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The Cottage
Beau Maxwell x Fem!Reader
Summary: Beau rents a private lake cove and cottage to enjoy over the weekend.
Warnings: Explicit, Smut, Food Play, Public Sex (lake), Established Relationship.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The private little cove at the lake was like stepping into another world far enough from campus that the usual Briar chaos felt miles away. Golden afternoon sunlight danced across the calm water, and a gentle breeze rustled the leaves overhead. Beau had picked the perfect spot: a soft grassy patch shaded by trees, hidden from any trails.
The picnic had been his idea. A wicker basket packed with strawberries, crusty bread, sharp cheese, cold sandwiches, and a bottle of sparkling lemonade. Youâd spent the first couple of hours eating lazily, feeding each other bites between laughter and soft kisses, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your bare thigh beneath the hem of your short white sundress. The thin cotton fabric fluttered easily in the breeze, the hem barely reaching mid-thigh, perfect for a warm day like this.
Every so often his fingertips would slip just a little higher, teasing the sensitive skin there and drawing quiet giggles from you as you tried to focus on the food.
Now the food was packed away. You lay on your stomach on the large blanket, propped up on your elbows with a paperback novel open in front of you. The sun warmed your back, and the dress had ridden up just a little from your position, exposing more of your thighs. Beau lay on his side beside you, one arm bent under his head, eyes half-closed as he rested. His dark hair was tousled from the wind, and his white t-shirt stretched nicely across his broad quarterback shoulders.
For a while, it was peaceful. The only sounds were birds, the soft lap of water, and the occasional turn of a page.
Beau shifted. You felt his gaze on you before anything else that warm, intent stare that always made your skin tingle. He moved closer without a word. His large hand settled lightly on your ankle, thumb stroking the delicate bone there in slow circles.
You smiled into your book but didnât look back. âComfortable?â
âVery,â he murmured, voice low and lazy. âEspecially with this view.â
His hand began to move upward unhurried, fingertips grazing the back of your calf with feather-light touches. He leaned in, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss just above your ankle. Then another a little higher, warm and deliberate. Each kiss lingered, his lips soft and slightly parted against your sun-warmed skin.
You bit your lip, trying to focus on the words on the page as his mouth traveled higher. Kiss after sensual kiss along the curve of your calf⌠the sensitive spot behind your knee⌠up the back of your thigh. His breath was hot, sending little shivers racing through you despite the warm day.
âBeauâŚâ you whispered, half-protest, half-invitation.
He hummed against your skin, the sound vibrating pleasantly. âKeep reading if you want, baby. Iâm just enjoying my dessert.â
His hand slid beneath the hem of your sundress, slowly pushing the light fabric upward. The cotton bunched and glided over your thighs, then higher, until it pooled around your waist, fully exposing the curve of your ass and the delicate lace underneath. The breeze kissed your newly bared skin, a delicious contrast to the heat of his mouth.
Beau let out a low, appreciative sound deep in his chest. He shifted fully onto his knees now, positioning himself beside you as his lips continued their worship. He kissed the soft underside of one thigh, then the other slow, sensual presses of his mouth that grew wetter, more lingering. His hands joined in, large palms smoothing over your skin, gently squeezing and massaging as he worked his way up.
He took his time at the backs of your thighs, alternating between kisses and gentle nips that made you squirm. When he reached the curve where thigh met ass, he paused, pressing a particularly slow, open-mouthed kiss there, tongue tracing lightly. One hand stayed firmly on your lower back, holding the dress in place and keeping you gently pinned to the blanket in the most delicious way.
âYouâre killing me,â you breathed, the book now completely forgotten, pages fluttering shut.
âGood,â he whispered against your skin, voice husky. âBeen wanting to do this since I saw you in this little dress this morning.â Another long, sensual kiss, higher this time, dangerously close to where you ached for him. His fingers traced the edge of your lace, teasing, exploring, never rushing.
He spent long minutes like that worshipping every inch with his mouth and hands, the lakeâs quiet sounds mixing with your soft sighs and his low groans of appreciation. The sun filtered through the trees, warming your exposed skin as Beauâs touch grew bolder, more possessive, yet still achingly slow and sensual. He brought you to a shattering orgasm with his tongue and fingers, drawing out every wave of pleasure until you were trembling and gasping his name into the blanket. Then he took you right there on the blanket in long, deep thrusts, bodies moving together in perfect rhythm until you both came undone.
Later, after cooling off in the sparkling lake, he held you weightless in the water and fucked you again, the gentle waves lapping around your joined bodies as another powerful orgasm crashed over you both.
Eventually he moved up your body, kissing along your spine through the thin dress fabric before settling beside you again. He tugged the dress back down modestly but left one hand resting high on your thigh, thumb stroking lazy circles.
âStill wanna read?â he asked, eyes dark with heat and that signature Maxwell grin playing on his lips.
You turned your head to look at him, cheeks flushed. âI donât think I remember a single word since page one-forty.â
He laughed softly and leaned in, capturing your mouth in a deep, unhurried kiss that tasted like strawberries and sunshine. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
âBest picnic ever,â he murmured.
You smiled, heart racing. âWe should do this more often.â
âAnytime you wear that dress, baby. Iâll find us a private lake.â
Beauâs forehead rested against yours, his dark brown eyes dark with want, the playful grin softened by raw hunger. The breeze off the lake whispered across your skin, but it did nothing to cool the heat building between you. Your sundress was still bunched high around your waist, leaving you exposed from the waist down, the lace of your panties slightly askew from his teasing touches.
âYou have no idea what you do to me in this dress,â he murmured, voice low and rough. His hand slid back down, palming the curve of your ass possessively before slipping between your thighs. His fingers stroked you through the damp lace with slow, deliberate pressure, drawing a shaky breath from your lips. âSo fucking pretty like this⌠all spread out for me.â
As the sun began to dip lower, casting longer golden rays across your bodies, Beau kissed you deeply once more. âWeâre not heading back to campus tonight,â he whispered against your lips. âI rented the cottage just up the path for the whole weekend. Itâs completely private, no one around for miles. Weâve got all night, all day tomorrow, and Iâm nowhere near done with you yet.â
Your stomach fluttered with fresh anticipation. âGood. I donât want to leave this bubble either.â
The cottage was adorable rustic wooden exterior, a wide porch overlooking the water, and complete seclusion. Beau carried you inside after another steamy round against the outdoor shower tiles near the lake, where cool evening air mixed with hot water cascading over your joined bodies. You both slipped into comfortable clothes you wearing nothing but one of his oversized t-shirts that fell just past your hips and nothing else, him in low-slung shorts that hung perfectly on his hips.
The kitchen glowed under soft lights as evening fully settled in. Beau opened the fridge and pulled out ingredients heâd clearly pre-stocked ahead of time. âIâve got a craving,â he said with that signature Maxwell grin. âHelp me make banana bread?â
You laughed and hopped up onto the counter beside him, legs swinging playfully. âOnly if I get to lick the spoon.â
âDeal,â he replied, eyes sparkling with mischief. âBut I get to lick it off you.â
You mashed the ripe bananas together in a big stainless steel bowl while Beau measured out flour, sugar, eggs, butter, vanilla, and a pinch of cinnamon. Soon the two of you were working side by side, the kitchen filling with the sweet, comforting aroma of batter. Flour dusted the counter and your arms. The mixture grew thick and sticky as you combined everything.
You reached deep into the mixing bowl to scrape down the sides when Beauâs larger hand suddenly covered yours, pushing your fingers further into the thick, gooey banana bread batter. The mess was instant and glorious both your hands coated thickly in sweet, sticky batter, flour streaked across your skin, arms, and the counter, exactly like the photo. You laughed as he lifted your hand to his mouth first, eyes locked on yours in that heated, intense way that made your pulse race.
He slowly licked the batter from your fingers, tongue swirling around each digit with deliberate, sensual strokes, sucking gently and thoroughly until every bit of sweetness was gone. The warm, wet heat of his mouth sent sparks straight through you. You shivered hard, heat pooling low in your belly again.
âYour turn,â he murmured, voice rough and low, offering his hand.
You brought his long fingers to your lips and sucked the sticky banana bread batter off them one by one, humming at the sweet taste while holding his gaze. Beau groaned deep in his chest, stepping between your spread thighs on the counter. Batter-smeared hands slid under the hem of your t-shirt, leaving sweet sticky trails along your bare hips, stomach, and breasts as he kissed you deeply, the taste of banana and sugar shared between your tongues in a messy, passionate kiss.
The bowl was quickly forgotten on the counter. He lifted you onto the kitchen table, peeling his t-shirt off you completely and painting more streaks of batter across your breasts, stomach, thighs, and even between your legs before following every messy trail with his mouth licking, sucking, and teasing until you were moaning loudly and arching beneath him. Your sticky hands gripped his shoulders and ran through his dark hair as he slid into you right there on the table, thrusting deep and steady while the oven preheated.
The kitchen smelled like baking banana bread and sex as you both came hard together, tangled, sticky, laughing breathlessly, and completely lost in each other.
Later, after sliding the loaf into the oven and cleaning up mostly in another quick, playful shower where hands wandered and laughter turned into more moans, you curled up on the couch together with warm slices of fresh, fragrant banana bread on a plate between you. Beau fed you bites, licking a stray crumb from the corner of your mouth before pulling you into his lap for more slow, deep kisses.
The night unfolded in waves of heat and tenderness. Beau was insatiable, but incredibly attentive always checking in with soft whispers, making sure every touch left you breathless and wanting more. He carried you to the bedroom and took you again from behind, slow and sensual at first, savoring every glide, then harder and deeper, one hand fisting your hair gently while the other rubbed your clit until you came apart around him with a cry.
Afterward, spooned together and still connected, he kissed the back of your neck and rasped, âGive me twenty minutes. Then Iâm eating you again in the shower.â
You laughed breathlessly, pressing back against him. âYouâre insatiable, Maxwell.â
âOnly for you.â He nipped your shoulder, already half-hard again inside you. âAnd weâve got this whole cottage to ourselves until Sunday. I plan on being very, very freaky with my girl.â
The evening and night stretched on endlessly lazy, thorough oral on the couch that had you shaking, slow passionate sex under the stars on the private porch while the lake glittered below and the night breeze cooled your overheated skin, shared showers where he took you against the tiles again and again, and more rounds wherever the mood struck. By the time you finally collapsed back into the big bed, the sheets were thoroughly tangled and both of you were deliciously exhausted, bodies marked with faint love bites, flour smudges that somehow remained, and the pleasant ache of a perfect day and night well spent.
Beau pulled you onto his chest, one hand gently stroking your hair while the other rested possessively low on your back. âYouâre everything to me, you know that?â he said quietly, pressing a kiss to your forehead. âNot just the crazy chemistry⌠though damn, baby, that part is insane. But waking up with you, laughing at the lake, getting messy making banana bread together, all of it. I donât want any of this without you.â
You snuggled closer, listening to the steady beat of his heart. âGood. Because Iâm not going anywhere, Maxwell. Especially not when you rent cute private cottages and plan perfect picnic days that turn into messy, delicious, unforgettable nights like this.â
Sleep came easily after that, wrapped up in each other under the soft blankets with the lake breeze drifting through the open window. The next morning dawned bright and peaceful.
Beau kept his promise you woke to the smell of coffee and fresh fruit. He brought a tray to bed, wearing nothing but low-slung shorts, his hair still messy from sleep, and the weekend continued with more lazy mornings in bed, sun-drenched afternoons on the water, canoe rides that turned steamy, and passionate nights where the outside world completely disappeared. In the private little cottage, Beau was completely yours: playful, protective, wildly affectionate, and deeply in love. Neither of you was in any hurry to leave.
my dream man

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perfect date
Donât know if youâre interested, but can we get a beau x reader x dean work?
The wood experiment ²
Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x fem!reader x Beau Maxwell
⥠Main Index | ⥠Archive for Earth-66
Summary: After years of disappointing experiences with toys that never quite satisfied you, you take a bold risk with two friendly strangers during a camping trip to finally test whether the problem was you or simply the wrong dildos.
Classification: Smut +18 | Threesome (MFM), first-time vaginal penetration, dry humping, fingering, double genital stimulation, creampie, cum play, spanking, edging, orgasm control, dirty talk, praise kink, mild dominance, no-strings-attached sex, light impact play, crude humor and mention of sex toys.
Word count: 4,8k
Divider by me ;)
You didnât know where you stood on the spectrum of sexuality and sensuality. You had never felt the touch of a man, yet you were no saint. You owned toys, you read erotica and watched porn when the mood struck. Most of all, you liked the part of yourself that refused to wait for a man to drop out of the sky before you could feel pleasure.
Your friends had plenty of experience with men and you were happy for them but you simply preferred to stay in control of your own.
For a long time that had been more than enough. You could take care of your own needs in under five minutes with the cheapest vibrator on the market or with your fingers in ten if you were worked up enough. Dildos had never done it for you, no matter the material, the shape, the length or the width, they left you feeling little and never brought you to orgasm. That fact had left you uneasy about the idea of sex with a man. You hoped that when it finally happened, penetration would feel good, you'd make sure of it, but a quiet fear lingered. Were you numb?
Still, you felt no rush to enter a relationship just to test the theory. You had watched enough friends tumble into messy entanglements and then ignore every piece of advice you gave them.Â
Why would they listen to you, right? But after all, coaches never playedâŚuntil tonight.
You sat around the crackling fire, thoughts drifting. You had come camping for a few nights to get some distance from your usual life and step down from your unpaid role as coupleâs therapist to your friends. The first evening, Dean and Beau had set up camp near yours. They were university students like you, barely a year older, friendly and easy to talk to.Â
You had fallen into hiking and kayaking together with surprising comfort and now the three of you sat around their fire, the night air cool against your skin while the flames threw warm light across your faces. Since this whole trip was an experiment and a chance to push your own limitsâŚwhy stop at flirting?
âAre you twoâŚ?â Your question trailed off as you gestured between them. You sat in the middle, each of you in your own camp chair.
Dean chuckled and shook his head. âBest friendsâŚNot that he isnât a good-looking guy.â He motioned toward Beau. âLook at him.â
Your gaze slid to Beau. He smiled, a little shy and sweet, clearly less bold than Dean. Still, the firelight traced the strong line of his jaw and the breadth of his shoulders.
âHeâs right,â you said quietly.
Beau nodded, cheeks warming. âUh, thank you.â He took a sip from his soda can. âOnly one of us is Six Flags, though.â He grinned and Dean laughed.
You looked between them, lips curving despite yourself. âSix Flags? What does that mean?â
âHeâs a ladiesâ man,â Beau explained. âThey come for the ride and then leave.â
âAnd Iâm okay with that,â Dean added, raising a finger as if to make the statement sound more sincere.
You nodded slowly, eyes returning to Beau. You lifted your half-empty soda can in his direction. âAnd what kind of ride do you offer, handsome?â
Both of them turned their full attention to you, lips parting.
âOffer?â Beau repeated, voice low.
You hummed in confirmation, letting the moment stretch. The fire popped softly as crickets filled the silence between your words. âJust seeing if I could get two-for-one access tonight.â
Deanâs eyebrows rose as a slow, interested smirk tugged at his mouth. Beauâs gaze darkened as he set his can down on the ground beside his chair. The easy conversation from earlier fell away, replaced by something heavier and charged.
Dean leaned forward, elbows on his knees, firelight dancing in his eyes. âThatâs a bold ask, sweetheart.â
You held his stare, pulse quickening. âThink of it as an experimentâŚI figured the woods were a good place for it.â
Beau glanced at Dean and immediately caught the eager look on his face. Dean looked about two seconds away from saying yes on the spot. Before he could, Beau cleared his throat.
âHey, man. Can we⌠talk for a minute?â He asked, the last part tilting up as he motioned away with his head.
Dean blinked, then shrugged as he stood. âSure.â Before he took a step, he turned and flashed you a quick smile.
Beau stood next and walked a short distance away from the fire as Dean followed, far enough for a private conversation but still in your line of sight. You kept your eyes on them, heart beating faster. You did not know what you were thinking, but you wanted this to happen. You wanted the overwhelming feeling of several hands on your body at once. The idea of sex without commitments felt like the perfect answer to your questions tonight. You wanted to try the real thing and the mere thought of being greedy enough to take both of them was making you awfully wet.
Beau crossed his arms. âDid I understand her right? She actually wants both of us? LikeâŚat the same time?â
Dean grinned, nodding eagerly with his hands on his hips. âSounded pretty clear to me.â
âWhat if she asks us to kiss?â Beau pressed, voice low but urgent.
Dean turned his head and looked straight at you. Your eyes were locked on them, curious and steady. Beau followed his gaze, then dropped his eyes lower. Dean was already visibly hard, the outline clear against his pants. Spending the past few days with you had been fun, and you were undeniably pretty.
Beau smacked him right on the cock with the back of his hand.
Dean doubled over with a groan, hands flying to cover himself. âFuck, dude! The fuck was that for?â
âCan you focus for a second?â Beau hissed, eyes returning to Deanâs folded-over posture.
