

“I was keeping you alive,” Dean argues playfully, resting his chin on your head. “I was a hero.”

“You were very bossy.”

“And you loved it.”

You smile, tilting your face up to look at him. “I did. I really did.”

The playful banter fades, replaced by that heavy, magnetic pull that always seems to exist between the two of you. Dean’s eyes darken, dropping to your mouth.

The waitress suddenly appears, dropping the basket of fries and the milkshake onto the table before quickly retreating to give you privacy.

Dean looks at the fries, then looks back at you. A slow, wicked smirk completely takes over his face.

He reaches out, plucking a single fry from the basket. He dips it entirely too aggressively into the ketchup.

He holds it up to your mouth.

“Open,” he says, his voice a perfect, gravelly mimic of that terrible day.

You laugh, swatting at his hand. “Dean, stop. I can feed myself.”

“I don’t know,” he teases, pulling the fry back an inch. “You look pretty helpless right now. I think you need me to hand-feed you.”

“I will bite your finger,” you threaten, though you’re smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

“Promises, promises,” Dean fires back, holding the fry steady. “Come on. For old times’ sake. Open up.”

You roll your eyes, but you lean forward and bite the fry off his fingers. You chew deliberately, maintaining direct eye contact.

“Good girl,” Dean whispers, his voice suddenly losing every ounce of humor. The teasing drops away, leaving only raw, burning affection.

Your breath hitches.

Dean drops his hand, grabbing the milkshake. But instead of offering you the straw, he sets it aside entirely. He reaches out, cupping your jaw with both hands, and pulls you flush against him.

He kisses you. It isn’t tentative or gentle. It is a deep, consuming kiss that tastes like salt and ketchup and everything you’ve ever wanted. You melt against him instantly, your hands coming up to grip the lapels of his expensive suit jacket, kissing him back with everything you have.

When you finally break apart, you are both breathing heavily, your foreheads resting against each other.

“I love you,” Dean whispers, the words slipping out into the quiet diner like they’ve been waiting there all along.

You freeze.

Your heart stops completely, then restarts at double the speed. He has never said it before. You have danced around it, you have shown it in a thousand different ways, but the actual words have remained unspoken.

Dean pulls back just enough to look you directly in the eyes. There is no hesitation in his gaze. There is no fear. There is just absolute, unflinching certainty.

“I love you,” Dean repeats, his voice incredibly steady. “I loved you when you were completely broken, I loved you when you started putting yourself back together, and I love you right now. I am entirely, completely in love with you.”

The air completely leaves your lungs.

You look at the beautiful, complicated, endlessly loyal boy sitting beside you. The boy who dragged you out of the dark. The boy who held your brother’s memory in one hand and your heart in the other.

“I love you too,” you whisper, the truth of it swelling in your chest until it feels like it might burst. “I love you so much, Dean.”

Dean’s entire face lights up. The breathtaking smile that breaks across his features is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. He lets out a ragged exhale, burying his face in your neck, wrapping his arms around you tightly enough to bruise.

You hold him back just as fiercely, closing your eyes and breathing him in.

You survived the absolute worst day of your life. You walked through the fire, and you didn’t burn to ash. You are still here.

And as you sit in the corner booth of Malone’s, surrounded by the smell of cheap fryer grease and holding onto the boy you love, you realize something profound.

The world didn’t stop turning when Beau died. It kept going. And finally, for the first time in a very long time, you are incredibly grateful that you get to keep going with it.

***

The smell of burning toast is what finally wakes you up.

You groan, burying your face deeper into the mountain of pillows you’ve constructed around yourself. At twenty weeks pregnant, sleep has become less of a biological necessity and more of a strategic, highly negotiated truce with your own body.

“Damn it,” a voice mutters from the kitchen, followed by the loud clatter of a pan hitting the stove. “Okay. Pivot. We’re pivoting to pancakes.”

You crack one eye open. The morning light is streaming through the massive windows of the master bedroom you share with Dean.

It’s been five years since graduation. Five years of navigating adulthood, careers, and the beautiful, messy reality of building a life together. You’re married now, but the core of it all is exactly the same. It’s just you and Dean, fiercely guarding the peace you fought so hard to find.

You push the heavy duvet off your legs and slowly maneuver yourself out of bed. Your hand instinctively rests on the undeniable, rounded swell of your stomach.

You pad barefoot down the hallway of your shared house, the hardwood floors cool against your feet. You stop in the doorway of the kitchen, leaning against the frame.

Dean is standing at the island, wearing grey sweatpants and a backwards cap, looking extremely focused as he whisks a bowl of batter. There is flour on his cheek.

“You’re making a mess, Di Laurentis,” you point out, your voice still thick with sleep.

Dean’s head snaps up. The moment he sees you, the intense concentration completely vanishes, replaced by that soft, devastatingly bright smile he reserves exclusively for you.

“Hey,” he says, abandoning the whisk. He crosses the kitchen in three long strides, wrapping his arms around your waist. He pulls you in, careful of your stomach, and kisses you deeply. “Good morning, Mrs. Di Laurentis.”

“Good morning,” you smile against his lips. “I smell casualties.”

“The toast didn’t make it,” Dean admits, completely unbothered. He drops to his knees, his face suddenly level with your stomach. He presses a gentle kiss to the center of your t-shirt. “Good morning to you, too, little menace. Please let your mother eat these pancakes without kicking her in the bladder.”

You laugh, running your fingers through the hair sticking out from the back of his cap. “The baby doesn’t take orders, Dean. Much like its father.”

“The baby is going to be perfectly behaved,” Dean argues, standing back up. “Sit. Eat. We have a big day today. The anatomy scan is at eleven.”

Your heart immediately does a familiar, anxious flutter.

The pregnancy wasn’t exactly planned, but the moment you saw the two pink lines on the plastic stick, your entire world shifted. Dean had completely short-circuited. He had stared at the test for five straight minutes, asked you if you were absolutely sure, and then picked you up and spun you around the bathroom until you both fell over laughing.

He has been a hovering, overprotective nightmare ever since. He reads every baby book. He vetoes anything that even vaguely resembles a soft cheese. He treats you like you’re made of spun glass.

“I know,” you say softly, tracing the rim of the empty coffee mug he sets in front of you. “I’m nervous.”

Dean stops pouring the batter. He sets the bowl down and walks around the island, stepping into the space between your knees. He takes both of your hands in his.

“Hey,” he murmurs, his green eyes locking onto yours. “There’s nothing to be nervous about. The doctor said everything was perfectly on track last month. Heartbeat is strong. You’re healthy.”

“I know,” you sigh, leaning your forehead against his chest. “It’s just … it makes it all very real. Today we find out if it’s a boy or a girl. It’s an actual person, Dean.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, his voice thick with a sudden rush of emotion. He wraps his arms around your shoulders, holding you tight. “It’s our person. Half you, half me. We’re going to be okay, Y/N. I promise you.”

***

The ultrasound room is dark and freezing cold.

You lie on the crinkly paper of the exam table, your shirt pulled up to expose your stomach. Dean is sitting in the plastic chair right beside you, completely ignoring the lack of space. His chair is pulled so close his knees are practically touching the table, and he hasn’t let go of your hand since you walked into the clinic.

“Alright, let’s take a look at this little one,” the ultrasound technician, a kind woman named Dana, says cheerfully.

She squirts a massive dollop of freezing blue gel onto your stomach. You flinch.

“Cold, sorry!” Dana laughs, pressing the wand against your skin.

You turn your head to look at the monitor. At first, it’s just a blurry, static-filled screen of greys and blacks. But then, Dana moves the wand, and suddenly, there it is.

A perfectly formed, tiny spine. A little head. Two small arms waving sluggishly in the amniotic fluid.

Your breath completely catches in your throat.

“Oh my god,” Dean whispers loudly, his grip on your hand tightening to the point of pain. He leans forward, his eyes absolutely glued to the screen. “Y/N. Look.”

“I see it,” you breathe out, tears instantly pricking the corners of your eyes.

“There’s the heartbeat,” Dana says, clicking a button on the keyboard.

The room is suddenly filled with the rapid, rhythmic thump-thump-thump of your baby’s heart. It’s the most beautiful, incredible sound you have ever heard in your entire life. It sounds like a galloping horse. It sounds like a miracle.

Dean lets out a wet, choked sound. You look over at him.

He is crying. He doesn’t even try to hide it. The arrogant, charming, impenetrable Dean Di Laurentis is sitting in a dark clinic, openly weeping at the sight of a grainy black-and-white monitor. He brings your knuckles up to his lips, pressing a desperate, reverent kiss against your skin.

“It’s perfect,” he whispers, his voice shaking. “You’re perfect.”

“You guys are doing great,” Dana smiles, clicking a few more buttons to take measurements. “Baby is measuring exactly at twenty weeks and three days. Everything looks incredibly healthy. Ten fingers, ten toes.”

A massive wave of relief crashes over you, washing away the anxiety that has been building all morning.

“Now,” Dana says, pausing the wand and looking between the two of you with a knowing smirk. “Did you two want to know the gender today?”

You look at Dean. He looks back at you, his eyes still shining.

“We want to know,” you say, nodding. “But … can you write it down? We want to open it at home. Just the two of us.”

“Absolutely,” Dana says. She turns the screen away slightly so you can’t see, clicking a few buttons before pulling out a small, white envelope. She writes something on a card, slips it inside, and seals it tight.

She hands the envelope to Dean.

Dean takes it like he’s being handed a live explosive. He stares at the white paper, his jaw tight.

“Thank you,” you say, grabbing a paper towel to wipe the gel off your stomach.

“Congratulations, you guys,” Dana says warmly. “I’ll see you in four weeks.”

***

The car ride back to the house is agonizingly tense.

The small white envelope is sitting completely undisturbed in the center console. It is the loudest object in the vehicle.

Dean is gripping the steering wheel with both hands, driving five miles under the speed limit, his eyes darting between the road and the envelope every thirty seconds.

“Stop staring at it,” you laugh, resting your head back against the leather seat.

“I’m not staring at it,” Dean lies immediately. “I’m focusing on the road. Because I have precious cargo in the car.”

“You’ve looked at it twelve times since we left the clinic,” you point out.

“It’s mocking me,” Dean mutters, tapping his thumbs against the steering wheel. “It knows that I have zero patience. It’s a test of my willpower.”

“Do you have a preference?” You ask softly, turning your head to look at his profile.

Dean is quiet for a long moment. He signals, turning into your neighborhood.

“No,” he says honestly. “I really don’t. If it’s a girl, I’m going to spoil her so completely that she’ll be an absolute terror to society. I’m going to buy her a pony. I don’t care where we put it. And if it’s a boy, I’m going to teach him how to throw a football before he can walk, and I’m going to teach him how to treat women like absolute royalty.”

You smile, your heart swelling painfully in your chest. “You’re going to be an incredible dad.”

“We’re going to be incredible parents,” Dean corrects you, pulling into the driveway and shifting the car into park.

He kills the engine. He turns in his seat, looking down at the center console. He takes a deep breath, reaches out, and picks up the envelope.

He hands it to you.

“Let’s go inside,” he says, his voice low and raspy.

You walk into the house together. It’s quiet, the afternoon sun spilling across the living room rug. You walk over to the massive, obscenely expensive leather sectional couch and sit down.

Dean sits right next to you, completely invading your personal space. He drapes his arm over your shoulders, pulling you firmly against his side.

You look down at the envelope in your lap.

“Okay,” you whisper. Your hands are actually shaking.

“We do it together,” Dean murmurs, resting his cheek against your hair. He reaches down, his large hand covering yours, his fingers resting over the flap of the envelope.

“On three,” you say.

“One,” Dean counts.

“Two,” you whisper.

“Three.”

Together, you slide your fingers under the seal and rip the envelope open. You pull out the small, stiff piece of cardstock.

There are only three words written on the card in Dana’s neat, cursive handwriting.

It’s a boy!

The world completely stops spinning.

You stare at the words. The letters blur together as a fresh, overwhelming wave of tears immediately fills your eyes. A boy. You are having a boy.

Beside you, Dean goes perfectly, rigidly still.

“A boy,” Dean breathes out, the sound barely more than a whisper.

“It’s a boy,” you repeat, a wet, hysterical laugh escaping your lips.

Dean suddenly moves. He takes the card out of your hand and tosses it onto the coffee table. He wraps both of his arms around you, burying his face into your neck. He holds you so incredibly tight you can feel the frantic, heavy pounding of his heart against your ribs.

“A little boy,” Dean says against your skin, his voice cracking completely. “God, Y/N. We’re having a son.”

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, holding him back just as fiercely. You are crying freely now, happy, completely unburdened tears. You survived the absolute worst thing the universe could throw at you, and now, you are sitting in your living room, holding the man you love, creating a brand new life.

When Dean finally pulls back, his face is a mess of tears and the biggest, most breathtaking smile you have ever seen.

He drops one of his hands down to rest flat against your stomach.

“We need to talk about names,” Dean says, his thumb gently stroking back and forth over your t-shirt.

You look at him.

For months, you have avoided the topic of baby names entirely. It felt like bad luck to talk about it before the anatomy scan, before you knew for sure that everything was okay. You haven’t bought a single book. You haven’t made a single list.

But looking into Dean’s eyes right now, you realize you don’t need a list.

There is no discussion. There is no debate. There is no what if.

“We don’t need to talk about names,” you say softly, placing your hand over his where it rests on your bump.

Dean searches your eyes, his breath hitching slightly. “Are you sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my entire life,” you promise him, your voice completely steady.

Dean swallows hard, his jaw clenching as he fights back a new wave of emotion. He looks down at your stomach, his hand trembling slightly under yours.

“Beau,” Dean whispers.

Hearing the name out loud — speaking it not in grief, not in mourning, but in absolute, pure joy — sends a shockwave of electricity straight down your spine.

“Beau,” you agree, the name feeling perfectly, incredibly right on your tongue.

Dean lets out a long, shuddering exhale. He leans forward, pressing his forehead gently against yours.

“He would be so arrogant about this,” Dean laughs, a wet, choked sound. “He would absolutely never let us live this down.”

“He would tell everyone we named him after the greatest quarterback Briar University ever saw,” you laugh through your tears, the memory of your brother suddenly incredibly vivid, bright, and completely devoid of pain.

“He would demand to be the godfather,” Dean adds, closing his eyes. “Even though he’s a terrible influence. He would have bought the kid a tiny, obnoxious football jersey before he was even born.”

“He would have loved him so much,” you whisper, the truth of it swelling in your chest.

“He still does,” Dean says fiercely, opening his eyes to look at you. “He’s up there right now, watching us, and he is completely insufferable about it. I guarantee it.”

You let out a watery laugh, leaning forward to press your lips against Dean’s. It’s a slow, deep kiss, completely anchored in the reality of the life you have built together.

When you break apart, Dean shifts back. He moves down again, dropping to his knees on the rug right in front of the couch.

He rests his chin on your thighs, looking directly at your stomach.

“Hey, little Beau,” Dean says, his voice incredibly soft, dropping into a tone of pure, unconditional reverence. “It’s your dad.”

You cover your mouth with your hand, completely undone by the sight of him.

“You’re making your mom cry again, so we’re going to have to work on that,” Dean tells your stomach, a small, teasing smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “But I need to tell you a few things before you get here.”

Dean reaches up, resting both of his large hands on either side of your bump.

“First of all, you are so incredibly loved,” Dean promises, his voice completely serious now. “You have no idea. You hit the absolute jackpot with your mom. She is the strongest, most amazing person in the world, and you are going to listen to everything she says.”

He pauses, taking a deep breath.

“And secondly,” Dean murmurs, his thumb tracing a slow circle over your skin. “You’ve got a big name to live up to, buddy. You are named after my best friend. The best guy I ever knew. Your uncle Beau.”

A single tear slips down Dean’s cheek, but he is smiling. It is a genuine, peaceful smile.

“He was fearless,” Dean tells your son, his voice thick with a love that has never faded, only evolved. “He loved to laugh, he loved his family more than anything, and he always, always took care of the people he cared about. And that’s what we want for you. We just want you to be happy. And brave.”

Dean leans forward and presses a long, lingering kiss to the center of your stomach.

“I’ve got you, Beau,” Dean whispers against your skin, repeating the exact same promise he made to you on the floor of the church all those years ago. “I swear to god, I’ve always got you.”

He rests his forehead against your stomach, closing his eyes.

You sit there on the couch, your hands gently resting in Dean’s hair. The afternoon sun washes over the two of you in a warm, golden glow.

The grief is still a part of you. It always will be. It is woven into the very fabric of your history, a scar that proves you loved someone entirely too much to let them go without a fight.

But as you look down at the man kneeling before you, and feel the tiny, miraculous flutter of your son moving inside of you, you realize that the story didn’t end with the crash. It didn’t end in the dark dorm room, or at the altar of the church.

