[Off Campus x fem!reader] [Eventual Garrett Graham x fem!reader]
Summary: Y/N Y/L/N was considered the best goalie in all of college hockey. However, she knew that if anyone, whether it be her teammates, the media, or the fans, were to find out that she was actually a woman behind the mask, her reputation would be screwed and her dreams of getting drafted into the NHL would go down the drain. So, she did would anyone would do if they were trying to be perceived as a man while actually being a woman: She went by her first initial and her last name, she rarely took off her mask, and she did not interact with her teammates off the ice. Y/N was a ghost, a phantom, who came to life only on the ice. The only person that knew of her true identity was Coach Jensen, who was willing to overlook her flaws (being a woman) because of her talent.
After transferring to Briar from Harvard, Y/N finds herself desperately trying to avoid her new teammates, who are keen on getting to know their goalie better, and keep her identity hidden from the world.
Chapter 1: She's The Man
Chapter 2: How to disappear
Summary: In a city where history is carefully preserved and every citizen trusts the past they've been given, eight people begin to uncover the cracks in everything they've ever believed. As forgotten memories resurface and long buried truths come to light, each person must decide whether protecting the people they love is worth questioning the world that raised them.
Some truths can be forgotten. Others refuse to stay buried.
Pairing: Off Campus Boys x F!reader // Divergent au
Off Campus Masterlist
☁︎ fluff ✎coming soon
The Memory Archives | Garrett Graham
❛❛Y/N has been restoring the city's history inside the Hall of Remembrance. When a child insists an old photograph is missing someone who should be there, she dismisses it as a mistake. But one question becomes another, and soon she begins noticing small inconsistencies hidden throughout the archives.❜❜
Moodboard ⊹ Teaser
The Last Safe House | John Logan
❛❛Born into one of the city's most respected founding families, Y/N has spent her entire life believing The Concord deserves its place. Logan has spent just as long believing it doesn't. When circumstances force them together, each becomes the living contradiction of everything the other thought they understood.❜❜
tbd...
Every Lie Has a Witness | Dean Di Laurentis
❛❛Dean has always believed The Concord deserves protecting. His position within the Founders' Circle has given him every reason to trust the system. Until he meets someone who has quietly spent her life healing the people The Concord has overlooked.❜❜
tbd...
What We Leave Behind | John Tucker
❛❛John Tucker has always believed that people are more than the mistakes they inherit. After the fall of The Concord, he finds himself helping rebuild a city forced to confront everything it tried to forget. When he meets Y/N, someone determined to protect the people left behind, Tucker must decide what parts of the old world are worth saving and what deserves to be left behind.❜❜
(NOTE: i've opened up a google form to manage the taglist! if you wanna be tagged pls answer the form so i know which series/fic you'd want to be included in. thankiesss)
notes: part one, angst, exes, no use of y/n, i know i promised a happy ending but part two is coming i swear 🫣
Growing up, you didn't believe in fairytales and soulmates and you certainly weren’t naive enough to think that high school relationships lasted forever. Until you met Dean. You fell hard and fast and he dove head first in with you. You were just kids when you met, barely 16, but you knew enough to know that the love you had for him was real and all-consuming. You’d gotten so used to having him as a fixture in your life that as graduation loomed closer, you thought you could ignore the pit in your stomach telling you it was the end.
You desperately tried to reason with Dean that you'd be perfectly happy at Briar, with him. But he found the scholarship letter from your dream university across the country and wouldn't have it. You both sat in his car, red-eyed and quiet, when it happened. “We could do long distance,” you tried, for maybe the dozenth time that night.
“We’d resent each other eventually. Every missed call and missed flight, it would build up,” his voice was hollow with his dozenth excuse of the night. You wanted to argue and tell him he was wrong, but you couldn't. That was the heartbreaking part, you knew he was right.
You agreed to keep in touch and maybe reconnect after you both finished your first year of college, but truthfully, the texts had stopped after the second week apart. You knew it wasn't because you had stopped loving each other, but because it hurt too much to dangle what you wanted in front of your face when you couldn't have it. Sometimes, you wished you had ended on bad terms. You wished you had a reason to hate him, to stop loving him.
