it was your choice, you reminded yourself, repeating the mantra that had kept you upright for the last twelve weeks. you chose to walk out of his room. you chose not to call.

"he's not your father," your roommate and best friend, trinity, had argued just the night before.

she had been pacing the worn linoleum floor of your shared campus apartment, her eyes tracking you with a mix of fierce worry and frustration while you sat on the bathroom floor, throwing up into a plastic trash can.

"dean is a lot of things. he's a flirt, he's loud, he's a massive distraction, and he lives in a house that smells like stale beer and hockey sweat. but he isn't a monster. you have to tell him, or i swear to god i'm going to find tucker at the rink and have him do it for you." she sighed as you shook your head.

you knew trinity meant well.

you really, truly did.

she was the one who bought you saltine crackers at two in the morning, the one who held your hair back, and the one who looked up single-mother grant programs on her laptop when you were too exhausted to think.

she wasn't trying to force your hand out of malice; she just hated seeing you carry an entire universe on your shoulders when there was a perfectly capable guy who helped put it there.

but trinity didn't have your history.

she hadn't grown up listening to the bitter, cautionary tales of a mother who got pregnant at a college party by a boy (your father) who vanished into thin air the second the test turned pink.

she hadn't seen the quiet, exhausting toll of a woman working two jobs just to buy school supplies, always reminding her daughter that boys with bright smiles and big reputations were nothing but a beautiful trap.

to you, dean di laurentis was the ultimate manifestation of that danger.

he was briar university's golden boy, a hockey legacy with a jawline carved by the gods and an easy, effortless charm that made everyone in his orbit feel like the center of the universe.

he possessed a reputation for a rotating door of admirers that preceded him everywhere he went, from the campus coffee shops to the crowded lecture halls.

you had been one of those quiet admirers for semesters, harboring a private, desperate crush from the safety of the upper student section at the arena.

you were a psychology major, someone who spent her days analyzing behavior and defense mechanisms, yet you couldn't analyze yourself out of the way your chest tightened every time he took the ice.

then came a party in early november.

emboldened by a little too much vodka and the sheer, infectious electricity of the team's victory, you had actually pursued him.

you hadn't just watched from the corner this time; you had walked right up to him at the kitchen island, matched his easy, arrogant banter with a sharp wit he hadn't expected, and when the chance arose to leave the noise behind and go up to his room, you took it.

and god, he had been wonderful.

that was the part that terrified you the most.

he wasn't the careless, selfish playboy you had braced yourself for; he was attentive and entirely intoxicating.

he had asked you questions, looked at you like he actually wanted to hear the answers, and held you like you were something fragile and precious.

but when you woke up the next morning wrapped in his sheets, the freezing weight of reality had set in.

the morning sun filtered through his blinds, illuminating the hockey medals on his dresser and the stray red plastic cups on the floor.

you were just a tuesday night after a massive win.

to save yourself the humiliation of a polite, dismissive text three days later, you had gathered your clothes from the floor, slipped your shoes on, and walked out of his life before he even stirred.

three weeks later, the morning sickness had started.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

"patient 114?" a nurse called out, holding an electronic chart and looking around the waiting room with an expressionless, practiced gaze.

you swallowed the lump in your throat, stood up completely alone, and smoothed down the front of your sweater.

you walked past the couple, feeling the immense, crushing gravity of a secret that was growing bigger by the second.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

the briar u campus was experiencing an unseasonably warm spring afternoon two months later.

winter had finally cracked, leaving the quad packed with students lounging on blankets, tossing frisbees, and desperately trying to absorb enough vitamin d to survive the final stretch of the semester.

you sat under the deep, cool shade of a massive oak tree near the psychology building. you were wearing a loose dress—a highly tactical choice. at five months, you couldn't hide the changes with just oversized hoodies and clever posture anymore. the dress camouflaged the distinct, rounded curve of your belly perfectly, as long as you remained sitting down with your knees pulled slightly toward your chest.

you opened your heavy developmental psychology textbook, trying to focus on a chapter about early childhood attachment styles, but the heat and the persistent, dull ache in your lower back were making your eyes heavy.

your mind kept wondering how you were going to afford a crib and how you were going to explain to a child one day why their father was just a face on a hockey trading card.

more than anything, you were determined to continue your studies.

you hadn't spent years maintaining a high gpa just to drop out.

you were going to graduate from briar, baby or no baby.

your due date was calculated for mid-august, right before the fall semester began.

it was going to be a logistical nightmare, juggling a newborn and upper-level psychology seminars, but you were already mapping out a rigid study schedule in your planner.

you would survive it.

you had to.

a loud, booming laugh echoed across the lawn, instantly making your chest tighten so fast you lost your breath.

you looked up from the pages.

a dozen yards away, the hockey team was walking back from an afternoon workout at the campus gym.

they were a loud, boisterous pack, trailing duffel bags over their shoulders and laughing at some inside joke.

at the very center of the group was dean.

his damp hair was pushed back from his forehead, his gray briar athletics t-shirt clinging to his chest, and that trademark, effortless smile was polished across his face as he joked with garrett graham.

your hand moved automatically to your stomach, protectively covering the life growing inside you.

you pulled your massive textbook higher up against your chest, freezing like a deer caught in the high beams of a semi-truck.

please don't look over here. please just keep walking to the dining hall.

dean was laughing, his shoulders shaking as garrett gestured wildly, but as his eyes scanned the quad, his gaze inadvertently drifted toward the shade of your tree.

you looked down instantly, staring so hard at a paragraph on cognitive dissonance that the black ink blurred into meaningless lines.

dean paused mid-stride.

his brow furrowed, his sneakers digging into the soft grass.

the easy, permanent smile faltered as a sharp, incredibly vivid memory flashed through his mind.

the specific, soft scent of your skin, the quiet, grounding confidence you had shown when you walked up to him at the party, and the sudden, confusing sting of disappointment he had

felt when he woke up to a cold, empty bed.

he had looked for you for weeks after that night.

he had asked around, looked through social media, but briar was a massive university, and you had intentionally made yourself a ghost.

"hey, dean, you coming or what? the burrito place fills up fast on thursdays," tucker called out, noticing his friend had suddenly dropped back from the group.

"yeah. go ahead, man. i'll catch up with you guys in a minute," dean muttered, his eyes locked entirely on the girl under the oak tree.

he started walking across the grass.

every step he took felt like a countdown to an explosion you couldn't prevent.

you saw his shadow fall over your open textbook, blocking out the filtered sunlight, before you finally forced yourself to look up.

"hey," dean said. his voice was softer than it usually was, completely stripped of the loud, easy bravado he carried around his teammates.

he rubbed the back of his neck, looking uncharacteristically nervous, his fingers twitching against his duffel bag strap. "it's... you. right? from my place, a few months ago? you kind of vanished into thin air."

"dean. hi," you managed to choke out. your heart was hammering against your ribs so violently you were certain he could see it through your clothes.

your palms were slick with sweat against the cardboard cover of your book. "yeah. i—i have a class to get to, actually—"

terrified of what he might see if he looked too closely at your posture, you scrambled to gather your things.

but your balance was off, your center of gravity completely shifted by the pregnancy.

your coordination failed, and the heavy psychology textbook slipped from your fingers, hitting the grass with a dull thud.

papers and highlighters tumbled out.

you instinctively reached down to grab it, but the physical restriction of your five-month belly made the movement clumsy.

as you bent over, the fabric of your dress pulled tight across your torso, outlining the unmistakable and beautifully rounded curve of your stomach.

dean bent down at the exact same time to grab the book for you, his large hand reaching for the cover, but his movements froze entirely.

from his angle, right at eye level with your lap, there was no hiding it.

the truth was standing between you, loud and undeniable.

dean's eyes widened, the blue of his irises bright with absolute shock.

his mind, usually so quick with a joke or a strategic play on the ice, ground to a screeching, chaotic halt.

he looked from your stomach, up to your terrified face, and back down again.

the timeline crashed into his head like a brutal body check against the boards. late fall. the championship party. five months ago. the night she left.