Dean straightened up slowly, still wincing but laughing under his breath. âOne of us clearly is. Come on, isnât this what we came here for? You wanted spontaneity. This is as spontaneous as it gets out in the woods.â
Beau rubbed the back of his neck, glancing back toward you. âWe take this to the grave, right? No matter what happens. And if it gets too weird, we can always take turns instead of⌠everything at once. Itâll be her choice. Iâm big on communication.â
âSo am I,â Dean said easily. âBut Iâm not worried about âweirdâ. I have no issue seeing your dick, man. Iâm a hockey player. I shower in rooms full of them and I can tell you that eventually your eyes start to wander.â He reached over and gave Beau a firm pat on the shoulder. âItâs not âif,â itâs âwhenâ⌠and that time comes pretty soon.â He nodded, eyes tracing Beauâs worried face.
Beau looked down at himself. He was getting hard too, though it was not nearly as obvious as Deanâs situation. Still, a flicker of doubt crossed his face as he wondered if size would be an issue once things got started.
Dean caught the look instantly. âComparison is the thief of joy, my friend.â
Beau let out a short laugh despite himself, the tension easing a little. Deanâs grin returned, cocky and sure.
âI can show you a nude right now so thereâs no surprises,â Dean added, his grin spreading wider.
Beau groaned. âSize isnât all there is. Itâs how you use it.â
Dean chuckled, nodding. âThatâs my boy.â
During the conversation they had not noticed you stand and walk closer. When their eyes finally left each other and found you, you were only a couple of steps away.
âDonât worry, guys. I donât think weâll hit max capacity of my tent tonight.â You smiled as you walked toward your tent without looking back. Both of their gazes followed your steps, matching smiles spreading across their faces.
âI think I just came in my pants,â Dean sighed.
âIâll go first then,â Beau said, patting Deanâs chest. âYou should start getting used to coming secondâŚor even third.â He started walking after you. A second later, Dean followed.
The air inside the tent was thick with the scent of nylon and the musk of three bodies humming with anticipation. You sat there, trembling slightly, heart hammering against your ribs.Â
You hadn't told Beau or Dean that this was your first time, that the dildos youâd tried in private had left you feeling cold and empty, leaving you with a nagging, terrifying fear that you were somehow broken. You didn't know if you could actually feel pleasure but as you looked at them, the desperation to find out outweighed the fear.
The clothes had been discarded in a frantic heap, leaving you all in just your underwear. The space was cramped, which only added to the intensity, forcing your skin to brush against theirs at every turn.
Beau, always the sweeter of the two, had laid back first. He looked up at you with soft, wanting eyes as you climbed over him. You straddled his hips, settling your weight down so your core pressed firmly against the hard line of his cock, separated only by the thin fabric of his boxers and your own underwear. When you started grinding against him, you gasped, eyes widening slightly. He was warm and pulsing beneath you, the thick ridge of his erection rubbing right against your clit with every roll of your hips.Â
You began to rock yourself on him, moving in a slow, experimental rhythm. The friction of his clothed cock sliding against you sent sparks through your nerves, a sensation so vivid it almost made you cry out.
Dean was right behind you, kneeling and straddling Beauâs thighs to get closer. He was a wall of heat against your back, his confidence radiating off him in waves. His large hands reached around, sliding up to capture your clothed breasts. He squeezed and massaged them firmly, his fingers kneading your flesh while he leaned in to bury his face in the crook of your neck. He nipped at your skin, teeth grazing your pulse point, sending shivers racing down your spine.
Your hands rested on Beauâs chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart beneath your palms as you moved while his hands locked onto your hips, fingers digging in to help guide them, pushing you down harder onto him with every roll.Â
Whenever Dean got close enough, pressing his front to your back eagerly, you could feel the hard, thick length of his cock pressing firmly against your ass, a promise of what was coming.
The feeling of being sandwiched between two men, the weight of them and the heat of their breath created an overwhelming sensation. You weren't close to coming yet but the tension was already building, in a new coil of heat tightening in your lower belly that you had never experienced before.
Deanâs hands moved, fingers hooking into the strap of your bra. With a swift, confident motion, he flicked the clasp and peeled the fabric away, exposing your breasts to the dim light of the tent.
Beau let out a low groan at the sight of your breasts spilling free, hips bucking upward instinctively. He looked up at your chest, eyes glazed with lust and breath coming in ragged gasps.
"Fuck," Beau choked out, his voice strained. "You're so beautiful...Itâs gonna make me cum."
He tightened his grip on your hips, pulling you closer as you ground down against him. He held back, fighting the urge to come in his underwear while the two of you moved in a desperate, sweaty rhythm.
Dean stayed pressed behind you, mouth hot on your neck and shoulder, kissing and biting softly as his hand slipped around your waist and slid slowly beneath the waistband of your panties.Â
His fingers found your slick folds and immediately began drawing slow but firm circles over your clit, the sudden direct touch making you moan loudly into the space.Â
Meanwhile, his other hand stayed cupped around your breast, thumb brushing across your nipple in time with the movement of his fingers, forcing pleasure to surge through you from both angles.Â
Your hips lifted on instinct. Breathing hard, you reached down between your bodies, slipped your hand into the waistband of his boxers and wrapped your fingers around his thick, heated length. You pulled him free, stroking him once from base to tip as his breath hitched sharply.
You then hooked a finger into the side of your soaked panties and tugged them roughly aside, exposing your dripping pussy completely to him.Â
Dean chuckled low against your neck. "Taking initiative, I love thatâŚBeau here likes spontaneity."
Holding Beauâs cock steady, you lined him up at your entrance and slowly sank down onto him.Â
The stretch was immediate and intense. A broken moan and gasp escaped your lips as his warm, bare cock pushed inside you, filling you inch by inch. It truly was nothing like your toys, he felt alive, hot and so much fuller than you had imagined. You kept sinking until you were fully seated in his lap, walls fluttering and clenching around him then releasing in ways no toy had ever made them do. "Holy fuck," you breathed.
"Nothing holy about this," Beau answered, voice rough. "Get to riding."
You laughed shakily as Deanâs laugh vibrated against your skin. "And here she thought you were the sweeter one."
"Please," Beau added, smiling up at you and the word made your lips part around another curse.
Deanâs hand left your breast and slid up to the back of your neck, pressing you forward firmly until your chest was flush against Beauâs, nipples brushing his warm skin with every breath. The new angle pushed you deeper onto Beauâs cock, drawing a shared moan from both of you.
Behind you, Dean rolled his hips, grinding the hard, clothed length of his cock between your ass cheeks. The thick ridge of his erection, still trapped in his boxers, dragged slowly, applying steady pressure against your most sensitive area. He matched every roll and lift of your hips as you rode Beau, thrusting in perfect sync so that every time you sank down onto Beauâs cock, Deanâs pressed firmly against your ass.
His fingers never stopped their steady circles over your swollen clit, slick and fast now, pushing you higher with every stroke. The sensation of being filled by Beau while Dean ground against you from behind left you trembling between them, caught in a rhythm that grew steadily more desperate.
"Tell her again," Dean said, grinning. "Iâm pretty sure her pussy will thank you for your manners."
Beauâs hands settled on your waist, guiding your drags up and down his length. "Ride me, sweetheart. Nice and slow so you can feel every inch."
You kept moving and each time you rose, Deanâs dry thrusts pushed you forward again, the fabric of his boxers catching and dragging against sensitive, wet skin. The tent felt smaller with every breath and shift of bodies while your knees slid over your sleeping bag as you found a rhythm, Beauâs cock stretching you as Deanâs fingers kept your clit puffy and throbbing.
Beauâs grip tightened as he grabbed handfuls of ass. "Fuck, you feel so goodâŚso tight around me."
"Sheâs dripping down your cock already. Keep talking to her, BeauâŚshe likes it." Dean grinned.
Beauâs voice stayed soft even as his hips failed to lift to meet you halfway. "Youâre doing so wellâŚtaking me so deep. Thatâs it, let Dean play with that pretty clit while you fuck yourself on me."
Deanâs fingers pressed firmer, faster and your moans broke into something higher. The combined sensation from Beau filling you and Deanâs cock grinding against your ass while his fingers worked your clit, made your thighs shake. You rocked harder, chasing the feeling youâd never found with silicone.
"Thatâs right," Dean murmured. "Use us. Show us how you want it."
Beauâs hands slid up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. "You can go faster if you need to, itâs all yours to take."
You did. The wet sounds of your pussy taking him fully grew louder inside the small tent. Deanâs dry thrusts grew more insistent, the head of his cock catching on the thin fabric of your panties with every roll of his hips as your clit pulsed under his fingers, every circle sending sparks up your spine.
Beauâs breathing turned ragged, eyes fluttering shut. "Youâre squeezing me so tightâŚFuck, donât stop."
Deanâs hand pressed firmly on the delicious curve of your spineâŚFuck, he wanted to lick along it. "She wonâtâŚnot until she comes all over your cock. Right, beautiful?"
The words hit you harder than you expected. Your hips stuttered for a moment, then resumed their frantic rhythm, chasing the edge that had always stayed just out of reach with your toys.Â
Beauâs hands gripped your waist, steadying you as you rode him and Deanâs fingers never faltered on your clit, circling with relentless pressure. The three of you moved together in the cramped tent, bodies sliding against each other, hot breaths mingling in the thick air while the quiet night outside faded completely.
Beau pulled you into a deep, searing kiss, his tongue sliding against yours as he met every desperate roll of your hips, which you were greedy for. You rode him harder, walls clamping down tightly around his thick shaft with every downward plunge. The wet, filthy sound of your bodies meeting filled the small space as the tension coiled tighter and tighter in your core, centered beneath Deanâs skilled fingers.
Your orgasm crashed over you without warning, violent and overwhelming. Your back arched sharply, pressing your chest harder against Beauâs as your hardened nipples dragged across his heated skin. The kiss broke with a wet gasp as a loud, broken moan tore from your throat.Â
Your pussy spasmed hard around Beauâs cock, milking him in powerful, rhythmic pulses while pleasure tore through every nerve in your body.
You were so drenched that your juices coated his length and dripped down onto his balls, the slickness becoming too much. With one final, shaking shudder, Beauâs cock slipped out of you with a loud and obscene wet pop. You slumped forward against his chest, gasping for air, your empty pussy visibly twitching and pulsing in the open air between your spread cheeks.
Dean, who had been watching the entire spectacle with dark, predatory hunger, let out a low hiss. Seeing your walls contract and flutter had pushed him past the point of restraint. He snatched his hand away from your clit, the sudden loss making you whimper in protest and in one fluid motion, he shoved the front of his boxers down, freeing his thick, rigid cock.Â
He leaned forward, lined the swollen head against your soaked entrance and began pushing in.
You let out a loud, shocked moan against Beauâs lips, your eyes widening at the sudden heavy intrusion. Beau had been long and smooth, gliding easily along your walls, Dean was thicker and the wait had made him even harder. He was ridged and pressed firmly against every sensitive spot as he moved. He stretched you to your absolute limit, forcing your walls to open around his girth as he sank deeper.
Beau reached down with both hands and gripped your ass cheeks. He spread them wide, fully exposing your dripping pussy to Deanâs relentless push, the new position leaving you completely open between them.
Dean gave a few slow, careful thrusts at first, testing how your body responded while it was still vibrating from your orgasm. The waves hadnât faded, instead, they continued pulsing around his cock with every shallow stroke, drawing a deep groan from his chest.
You whined, a high and needy sound escaping your throat. Dean rested his forehead against the back of your neck for a moment, breathing hard, before he straightened up again on his knees.
âFucking glorious, right? So warm,â Beau murmured, his voice thick with lust.
Dean chuckled, the sound vibrating through your spine. âSheâs still cumming from your cock, dude.â He paused, his voice softening even as it stayed dominant. âIâm not hurting you, am I, sweetheart?â
You shook your head gently, breath coming in short, jagged gasps. A powerful wave of relief washed over you. You werenât broken or numb, you could feel everything, every ridge, vein and throb of their cocks inside you. The sheer intensity proved you were more than capable of this kind of pleasure.
Deanâs arm wrapped around your waist and hauled you upright, pulling you off Beauâs chest and holding you tight against him in a firm bear hug, your back flush to his front. Your skin burned where it pressed against his.
âDo me a favor and wrap that pretty hand around Beauâs cock,â he whispered hotly against your ear.
He began to thrust in earnest, each powerful stroke driving deep and pushing fresh wetness out around his thick shaft. You melted back into him, head falling against his shoulder as a full-body shudder ran through you.
âCome on, be a good girl,â Dean murmured, voice rough with passion.
He looked down at Beauâs cock lying hard and twitching against his stomach, shiny and dripping with your juices. The swollen head glistened under the low light while a thin string of your slick stretched from your pussy to Beauâs skin every time Dean pulled back and slammed in again.
Your hand reached down on instinct, fingers wrapping around Beauâs slick, hot length, feeling it pulse strongly in your palm. You stroked him slowly at first, spreading the wetness up and down his shaft while Dean fucked you steadily from behind, the three of you locked together in the cramped tent.
You guided the broad head of Beauâs cock firmly against your swollen clit and the drenched opening of your pussy. Every time Dean slammed his hips forward, driving his cock deep into you, the force pressed your pelvis down onto Beauâs shaft. The friction was electric, a constant, slippery grind that sent sparks of pleasure shooting through your nerves. You whimpered, head tossing back against Deanâs shoulder anew as pre-cum and your own slick lubricated the filthy contact.
Beauâs chest tensed beneath you, his muscles rippling as he fought for control. âUgh, fuck,â he moaned, the sound vibrating through your thighs. You let out a breathless chuckle between your moans, fingers digging into his skin to keep his cock pressed tight against your throbbing clit.
âYou guysâŚdo this often?â you gasped, voice trembling as Deanâs thrusts grew more urgent, hitting your cervix with blunt, satisfying thuds.
âWe can, if you call us,â Beau answered instantly.
Dean let out a low, rumbling laugh that vibrated against your back. âTook the words right out of my mouth,â he said, teeth grazing the shell of your ear before he gripped your waist tighter and pulled you back harder onto his cock.
The pace changed, becoming a relentless, kinky assault on your senses. Dean began to rotate his hips, grinding his cock deep inside you while you continued sliding against Beauâs tip. The wet, slapping sound of skin meeting skin filled the tent, mixed with the heavy, intoxicating scent of sex and musk. You were drowning in it as pleasure built into a towering wave that stripped away your ability to speak. You could no longer form words, all that left your lips were high, needy moans and broken whimpers.
As you lost the ability to talk, the men took over. Their voices became low and praising as they talked about you like a prize, describing exactly how your tight walls squeezed Dean and how your clit pulsed against Beau.
âLook at her,â Dean groaned, his breath hot on your neck. âSo fucking wet for us. I can feel her twitching around me, trying to suck me dry.â
âSheâs perfect,â Beau rasped, his eyes locked on your blissed-out face.
Suddenly, Beau sat up, his movement fluid and hungry. He lunged forward and wrapped his mouth around one of your stiff nipples, sucking hard while his tongue swirled around the sensitive peak. At the same time, his hand reached up to massage your other breast, kneading the soft flesh with a firm grip. The combination of Deanâs deep pounding from behind, the constant friction on your clit and Beauâs hungry mouth on your breasts pushed you right to the edge.
Your back arched sharply, toes curling. âFuckâŚIâm gonna cum,â you wailed, your internal muscles clamping down violently around Dean.
âHold it,â they both commanded in unison.
The sudden order snapped you out of your haze for a split second. They didnât stop moving, if anything, Dean slowed to a torturous, shallow grind, teasing the entrance of your womb, while Beau kept his cock pressed firmly against your clit. They went right back to their seductive murmurs against your skin, praising how your body trembled and how desperately you were leaking for them. They kept you hovering right on the precipice, denying your release and stretching the tension until your entire body hummed like a live wire, trapped in agonizing, wet ecstasy.
The friction continued, a relentless, slippery torture. The sheer amount of lubrication, a hot cocktail of your soaking wetness and their pre-cum, made every movement smooth and loud.Â
As you ground desperately against Beau, the slickness became so intense that his cock suddenly slid from your clit and glided effortlessly toward your entrance.
You gasped, eyes widening in shock as you felt the broad, blunt head of his cock press firmly against your opening, right beside where Deanâs thick shaft was sliding in and out. He didnât push inside but the overwhelming pressure of two cocks fighting for the same tight space was too much and the dam broke.Â
You screamed, body convulsing in a violent, crashing orgasm. Your walls clamped down hard on Dean in rhythmic, desperate pulses, milking him with every spasm. You whined and moaned, voice breaking as wave after wave of pleasure ripped through you, leaving you shaking and breathless.
The intensity of your climax triggered both men. Beau, feeling the frantic pulsing of your pussy against his sensitive head, let out a raspy moan into your nipple. His body stiffened as he erupted, thick ropes of hot cum shooting across your drenched pussy and mixing with the mess already coating your inner thighs.