That was three years ago. And you believed in the saying that time heals all wounds, but you also knew that first loves did cut the deepest. Dean was like a little scar on the back of your knee that you didn't always think about, but when you hit a certain spot or smelled a certain smell, it all hit you at once. You had dated since then, even had successful flings once or twice, but nothing ever got very far. You usually made it to the six month mark when the guy you were seeing wanted to take the next step and you tried to picture a future with him, but were caught up on blond hair and green eyes every time.
Dean had done the exact opposite of trying to date. He kept every hookup casual and locked all of his feelings for you up in a steel box deep in the back of his chest. It worked, for the most part. He avoided girls that reminded him of you and pretended not to stalk your Instagram, looking for signs that you had moved on. Then he met Allie, who had a sense of humor close enough to yours to make his head spin when she was around. In terms of looks, you were complete opposites, but Dean found that his feelings for Allie were the closest thing he’d felt to anything real since you.
And things had almost gotten far enough for him to picture it - a relationship with someone else. He could picture himself falling for Allie and having something real with her. So when it all came crashing down around him at Malone’s, he felt like he was hitting rock bottom all over again. And it wasn't even really Allie’s fault, it’s not like he ever opened up to her about you. It's not like she knew that she had the power to break his heart just by doing exactly what she said she would and sleeping with someone else. Not just someone else. Hunter Davenport. An extra twist of the knife in his gut.
You had pictured a million ways that you would run into Dean Di Laurentis again. You pictured bumping into him in a grocery store, finding yourselves back in your hometown during the holidays, every cheesy scenario you'd seen in a rom com, you pictured it. But you absolutely didn't picture finding him again sitting on the curb outside of a bar in handcuffs with a busted lip. Yet, there you were.
You noticed him before he noticed you. He was too distracted yelling across the sidewalk at another guy who was giving his statement to a police officer. There was an officer in front of him, trying to get him to calm down, but you knew Dean was nowhere near calm. You could see it in the red flush rising up his neck and the clench of his jaw. Before you could stop yourself or force yourself to think your actions through, you were leaving your group of friends and crossing the street to him.
“Dean?” You asked, shock clear in your voice like you weren't actually sure if it was him. He lifted his head towards you with his brows furrowed in confusion, but froze when he saw your face. He looked like shit, his lip was busted, his hair was a mess, and he was literally handcuffed on a curb. But when your eyes met, you didn't notice any of it, or maybe just didn't care. “Is everything okay? I can't say I expected to run into you like this,” you chuckled awkwardly and ran a hand through your hair, suddenly forgetting how to have a normal conversation with him.
“Uh,” he cleared his throat and looked around, maybe for someone else to witness that you were really here, talking to him, “shit, yeah, no. I mean, I'm fine, it's kind of a long fucking story, but… wow. I can't believe you're here, tonight of all nights,” he let out a breathless laugh and suddenly he didn't really care about kicking Hunter’s ass.
“Fuck, I'd really love to catch up, but I've obviously got my hands full at the moment,” he raised his arms slightly behind his back where they were cuffed and you had to cover your mouth with your hand to stifle a laugh. Only Dean could make light of a situation like this, you thought. “But, how long are you in town? Can I call you? We could grab coffee or-” He cut himself off when a girl ran over to them, someone he clearly knew.
She looked like she'd been crying all night and she reached for Dean with a familiarity that left a sour taste in your mouth. She was pretty even with tear-stained cheeks and you found yourself hating the jealousy that ran through you. You lost the right to jealousy years ago, who were you to show up years later and judge a girl that you didn't even know?
“Dean, I'm so sorry. I swear, I had no idea who he was and- and we agreed! I was just keeping my end of the deal,” she talked a million miles a minute, not even realizing you were there until Dean’s eyes flicked back towards you. She looked between the two of you with a questioning gaze, but before she could ask any questions you were stepping back from them.