"is that..." dean's voice cracked, losing all of its usual suave composure. he dropped the textbook entirely back into the grass, his hands hovering in the air between you as if he were afraid to touch reality, his fingers trembling slightly. "wait. hold on. is that mine?"

panic, cold and sharp as ice water, flooded your veins.

the judgment of the campus, the ghost of your mother's past, the terrifying fear of him laughing or calling you a liar—it all hit you at once, blinding your senses.

you grabbed your tote bag, shoving the loose highlighters inside with trembling hands, and pushed past him, your boots skidding on the dirt.

"i have to go, dean. just leave it alone."

"hey, wait. please. stop." dean scrambled after you, his long, athletic strides easily catching up before you could even reach the paved pathway.

he didn't grab you roughly, but he placed a gentle, pleading hand on your forearm, just enough to anchor you, his grip warm and remarkably steady despite his shock.

when you spun around to face him, you had tears blurring your vision, the quad spinning around you.

dean looked entirely breathless, his chest heaving under his t-shirt as he stared at you. there was immense shock in his eyes, yes, but beneath it, moving in like a tidal wave, was an intense, unexpected expression of sheer protectiveness.

"please don't run away again," dean whispered, his gaze dropping down to the curve of your dress, then right back up into your tear-filled eyes. "just... talk to me. please. you don't have to run."

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

an hour later, you were sitting in the farthest corner booth of a quiet, dim, off-campus diner that was usually empty between the lunch and dinner rushes.

the jukebox in the corner was dark, and the only sound was the low sizzle of the kitchen grill behind the counter.

dean had bought you a grilled cheese sandwich and a massive, condensation-covered glass of milk.

he hadn't forced you to say a word since he had guided you into his car. he just sat across from you, his large frame filling the vinyl booth, watching you with an intensity that made your skin prickle, his hands clasped tightly on the table.

"why didn't you tell me?" he asked quietly, breaking the long silence.

his fingers traced the ring of water left by his glass on the tabletop. "i've been racking my brain for the last hour trying to figure out if i did something wrong that night. what did i do? did i hurt you? did i make you feel like i wouldn't care? did i say something stupid?"

"no," you said, your voice cracking as you looked out the window at the passing traffic.

your fingers tore off a tiny piece of the sandwich crust, though your stomach was too twisted to eat. "you were great, dean. it wasn't you. it was... everything else. it was me."

"it's obviously not just you," he said gently, leaning forward, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that demanded honesty. "help me understand. please. because waking up to an empty room was bad enough, but finding out you've been carrying this around for five months by yourself? that hurts."

and then, because the weight of the last twenty weeks was simply too heavy for your shoulders to bear anymore, the dam broke.

the psychological walls you had meticulously built up over years crumbled into dust.

you told him everything.

you told him about your mother.

you told him about growing up in a tiny house where every bill was a crisis, listening to the story of a popular college athlete who had promised your mother the world under the red solo cup lights of a fraternity house, only to pack his bags and transfer schools the second the word baby was spoken.

you told him about the terrifying statistics of single-parent households you read in your text books, the deep-seated fear of being a burden, and the agonizing weight of those clinic appointments where you sat alone in a sea of happy, supportive couples.

"i looked at them, dean," you whispered, a tear finally escaping and slipping down your nose. "i sat there every month, watching these guys hold their wives' hands, carrying their bags, looking at the sonogram photos like they'd just won the lottery. and i was just... patient 114. i didn't want to see the look on your face if you thought i was trying to trap you. i didn't want to see you walk away like he did."

dean listened to every single word, his body perfectly still.

his jaw clenched tighter and tighter with every sentence that left your mouth, not with anger directed at you, but with a profound, simmering fury at the ghost of the man who had raised you to believe that all men were cowards.

his chest rose and fell heavily.

when you finished, wiping your cheek with the back of your hand, dean didn't hesitate.

he reached across the table, his arm bridging the distance between your separate worlds, and took your hand in his.

his palm was rough from hockey sticks, warm, and incredibly solid.

"i am not him," dean said, his voice dropping an octave, completely fierce and steady. there was no hesitation in his eyes, no panic, no calculation. "i don't care about my reputation. i don't care that we're still in college. this is my kid, too. and more importantly, it's you. i'm not going anywhere. do you hear me? i am right here."

you looked down at his large hand covering yours, desperately wanting to believe the warmth of it, but the old survival instincts were hard to kill.

"dean, you don't have to pretend for my sake. you have a life. you have scouts coming to games, you have a professional career ahead of you, you have your friends—"

"hey," he interrupted gently, his thumb rubbing circles against the back of your hand, mimicking the gesture you had envied in the waiting room months ago. "let's make a deal. no pressure. i know i have a lot to prove to you. just let me be your friend. let me carry your bags. let me take you to the doctor. let me show you that you don't have to do this alone anymore."

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

true to his word, dean shifted his entire universe within forty-eight hours.

the transformation was nothing short of a statistical anomaly to anyone who knew him.

the guy who used to sleep until noon on days off and survive on cold pizza and protein shakes was suddenly standing outside your dorm building at 9:00 am.

he would be waiting in his idling car, the passenger seat already stocked with saltine crackers and pre-packaged ginger ale because he had spent the previous night reading medical forums about morning sickness trends in the second and third trimesters.

at first, it was kind of awkward.

you were protective of your routine, used to relying only on yourself and trinity but dean was persistent in the most gentle way possible.

he became your shadow on campus.

he would meet you outside your difficult seminars, completely unbothered by the lingering stares and whispers of his teammates or the girls who used to follow him around the quad.

he would silently take your heavy canvas backpack from your shoulders, slinging it over his own massive arm alongside his hockey gear, and walk at your slower, deliberate pace without a single complaint.

"you know people are talking, right?" you asked him one afternoon as you walked toward the library, your hand resting on the small of your aching back.

"let them talk," dean said, shrug of his shoulders easy and unbothered. "they're just jealous i get to hang out with the smartest girl on campus. besides, tucker tried to ask me about it yesterday, and i told him if he didn't shut his mouth i would chuck him into the net during practice. he hasn't brought it up since."

you couldn't help the small laugh that escaped you, the sound surprising even yourself.

dean looked down at you, his eyes softening at the sound, a faint spark in his gaze that made your stomach do a completely different kind of flip.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

by the sixth month, your apartment had become a secondary storage unit. dean had told his parents. you had been terrified of that phone call, expecting high-society rejection, but his mother had apparently gone into full grandmother mode within thirty seconds.

huge boxes began arriving weekly—baby blankets, organic cotton onesies, a high-tech stroller, and specialized maternity pillows.

but the most significant change was inside dean's shared house. he had cleaned out the small spare room on the first floor, moving out old fitness equipment and broken hockey sticks.

in its place, he had moved in a massive, incredibly plush velvet rocking chair.

"what is this?" you asked, standing in the doorway of the room during a saturday visit where he had insisted on making you lunch.

"it's a glider," dean said proudly, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel as he stood behind you. "i read that the movement helps with lower back pain during the third trimester.

and, you know... just in case you ever want to visit and your back hurts, you have a place that's yours."

you looked at the chair, then at the hockey star who had bought it, feeling the cold, icy edges of your old trauma melting away a little bit more every day.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

the true turning point came during the eighth-month ultrasound appointment.

the clinic waiting room looked exactly the same as it had during your first trimester—same low hum, same couples holding hands.

but this time, the space felt completely different. you weren't hiding under an oversized sweater, and you weren't staring at a frayed thread.

you were sitting next to dean. his large frame was crammed into the small plastic waiting room chair, his knees nearly touching his chin, but he didn't look impatient at all.

he was reading a pamphlet on newborn sleep cycles with a level of concentration usually reserved for analyzing a rival team's defensive plays.