At the same moment, the crushing grip of your orgasm pulled Dean over the edge. He let out a low, animalistic growl and buried himself as deep as possible, filling your womb with heavy, pulsing loads of cum. He kept thrusting slowly and heavily, pumping every last drop deep inside you while your body continued to shake between them.
Eventually, Dean slowed and pulled out with a wet, suctioning sound. The sudden emptiness left you feeling sensitive and open.Â
You collapsed forward onto Beauâs chest as he lay back down, breathing hard against the crook of his neck.Â
Your skin was warm and glistening with sweat and seedâŚAnd just as you started to relax, Beau reached down and delivered a sharp, loud smack to your ass.
You whined, the sting sending a fresh spark through your exhausted nerves while Dean groaned, voice thick with lingering lust as he stared at the sight of you.Â
âHowâs it looking?â Beau asked, glancing at Dean, who seemed completely mesmerized by your lower body.
Dean leaned in, eyes tracking the way their mixed cum and your wetness dripped from your swollen and still pulsing folds. âLike an overfilled twinkie,â he muttered.
The absurd comment shattered the tension and all three of you dissolved into tired, breathless laughter. You propped yourself up slightly, lifting just enough to capture Beauâs lips in a deep, lingering kiss. Your fingers threaded through his hair, pulling him closer as you tasted the salt and heat of everything you had just done.
âYou might not be Six Flags,â you whispered against his lips, a playful glint in your eyes, âbut they should make you employee of the month.â
Beau grinned triumphantly and surged up to reclaim your mouth, his hand sliding down to squeeze your ass firmly, kneading the flesh.
âHeyâŚhow come I got no kiss?â Deanâs voice drifted from behind you, mock-offended.
You didnât bother to look back, too focused on Beauâs tongue sliding against yours but you had to pull back. âYou came inside me,â you murmured breathlessly. âDonât be greedy.â
You sank back into the kiss, feeling Beauâs chest rumble with a chuckle.
âFew more minutes and Iâll come on it too,â Dean whispered, voice low and promising as you felt Beau grin against your lips.
You had never seen men as the answer to much of anything, least of all your pleasure. So maybe the next thing you would acquire wouldnât be a boyfriend, but a nice, realistic, warming and throbbing dildo to add to your collection⌠and perhaps a couple of phone numbers to call on those nights when your toys needed charging.
a/n: Comments, likes and reblogs really do mean the world and help more than you know! More stories will be added to the archive soon, so stay tuned for new content. Thank you so much for reading! đ¤
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guardian angel
Beau Maxwell x medical student!Reader
Summary (implied spoilers for The Score): you stop on a dark highway for a stranger you have never met. He wakes up days later not knowing your name. What follows is a love story that starts with blood-stained scrubs, a neck brace, and the single worst pickup line ever delivered in an ICU. Aka ⌠the fix-it fic where Beau lives
Warnings: descriptions of a car accident and critical injuries
The night stretches cold and endless along Route 2, the kind of February darkness that settles into your bones. Youâre driving on autopilot, your mind still churning through pharmacokinetics and drug interactions, when the world explodes into motion ahead of you.
Metal screeches. Glass shatters. A black SUV careens off the road, spinning once, twice, before slamming into a massive oak with a sound that punches through the quiet night.
Your foot hits the brake before your brain catches up. Your car fishtails slightly on the slick road before coming to a stop thirty feet from the wreckage. For exactly three seconds, you sit there, hands still gripping the steering wheel, heart hammering against your ribs.
Then youâre moving.
You grab your phone, your emergency kit from the trunk â thank god for your motherâs paranoia â and run toward the smoking vehicle. The smell hits you first: gasoline, burnt rubber, something metallic that might be blood.
âHello?â Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. âCan anyone hear me?â
A groan from the driverâs side. You circle around, your boots crunching on broken glass and scattered debris. The driverâs door hangs open at an odd angle. A man in his fifties sits slumped against the steering wheel, a gash above his eyebrow bleeding sluggishly.
âSir? Sir, can you hear me?â
His eyes flutter open. Blue eyes. Dazed but focusing. âIâwhat happened? Whereâs-â His head jerks toward the passenger side, and pure terror floods his face. âBeau! BEAU!â
He tries to unbuckle his seatbelt, but you put a hand on his shoulder. âSir, please donât move. You might be injured-â
âMy son!â He shoves your hand away, stronger than he looks. âMy son is in the passenger seat!â
Ice floods your veins. You circle to the other side of the vehicle, and thatâs when you see him.
The passenger door is crumpled inward, the metal twisted like paper. The window is completely gone. And in the seat, surrounded by a spider web of cracks in whatâs left of the windshield, is a young man about your age.
Thereâs so much blood.
âOh god,â you whisper. Then louder, forcing yourself into action: âIâm calling 911 right now!â
Your fingers shake as you dial, but your voice comes out clear when the operator answers.
â911, whatâs your emergency?â
âMotor vehicle collision, Route 2 westbound, approximately two miles past the Lexington exit. Two victims. Driver appears stable with minor head trauma, but passenger has severe injuries-â Youâre moving as you talk, assessing with your eyes what you canât yet touch. âPossible cervical spine injury, significant hemorrhaging from upper extremity, penetrating chest trauma. We need paramedics and ALS immediately.â
âMaâam, are you a medical professional?â
âSecond-year medical student. I have BLS and Stop the Bleed certification.â
âParamedics are en route. ETA eight minutes. Can you provide care until they arrive?â
âYes.â You set the phone down, speaker on, and force yourself to breathe. Eight minutes. You can do eight minutes.
You turn back to the passenger. The father is now standing beside you, swaying slightly.
âSir, I need you to sit down-â
âThatâs my son.â His voice breaks. âPlease, you have to help him. Please.â
âI will. But I need you to sit down before you fall down. Can you do that for me?â
He nods shakily and lowers himself to the ground, never taking his eyes off his son.
You lean into the destroyed passenger compartment, and your medical training wars with your human instinct to panic. The young man â Beau, his father called him â is unconscious. His head lolls at an angle that makes your stomach drop. Not a natural angle. Not even close.
âOkay,â you mutter to yourself. âOkay, think. C-spine precautions. Donât move him unless heâs in immediate danger.â
But he is in immediate danger. You can see it in the way his neck bends, the way his head threatens to fall further forward. If his cervical spine isnât already severed, any more movement could do it.
You look around frantically. The car is stable. No fire. But you need to stabilize his neck now.
Your emergency kit. You dump it on the ground, hands moving fast, grabbing the rolled-up fleece blanket your mom insisted you carry. You carefully roll it into a tight cylinder and maneuver it around Beauâs neck, trying to provide support without moving him any more than absolutely necessary.
âTalk to me,â you call to the father. âWhatâs his name? Full name?â
âBeau. Beau Maxwell.â The manâs voice is thin with shock. âHeâs twenty-two. Heâs healthy, no medical conditions, no allergies. Heâsâgod, heâs the quarterback. He has a game next week. He has-â
âOkay, Mr. Maxwell, thatâs good, thatâs helpful.â Youâre assessing as he talks. The makeshift cervical collar is in place. Now the bleeding. âI need you to keep talking to me. Tell me what happened.â
âA deer. There was a deer in the road, and I swerved, and-â His voice cracks again. âI felt the ice. I felt us sliding. I couldnât stop it.â
Youâre barely listening now, all your attention on Beauâs arm. Thereâs a shard of glass â thick, wickedly sharp â embedded in his right bicep. Blood pulses around it in rhythmic spurts. Arterial. Brachial artery, most likely.
âFuck,â you breathe. âDispatch, update â patient has arterial hemorrhage from upper extremity. Iâm applying a tourniquet now.â
Your coat. Youâre already shaking from the cold, but you strip off your heavy winter coat without hesitation. You need fabric, need pressure, need to stop the bleeding before he loses any more blood.
The glass shard is still embedded. Leave it or take it out? You run through your training in microseconds. In the field, with no surgical backup, no way to clamp the artery â leave it. But you need pressure above and below.
You wrap your coat around his upper arm, using the sleeves to tie it as tight as you can manage. Your fingers are already going numb, but you pull harder, watching the rhythmic spurting slow to a steady seep. Not perfect, but better.
Youâre about to check his other injuries when you see it: a thick branch, maybe three inches in diameter, has punched through the windshield and embedded itself in Beauâs chest. Just left of center. Through the sternum, or maybe just missing it. Either way, itâs deep.
Your hands hover over it, trembling. Every instinct screams at you to pull it out, but you know that branch is the only thing preventing him from bleeding out right now. If itâs hit any major vessels, removing it without a surgical team standing by would kill him.
âPlease,â Mr. Maxwell says from behind you. âPlease tell me heâs going to be okay.â
You donât answer. You canât. Instead, you lean back slightly, taking in Beauâs face for the first time.
Even like this â pale, covered in blood, unconscious â heâs striking. Dark hair matted against his forehead, strong jaw, features that would be more at home on a movie screen than a car wreck. Thereâs a cut above his eyebrow, minor compared to everything else, and his lips are slightly parted, each breath shallow and labored.
You find yourself reaching out, your fingers â cold and blood-stained â brushing against his cheek.
âHey,â you whisper. âBeau. I know you canât hear me, but I need you to hold on, okay? Help is coming. Just hold on.â
His skin is cooling rapidly in the February air. You grab the emergency blanket from your kit with your free hand and drape it over as much of him as you can without disturbing the branch or the makeshift collar.
âSix minutes out,â the dispatcher says through your phone speaker.
Six minutes. Six minutes for his brain to be without adequate oxygen if his breathing gets any worse. Six minutes for that branch to shift. Six minutes for his neck to-
No. You push the thoughts away.
âMr. Maxwell, is anyone else hurt? Was anyone else in the car?â
âNo. Just us. We were coming back from dinner. In the city. His grandmotherâs birthday.â The man is crying now, quietly. âI told him Iâd drive so he could relax. Have a few drinks. I told him-â
âThis wasnât your fault,â you say firmly. âThe deer, the ice â this wasnât your fault.â
You check Beauâs pulse again. Thready. Too fast. Shock, almost certainly. Blood loss, head trauma, possible internal injuries â the list spirals in your mind.
âHis pupils,â Mr. Maxwell says suddenly. âShouldnât you check his pupils?â
You should. You know you should. But part of you is terrified of what youâll find. Unequal pupils would mean increased intracranial pressure, brain herniation, things you cannot fix on the side of a dark highway.
Still, you pull out your phone flashlight and gently lift one of Beauâs eyelids.
Blue. His eyes are the same startling blue as his fatherâs, even closed like this. You shine the light across. The pupil constricts. Sluggish, but it constricts. You check the other side. The same.
âEqual and reactive,â you report to dispatch, relief flooding through you. âSluggish but responsive.â
âParamedics are three minutes out,â the dispatcher responds.
Three minutes. You can see lights in the distance now, hear the wail of sirens cutting through the night.
You check the tourniquet again â still holding. Check his breathing â still shallow but present. Your hand finds its way back to his face, and you realize youâre talking to him, a steady stream of words youâll never remember later.
âTheyâre almost here. Youâre doing great. Just keep breathing, okay? Keep breathing.â
Behind you, Mr. Maxwell is on his own phone now, his voice breaking as he talks to someone. His wife, probably. Telling her something no parent should ever have to say.
The ambulance screams to a stop, and suddenly there are people everywhere. Paramedics in dark blue, moving with practiced efficiency.
âWeâve got him, maâam. Weâve got him.â
But you donât move. Not until one of them â a woman with kind eyes and gray-streaked hair â gently touches your shoulder.
âYou did good,â she says. âReally good. But we need you to step back now so we can work.â
You stumble backward, and Mr. Maxwell is there, catching your elbow.
âWhat do we have?â the lead paramedic asks.
Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. âTwenty-two-year-old male, restrained passenger in head-on collision with tree. Patient found unconscious, significant cervical spine angulation â Iâve placed a soft collar for support. Penetrating trauma to chest, large foreign object still in situ. Arterial hemorrhage from right upper extremity, tourniquet applied. Pupils equal and reactive but sluggish. Respirations shallow, approximately 20 per minute. Pulse thready at approximately 120. Obvious signs of shock.â
The paramedicâs eyebrows raise slightly. âYou a doctor?â
âMed student. Second year.â
âWell, med student, you probably saved his life.â Sheâs already moving, her team swarming around Beau with practiced precision. C-collar. Backboard. IV access. They work with a choreography born of countless traumas.
You watch as they carefully extract him from the vehicle, maintaining spinal precautions, keeping the branch stable. Watch as they load him onto the stretcher. Watch as they cut away his blood-soaked shirt, revealing more of the damage underneath.
âWeâre taking him to Mass General,â one of the paramedics calls out. âTrauma one.â
âIâm riding with him,â Mr. Maxwell says, but heâs swaying again, and now that the adrenaline is fading, you can see heâs not as okay as he first appeared.
âSir, you need to be evaluated too,â another paramedic says, approaching with a second gurney. âWeâll take you both.â
âBut-â
âWeâve got him, sir. Weâve got your son.â
You watch as they load Mr. Maxwell into a second ambulance. Watch as both vehicles pull away, sirens wailing, lights painting the dark road in red and blue.
Then itâs just you, standing on the side of Route 2 in just your scrubs and thin long-sleeve shirt, shivering violently as the adrenaline finally crashes. A police officer is talking to you â when did the police arrive? â asking questions you answer automatically.
Your coat is gone. Still wrapped around Beau Maxwellâs arm, probably being cut off by the trauma team right now. Your emergency kit is scattered across the asphalt. Your hands are stained rusty brown with blood.
âMiss?â The officer touches your shoulder. âMiss, are you okay? Do you need medical attention?â
âIâm fine,â you hear yourself say. âIâm fine.â
But youâre not fine. Youâre shaking so hard your teeth chatter. Your mind keeps replaying the angle of Beauâs neck, the branch in his chest, the feel of his cooling skin under your fingers.
The officer wraps a shock blanket around your shoulders and guides you to sit in your car, heater blasting. Heâs still asking questions â your name, your address, what you saw. You answer them all, but part of you is still on that roadside, watching Beauâs chest rise and fall in shallow, struggling breaths.
âYouâre a hero, you know,â the officer says after heâs finished taking your statement. âThat young man â you probably saved his life.â
You nod numbly. All you can think is but what if it wasnât enough?
The officer helps you collect your scattered supplies, guides you through the process of leaving the scene. Your car is fine. Youâre fine. Everything is fine.
Except itâs not.
As you drive home, your hands wonât stop shaking on the wheel. You keep seeing Beauâs face, keep feeling the cold of his skin, keep hearing Mr. Maxwellâs broken voice. Thatâs my son. Please, you have to help him.
You make it to your apartment building, into your unit, into your bathroom before you finally break down. You sit on the cold tile floor, still in your blood-stained scrubs, and sob.
Because youâve spent two years studying medicine, learning about trauma and emergency care, practicing on mannequins and in simulations. But nothing prepared you for the reality of holding someoneâs life in your hands while their blood soaks into your coat and their father begs you to save them.
Nothing prepared you for looking into the face of a dying stranger and desperately, irrationally, needing him to survive.
You cry until you have no tears left, until the shaking finally subsides, until you can breathe without feeling like your chest is caving in. You peel off your ruined scrubs, scrub the blood from your hands, and sit on your couch in the dark.
Then you pull up Google on your phone, your hands steadier now, and type in a name. Beau Maxwell.
The results flood your screen. Articles about football, highlight reels, statistics. Briar Universityâs star quarterback. Twenty-two years old. Junior year. Dark hair, blue eyes, a smile that could sell toothpaste. Projected first-round NFL draft pick.
You scroll through image after image of him â in uniform, in interviews, at press conferences. Healthy. Whole. So full of life it seems impossible that just an hour ago you were watching him bleed out on a dark highway.
You close your phone and lean your head back against the couch, staring at your ceiling in the darkness.
âPlease,â you whisper to no one, to everyone, to whatever forces govern life and death. âPlease let him be okay.â
Outside your window, Boston sleeps on, unaware. Somewhere across the city, in Mass Generalâs trauma bay, a team of surgeons fights to save the life of a quarterback youâve never met but will never forget.
All you can do is wait.
And hope.
And pray that your desperate, fumbling first aid was enough to give him a chance.
***
The weight room smells like sweat and rubber, the familiar clang of metal on metal providing a rhythm Dean has known since he was twelve. Itâs barely seven in the morning, but heâs already on his third set of deadlifts, Garrett spotting him while Logan and Tucker argue about last nightâs game on the bench press across the room.
âIâm just saying,â Tucker calls over, âif youâd passed to me in the third period instead of trying to be a hero-â
âIf Iâd passed to you, you wouldâve whiffed it like you did in the second,â Logan fires back.
âFuck off, I was screened-â
âYou were too busy checking out that blonde in the third row-â
Dean tunes them out, focusing on his form. Up. Hold. Down. Controlled. His phone sits on the bench beside his water bottle, face down. It buzzes once â probably his mom checking if heâs coming home this weekend â but he ignores it.