“I’m so sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt,” you rushed out, refusing to meet his eyes as you mumbled out another apology. “Uh, you guys are clearly in the middle of something so I'm just gonna, yeah,” you jerked your thumb behind you somewhere before spinning on your heel and speed walking back to your group of friends. You thought you heard Dean calling your name after you, but you didn't dare turn around to find out.
☄︎ Warnings: semi-public (restaurant). jealously-ish. porn WITH plot (lots of yappin to scene set). reader x allie being scissor sisters. squirting. smut. i read this back too many times that i couldn’t proofread, so expect mistakes.
☄︎ Pairing: Allie Hayes x F!Reader x Dean Di Laurentis
☄︎ Rating/Genre: Mature (🔞). Smut.
☄︎ Words: 3279
☄︎ Summary: You've been in your throuple with Allie and Dean for three weeks when a handsome stranger hits on you in the bar.
💭: my babies + reader was so popular that we're back again for round 2. if you enjoyed, please consider leaving a comment, ask, reblog etc, it means a lot xx
Original request here. 〣 Off Campus Masterlist here.〣 Allie & Dean Masterlist here.
Part 1
You were three weeks into this. Three weeks since whatever walls you had built to protect your heart from the hurt had come tumbling down.
In some ways, it was the easiest transition of your life. When you were ‘just’ their ‘friend’, you spent so much time with them, with so much of your daily lives already so intertwined, that your usual routine barely changed.
But, in other ways, it was the most disorientating transition of your life. The deeply embedded envy that used to make your chest feel hollow when you were around them was replaced by something so thick, something so intensely imitate, it left you so breathless you could hardly see straight.
Between your collective college classes, Dean’s demanding hockey schedule, Allie’s theatre rehearsals, and the exhaustion of navigating this newfound passion, the three of you had barely found a moment to breathe... let alone go out on a proper date.
Dean had been adamant about changing that. He demanded a real celebration.
Which was how you found yourself tucked into a plush leather booth in one of the finest restaurants in the city. Every where you turned was wealth and sophistication. The walls were a deep, rich, chocolate brown. On them, was fine art that looked like it cost more than your tuition. The melodic sound of a piano being played floated through the air, just loud enough to mask the low murmur of wealthy conversations around you.
You almost felt out of place being in a restaurant so luxurious, but, tucked into the booth with Dean and Allie by your side, you had never fit anywhere so perfectly in your life.
Allie was a vision next to you, wearing a long, classy but revealing dress with a slit on the side. You could feel the head of her bare leg pressed flush against yours beneath the table, hidden by the tablecloth.
Directly across from her sat Dean. He looked unnecessarily handsome, the top few buttons of his dress shirt left undone. He didn’t even look at the menu to order, instead keeping his eyes on you and Allie.
“I’ll grab the next round,” you volunteered after the waiter cleared the dinner plates, offering them both a bright smile.
Allie shifted her legs slightly to let you slide out of the booth. “Hurry back, babe,” she murmured. “We miss you when you’re not here.”
You felt a giddy thrill run through you, making your skin tingle as you slid completely out of the booth. New relationship bliss was probably your favourite feeling in the world.
Reaching down, you pulled at the hem of the dress that Allie had spent hours helping you pick out for this occasion. It was short, silk against your skin, and hugging your curves in all the right places.
The bar area was a bit more crowded than the main dining area, but you could still see the booth where the three of you were sat from here. Looking back, you watched as Dean gently tucked a piece of hair behind Allie’s ear, their heads tilted close as they whispered across the table.
You were so busy watching them that you hadn’t noticed when a guy moved to stand next to you. He leant back against the bar, swirling his glass of what you assumed to be bourbon. He was undeniably attractive, and his lazily confident posture screamed ‘man with money’.
“A lady as stunning as you should not be waiting for her own drink,” he smooth-talked, tilting his head with an appreciative glint in his eyes. His voice sounded as expensive as he looked, and, had you not been in a committed relationship, you may have even bit.
But you were. So instead, you just laughed. The sound was light, the deliriousness from the excitement of the night and the few drinks you’d had coming through. Honestly, after weeks of hiding your feelings and feeling invisible, it just felt good to be noticed so openly.