"patient 114—sorry, i mean, by your last name?" the nurse called out, correcting herself with a warm smile as she recognized you.

you stood up, and before you could even reach for your purse, dean was already on his feet, grabbing your coat and slinging your tote bag over his shoulder.

he extended his free hand to you, his fingers open, waiting.

you hesitated for a fraction of a second before sliding your hand into his, letting his warmth steady you as you walked down the narrow hallway.

the ultrasound room was dim, the monitor glowing with a soft blue light.

you laid back on the paper-covered table, pulling up your shirt to expose the massive, high, tight curve of your eight-month belly.

dean sat in the chair right next to your head, his eyes wide as the technician squeezed the cold, clear gel onto your skin.

he didn't look away for a second, his grip on your hand tightening as the technician pressed the transducer against your stomach.

at first, there was only static—a rushing, hollow sound of fluids and movement. then, with a slight adjustment of the plastic wand, the audio cleared, and a loud, rhythmic sound filled the small room.

thump-thump, thump-thump.

"there we go," the technician said gently, pointing a finger at the grainy, gray-and-white screen. "there's a strong heartbeat. looks like baby is growing right on schedule."

you looked over at dean, expecting him to look overwhelmed by the sheer finality of the sound.

instead, you found him staring at the monitor with thick, silent tears streaming straight down his cheeks.

his jaw was slightly slack, a soft, breathless laugh escaping his lips as he stared at the little flickering shape on the screen.

"that's... that's our baby," he whispered, his voice thick and raspy with an emotion so raw it made your own eyes well up with tears.

he leaned over the edge of the table, completely unbothered by the technician's presence, and pressed a gentle, lingering kiss to the back of your knuckles, his forehead resting against your hand for a long moment. "look at that, sweetheart. we made a little athlete. listen to that pace."

in that exact moment, the final, stubborn, defensive walls around your heart—the ones built by your mother's warnings, the ones built by years of watching men walk away from hard things—completely crumbled into nothing.

you realized that trinity had been right from the very start. dean wasn't your father.

he was entirely, undeniably his own man.

and he was already a father.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

by the time your ninth month arrived, the unseasonably warm spring had turned into the suffocating heat of late summer.

walking across the campus pavement felt like trekking through a desert, and your ankles had reached a level of swelling that made shoes feel like instruments of torture.

the platonic friendship dean had insisted on maintaining had grown desperately fragile over the last few weeks—not because it was failing, but because the sheer, undeniable gravity of the romantic tension between you had become too loud to ignore.

every touch lingered a second too long; every look held a weight that had nothing to do with doctor's appointments or crib instructions.

one evening, a thunderstorm was rolling in over the campus, the sky a bruised purple color that brought a temporary coolness to the air.

you were sitting on the plush sofa in dean's living room, surrounded by a mountain of freshly washed baby clothes that needed to be sorted into bins.

dean's teammates were away for the weekend, leaving the house uncharacteristically quiet, save for the low rumble of thunder outside.

dean was sitting on the hardwood floor right by your feet, a bottle of lavender lotion in his hand.

he had your bare, swollen left foot resting on his knee, his large, calloused thumbs working in slow, rhythmic circles across your arch with a level of focus that made your heart ache.

"dean?" you said softly, breaking the steady sound of the rain against the windowpane.

"yeah, sweetheart?" he murmured, his gaze remaining down on his hands, his thumbs never stopping their steady, soothing pressure.

"why are you doing all of this?" you asked. the question had been sitting on your tongue for weeks, a final, lingering piece of uncertainty that needed to be aired out. "the baby isn't even here yet. you've spent every weekend for months building furniture, reading parenting manuals, handling my moods, and taking care of me. you didn't have to go this far just to prove you're a good guy. you proved that a long time ago."

dean stopped his movements.

his hands remained cupped around your foot for a long, silent moment while the thunder rolled outside the house.

slowly, deliberately, he let go of your foot and shifted his weight, rising until he was kneeling on the floor right in front of you, his face level with yours.

he reached up, his hands large and incredibly warm as he placed them gently on either side of your face, his thumbs wiping away the sudden, familiar spike of anxiety in your eyes.

"you really are a psychology student, aren't you? always trying to find the hidden motive," he said, a soft, incredibly tender smile breaking across his lips—a smile that was completely devoid of his usual arrogance, leaving only the raw truth underneath. "i stopped doing this just for the baby a long time ago."

your breath hitched in your throat, your fingers tightening against the fabric of the baby blanket in your lap. "dean..."

"i love this kid, yeah. i would do anything for them," he confessed, his blue eyes burning into yours with absolute, unshakable certainty. "but i fell completely, totally in love with you. i love how fierce you are. i love how hard you tried to protect this baby from the world, even when you were terrified. i love the way you laugh when you think i'm being an idiot. i don't want to just be a great co-parent, and i don't want to just be the guy who carries your backpack. i want the whole thing. i want you."

your tears, warm and entirely relieving, spilled over your eyelashes, wetting his thumbs.

for the first time in your entire life, the ghost of your mother's past was entirely gone, vanished into the air like smoke.

there was no trap here.

there was only the beautiful, terrifying, certain reality of the man kneeling in front of you.

"took you long enough to finally say it," you whispered, a watery, breathless smile breaking through your tears.

dean let out a low, rough laugh as he leaned up the remaining few inches to press his lips against yours.

the kiss was sweet, slow, and full of a million quiet promises he had already spent the last four months keeping.

it tasted like rain and lavender lotion and home.

his fingers slid through your hair, holding you close, while his other hand moved down, flattening completely against the large, warm curve of your belly, feeling the faint, rhythmic kick of the life you had created together.

when he finally pulled away, just enough to breathe, he rested his forehead against yours, his thumbs tracing your cheekbones.

"we're going to be completely fine," dean whispered against your skin, his voice a fierce, unbreakable vow meant for both you and the little heartbeat inside you. "the three of us. i promise you. i'm right here."

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

the rhythmic click of a ballpoint pen was the loudest sound in the massive, tiered lecture hall.

you sat in the middle row of your advanced cognitive psychology seminar, your notebook laid out flat on the folding desk, your hand flying across the page to copy down the professor's slides on memory retrieval mechanisms.

beside your desk, tucked safely into the wide aisle, sat a heavy car seat wrapped in a soft navy blanket.

inside, just thirteen weeks old, rowan di laurentis was dead to the world.

his tiny fists were curled up next to his cheeks, a soft, rhythmic whistle puffing past his parted lips with every breath.

when the professor paused to switch slides, you glanced down, your heart swelling with a fierce, possessive warmth.

rowan had been born right on schedule in mid-august, and while the rest of your class spent the last week of summer partying, you and dean had been operating on two-hour sleep cycles, mastering the art of the swaddle, and staring at this tiny boy like he held the secrets to the universe.

some of your classmates had looked surprised to see you walk in three months after college had began with a stroller, but you had just offered them a polite, unbothered smile.

you were going to be a psychologist and rowan wasn't a reason to stop—he was the reason to run faster.

you dipped your hand down, gently brushing your index finger against rowan's minuscule knuckles.

his tiny hand instinctively locked around your finger, holding on tight even in his sleep.

you smiled, unhooked your finger, and went right back to typing your notes.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

across campus, the atmosphere was entirely different.

coach jensen's whistle blew, a sharp, piercing sound that sent the players scattering toward the benches for a two-minute hydration break.

dean skated hard over to the boards, his chest heaving under his heavy briar jersey, his face flushed red from the intense cardio drill. but he didn't reach for his water bottle first.

instead, he skated right toward the end of the team bench where a familiar, high-tech stroller was parked just behind the safety plexiglass, safely out of the way of any stray pucks.

trinity was sitting on the bench next to it, typing on her phone, fulfilling her promised shift of baby duty while she studied for her own classes.

dean ripped his heavy padded gloves off with his teeth, dropping them onto the ice, and leaned over the boards.

rowan was awake now, wearing a miniature, custom-made briar hockey jersey over his onesie, his massive brown eyes staring up at the bright stadium lights.