Heâs pulling the bar up for his fourth rep when the phone starts ringing. Properly ringing, not just buzzing. The specific ringtone that means itâs someone from his favorites list.
âDude, your phone,â Garrett says.
Dean sets the bar down carefully and picks up the phone, expecting to see his momâs contact photo. Instead, itâs Coach Jensen.
At seven in the morning.
On a Saturday.
âThatâs weird,â Dean mutters, answering. âCoach? Everything okay?â
Thereâs a pause. Too long. Deanâs stomach does something uncomfortable.
âDi Laurentis.â Coach Jensenâs voice is careful in a way Dean has never heard before. Careful like heâs handling glass. âWhere are you right now?â
âWeight room. With the guys. Whatâs going on?â
Another pause. Dean can hear something in the background â voices, maybe a TV.
âIs Garrett there? Logan? Tucker?â
âYeah, theyâre all here. Coach, what-â
âI need you to sit down, son.â
The weight room goes very quiet. Dean realizes his teammates have stopped talking and are now watching him. He doesnât sit down.
âWhat happened?â
Coach Jensen takes a breath. Dean can hear it through the phone. âI got a call this morning from Coach Deluca. He called because he knows a lot of our guys are friends with players on his team.â
Deanâs hand tightens on the phone. âOkay?â
âItâs about Beau Maxwell.â
The world tilts slightly. âWhat about him?â
âThere was an accident last night. A car accident. Dean, heâs-â Coach Jensenâs voice catches. âHeâs in critical condition at Mass General. His father was driving them back from dinner in the city, and they hit ice, crashed into a tree. His dadâs okay, but Beau-â
Dean doesnât hear the rest. The phone slips from his hand, clattering against the concrete floor. The sound echoes, distant and wrong, like itâs coming from underwater.
Beau.
Critical condition.
The words donât make sense. They canât make sense. Because Dean just saw Beau yesterday. They grabbed lunch between classes, argued about whether the Packers or the Patriots were going to make it to the playoffs, made plans to hit up a party tonight. Beau was fine. Beau was fine.
âDean?â Garrettâs hand is on his shoulder. âDean, whatâs wrong?â
Dean opens his mouth but nothing comes out. His knees feel strange, like they might not hold him. The weight room spins slightly, or maybe heâs spinning, he canât tell.
âShit, heâs going down-â Thatâs Logan, suddenly on his other side, propping him up.
Tucker grabs the phone from the floor. Dean watches him lift it to his ear, watches his face go pale as he listens to whatever Coach Jensen is saying.
âOh fuck,â Tucker whispers. âOh fuck, oh fuck-â
âWhat?â Garrett demands. âWhat happened?â
âItâs Beau.â Tuckerâs voice sounds hollow. âHeâsâthere was a car accident. Heâs in critical condition.â
The words hit the room like a physical force. Garrettâs hand tightens on Deanâs shoulder. Logan makes a sound like heâs been punched.
Dean still canât breathe right. Canât think right. Critical condition. That means bad. That means really bad. That means-
No. No, heâs not going there.
âWe need to go,â Dean hears himself say. His voice sounds far away. âWe need to go to the hospital.â
âDean, maybe we should-â Garrett starts.
âNow.â Dean pulls away from his friends, stumbling slightly. His legs feel like water. âWeâre going now.â
âOkay,â Logan says quickly. âOkay, yeah. My carâs out front. Letâs go.â
Dean doesnât remember the walk to the parking lot. Doesnât remember climbing into Loganâs beat-up pickup. One minute heâs in the weight room, and the next heâs in the back seat, Tucker beside him, watching the familiar streets of Boston blur past the window.
Garrett is in the passenger seat, on his phone. âYeah, Wellsy, itâsâyeah, itâs really bad. Weâre going to Mass General now. Can youâyeah. Thanks, baby.â
The city passes in a haze. Dean stares out the window without seeing anything. His mind keeps trying to process the information and failing. Beau. Car accident. Critical condition.
Theyâre brothers. Not by blood, but by choice, which Dean has always thought means more.Â
Beau is the guy who stayed up with Dean all night when his grandfather died, never saying much, just being there. The guy who taught Dean how to throw a spiral when some girl Dean was into invited him to throw a football around. The guy who knows Deanâs coffee order and brings him one without being asked when heâs had a rough day.
Beau is his brother.
And Dean doesnât know what heâll do if-
No. Stop. Donât think it.
âWeâre here,â Logan announces, pulling into the hospital parking garage with slightly too much speed.
They practically fall out of the truck, running for the entrance. The hospital is massive, gleaming glass and steel, and Dean has no idea where to go.
âTrauma wing,â Tucker pants, pulling out his phone. âCoach sent me directions. This way.â
They follow him through automatic doors, past a reception desk, down a hallway that smells like antiseptic and fear. Deanâs heart is pounding so hard he can hear it in his ears. His workout clothes are still damp with sweat. He should have changed. Why didnât he change?
They round a corner, and Dean sees them.
The waiting room is full of Maxwells.
Beauâs mom, Debbie, sits in one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs, her face buried in her hands. Beauâs dad is standing by the window, a white bandage visible above his eyebrow. Beauâs grandmother is there too, being comforted by what looks like Beauâs aunt. There are others Dean recognizes from family gatherings and football games, all wearing the same expression of shock and grief.
They all look up as four hockey players in workout gear burst into the waiting room.
His momlâs eyes land on Dean, and her face crumbles.
âDean,â she chokes out, and then sheâs standing, crossing the room in three steps, pulling him into her arms.
Sheâs shaking. Or maybe heâs shaking. He canât tell anymore.
âIâm so sorry,â sheâs saying into his shoulder. âIâm so sorry, honey, I know you twoâI know-â
Thatâs what breaks him.
Dean Di Laurentis, who prides himself on being smooth, charming, always in control, shatters. His knees give out, and if Beauâs mom wasnât holding him up, heâd be on the floor. A sob tears out of his throat, raw and ugly and completely beyond his control.
âIâve got you,â she whispers, even though sheâs the one who should be comforted, even though itâs her son in critical condition. âIâve got you, sweetheart.â
Dean can feel his teammates behind him â Loganâs hand on his back, Garrettâs voice saying something he canât make out. But mostly he feels the weight of grief trying to crush him, the terror of possibly losing the person who knows him better than anyone.
âWhat happened?â He manages to gasp out. âCoach saidâbut he didnâtâwhat happened?â
Debbie pulls back, her hands still on his shoulders. Her eyes are red-rimmed and swollen. âYou should tell them.â
Beauâs dad turns from the window. He looks like heâs aged ten years overnight. The bandage above his eyebrow is stark white against his pale skin.
âWe were driving back from dinner,â he says, his voice rough. âIn the city. For my motherâs birthday. It was late, almost midnight. I was driving because Beau had a few drinks. We were justâwe were talking about the game next week. About his classes. Normal stuff.â
He stops, his jaw working. Beauâs grandmother reaches over and takes his hand.
âThere was a deer,â Beauâs dad continues. âIt came out of nowhere. I swerved, and the roadâthere was black ice. I felt the car start to slide, and I couldnâtâI tried to correct, but we just kept sliding. We hit a tree. Driverâs side hit first, then passenger side slammed into it.â
Deanâs stomach churns. He can picture it too clearly.
âI woke up a few seconds later. I was okay, just disoriented. But Beau-â Beauâs father takes a moment to gather himself. âHe wasnât moving. There was blood everywhere. And then this young woman appeared. Out of nowhere. Sheâd seen the crash and stopped.â
âShe called 911,â Beauâs mom picks up the story, her voice steadier than her husbandâs. âShe was a medical student. Sheâgod, the paramedics said she saved his life. She stabilized his neck, stopped the worst of the bleeding, kept him alive until they could get there.â
âWhat are his injuries?â Garrett asks quietly. Heâs moved to stand beside Dean, solid and steady.
Beauâs dad closes his eyes. âCervical spine trauma. The paramedics said his neck was bent at an angle that should have killed him. Should have severed his spinal cord. But this girl, she somehow stabilized it. Kept it from snapping completely.â
Dean tastes bile. He swallows hard.
âHe also had a penetrating chest wound,â Beauâs dqd continues. âA tree branch went through the windshield and-â He makes a gesture toward his own sternum. âShe knew not to pull it out. Knew it was the only thing keeping him from bleeding out.â
âAnd his arm,â Beauâs mom adds, wiping her eyes. âSevere laceration from broken glass. She used her own coat as a tourniquet.â
The waiting room is silent except for the buzz of fluorescent lights and the distant beep of monitors.
âIs he going to be okay?â Tucker asks. His voice is small, younger than Dean has ever heard it.
âTheyâve been in surgery for four hours,â Beauâs mom says. âWe donât know yet. They said-â Her voice wavers. âThey said the next few days are critical. That even if he survives the surgery, there could be complications. Infection. Brain damage from oxygen deprivation. Paralysis.â
âNo.â The word comes out sharp, definitive. Dean doesnât realize heâs the one who said it until everyone looks at him. âNo, thatâs notâBeauâs going to be fine. He has to be fine. Heâs-â
He canât finish the sentence. Canât articulate what Beau means, what a world without him would look like. Canât.
âWeâre praying, honey,â Beauâs mom says softly. âThatâs all we can do right now.â
Dean wants to scream that prayer isnât enough. That there has to be something, anything, they can do. But he just nods, swallowing against the lump in his throat.
More people arrive over the next hour. Beauâs teammates, guys from the football team who Dean knows from parties and the occasional shared class. They fill the waiting room with whispered conversations and shell-shocked expressions. A few of them break down crying. Most just sit in stunned silence.
Dean ends up in one of the plastic chairs, his head in his hands. Logan sits on one side, Garrett on the other. Tucker paces by the window, unable to sit still.
âHeâs going to make it,â Logan says quietly. âYou know Beau. Stubborn as hell. Heâs not going anywhere.â
Dean wants to believe that. Wants to believe that sheer force of will can overcome arterial bleeding and spinal trauma. But heâs seen enough hockey injuries to know that sometimes will isnât enough.
âDid you know,â Dean says suddenly, his voice hoarse, âthat his first word was âballâ? He told me that freshman year. Not âmamaâ or âdada.â âBall.â His parents said he was obsessed with any kind of ball from the time he could sit up. They knew heâd be an athlete before he could walk.â
âYeah?â Garrettâs voice is soft, encouraging.
âAnd he-â Deanâs throat closes up. He forces himself to continue. âHe wants to go pro. Obviously. But after that, he wants to coach. High school kids, specifically. He says college and pro players already have all the resources. He wants to work with kids who might not have anyone believing in them.â
âThat sounds like Beau,â Logan says.
âHeâs going to do it, too,â Dean insists, looking up. âHeâs going to play in the NFL and then coach high school ball and probably turn some underfunded program into a state championship team because thatâs what he does. He sees potential in people and brings it out of them.â
âDean-â Garrett starts.
âI mean it.â Deanâs voice cracks. âThatâs who he is. So he canâtâhe has to-â
The doors to the surgical wing swing open.
The waiting room falls silent immediately. Every head turns. A surgeon walks out, still in his scrubs, pulling off his surgical cap. He looks tired. So tired.
Beauâs parents are on their feet instantly, crossing to meet him. Dean stands too, his teammates flanking him. His heart pounds so hard he thinks it might break through his ribs.
âMr. and Mrs. Maxwell,â the surgeon says. His voice is neutral, professional, impossible to read.
âHow is he?â Beauâs mom asks in barely a whisper. âHowâs my son?â
The surgeon takes a breath. Dean holds his own, feeling like the entire world is balanced on whatever words come next.
âThe surgery was successful,â the surgeon says, and the relief that floods the room is almost tangible. âWeâve stabilized the spinal trauma, repaired the vascular damage to his arm, and removed the foreign object from his chest. The object missed his heart by less than two centimeters. Any further to the right, and-â
He doesnât finish the sentence. He doesnât have to.
âBut heâs alive?â Beauâs dad asks. âHeâs going to live?â
âHeâs alive,â the surgeon confirms. âHeâs in critical condition, and the next seventy-two hours will be crucial. Thereâs still risk of infection, of complications from the spinal trauma. But he made it through surgery, which given the extent of his injuries, is remarkable.â
âCan we see him?â Beauâs mom asks.
âHeâs being moved to the ICU now. You can see him once heâs settled, but heâll be sedated. We need to keep him as still as possible to let the spinal repair begin to heal.â
âHis spine,â Beauâs dad says. âWill heâis there paralysis?â
The surgeonâs expression is carefully neutral. âWe wonât know the full extent of any nerve damage until he wakes up and we can do a thorough neurological assessment. The spinal cord itself wasnât severed, which is extraordinarily fortunate. Whoever stabilized his neck at the scene saved his life and likely saved him from permanent paralysis.â
âThe girl,â Beauâs mom says. âThe medical student. Do you know her name? We want to thank her.â
The surgeon shakes his head. âThe paramedics didnât get her information. Just that she was a Good Samaritan who stopped to help.â
âWe have to find her,â Beauâs mom says, turning to her husband. âWe have to-â
âWe will,â Beauâs dad promises. âWe will.â
The surgeon continues, âI need to be clear with you. Your sonâs injuries were catastrophic. The fact that heâs alive is nothing short of miraculous. But the road ahead is going to be long. Months of recovery, likely. Multiple surgeries. Intensive physical therapy. And there are still no guarantees.â
âBut heâs alive,â Beauâs mom repeats, like itâs a prayer. âHeâs alive.â
âHeâs alive,â the surgeon confirms. âYou should be very proud of him. Heâs a fighter.â
After the surgeon leaves, the waiting room erupts. Quiet at first â no one wants to celebrate when Beau is still critical â but thereâs a shift. From hopeless to hopeful. From grief to cautious relief.
Dean sits down hard, his legs finally giving out completely. He drops his head into his hands, and this time when he cries, itâs different. Still scared, still shaken, but thereâs something else mixed in.
Gratitude.
âHe made it,â Logan says, his own voice thick. âHoly shit, he actually made it.â
âSeventy-two hours,â Tucker says. âThatâs what the doctor said. Three days. He just has to make it three days.â
âHe will,â Garrett says firmly. âYou heard the doc. Beauâs a fighter.â
Dean lifts his head, scrubbing at his face. His eyes feel swollen, his throat raw. He probably looks like hell. He doesnât care.
âI need to see him,â he says. âI need to see him.â
âFamily only in the ICU, probably,â Logan says gently. âAt least at first.â
âI donât care. I need-â Deanâs voice breaks again. âI need to see him.â
Beauâs mom appears in front of him, crouching down so theyâre at eye level. She takes his hands in hers.
âAs soon as they let us bring visitors, youâll be the first,â she promises. âI swear. But right now, I need you to do something for me.â
âAnything.â
âI need you to take care of yourself. Go home, shower, eat something. Because when Beau wakes up â and he will wake up â heâs going to need you strong. Can you do that?â
Dean wants to argue. Wants to plant himself in this waiting room and refuse to move until he can see his brother. But her eyes are pleading, and sheâs asking so little when sheâs going through so much.
âOkay,â he whispers. âOkay, but youâll call me? The second anything changes?â
âThe absolute second,â she promises. âYouâre family, Dean. You know that.â
Family. The word cracks something open in his chest. He pulls Beauâs mom into another hug, holding on tight.
âThank you,â he says. âFor calling me. For letting me know.â
âOh honey,â she says, pulling back to look at him. âThere was never a question. Youâre his brother.â
Dean nods, not trusting himself to speak.
His teammates drive him back to campus in silence. The shock is starting to wear off, leaving exhaustion in its wake. Deanâs muscles ache from his workout, which feels like it happened years ago instead of hours.
They end up on the couch, the four of them, not talking. Just being there. At some point, Tucker orders pizza. At another point, Hannah and Allie show up with half the football team, bringing food and offering quiet support.
Deanâs phone buzzes constantly. Texts from teammates, from friends, from people he hasnât talked to in months, all asking about Beau. He doesnât answer any of them.
Instead, he pulls up his photos. Finds the album labeled âBest Bro.â Hundreds of pictures spanning three years. Beau throwing a touchdown. Beau at a party, arm slung around Deanâs shoulders. Beau asleep in the library during finals week, drooling on his American History textbook. Beau grinning at the camera, blue eyes bright, completely alive.
âHeâs going to be okay,â Dean whispers to the photo. âYouâre going to be okay.â
He has to believe it. Because the alternative â a world without Beauâs terrible jokes and unwavering loyalty and ability to light up any room he walks into â is unthinkable.
His phone buzzes again. Theyâve settled him in the ICU. He looks peaceful. Still sedated. Doctors say next 12 hours are critical. Will update you in the morning. Try to get some sleep, honey. He needs you rested.
Dean stares at the message for a long time. Tell him Iâm here. Tell him his brother is here and waiting for him to wake up.
Dean sets his phone down and leans back against the couch. Around him, his friends have settled into quiet conversation. Someone turned on a movie at some point, something mindless playing on low volume.