“I appreciate the chivalry,” you replied, turning your body slightly towards him. “But I promise I’m tougher than I look. I can handle a busy bar.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt that for a second,” he chuckled, sliding a step closer. He raised a hand, immediately catching the attention of the bartender, he was obviously a regular. “But it’d be a crime if I didn’t try. I’m Nathan, what’s your name?”
Before you could answer, the bartender slid over. “What can I get for you?”
“Can I please have two margaritas and a lemonade, thanks!” You ordered cheerfully, before turning back to Nathan. “I’m actually here celebrating tonight.”
“Celebrating what?” Nathan asked. His eyes lingered on your lips, completely missing (or deliberately ignoring) the fact that you had ordered multiple drinks. His gaze slowly trailed the length of your dress before looking back up at. “An anniversary? A promotion? Or just the fact that you look absolutely incredible in that dress.”
You threw your head back, laughing softly at his boldness. “Just a good night out with... the people closest to me,” you said, pointing over to Dean and Allie.
Both you and Nathan looked over at them, your heart racing as you saw that they were no longer whispering to each other. Their eyes were locked on to you and Nathan from across the room. Dean’s jaw was tight, and Allie’s arms were crossed over her chest.
“People... but not a boyfriend?” Nathan asked, ignoring the reactions from the booth, just as the bartender set the drinks down.
You didn’t give him an answer, focusing all your attention on balancing the drinks together in your hands. As you carefully walked away, you added, “It was nice meeting you, Nathan!”
“The pleasure was all mine,” he replied.
You carefully set the three glasses down on the table, pretending like you didn’t notice how squared Dean’s shoulders were or how Allie watched you through narrowed eyes.
“What the hell was that?” Dean asked once you’d settled back into the booth.
“Oh, come on! That was nothing,” you shrugged, trying to dismiss it as you pushed his class of lemonade over to him. “He was just being polite while I waited for the bartender.”
Allie didn’t even touch her margarita. She placed her hand on your thigh as she turned her body towards you. “He looked like he wanted to eat you alive, babe.” Her tone was deceptively sweet, but it was laced with a possessive edge. “And you were laughing.”
“I was just being polite, Al,” you whispered, looking between the two of them.
“I don’t like it when you’re polite,” Dean muttered.
“Yeah, I second that,” Allie added, her thumb pressing harder into your skin.
Before you could even attempt to defend yourself, the waiter reappeared. He was carrying a glass with a bright yellow liquid inside, placing it down in front of you with a soft clink.
“Compliments of the gentleman at the bar,” the waiter said, offering a professional smile as he discreetly pointed back towards the counter where Nathan was still standing. He then slid a white linen napkin across the table and left.
Written across it was a message: for you, love. i recommend the piña colada. it’s just as sweet as you look tonight. A phone number was scribbled at the bottom.
Your eyes went wide, breath catching sharply in your throat. “Oh my god.”
Dean’s hand shot across the table and snatched the napkin. He immediately started ripping at it. He looked disgusted as he balled up the shredded pieces and dropped them into his glass of water.
“Why the hell is he sending you drinks?” Allie seethed, her hand on your thigh tightening. “I thought he was just ‘being polite’?”
“Did you not tell him you were with us?” Dean leant forward over the table, his chest pressing against the edge, burning you with his gaze.
“Well... I said I was celebrating with... people-.”
“So,” Dean interrupted, “you didn’t tell him you were with-with us?”
“Well, no... Dean, it’s not the most natural thing to say to a stranger at a bar, is it?” You hissed back in a harsh whisper. “Hey, I’m here with my boyfriend AND my girlfriend and we’re celebrating our throuple.’’’
“Sounds completely natural to me,” Allie said, before turning her head to look across the table. “Right, babe?”
“Completely,” Dean agreed instantly.
“I guess we’ll just have to show him that you’re taken,” Allie added.
The two of them were a pair of opposites. While Dean’s expression had grown darker, more intense, Allie maintained her perfectly composed sweet smile, when she was thinking anything but sweetness. You didn’t know who to focus on; the two of them together were unpredictable.