It continued.

It grew into late-night dinner runs, and stolen kisses in the kitchen, and a love so fierce and protective it physically takes your breath away. It grew into the life you are living right now.

You survived the end of the world, and you found something completely beautiful in the ashes.

“I love you,” you whisper down to Dean, your heart completely, entirely full.

Dean turns his head, resting his cheek against your stomach, and looks up at you with eyes full of a bright, unbreakable future.

“I love you too,” he says softly. “Both of you.”

[veryintricaterituals]

Armand looks so incredibly beautiful here, unbelievably beautiful (ignore Larry being hypnotized and jumping to his death in the background... this ain't about him)

[spikedfearn]

genuinely baffled anyone can watch obsession and come away from it thinking bear is the victim like?? was it not incredibly obvious he took nikki's autonomy away and that she was actively suffering the entire time??

[daydreamfiles]

My Girl - John Tucker

ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

blurb: after a party gets a little too uncomfortable, tucker walks you home, and one quiet moment turns into something neither of you can take back.

warnings: 18+ mdni, unwanted attention, protective tucker, possessive undertones, party setting, emotional tension, explicit content, unprotected sex, aftercare, language.

꒰১Taglist໒꒱ @littlemissclairebiggs

The party was too loud.

It had been too loud from the moment you walked in, bass trembling through the floorboards, bodies packed too close in every room, cheap beer spilled sticky near the kitchen tiles. Usually, you could handle it. Usually, you liked the noise, liked the way it gave everyone permission to be a little less careful for a few hours.

Tonight, though, you kept feeling like there was nowhere to put yourself.

Garrett and Logan had claimed the beer pong table almost immediately, yelling over each other like they were trying to be heard from two houses down. Dean was on the couch with some girl half in his lap, saying something that made her throw her head back laughing.

And Tucker was somewhere behind you.

You knew because you kept looking for him without meaning to.

He had been doing that thing all night where he let everyone else take up the room while he leaned back and watched. One hand curled around a red cup, shoulders relaxed, mouth tilted like he was amused by something no one had said out loud yet. He wasn’t loud about anything. Not his presence, not his attention, not even the way his eyes found you every so often from across the room.

But you felt it every time.

That was the problem with John Tucker.

He made you feel looked after before he had any right to.

You were in the kitchen when the guy first came up to you. You recognized him vaguely from campus, maybe a friend of a friend, maybe someone who had been at a few of these parties before. His name might’ve been Ryan. Or Tyler. Something forgettable enough that you felt bad for not remembering.

He leaned beside you against the counter, too close for someone you hadn’t invited into your space.

“Hey,” he said, smiling like he’d caught you waiting for him. “You’re with the hockey guys, right?”

“Friends with them,” you corrected, reaching for the bottle of soda beside the sink.

He watched the movement, eyes dropping just long enough to make your skin prickle.

“Right. Friends.” His grin got wider. “That’s what we’re calling it?”

You gave him a polite laugh, the kind that wasn’t meant to encourage anything. “Pretty much.”

He didn’t take the hint.

For the next ten minutes, every time you shifted, he shifted too. When you stepped closer to the fridge, he followed. When you turned your body toward the hallway, he angled himself in front of you just enough that leaving would mean brushing past him. Nothing dramatic. Nothing you could point to without sounding like you were making a big deal out of nothing.

But your shoulders had started to tense.

“I should go find my friends,” you said, still trying to keep your voice light.

“They’re busy.” His hand landed on the counter beside your hip. “You can hang with me for a minute.”

“I’m good.”

“Come on.” He laughed, like you were being adorable instead of clear. “Don’t be like that.”

“I’m not being anything. I said I’m good.”

This time, your voice came out flatter.

His smile flickered.

Then his hand moved.

It wasn’t much at first. Just his fingers catching lightly at your waist, like he was trying to stop you from turning away. Like he had the right to put his hand there because he wanted to.

Your stomach dropped.

You pushed his wrist away. “Don’t.”

He looked almost offended. “Relax. I’m not doing anything.”

The words were barely out of his mouth before the air behind you changed.

You didn’t see Tucker move through the kitchen. You didn’t hear him over the music or the shouting from the living room. One second you were alone with some guy’s hand too close to your waist, and the next Tucker was beside you, warm and solid, his presence cutting through the noise without him having to raise his voice.

His hand came to rest at the small of your back.

Not possessive. Not showy.

Just there.

“You okay?” he asked you.

Your throat tightened before you could stop it.

That was the worst part. You had been fine until someone asked you if you were.

“Yeah,” you said quickly. “I’m okay.”

Tucker’s eyes stayed on your face a second too long to believe you. Then he turned his attention to the guy in front of you.

He didn’t look angry.

That somehow made it worse.

His face had gone calm in that still, unreadable way that made the whole kitchen seem quieter around him.

“She said don’t,” Tucker said.

The guy scoffed. “Man, we were just talking.”

Tucker didn’t move. “Then you heard her.”

You felt his thumb shift once against your back, a small, grounding pressure through the fabric of your shirt. Your body wanted to lean into it. You hated that. You hated that you needed it so badly.

The guy looked between the two of you, like he was trying to decide if pushing it was worth the trouble. Tucker gave him nothing to work with. No raised voice. No dramatic step forward. No threat he could laugh off in front of other people.

Just that quiet look.

The kind that said he could wait all night if he had to.

The guy muttered something under his breath and grabbed his cup off the counter. He brushed past Tucker a little harder than he needed to on his way out.

Tucker let him.

Only after he was gone did Tucker turn back to you.

His hand left your back slowly, like he didn’t want to make you feel trapped by him too. “You wanna get out of here?”

You nodded before you even thought about it.

“Okay,” he said softly. “Come on.”

He didn’t grab your hand until you reached for his first.

The second your fingers slid into his, his whole expression changed. Not much. Just a little pull at the corner of his mouth, something soft and private, like he was trying not to let you see how much it mattered.

He led you through the hallway, past the living room, past Logan calling his name from somewhere near the beer pong table.

Tucker didn’t stop.

He looked back only once, enough to make sure you were still with him, and then he kept going.

Outside, the cool air hit your face hard enough to make you breathe.

The party noise dulled behind the closed door. It was still there, still pulsing through the walls, but it felt far away now. Like something happening to somebody else.

Tucker walked you down the porch steps and onto the sidewalk without saying anything. His hand stayed around yours, loose enough that you could pull away if you wanted, firm enough that you knew he wasn’t going anywhere unless you asked him to.

You made it half a block before you spoke.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

Tucker slowed beside you.

He looked at you then, eyebrows drawn slightly together. “Do what?”

“You know what.”

“No,” he said, voice low. “I really don’t.”

You looked down at your shoes. “Step in.”

For a second, he didn’t answer.

Then he stopped walking completely.

You had no choice but to stop with him, your hand still caught in his.

“He had his hand on you after you told him no,” Tucker said. “I wasn’t gonna stand there and watch it happen.”

“I know. I just…” You swallowed, embarrassed by the heat climbing up your neck. “I didn’t want to make it a thing.”

“You didn’t make it a thing.”

“I kind of did.”

“No.” His voice gentled, but it didn’t lose its firmness. “He did.”

That made something in your chest ache in a way you weren’t ready for.

Tucker stepped closer, slow enough to give you room. “Hey.”

You looked up.

His gaze moved over your face carefully, like he was checking for damage he couldn’t see. That almost undid you more than the guy in the kitchen had.

“You’re not in trouble,” he said.

A laugh slipped out of you, small and shaky. “I know that.”

“Do you?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again.

Tucker’s expression softened.

“Come on,” he murmured. “Let me walk you home.”

You didn’t argue.

Your apartment wasn’t far from the party, but the walk felt longer with him beside you. Maybe because neither of you filled the silence just to fill it. Maybe because every step made you more aware of your hand in his, of the warmth of his palm, of the way he adjusted his pace to yours without making it obvious.

By the time you reached your building, your nerves had settled into something else.

Something quieter.

Something worse.

Want.

Not because of the guy at the party. Not because Tucker had played hero or acted like you owed him something afterward. That was the thing. He hadn’t.

He had gotten you out. He had checked on you. He had walked beside you like being trusted with your silence was enough.

And somehow that made you want him so badly you could barely stand to look at him.

At your door, you fumbled with your keys.

Tucker stood a step behind you, giving you space even though your body had started to scream for the opposite.

“You gonna be okay?” he asked.

You pushed the door open, then turned around.

He looked ready to leave if you said yes.

That bothered you more than it should have.

“Do you want to come in?” you asked.

His eyes flicked over your face. “You want me to?”

You almost smiled. “I asked, didn’t I?”

“Yeah.” His mouth curved faintly. “You did.”

You stepped inside first, and he followed, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

Your apartment was dim except for the small lamp you had left on near the couch. There were clothes folded over the armchair, a half-empty glass of water on the coffee table, a book face down by the window.

Tucker looked around for only a second before his attention came back to you.

“Water?” he asked.

You shook your head.

“You sure?”

“Tuck.”

That stopped him.

Maybe it was the way you said his name. Not sharp. Not annoyed. Just too full of everything you had been trying not to feel.

His shoulders shifted with a quiet breath. “What do you need?”

There it was again.

Not what happened, not what did he do, not are you sure you’re fine.

What do you need?

You stared at him, and your answer terrified you a little.

“You,” you said.

Tucker went still.

The silence after it felt bigger than the room.

His eyes darkened, but he didn’t move toward you. He stayed exactly where he was, hands loose at his sides, jaw working once like he had to physically hold himself back from doing what he wanted.

“Darlin’,” he said carefully.

You took a step closer. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Act like I don’t know what I’m saying.”

“I’m not.” His voice was rougher now. “I’m making sure you do.”

You hated how much that made you want to kiss him.

Instead, you walked past him toward your bedroom, because standing in the living room under that soft yellow light suddenly felt impossible. You expected him to stay where he was, maybe tell you goodnight, maybe be noble enough to walk himself out.

But after a second, his footsteps followed.

Your room was darker than the living room, lit only by the thin spill of light coming through the doorway. You sat on the edge of your bed and pulled off your shoes, mostly to have something to do with your hands.

Tucker leaned against the doorframe.

Not coming in all the way.

Of course he wasn’t.

“You can sit down,” you said.

His gaze dropped to the bed, then back to you. “I know.”

“But you’re not.”

“Trying to be smart.”

That pulled a real smile out of you, even if it was small. “Is that working?”

“No,” he said honestly.

The warmth that spread through you was almost painful.

You patted the spot beside you.

This time, Tucker came in.

The mattress dipped under his weight when he sat down, careful to leave a few inches between you. A few respectful, maddening inches. His knee brushed yours once, and both of you noticed.

Neither of you moved away.

You looked at him from the corner of your eye. “You called me your girl.”

Tucker’s head turned slowly.

“What?”

“At the party.” Your voice came out softer than you meant it to. “You said something like that.”

“I didn’t say it to him.”

“No.” You looked at him fully now. “You said it to me.”

He held your gaze for a second, then looked down with a quiet exhale. “Yeah.”

“Did you mean it?”

His hands were clasped loosely between his knees. His thumb dragged once over his knuckles, a nervous habit you had never noticed before.

“Tuck.”

He looked at you then, and every teasing thing you had planned to say disappeared.

“Yeah,” he said again, quieter this time. “I meant it.”

Your breath caught.

He gave you a tired little smile, like he knew exactly what that confession cost him. “Probably shouldn’t have said it like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I didn’t ask you first.”

Something inside you melted so fast it almost hurt.

You shifted closer without thinking. “Ask me now.”

Tucker’s eyes dropped to your mouth.

For one second, he looked twenty different kinds of wrecked.

Then he said, “Are you my girl?”

Your answer came out in a whisper.

“Yeah.”

Tucker didn’t kiss you right away.

He lifted his hand first, slow enough for you to stop him, and touched your cheek with the backs of his fingers. Barely a touch. Just enough that you leaned into him before you could pretend not to.

His mouth met yours softly at first, almost too softly, like he was testing the shape of the moment before trusting it. You kissed him back harder. Tucker made a quiet sound against your mouth, one hand sliding to your jaw while the other braced against the mattress beside your thigh.

You had thought about kissing him before. Too many times. In the kitchen while he cooked eggs with his hair still messy from sleep. In the passenger seat of his truck when his hand rested on the gearshift inches from your knee. Across crowded rooms when he smiled at you like he had a secret.

None of those daydreams had prepared you for this.

Tucker kissed like he paid attention.

Like he noticed the tiny hitch in your breathing when his thumb stroked along your jaw. Like he caught the way your fingers tightened in his shirt when his mouth slanted deeper. Like he knew when to give and when to take, when to ease back and when to make you chase him.

You climbed into his lap before you could lose your nerve.

Tucker’s hands caught your waist immediately, steadying you more than holding you down. His head tipped back just enough to look at you, eyes dark, lips parted from kissing.

“Hey,” he breathed.

You settled over his thighs, knees pressing into the mattress on either side of him. “I don’t want you to leave.”

“I wasn’t going to leave.”

“I mean…” You touched the side of his neck, feeling the jump of his pulse under your fingers. “I don’t want you to leave like that.”

Understanding moved across his face slowly.

Heat followed.

His hands flexed once on your waist, then went still.

“Tell me what you’re asking for,” he said.

Your stomach flipped.

“Tucker.”

“I need to hear it.”

The words should’ve embarrassed you. Maybe they did. But there was no teasing in his voice, no pressure, no smugness. Just need, low and careful and serious.

You leaned closer until your forehead nearly touched his.

“I want you,” you whispered. “I want this. I want you to touch me.”

His eyes searched yours.

“Because of me?” he asked.

Your brows pulled together. “What?”

Tucker’s thumbs moved slowly against your sides. “Don’t make this about him.”

Your chest tightened.

“I’m not.”

“If you’re upset, if you’re scared, if you just need somebody to make you feel wanted—”

“You do make me feel wanted,” you interrupted.

He stopped.

You swallowed, then forced yourself to say the rest. “But not because of him. I wanted you before tonight.”

The air between you shifted.

Tucker’s face changed with it, something restrained giving way to something warmer, hungrier.

“Yeah?” he murmured.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

His gaze dropped to your mouth again. “How long?”

“Too long.”

That got you a smile, soft and a little breathless.

Then he kissed you like he had finally let himself believe you.

There was nothing tentative about it this time. His mouth opened over yours, his hands sliding from your waist to your back, pulling you closer until your chest pressed against his. You sank into him, fingers threading into the hair at the nape of his neck, and Tucker groaned so quietly you felt it more than heard it.

Your hips shifted without meaning to.

He broke the kiss with a sharp breath, forehead dropping to your shoulder.

“Careful,” he muttered.

You almost laughed, but then his mouth touched the side of your neck and the laugh disappeared.

Tucker kissed you there slowly, once beneath your ear, once lower, his lips warm and patient against your skin. He didn’t leave marks. Not yet. He just learned you, one careful press at a time, while his hands moved over your back like he was still reminding himself he was allowed.

You tugged at the hem of his shirt.

He lifted his head. “You sure?”

You answered by pulling it higher.

A rough little laugh left him, and he helped you, one hand reaching back to drag the shirt over his shoulders. It landed somewhere beside the bed, forgotten the second your palms touched bare skin.

He was warm under your hands. Solid. All lean muscle and breath and restraint. Your fingers traced over his shoulders, down his chest, across his stomach, and Tucker watched you do it like you were taking him apart piece by piece.

Then he reached for you.

His hands found the bottom of your shirt but didn’t lift it yet. He waited, eyes on yours.

You nodded.

Only then did he pull it up.

Slowly.

The fabric dragged over your ribs, up your arms, catching for a second before you helped him get it over your head. Your hair fell messily around your face afterward, and before you could fix it, Tucker was kissing you again, one hand sliding into it, the other settling against your bare waist.

It stopped feeling like undressing after that.

It felt like being chosen apart.

Your fingers worked at his belt while his mouth moved back to your neck. He made a sound against your skin when you got impatient, his hand covering yours for a second like he meant to slow you down, but he didn’t stop you. Not really.

He just kissed you deeper.

Your jeans came undone with clumsy fingers and uneven breathing. Tucker helped you shift off his lap just long enough to ease them down your legs, his touch careful at your hips, your thighs, your knees. When you kicked them off, he looked at you like he was trying to memorize the moment without making you feel exposed.

It made you want to hide and pull him closer at the same time.

“You okay?” he asked.

You touched his face. “I’m okay.”

His mouth brushed your palm. “Still with me?”

“Still with you.”

That seemed to settle something in him.

He pulled you back into his lap, and the kiss turned messy in seconds. Your hands were everywhere now, his shoulders, his hair, the back of his neck. His hands weren’t careless anymore. They moved with more confidence, smoothing up your sides, over your back, down to your hips, holding you like he had wanted to all night and had finally run out of reasons not to.