But Dean isnât watching. Heâs thinking about a girl heâs never met. A medical student who stopped on a dark highway and saved his brotherâs life. Who thought quickly enough to stabilize Beauâs neck, to stop the bleeding, to give him a fighting chance.
Whoever she is, wherever she is, Dean owes her everything.
âWe have to find her,â he says suddenly.
Garrett looks over. âWho?â
âThe girl. The medical student. She saved him, and she just disappeared. Didnât even leave her name.â
âDude, Boston has like five medical schools,â Logan points out. âThatâs thousands of students.â
âI donât care,â Dean says. His voice is stronger now, steadier. âWeâll check every single one if we have to. But weâre going to find her.â
Because whoever she is, she gave Beau a second chance at life.
And Dean is going to make damn sure she knows how much that means.
***
The world comes back in pieces.
First, thereâs sound â a steady beeping, rhythmic and insistent. Then sensation â something soft beneath him, something constricting around his neck. Then smell â antiseptic, that particular hospital smell thatâs somehow both sterile and cloying at once.
Beau tries to open his eyes, but his eyelids feel like they weigh a thousand pounds.
â-vitals are stable, Mrs. Maxwell. Weâre going to start decreasing the sedation now-â
Thatâs a voice he doesnât recognize. Professional. Clinical.
âHow long until he wakes up?â That voice he knows. Mom. She sounds exhausted.
âIt varies. Could be a few hours. His bodyâs been through significant trauma, so weâre taking it slow.â
Beau wants to tell them heâs right here, that he can hear them, but his mouth wonât cooperate. The darkness pulls him back under.
***
The next time consciousness surfaces, it stays a little longer.
The beeping is still there. But now there are other sounds too â quiet conversation, the rustle of fabric, footsteps in the hallway.
â-told you, you canât give him solid food yet-â Mom again, but this time she sounds amused.
âIâm not giving it to him. Iâm just ⌠having it ready. For when he can.â Dean. Thatâs definitely Dean.
âYou brought Dunkinâ Donuts to a hospital ICU?â
âMunchkins. Theyâre small. It doesnât count.â
Despite everything â the pain starting to register in various parts of his body, the confusion, the way his neck feels completely immobilized â Beau almost smiles.
âBeau?â A different voice. Dad. âBeau, can you hear me?â
He tries to respond. Manages something between a grunt and a groan.
âOh my god.â Momâs voice cracks. âOh my god, heâsâget the nurse. Get the nurse!â
Footsteps. Fast.
Beau forces his eyes open. The light is too bright, everything blurry. He blinks, and slowly the world comes into focus.
White ceiling. Fluorescent lights. The edge of what looks like a massive amount of medical equipment.
âBeau?â Momâs face appears above him, and sheâs crying. âOh, baby. Youâre awake. Youâre really awake.â
âHey, Mom.â His voice comes out as barely a rasp, his throat raw and painful.
âDonât try to move, sweetheart. Your neckâthey had to stabilize your neck. Youâre in a brace.â
That explains the constricting feeling. Beau tries to turn his head instinctively and immediately regrets it as pain shoots through him.
âEasy, easy.â Thatâs a new voice â a nurse, he realizes, as a woman in scrubs appears on his other side. âWelcome back, Mr. Maxwell. Iâm Theresa. Can you tell me your name?â
âBeau Maxwell.â It hurts to talk, but he manages.
âGood. Do you know where you are?â
âHospital.â Duh.
âDo you remember what happened?â
Beau tries to think. His memory is ⌠foggy. Disjointed. âCar. We were in a car. Dad was driving.â He looks around, spotting his father standing near the foot of the bed, bandage still visible on his forehead. âDad. You okay?â
His dad laughs, the sound wet and relieved. âIâm fine, son. Iâm fine. Youâre the one who-â His voice breaks. âYou scared the hell out of us.â
âLanguage,â Mom chides, but sheâs smiling through her tears.
The nurse runs through more questions â what year it is, who the president is, can he feel his fingers and toes. Everything checks out, apparently, because she smiles and says, âLooking good, Mr. Maxwell. The doctor will be by soon to do a full assessment.â
After she leaves, Beau takes stock. He can see Mom and Dad, both looking exhausted and relieved. And there, slouched in a chair by the window, is Dean, holding a Dunkinâ Donuts bag and grinning like an idiot.
âYou look like shit,â Beau rasps.
Dean laughs, and it sounds a little hysterical. âSays the guy in the ICU. Welcome back, man.â
âHow long was I out?â
âTwo and a half days,â Mom says, stroking his hand gently. âThey had you heavily sedated while you healed.â
Two and a half days. Beau processes this slowly. âWhat ⌠what are my injuries?â
His parents exchange a look.
âSon,â Dad starts, âyou hadâit was pretty bad. Cervical spine trauma. They had to operate. And there was a branch, through your chest-â
âAÂ branch?â
âMissed your heart by less than two inches,â Mom says quietly. âAnd your armâthere was a lot of glass. They had to repair the artery.â
Beau stares at the ceiling, trying to reconcile this information with the fact that heâs alive and apparently mostly functional. âHow am I not dead?â
âBecause someone saved you,â Dad says. âThere was a woman, a medical student. She saw the crash happen and stopped to help. She stabilized your neck, stopped the bleeding, kept you alive until the paramedics arrived.â
A medical student. Random Good Samaritan. Beau tries to remember, but thereâs nothing. Just darkness and then waking up here.
âThe surgeon said if she hadnât stabilized your neck, one more wrong movement and-â Mom canât finish the sentence.
âWeâve been trying to find her,â Dean interjects, standing up and moving closer to the bed. âTo thank her. But she didnât leave her name, and the hospital doesnât have her information. Just that she was a medical student who stopped to help.â
âI want to thank her too,â Beau says. His throat is killing him, but this seems important.
âThe police have her contact information from the accident report,â Dad says. âWeâre working on tracking her down. But for now, you need to focus on healing.â
A doctor arrives shortly after, running through a battery of neurological tests. Can Beau move his fingers? Yes. Toes? Yes. Feel pressure on his arms? Legs? Yes, yes. The doctor looks cautiously optimistic.
âThe fact that you have full sensation and motor function is excellent news,â the doctor says. âBut youâre not out of the woods yet. The next few weeks are critical. Any wrong movement could jeopardize the spinal repair.â
âSo Iâm stuck in this neck brace?â
âFor at least eight weeks. And then extensive physical therapy.â
Eight weeks. Beauâs season is over. His entire junior year, gone. He closes his eyes against the wave of disappointment.
âHey.â Deanâs hand lands on his shoulder. âOne step at a time, yeah? Youâre alive. Thatâs what matters.â
Beau nods minutely, the brace making even that small movement awkward.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of doctors, nurses, medications, and family. His grandmother comes by and cries all over him. His aunt brings flowers that the nurses say arenât allowed in ICU but no one has the heart to remove. His uncle brings an embarrassing amount of Packers gear âfor morale.â
Dean never leaves. Heâs a permanent fixture in the chair by the window, occasionally trying to sneak Beau a munchkin when the nurses arenât looking, even though Beau still canât eat solid food.
âDude, stop,â Beau finally says. âYouâre going to get kicked out.â
âWorth it,â Dean says, but he puts the bag away.
Itâs late afternoon on the third day post-accident â technically only a few hours since Beau woke up â when thereâs a knock on the door.
âIf thatâs another neurologist, I swear to god-â Beau starts.
âLanguage,â Mom says automatically, but sheâs already turning toward the door. âCome in!â
The door opens, and everyone looks up expecting another doctor or nurse.
Instead, a young woman steps in.
Sheâs around Beauâs age, maybe a year or two older, wearing jeans and a Harvard hoodie, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. She looks nervous, clutching a worn messenger bag and hesitating in the doorway like she might bolt at any second.
âIâm sorry,â she says quickly. âI know you probably werenât expecting visitors, but Iâthe reception desk said thatâI asked how the patient from the accident was doing, and they said the medical student who helped at the scene was on the approved visitor list, so I thought-â Sheâs rambling, talking faster with each word. âI can leave. I should probably leave. I just wanted to check-â
âOh my god.â Dad is on his feet. âYouâre her. Youâre the medical student.â
She nods, looking even more uncertain. âIâmâyes. I was the one whoâI saw the accident, and I-â
She doesnât get any further because Dad crosses the room in three strides and wraps her in a hug.
âThank you,â he says, his voice thick. âThank you for saving my son. Thank you, thank you-â
You stand frozen for a second, clearly startled, before awkwardly patting his back. âIâyouâre welcome. I just did what anyone would-â
âNo.â Mom is there now too, and as soon as Dad releases you, she pulls you into an equally tight embrace. âNo, what you did â the surgeon said you saved his life. That if you hadnât stabilized his neck, he wouldnât have made it. You saved our boy.â
Beau watches from the bed, unable to turn his head much but able to see enough. The woman â the medical student who saved him â looks completely overwhelmed, her eyes suspiciously bright.
âIâm just glad heâs okay,â you manage. âIâve been checking the news, looking for updates, but I couldnât find anything, and I was worried-â
âHeâs going to be okay,â Mom assures you, finally releasing you. âThanks to you.â
Then Dean is there, and he pulls you into a hug that actually lifts you off your feet slightly.
âI donât know who you are yet,â Dean says, âbut you saved my brotherâs life, so youâre stuck with me now. Fair warning, Iâm a hugger.â
You laugh, the sound slightly watery. âI can tell.â
âWhatâs your name?â Mom asks, steering you gently toward the bed.
âY/N Y/L/N,â you say. âIâm a second-year at Harvard Med.â
âY/N,â Dad repeats. âThatâs a beautiful name.â
You smile, still looking nervous, and then your eyes land on Beau.
Beau, who has been staring at you since you walked in.
Because holy shit.
Youâre beautiful. Like, devastatingly beautiful. Even in casual clothes with no makeup and looking slightly anxious, youâre the most stunning person Beau has ever seen. Thereâs something about your eyes, warm and genuine, and the way you move, and-
Is this heaven? Did he actually die and this is some kind of afterlife? Because that would explain a lot.
âHi,â you say softly, moving to his bedside. âHow are you feeling?â
âLike I got hit by a tree,â Beau rasps, then immediately winces. âSorry. That wasâIâm apparently still working on the whole talking thing.â
You laugh, and the sound does something strange to his chest. âThe tree definitely won that round. But Iâm so glad to see you awake. When I left the scene, I-â You pause, taking a shaky breath. âI wasnât sure youâd make it. Your injuries were severe.â
âApparently youâre the reason I did make it,â Beau says. He wishes he could sit up properly, look at you without the weird angle the neck brace forces. âThank you. I mean it. Thank you for stopping. For helping.â
âOf course.â You look genuinely confused by the gratitude. âI couldnât just drive past.â
âMost people would have,â Dean interjects. Heâs back in his chair but watching you with open fascination. âMost people wouldâve called 911 and kept going.â
âI had training,â you say simply. âAnd someone needed help. It wasnâtâI mean, I just did what needed to be done.â
âYou did a lot more than that,â Dad says. âThe surgeon told us you stabilized his neck. That you thought quickly enough to prevent further damage. That you used your own coat to stop the bleeding.â
You duck your head, embarrassed. âI had an emergency kit in my car. My momâs paranoid about me driving alone at night. The coat was just the closest thing I had.â
âDid you get it back?â Beau asks. âYour coat?â
âOh.â You blink at him. âNo, IâI assume they had to cut it off you. Itâs fine, though. It was just a coat.â
âJust a coat that saved my life,â Beau says. âAlong with you. So, not really just a coat.â
You smile at him, and Beauâs heart does something complicated in his chest. The monitors beside his bed beep slightly faster, and he desperately hopes no one notices.
âHow are you really feeling?â You ask. âPain levels? Range of motion? Are you experiencing any numbness or tingling?â
âDid you just go into doctor mode?â Dean asks, amused.
âSorry.â You look sheepish. âOccupational hazard. Iâve been worried aboutâI mean, cervical spine injuries are serious, and I was so scared Iâd made the wrong call at the scene-â
âYou made exactly the right call,â Mom assures you. âEvery doctor weâve talked to has said so.â
You nod, but you still look anxious. Beau recognizes the expression â itâs the same one he wears after a bad game, replaying every mistake.
âHey,â he says, waiting until you look at him. âIâm alive. I can move everything. The doctors say Iâm going to make a full recovery. You did good. Better than good. You were amazing.â
You hold his gaze for a moment, and something passes between them. Something Beau canât name but can definitely feel.
âIâm really glad youâre okay,â you finally say, your voice soft.
âMe too,â Beau replies. âThough Iâm pretty sure I have the worst concussion in history because thereâs no way someone as beautiful as you is real.â
Thereâs a beat of silence.
Then Dean bursts out laughing. âOh my god, did you just use a pickup line while in a neck brace in the ICU?â
âItâs not a pickup line if itâs true,â Beau says, not breaking eye contact with you.
Youâre blushing now, a pink tinge spreading across your cheeks. âI think your brain is working just fine,â you manage.
âThatâs what I said!â Dean crows. âThe boyâs got game even half-dead.â
âDean,â Mom says warningly, but sheâs smiling.
You laugh again, shaking your head. âI should probably go. Let you rest. I just wanted to checkâto make sure you were okay.â
âWait,â Beau says quickly. Too quickly. The movement makes pain shoot through his neck, and he grimaces.
You step closer instinctively, your hand hovering near his shoulder. âAre you okay? Should I get a nurse?â
âNo, Iâm fine. I just-â Beau takes as deep a breath as the chest wound allows. âCan I get your number? To, uh, keep you updated on my recovery. Since you saved my life and all.â
Dean makes a noise thatâs probably supposed to be a cough but sounds suspiciously like a laugh.
Youâre definitely blushing now, but youâre smiling too. âSure. Thatâyeah. Let me write it down.â
Mom, bless her, immediately produces a pen and paper.
You write quickly, your handwriting surprisingly neat, and hand the paper to Beau. âText me anytime. I mean it. I want to know how youâre doing.â
âI will,â Beau promises. He wishes he could take the paper himself, but his arm is still heavily bandaged and moving it is a production. Dean takes it for him, setting it on the bedside table with a knowing smirk.
You linger for another moment, looking like you want to say something else. Finally, you speak. âYou know, I have to tell you something.â
âYeah?â
âIâm a Harvard fan,â you say, and thereâs a hint of mischief in your eyes now. âWhich means Iâm technically rooting against Briar. So you need to make a full recovery so we can beat you fair and square next season.â
Beau stares at you. Then he laughs, the sound rough and painful but genuine. âYou save my life and then threaten to destroy me on the field?â
âNot a threat,â you say cheerfully. âA promise. Weâre coming for that championship.â
âI love her,â Dean announces. âBeau, I love her. Can we keep her?â
âIâm working on it,â Beau mutters, which makes you laugh again.
âOkay, I really do need to go,â you say, backing toward the door. âBut it was wonderful to meet you all. And Beau, heal up fast, okay? The rivalry isnât fun if youâre not playing.â
âYes maâam,â Beau says, giving you a slight salute that his injuries allow.
You wave and slip out the door, closing it softly behind you.
The room is silent for exactly three seconds.
âDude,â Dean says.
âNot now,â Beau replies.
âYou just flirted with your guardian angel.â
âDean-â
âIn the ICU. While in a neck brace. While your parents were standing right there.â
âI was perfectly respectful-â
âYou told her she was too beautiful to be real!â Dean is grinning like the Cheshire cat. âYour game is unreal, man. Iâm actually impressed.â
âYou asked for her number,â Mom says, and she sounds amused too. âThat was certainly ⌠forward of you, sweetheart.â
âI need to thank her properly,â Beau says defensively. âItâs only right.â
âUh-huh,â Dean says. âIs that what weâre calling it?â
âSheâs a Harvard fan,â Beau continues, ignoring him. âWhich means sheâs smart but has terrible taste in football teams. Someone needs to educate her.â
âSomeone being you?â Dad asks, his lips twitching.
âI mean, I feel like I owe her that much.â
Dean is full-on cackling now. âYouâre going to date the girl who saved your life. Thatâs some romance novel shit right there.â
âIâm notâwe just met. Iâm just going to text her. To say thank you.â
âSure,â Dean says, not even trying to hide his grin. âJust thank you. Nothing else.â
âDean, I swear-â
âBoys,â Mom interrupts, but sheâs smiling. âBeau needs to rest.â
âIâm fine,â Beau insists, even though heâs exhausted just from the conversation.
âYou nearly died three days ago,â Mom says firmly. âYou need rest. Dean, stop riling him up.â
âYes, Mrs. Maxwell,â Dean says dutifully.
After his parents leave to grab dinner, itâs just Beau and Dean in the room. Dean is back in his chair, finally eating the munchkins heâs been carrying around.