Reaching out, Dean’s hand wrapped around the drink that Nathan had brought for you. He leant back against the cushion, his gaze locked on to Nathan from across the room. He took a deliberate sip, Adam’s apple dramatically bobbing as he swallowed hard. He raised the glass slightly, tipping it an inch towards Nathan in a mocking toast.
“Dean–.”
The name slipped out of your mouth as barely a breath. Underneath the heavy tablecloth, Allie’s hand was slowly sliding up your thigh, making it hard to concentrate on anything else. She angled her body toward you, using her shoulder to, mostly, blck the view of her arm from the rest of the restaurant.
“Allie,” you whimpered quietly, your breath catching as her fingers began to trail the length of your folds right through the thin material of your underwear.
“Be natural, babe. Keep your eyes on Dean,” Allie murmured, her voice the definition of sweetness even as the pressure of her fingers increased.
Your heart hammered violently against your ribs as you looked at Dean, desperately trying to not look as undone as you felt. Slouching down slightly in the booth, your legs parted naturally, giving Allie more access. you bit your lower lip hard, almost drawing blood, as her finger slipped past the lace of your panties, finding you slicker than you should be in a crowed, public, restaurant.
She played with your arousal, coating her fingers with it, before finding your clit and pressing down on it. “Don’t worry, babe. Nobody but Dean is watching.”
Across the table, Dean watched the subtle movement of Allie’s arm before his eyes flicked up to you, looking just in time to see your face break. He watched your eyelids frow heavy and hooded and your lips parted in a silent plea, his chest rising and falling in heavy breaths. He was getting hard just watching Allie pleasure you under the table, watching the way you tried so desperately to be discreet as you squirmed under her touch.
Dean leant forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Shhhh,” he murmured, “Somebody’s going to hear you.”
Just then, Allie pushed the lace aside. She slid a wet finger deep inside you, curving it upward to press hard against your soft walls. Your head rolled weakly against the backrest of the booth as her finger moved back over your clit, driving you closer to an edge you couldn’t possibly go over in public.
“Dean,” you choked out, your hips helplessly twitching against Allie’s hand. “Please, I can’t.”
“Fuck,” Dean responded, voice dangerously low. “Okay, we need to go. Right now.”
Allie immediately pulled her finger from your underwear and turned to glance toward the bar. Nathan was still looking over; his eyes fixated on your side of the booth. She gave him a triumphant look as she popped her wet fingers into her mouth, sucking on them clean and shooting him a wink.
Dean quickly got out of the booth, walking with a slight limp as he made his way to the front of the restaurant to pay the bill.
In the booth, Allie waited a moment for you to gather yourself and pull back down the hem of your dress before getting out and reaching back to take your hand into hers.
The night was cool as it hit your face as you exited the restaurant, but it did nothing against the heat spreading through your body.
Nobody spoke as you hurried towards the car. Dean reached it first, yanking open the back door for you and Allie to climb in. The moment you were both in, he slammed the door shut and jogged around to the driver’s side. He threw the car into drive, the tires making a faint screech as he zoomed out of the parking lot.
The moment the car cleared the street, Allie lunged across the backseat at you. Her body collied with yours, and you both let out breathless giggles as Dean made an aggressive turn that had you falling over each other.
Then, Allie’s mouth found yours in a frantic kiss. She kissed you like she had something to prove. Your hands instantly flew to tangle in her hair, fingers gripping the soft strands to pull her close. she kissed you until your chest heaved, her mouth sliding down to bury into the crook of your neck.
In the front seat, Dean’s knuckles were white as he tightly gripped the steering wheel. He tried to keep his eyes solely on the road but couldn’t stop his eyes from darting to the rearview mirror, watching you and Allie’s hands all over each other. The sight of you two, lost in the heat of the moment, made him push down on the accelerator, pushing to the speed limit.
The car had barely come to a stop before the doors flew open, the three of you desperate to get out. Allie reached for your hand again, her grip tight as she practically dragged you out of the back seat. Dean was already a step ahead, the keys jingling in his hand as he sprinted up the porch steps to shove the door open.