When your back met the mattress, you barely remembered moving.

Tucker hovered over you, one knee between yours, his forearm braced beside your head. His hair had fallen forward slightly, his breathing uneven, his lips swollen from yours. For a moment, he just looked at you.

“What?” you whispered.

He shook his head.

“Tell me.”

His smile was faint, almost shy. “You’re gorgeous.”

It was too simple to argue with.

Too honest to dismiss.

So you pulled him down and kissed him again.

He followed easily, settling over you with careful weight, his mouth finding yours, then your cheek, then the curve of your jaw. You arched into him when his hand slid over your thigh, and his breath caught hard enough that he had to stop kissing you for a second.

“Wait,” he said suddenly.

You froze.

Tucker lifted his head, expression softening the second he saw your face. “No, no. You’re okay.” His thumb brushed over your hip. “I just don’t have a condom.”

Your body relaxed, but only a little.

“I’m on the pill,” you said, still breathless.

His eyes stayed on yours. “That’s not the only thing I’m asking.”

You went quiet.

He leaned down, pressing one gentle kiss near the corner of your mouth.

“I’m asking if you’re sure about me,” he murmured.

The room felt very still around you.

You looked up at him, at the boy who had pulled you out of a crowded kitchen without making you feel small. The boy who had walked you home and waited at every door. The boy who had stopped more than once, even when wanting you was written all over his face.

You slid your hand to the back of his neck and pulled him close enough that your lips brushed his when you answered.

“I’ve never been more sure.”

Tucker’s eyes closed for half a second.

When they opened again, the last of his restraint was barely hanging on.

“Okay,” he breathed, the word a soft vibration against your lips before he kissed you again.

The kiss was slow and tasted of longing. Tucker’s hands stayed on your waist, his grip firm but careful as if he were holding something precious. He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his gaze searching to ensure you were still with him. When you leaned back in, your hands sliding over the lean muscle of his bare chest, he let out a shaky breath.

His hands moved to the clasp of your bra. He didn't rush, his fingers working the hook with a deliberate patience. As the straps fell away, he didn't immediately pull the fabric off. He paused, his eyes roaming over your breasts with a look of pure reverence. He kissed the valley between them, his lips warm and patient, before he eased the bra away completely.

You reached for the button of his jeans, your fingers trembling slightly. Tucker let out a soft, encouraging chuckle and covered your hand with his to help you guide the denim down. You helped him kick the jeans and boxers away, leaving him completely exposed and pulsing with need. Finally, he reached for the edge of your underwear. He looked at you, a silent question in his dark eyes, and when you nodded, he slid the lace down your legs.

When you were finally, completely naked, the air in the room felt electric. Tucker didn't immediately move to claim you. Instead, he just looked at you, his eyes filled with a tenderness that made your heart ache.

"You are so beautiful," he whispered, his southern drawl thickening. "Absolutely breathtaking."

He began a slow, worshipful descent, his lips trailing fire down your stomach. He paused, glancing up to make sure you were okay, and when you arched your back and whimpered, he continued. He moved to your breasts, capturing one nipple in his mouth. He sucked firmly, his tongue swirling around the peak and teasing it into a hard point.

A loud moan escaped you, and Tucker paused, his voice a low rumble against your skin. "You like that, sweetheart? I can keep going if you want."

"Yes... please, Tucker, don't stop," you gasped.

He moved to the other side, repeating the process with a focused intensity. He praised you softly, murmuring about how perfect you felt and how much he'd wanted to touch you. He treated your body like a sanctuary, ensuring every touch was welcomed.

As your breathing became erratic, Tucker slid down further, his hand gliding over your thigh to find the center of your heat. He found you soaking, your pussy glistening and open for him. He started slowly, pressing a single finger against your clit, circling it with a precision that made your hips jerk upward.

He watched your face intently, memorizing the way your eyes fluttered shut and the way your lips parted. He slid one finger inside you, then a second, feeling the tight, wet walls of your pussy clamp around him. He moved his fingers in a slow, rhythmic curl, opening you up and exploring your depth.

"You're so wet for me," he breathed, his voice shaking.

The sight of you falling apart beneath him—the way you gripped the sheets, your knuckles white, your moans turning into desperate pleas—was too much for him to bear in silence. While his fingers continued to work you open, driving you toward a peak, Tucker reached down with his other hand. He wrapped his fingers around his own cock, stroking himself in long, heavy slides. He was overwhelmed, caught between the need to give you everything and the agonizing pressure in his own groin, but he never took his eyes off you.

"Still okay? You want me?" he whispered, his voice ragged.

"Yes, please... I want you inside me," you whimpered.

Tucker shifted, moving his body to hover over you. He guided his thick, pulsing cock to your entrance, pausing for a second to lock eyes with you. He pushed forward slowly, easing himself into your warmth. As he sank deeper, you let out a sharp gasp, your body tensing as the fullness felt like a bit too much.

Tucker stopped instantly. He didn't push further. He froze, his muscles locking as he looked at you with immediate concern.

"Hey, hey," he whispered, his voice steady and soothing. "I'm stopped. Are you okay? Did I hurt you? Tell me if you need me to pull back."

"I'm okay," you breathed, your heart hammering against your ribs. "It's just... you're so big. Just give me a second."

He waited, kissing your forehead and your eyelids, whispering reassurances until he felt your muscles relax and your hips tilt upward, inviting him back in. Only when you whispered for him to continue did he begin to move.

His thrusts were slow and shallow at first, mindful of your comfort. He stayed close, his chest brushing against yours, his breath hot against your skin. He kept his eyes locked on yours, searching for any sign of discomfort.

"You doing alright, baby?" he murmured, his voice a low, honeyed caress.

"Yes," you whispered, your voice trembling. "It feels so good."

As the rhythm established itself, you reached up, your fingers diving into his thick curls. You tugged gently, threading your fingers through the soft hair as you pulled his face down to yours. You kissed deeply, a slow, romantic melding of souls that matched the steady pace of your bodies.

The feeling of your fingers in his hair seemed to break something inside him. Tucker let out a low groan and leaned into your touch, his forehead resting against yours. He kissed your palm, his breath hitching as he felt your acceptance.

Slowly, the shallow thrusts began to deepen. He didn't rush, but as you began to meet his pace, his restraint started to slip. He pushed deeper, filling you completely, his movements becoming more fluid and passionate. He continued to check in, his whispers becoming more frequent, telling you how much he loved the way you felt around him.

The quiet of the room only made every sound feel sharper, the uneven pull of his breathing, the soft creak of the mattress, the broken little moans he kissed out of you every time he pushed in deep. Your fingers slid back into his curls, tugging gently, and Tucker’s eyes fluttered for a second like that simple touch nearly undid him. “Keep doing that,” he murmured, voice rough against your mouth, his hips pressing slower but deeper, giving you time to feel every careful inch of him. 

You held onto him tighter, legs wrapping around his waist, and the last of his restraint slipped in a way that still felt tender. He didn’t stop watching you. Didn’t stop kissing you. Didn’t stop asking with his hands and his mouth if you were still with him. And you were. You were with him in every breath, every touch, every quiet gasp of his name, choosing him again and again because Tucker didn’t just make you feel wanted. He made you feel safe enough to want him back.

You kept your eyes locked on his, the intensity of his gaze making your heart race. He looked at you with such raw adoration and hunger, yet his hands remained tender, framing your face and brushing your hair back from your forehead. You threaded your fingers deeper into his curls, tugging gently, and he responded by kissing you with a renewed passion, his tongue dancing with yours in a slow, wet rhythm that mirrored the friction below.

"You're so tight," he whispered against your lips, his southern drawl thick and heavy with need. "God, you feel perfect."

As you began to meet his thrusts for thrust, the friction building into a searing heat, Tucker’s composure finally began to fracture. He wasn't rough, but he was no longer holding back the sheer force of how much he wanted you. His movements became more fluid, more desperate, though he still paused for a split second every few thrusts just to search your eyes and make sure you were still with him.

"Still okay? You still like this, baby?" he murmured, his voice ragged.

"Yes, Tucker... please, don't stop," you whimpered, your voice breaking.

The feeling of you wanting him so badly seemed to push him over the edge. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot and erratic against your skin. He groaned, a deep sound of surrender, as he pushed himself as deep as he could go.

"I'm close, sweetheart," he gasped, his voice trembling. "I'm not gonna last if you keep looking at me like that."

"Don't stop," you pleaded, pulling his face back up to yours. "I want you. I want all of you."

The admission shattered the last of his restraint. He began to move with a focused, driving intensity, his hips snapping against yours in a rhythmic, wet heat. You could feel the tension building in your own core, a tight coil of pleasure that was winding tighter with every deep, sliding stroke. You gripped his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin, as the world narrowed down to just the two of you and the sound of your synchronized breathing.

Tucker didn't look away. He watched your expression, his eyes darkening as he saw the moment your pleasure peaked. He sensed the first ripples of your orgasm beginning to squeeze his cock, and he let out a choked sound of pure bliss. He pushed one last time, deep and firm, and you screamed his name, your body shaking in a violent, beautiful release.

The feeling of you coming around him was the final trigger. Tucker let out a loud, breathless moan, his body locking up as he spilled himself deep inside you. He held you tight, his arms wrapping around you as if he never wanted to let go, his forehead pressed firmly against yours. You both stayed like that for a long time, locked in a mutual, shaking climax that felt as much emotional as it was physical.

As the intensity faded, Tucker didn't pull away. He stayed heavy and warm on top of you, though he shifted his weight to his elbows so he wouldn't crush you. He began to kiss you softly, starting with your eyelids, then your cheeks, and finally a long, lingering kiss on your lips.

"You okay?" he whispered, his voice returning to that steady, soothing tone. "I've got you.”

You nodded, still catching your breath, your fingers slipping gently through his curls.

“I’m okay,” you whispered.

Tucker’s expression softened, and he kissed you once, slow and sweet, like he needed to make sure you felt it.

“Good,” he murmured, easing beside you and pulling the blanket over your bare skin. His arm wrapped around your waist, bringing you against his chest, warm and careful and certain.

For a while, neither of you moved.

You rested your cheek over his heartbeat, listening as it slowly steadied beneath you. Tucker’s hand traced lazy lines along your back, his lips brushing your forehead every so often like he couldn’t quite help himself.

“Tuck?” you whispered.

“Yeah, darlin’?”

You smiled against his chest. “I like being your girl.”

His arms tightened around you.

“Good,” he said softly. “Because I meant it.”

And wrapped up in his arms, with his heartbeat steady beneath your cheek, you believed him.

[andy-15-07]

You Still Sleep With It?

Pairing: Beau Maxwell  x Reader

Word Count: 2601

Request open!

Off campus masterlist

You knew the stuffed rabbit was probably going to be found eventually.

It had survived a lot in its life. Childhood, moves, one unfortunate run through the washing machine when you were nine, and now a tiny Briar apartment with too many books, too many hoodies, and not enough storage. 

You usually kept it tucked under your pillow when Beau stayed over, because you weren’t embarrassed exactly, just private about the one thing that had comforted you through everything from thunderstorms to bad dreams to the weird loneliness that sometimes settled in your chest for no reason at all.

But this morning, Beau had woken up first.

That was the problem.

You were still half asleep when you felt the mattress shift beside you. A second later there was a pause, then the quietest little sound of surprise. You cracked one eye open and immediately regretted it, because Beau was sitting beside you with the stuffed rabbit in one hand, staring at it like he had just discovered evidence of a secret government operation.

For one horrible second, you were too sleepy to form a defense.

Then you sat up too fast. “Give that back.”

Beau blinked, then looked at you, then back at the rabbit. “So you do still sleep with it.”

You reached for it. “Beau.”

He held it up just out of your reach, grinning now in that slow, dangerous way that meant he was either about to tease you mercilessly or fall in love with you all over again. “You still sleep with it?”

“It is not a crime.”

“I didn’t say it was.”

“You are definitely about to make it one.”

Beau’s grin widened. “I’m just saying, this is not what I expected to find in the bed with me.”

You groaned and dropped your face into your hands. “I hate you.”

“You do not.”

“I absolutely do, right now.”

He lowered the rabbit carefully into your lap, which was almost worse because it was so gentle. “I’m not making fun of you.”

You looked up at him suspiciously. “You’re saying that like you’re lying.”

“I’m not.” He leaned back against the headboard, one arm resting behind him, expression strangely soft. “It’s cute.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Don’t say cute.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t trust you when you say things like that.”

“That sounds like a you problem.”

You crossed your arms over the rabbit. “You laughed.”

He put a hand over his chest, offended on principle. “I did not laugh at you. I laughed because you looked horrified.”

You stared at him.

He stared back.

Then, because he had absolutely no survival instincts whatsoever, he added, “Also because this rabbit looks like it has lived through three wars.”

You gasped. “He is ancient, not ugly.”

That got him. He actually laughed this time, and you couldn’t even be mad because the sound was warm and stupid and familiar and made the room feel too small for the amount of affection in it.

Beau leaned forward and poked one of the rabbit’s floppy ears. “What’s his name?”

You hesitated.

Beau caught it immediately. “Oh, come on.”

“It’s embarrassing.”

“Now I need to know.”

You shook your head, but your mouth was twitching. “No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Beau.”

He pointed at the rabbit. “He clearly has a name.”

You looked down at the stuffed animal in your lap. The faded fur, the stitched nose, the one slightly crooked ear from where one of your cousins had yanked it too hard when you were six. “His name is Thumper.”

Beau’s face went blank for exactly one beat.

Then he burst out laughing again, this time full-bodied, helpless, and very much not respectful.

You threw a pillow at him. “I knew it.”

“Thumper?” he repeated, still laughing. “That is the most rabbit name possible.”

“You are being rude.”

“I’m being honest.”

“You are being cruel.”

He caught the pillow and set it aside before looking at you with fake seriousness. “Thumper sounds like he pays taxes and has opinions about the stock market.”

You snorted despite yourself. “Stop.”

“I can’t.” He wiped at his eyes. “I’m sorry. It’s just very funny.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling now too, which ruined the whole attempt at offense. Beau noticed, of course, and looked far too pleased with himself.

“You love that thing,” he said.

You glared at him. “Obviously.”

“How long have you had him?”

“Since I was four.”

Beau’s expression changed a little. Softer. Less teasing. “That long?”

You nodded, suddenly self-conscious in a different way. “My grandma gave him to me. He was hers first, apparently. She said he was too old to keep around, so she passed him on to me.”

Beau glanced at the rabbit again, thoughtful now. “That’s kind of sweet.”

You shrugged lightly. “I know.”

He was quiet for a second, and you thought that might have been the end of it. Instead, he reached over and gently smoothed one thumb over the rabbit’s worn ear. “He’s seen everything, then.”

You gave a small laugh. “Unfortunately, yes.”

Beau turned his head. “Like what?”

You pointed at him immediately. “Absolutely not.”

He grinned. “I’m part of everything now.”

“Not everything.”

“That sounds like a challenge.”

You considered him for a second, then hugged Thumper to your chest and looked away. “He’s gotten me through a lot.”

The teasing eased out of Beau’s face entirely. He didn’t push. He just nodded once, like he understood there were some things that didn’t need a joke. “Yeah?”

You nodded, staring at the faded pink blanket at the foot of the bed. “Bad nights. Family stuff. The whole ‘I’m fine’ thing when I wasn’t fine. He was just… there.”

Beau’s voice came quieter. “You don’t have to explain it.”

You looked at him then. He was sitting with his knees bent, hair still a mess from sleep, a little crease between his brows that always appeared when he got serious about the people he loved. He had not laughed again. He had not made a single stupid comment.

It made your throat tighten, strangely enough.

“I know,” you said softly.

He smiled a little, but it was the gentle kind. “Besides, I’m not judging.”

“You’re definitely judging.”

“I’m not.”

“You made a face.”

“That was surprise.”

“At a stuffed rabbit.”

“At the fact that the stuffed rabbit has a name and a history.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re still making fun of him.”

“Not him,” Beau said, and his voice held just enough amusement to make you suspicious again. “Never him.”

You studied him for a moment longer, then looked down at Thumper. “You can stop pretending to be polite now. I know you think this is weird.”

Beau leaned back against the headboard and lifted one shoulder. “I think it’s sweet.”

That caught you off guard.

He saw it and smiled. “What?”

“You really mean that?”

“Yeah,” he said simply. “Why wouldn’t I?”

You shrugged, suddenly unsure where to look. “I don’t know. Most people would’ve made it a whole thing.”

Beau’s expression turned immediately certain, like the answer was obvious. “I’m not most people.”

You laughed under your breath. “That is the most Beau thing you’ve ever said.”

He looked pleased with himself. “Yeah, well.”