"how's my little winger doing?" dean breathed, his voice dripping with an absurd, high-pitched softness that made garrett graham laugh from three feet away.

dean reached over the plexiglass, his hand gently resting against rowan's tiny chest, his thumb stroking the soft cotton of the jersey. "you being good for auntie trinity? you watching daddy's skating form?"

rowan let out a tiny, erratic gurgle, kicking one foot up.

"he's been perfect," trinity said, looking up from her phone with a smirk. "a lot better behaved than you usually are during practice, di laurentis. now drink some water before jensen screams at you."

"yeah, yeah," dean grinned, finally grabbing his water bottle and taking a long swig. he looked back down at his son, a fierce, determined spark in his blue eyes.

balancing division one hockey and fatherhood was the hardest thing he'd ever done, but he had never felt more alive.

he was going to give his kid the world, and he was going to do it right alongside you.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

later that evening, the winter heat finally broke as dusk settled over the town.

dean's black suv pulled into the gravel driveway of a small, neat house on the edge of the university district.

the porch light was already on, casting a warm, golden glow over the front steps.

dean hopped out of the driver's seat, walking around to your side to open the door before you could even reach for the handle.

he offered you his hand, pulling you up gently, his fingers lingering against your palm before he turned to unbuckle rowan's car seat from the back.

you walked up the steps together, the familiar scent of garlic and homemade pasta sauce drifting through the screen door long before you even knocked.

before your knuckles could even touch the wood, the door swung open.

your mother stood there, her apron tied around her waist, her eyes instantly bypassing the two of you to lock onto the plastic car seat in dean's hand.

a massive, radiant smile broke across her face, smoothing away the lines of a lifetime of hard work.

"there's my grandson," she beamed, her arms already reaching out as she stepped onto the porch.

dean smiled, handing the car seat over with a practiced ease that showed just how natural this had become for him.

"hi, mom. he slept the whole ride over." you smiled as your mother carried the seat inside, cooing at the sleeping baby.

you and dean stood on the porch for a quiet second.

dean looped his arm around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest, his chin resting comfortably on the top of your head as you both watched your mother unbuckle her grandson through the front window.

there was no ghost of the past in this house anymore.

there was no fear of a running man or a broken promise.

there was only the smell of a warm dinner, a grandmother's laughter, and the solid, heavy weight of the man who had promised to stay—and meant every single word.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

the dining room of your childhood home was small, but tonight it felt entirely full. the air was thick with the rich, comforting scent of your mother's signature marinara sauce, a recipe that had historically been reserved only for birthdays or the rare moments when a budget stretch allowed for a celebration.

dean was sitting at the worn wooden table, a space that had only ever known the quiet presence of two women.

his massive, athletic frame practically engulfed the modest chair, his broad shoulders casting a long shadow against the floral wallpaper.

yet, he looked completely at ease.

he had rolled up the sleeves of his cotton blue shirt, exposing his forearms as he expertly navigated a massive bowl of spaghetti, passing it to your mother with a respectful, easy smile.

"seriously, alisha, this is incredible," dean said, calling your mother by her first name just as she had insisted he do three visits ago. "if you ever want to open a restaurant near campus, the entire hockey team would probably fund it. tucker survives entirely on frozen burritos and sheer willpower. he would cry if he tasted this."

a sound of genuine, lighthearted laughter escaping her lips as she leaned over to scoop another portion onto his plate. "don't flatter a woman, dean. but please, eat up. god knows you burn enough calories on that ice rink."

you watched them from across the table, your fork twirling slowly in your pasta.

a strange, dizzying wave of emotion hit your chest.

for twenty-one years, this room had been a fortress of caution.

it was the place where you sat while your mother meticulously balanced checkbooks, reminding you that reliance on anyone else was a vulnerability.

it was where you learned to be fiercely independent, wrapped in the protective armor of her warnings.

and now, briar university's golden boy was sitting in the center of it, arguing playfully with her about whether garlic bread should be baked or broiled.

from the corner of the room, a soft, low grunt came from the portable bassinet.

rowan was waking up, his tiny limbs stretching beneath his blanket.

before you could even set your fork down, dean's hand was already moving.

he caught your eye across the table, offering a reassuring nod.

"i got him, sweetheart. finish your dinner," he murmured, his voice dropping into that quiet, intimate tone he reserved just for you.

you watched as he stood up, his tall frame moving with a practiced, gentle fluidity as he navigated the tight space between the table and the bassinet.

he reached down, his hands completely cradling rowan's tiny torso as he lifted him out.

rowan let out a tiny, soft squeak, his little face puckering before he settled instantly against dean's chest, his small head tucking perfectly into the crook of his father's neck.

dean walked back to the table, shifting rowan effortlessly to one arm while he picked up his fork with the other, completely unfazed by the logistics of eating one-handed.

your mother stopped eating.

she watched dean—watched the way his thumb absentmindedly traced small circles on the back of rowan's custom jersey, the way his eyes constantly flicked down to check on the baby's breathing, the way he didn't even hesitate to put his own comfort second.

when she looked back at you, her eyes were bright with a quiet, profound sheen of tears.

she didn't say anything out loud but she didn't need to.

the unspoken apology and the sheer validation of your choices was entirely written in the soft smile she gave you across the table.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

by eleven o'clock, the drive back to the campus apartment was quiet, save for the hum of the car tires against the asphalt and the steady, rhythmic breathing of a fast-asleep baby in the backseat.

the apartment was dark when you unlocked the door.

trinity was out for the weekend, leaving the small living space peaceful.

dean carried rowan inside, the car seat clicking quietly as he set it on the floor, while you carried the diaper bag and the heavy tote containing your psychology textbooks.

you dropped the bags by the kitchen counter, a heavy, bone-deep exhaustion finally settling into your limbs.

finals week was creeping up, the stack of case studies you needed to analyze was growing, and your body was still recovering from the monumental task of bringing a human into the world.

you leaned against the counter, closing your eyes for just a second.

two warm hands slipped around your waist from behind, a familiar, solid chest pressing into your back.

dean buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin.

"hey," he whispered, his lips brushing against your jawline. "go take a hot shower. i'll handle the nighttime bath and get him down in his crib."

"dean, you have a 6:00 am video review session" you protested softly, turning around in his embrace to look up into his tired, beautiful blue eyes. "you spent three hours on the ice today. let me do it."

"absolutely not," dean smiled, a faint, stubborn dimple appearing in his cheek.

"we're a team, remember? you aced your seminar quiz today, you took ten pages of notes, and you didn't complain once when rowan spit up on your favorite sweater earlier. let me take the night shift, sweetheart. go relax."

you stared at him, the old, defensive instinct to say 'i can do it myself' rising to your throat out of sheer habit. but looking at the absolute, unwavering certainty in his gaze, you let it go.

you let the breath out of your lungs, your forehead coming to rest against his chest, right over the steady, pounding rhythm of his heart.

"thank you," you breathed into his shirt.