Tucker and Logan were splayed out on the living room sofa; a video game controller in Logan’s hand.
They both blinked, looking up in surprise as the three of you moved through the foyer looking slightly dishevelled, and kicking off your shoes.
“Oh, hey,” Logan called out, pausing the game. “You guys are back early. How was the restaurant?”
Allie didn’t even bother to answer as she pulled you up the stairs.
“Mhm, great,” Dean grunted, following closely behind you both.
“Try to keep it down up there!” Tucker shouted up the banister on a laugh.
An instant later, the muffled sound of the video game that they were playing spiked in volume. The sound blaring through the floorboards as Tucker and Logan turned up the game to protect their ears.
Dean didn’t bother to close the door as he moved to help Allie pull off your dress. For how tight it was, it dropped from your body easily.
Just as easily, Allie unclipped your bra and pulled it off. Dean was immediately on you then, hands caressing your tits as Allie undressed.
Once undressed, she crawled onto the bed and spread her legs. You and Dean watched as she touched herself, hands running down her body and dipping between her legs. She got herself real worked up. From where you both were watching, you could see her pussy glistening with her arousal.
“Please~,” she whined, hips rocking as she circled her clit faster. “I need– someone–.”
“You go,” Dean whispered, gently pushing you towards the bed.
You should have felt embarrassed by how fast you clambered towards the bed, crawling over her leg until you were at her waist. with one leg swung over her hip, you lined your pussy up with hers before pressing down into her.
You didn’t immediately find her clit, but your hole clenched as your slick folds slid over hers. She reached down to part herself with two fingers, exposing her clit.
Shifting your hips, you moved until you found the perfect angle that had your clits brushing against each other.
“Shit,” Allie breathed, her head lolling back.
Hooking one of her legs over your shoulder, you held on to that as you pressed your soaking pussy onto hers with more pressure. Your moans mixed at every grind of your hips, your clits sliding against one another’s creating a delicious friction.
“Thaaaaat’s it, baby,” you moaned as she bucked her hips up into you.
Beside the bed, Dean was sitting on the chair, cock thick and twitching in his hand as he jerked off to the sight of you rolling your hips down into Allie. The pleasure built with each movement of your hips, your soaked, aching, clits pressed tightly against each other.
The room is filled with the wet sound of your pussies rubbing together, of your hips snapping against hers. Dean’s grunts were dwarfed by the sound of you & Allie’s gasps.
“You’re so beautiful, babe.” Allie was looking up at you, eyes lustful but so sincere. It made more heat pool in your belly.
“I love you, Al,” you stuttered into her ankle. You rolled your hips tighter now, circling her clit with yours.
“I’m going to cum,” she told you, “I’m going to make a mess all over your pussy.”
“Cum for me, pretty girl,” you rasped.
The pressure on Allie’s clit started to overwhelm her but her hips kept pushing up to meet yours. With one strong grind of your hips, the feeling pushed her over the edge. She screamed your name as she squirted into your pussy, warm, clear, liquid pooling between your bodies.
You felt her twitch and clench beneath you, the feeling sending you into overdrive. As she came down from her high, your hips sped up, desperately chasing your own release. But Allie grabbed at your hips, holding you still against her.
“Babe, lie back,” Allie said, voice still breathless, “I want to watch Dean fuck you.”
You nodded and looked over at Dean, who was already getting up and making his way to the bed. Allie shifted back slightly, propping herself up against the pillows. You settled between her spread legs; the back of your shoulders pressed against her stomach.
She hooked her legs over your thighs, spreading you wider for Dean who lined himself up.
“I won’t last long,” he warned as you felt him nudging at your entrance.
He sunk into you as slow as he could manage, your pussy so slick it made a squelching sound.
Allie couldn’t take her eyes off of the way your pussy swallowed him up, even she squeezed and rolled your nipples between her fingers.
“Please, I need to cum,” you begged. The fact that you hadn’t cum yet definitely felt like punishment from what happened at the restaurant.