The conversation might have ended there too, but Beau was already reaching for his phone on the bedside table, squinting at the screen while you watched him with growing suspicion.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“That was the worst possible answer.”

He gave you a look. “I’m looking at something.”

“That is not better.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

You leaned over and tried to peek at his screen. He moved it just out of range, smirking now. “Nope.”

“Beau.”

“Trust me.”

You stared at him. “That is a dangerous sentence.”

He grinned. “And yet, you’ve lived this long.”

Two days later, you found out what he had been doing.

It happened when you came back from class and found a small paper bag sitting on your pillow. No note. Just a brown bag with the top folded over neatly, like some kind of absurdly innocent surprise. You frowned at it for a second before opening it.

Inside were tiny clothes.

Not baby clothes.

Not normal clothes.

Tiny little stuffed-animal clothes.

A navy sweater no bigger than your palm. A miniature scarf. A pair of little overalls. And, at the bottom, folded with almost comical care, a pair of tiny socks.

You stared at them in total silence.

Then you turned sharply toward the doorway just as Beau walked in with two coffees and the faint expression of a man trying very hard not to look too proud of himself.

You held up the bag. “What is this.”

He paused. “A gift.”

You blinked. “For who.”

He looked at you like this was obvious. “Thumper.”

You just stared.

Beau set the coffees on the desk and crossed his arms, clearly enjoying the moment way too much. “You said he’d been through a lot. I figured he deserved a wardrobe.”

You looked down at the tiny sweater again, then back up at him. “Beau.”

“What?”

“Did you buy my stuffed rabbit tiny clothes?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

He shrugged, suddenly more bashful than smug, which honestly made the whole thing worse. “Because I thought it would make you smile.”

It did, of course. Immediately. Against your will, in a way that made your eyes sting a little because the gesture was so ridiculous and thoughtful and completely Beau that it went straight through you.

He watched your face and softened. “Was that weird?”

You stared at the bag in your hands. “Yes.”

He winced a little. “Too weird?”

You looked up. “No.”

He blinked. “No?”

You laughed then, helpless and bright, and something in his face relaxed instantly. “It’s very weird. But in the best way.”

Beau’s grin came back, slow and satisfied. “That’s what I was going for.”

You sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled the tiny sweater out again, holding it up by the sleeves. “You bought him a wardrobe.”

“I did.”

“You really went to a store and asked for this.”

“I went online,” he corrected. “I have standards.”

You covered your mouth, laughing again. “I can’t believe you did this.”

Beau came closer, dropping one hand lightly on the bed near your knee. “I can.”

You looked up at him. “You are ridiculous.”

“I know.”

“And weirdly sweet.”

“That too.”

You glanced down at Thumper, who was currently propped against your pillow like a small, dignified elder statesman. Then you looked back at Beau. “Did you get a whole outfit for him?”

He gave you a crooked smile. “Maybe.”

You reached into the bag and pulled out the overalls. “These are so stupid.”

“They are objectively hilarious.”

You laughed, then shook your head. “You are unbelievable.”

Beau leaned his hip against the desk and watched you with an expression so soft it made your chest ache a little. “So are you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah.” He nodded toward the rabbit in your lap. “You’ve had the same stuffed animal since you were four. That’s kind of amazing.”

You looked down at Thumper again, suddenly much more quietly than before. “He’s not just a stuffed animal.”

“I know.”

That answer landed gently, but it still made your throat tighten.

Beau seemed to notice. He sat down beside you without asking, shoulder brushing yours. Then, with careful fingers, he took the tiny sweater from your hands and held it up to Thumper like he was taking measurements for a royal tailor.

“Think blue or gray?” he asked.

You blinked. “What?”

“For the first outfit,” he said, completely serious. “I’m thinking blue. He looks like a blue guy.”

You stared at him.

Then you laughed so hard you had to lean into his shoulder. Beau chuckled too, dropping the sweater into your lap and resting his head lightly against yours.

“You’re impossible,” you murmured.

“Yeah,” he said. “But you’re smiling.”

You looked down at Thumper, then at the tiny clothes, then at Beau’s hand resting close to yours on the bed. Something warm and tender moved through your chest, familiar and new at the same time.

“I can’t believe you remembered I like him.”

Beau turned his head, looking at you with complete sincerity now. “Of course I remembered.”

Your smile softened.

He reached out and tapped the rabbit’s ear again, then glanced at you. “Besides, he’s part of the deal now.”

You arched a brow. “The deal?”

He nodded. “You, me, Thumper. Tiny wardrobe. Future dumb stories.”

You laughed again, but quieter this time. “You really thought this through.”

“I always think things through.”

“That is a lie.”

“Okay,” he said, smiling. “I thought this one through a little.”

You sat together for a while after that, rearranging the tiny outfits on the bed like they mattered as much as anything else. Beau had opinions on everything, naturally. He insisted the overalls needed a T-shirt. He claimed the scarf made Thumper look “distinguished.” He laughed when you put the little socks on backwards and said, “That rabbit has never looked more confused.”

You were still laughing when he reached over and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“Thank you,” you said softly before you could overthink it.

He looked at you. “For what?”

You glanced down at the rabbit, then back at him. “For not making me feel weird about this.”

Beau’s expression turned tender in that way it only did when he knew exactly what you meant. “Baby, I’m dating a girl who sleeps with a stuffed rabbit. Weird is not the issue.”

You shoved his shoulder lightly, laughing again. “You are impossible.”

He caught your hand before you could pull away, fingers warm around yours. “Yeah,” he said, smiling at you like he had all the time in the world. “But I’m your impossible.”

The room went quiet for just a second after that.

Not awkward quiet. Not empty quiet. Just soft, comfortable, full quiet.

You looked down at Thumper in his ridiculous new sweater, then at the tiny clothes spread across the bed, then at Beau beside you, and all at once the embarrassing little secret of your childhood didn’t feel embarrassing at all.

It felt loved.

And maybe that was the real reason the rabbit had stayed with you this long.

Not because you had needed a toy.

Because some things are part of you before anyone else knows how to call them by name.

Beau squeezed your hand once. “So. Does he get to wear the overalls first, or are you going to make me wait?”

You smiled at him and picked up the tiny blue sweater.

“Absolutely not,” you said. “He’s wearing the sweater first.”

Beau leaned back and laughed, already reaching for his phone. “Good. I want a picture.”

You looked at him in mock offense. “You are not posting this.”

He paused, then grinned. “No promises.”

You laughed and reached for Thumper, holding him close while Beau started arranging the tiny clothes like he was preparing for a fashion shoot. For the rest of the evening, the three of you stayed exactly like that,one childhood rabbit, one absurdly thoughtful boyfriend, and you, smiling so much it almost hurt.

And when you finally fell asleep that night, Thumper tucked under your chin in his new little sweater, Beau kissed your forehead and murmured, with the deepest seriousness in the world:

“Tiny wardrobe looks good on him.”

You laughed into the pillow, already half asleep.

So did he.

[dilaurentispuckbunny]

Baby Doll {Dean Di Laurentis x reader} Part 41

Masterlist

Summary: You were walking into the hockey house with your friends, Hannah and Allie. Your brother, Garrett Graham, lived here with his teammates and friends. John Tucker, John Logan and Dean Di Laurentis. You all attend Briar University (Briar U). The guys had won a game tonight, which meant that it was party time at the house, the house was packed with people. More specifically, Puck Bunnies.

Warnings: court, trauma

Garrett had faced a lot of things in his life.

Championship games.

Brutal hits.

Broken bones.

Press conferences after losses.

The kind of pressure that made most people crack.

But walking to the witness stand felt worse than all of it.

Because this wasn’t hockey.

This wasn’t a game.

There was no ice beneath his skates.

No stick in his hands.

No crowd noise to drown out the sound of his own heartbeat.

There was only the courtroom.

The judge.

The lawyers.

You.

And Phil.

Garrett didn’t look at him at first.

He couldn’t.

If he did, he wasn’t sure what would happen.

So he kept his eyes forward as he took the oath, his jaw clenched tight, one hand curling into a fist against his thigh once he sat down.

You watched from your seat, Dean beside you with Gabriel tucked safely against his chest and Angel pressed close to Hannah.

Your whole body still felt hollow from your own testimony, like you had pulled every painful memory out of yourself and left it sitting on the courtroom floor.

But when Garrett sat down, something else hurt.

Because this wasn’t just your trauma anymore.

It was his too.

It had always been his too.

The lawyer stepped forward gently.

“Mr Graham, can you tell the court about your relationship with the defendant?”

Garrett swallowed.

For a moment, he looked down at his hands.

Then he lifted his head.

“He’s my father.”

His voice was rough.

Controlled.

Barely.

The lawyer nodded.

“And what was your childhood like with him?”

Garrett let out a short breath through his nose.

Not quite a laugh.

Not quite a sob.

“Complicated.”

A pause.

Then his expression tightened.

“No. That’s not true.”

His eyes flicked briefly toward you.

Then back to the lawyer.

“It was terrifying.”

Your chest squeezed painfully.

Dean’s hand found yours beneath the bench, his thumb brushing across your knuckles.

Garrett continued.

“I spent most of my childhood trying to keep him away from my sister.”

The room went still.

“He was angry all the time. You never knew what would set him off. A bad game. A bad day. Something out of place. A noise. A look. Nothing.”

His throat worked.

“Sometimes it didn’t matter what we did. He’d find a reason.”

You covered your mouth with your free hand.

Garrett kept going.

“Y/n was younger. Smaller. And I knew if he got to her…”

His voice broke.

Just slightly.

He cleared his throat.

“I knew I couldn’t let that happen.”

The lawyer’s voice softened.

“So what did you do?”

Garrett’s eyes dropped again.

“I got in the way.”

Those five words landed like a physical thing.

You felt Dean go still beside you.

Angel was crying silently now, Hannah’s arm around her shoulders.

Garrett’s jaw tightened.

“I’d step in front of her. I’d talk back. I’d make him look at me instead. Sometimes I’d make him angry on purpose because if he was focused on me, he wasn’t focused on her.”

Your tears slipped before you could stop them.

You had known.

Of course you had known.

But hearing him say it out loud—hearing him admit that he had willingly turned himself into a target for you—was almost unbearable.

The lawyer paused for a moment, allowing the silence to settle.

Then she asked, “Did the defendant hurt you?”

Garrett finally looked at Phil.

Just once.

His eyes were hard.

Wet.

Full of years of things he had never said.

“Yes.”

Phil looked away first.

That alone made something inside you loosen.

Garrett turned back.

“He hit me. Shoved me. Threw me into walls. Told me I was weak. Told me I’d never be enough. Then he’d show up at games and act like he was proud, like he hadn’t put bruises under my gear the night before.”

His voice shook now.

He didn’t try to hide it.

“And the worst part was, for a long time, I believed him.”

You made a small sound, unable to stop yourself.

Garrett heard it.

His eyes found yours immediately.

And for one second, the courtroom disappeared.

He wasn’t a famous hockey player.

You weren’t a mother of two.

You were just siblings.

Survivors.

Two children who had made it out.

Garrett’s face crumpled slightly.

“But Y/n never looked at me like I was weak.”

Your breath caught.

“She looked at me like I was saving her.”

His voice broke fully then.

“And I needed that. Because sometimes I think saving her was the only thing that saved me.”

Dean closed his eyes.

A tear slipped down his cheek.

The lawyer gave Garrett a moment.

Nobody rushed him.

Nobody could.

Eventually, Garrett took a shaky breath and sat a little straighter.

Then he spoke again, this time with more force.

“When Phil came back, I thought maybe I could handle it. I thought we’d handled worse before.”

He shook his head.

“But then he went after Angel. He scared her. He grabbed my sister while she was pregnant. He broke into her house when she had a newborn. He came with a knife.”

His voice hardened.

“That wasn’t a misunderstanding. That wasn’t a family argument. That was him proving he still thought he had a right to hurt us.”

The courtroom remained silent.

Garrett looked at the judge.

Not the lawyer.

Not Phil.

The judge.

“He doesn’t.”

Your heart pounded.

Garrett’s hand trembled against his knee, but his voice stayed steady.

“He doesn’t have a right to my sister. He doesn’t have a right to Angel. He doesn’t have a right to Gabriel. He doesn’t have a right to any of us.”

His eyes flicked briefly to you.

Then back.

“And I’m tired of being scared that one day he’ll finish what he started.”

The words hit you hard enough to steal your breath.

Because that was it.

The fear beneath everything.

Not just what Phil had done.

But what he might still do if nobody stopped him.

Garrett took one final breath.

“I’m asking this court to stop him.”

For a moment, nobody moved.

Then the lawyer nodded gently.

“Thank you, Mr Graham.”

Garrett stood.

His shoulders were tense, his face pale, but he didn’t look small.

Not anymore.

He walked back toward you, and the second he reached the bench, you stood.

Pain tugged through your still-healing body, but you didn’t care.

You wrapped your arms around your brother as tightly as you could.

Garrett folded into you.

For a moment, he held on like he was the one falling apart.

Not the captain.

Not the protector.

Not the boy who always stood in front.

Just Garrett.

Your brother.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered against your hair.

You shook your head immediately.

“No.”

His grip tightened.

“I should’ve done more.”

“You saved me.”

His breath hitched.

You pulled back enough to look at him.

“You saved me, Garrett.”

His eyes filled again.

“You were a kid.”

“So were you.”

That broke him.

He pulled you back in, one hand cradling the back of your head the way he had when you were younger, when the two of you used to hide from the noise and pretend everything would be okay.

Dean stood close, Gabriel sleeping peacefully against him, his eyes red as he watched the two of you.

Angel rose from her seat and came over without saying a word.

She wrapped her arms around Garrett from the side.

He looked startled at first.

Then his face softened.

Completely.

“Oh, kid.”

Angel cried into his suit jacket.

“I’m sorry he hurt you too.”

Garrett closed his eyes.

His arm came around her carefully.

“Not your fault, sweetheart.”

“I know.”

Her voice trembled.

“I’m still sorry.”

Garrett kissed the top of her head.

And there it was.

The thing Phil had never understood.

Family wasn’t ownership.

It wasn’t fear.

It wasn’t control.

Family was this.

Hands reaching.

Arms holding.

People standing together when one of them couldn’t stand alone.

The court broke for a short recess after that.

Nobody said much in the hallway.

Tucker handed Garrett a bottle of water without a word.

Logan clapped him on the shoulder, his usual jokes nowhere to be found.

Hannah hugged you carefully, mindful of your recovery.

Allie wiped at her eyes.

Dean stayed beside you the whole time.

Close enough that his shoulder brushed yours.

Close enough that you could lean into him when your legs threatened to give out.

“You okay?” he murmured.

You looked at Garrett.

At Angel.

At Gabriel sleeping in Dean’s arms.

At the family Phil had tried and failed to break.

“No,” you whispered.

Dean nodded.

Honest.

Patient.

Then you took his hand.

“But I think I will be.”

His eyes softened.

He pressed a kiss to your temple.

“Yeah, baby.”

His voice was quiet.

Certain.

“You will.”

When the courtroom doors opened again, everyone stood.

This time, walking back inside felt different.

Not easier.

Never easier.

But different.

Because the truth was no longer trapped inside your bodies.

It had been spoken.

Heard.

Recorded.

And whatever happened next, Phil Graham could never again pretend nobody knew what he was.

You sat beside Dean.

Garrett sat beside you.

Angel took your hand.

Gabriel slept through it all.

And for the first time since the trial began, you looked forward instead of back.

Taglist {open}: @ooopssssu @sleep-i-ness @zagreen @alice07ea @adrienneleclerc @nau-van @kmc1989 @femurgetokill @sshxamy @f4ll3n28 @redbag55 @meriamloves-tsunoda-yuki @rainbowstar405 @gandalfthegoatsblog @dina2223 @partygetsmewetter12 @notplutos @lulusa27 @angelsvoice1love @superbfishhumanoidweasel @ilocuras24 @inchidentontheracetrack @five-seconds-flat @thecraziestcrayon @yolasturlis @noonenuts @wonderland2425 @purplerainx1 @sarcasm-ismy-onlydefense-blog @iamshiningeuw @nicolej04 @mld25 @brianna28483 @fangirl93 @bellarkeselection @calums-betch @mswwvaleska @wiishies @bookluver114 @hagarsays @lilliepetalx @raynetargaryan2 @c-a-b3002 @mariamadison6-blog @baeeyarr @monayyy-21 @demirunner @flannelshirts-and-fingerguns @loverofmusic @velvetsighs @alwaysclassyeagle @missbmc94 @ethanthequeefqueen @garrettgrahamssexysnaps @parker-barnes-af 

[faustique]

just a reminder in case your mind is playing tricks on you today, you matter. you're important. you're loved. and your presence on this earth makes a difference whether you see it or not.

[blackleatherjacketz]

Armand Master List

The Vampire Armand x Reader

Always - One Shot- Armand finds you again when he finally deems you ready.