"anytime," he murmured, pressing a lingering, sweet kiss to the crown of your head before stepping back and picking up the sleeping bundle from the floor.

half an hour later, you stepped out of the bathroom, wrapped in a plush robe, your skin warm and smelling of vanilla soap.

the apartment was silent.

you padded softly down the short hallway toward rowan's small nursery.

the dim, amber light of the moon-shaped nightlight illuminated the room.

dean was sitting in the massive velvet glider he had proudly bought months ago.

rowan was freshly changed, wrapped tightly in a swaddle blanket, fast asleep against his father's bare chest.

dean was rocking back and forth in a slow, hypnotic rhythm, his hand completely cupping the back of rowan's head.

he wasn't asleep.

he was staring down at his son, his expression so fierce, so intensely protective, it took your breath away.

in his lap, balanced precariously on the armrest of the chair, was his hockey playbook, his eyes flicking between the diagrams of defensive strategies and the tiny, perfect face of the boy in his arms.

he was balancing it all. the pressure of the scouts, the demanding expectations of his legacy, the exhaustion of college life—he was holding it all in his hands, and he wasn't letting a single piece drop.

you leaned your shoulder against the doorframe, a soft smile tugging at your lips.

dean looked up at the sound of your breathing, his eyes softening instantly as he caught sight of you. he didn't speak, not wanting to break the fragile silence of the nursery, but he extended his free hand toward you, his fingers open.

you walked across the small room, sliding your hand into his warm palm.

dean pulled you down gently until you were sitting on the wide armrest of the glider beside him.

he leaned his head against your hip, his grip on your hand tightening into a silent, unbreakable vow.

you looked down at the two of them.

the future was going to be chaotic.

there would be exams to study for while rocking a crying infant; there would be away games where you would have to manage the nighttime routine alone and there would be endless loops of exhaustion.

but as the glider rocked gently in the quiet apartment, the absolute certainty of his warmth against your skin told you everything you needed to know.

the pattern was broken.

the first time vi saw you, it was through a screen.

she was scrolling through her phone, half-naked in her dorm, still buzzing from a win against the university of minnesota.

her roommate was passed out, her muscles ached, and she was too wired to sleep.

so she did what she always did—opened twitter, checked the mentions, ignored the thirst tweets.

and clicked on a link someone had posted in a quote retweet. it was a stream. a camgirl site.

the kind of thing her teammates joked about in the locker room, the kind of thing vi never really paid attention to.

but the thumbnail made her pause.

you were beautiful. dark skin glowing under soft pink lights, hair pulled back in a silk scarf, a lace chemise slipping off one shoulder.

you weren't looking at the camera.

you were looking down, fidgeting with the hem of your top, like you were nervous. like you were somewhere else entirely.

vi clicked.

she watched for ten minutes. then twenty. then an hour.

you didn't do much. you talked to your viewers in a low, sweet voice, laughing at their comments, stretching out on your bed like a cat.

you were good at this—the performance, the persona. but vi could see the cracks. the way your smile didn't quite reach your eyes.

the way you flinched when someone said something crude. you were pretending. and vi couldn't look away.

the second time vi saw you, it was at a party.

a house off campus, packed with students, cheap beer sweating on every surface.

vi was there because her teammates dragged her, because she was supposed to be social, because she was the star of the women's hockey team and people expected her to show up.

she was leaning against the kitchen counter, nursing a red cup, when she saw you across the room.

you were wearing a tight black dress, heels that made your legs look endless, and a smile that didn't reach your eyes.

vi recognized you immediately.

you were talking to some guy who was leaning too close, his hand on your arm, his mouth moving too fast.

you were nodding, laughing, playing the part.

but vi saw the tension in your shoulders, the way you kept stepping back, the way your eyes darted toward the door.

vi moved without thinking.

she crossed the room, slid her hand around your waist, and pulled you against her side. "hey, baby. sorry i'm late."

you looked up at her, startled. the guy's face flickered with confusion, then disappointment.

"who the fuck are you?" he asked.

"vi." she didn't look at him. she was looking at you. "her girlfriend. you got a problem?"

the guy muttered something under his breath and walked away.

you were still staring at her, your body tense, your breath shallow. "you're not my girlfriend."

"no," vi said, her voice low. "but you looked like you needed an out."

you blinked. something cracked in your expression. the mask slipped, just for a second, and vi saw the exhaustion underneath. "thanks," you whispered.

"don't mention it."

the third time vi saw you, it was intentional.

she found your stream again that night, watched from her bed with the lights off.

you were back in your pink-lit room, back in your lace, back to performing. but you seemed different.

quieter. you kept looking at the camera like you were looking for something.

vi sent a tip. just a small one. with a message: you okay?

you read it. your lips parted. you looked at the camera, really looked, and vi felt something twist in her chest.

"i'm okay," you said, like you were answering her. like you knew. "just tired."

vi sent another tip. you don't have to do this if you don't want to.

you laughed, but it was hollow. "that's sweet. but i don't have a choice."

vi wanted to argue. she wanted to tell you that everyone has a choice, that you could do anything, that you were more than this. but she didn't know you. not really.

so she just watched, and waited, and when your stream ended, she sent you a private message.

my name's vi. i'm the girl from the party. if you ever need someone to talk to, i'm here.

you didn't reply that night. but three days later, your name appeared in her notifications.

hey. it's the camgirl. thanks for not being weird about it.

and that was the beginning. you started talking every day.

texts at first, short and careful. then longer messages, late at night, when the world was quiet and you didn't have to pretend.

you told vi about your life—how you were a junior, how you were majoring in something you didn't care about, how the money from streaming paid your tuition and your rent and your mom's medical bills.

"i hate it," you admitted one night, your voice raw over the phone. "i hate showing my body to strangers. i hate the comments. i hate feeling like i'm nothing but a pair of tits and a pretty face."

"you're not," vi said. "you're so much more than that."

"how do you know? you've only seen me naked."

"i've seen you laugh at your own jokes. i've seen you get shy when someone says something nice. i've seen you read poetry in the middle of your stream because you forgot to mute your mic. i've seen you, not just your body."

you were quiet for a long time.

"that's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me."

"then you've been hanging out with the wrong people."

the first time you met in person, vi took you to a diner at 2 a.m.

you were nervous, picking at your nails, wearing a hoodie that swallowed your frame. vi was nervous too, but she didn't show it.

she ordered you pancakes and made you laugh and watched the tension drain from your shoulders.

"why are you being so nice to me?" you asked, halfway through your second plate.

"because you deserve it."

"you don't even know me."

"i know enough."

you looked at her with those big, tired eyes, and vi felt something shift in her chest. something dangerous. something that felt a lot like falling.

the first time you kissed, it was in her car, parked outside your apartment.

you'd been sitting in silence, the radio playing something soft, your hands inches apart on the center console. vi was staring at the steering wheel, her jaw tight, her heart pounding.

"i want to kiss you," she said. "but i don't want to make this weird."

"what if i want you to kiss me?"

vi turned. you were already looking at her, your lips parted, your breath shallow. "are you sure?"

"vi."

that was all it took.

she leaned in, slow, giving you time to pull away. you didn't. your lips met, soft and tentative, and vi felt the world tilt. you tasted like coffee and syrup and something sweet.

you made a small sound against her mouth, and vi deepened the kiss, her hand sliding into your hair, pulling you closer.

when you broke apart, you were both breathing hard.

"okay," you whispered. "that was—"

"yeah."

"can we do that again?"

vi smiled. "as many times as you want."

the first time you fought, it was about the streaming.

you were in vi's dorm, curled up on her bed, your head in her lap. she was running her fingers through your hair, tracing patterns on your scalp, and you were almost asleep.

"i've been thinking," vi said, her voice careful.

"mm?"

"about your stream."

you tensed. "what about it?"

"i don't like it."

you sat up, pulling away. "vi—"

"i know. i know it's not my place. i know you do it for the money. but i hate the idea of other people seeing you like that. i hate knowing that they're out there, watching you, wanting you. you're my girlfriend."

"i'm not your property."

"i know that. fuck, i know that. but i'm possessive, okay? i don't want anyone else seeing what's mine."

you stared at her, your eyes hard. "i'm not yours, vi. i'm not anyone's. and i don't need you to save me."

"i'm not trying to save you. i'm trying to support you. let me help. let me pay for your tuition, your rent, whatever. just—stop. stop letting them see you."

"and then what? i depend on you? i owe you? no. i've been dependent on men my whole life. i won't be dependent on you."

"it's not about owing me. it's about—"

"about what? your ego? your jealousy?"

"about loving you."

the words hung in the air, heavy and raw.

you looked at vi, really looked, and saw the vulnerability in her eyes. the fear. the desperation.