“Okay, baby girl.” Allie reached down, her fingers immediately applying pressure to your clit.
At the same time, Dean thrust into you at a quicker pace. He wasn’t gentle either, each thrust pushed him deeper into you.
“Fuck, I’m already going to cum,” he grunted, brow furrowed.
He thrusted into you three more times before he filled you up with his release. His warm cum mixing with the remnants of Allie’s release.
Allie’s hands moved back to your nipples as Dean’s finger flicked over your clit. It wasn’t long before your back was aching up, body convulsing as waves of pleasure washed over you.
Dean collapsed onto you, pinning you between his and Allie’s warmth. You could feel the mixture of releases dripping down you, settling onto the duvet. The three of you settled into a comfortable silence as you laid there in your own messes.
“Dude,” Tucker shouted, interrupting the peace, “close your fucking door!”
↳ Warnings/Themes: PG. Fluff.
↳ Pairing: Allie Hayes x F!Reader x Dean Di Laurentis
↳ Words: 976
↳ Summary: Allie & Dean take you away for a weekend trip to Cape Cod
☁️: first req on the new blog wooo. Love my AllieDean so bad, please keep the requests for them coming ❤︎
Requested: here. General Masterlist here. Allie and Dean Masterlist here.
The afternoon sun left the water sparkling, like there were little diamonds dancing across the surface. As the boat slowly rocked over it, you let out a content sigh. For the first time in months, there were no hockey matches to train for, no rehearsals to prep for, and no deadlines hanging over any of your heads. There was only endless blue skies, gently waves, and the two loves of your life who refused to let you worry about anything.
It was never easy finding time where all three of you could have a weekend completely free. But the moment you had, Dean had whisked you and Allie away to Cape Cod, where you’d spent most of your time stretched out on Beau’s family’s private boat.
Dean had insisted he wanted nothing but the best for his girls, and his own boat was going through an upgrade.
Weekends like this were your favourite kind of luxury. Dean had picked the destination. Then, Allie had packed your bag before you’d even thought to do it. They remembered your favourite snacks, reminded you to drink water, and quietly took care of all the little things before you’d even noticed they needed doing.
Normally, you were the one making every decision. Between your demanding major and the need to plan three steps ahead these days, your brain rarely got a chance to switch off. By the end of the semester, even deciding what to eat for dinner felt exhausting.
But being with Dean and Allie felt like finally being able to take a deep breath after being constrained for so long. You so naturally let go, trusted them to know you in a way that you didn’t know yourself. With them, all you had to do was exist and that was enough.
Behind you, Allie shifted on the lounger until her knees rested on either side of you. She leant forward, her chest warm against your back as she loosely wrapped her arms around your waist. the familiar scent of her perfume mixed with the salty summer air had you relaxing almost instantly.
The afternoon grew warmer as the boat drifted across the water, the sun beating pleasantly against your skin.
“I think it’s time for sunscreen,” Dean suddenly announced, reaching into the cooler for another bottle of water.
You instinctively reached for the sunscreen beside your towel. Dean’s hand shot out to catch your wrist. “No.”
Blinking, you turned looked up at him. “No?”
“No,” he repeated, gently taking the bottle from your hand. “Your only job today is to sit back, look beautiful, and let us take care of you. Can you do that for me?”
Heat crept into your cheeks despite the breeze; it always did take a reminder for you of your role. “Yes, Dean,” you whispered.
“Good girl,” Allie praised softly, her lips brushing just beneath your ear. “You’re doing so well already.”
You shifted against her, she knew how much you liked praise and always made sure to keep you full of it.
Dean squeezed a generous amount of the sunscreen onto Allie’s palm.
“It’s cold,” she warned you.
The warning was appreciated, but it didn’t stop you from jumping slightly as the first touch of the cream hit your shoulder.
“I did warn you,” she giggled.
“I know,” you whined.
Dean laughed from where he sat in front of you both, one hand absentmindedly rubbing slow circles over your knee while the other rubbed the cream over your leg. Behind you, Allie carefully worked the sunscreen across your shoulders and down your arms.