The Seer - NSFW Small Series - You're Daniel's assistant in Dubai, but Armand wants to find out even more about you.

Part I

Part II

[theeraggedygirl]

Masterlist

♡ Lestat de Lioncourt + Louis de Pointe du Lac ♡

I Just Died In Your Arms Tonight

lestat de lioncourt x oc x louis de pointe du lac

When your Aunt contacted you on behalf of her old friend Daniel Molloy for a job, you thought it could be a nice chance to get back on the road - after all, concerts had been your life for years. What you didn't expect was finding yourself at the mercy of every whim of a certain rockstar: The Vampire Lestat. Hopefully you weren't going to get lost along the way, caught up in the drama that seemed to find him at every corner - but luck was never on your side. -- "Do you consider yourself undeserving to be loved, Lestat?"

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII new!

---

Metamorphosis

lestat de lioncourt x louis de pointe du lac

A collection of (mostly) angsty one-shots as famous couples from myths, literature and popular stories.

Story I: Apollo and Daphne: with my voice so hollow

Story II: Moulin Rouge!AU Christian and Satine Part I

---

Three Summer Days As Butterflies

lestat de lioncourt x louis de pointe du lac

Louis is Student President at NOIAL, New Orleans Institute of Art and Literature. He is a lover of strict rules and likes to maintain a specific order, especially among the new transferred students. Lestat de Lioncourt isn't exactly a troublemaker, but he still creates quite a commotion everywhere he goes. To Louis is just another pain in the ass. What nobody knows, though, is that Louis has a secret. During the day is drowning himself in his studies, but at night he works at the Azalea Host Club where he's known as The Ice Prince. It would be really unfortunate for his reputation, if anyone found out.

Prologue: Pandora Opening

Chapter I: Secret Keeper new!

♡ Armand ♡

Kintsugi

armand x reader

Little moments between reader and Armand as he helps you rediscover sex even as you struggle with vaginismus

i: breach

ii: breathe

iii: surrender new!

iv: opening

[theeraggedygirl]

I Just Died In Your Arms Tonight

Chapter VIII - I Suck Your Mind, You Blow My Head

Pairing: rockstar!lestat de lioncourt x female!oc x louis de pointe du lac

Warnings: vaginismus, blood drinking, dry humping

Word count: 4575

a/n: Hello everyone, late as usual! Something more starts to happen in this chapter, but I want tease anything here -- see you at the end!

As always, if you feel like leaving a comment or discuss the story my ask box is open!

Disclaimer: english is not my first language

"I like your touch." "I'm glad you do," you replied matching his soft tone. You were treating Lestat the way you'd have wanted someone to treat you in a similar situation. "I'm sorry that you're not used to a soft touch anymore."

Chapter VII - Masterlist - AO3

Falling into a deep sleep was a rare occurrence for you, but the times when it happened it always took you a while to fully wake up afterwards. Your body felt heavy and your mind a mush, you were completely disconnected from reality and all you could do was stay there in your bed and wait until you could feel human again.

You were lying on your side, eyes still closed as the complete silence of the room engulfed you like a warm embrace. You rearranged yourself a bit, moving your body into a fetal position, pulling the arm resting across your waist higher and hugging it to your chest.

Wait.

Wait.

That didn't make sense.

You tried to breach through your mind fog and activate your brain enough to understand the situation.

Someone was in your bed, and they were holding you from behind. You were sure as hell no one had been there when you went to bed, and you remember distinctly enough that you had locked the door when Louis and Lestat left. Still, a body was lying behind you.

When the realization fully registered in your mind, your body reaction followed immediately in response. You stiffened at first, before throwing yourself towards the bedside lamp, putting some distance between you and the intruder in your bed.

As soon as the warm light pulled the room from its darkness, your eyes darted to the sleeping figure next to you.

Louis.

You were not expecting him, a part of you thought that only Lestat could invade your space without asking your permission first. Though, between the two, it was Louis the one who could manage to sleep outside a coffin as far as you knew.

"You're awake," Louis mumbled, still keeping his eyes closed.

You didn't reply. You just sat there staring at him, shooting curses from your mind hoping he would hear them. Louis slowly opened his eyes, his head turning slightly in your direction.

"What the actual fuck, Louis?"

"I didn't mean to startle you."

"And yet, here you are doing just that."

Besides the initial fright, you weren't actually scared. Or even bothered, for that matter, which was the most surprising part. You weren’t used to share your bed with someone, nor were you particularly fond of it, but seeing how much your body accepted the presence of another person lying next to you while you slept, you wondered if that was the reason behind your deep sleep.

You were a light sleeper because you were always set on alert mode, so you might have felt unconsciously safe by Louis's presence this time. A stretch, but still a possibility.

"You good?"

You nodded slightly. "What are you doing here?"

"After last night, it wasn't good for you to sleep alone."

"What about Lestat?"

Louis's lips raised in a small smile. "It was his idea, actually. He didn't want you here on your own."

You rolled your eyes on instinct to cover the light sense of embarrassment you were feeling. It was a weird sensation, knowing a person was doing something for you, because they cared.

"I'm fine. Nothing could have hurt me in my hotel room, you know?"

"You forget about your own mind."

You sighed. You were still too tired to have another discussion so soon after the previous night. "It's my problem to deal with, not yours."

Louis hummed low in his chest, a pleasant sound to your ears. "Lie back down, Olivia, there are still a couple of hours before sunset."

"Why? Do you want to cuddle?" You asked sarcastically to hide how the idea truly made you feel, yet you didn't stop your body from following the instruction.

Louis didn't reply, he just kept staring at you as you found your position again next to him. You were both on your sides, facing each other, but you made sure to keep enough space between your bodies to avoid accidental touching.

"I don't bite."

"Very funny, Louis."

He smirked at you, mirth clear in his eyes. He really enjoyed playing this game with you, though his final objective was unknown to you.

"About what you said last night, can you tell me more?"

You blinked at Louis a couple of times. You knew exactly what he was referring to, but you didn't think the subject would come up so soon in your conversations. "What do you want to know?"

"How does it feel like?"

That was a tough one. You took your time to gather your thoughts, trying to find the right words to thoroughly explain the sensation. It was nice to have someone so willing to listen, so it was the right occasion for you to open up more.

"It feels very similar to getting stabbed. It hurts and burns, like you're been torn open. Pain during penetration is called dyspareunia in medical terms, and it's always connected to disorders like mine." You frowned a bit, looking away from Louis as the memories came rushing back to your mind. You always detached yourself from the experience as much as you could, so it was hard for you to willingly direct your mind there for a moment. "The muscles get so tight and tense that it becomes like a wall impossible to breach without forcing the entrance. It is so strong that if you touch the area with your fingers, you can feel how hard they are all the time."

Louis had inched closer while you were speaking, his body now less than twenty centimetres from you. His right hand was on the uncovered skin of your thigh, the shorts of your pajamas reaching just below your butt.

He was caressing your skin, the access easier as your left leg was bent in the remaining space between your bodies. You didn't pull away from the touch, you could not deny how good it felt so you simply kept quiet about it to make it last longer.

"Can I?"

You widened your eyes at his question, raising your upper body on your elbow to look at him better.

"Louis de Pointe du Lac, that's a very inappropriate thing to request."

He raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

"What do you mean why? The muscles I'm referring to are very close to my vagina, are you aware of that?"

"Yes."

You huffed slumping your body back down on the bed, head turned towards the ceiling. You were pissed with yourself because there was a strong part of yourself that wanted to indulge him, you wanted to stay in this moment of connection even if it was a one time thing. You could always pretend it never happened afterwards.

"Give me your hand. I must be the one in control for this, we do it on my own terms. Okay?"

Louis stayed silent, he simply raised his hand in your direction with the same smirk as before on his face. You considered that as an affirmative answer. You took a deep breath as you shifted you body closer to his and lifted your left leg from the bed, letting it rest on his waist to make the next movement easier for you.

You held Louis's right hand in yours as you moved it to the inside of your thigh and then right behind it. The position was still a bit awkward considering you were directing him with your right hand, and your shoulder and upper arm were resting on the bed limiting your mobility. You took his index and middle finger and let them slide closer to you pelvic area, right where the band of your underwear started, both of you mindful of his sharp nails.

"If you apply a bit of pressure in this spot, you'll feel the tension."

Louis did exactly as you said, making you jump in surprise at the feeling. "Did I hurt you?"

"No. It's just different than my own touch, it always is." You released his hand, shifting your body back as you moved back to your initial position. "I hope I have satisfied your curiosity of the day."

His hand was back on your thigh, the light touch having a calming effect on you.

"You did."

"I still don't understand why you care, though. It's not like your life is affected by this condition, especially since you don't sleep with women." You finally decided to sit up, wanting to face Louis more clearly while you spoke.

Louis followed your action, shifting back to rest his back against the headboard. He didn't reply immediately, letting the seconds tick by. "Maybe I want to know more about you."

"We met three days ago, Louis."

"When you've lived as long as I have, it doesn't take long to see if a person is worthy of your time, or not."

You tilted your head to the side in curiosity. "So, I'm worthy in your eyes. Is that what you mean?"

Louis nodded. "It makes my departure after tonight's concert a little easier, because I know that I'm leaving Lestat in good hands."

"You're leaving?"

"There are a few business deals that require my presence, I'll be traveling for a few weeks."

The news made you sad unexpectedly. You liked having Louis around since you were getting lonely on tour with very few people you had the chance to interact with during work — even though he seemed to enjoy teasing you a little too much.

"I already have your number, so I can keep you updated on Lestat while you're away. You can text me too, if you want to."

Louis smiled at you. "How cute of you, Olivia."

"I changed my mind, I'll block your number as soon as you leave."

You both laughed at your reply, a soft and warm sensation blooming in your chest. The next time your mind was going to fall in the dark and deep well inside you, you had this little moment with Louis to use to pull yourself out.

---

The following weeks went by faster than you thought, you were all in the full flow of the tour and yet it seemed that the rhythm at the heart of it had gotten even more erratic than the beginning.

New shows, appearances on television, invitations to attend parties and socialite events, it all added up to the pre-existing schedule and it was a nightmare to fit everything in without messing up the initial plans. With the intense workload you were occupied most of the time, locked away in your room or in a makeshift office typing away like crazy to keep up with the deadlines — strict deadlines you had set yourself, of course.

The main consequence of your current situation was how little time you had to keep a watchful eye on Lestat, or to interact with him in general. You knew he wasn't enjoying the distance, based on what TC had told you after one of their shows, but he accepted that you had duties as much as he did, simply dealt in different contexts and fields.

You were now in Chicago. Finally a long stop, after moving around every night for the past ten days. You were going to stay for a couple of weeks, and you hoped you were going to have the chance to rest a couple of days at least.

That was the idea, and for one day it actually went according to plan.

Everything plummeted the second night.

You had been back to the hotel no more than an hour, it was close to midnight. You had spent the late afternoon outside visiting and just enjoying the city for a few hours — being fully nocturnal now didn't allow you many pastimes in standard hours as before this job.

You were sitting on the sofa in your room, a movie on just to have some background noise while you checked your emails. You had already taken your shower, you were wearing your pajamas, everything was going smoothly. Even the typical tension you had in your neck muscles was non-existent at present.

Then, your phone rang. Christine was calling you, which was weird because they all should be at the club having fun before the shows started the next day.

"Hi, Christine," you answered placing your phone in the crook of your neck, keeping it in place with the help of your shoulder. Your focus was still on the email you were currently working on.

"We can't find Lestat."

You stopped typing immediately. "What do you mean you can't find Lestat? Maybe he's with some groupies?"

You didn't like the idea, but in the absence of alternatives Lestat still needed to feed in some way, and not always the blood from the Farm was available considering how much you'd been traveling.

"I think that's the problem. Dr. Fareed is looking into it, but it appears one of the boys had a toxin in his blood, potentially dangerous even to a vampire."

You didn't like the sound of it, not in the slightest. "And Lestat just disappeared afterwards?"

"They said he simply ran out of the club, but he's not answering any calls or messages. Can you please try to reach him?"

"I'll look for him."

You ended the call before Christine could say anything else. You stood up from the sofa, the laptop long forgotten on the cushions, as you started pacing around the room trying to come up with a plan.

Where would he go?

Your mind was racing through different ideas, and you were seconds away from calling Daniel to ask him to reach Lestat through the Mind Gift, when you heard a heavy thud coming from the ceiling. It sounded as if someone had fallen to the ground.

The room above yours was Lestat's.

Without thinking twice about it you ran out of your room, taking the spare key with you. It had been a while since you actually had to use it. You took the stairs not bothering taking the elevator for just one floor, with how agitated you were feeling you didn't think you would have been able to stand and wait for it anyway.

You literally barged in Lestat's room the second you heard the lock click open. There was blood on the floor, trails of it taking you straight to the bathroom.

And there you found him. Body slumped on the toilet, head barely holding up as Lestat was throwing up blood.

"He's in his room. I'll take care of it." That's what you texted Christine before throwing the phone on the bathroom counter and approaching Lestat.

You stepped closer crouching down next to him. You weren't sure he was aware of your presence in his current state, so you raised your hand slowly placing it on his shoulder.

"Lestat, can you hear me? It's Olivia," you whispered, as if talking any louder would make him disappear from your sight suddenly.

Another violent retch came from his body in response, the iron smell of the blood getting stronger in the room. Lestat lifted his head turning it slowly in your direction, the effort he put to complete the action made him look even more miserable. Your heart squeezed in distress at the sight.

"Olivia…" Even his words were slurred, he sounded completely wasted.

"Do you feel like you're going to throw up again?"

"I don't think I have any more blood left in my right now."

You nodded, more to yourself than to answer him. "Alright, can you lie back against the wall there? I'll help you."

You leaned forward placing again one of your hands on his shoulder, while you let the other rest gently on the back of his head as Lestat tried to shift back against the wall as you asked.

You let him go once you were sure he was stable enough not to fall down on his own, so you could stand up to fetch some towels from the cabinets. You opened the tap and waited for the water to warm up before wetting the towels in the sink.

Once you were satisfied enough with your work, you went back on the floor next to Lestat who had been following your movements since you left him against the wall.

"What are you doing?" He asked, voice a little less slurred but it still sounded exhausted.

You blinked a couple of times as you looked him in the eyes, the answer so obvious to you. "I'm taking care of you. Now help me remove your shirt so I can clean you up, you have blood everywhere."

Lestat didn't say anything further, but you managed to see the surprise in his gaze before he let a softer look take over his face. He assisted you as you pulled his shirt down his arms trying not to jostle him too much with the movement — the last thing the both of you needed was another retching fit.

As soon as the shirt was fully off, you picked up one of the wet towels and started cleaning him up. The moment you made contact with his skin, Lestat let out a soft sigh. "They're warm."

"Well, yes. Cold water would only help in making you feel worse."

Your touch was delicate as if you were cleaning his wounds instead of just his skin, and by the way he was reacting to the treatment and the look in his eyes you could tell it was the same for him. Maybe you were doing just that, healing something invisible but still hurting beneath his skin.

When you were done with his torso, you took another clean towel for his face. You looked at him in his eyes as you started from his cheeks, the corners of his lips pulling up in a warm smile.

"I like your touch."

"I'm glad you do," you replied matching his soft tone, but never stopping in your task. You were treating Lestat the way you'd have wanted someone to treat you in a similar situation. "I'm sorry that you're not used to a soft touch anymore."

"How do you know?"

"You looked so surprised when I said I was going to take care of you. I wish you knew you deserve to have someone that simply holds you, without asking for something in return. I know that your relationship with Louis is going in that direction, and I'm so happy it's happening."

Lestat sat there in silence for a few minutes more, while you finished washing away the blood from his skin. He looked much better now, though his face looked so pale it was clear he needed fresh and clean blood immediately.

"Can you stand up?" You asked after throwing the towels back in the sink. "You would be more comfortable if you sat on the sofa."

"I think I can manage it, ma chère."

It was the first time Lestat had called you with a term of endearment. It took you by surprise but you pushed down the blush that was threatening to creep up on your cheeks, and focused on helping Lestat back on his feet.

You stayed close to him as you both walked out of the bathroom, keeping en eye on him until he was sat on the sofa as you suggested.

"You need to drink blood, Lestat. Do you think Dr. Fareed has some ready for you?"

"Not until tomorrow, that's why I indulged myself with the groupies tonight."

That was a problem actually. A big one. You were walking back and forth in front of him, once again trying to think of a solution to the new problem at hand.

"Considering what happened tonight, it would be unwise to look for other people. We have no time to do background checks, but I could always call Christine and see if she has someone available."

"You could."

You stopped right in front of Lestat, pondering on another thought that kept knocking on the edge of your mind. With each passing second that solution solidified as the most feasible and sensible one.