"i love you too," you said, your voice breaking. "but i can't stop. not yet. not until i know i can stand on my own."

vi closed her eyes. "then i'll wait."

the fight didn't end there.

it festered, grew, bled into other arguments. you were both stubborn, both proud, both terrified of being hurt. vi hated watching you stream. you hated feeling like a burden.

but you loved each other. and that was the worst part.

the night everything changed, you invited vi to watch your stream.

"i want you to see what i do," you said. "really see it."

vi sat in the corner of your room, out of frame, her arms crossed, her jaw tight. you put on your performance—the smiles, the laughs, the teasing. you took off your clothes piece by piece, your eyes fixed on the camera, your body on display.

but your mind was on vi.

when the stream ended, you turned to her, breathless and raw.

"well?"

vi stood. crossed the room. cupped your face in her hands.

"you're the most beautiful thing i've ever seen," she said. "and i hate that they get to see it too."

you kissed her, hard and desperate, and she kissed you back like she was drowning.

that night, she showed you what it meant to be wanted by someone who actually saw you.

the first time you said yes to vi's help, it was because your mom's hospital bill came in and you couldn't breathe.

you called vi, sobbing, and vi was at your door in twenty minutes with a check already written.

"pay me back when you can," she said. "or don't. i don't care. just—let me take care of you."

you took the check. you stopped streaming. and slowly, painfully, you started to heal.

the first time vi took you to a game, you sat in the front row, wearing her jersey, your heart pounding.

she scored the winning goal. and when she looked up at the stands, she pointed at you.

you were hers. and she was yours. and that was enough.

𝐦𝐚𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐞'𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐨𝐧 𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐬 (13/50): @iadorefineshyt @pretty-u @y1ppeeyur1 @ryuwifes @almadellie @unicornclit666 @ajs-blogz @webwand3rer @blackdykegirlblogger @hopefullydoingokay2 @mermaidslament @dearbaes

the glow of your ring light casts a warm pink haze across the bedroom, softening the edges of everything it touches.

you've spent the last hour perfecting the setup—adjusting the camera angle three times, swapping out your baby tee for something lacier, reapplying gloss until your lips shine like wet cherries.

the lingerie set is new, pale lavender satin with little bows at the hips, and you know exactly how it looks under the harsh studio lights you've positioned just right.

your phone buzzes on the nightstand. you don't need to check it to know who it is.

vi: u almost done? practice ran long

vi: coach is on my ass abt the game friday

vi: but i'm thinking abt u

a smile tugs at your glossed lips. you type back one-handed, the other adjusting the strap of your babydoll so it falls just so off your shoulder.

you: almost done baby. maybe u can be my special guest tonight?

vi: ...

vi: say less

vi: 10 mins

you bite your lip, heart doing that little flutter it always does when you think about her.

violet. vi. the star forward for your university's hockey team, all broad shoulders and sharp jaw and hands that know exactly what they're doing.

she's been your dirty little secret for three months now, ever since she slid into your dms after finding your stream one night.

"hey chat," you coo, leaning forward so the camera catches the hint of cleavage your babydoll offers. "sorry for the delay. had to... take care of something."

the comments start flooding in immediately.

vislefttoenail: omg she's back

violetsbigdickenergy: thought u ghosted us

thirsty4u: what happened to the baking stream??

you giggle, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. "i know, i know. i promised you guys a baking stream. but i had a better idea."

the anticipation is already building in your stomach, that familiar warmth spreading through your thighs.

you love this—the performance, the attention, the way you can make hundreds of people hang on your every word.

but tonight, you have something special planned.

"so i invited a friend over," you say, voice dropping to something more sultry. "she's... someone special. and i thought maybe we could do something a little different tonight."

violence_4ever: please be the hockey girl

ilovebigmuscles: the one from the dms???

thirsty4violet: wait what's happening

you laugh, a breathy sound that you know drives them crazy. "patience, you guys. patience."

the next ten minutes pass in a blur of playful banter and teasing glimpses.

you show them your new nail set—long acrylics painted a soft baby pink with little heart charms on the ring fingers. you adjust the lighting, let the camera catch the curve of your hip, the dip of your waist.

you're a professional at this, at the art of suggestion, of giving them just enough to keep them wanting more.

then you hear it. the front door clicking open, the familiar heavy footsteps in the hallway.

your heart rate spikes.

"she's here," you whisper, and you don't have to fake the excitement in your voice.

vi appears in the doorway like she owns the place.

she's still in her practice gear—grey sweats that hang low on her hips, a loose tank top that does nothing to hide the cut of her shoulders, her red hair pulled back in a messy ponytail.

there's a duffel bag slung over one shoulder and a tired smile on her face that softens the moment she sees you.

"hey, pretty girl," she says, voice rough from practice.

"hey yourself," you purr, gesturing her closer. "come say hi to chat."

she raises an eyebrow but steps into frame, settling behind you on the bed. her thighs bracket your hips, her chest pressing warm against your back.

she smells like ice and sweat and something uniquely her, and you have to resist the urge to just melt into her.

"this is violet," you announce, tilting your head back to look at her. "she plays hockey for the university."

"sup," vi says, giving a lazy wave at the camera.

ilovevisbigmuscles: SHE'S SO HOT

whoreforviolet: i'm deceased.

visleftbicep: the size difference omg

thirsty4vi: put her in the game coach

you giggle, reaching up to cup vi's jaw. she leans into your touch automatically, her eyes dropping half-lidded. "i told them we were gonna do something special tonight," you say, voice dropping to something more intimate. "did you bring what i asked?"

vi's grin turns wolfish. she reaches into her duffel bag, and when she pulls out the object, the chat goes absolutely insane.

it's a gun.

a prop, obviously—a realistic-looking replica that vi picked up from a costume shop last week when you mentioned your little fantasy.

but it gleams under the studio lights, heavy and dangerous-looking in her grip.

you laugh, the sound breathless and genuine. "relax, chat. it's fake. but isn't it pretty?"

vi turns it over in her hands, her fingers moving with practiced familiarity.

you know she's handled real ones before—her dad was a cop, and she's talked about going to the range with him. but seeing her hold it, seeing the casual way she grips the handle, sends a thrill straight through you.

"you want this?" vi asks, voice low, meant just for you even though the mic picks it up.

you nod, biting your lip.

she presses the cool barrel against your chin, tilting your head up. your breath catches.

the metal is cold and unyielding, a sharp contrast to the warmth of her body behind you.

she drags it down your throat, over your collarbone, stopping at the hollow between your breasts.

"they're watching," she murmurs, and there's a dark edge to her voice that makes your thighs press together. "you want to show them what a good girl you are?"

"yes," you whisper.

"then be still."

she slides the gun lower, tracing the curve of your breast through the satin.

the fabric does nothing to dull the sensation—the cold metal, the pressure, the absolute trust you have in her.

she circles your nipple, and you gasp, your back arching involuntarily.

"look at you," vi breathes. "so sensitive. and we've barely started."

caitlynkirammansleftbicep: i'm literally shaking

pussymuncherr: this is the best stream ever

caitlynkirammanslefttoe: she's so good with her hands

ilovevisbigmuscles: i need whatever they have

you're already wet, your panties soaked through. the gun continues its journey down your stomach, over your navel, stopping at the waistband of your babydoll.

vi hooks the barrel under the fabric, lifting it slowly, revealing the smooth skin of your belly, the curve of your hip.

"lift it up," she commands.

you obey, raising your hips so she can slide the babydoll up and over your head.

you're left in just your lavender panties, your breasts bare, your nipples hard from the cool air and the attention.

"fuck," vi mutters, and you feel her shift behind you. "you're so beautiful."

she presses the gun against your sternum, flat and cold, and uses it to push you back against her chest.

you go willingly, melting into her warmth even as the metal stays pressed between you.