âShe was amazing,â Beau says quietly. âNot justâI mean, yeah, sheâs gorgeous. But she saved my life, Dean. She stopped on a highway in the middle of the night and saved my life.â
âI know,â Dean says, and all the teasing is gone from his voice now. âI know, man. We owe her everything.â
âI was so close,â Beau continues. His throat is tight. âDad said my neck ⌠one more movement and that wouldâve been it. And she fixed it. Some random medical student who happened to be driving by.â
âNot random,â Dean says. âRight place, right time. Some people would call that fate.â
âYou believe in fate?â
âI believe in you,â Dean says simply. âAnd I believe youâre here for a reason. So yeah, maybe fate had something to do with putting her on that road at that exact moment.â
Beau thinks about you â your nervous smile, the way you brushed off the gratitude like it was nothing, the competitive spark in your eyes when you mentioned Harvard football.
âI think I was saved by an angel,â he says.
âProbably,â Dean agrees.
âAnd I think Iâm in love.â
Dean nearly chokes on his munchkin. âWhat?â
âIâm in love,â Beau repeats. It sounds insane. It is insane. He just met you twenty minutes ago. But thereâs something â a pull, a connection, something he canât explain.
âBeau, buddy, I say this with love â youâre high as hell on pain meds right now.â
âIâm serious.â
âYou just woke up from a medically induced coma like six hours ago.â
âI know what I feel.â
Dean studies him for a long moment. Then he sighs. âWell, shit. You really mean it.â
âI really mean it.â
âYouâre going to marry the girl who saved your life, arenât you?â
âIf sheâll have me,â Beau says, completely serious.
Dean shakes his head, but heâs smiling. âThis is either the most romantic thing Iâve ever witnessed or the pain meds talking. Iâm not sure which.â
âMaybe both,â Beau admits. âBut I donât care. Iâm going to thank her properly. And then Iâm going to get to know her. And then-â
âThen youâre going to sweep her off her feet and ride off into the sunset?â
âSomething like that.â
âSheâs a Harvard fan,â Dean points out. âYou know thatâs going to be a problem.â
âIâll convert her.â
âShe literally told you she is waiting for Harvard to beat you.â
âSheâs competitive. I like that.â
Dean laughs, shaking his head. âYouâre insane. But okay. Iâm here for it. Team Beau and his angel.â
âHer name is Y/N.â
âThat doesnât have the same ring to it.â
Beau doesnât care. Heâs already thinking about what to text you. How to thank you properly. How to convince you that stopping on that highway was the beginning of something, not just an isolated act of heroism.
His body is broken. His season is over. His recovery is going to be long and painful.
But for the first time since waking up, Beau feels hopeful.
Because somewhere out there is a girl who saved his life.
And heâs going to spend his recovery figuring out how to deserve her.
âDean?â He says.
âYeah?â
âHelp me figure out what to text her.â
Dean grins. âNow weâre talking.â
They spend the next hour crafting the perfect message, with Dean offering increasingly ridiculous suggestions that Beau keeps vetoing. By the time visiting hours end and Dean is forced to leave, theyâve settled on something simple and genuine.
After Dean leaves, Beau stares at the piece of paper with your number, at your neat handwriting, and allows himself to smile.
Three days ago, his life nearly ended on a dark highway.
Today, looking at your number, it feels like itâs just beginning.
***
The physical therapy room smells like sweat and determination, which Beau has decided is just a nicer way of saying it smells like pain.
âFive more, Maxwell,â his PT says in that annoyingly cheerful voice that all physical therapists seem to possess. âYouâve got this.â
Beau grits his teeth and pulls himself up on the bar, his neck muscles screaming in protest. Four months ago, he couldnât lift his head off the pillow. Three months ago, he couldnât walk without assistance. Two months ago, he couldnât turn his head more than thirty degrees.
Now, heâs doing pull-ups.
âOne,â he grunts.
âGood. Keep that form.â
âTwo.â
âBreathe through it.â
âThree.â
âTwo more. Youâve got it.â
âFour.â His arms are shaking.
âLast one. Make it count.â
Beau pulls himself up one final time, holding at the top for a three-count before lowering himself down. His muscles feel like jelly, but heâs grinning.
âHell yeah!â His PT claps him on the shoulder. âThatâs what Iâm talking about. Four months ago, you were in a neck brace wondering if youâd ever play again. Look at you now.â
âSo I can play?â Beau asks hopefully.
âNice try. Thatâs a question for your surgeon and your coach, not me. But I will say, physically youâre progressing faster than anyone expected.â
Itâs not a yes, but Beau will take it.
After the session, he checks his phone. Seventeen texts in the group chat with the guys, mostly Dean sending increasingly absurd memes. Three texts from his mom checking in. One from Coach Deluca asking about his PT progress.
And one from you.
Y/N:Â How was PT? Did he make you cry today?
Beau smiles, typing back quickly.
Beau:Â Only a little. Mostly manly tears of triumph though.
Y/N:Â Sure. I believe you. Completely.
Beau:Â I did five pull-ups.
Y/N:Â FIVE? Beau, thatâs amazing! Iâm so proud of you!
Beau:Â Thanks. Couldnât have done it without my guardian angel believing in me.
Y/N:Â Stop calling me that. Iâm just a person who happened to be in the right place.
Beau:Â A person with a hero complex and really good instincts under pressure. AKA an angel.
Y/N:Â Youâre impossible.
Beau:Â You love it.
Thereâs a pause.
Y/N:Â Maybe a little.
Beauâs grin widens. Over the past four months, texting you has become his favorite part of recovery. You check in daily, asking about his PT sessions, his pain levels, his progress. You send him terrible medical jokes. You quiz him on anatomy when youâre studying, claiming heâs helping you prepare for exams when really heâs just learning more about the exact ways his body almost failed him.
Youâre funny and smart and competitive and kind, and Beau is more convinced every day that heâs in love with you.
The only problem? Youâre still treating him like a patient. A friend, yes, but a friend you saved, which apparently puts him in some kind of off-limits category in your mind.
Heâs been trying to change that. Slowly. Carefully.
Not carefully enough, according to Dean, who keeps telling him to âjust ask her out already, you coward.â
But Beau wants to do this right. You saved his life. You deserve more than some half-assed attempt at romance from a guy who still canât turn his head all the way without wincing.
His phone buzzes again.
Dean:Â Emergency. Get to the house ASAP.
Beau:Â Whatâs wrong?
Dean:Â Just get here. Itâs important.
Beauâs heart kicks up. Dean doesnât do âemergencyâ unless something is actually wrong. He grabs his bag and heads out, making the drive back to campus in record time.
He bursts through the door of the house he shares with Dean and half the hockey team, expecting â he doesnât know what. Fire? Flood? Someone dying?
Instead, he finds Dean standing in the living room surrounded by streamers, balloons, and a banner that reads I LIVED, BITCH.
âSurprise!â Dean spreads his arms wide, grinning. âWeâre throwing you a party.â
Beau stares. âYou said it was an emergency.â
âIt is an emergency. Youâve been back on campus for a week and we havenât properly celebrated your return from the dead.â
âI wasnât dead.â
âYou were close enough that it counts.â Dean starts hanging more streamers. âPartyâs tonight. Eight PM. Everyoneâs invited.â
âEveryone?â
âThe team. The guys. Some of the football players. Allie and her friends. That kid from your econ class who kept asking about you-â
âDean-â
âAnd Y/N.â
Beau freezes. âWhat?â
Deanâs grin turns shit-eating. âI invited Y/N. She said yes, by the way. Sheâll be here around nine.â
âYou invitedâwithout asking me-â
âYouâve been texting her for months and havenât made a move. Iâm helping.â
âBy ambushing me?â
âBy creating the perfect opportunity.â Dean hangs the last streamer and steps back to admire his work. âCome on, man. Party atmosphere, some drinks, you finally see her in person again â itâs romantic.â
âItâs manipulative.â
âItâs efficient.â Dean throws an arm around Beauâs shoulders. âTrust me. This is going to be great.â
***
The party is, objectively, insane.
By nine PM, the house is packed. Music thumps through the speakers. Someone has set up a beer pong table. Tucker is already three drinks in and teaching a group of freshmen the rules of some drinking game that definitely doesnât have any rules.
Beau is nursing a beer and trying not to look at the door every five seconds.
âDude, relax,â Logan says, appearing at his elbow. âSheâll be here.â
âIâm relaxed.â
âYou look like youâre about to throw up.â
âThatâs just my face.â
âThatâs not your face. I know your face. This is your âIâm freaking outâ face.â
Garrett joins them, holding two beers. âIs he doing the thing where he stares at the door?â
âHeâs doing the thing,â Logan confirms.
âI hate both of you,â Beau mutters.
âYou love us,â Garrett says cheerfully. âAnd you love Y/N, which is why youâre doing the door-staring thing.â
âI donâtâweâre friends.â
âRight,â Logan says. âFriends who text every day.â
âFriends who have inside jokes,â Garrett adds.
âFriends who he calls his guardian angel-â
âOkay, yes, fine, I like her.â Beau takes a long pull from his beer. âHappy?â
âEcstatic,â Dean says, materializing out of nowhere. âAnd youâre going to tell her tonight.â
âIâm not-â
âYou are. Because life is short, Beau. You nearly died. You got a second chance. Are you really going to waste it being chicken about asking out the girl who saved you?â
Beau opens his mouth to argue. Then closes it. Because damn it, Dean has a point.
âWhat if she says no?â He asks quietly.
âThen she says no,â Dean says. âBut what if she says yes?â
Before Beau can respond, the front door opens.
And there you are.
Youâre wearing jeans and a simple black top, your hair down instead of in the ponytail you usually wear, and Beau forgets how to breathe.
âSheâs here,â Logan whispers unnecessarily.
âI can see that,â Beau hisses back.
You spot them and wave, smiling as you make your way through the crowd. Allie intercepts you halfway, pulling you into a hug and saying something that makes you laugh.
âGo talk to her,â Dean says, giving Beau a shove.
âI am talking to her.â
âYouâre standing here like a statue. Go.â
Beau takes a breath and crosses the room. You look up as he approaches, and your smile gets wider.
âHey!â You say, and then youâre hugging him. Itâs brief, casual, but Beauâs heart still does something stupid in his chest. âI canât believe Dean threw you an I Lived, Bitch party.â
âI can,â Beau says. âSubtlety isnât really his thing.â
âI brought you something.â You dig in your bag and pull out a small wrapped package. âI was going to give it to you later, but here.â
Beau takes it, curious. âYou didnât have to get me anything.â
âJust open it.â
He unwraps it carefully. Inside is a keychain â a small football with the Briar University logo engraved on it and proof that miracles happen on the other side.
Beau stares at it, his throat tight. âY/N-â
âI know itâs cheesy,â you say quickly. âBut I saw it at this little shop near campus and thought of you. Because you are a miracle. You know that, right? The odds of you surviving what you survived, of recovering the way you have-â
âHey.â Beau sets the keychain carefully on the nearest table and takes your hand. âThank you. Really. This isâitâs perfect.â
You squeeze his hand, and for a moment, itâs just the two of you in the crowded room.
Then Deanâs voice booms over the music. âEVERYONE! CAN I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION?â
The music cuts off. Everyone turns to look at Dean, whoâs standing on the coffee table with a beer raised.
âOh no,â Beau mutters.
âOh no,â you echo, but youâre smiling.
âThree months ago,â Dean announces, âmy best friend nearly died. Car crash, black ice, the whole dramatic scene. And while I was sitting in a hospital waiting room having a complete breakdown, there was someone else on a dark highway saving his life.â
The crowd is silent, watching.
âY/N Y/L/N,â Dean continues, finding you in the crowd. âStand up. Come on, donât be shy.â
You look mortified. âDean-â
âStand up!â
Reluctantly, you stand. The crowd turns to look at you.
âThis woman,â Dean says, âstopped on the side of the road in the middle of the night. Couldâve driven past. Couldâve just called 911 and left. But she didnât. She stopped. She used her medical training to stabilize Beauâs neck, to stop the bleeding, to keep him alive until the paramedics arrived. The surgeon told us that if she hadnât done what she did, Beau would have died at the scene.â
Beau can see your eyes are shiny. His are probably the same.
âSo this party isnât just about Beau living, though thatâs obviously the main event,â Dean continues. âItâs about Y/N. About the fact that there are still people in the world who stop to help strangers. Who run toward danger instead of away from it. Who save lives because itâs the right thing to do.â
He raises his beer higher. âTo Y/N. Beauâs guardian angel. The reason we still have our quarterback. The reason I still have my brother.â
âTO Y/N!â The crowd roars.
Youâre definitely crying now, wiping at your eyes with your free hand. Beau pulls you into a hug, and you bury your face in his shoulder.
âI hate your best friend,â you mumble into his shirt.
âI know,â Beau says, grinning. âMe too.â
Dean, having successfully made everyone emotional, declares that the situation requires shots. Multiple shots. A truly irresponsible number of shots.
âI donât think this is medically advisable,â you protest as Dean lines up shot glasses on the kitchen counter.
âYouâre not on duty,â Dean says. âAnd weâre celebrating. Celebrating requires shots.â
âThatâs not-â
âShots! Shots! Shots!â Tucker starts chanting. The crowd joins in.
You look at Beau helplessly. He shrugs. âWhen in Rome?â
âRome didnât have vodka.â
âRome wouldâve had vodka if theyâd survived a near-death experience.â
You laugh and grab a shot glass. âFine. But Iâm blaming you when I regret this tomorrow.â
Dean passes out shots to everyone in the kitchen. âTo Beau!â He shouts.
âTo Beau!â Everyone echoes, and the shots go down.
One shot turns into two. Two turns into three. By shot four, youâre leaning against the counter, cheeks flushed, giggling at something Tucker is saying about his disastrous history midterm.
Beau stays close, not drinking as much because his tolerance is shot after months of not drinking, but enough that he feels warm and loose and brave.
âHaving fun?â He asks, appearing at your side.
You beam up at him. âThe most fun. Dean is insane. I love him.â
âDonât tell him that. His ego canât take it.â
âToo late!â Dean calls from across the room. âI heard! She loves me, Beau!â
âYouâre the worst!â Beau calls back.
âYou love me too!â
âDebatable!â
You laugh, the sound bright and unrestrained, and Beau wants to bottle it. Wants to keep it forever.
âCome on,â he says, taking your hand. âLetâs get some air.â
He leads you through the crowd, out the back door to the porch. The April night is cool but not cold, the first real hint of spring in the air. The noise from the party is muffled out here, just the bass line thumping through the walls.
âThis is nice,â you say, leaning against the railing. âQuieter.â
âYeah.â Beau stands beside you, close enough that your shoulders brush. âYou okay? Dean didnât overwhelm you too much?â
âAre you kidding? That toast was-â Your voice catches. âThat was one of the nicest things anyoneâs ever done for me.â
âYou saved my life. You deserve a lot more than a toast.â
âI was just doing what anyone would do.â
âNo,â Beau says firmly. âYou werenât. You did something extraordinary. And I will spend the rest of my life being grateful for it.â
You turn to face him, leaning your hip against the railing. âThe rest of your life, huh? Thatâs a long time.â
âNot long enough,â Beau says. His heart is pounding, but whether itâs from the alcohol or your proximity, he canât tell. Probably both. âY/N, I-â
âYeah?â
âIâve been wanting to tell you something. For months, actually.â
You tilt your head, curious. âWhat is it?â
âI-â He stops. Starts again. âDo you remember what you said to me in the hospital? About Harvard beating Briar fair and square?â
âOf course. And I meant it. You guys are going down next season.â
âSee, thatâs the thing.â Beau takes a small step closer. âIâve been thinking about that. About you being a Harvard fan and me playing for Briar. And I realized I donât care.â
âYou donât care about football?â You sound skeptical.
âI donât care that weâre rivals. I donât care that youâre rooting against my team. I donât care about any of it because-â He takes a breath. âBecause I like you. A lot. Like, an embarrassing amount for someone whoâs supposed to be playing it cool.â
Your eyes widen slightly. âBeau-â
âI know weâve been friends,â he continues quickly. âAnd if thatâs all you want, Iâll take it. Iâll take whatever youâre willing to give me. But I need you to know that I think about you constantly. I look forward to your texts more than anything else in my day. When I was in PT, struggling through the worst pain Iâve ever experienced, the thought of texting you after kept me going.â
âReally?â Your voice is soft.
âReally.â He reaches up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture is gentle, tentative. âYou saved my life, Y/N. And then you kept saving it, every day, just by being you. By making me laugh when I wanted to give up. By believing I could recover when I wasnât sure I could.â
âI always believed in you,â you whisper.
âI know. I felt it. Every text, every terrible medical joke, every time you called me out for pushing too hard or not hard enough â I felt it.â
Youâre staring at him now, your eyes bright in the porch light. âI like you too,â you say. âI have for months. But I didnâtâyou were recovering, and I didnât want to take advantage-â
âTake advantage?â Beau laughs. âY/N, Iâve been trying to figure out how to ask you out since I woke up in that hospital bed and saw you for the first time.â
âYou were on a lot of pain meds.â
âDoesnât make it less true.â
You bite your lip, and Beau tracks the movement. âSo what now?â
âNow,â Beau says, stepping even closer, âIâm going to ask you something.â
âOkay.â
âCan I kiss you?â
Your breath catches. For a moment, you just stare at him. Then you smile â that brilliant, beautiful smile that heâs dreamed about for months.