"Drink from me."

"No, Olivia." Lestat's eyes widened completely at your proposal. "I cannot ask you something like that."

"You're not asking, I am offering my blood."

It made perfect sense to you. You were a little nervous about the prospect ahead of you, but you weren't scared. You had no reason not to trust Lestat with you.

You could see that Lestat was trying to find ways to argue against this solution, but his need to feed was getting stronger now and he would not be able to resist the pull for much longer. You stepped closer to him once you saw the fight leave his body.

"In normal circumstances I would never use you for your blood." Lestat's voice was getting smaller, almost like he was ashamed by his needs and by his inability to fight them.

"I know. It's all good," you said trying to reassure him as much as you could in this situation. "Will it be painful?"

Lestat shook his head. "I would never hurt you, Olivia. I can make you feel good if I do it right."

"That's not necessary."

You took off your pajamas shirt, mentally thanking your past self for forgetting to remove your sport bra, and moved to sit on Lestat's lap — In a straddle again like that night after the hospital.

"Is this okay?"

Lestat nodded, his eyes shifting back and forth from yours and your neck.

"I trust you, Lestat. Do what you must, do not hold back for my sake."

That was the last push Lestat needed before getting into action. His hands raised to your hips, pulling you forward and making you sit closer to his crotch. You let him direct your body as he pleased, knowing full well that you needed to be very close to each other if he was going to feed from you.

Once Lestat was satisfied with your positioning, he moved his left hand to your head collecting your hair and holding them in a soft grip. You felt him give you a light pull and you followed his command in silence baring your neck. Your breathing was slow, no anxiety trying to suffocate you like a tight corset holding your ribcage hostage. You felt safe probably for the first time in your life at the mercy of someone else, even though you weren't supposed to feel this way with a vampire moments away from drinking your blood.

You felt Lestat's lips first, caressing softly the skin of your neck as if resisting the temptation to close in a small kiss. Then, the pointy edges of his fangs followed pricking without breaking your veins, goosebumps raising on the surface in response. And finally, after Lestat took a deep breath, with you doing the same as if your lungs were completely joint in the moment, he bit you.

You opened your mouth at the feeling, a part of you expecting even just a little amount of pain that never came. The fangs entered your skin so delicately that a shiver ran down the full length of your spine, making you arch more in Lestat's arms.

The moan Lestat let out at the first taste of your blood was filthy, it made you wonder if he sounded the same while having sex or if the two actions gave him pleasure in very different ways. The fangs left your skin a few moments later, Lestat's mouth and tongue taking their place as he began to suck.

The new sensation took you utterly by surprise, a quiet whimper leaving your lips before you could force it back down your throat, your fingers squeezing Lestat's shoulders seeking support or an anchor to stabilize you. At your body response, Lestat pulled you closer and the hold he had on your hair and waist got tighter.

And then, you felt it. Lestat's length was hard pocking your inner thigh from beneath his clothes. You tried to stay still as much as possible, not wanting to make his situation worse — or yours, because you could not deny that this moment was affecting you as well, you centre tingling and getting wetter with each suck of blood from your neck.

"It's okay, Lestat, use me," you whispered, knowing perfectly well that he would hear you.

Lestat pulled away slowly, lowering your head towards him so he could look you in the eyes. His pupils were fully dilated, but his gaze was still soft.

He didn't say anything, the hesitation clear in the sudden stillness of his body, so with a careful movement you rolled your hips to slide your core right on his length. His reaction was immediate. His eyelids fluttered, a frown forming on his forehead as his lips, still stained with your blood, parted in a low moan.

"This moment is for you, Lestat, if you need release you can use my body," you continued in the firmest voice you could manage given your own current state. "But I won't force you, if you don't want you. Never."

A second later his mouth was back on your neck sucking from your wounds again, both of his arms now fully circling your back to press you harder against his chest. Your own followed as they rested weakly behind his head and neck, while your body sagged as it welcomed its new temporary master.

Lestat's hips started rolling up into yours, his hard cock sliding between your bodies even with the restriction created by your clothes, though the texture of the fabrics were providing the right amount of friction even without the skin on skin contact. Little shocks of pleasure were warming up your core through the repeated stimulation on your clit, nut your body was too drained now to turn them into waves to your climax. You didn't mind because, as you said, this moment was for Lestat only.

Lestat stopped sucking after a few more minutes, yet his face never left the crook of your neck. He licked your little wounds closed before attacking your skin with shallow breath as his hips kept chasing his final release.

"You feel so good in my arms, ma chère, and you taste so sweet." Lestat's voice was deeper than you'd ever heard it before, pleasure wrapping around each syllable. "I want you to come with me."

You shook your head, but you weren't sure it actually move at all, your body way too heavy now. "I can't. Too tired."

Lestat held you even harder, a displeased whine reaching your ears, but he was too close to his orgasm to do anything about it. His movement were getting quicker and frenetic, and after a hard thrust against your core he was coming. Lestat moaned loudly against your neck, the vibration adding to the pleasant feeling still fluttering in your core.

You scratched his head softly with your fingers to give him comfort as he regained his breath. Your body at peace as much as his, you head resting on his shoulder and your eyes completely closed.

"You need to rest now, Olivia," Lestat said, his body at full health again after feeding. "I'll put you to bed, we'll talk when you wake."

You wanted to speak and tell him there was nothing more to discuss, but exhaustion finally got a grip of you and pulled you under before your body touched the mattress.

---

I thought for a long time if I wanted them to finish together, but I think it's something I'll keep for later. I still haven't decided how many chapters this story will be, but there is still a lot to tell so, who knows.

Thank you for reading💕

[sweet-hedonist]

Felled by you, Held by you

Armand x Reader

A mid afternoon coffee turns into more than you bargained for

Or

The Vampire Armand allows you an exclusive on the record pseudo-therapy session that leaves you both laid bare.

WC: 4.7k

We’re going off the rails yall. Comments and reblogs make my day 💖

Cross posted on AO3:

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

The penthouse is chilly. Not uncomfortably so, god no, it’s a lovely respite from the heat of Dubai, oppressive and all-consuming. With its dark stone and granite, tinted windows, and lack of central heating, it's a lovely cavernous sanctuary seemingly created just for you.

Agreeing to accompany your…boss? Colleague? Collaborator? Your…Daniel, to Dubai was a no-brainer. Without even knowing what the project was yet, you could tell from his general vibe and demeanor when he walked into your office that this was something big.

“You wanna come to Dubai with me to help me interview a vampire?”

What an opener that was. You’d laughed a bit, waiting for the punchline to follow. 

Here you were, some weeks later, sat in a beautiful, lush bed in a beautiful, lavish guest room, editing your notes on the two actual real-life vampires who were currently somewhere about the apartment, entrenched in a centuries-long historical drama come to life, and very much not laughing anymore. 

A hand drags over your face. It’s nearly 4 pm, and you haven’t gotten out of bed yet; the sun just beginning its leisurely descent over the horizon. Louis is probably still fast asleep, and who knows where Armand is, his age rendering him practically immune to all of the vampiric lore you’d come to know (and had confirmed in the last few weeks). Daniel is probably in the living room, getting his treatment or at that godforsaken omakase restaurant he’s gone to three times in the past week. I mean, you know they’re paying you both handsomely - your own bank had even called to say Hey, what the fuck is going on - but going to the same place multiple times in the same week is a bit much, even for you. 

You’ve long since discarded the thick duvet you sleep under in favor of just existing in the cool air. Daniel complains of the cold often, but that might just be because of his age and the Parkinson's. The first time you stepped into the penthouse, you audibly sighed, thanking God that vampires couldn’t get cold. You’ve hit a bit of a snag in your observations and research - no one had ever composed psychological profiles on vampires before, so you cut yourself some slack - and thought the cold might help. 

It has not. 

Perhaps the lack of eating is also playing a role…

The floor is freezing against your bare feet as you stand, pulling on a soft cardigan over your tank top and shorts that have become your default pajamas. You’re grateful that you have your own space, your own room, so many times on these journalistic explorations, you're in some cramped motel or sharing a bed with a fellow researcher. Not today. 

Quiet stillness greets you as you leave your room, though you suppose you could call it your own wing of the penthouse, as you have your own bedroom, bathroom, walk-in closet, and sitting room. Bare feet make little to no sound as you pad towards the kitchen. 

State of the art. Covered in a fine layer of dust from disuse. 

The mug you’d brought with you is still in the drying rack from last night (tea), upturned and dry. One hand grabs it while the other finds the espresso powder in the cabinet. There’s barely anything in there, all of it bought by you. Well…not bought, requested; they had insisted on not letting you pay. Some weird level of politeness that had carried over from when they were still pretending Armand was Rashid. 

You were a guest after all. 

It only takes a few seconds before the espresso begins to brew, the smell washing over you and bringing a wave of happiness with it. Humans and their coffee. 

You can feel your stomach growl before you hear it, a distinct noise that reminds you, oh yeah, I haven’t eaten today. Halfheartedly, you skim through your most recently purchased grocery bag and dig out a protein bar. It’ll do. The machine beeps, letting you know your coffee is ready, and you prepare it the way you normally do: a touch of brown sugar, milk, and ice. 

The air shifts, hair stands up on your arms as you come to the realization you’re being watched. 

“And here I thought you were too polite to stare.” You don’t turn around when you speak, still stirring the ice into your sugary concoction, making sure it chills before you drink it. 

A small exhalation, perhaps in amusement, and then, “Forgive me. Though I do recall that in our…earlier sessions, you yourself seemed to have a staring problem?”

“I never said I was polite.” Turning, you are greeted by the elder vampire of the house, standing at the edge of the large sunken living room, watching you. The Vampire Armand. 

He's still, unnaturally so. During your first week here, you'd been made increasingly aware of your own fidgeting and movements due to the complete lack of them from either of the vampires who lived here. A silk button-down hangs onto his wiry frame, black and shiny in the lowlight, tinted dark from the windows.

"No, you did not." His hands are in his pockets, casual, but the air feels anything but. You know what it is to dissect and analyze whatever or whoever you're looking at, and so you know when it is being done to you. The only sound for a few achingly long seconds is the spoon stirring your coffee and the ice hitting the sides of the mug.

"Isn't it a little early for you to be up? Or late?" Deeming the coffee chilled enough, you take a sip and instantly your mood lifts. Even a powerful undead vampire and his probing cannot ruin your coffee.

He laughs, but it's not humorous, perhaps a bit exasperated. Ah, you've interrupted his observation.

"And here I thought you would understand, seeing as you don't allow yourself to sleep until…four in the morning." Oh, he's quick with it.

"Well, the sun doesn't necessarily hold the same threat it does for me that it does for you."

"And sleep deprivation and disrupting your circadian rhythm are so beneficial to your own health." The sarcasm drips from his voice like drool from fangs bared. It's a warning.

Another sip of coffee, "My health has been shot for years, I don't think there's much I can do to actively make it worse. But I concede, it's not my healthiest habit." You're too tired to truly pick a fight, not feeling quite as adversarial as usual. Judging by the slight wideness in his stare, he's a touch surprised at your admission; you've never given him an inch before.

There's a moment where he seems to debate on what he's going to say next, clearly having had another barb loaded in the chamber and deciding at the last moment to holster the weapon entirely. In a few strides, he's walked past the living room and is standing on the other side of the kitchen, still watching you with those amber eyes. Or are they more like Topaz?

"Perhaps coffee so late in the day is not helping." His attention drifts to the mug in your hand, and his expression is…curious? Incredulous? But his tone…it's a touch softer than you're used to, closer to how he speaks to Louis.

You take another sip, "Maybe so. And yet, I will not be stopping because the joy it brings me is like no other. And because coffee and a protein bar is far better than no meal at all."

"Your abysmal eating schedule almost certainly contributes-"

"-To my poor sleep, which then feeds my poor diet choices and so on and so forth until one day my body simply quits. Congratulations, you have summarized a quintessential part of the human condition, the vicious cycle of self-destruction. Unfortunately, I have no prize for you." Your voice is full of mirth; you're playing, not arguing. This is a game, and not one of your analytical ones. Sometimes it's just fun to banter.

Maybe it's your demeanor, or maybe he's reading your thoughts and you're too tired to notice, but it feels like he understands that.

"Unlucky me." Again, his tone is lighter, not as intense. As if this were a completely normal conversation with a completely normal person. He's still watching you. In a group setting, with Daniel and Louis in the mix as well, it's not so noticeable. Not so…obvious, the magnitude of his stare. But here, alone in the quiet mid-afternoon sun, it's impossible not to feel its weight.

"Is there something I can help you with, or were you just curious how I take my coffee?"

"I heard you get up, smelled the coffee brewing, thought to myself, 'she can't possibly be having coffee now', and came to see it for myself."

"Is it really that shocking?”

"For you? No." Oh, ha ha, very funny. You bite the inside of your lip and shake your head at his gentle insult.

"I'll have you know I am not the only human to do this. Quite a few of my college friends commonly indulge in a post-morning coffee and are perfectly healthy." Fingers tighten around your mug defensively. Who cares about your coffee habits?

"So, you've seen my coffee, satisfied?"

"Not particularly. It only gives me more questions about your…strange behavior." He's gotten closer, leaning against the other end of the granite island. When did he do that?

"Well, it's a good thing I'm the one doing the interviewing and assessing, then. If you think my behavior is the only strange behavior here, then you, my friend, are delusional."

"Delusional?" His head cocks to the side, just an inch or so, slight.

"Delusional. Your behavior is far stranger than mine."

His eyes pinch slightly, "Care to elaborate?"

A grin plays at your lips, having successfully steered the conversation away from discussing anything about yourself, "Not off the record."

He's thoughtful for a moment, glances towards the living room, then presumably in the direction of Louis, their shared bedroom, then fixes you with a gaze so piercing you can almost feel blood trickling down your chest, as if ran through with a blade.

"On the record then." That makes you pause, arms frozen, cup halfway to your lips.

"Really? Just me and you, not Daniel or Louis present?" The excitement is impossible to keep out of your voice, try as you might to seem professional and composed. Bastard that he is, he picks up on it, the ghost of a smirk curling on his lips.

"Really. I figured it might help you get…unstuck."

Goddamn him. Of course, he knew. There have been few times in your life when you've wanted to actually hit someone; this was one of them, despite the idea's stupidity.

"How generous of you." The smile on your lips is tinged with venom, which he seems to relish; his smirk only widens at your obvious annoyance. "Go, sit, I'll be right there."

"Commanding a vampire. Bold. I've killed people for far less, you know." He stands up straighter, and you know he's not joking in the slightest, despite his teasing tone.

You blink at him, "Uh-huh," unfazed by his threat(?). Armand well and truly smiles at your reaction and moves into the living room, taking a seat on one of the armchairs.

There's a corner of the couch that has become unspokenly 'yours' during your interview sessions, up against the cushioned arm next to the coffee table. It gives you a good view of everyone, and you and Daniel can conspiratorially glance at one another. Protein bar between your teeth and coffee in hand, you walk over to your spot, tucking your legs under you as you sit. Coffee goes on a coaster, and you pull one of the throw blankets across your lap.

"Isn't the one being therapized the one who lies on a couch?" He's sitting forward in his seat, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped. You bite down on the bar in your mouth, tasting lemon and vanilla as you stare at him.

"It's a good thing I'm not a therapist then." You say as you chew. "And this isn't a therapy session. Lord knows neither of you would ever walk into one willingly." Out comes your phone, finger poised over the 'record' button.

For some reason, you pause, giving him the chance to volley your dig before you start the session. He eyes the phone, your hand, and lets out an exhale that you can't quite place.

"As if either of us needs it."

"I could wax poetic about the benefits of therapy, specifically the benefits that you and Louis would reap, but I'm not sure you want those details on record." The gears in your head are turning, as are his. It's odd, really, how alarmingly similar your minds are in some ways. Always watching. Always calculating.

He sighs and juts out his chin ever so slightly, "No. I appreciate the discretion. You may begin."

A little ding signifies that the recording has begun. You situate the phone on the coffee table between you and reach for your mug again, giving your hands something to do.

"This is solo session 1 with the Vampire Armand. The purpose of this session is to explain to him the irregularity of his behavior." You could've been a lot meaner; you could've been a prick. But this is official, this is on record, something he's only just committed to doing, so…best to tread lightly.

"I'm not sure if I would use the word 'irregular'." You arch a brow in response.

"Then what would you use?" He pauses again, calculating, always calculating.

"Unusual, might be the right word, but I'm still unsure as to what behavior you're even referring to."

A sip of coffee. "Let me preface that I say everything without judgment, despite what my tone may have you think." Just something to cover your ass if he starts to posture and get defensive, which he seems prone to do.

"You are aware of how you use control to manipulate people, yes?" You say in the most neutral voice you can muster up. He blinks once, twice.