"they want to see more," you manage, your voice shaky. "don't you, guys?"

the comments are a blur of yes and please and more. the viewer count has spiked—you're at over two thousand now, and climbing.

vi's free hand comes up to cup your breast, her thumb brushing over your nipple.

you moan, your head falling back against her shoulder. she's so warm, so solid, and the gun is so cold, and the contrast is driving you insane.

"you like this, don't you?" she asks, her mouth brushing your ear. "having everyone watch while i touch you?"

"yes," you breathe.

"you like the gun?"

"yes."

"you like knowing i could do anything to you right now, and you'd let me?"

"yes, vi, yes."

she chuckles, low and dark. "good girl."

she slides the gun down your body again, this time pressing it against your mound through the damp fabric of your panties. you jolt, a sharp gasp escaping your lips.

the metal is so cold against your heat, and the pressure is just right, pressing against your clit through the satin.

"look at that," vi says, her voice dripping with satisfaction. "you're soaking through your panties. and we haven't even gotten to the good part yet."

caitlynkirammansleftbicep: I'M DECEASED

pussymuncherr: she's so wet for her omg

caitlynkirammanslefttoe: the power dynamic is insane

ambessasveryyoungwife: i need a cold shower

you're trembling, your hands fisting in the sheets. vi keeps the gun pressed against you, applying just enough pressure to make you squirm, to make little whimpers fall from your lips.

"please," you whisper.

"please what?"

"please touch me."

"i am touching you."

"with your hands, vi."

she laughs, but she relents, setting the gun aside on the nightstand. her hands find your hips, her fingers digging into the soft flesh there.

she pulls you back against her, and you feel the hard line of her body, the evidence of how much she wants you.

"turn around," she says.

you do, shifting so you're facing her, straddling her lap. the camera catches everything—the way your thighs bracket her hips, the way her hands slide up your back, the way you're both already breathing hard.

"hi," you whisper, suddenly shy despite everything.

"hi, pretty girl." she cups your face, her thumb tracing your lower lip. "you did so good. you always do so good."

you lean into her touch, your eyes fluttering closed.

she kisses you then, soft and sweet, a contrast to the intensity of moments before. her lips are chapped from practice, but you don't care. you'd kiss her anywhere, anytime.

when she pulls back, there's a glint in her eye. "did you actually want to bake something? or was that just a excuse to get me here?"

you giggle. "i mean... i do have a box of brownie mix in the kitchen."

"brownies sound good." she grins, and it's the same grin that made you fall for her in the first place. "but first..."

she reaches for the gun again, and your breath catches.

"one more thing," she says, pressing it into your hand. "your turn."

you look at the gun, then at her. "what do you want me to do?"

"whatever you want, baby. i trust you."

the words hit you right in the chest. you grip the gun, feeling its weight, its cold solidity. then you press it against her throat, right over her pulse point.

her eyes darken.

"you're so beautiful," you say, and it comes out raw, honest. "do you know that? do you know how much i want you?"

"show me," she breathes.

you lean in, kissing her hard, the gun still pressed against her throat.

she moans into your mouth, her hands gripping your hips, pulling you closer. the gun is between you, a third presence in your embrace, cold and dangerous and theirs (aka the livestream chat.)

"i want you to fuck me," you whisper against her lips. "i want you to fuck me while chat watches. i want them to see how good you make me feel."

vi's response is a growl low in her throat. she takes the gun from your hand, sets it aside, and flips you onto your back in one fluid motion. you land on the pillows with a gasp, looking up at her as she hovers over you.

"you're gonna get what you want," she says, her voice rough. "but first, i'm gonna make you beg for it."

she doesn't waste time. her mouth finds your throat, teeth scraping against the sensitive skin there, and you arch into her, your fingers tangling in her hair.

she works her way down, leaving a trail of marks—bites and bruises that will bloom purple by morning, evidence of her claim.

"vi," you gasp, "please, i need—"

"i know what you need." her lips close around your nipple, and you cry out, your back bowing off the bed. she sucks hard, her tongue flicking over the sensitive peak, and then she bites down, just enough to make you see stars.

"fuck, fuck, fuck—"

she laughs against your skin, the vibration sending another jolt through you. "that's it, baby. let them hear how good i make you feel."

she switches to your other breast, giving it the same rough attention, and you're a mess above her, your hips bucking, your hands gripping her shoulders.

she's so strong, so solid, and when she pins your wrists above your head with one hand, you feel your pussy clench around nothing.

"look at you," she murmurs, pulling back to admire her work. your chest is flushed, your nipples swollen and wet from her mouth. "so pretty like this. all spread out for me."

"vi, please—"

"please what?"

"please fuck me. i need you inside me. i need to feel you."

she grins, slow and wicked. "that's my good girl."

she releases your wrists and sits back, her eyes raking over your body.

you're completely bare now, your panties long gone since they were discarded, and you spread your legs for her without being asked, showing her exactly how wet you are.

"fuck," she breathes. "look at that pussy. all dripping for me."

she doesn't make you wait any longer. she settles between your thighs, and when her mouth finally touches you, you scream.

her tongue is hot and insistent, lapping at your folds like she's been starving for the taste of you. she groans against your pussy, the sound vibrating through you, and you grab her hair, holding her in place.

"yes, yes, just like that—"

she hums in approval, her tongue circling your clit. she's so good at this, so focused, like she has nothing else in the world to do but make you come apart.

her hands grip your thighs, spreading you wider, and she dives in, her tongue fucking into you, her nose pressing against your clit.

"oh god, vi, i'm gonna—"

she pulls back just before you peak, and you whimper in frustration.

"not yet," she says, her voice rough, her chin glistening with your wetness. "i want to feel you cum on my fingers first."

she doesn't wait for permission. two thick fingers slide into you, and you cry out at the stretch, at the fullness.

she's so deep, her palm pressing against your clit, and she fucks you slow and deep, watching your face as you fall apart.

"that's it," she murmurs. "take it. take all of it."

you're babbling now, nonsense words and pleas, but she doesn't stop.

she curls her fingers, hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision go white, and you cum with a scream, your walls clenching around her.

she doesn't pull out. she keeps fucking you through it, drawing out every last tremor, until you're limp and gasping beneath her.

"good girl," she says, pulling her fingers out slowly. she brings them to her mouth, sucking them clean, and the sight makes your spent cunt twitch. "but we're not done yet."

she reaches for the gun.

your eyes go wide. "vi—"

"shh." she presses the barrel against your stomach, cold and hard. "i want to try something."

she guides the gun down your body, over your navel, until the metal is resting against your cunt.

you gasp at the cold, at the pressure, at the sheer wrongness of it. but it feels so right.

"you trust me?" she asks.

"yes," you whisper.

she presses the gun against your clit, and you moan, your hips bucking against the metal.

it's cold and unyielding, and she uses it to circle your clit, to apply pressure in just the right places.

"look at you," she breathes. "getting off on a gun. you're such a dirty little whore, you know that?"

"yes," you gasp. "yes, i am. i'm your dirty little whore."

"that's right." she presses harder, and you feel yourself climbing toward another peak. "you're mine. every inch of you. and i'm gonna make sure chat knows it."

but she doesn't let you cum yet. she pulls the gun away, and you whimper at the loss of pressure.

"turn over," she commands.

you obey, rolling onto your hands and knees. you hear her shift behind you, and then the cold metal of the gun is pressing against your soaked folds.

"you want this inside you?" she asks, her voice dark. "you want me to fuck you with this gun?"

"yes," you breathe. "please, vi, please—"

"beg me for it."

"please, vi, i need it, i need you to fuck me with it, i need to feel it inside me—"

"good girl."

she presses the barrel against your entrance, and you gasp as the cold metal breaches you.

it's nothing like a finger, nothing like a cock—it's hard and unyielding and wrong, but your body doesn't care.

your cunt clenches around it, sucking it in, and vi groans behind you.