âYes,â you breathe. âGod, yes.â
Beau cups your face in his hands, thumbs brushing against your cheeks, and leans in.
The first touch of your lips is electric. Soft and sweet and perfect. You make a small sound and melt into him, your hands coming up to grip his shirt.
Beau kisses you like heâs been wanting to for months, which he has. Kisses you like youâre precious, which you are. Kisses you like heâs afraid you might disappear, which part of him is.
You kiss him back just as intensely, your fingers curling into his hair, pulling him closer.
Someone starts whooping from inside. âYES! FINALLY! GET IT, MAXWELL!â
Beau flips him off behind your back without breaking the kiss, which makes you laugh against his mouth.
âYour friends are watching,â you mumble.
âDonât care,â Beau says, kissing you again.
âTheyâre cat-calling.â
âStill donât care.â
You pull back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. Your lips are kiss-swollen, your cheeks flushed, and Beau has never seen anything more beautiful.
âThis is really happening?â You ask. âWeâre really doing this?â
âIf you want to,â Beau says. âI mean, I know itâs complicated. The rivalry thing-â
âIs football,â you finish. âJust football. This is more important.â
âYeah?â
âYeah.â You smile. âBesides, itâll make beating you next season even sweeter.â
Beau laughs and kisses you again. âYouâre impossible.â
âYou love it,â you say, echoing your earlier text.
âI do,â Beau agrees. âI really, really do.â
From inside, Dean is now leading a chant of âKISS! KISS! KISS!â thatâs quickly spreading through the party.
âWe should probably go back in,â you say, not moving.
âProbably,â Beau agrees, also not moving.
You stay like that for another moment, just looking at each other, before you finally step back and take his hand.
âCome on,â you say. âBefore your best friend has an aneurysm.â
You walk back into the party together, hands linked, and the entire room erupts into cheers.
Dean tackles Beau in a hug, nearly knocking you both over. âFINALLY! Do you know how hard itâs been watching you pine for four months?â
âGet off me,â Beau laughs, shoving him away.
âIâm the best wingman ever. Admit it.â
âYouâre the worst.â
âBut Iâm your worst,â Dean says, grinning. Then he turns to you. âWelcome to the family, Y/N. Youâre stuck with us now.â
âI can think of worse fates,â you say, smiling.
Logan and Tucker appear, both looking entirely too pleased with themselves.
âSo,â Logan says. âAre you guys like, official? Is this a thing?â
Beau looks at you. You look back.
âItâs a thing,â you say.
âItâs definitely a thing,â Beau confirms.
âWell fuck,â Garrett says, joining the group with Hannah. âBecause Hannah bet me twenty bucks youâd get together before summer, and I bet after. So thanks for costing me money, Beau.â
âMy pleasure,â Beau says dryly.
The party continues late into the night. Beau stays by your side, your fingers laced with his, and for the first time since the accident, everything feels right.
Better than right.
Perfect.
Later, when the crowd has thinned and itâs just the core group sitting around the living room, Dean raises his beer one more time.
âTo second chances,â he says.
âTo guardian angels,â Tucker adds.
âTo love,â Hannah says, making everyone groan.
âTo football rivalries,â you contribute, which makes everyone laugh.
âTo all of it,â Beau says, looking at you. âTo whatever brought you to that highway at that exact moment. To whatever made you stop. To whatever led us here.â
You lean your head on his shoulder. âTo fate,â you say softly.
âTo fate,â Beau agrees.
And as he sits there, surrounded by his friends, his arm around the girl who saved his life in more ways than one, Beau canât help but think that Dean was right.
Life is short. Second chances are rare.
And heâs not going to waste a single moment of his.
***
The Briar University athletics facility smells like sweat and ambition at seven AM on a Saturday, which is exactly why Dean loves it. That, and the fact that most people are still asleep, leaving the weight room gloriously empty.
Well, mostly empty.
âCome on, Maxwell, one more set!â Dean calls from his spot on the bench press. âOr are you going to let your girlfriend out-lift you?â
Beau, currently doing bicep curls while watching you on the treadmill, flips him off without looking away from you. âSheâs not trying to out-lift me. Sheâs doing cardio.â
âI can hear you both,â you call from the treadmill, your ponytail swinging as you run. âAnd I absolutely could out-lift Beau if I wanted to.â
âOh, fighting words!â Dean sits up, grinning. âBeau, you gonna take that?â
âYes,â Beau says immediately. âHave you seen her deadlift? Itâs terrifying and hot.â
âItâs medical student grip strength,â you explain, not breaking stride. âYears of studying have given me callouses of steel.â
âAnd here I thought it was just natural perfection,â Beau says.
Dean makes gagging noises. âYou two are disgusting. Itâs been five months. The honeymoon phase should be over by now.â
âNever,â Beau says cheerfully, setting down his weights and grabbing his water bottle.
Dean watches as Beau wanders over to your treadmill, leans against it, and says something that makes you laugh mid-stride. You nearly trip, smacking his arm, but youâre grinning.
Five months. Nearly half a year since that party. Half a year of watching his best friend fall more in love every single day.
Itâs been an adjustment, Dean will admit. Suddenly having to share Beau with someone else, having to accept that heâs no longer the most important person in Beauâs life. But watching Beau now â healthy, happy, whole â Dean canât begrudge it.
Especially because youâre pretty fucking cool.
You finish your run and hop off the treadmill, breathing hard but not winded. âOkay, whatâs next? Weights? Core? Please say core. I need to work off the stress of this week.â
âRough rotation?â Beau asks, immediately concerned.
âJust long,â you say, stretching your arms over your head. âTwenty-hour shifts donât leave a lot of time for self-care. Hence why Iâm here at seven AM on my one day off instead of sleeping like a normal person.â
âItâs the endorphins,â Dean says knowingly. âYouâre chasing that dopamine high.â
âExactly,â you agree quickly. âPurely scientific. Nothing to do with-â
âWith wanting to see Beau shirtless and sweaty?â Dean finishes, smirking.
You turn red. âIâthatâs notâI mean-â
âNothing wrong with that,â Beau says, already pulling his shirt over his head. âI am pretty great to look at.â
âYour ego is showing,â you mutter, but youâre definitely staring.
Dean laughs. âOkay, lovebirds, letâs actually work out. Beau, youâve got full medical clearance now, right?â
âAs of last week,â Beau confirms, and thereâs an edge of excitement in his voice that Dean recognizes. Itâs the same excitement thatâs been building since the doctors finally, finally said he could return to full contact practice. âCoach wants me back in peak condition before the season starts.â
âWhich is three weeks,â Dean adds. âSo weâve got to get you whipped into shape.â
The effect is immediate and bizarre.
Beau and you lock eyes across the weight room. Something passes between you â some kind of silent communication that Dean has seen before but never understood. Itâs like you share a brain sometimes, which is both impressive and deeply unsettling.
Then, in perfect unison, you both gasp dramatically.
âDid you just say-â you start.
âWhipped into shape?â Beau finishes.
âOh no,â Dean says, recognizing the gleam in both your eyes. âNo. Whatever youâre thinking-â
But itâs too late.
You sprint to the corner of the gym where someone has left a pile of equipment. You emerge triumphantly holding two jump ropes.
âWhere did you evenâwhen did you-â Dean sputters.
âShhh,â you say, tossing one rope to Beau, who catches it with a grin that can only be described as maniacal. âLet us have this.â
âHave what?â Dean asks, genuinely concerned now.
You and Beau exchange another look. Then you hold up one finger and suddenly youâre both jumping rope and singing.
âI WANT YOU WHIPPED INTO SHAPE!â You belt out, your voice surprisingly strong for someone who just ran three miles.
âWHEN I SAY JUMP, SAY âHOW HIGH?ââ Beau joins in, jumping rope with enough enthusiasm to be concerning given that he had spinal surgery less than a year ago.
Dean stares. Just stares.
âYOU KNOW YOUâRE DOING IT RIGHT,â you continue, now doing some kind of complicated jump rope move that involves crossing your arms.
âWHEN YOU START TO CRY!â Beau adds, attempting the same move and nearly tripping over the rope.
âIF YOU DONâT LOOK LIKE YOU SHOULD,â you both sing together now, jumping in sync, âYOUâVE GOT TO-â
âWHIP IT, WHIP IT, WHIP IT GOOD!â
You finish with a flourish, both of you breathing hard, jump ropes held high like youâve just won Olympic gold.
Thereâs a moment of silence.
Then you and Beau collapse into laughter, dropping the ropes and leaning on each other for support.
âWhat,â Dean says slowly, âthe actual fuck was that?â
âLegally Blonde: The Musical,â you gasp out between giggles. âBrooke Wyndham is an icon.â
âAnd when you said whipped into shape-â
âWe just had to,â you finish together.
Dean continues to stare. âYou two are insane.â
âProbably,â Beau agrees, still grinning.
âDefinitely,â you add, not looking remotely apologetic.
Dean shakes his head, but heâs smiling now. âI donât know whether to be impressed or concerned that you both knew all the words.â
âBe impressed,â Beau says. âWe also know the choreography to âOmigod You Guys.ââ
âWe do NOT need to see that,â Dean says quickly.
âYour loss,â you say cheerfully. âItâs iconic.â
Beau wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close and pressing a kiss to your temple. You lean into him naturally, like itâs the most normal thing in the world. Like youâve been doing it for years instead of months.
And Dean âŚ
Dean has a moment.
Heâs been Beauâs best friend for years. Has seen him date casually, has seen him hook up at parties, has seen him in relationships that lasted a few months before fizzling out. But this thing with you ⌠itâs different.
Itâs in the way Beau looks at you, like you hung the moon and stars. Itâs in the way you know what heâs thinking before he says it. Itâs in the stupid inside jokes and the synchronized musical numbers and the fact that Beau drove to your apartment in Cambridge just to bring you coffee before a tough rotation.
Itâs in the way you saved his life, yes, but also in the way you keep saving it, every day, just by existing.
And Dean realizes, standing in a weight room at seven AM on a Saturday, watching his best friend and his girlfriend be ridiculous together, that youâre soulmates.
The thought hits him with unexpected force. Heâs never believed in soulmates before â always thought it was romantic nonsense, something people made up to explain compatibility. But looking at you and Beau now, he canât think of another word for it.
Whatever happened that night last February â the deer, the ice, the crash, the fact that you were on that exact stretch of highway at that exact moment â it wasnât just coincidence.
It was fate.
It had to be.
Because the odds of everything aligning the way it did? Of you having the exact training needed to save him? Of you stopping when most people wouldnât? Of Beau surviving injuries that should have killed him?
The odds were astronomical.
And yet here you both are.
âDean?â Your voice pulls him from his thoughts. âYou okay? You look weird.â
âIâm fine,â Dean says. His voice comes out rougher than intended. âJust thinking.â
âDangerous,â Beau jokes, but heâs looking at Dean with concern now. âSeriously, man, whatâs up?â
Dean opens his mouth. Closes it. How does he even put this into words?
âI just-â He stops. Tries again. âYou two are it for each other, arenât you?â
The question hangs in the air.
You and Beau look at each other. Something passes between you again â that silent communication that Deanâs starting to understand is just how you two operate.
âYeah,â Beau says finally, turning back to Dean. âYeah, we are.â
âI love him,â you add simply. âLike, scary amount. Forever amount.â
âIâm going to marry her,â Beau says, like itâs the most obvious thing in the world. âProbably not today, because I think sheâd kill me if I proposed in a gym-â
âI absolutely would,â you confirm.
â-but someday. Definitely someday.â
Dean feels his throat get tight. âGood,â he manages. âThatâs good.â
âAre you crying?â You ask, peering at him.
âNo,â Dean says. Heâs definitely about to cry. âShut up.â
âOh my god, you are!â Beau looks delighted. âDean Di Laurentis, notorious womanizer and emotionally unavailable hockey player, is crying over our relationship!â
âIâm not crying. Itâs allergies.â
âThatâs not-â
Dean crosses the gym and pulls both of you into a hug, one arm around each of them. âIâm really glad you didnât die,â he tells Beau.
âMe too, man,â Beau says, returning the hug. âMe too.â
âAnd Iâm really glad you stopped,â Dean says to you. âThat night. Iâm really glad you stopped and saved him. Because I donât know what I wouldâve done if-â His voice cracks.
You squeeze him tighter. âIâm glad I stopped too.â
âYouâre stuck with us now,â Dean continues. âYou know that, right?â
âI can live with that,â you say softly.
You stand there for a moment, the three of you, holding onto each other in an empty weight room while early morning sunlight streams through the high windows.
Finally, Beau pulls back, wiping at his eyes. âOkay, enough emotions. Weâre supposed to be working out.â
âRight,â you agree, also suspiciously misty-eyed. âWorking out. Building strength. Whipping into shape.â
âDonât,â Dean warns.
âWeâve got to-â
âNo-â
âWHIP IT, WHIP IT, WHIP IT GOOD!â You and Beau shout together, dissolving into laughter again.
âI hate you both,â Dean says, but heâs grinning.
âNo you donât,â Beau says, slinging an arm around Deanâs shoulders.
âYou love us,â you add, linking your arm through Deanâs other arm.
âUnfortunately,â Dean admits. âNow come on. If you two are done with your Broadway moment, Beau actually does need to get whipped into shape before camp starts.â
âIâm in great shape,â Beau protests.
âYouâre in good shape,â you correct. âGreat shape requires more work. Doctorâs orders.â
âYouâre not my doctor.â
âI could be. Want me to check your reflexes?â
âThat sounds like innuendo.â
âIt wasnât, but I like where your headâs at.â
Dean makes a strangled sound. âI did NOT need that mental image.â
âThen stop listening to our conversations,â Beau says reasonably.
âYouâre having them three feet away from me!â
âSounds like a you problem,â you say cheerfully.
The workout continues, but the energy has shifted. Thereâs something lighter about it now, something that feels like the future rather than the past.
Dean watches as Beau spots you during squats, his hands hovering near your waist, ready to catch you if needed. Watches as you correct Beauâs form on shoulder presses with the clinical precision of someone who knows exactly how bodies work. Watches as you both take a water break and Beau pulls you in for a kiss thatâs probably too long for a public gym but that no oneâs around to complain about.
And someday â maybe years from now, maybe at that wedding Dean is already planning in his head â heâs going to tell this story.
Heâs going to tell everyone about the night Beau almost died. About the medical student who stopped to save him. About the months of recovery and the I Lived, Bitch party and the first kiss and the musical numbers in the gym.
Heâs going to tell them about soulmates, about fate, about second chances.
And heâs going to tell them that he knew.
He knew from that moment in the weight room, watching them be ridiculous together, that you were forever.
And Dean allows himself to feel grateful. Grateful for black ice and bad timing and good Samaritans. Grateful for medical training and quick thinking and jump ropes in gyms. Grateful for musicals and inside jokes and the way love can find you in the darkest moments.
Grateful for second chances.
For all of it.
Just a lil' bit
âď¸ Warnings: NSFW, Threesome, alcohol & drinking, everybody smoochin, oral (m! & f! receiving), not proofread âď¸ Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x fem!Reader x Beau Maxwell âď¸ Rating: 18+, MDNI âď¸ Words: 2639 âď¸ AN: Ask and you shall recieve (mostly). Written for this ask x
"This is my song!" You shout as the familiar dun-dun-dun-dun of Act Up starts blasting through the stereo speakers.
As if on auto pilot, you lean forward and look back over your shoulder, not caring who your eyes land on as you anchor your hands firmly onto your knees.
Locking into the beat, you drive your hips back in time with each drop of the heavy bass, sending a sharp ripple through your body as your ass moves in sync.
Beauâs standing to the side watching you dance as he waits for his invitation. He knows youâll give it; you just need to dance to a few songs on your own first.
He watches you through countless songs, body moving appropriately to whatever the beat required. The song changes into a slower song and you gesture him over with a curl of your index finger.
Your boyfriend comes to stand behind you, hands on your waist as you gyrate to the music. Beau doesnât need to guide you, if thereâs one thing you know, itâs how to feel the beat of the music through your body. You push your ass back and roll your waist, âFuck,â he groans into your ear.
Your arms raise to the air and your hands find his dark hair. He pulls you impossibly closer, nuzzling into your neck as one slow song blends into the other. Taylor really did have the best assists. Â Â
Another pair of hands find your waist and you look up to see Dean smiling down at you.
âHey gorgeous,â you purr as you wrap your arms around his neck.
The three of you find a comfortable rhythm. Hips swaying and twisting to the music. You feel warm, the mixture of the alcohol in your veins taking effect and the bodies moving around you acting as a furnace.
âShould we take this party upstairs?â Beauâs breath tickles your neck.
You look up at him. He has that look in his eyes, the one that completely contradicts his sweet, dimpled, smile.