"It is in the nature of a predator to manipulate its surroundings to a…favorable outcome, if that's what you mean."

He's not inept, he's ancient and wise and knows what the fuck he's doing. he's led a coven, two covens, and lived this long. He's being cagey.

"No. Well, not specifically. In many of the encounters you've described for Daniel and me, I found myself confused. Your behavior wasn't…consistent. In control and demanding in one instance and emotional and subservient in the next. And each time, it seemed to serve you in a specific way." There's not much of your coffee left, and you've only just begun. And what a fucking statement to begin with. He's wringing his hands, long fingers clenching and unclenching, and you watch them for longer than you would care to admit.

"Can't a person have dimension?" Is all he says.

"Sure, they can. But this…feels different. Do you deny that you feel the need to be in control at all times?" His eyes narrow in a way that feels like a warning.

"I would say I feel the need for control as much as anyone would." Huh.

"It's not a bad thing, the want of control. It usually comes from a traumatic event where you're not in control, as a way for your psyche to protect itself." You're aware of his past, what he told you of his night in the museum with Louis, the painting, Amadeo, Arun, the lot of it.

"I myself worry about things I can't control but wish I could. A fruitless endeavor, and yet still I make myself sick over it." It's an attempt to empathize, an attempt at kindness and understanding, so the likelihood of him eviscerating you goes down. Something hardens in his eyes, and some poor, sad part of your heart thumps in response. This is a killer, yes, but he wasn't always this.

"I do value self-preservation, so if I am controlling it is only that I want to continue to live."

"It's funny then, that you chose to reveal your past to Louis when you did."

That catches him off balance. Really, any mention of Louis does. Another irregularity. Why would the mention of his partner illicit such a response?

"I felt the need to explain to him…why I am the way that I am."

"Or you were doing damage control. You felt your grip on him slipping." Another bite of your protein bar. Keep it nonchalant and nonjudgmental.

Annoyance settles on his features like a mask, obscuring some other emotion that he's just barely suppressing, "I had no grip on him. If you'll care to remember, he was allowed to remain outside of the coven."

"And that in and of itself loosened your grip on the coven. His freedom. It pissed off Santiago to no end, and he just had to make it everyone's problem, ie, the scene at the restaurant." Even the mere mention of his name brought a sour taste to your mouth; you didn't like him and hated it when he was mentioned in Daniels' interviews.

"Your point being?"

"You brought Louis to the museum to reestablish your hold on him. You felt him slipping, felt his opinion of you changing. So you made yourself…sympathetic. Reminded him of the good in you. Let him feel as though he was…saving or protecting you. Whatever it was, it made him stick to you like glue. Crisis averted. With a tighter control on him, you could keep a closer eye on the coven." With every word you speak, it's as if the room becomes stiller. Like you are the only two beings in the world, frozen.

The chair squeaks a little as he leans back, eyes scanning you. Immediately, you become keenly aware of your mind. He's only gone rooting around in there a few times, thrice without consent and once with. You know what it feels like now, can better anticipate it, so you're on high alert whenever he gets quiet.

"And then there's the maitre of it all." Oh, now you've gone and done it. The French is a little clunky in your mouth, but you try your best. The effect the word has on him is…intriguing. A muscle in his jaw jumps, and his hands go still. In fact, his entire body stills, not even breathing.

"What does that have to do with anything?" His voice is like ice, and a thousand alarm bells are ringing somewhere, all screaming at you to abandon ship. Too bad you're not a skilled at self-preservation as he is.

"You're Maitre to the coven. Completely reasonable. But with Louis…you've called him maitre on multiple occasions. Sure, you could chalk it up to some sexual gratification, but I think there's more to it than that. A way to make yourself seem less dangerous than you really were, maybe?"

Armand looks as though he wants to stand up; everything in the way he is existing seems like it is itching to stand and yell and shout, a bundle of energy just barely contained.

"I love him, I wanted to show him that despite everything, I was devoted to him."

"No, I'm aware of that, and the fantasy of it all. A creature far more powerful than you, submitting to your whims because they love you or deem you special. The trust that comes with it. But we've established, the older you are, the more powerful you are as a vampire-"

"Something you seem to have forgotten." The thundering of your heart only picks up the pace at his threat. It's true, sometimes you do forget that he and Louis are not just men, that they could kill you as easily as breathing. Armand specifically listed numerous different abilities that he was capable of, all of which could kill you incredibly efficiently. And yet.

"I have not. And I will remind you, this is all observational. I am not here to pass judgment. I'm not…trying to insult you, or your relationship. This is what I do. We can stop at any point." Placating comes naturally to you, having pissed off quite a few people with your analysis. But the odds of it completely working here are slim.

Armand straightens, in such a way that it feels like he's looking down on you, "Maybe I do like to be in control. Maybe if only to prevent bothersome creatures from annoying me."

Despite yourself, a nervous smile plays on the edges of your mouth. "Armand. I am the least threatening person to you, probably in the world. I'm a weak human and you're a centuries-old immortal vampire. You are in control here. You don't need to posture like that to intimidate me. Next time I strike a nerve, you're welcome to tell me to fuck off." He seems to consider that for a few moments, mull it over in his mind. The silence is deafening, and it feels as though the sound of your breathing would shatter the world. He could kill you in this moment if he really wanted to. And it certainly looks like he's weighing that option.

"Alright…continue." He says, through contained annoyance.

"All I was going to point out is your…duality." That's a nicer way of putting it.

"My duality.

"Precisely. The image of you as the coven leader, maitre, unquestionable and unyielding, alongside the image of you as Le Serviteur with Louis. Lowering yourself for…his benefit and yours. In giving him some sense of control, you are, in a way, maintaining your control over everything. You are not unlike humans in that way. We are all self-serving." A compelling through-line: despite their immortal nature, vampires are, like most living things, ultimately self-serving creatures. Though they are undead, practically invulnerable, they will go to great lengths to preserve themselves, their environments, their control.

You force yourself out of your breakthrough reverie and put your focus back on Armand. Still tense, but managing it better.

"Such scathing insight. Comparing us to humans. While you are incredibly abrasive and your deductions are a bit crude and rudimentary, I suppose I do agree with you to an extent." It's…a lot more than you were expecting. He still seems like he might blow at any minute, but there's…some bridge that's been crossed.

"That's all I ask for. Consideration of my observations. Thank you, Armand. We can stop here if you'd like. And, I won't mention any of this to Daniel. You have final say on specifics, as always."

"And if I say you can't use any of this?"

"Then I won't. I respect your boundaries."

He was not expecting that; he was expecting disappointment, protest, begging.

"Really?"

"Really. I'll be bummed, but like we've previously established, you're the one in control here." What's one more stroke of his ego? You reach out a hand to turn off the recording, but you don't take your phone back just yet. If he wanted to, he could delete the recording or destroy your phone, though you hope he won't.

"You're no stranger to pissing people off, are you?" Well, that was unexpected.

"No, in fact, it seems I excel at it. Such is the nature of turning a mirror on the complicated parts of a person and forcing them to be reckoned with." It's true, your bluntness often gets you into trouble, especially after conducting research with more powerful or influential people. They don't like seeing the messy parts of themselves.

"And what do you suppose that says about you?" Oh. This was new.

You pause for a second, gathering your thoughts. "I guess…I show people parts of themselves they don't often see or parts they refuse to believe are real, and I don't concede. I don't back down. Why?"

"You enjoy pissing people off. If not that, then you enjoy provoking reactions out of people." He stands, and it feels like the world tilts on its axis. But it's not his doing; he's not in your head. It's just…he has that effect.

"Could it be that you're going around looking for a reaction? Looking for some sort of engagement? After all, an argument is still an interaction. Could it be that the reason you poke and prod, reaching for any kind of connection at all, is because of your crippling loneliness?" his stare fixes you to your spot, aimed down at you from his place on high. The light from the chandelier above you both is blocked by him, creating a halo around his dark curls. An angel of wrath, vengeance even.

One step, two, he's right off the edge of the sofa, "You've grown accustomed to licking your love and affection off of knives in the absence of a spoon." There is no kindness in his face, and yet no anger either. There is only one thing.

Interest.

Every nerve ending in your body feels as though it's resonating to a specific pitch, a glass about to be shattered by an operatic high note. To have the entirety of this being's, this man's attention is intoxicating in a way you know is bad for you. You know it's poison from the second it touches your lips, but you drink it down, only proving him right when you feel a sense of satisfaction creeping into your stomach.

How insane, that a few words and little movement can have you so…worked up; chest heaving as you struggle to take in air, heart racing up, up into your throat and threatening to spill out of you. Heat floods your cheeks, your ears, drips down your neck. Part of it is surely a survival response, your fight or flight reacting as it should to the predator in front of you. But the other part…

You have to say something. He's waiting. Waiting for whatever witty response you have, waiting for the swing you take at his pitch. Calculating. Save face, goddamn it.

"…I still don't have a prize to give you for being correct. You'll have to settle for my…confirmation of your assessment." Your voice could've been stronger, certainly could've shaken less, but you managed some level of calm. A feat all on its own.

A muscle twitches on his face, the barest hint of a smirk, but it could just be the flash of teeth.

"With you, that's prize enough." The satisfaction has saturated his very being. Here he is, smugly wielding the control he so desperately seeks.

It takes Herculean effort; it takes you shirking every ounce of your fear, mentally singing your nerve endings to give you the courage to stand. There's maybe a foot and a half of space between you. If this were any other man, you'd be able to feel his warmth. But there is none, and he is not any other man.

Both of your eyes meet, and the world threatens to ignite into a fiery blaze, "Careful," you tease, "keep offering me a knife to lick and I'll think it's flirting." You don't give him time to respond, to even soak in your bold statement; you're already scooping up your coffee dregs and walking back to your room.

"See you at tonight's session." You call over your shoulder, not daring to stop and look at the man you've left stunned, for fear any hesitation will lead to your untimely demise. Or worse.

Only when you reach the safety of your room, only when you have retreated to the bathroom and locked the door behind you, do you finally exhale. Did you really just do that? Did that really just happen? Are you actually living?

The water from the rainfall shower turns on as you twist the handle, and steam immediately floods the room. Turning, you catch your reflection in the mirror. You look…a mess. Eyes shining, skin warmed, sweat beading on your forehead.

Fuck.

This did not bode well for you. Interest can turn deadly in a millisecond if you're not careful.

You've never gone too far before, with your…antagonizing.

This time, you just might have.

[dudewithastick]

Bad Luck Charm | Masterlist

Series Summary: From the moment you move in, Jack knows you will be trouble. He just doesn't expect to get sucked into your chaotic life and become a main character in it, by sheer bad luck. Once involved, however, he isn't so sure he wants to escape all that much anymore.

Tags/Warnings: neighbor!reader, f!reader, reader uses she/her pronouns, age gap (reader doesn’t have a specific age, but the age gap will be thematized at some point), no use of Y/N, no use of any specific physical descriptions for reader, reader has the worst luck ever, reader needs therapy, reader is a people pleaser, awkward!reader, slow burn, more specific tags/warnings can be found in each chapter

English is not my first language, so please excuse any grammar mistakes or typos.

Add yourself to the Taglist Spotify Playlist Wattpad AO3

Chapters

01 - The one where Jack causes you to break your mirror. 02 - The one where Jack can't fall asleep because of you. 03 - The one where you get drunk and Jack takes care of you. 04 - The one where you think you slept with Jack. 05 - The one where Jack yells at you. 06 - The one where Jack clears things up and makes amends. 07 - The one where Jack worries when you don't show up anymore. 08 - The one where Jack offers to help you. 09 - The one where you tease Jack about his age. 10 - The one where you babysit and cosplay a chicken. 11 - The one where you get injured and Jack gets jealous. 12 - The one where Jack comes to your rescue when called. 13- The one where Jack grieves and takes out his pain on you. 14 - The one where Jack wants to reconcile, but you don't let him. 15 - The one where Jack can't reach you and snaps at your neighbor. 16 - The one where you let Jack finally apologize to you. 17 - The one where Jack subtly offers to be your sugar daddy. 18 - The one where you run into Jack while he is on a date. 19 - The one where you end up in the ER after a robbery. 20 - The one where Jack finally makes a (tiny) move. 21 - The one where you and Jack get in an accident and Robby thinks he knows best. 22 - The one where Jack sleeps over and you help each other overcome some insecurities. 23 - The one where you unknowingly meet Jack's mother. *NEW*

Media

Reader Camera Roll Chapter 01-09 Reader Camera Roll Chapter 10-11 Reader Camera Roll Chapter 12-17 Reader Camera Roll Chapter 18-20

Jack's Camera Roll (Brown!Reader) + Head Canons *NEW* Jack's Camera Roll (Ginger!Reader) + Head Canons *NEW*

TikTok Edit by kaia <3

Blurbs

A/N: I don't really plan on this series having a definite ending point, because I don't really see it as a full story and more like a collection of snippets out of Jack's and reader's life and them growing together. Starting with their first meeting, ending someday when I have run out of ideas.

Thank you so much for reading! Likes, comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated. I love hearing what you think, so feel free to let me know your ideas or random thoughts!

© 2026 dudewithastick

[seventiesaces]

Hi! I was wondering if you could write about being deans sister and secretly dating beau? Dean finds out in a funny way? Go crazy with it, I just love the concept🖤 Thanks✨✨

My first Beau story!! I hope you enjoy!

You are both Dean's favorite person on Earth, and the biggest pain in his ass. In some ways, the feeling was mutual towards your older brother.

As Briar biggest womanizer, Dean knew far too well how guy's minds operated. According to Dean, all guys care about is sex. Who they're having sex with, when they're next having sex and so on. This made your dating life complicated. Not because you believed Dean, but because he was a major cock block.

Starting on your first day of Briar, you seemed to have a sign on your chest saying, "Don't talk to me! I'm Di Laurentis' sister and he will kill you!"

It was a total bummer at first. The only guys you spent any time around without being scared off by Dean were his closest friends. The boys on the hockey team were a given, they all knew better than to cross that line. Then, you met Beau.

Beau was one of Dean's few non-hockey friends. Instead, as you learned, he was a cute football who had a love of broadway shows and always had a smile on his face. He loved his friends and worked hard in all aspects of his life. Within only a month of knowing Beau, you were falling for him. Hard.

Ironically, Dean's plan to only allow you to hang out with guys he trusted backfired. Beau would drive you home nearly daily from your classes, the two of you talking and sharing sheepish glances the entire way to your sorority house. Soon, those glances turned into lingering touches and longing stares before finally escalating to making out and grouping in his backseat.

Your relationship with Beau was one you kept quiet. Neither of you wanted Dean to know the truth, not because you didn't see it lasting but out of fear of his reaction. As time went on, you fell harder and harder for Beau and the feelings were returned.

By the hockey house end of school year party, the two of you were stuck together like glue. Dean seemed none the wiser, too busy with his own life to watch you too closely lately.

The party was one for the ages. As finals were finally wrapped up everyone had steam to burn and you were included. By the time the party slowed down, you were laid out on the living room floor. You couldn't stop giggling at the shapes on the water stained ceiling above your head.

"What are you giggling at, dovey?" Beau asked as he lowered himself onto the carpet next to you.

You pointed at the dark splotches. "That one looks like a duck."

Beau blinked at the shape before a giggle bubbled up from his own lips. "I see it." He nodded, turning to you with a goofy grin.

Tonight, he had barely drank anything. He wanted to be sharp, able to tackle anything while you were noticeably intoxicated. Dean passed him drinks all night, that Beau pretended to sip on but quickly replaced with water. The only thing he was drunk on right now was you and your laugh.

The two of you laid on the floor, holding each other, pointing on different images in the staining, and kissing until sleep took over. You fell asleep feeling warm all over, your heart full of love and comfort with Beau at your side.

"What the actual fuck?" Dean's yelling woke you up.

Your head was pounding. You felt a Beau's warm body wrapped around your own. Your leg was hooked around his hip and your face was buried deep into his chest. Beau was startled awake too, carefully pulling his arm out from under your head as you unhooked your leg from around him.

You both turned to Dean's voice, eyes wide like kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar. Dean was stood behind the couch, his hands on his hips like an angry father.

"I-" Beau started, glancing between the two of you. His hand was still on your lower back, gripping your shirt like he was afraid letting you go would mean you floating away.

You suddenly had a rush of anger, furrowing your brow at Dean, you stood. You pushed you finger into Dean's bare chest, making him jump back in confusion.

"You!"

"Me?" Dean asked, pointing to himself like he was unsure who you were referring to.

You jabbed your finger into his chest again, a deep frown on your face. "Yes, you! You are a cock block, Dean Di Laurentis!"

Beau's jaw dropped.

Dean gasped. "What-"

"And a hypocrite!" You continued, fuming. "Not only do you have the nerve to tell every guy at this school to not talk to me while being the BIGGEST slut at Briar, but you're mad because I found a way to find some great despite that?"