"fuck, look at that. you're taking it so well."

she pushes deeper, and you cry out, your fingers gripping the sheets.

the metal is cold inside you, a strange and foreign sensation, but the pressure is incredible.

she fucks you slowly with it, the barrel sliding in and out of your wet heat, and you're dripping down your thighs, making a mess of the sheets.

"that's it," she murmurs. "take it. take all of it."

she reaches around with her free hand, her fingers finding your clit, and you scream as she fucks you with the gun and rubs your clit at the same time.

the pleasure is overwhelming, too much and not enough, and you're climbing toward another peak faster than you thought possible.

"vi, vi, i'm gonna—"

"cum for me," she commands. "come on this gun, baby. show them what a dirty little whore you are."

and you do.

you climaxed with a scream, your body convulsing, your cunt clenching around the metal barrel.

she keeps fucking you through it, working you through every wave of pleasure, until you're sobbing, your arms giving out, your face pressed into the pillows.

she pulls the gun out slowly, and you feel empty without it.

you hear her shift, and then you feel her mouth on your cunt, her tongue lapping at your soaked folds, cleaning up the mess you've made.

"vi—" you gasp.

"shh," she murmurs against you. "let me taste you."

her tongue slides inside you, and you moan, your oversensitive body jolting at the sensation. she laps at you like you're the most delicious thing she's ever tasted, her tongue fucking into you, her nose pressing against your clit.

"you taste so good," she breathes. "so fucking sweet."

she pulls back, and you hear her bring the gun to her mouth.

you turn your head just in time to see her lick the barrel clean, her tongue sliding over the metal, tasting your cum on it.

"fuck," you whisper.

she grins, her chin glistening. "what? i don't let good cum go to waste."

she crawls up beside you, pulling you into her arms. you're both shaking, both breathless, and she presses a kiss to your forehead.

"you did so good, baby," she murmurs. "so good for me."

"vi," you manage, your voice hoarse. "i want to taste you."

her eyes darken. "yeah?"

"yeah."

she shifts, straddling your chest, her cunt hovering above your face.

you can see how wet she is, how much she's been holding back, and you reach up, pulling her down to you.

she tastes like salt and sweat and pure, raw desire. you lap at her like she did to you, your tongue finding her clit, and she moans above you, her hips bucking against your mouth.

"fuck, baby, just like that—"

you grab her ass, pulling her closer, and you eat her like you've been starving for it.

she's so responsive, her moans filling the room, her fingers tangled in your hair.

"i'm gonna—vi's gonna—"

you double down, your tongue flicking over her clit, and she comes with a cry, her thighs clamping around your head.

you don't stop, drinking every drop of her release, until she's pushing your head away, oversensitive and trembling.

"fuck," she breathes, collapsing beside you. "you're gonna kill me."

you laugh, wiping your mouth. "but what a way to go."

she pulls you close, her arms wrapped around you, and you lie there in the pink glow of the ring light, sweaty and satisfied.

"brownies?" she asks after a long moment.

"brownies," you agree.

she presses a kiss to your hair. "i love you, you know that?"

"i know." you smile, snuggling closer. "i love you too."

and if they're still watching, still commenting, still losing their collective minds over everything they've just witnessed—well, that's just a bonus.

𝐦𝐚𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐞'𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐨𝐧 𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐬 (13/50): @iadorefineshyt @pretty-u @y1ppeeyur1 @ryuwifes @almadellie @unicornclit666 @ajs-blogz @webwand3rer @blackdykegirlblogger @hopefullydoingokay2 @mermaidslament @dearbaes

She hums, and you have to grip the edge of the table to keep yourself from jumping when you feel her gloved finger spread your labia majora apart. The cold air hits directly against your hole, which you pray isn't leaking with the same arousal you feel swirling around in your stomach.

Her fingers swipe against your clit, and you swallow down a guttural noise that threatens to spill out. Two fingers spread your clitoral hood, and a shock of pleasure rips through your body.

"Looks perfect," Doctor McKay mutters to herself. "Healthy looking."

Fuck, fuck fuck. You're gonna be drooling all over her wrist if she keeps talking to you like this.

She pulls back just a little to reach over for a little tube. Lube. She squirts it onto her finger and talks gently to you.

"It's gonna be a little cold, okay? Just relax for me.”

Her gloved finger pushes into you, the coldness of the lube making you shiver. You try to relax like she said, but it’s hard when you’re a little turned on by your hot doctor, whose finger is currently palpating inside you. She checks for any tenderness, and you feel this pressure building as her finger rotates and massages your walls.

Gathering enough courage, you decide to glance down to look at your doctor, and you feel a cold sweat wash over your body when you meet her dark blue eyes.

Your breath gets caught in your throat, and even though you wanna look away due to embarrassment, you can’t. You’re hypnotized.

You don’t remember her eyes being that shade of blue.

Doctor McKay licks her lips before speaking in a raspy voice. “No tenderness.” Her gaze breaks from yours, and you feel a sense of relief. She looks down between your legs as she slowly pulls her finger out of you, her lips parting slightly. “But you’re tight.”

Your cheeks burn again, and your stomach flips as you notice the wetness shining on her gloved finger. How embarrassing…

“I’m worried about hurting you if I put the speculum inside, even with the lube.”

She’s bullshitting, but you don’t know that. She’s the doctor here.

“So…so what are you gonna do?” you ask, sitting up slightly and licking your dry lips.

A finger brushes against your hole, making you gasp.

“I’m gonna get you adjusted, stretched out enough." Doctor McKay sinks her finger inside again, making a come-hither motion once she’s all the way in.

You fall back onto the pillow and clutch the sides of the table again, looking up at the ceiling and trying your best to keep your moans inside as her finger presses against your walls.

Your body jolts slightly when her other hand hikes your gown up, slipping her hand underneath and resting on your lower abdomen, gently pressing her fingers down. The feeling it creates is delicious, and you can’t stop the moan from rumbling out of your throat when a second finger teases against your hole.

Doctor McKay coos at you when she notices your head turning to the side to hide your burning red face.

“Don’t be embarrassed. It feels good, doesn’t it? It’s normal. You don’t have to hide your noises.”

Let me hear you. Please, let me hear you, Cassie thinks.

Her other hand slowly travels up your body, stopping just below your breast.

Your thighs tremble when a second finger gets inserted inside of you, and that moan Cassie desperately wants to hear fills her ears and makes her smile.

While her fingers stretch you out, her other hand cups your breast.

“Just checking for any lumps,” Doctor McKay tells you, her breathless voice making you clench around her fingers.

The speed of her movements picks up, and the tips of your ears burn as the sounds of your wetness fill the room. A thumb swipes over your nipple, and you involuntarily buck your hips into Doctor McKay’s hand.

“Sensitive?” she asks.

“Mhm,” you moan out.

Her fingers thrust inside of you for a few more minutes before she speaks up.

“I think you’re ready for the next part of the exam.”

The tiniest whine leaves you as Doctor McKay removes her fingers. You feel empty now. You don’t like it.

You watch her pick up the speculum, and you tense up just slightly when she prods it against you.

“I’m gonna take a look at your insides now, okay?” She waits for your nod before inserting it.

Cassie’s eyelids get heavy as she inspects you, stomach flipping and heating up with arousal at how wet and pretty everything looks.

Both her hands rest on your thighs, thumbs gently stroking your skin. “You look perfect.” She looks at your cervix, thinking about her strap being nuzzled deep inside there. “I don’t see any abnormalities.”

You nod absentmindedly. You don’t wanna look at her. You don’t wanna take the chance of making eye contact and cumming on the spot.

“I’ll take a few swab samples, and then we’ll be finished.”

You frown. Finished? You don’t ever want her to be finished. You want her fingers back inside you.

“That’s it?” you ask, trying not to sound so disappointed.

Doctor McKay smiles at you, like she knows.

“Well, you’ll have a follow-up appointment with me to get the results. If anything comes up before then, you can always schedule a sooner appointment. I’d be more than happy to look at you again if you’re worried about other things.”