âGreat idea,â you smile, slipping out from between them. You grab hold of Beauâs hand and pull him behind you, swerving through the crowd with ease and running up the stairs. Youâre well aware that your too-short skirt is putting on a show for anyone that happened to look up as you were going up the stairs.
Dean doesnât need to be invited to know that heâs supposed to follow you both up the stairs. The unspoken agreement between you all having been in play for months now. He stops at the makeshift bar at the bottom of the stairs, his blonde hair catching in the strobe lights, as he grabs the tequila, salt, and limes.
Once you get into Deanâs room, you pull your shirt over your head and lie back on the bed. You know the drill by now, but the familiar routine does nothing to quell the spike of anticipation in your chest. Â
Dean comes bumbling in seconds later, a careful smile playing on his face when he sees youâre ready for him. He quickly pours two shots, placing one small shot glass in each hand for you to hold. You focus your attention on balancing them as Beau leans over you, his dark eyes locked onto yours as he carefully shakes two thin lines of salt across your stomach, stopping just under the lace of your bra.
Dean puts the bottle of tequila on the nightstand and places a lime wedge firmly between your breasts before shooting you a wink.
âOpen up,â Beau coos, placing his lime firmly in your mouth.
Your stomach knots, theyâre both towering over you and looking at you with a ravenous desire. Itâs intoxicating.
They slowly come to a kneel on the bed either side of you.
âReady?â Dean asks, as they put their hands behind their back.
You nod your head, careful not to move to much and spill the shots balancing on your palms. In unison, they lean forward to pick up their respective shot with their mouth. Itâs a competition now with them quickly downing the shot and spitting out the glass.
Dean gets to your stomach first, using the tip of his tongue to lick the salt. Beauâs tongue is flat and flush against your stomach. He licks a fat stripe up and past your chest. You feel his warm breath against your skin and it leaves a trail of goosebumps.
Dean gently bites one of your breasts before taking the lime thatâs there as Beauâs lips meets yours to suck the juice from the lime. The blonde presses his face further into your breasts, thrusting his tongue between them.
âYou look so fucking pretty like this,â Dean calls, lifting his face from where it was buried between your breasts. âDoesnât she look so fucking pretty, Beau.â
âYou really do look so pretty.â Your boyfriend accompanies his words with a kiss to the tip of your nose.
You smile around the half-eaten lime thatâs still in your mouth. You and Beau had been dating a little while before Dean came into the mix. You couldnât understand why he was so hesitant to introduce you to his best friend. That is, until you saw them together. You saw the bond that he was afraid youâd see and run from. He worried youâd feel jealous and make him choose. But you didnât feel jealous; you saw it for the opportunity it was.
The night you finally suggested bringing Dean into your shared bed, Beau had pinned you down and fucked you so fiercely that even days later, just the memory alone was enough to leave you completely breathless and aching all over again. Â
You shiver as the cold tequila is poured directly into your bellybutton. Two fresh lines of salt are sprinkled across your stomach, and the old limes are replaced. Taking their places on either side of you again, the men exchange a quick smile before leaning forward. Their tongues dive into your navel, brushing against one another as they lap up the liquid pooled there.
They make quick work of sucking up the liquid that had overspilled before tracing the salt lines up your ribs, each using their tongues in different ways. You love the way your body reacts to them.
This time, itâs Dean that moves up to your face. Instead of just taking the lime, he plucks it from your teeth and replaces it with his own mouth. He runs his tongue along your bottom lip before sucking it into his mouth until you dart your tongue out to meet his. He catches your tongue between his lips and sucks on it. He tastes of sharp tequila and a deep, intoxicating familiarity that should be reserved for your boyfriend.
Blonde hair falls across your face as he deepens the kiss, you had told him that you liked it when he kept it longer, he hasnât cut it since.
Heat pools in your belly as Beau gently pulls down the cup of your bra away from your breast. His warm mouth settles over your tight nipple, swirling his tongue around the sensitive skin before sucking on it. His hand is heavy on you, groping your other breast and running a calloused thumb over the sensitive nub. You moan in Deanâs mouth as Beauâs fingers pinch the nipple.
The sensation of having four hands roaming your body and two mouths on yours sends your heart racing. Your short nails scratch Beauâs scalp, urging him on. Your other hand makes its way between your legs where youâre aching to be touched. You run your hands through your slick folds and a satisfied hum escapes your lips.
Your boyfriend releases your nipple and stands up, yanking his shirt over his head and pulling off his jeans. He watches as Dean leaves a trail of kisses down your body, the blonde repositioning himself to settle between your legs.
Dean pulls off your underwear and uses his hands to spread your knees apart. Although youâre completely comfortable with them, you feel a blush creep up your neck. Youâre fully exposed as they eye you hungrily, Dean between your legs and Beau at the foot of the bed, fully naked now and gently palming himself.
Dean looks back at his best friend for approval, they were yours and each otherâs, but you were Beauâs unless he told Dean otherwise. Beau gives him a curt nod. Â Â
You cry out, back arching, as Dean takes your throbbing clit into his mouth. The warmth of his mouth around you has your hips rolling. Dean moves your legs onto his shoulders and leans back to spit directly onto your pussy. He watches the spit roll down before diving back between your legs again, flicking his tongue around your folds in his journey towards your clit.
âHow does it feel?â Beau asks, voice husky, âtell him how it feels.â
âFeels⌠fucking⌠incredible.â Your thoughts are incoherent; all your brain power is focused on the overwhelming pleasure. You look at Beau through hooded eyes to find him looking at you. His dick is growing in his hand as he watches Dean pleasure you. His lips are parted and you can hear his ragged breaths. You can also hear the sound of your wetness between your legs, Deanâs slurping and dragging a finger between your soaking lips.
Youâre too turned on, the need to combust rising quickly within you.
Beauâs still only gently palming himself, not wanting to get too caught up. He doesnât want to come now; he wants to be buried deep in you when that happens.
Your hips jerk up as Dean slides a finger, then two, into you. He curves them inside of you as he flicks his tongue back and forth against your clit.
The combination of the blonde between your legs and your boyfriendâs hungry gaze has you quickly spiralling to an orgasm. You shudder then cry out as your orgasm crashes over you.
âThatâs it, you like that huh?â your eyes roll to the back of your head.
Both men whine at the sound of your moans, itâs their favourite song. Â
Dean gently pulls your leg from his shoulders; youâre still twitching as you come down from your high. A satisfied smile spread across his face, youâre a mess.
âYou taste so sweet,â Dean says, as he sits back on his knees, you can see a bulge in his jeans. âI could eat you for every meal.â
âLet him know how I taste,â you encourage jerking your head towards Beau. You prop yourself up on your elbows to get a better view of the men at the foot of the bed.
Dean pulls off his shirt before climbing off of bed and pulling Beau into a hard kiss.
A jolt of electricity shoots down your body and settles in your stomach as you watch them. The sight never fails to make your breath hitch. The kiss is intense, their teeth are clashing and theyâre moaning into each otherâs mouths. Thereâs no jealousy in you, no concern that youâll be pushed to the side. You unlocked this side of them and you get to reap the rewards of that.
Dean grabs the back of your boyfriendâs neck, deepening the kiss. You swallow hard, your hand coming between your legs again. Youâre already slick, aching for the weight of them to pin you down.
Beau pulls back to unbutton Deanâs jeans, pushing the denim and boxers down Deanâs thighs in one motion. Dean kicks them off the rest of the way.
Both of their chests are heaving, grasping for air as they turn their gazes to you. Youâve taken off your bra and skirt, legs spread open and youâre frantically circling your clit.
âLook at her,â Beau murmurs, his voice thick with desire.
âLie back, baby,â you breathe, âwanna ride you.â
Beau sits on the edge of the bed and lies back. He looks at you and slaps his thighs. âCome take a seat.â
Dean stands between Beauâs open legs and grabs hold of his erection. He helps guide you over Beauâs hips and down onto his hard, leaking, dick.
âCan you feel how wet I am for you?â You whine, taking him in inch by inch. The way you stretch around his thick dick feels so good, you take a minute to feel it before bracing your hands against his chest and beginning to bounce in a steady rhythm.
Beauâs hands slide along your thighs; your breasts are bouncing with each thrust.
âDean, look at how my pretty girl takes me in,â Beau grunts. You make a show of riding him; lewd moans escape your lips as you alternate between bouncing and rolling your hips.
Deanâs still between Beauâs legs, taking care of himself with his hand. That wonât do. âDean, come here. Wanna taste you.â
Your mouth waters, you love sucking off Beau but Deanâs dick is heavier and it falls on your tongue in just the right way.
You turn your head to the side as Dean comes to stand beside you, squatting down a little so you can take him in your mouth. Your tongue swirls around the tip before you take him all in. His neatly trimmed pubic hair tickles your nose as you bottom out.
Your bounces falter as you focus on the throbbing dick in your mouth. Dean looks down at your lips, swollen and stretched around him. âNngh⌠your tongue⌠ah.â Deanâs babbling incoherently.
His hands come into your hair, pulling you towards him as he bucks his hips into you. âS-shit, fuck,â he whimpers and Beauâs hips snap up into you.
Every moan and whimper that your mouth gets out of Dean earns a snap of Beauâs hips up into you.
âThatâs my girl, taking both her boys in.â
Your nails dig into Beauâs chest as Deanâs breathy moans grow louder and faster. Heâs close. Your hand comes up to play with his balls and thatâs all he can take. He pulls out of your mouth as he cums, wanting to coat you both with it. Warm cum trails down your chin as Dean spills the rest of his climax onto Beauâs chest.
His dick continues twitching in his palm as he comes to a seat next to you. He lazily circles your clit as Beau chases his own release, hips snapping into you in a dizzying pace. Your second orgasm hits you more forcefully than the first. Your eyes squeeze closed until you see stars. You cum with a scream of both of their names.
Engulfed in your wet, clenching, heat, Beau cries out.
âIâm gonna fill you up,â he rasps.
You donât think you can move, too exhausted and sensitive as Beau continues fucking up into you with pace. Youâre willing yourself to move your hips, you want to take good care of him.
âFuck.â Beau holds you in place as climaxes into you. You feel him throbbing inside of you and you clench, milking him for all he can give you.
You choke back a sob as you lean forward, completely spent.
Deanâs there immediately, wrapping an arm around you and raising you off of Beauâs softening dick. He lays you down and cleans you off with a washcloth. He wipes you gently, aware of how thoroughly fucked you are, and your heart tightens. He puts you under the covers before cleaning Beau up.
Once cleaned, Beau moves to press up behind you.
âDean, cmhere,â your words slur as sleep threatens to take you over.
Dean climbs into bed beside you and you immediately snuggle into his chest.
âHappy Birthday, boys, I love you,â you say. Two pairs of arms tighten around you and you fall asleep with a smile on your face.
AN: i had 50 cent's just a lil bit on repeat with this one
Open Minded
âď¸ Warnings: NSFW, not proofread, threesome, oral (m to f & m to m), multiple orgasms âď¸ Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x fem!Reader x Beau Maxwell âď¸ Rating: 18+, MDNI âď¸ Words: 1169 âď¸ AN: I was aiming to write a continuation of the one before, but this is literally just dirty, messy, smut. This so so self-indulgent, Iâm so sorry.
Lifting you by the waist, Dean positions you over Beau, whoâs lying flat on the mattress. Youâre already aching, your pussy quivering as youâre suspended over Beau. You can hear him breathing heavily under you, eager to have a taste, and itâs driving you insane.
âWait-â you call shakily, youâre not fully seated yet but Beauâs already lifting his head, trying to lick at you. âAhh, Beau.â
âI want you to smother him,â Dean whispers into your ear as he lowers you down fully over Beau. âHe can take it.â
âI can, I can take it,â Beau tells you; his breath is hot against your core and you shiver. Strong hands come to spread you open as Beau sucks on your clit. Heâs relentless, sucking and flicking his tongue where youâre most sensitive.
Hinging forward, you press your chest against Beauâs stomach, ass rising to the air as your forearms press into the mattress to hold yourself up. As Beauâs tongue continues to move over you, you reach out, lazily dragging your hand along his length and teasing the tip.
From behind, Dean has the perfect view of you spread open, dripping and ready for him. Your hole clenches as you feel Deanâs finger slide alongside Beauâs tongue. You wonât last long like this.
âDean, please,â you beg, âI wonât last much longer, fuck me. Please,â your voice quivers, and it sends jolts of electricity down their spines. Â
âSo, so, needy,â Dean teases. He grabs hold of your waist and slowly drags his dick along your folds. âAre you ready for me?â
You whine in response. Itâs a redundant question, he knows. Your folds are glistening, drenched in your excitement.
Over Beauâs head, he lines himself up and slowly sinks himself into your wet, hot, pussy. His eyes flutter shut as you squeeze around him. âSo tight, so perfect,â he whimpers.
The praise has you pushing your hips back into him. He fills you up completely, thick and veiny. The dual attention leaves you dizzy, Dean slowly rocking into you as Beauâs tongue circles your clit again. Your thighs quivering around Beauâs face.
Tears prick your eyes in frustration as Beauâs mouth leaves yours. You were so close, âwhy,â you whine. Beau tilts his head up, tongue coming to where Dean disappears inside of you. As Dean plunges into you, Beau licks along the vein of his dick. Â
Dean pulls back slowly, letting the tip catch on you.
âLook at our greedy girl clenching around nothing.â You never should have let them know just how much you like it when theyâre mean and teasing.
âI know you want to see your boyfriend taste you on my cock,â Dean speaks to you sweetly, a stark contrast to the lewd things coming from his mouth.
âI do,â you whine. You want to turn, but Dean keeps one hand pressed against your lower back. Beauâs got his arms locked around your waist too.
You can hear the sound of slurping, as Beau tastes you on his âbest friendâ.
Desperate for some friction, to be touched, you grind down on Beauâs chin.
âOw, are we not paying you enough attention?â Â
âPlease,â you sob. Theyâve been edging you for almost half an hour now, bringing you close then leaving you dry. You need to cum.
âOk, Iâve got you.â
Dean slides back into you as Beau takes your clit in his mouth again. Both moving with renewed vigour and a determination to make you cum.
âI could stay like this forever, buried deep inside you. I never want to leave.â
âMhm,â Beau agrees around your clit.
Nails digging into Beauâs thighs, your mouth falls open as you wantonly moan.
You can tell Deanâs close as his thrusts get sloppy. He practically folds over you as he buries himself into you.
âF-Fuck, Iâm⌠Fuckkkk.â Dean holds you in place as he squirts ropey cum into you. You feel the coil tightening in your belly, the pleasure rising up your body at the feeling of being so full and so surrounded.
âYes, yes, Iâm gonna-â your words cut off as your orgasm crashes over you. You collapse forward, falling onto Beau as you clench around Deanâs softening erection. He winces, heâs too sensitive but he doesnât want to come out of you yet.
âThatâs it, cum for us,â Dean coos, your body twitching as you come down.
Beau keeps his mouth on you throughout, not sucking, just on you gently. You hiss as Dean slides out, somehow feeling over and under stimulated at the same time. His cum leaks out of you, dripping onto Beauâs face.
Youâre given no more time to rest as Dean lifts you by the waist again. Youâre not small, but youâre flung around like youâre weightless. The joys of being with athletes, you muse to yourself as youâre flipped over.
Thereâs a lewd squelch as youâre lowered down onto Beauâs still stiff erection. A mixture of your wetness and Deanâs leftover cum making it an easy slide down him.
Youâre spent but you want to do this for Beau. You lean forward, hands resting on his chest as you grind down into him. You rock your hips a few times, Beauâs dick circling around your walls.
Beau looks up at you, dark pupils blown as he takes you in.
âYouâre so beautiful,â his voice is strained.
Pulling you down so youâre chest to chest, Beau plants his feet on the mattress and fucks up into you. Each thrust sends Deanâs load deeper into you.
Despite your fatigue, when he hits that sweet spot inside you, you feel the coil start to tighten again. Â
Deanâs fingers slide in between you two. He knows just the right amount of pressure to apply, just the right way to circle you, and just the things to whisper to you, to get you to cum again. You cry out against Beauâs shoulder.
Your pussy is swollen and sensitive but Beauâs so close.
âPlease⌠I canât,â your voice is hoarse, your body is tingling.
âYou can,â Dean calls. âYou can take it.â He strokes your cheek, itâs soft and intimate. If you really couldnât take it, you knew the word to say to get all activity to stop. They know you know it, you confirmed it before you started this, so Beau continues pounding into you through your whines.
âIâm almost there,â Beau grunts.
Beau spills inside of you, his cum mixing with Deanâs inside of you. You feel him twitch inside of you as he continues shooting ropey cum into you. Youâre sticky, hole overflowing with cum, but content.
As aways, Deanâs ready with a warm washcloth to clean you up.
Beau rolls out of the bed to open the window. He spots your book, the one that inspired todayâs activities and smiles fondly.
âThis book of yours is incredible,â Beau says, flipping through the pages.
âYeah, big fan,â Dean smirks, âWhatâs next?â
 âWell, there is this oneâŚâ you start, âhow open minded are we all?â

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