Dean paused, his eyes flickering from Beau to you apprehensively. He was picking his words wisely, opening his mouth and closing it like a fish out of water.

"I'm not mad." Dean stated slowly, trying to calm you down.

You narrowed your eyes, "You're not?"

"Nope," Dean shook his head, hands out like you were going to swing on him. "Just... surprised? I mean you and Beau cuddling on the floor is... different."

You took a step back and crossed your arms, still wary of his reaction. "So you're okay with us being together?"

Beau still said nothing, but his eyes were pleading as he stared at Dean from behind you. To Dean, you looked like Beau's attack dog.

"I mean," Dean clicked his tongue, letting his shoulders drop in defeat. "Yeah. Fine."

You squealed so loudly Dean's hands flew up to defend himself. You threw your arms around your brother.

"I love you, Dean!" You exclaimed, hugging him tightly.

Dean patted your back, looking up at Beau. Beau's own smile faded as Dean mouthed, "I'll fuck you up if you hurt her."

"Love you too, sis."

[thenortheastwriter]

Here We Go Again

Pairing: Beau Maxwell x Reader

Word Count: ~3k

Warnings: Slight smut if you squint.

Summary: There are five key moments in yours and Beau's friendship where he knows you're it for him. There’s one moment where something is done about it.

Author’s Note: One shot based off this request.

The first words Beau Maxwell ever said to you were “I think I’m in love with you,” after he witnessed you throw your drink in the face of a man at the beginning of junior year. You were at Malone's supporting Hannah since you and Allie convinced her to sign up for one of the open mic nights. And while you were roommates with Allie and Hannah, you hadn't yet met any of their newly acquired friends.

Looking away from the mojito-soaked man at the sound of his voice, you locked eyes with him for the first time. A smirk tugged at the corner of your mouth as your eyes slowly traveled down him, assessing, before moving back up to his eyes.

“In that case, Maxwell, I’ll take another mojito,” you tell him as you push the now-empty glass into his chest. He wraps his hand around your hand still holding the glass, giving you a genuine smile. And he will never know that you stopped breathing for a second at the feeling of his warm hand touching you. His pupils are dilated so much you can barely tell his eyes are the warmest shade of brown; a shade that will soon become a new comfort.

"You know me?"

"Everyone knows you," you tease. And they did. Beau knew they did, but he'd never been truly happy to be known until he met you. And he made sure he did everything in his power to know you too, starting with buying you a new drink.

I

"I brought three kinds of medicine, two different movie choices, and hot tea, which I will be forcing you to drink," you firmly stated as you barged into Beau's room during a Thursday in November. He hadn't shown up for breakfast in the food hall and hadn't answered your texts, so when you found Dean waiting in line to pay for his food, you demanded to know where Beau was.

Beau's room was completely devoid of light, air stale. At the sound of your voice, he startled awake with a cough that sounded painful. You flinched. He squinted as he looked at you, trying to discern your figure in the darkness.

"Angel?" He asked in a scratchy voice that sounded nothing like him. The nickname he gave you because of your Halloween costume that year was followed by another coughing fit. He lets out a groan once the coughing subsided. You frowned at the state of him. He looked like he’d barely gotten sleep and he was actively shivering despite the heater turning the room into a sauna.

"Oh, my Beau," you placed what you brought on his dresser before making your way over to his bed. You chucked your hoodie off and then crawled in next to him.

"You'll get sick," he mumbled as you draped your arm over his stomach. You scoffed and gave him a quick kiss on his cheek.

"And then you can take care of me." He snorted and gave your thigh a squeeze.

"You have class."

"And you're sick," you countered. He rolled his eyes, trying to hide the smile threatening to grow on his face. Snaking his arm under your neck, he fell back asleep as you gently combed your fingers through his hair. Hours later, he wakes to him spooning you. Your back cemented against his chest. He felt his heart speed up as he heard you let out a soft sigh after he pressed a kiss to the back of your head. Burying his face in your hair, he fell back asleep with a smile on his face.

II

"Are you sure he won't mind me wearing his jersey, Dean? That seems like it might be crossing a line," you huffed as he tugged one of Beau's spare jerseys out of his bag and threw it directly at your face. You knew Beau was nervous about this game because they were playing against Harvard, a team with no losses yet this year.

"You are the only woman Beau would be okay with wearing his jersey tonight," Dean assured you. You stared down at the fabric in your hands, the "13" underneath "MAXWELL" stared up at you. You originally planned to make a sign like Allie was, but Dean insisted you had to do more.

"Fine," you agreed, trying to ignore the butterflies in your stomach at the thought of how Beau would react to seeing you.

The stadium is completely packed by the time the three of you arrived. You followed after Dean and Allie, settling into the seats Dean bought for the three of you before you even had a chance to look at the tickets. They were as close as you could get to the field.

The sound in stadium was deafening, so Allie had to practically shout in your ear when she told you, "He's going to go crazy when he sees you in that!" You rolled your eyes at her playfully.

"I doubt he'll care," you told her. You heard Dean scoff next to her and you narrowed your eyes at him before quickly looking back to the field when the music announcing the home team’s entrance starts. Beau is the first one who runs out, the matching jersey hugged his frame while the one on you flooded. As he made his way back to the side of the field, helmet in hand, you saw his eyes scanning the crowd.

The sound, as loud as before, seemed to dull as he finally found you. A huge smile stretched onto his face as he waved to you. His eyes fell to your chest, and you saw him freeze mid-wave. His brows furrowed, face becoming serious before he gestured for you to turn around. You pulled your hair over your shoulder and turned so he could read the back.

Looking over your shoulder, you saw the smile returned to his face before he blew a kiss to you and then looked over at Dean and gave him a thumbs up. You giggled at how giddy he looked and sat in your seat as he started getting ready for the game.

You were on his mind the whole game, not in a distracting way, but in a way where he wanted to impress you since you decided to wear his name and number across your back. Briar ultimately won, the stadium went absolutely crazy as it was one of their best games to date.

The three of you had joined in on the crowds' chants when Allie turned to you, a shit-eating grin planted on her face.

“You know, you could celebrate tonight by letting Beau take that off you." She wiggled her eyebrows at you. You gave her shoulder a light shove and reminded her that "Beau doesn't think about me like that, we've been over this."

And if you didn’t see the way Dean slapped his hand against his forehead, you'd blame it on you watching Beau run up the stadium's steps to get to you.

III

"And you're sure you don't mind me kissing you?" Beau rolled his eyes at you and then shook his head.

“For the last time, Angel, if it helps you land the audition, plant one on me!” You giggled at his exasperation.

“I just want to be sure that this won’t make things weird,” you said throwing your hands up in defense playfully. You handed him the script before you grabbed your own.

“Okay, just read the lines as best you can. Ready?”

He nodded. You took a deep breath, closed your eyes, let it out slowly, and then opened your eyes. The two of you started, the scene an argument between a married couple because the husband just lost his job. The husband begging the wife not to leave him even though he can’t keep a job.

You had to give it to Beau, the man could act. You almost believed there was real emotion charging his acting when he got on his knees, hands gripping the end of your dress as he begged you to just listen to him, that he’d fix everything if you just kept loving him as he loved you. You delivered your lines perfectly.

You finally turned away from him, making to storm across the room before you felt his fingers wrapped around your wrist, tugging you towards him. You spun into his chest, heart pounding in your ears. The hand not in his grip was placed on his chest as you stared up into his eyes.

Beau’s eyes drifted to your lips before looking back into your eyes. You nodded slightly giving him permission. And even though the script didn’t specify what kind of kiss it was, you didn’t expect that.

He placed his hands on the sides of your face before slamming his lips onto yours. And the moan he let out was definitely not in the script. He kissed you like he was starving, your lips finding his again and again.

“So I was thinking we could start getting rea-OH FUCK!” The two of you jumped apart at the sudden voice, your chest heaved as you tried to suck in air, fingers gently brushed your lips.

Allie stood in your room’s doorway, completely shocked by what she’d witnessed. You immediately started shaking your head at her.

“No, no, this isn’t what it looks like! I needed help for the audition. We were rehearsing lines, it was nothing else,” you explained hoping she wouldn’t press the matter. What you didn’t see was Beau’s devastated face because of the wording you’d used. The ache behind his ribs grew as the pressure from your kiss started fading.

IV

"It's two in the morning. Are you okay?" Beau asked concerned as he picked up the phone call immediately after the sound of the first ring jolted him out of sleep. He heard rustling from the other end of the line.

"Angel, I can't hear you," he yawned out as he sits up in his bed. And then he heard it. Moaning, you moaning. Muffled like the phone is under a blanket. Beau's breath hitched. And then came a man's voice telling you how good you're being for him.

And Beau hated himself for not hanging up as soon as he realized you'd somehow butt-dialed him in the middle of having sex, but he'd blame it on the shock if questioned. He heard the man tell you to get on your hands and knees, and only after he heard you beg the man in a whiny voice to stop teasing you and what he assumed was the man smacking your ass with a groan, did he yank the phone from his ear and end the call.

He didn’t realize how heavy he'd been breathing until he laid back down, cock throbbing, strained against his boxers. And it's not the first time he'd gotten off thinking about his best friend, but it's the first time he'd done it knowing exactly what you'd sound like underneath him.

V

"I just really, really love him," you cried into your cup. Hannah had been sitting next to you on the hockey house's couch, listening to you rant about Beau. At a certain point she had wandered off to the bathroom, but you felt her settle back down next to you. You hadn't looked at her because you had started tearing up after she left, and you knew the tears would fall if you looked at her.

"Wait, who?" You heard next to you in a voice that was definitely not Hannah. Your body froze, eyes widening as you slowly turned your head to look next to you, already knowing who would be sitting there.

Beau was staring at you with a frown on his face.

"Angel, you didn't tell me you're in love."

"I mean, we don't really talk about those things," you said quietly with an awkward laugh. You prayed he didn’t realize you’d been talking about him.

"We don't talk about our hookups, but of course I want to know if you're in love." And that was the first and only time Beau ever lied to you because he knew that he didn’t want to ever see you fall in love with someone else. But knowing that you had already fallen in love with someone felt like he’d been punched in the stomach. His mind focused immediately.

“It’s nothing serious. I would’ve told you if it was,” you promised, voice shaky. “He doesn’t love me back anyway.” You gave him a sad smile.

Beau felt like the worst person in the world for having felt relieved that whoever you were in love with wasn’t in love with you too. He immediately shoved all of his emotions to the side after he saw a tear roll down your cheek. He swiped it away before he gave you a kiss on your cheek.

“Well, he’s an idiot. Come on,” he told you as he stood, fingers wiggling at you. You laced your fingers through his and let him pull you up. He weaved you through the other people at the party.

“Where-” you started.

“Guest room, Angel. Party is over for us tonight.” He gave your hand a squeeze. And your heart physically ached at how much you feel for him while knowing he would never feel it in return.

The rest of the night consisted of Beau giving you the shirt he’d brought to sleep in, him gently wiping your makeup off, grabbing you both water, advil, and snacks, before the two of you finally climbed into bed.

“Mamma Mia?” He asked as he turned on the tv.

“Please,” you murmured as you threw another chip in your mouth. And that’s how the two of you fell asleep an hour later: tipsy, Mamma Mia playing quietly, chips spilled on the ground, and you curled up on top of him.

Now

Beau smelled you before he saw you. The theme for his and Dean’s joint birthday party being masquerade caused him to be vigilantly searching for you since the party started an hour ago. You had warned him that you wouldn’t be taking the theme lightly and that he’d have to find you. He realized now that you hadn’t been joking.

But as soon as your perfume, that blend of coconut and vanilla, hits his nose, he whips his head around to the woman walking towards the kitchen. You have on a short, blood red dress, dripping with rubies; a loan from the theatre’s costume department. The way it hugs your body has every man’s head turning to follow you. Beau’s jaw tightens at this revelation. Your toned legs are accentuated by the stilettos digging into your feet, and all he can think about is having them thrown over his shoulders.

As you get to the kitchen, you look back towards Beau over your shoulder, your mask covering enough of your face that most people wouldn’t know who you are.

But Beau isn’t most people, and he’ll be damned if any other man holds your attention tonight. With no hesitation, he moves through the crowd, eyes fixed on you, the smirk on your face growing as he gets closer.

“How long have you been here?” Is the first thing out of his mouth as he pulls you down the hall next to kitchen and crowds you against the wall. He’s not even trying to hide the way his eyes are cataloging every centimeter of you, something which doesn’t go unnoticed by you as your cheeks grow warm.

“Long enough to see you and Emily getting cosy,” you tell him, head cocking to the side, jealousy coating every word. He tugs your mask off your face before he dips his head, mouth next to your ear, and whispers, “I’m begging you to tell me that’s jealousy I’m hearing.”

Your breath hitches, head jerking back to look into his eyes. The smell of the alcohol lingering on his breath mixed with the cologne you had bought him for his birthday makes your head go fuzzy.

“Jealousy?”

“If this isn’t jealousy, I can always go see where Emily went off to.” Your eyes narrow looking up at him as your hand shoots down to wrap around his wrist. He lets out a chuckle.

“Don’t.”

“No?”

You firmly shake your head. He begins to smile before stopping, thinking back to the month before when you’d been crying over the man who didn’t love you. The two of you hadn’t discussed it again after that night, but he knew he wouldn’t survive trying to make a move finally if you still had feelings for another man.

“You still in love, Angel?” Your eyes flicker over his face. The open desperation painted on it knocks the air out of your lungs. How hadn’t you seen it? All the times Allie and Hannah, or even one of the hockey guys implied Beau felt the same way come rushing into your mind.

And that realization, coming from the wild look in his eyes, is what gives you the final push.

“With you, my Beau? Always,” you breathe. And his lips are immediately on yours. You kiss him back frantically, your hands settling on his shoulders, you slide one up the back of his neck, fingers tugging at his hair as he digs his fingers into your hips. His hands hold you firmly against the wall as he breaks the kiss, but then he starts sprinkling your face with light kisses until you’re giggling.

“Say it,” he begs, and when you don’t respond immediately, he adds in a, “please.”

“I’m in love with you, Beau Maxwell,” you whisper as you look into his eyes.

“I’m in love with you, Angel, desperately.” He rests his forehead against yours for a second.

“I know this isn’t romantic, but I am unofficially asking you to let me be your boyfriend,” he raises his finger to cut you off as you’d opened your mouth to question him, “Unofficially because I can’t wait for you to be mine, but I also know you deserve to be asked properly, so I’d like to prepare that.”

“I would love nothing more than for you to be my boyfriend,” you say, pushing up on your toes to kiss him again.

He stops you right before his lips touch yours and asks, “Just to be clear, I was the one you were in love with last month, right?”

Taglist: @maxcalore3

[ilikeit-art]

[cartoondog]

we are gonna be vacuuming up this post for the next five years

[im-a-dragon-cawcaw]

[book-lish]

24.)“If she dumped me, I’d respect her decision. Then I’d throw up.”

Dean Di Laurentis x Reader

“Dude, why is she just staring out the window?” Logan asks. New Moon is currently playing on the flat screen in the hockey house.

“Logan shut up, I’m trying to watch.” Tucker says throwing pop corn at his head. Hannah laughs. It was your idea to have a Twilight marathon.

“Honestly, it’s a valid reaction.” Hannah says to Logan as Bella stares into the distance as the months pass.

“I don’t know, that is not how I’d handle a break up.” Logan says shaking his head.

“Oh yes, and do tell us how the John Logan would handle a breakup?” Dean asks.

“I don’t know, not like that. Maybe some ice cream?” Logan says defensively. Dean scoffs, and you stifle a laugh as you curl into his side.

“Oh come on Dean, what would you do?” Logan asks rolling his eyes.

“If she dumped me,” he says, motioning to you with his head. “I’d respect her decision.” He says seriously. “Then I’d throw up.” He adds.

You laugh. “Oh baby.” You say sympathetically, laying your head on his shoulder. Logan rolls his eyes.

“Well, obviously that’s not happening anytime soon.” Logan says. You stick your tongue out at him.

“Never actually.” You say sassily. Dean sticks his tongue out at Logan too, before kissing your temple, which then leads to him kissing your lips. Which quickly transpires into him pulling you onto his lap, a full on makeout session starting on the couch.

“Okay, okay, get a room or watch the movie.” Garrett says. Hannah grabs a throw pillow tossing it at you while laughing.

“I’ve already watched the entire Twilight franchise, thank you very much.” Dean says, hauling you over his shoulder and heading up the stairs. You wave at your friends.

“Bye, bye!” You say. Dean smacks your ass.

“Please don’t be too loud, I’m trying to see if Bella will go to the wolf boy.” Tucker protests. You laugh.

“No promises!” Dean shouts as you reach his room and he shuts the door.