“Lean forward for me, babe, so I can get your back,” Allie murmured, her hands gently guiding you forward. You complied easily, leaning forward and sighing as she massaged it into your back.
Neither of them rushed.
Allie made sure to cover every bit of exposed skin, even lifting your arms so she could get the backs of your hands before carefully rubbing over and between your fingers.
“There,” she said proudly. “No sunburns on my watch.”
Dean leant forward, studying you with exaggerated concentration. “Hmmm, I think you missed a spot.”
“What? Where?” Allie frowned, she took her job very seriously.
“Right...” Dean cupped your cheek, his expression looking far too serious for about half a second before he leant in and pressed a deliberately sloppy kiss to your mouth. “...here.”
You giggled against his lips as Allie theatrically gagged behind you. “Oh, boo!”
Dean pulled back just enough to look at her over your shoulder, one eyebrow arched. “So, you don’t want one?”
“When did I say that?” She retorted.
“Did you not just boo me?”
“I was booing the drama.”
Dean grinned. “You wouldn’t love me without the drama.”
Allie huffed before reaching over your shoulder, wrapping her hand around the back of Dean’s neck, and tugging him across the small space. “Shut up and kiss me, Di Laurentis.”
Dean barely had time to laugh before she gave him a quick kiss. He kissed her back eagerly, before she shoved him away with an eyeroll.
Nestled comfortably between them, you couldn’t help but smile. This was where you always loved being, sandwiched in the middle of their constant back and forth, equal parts flirting and bickering.
“I could get used to this,” you sighed.
“Aren’t you already spoilt?” Allie teased, pinching your waist lightly.
“I am,” you admitted, “you really know how to look after a girl.”
“That was the plan,” Dean said as he reached into the cooler for snacks. “You’ll never be able to settle for less than us.”
Leaning further back into Allie, you smiled once again. The most difficult decision you had to make right now was whether to take a nap now, or after lunch. Thankfully, it was one that Allie and Dean were more than happy to make for you.
If you enjoyed, please consider leaving a comment, ask, reblog etc. it means a lot x
☄︎ Warnings: threesome, everybody fuckin!
☄︎ Pairing: F!Reader x Allie Hayes x Dean Di Laurentis
☄︎ Rating/Genre: Mature (🔞). Smut. PG. Angst. Fluff.
☄︎ Words: 2343
☄︎ Summary: You're happy for your best friends. you're also in love with your best friends.
💭: who wouldn't want to be sandwitched between them! it is 4 am right now lol so there could be many a mistake that my tired eyes cannot see.
Original requests here and here. 〣 Off Campus Masterlist here.〣 Allie & Dean Masterlist here.
You were not jealous.
That, you could say with certainty. Jealousy implied that you had something to lose to someone else. You didn’t.
Perhaps the better word for you would be envious. You were envious that your two best friends had found each other before you could. That didn’t mean that you weren’t happy for them, you were.
In fact, you loved them both. But that was the problem. They were your closest friends; they kept you grounded when the chaos in your world got too much to bear. But, watching the effortless way that they fit together always left a quiet, hollow ache right in the centre of your chest.
You didn’t want Dean to look at Allie in any way less than he did, and you didn’t want Allie to stop smiling back up at Dean. You just wished that there was a space for you in the middle of that warmth.
Sitting on the floor of your dorm, your back rested against the base of the sofa as you studied. Up on the cushions behind you, Allie and Dean were curled together. His arm was draped around her shoulders, fingers tracing absentminded patterns on her skin while her head rested on his chest.
They didn’t even need to be here, but it was part of your routine. For weeks, you’d spend hours together on lazy Sunday mornings. By the time you realised the depth of your love for them, it was already too late. They were committed to your routine and you couldn’t exist without it.
“Hey,” Allie’s voice broke through your thoughts.
You tilted your head back against the sofa, leaning against the cushions. Looking up at them, you saw they were both peering down at you.
“Are you okay, babe? You’ve been staring at that same page for the last like thirty minutes.”
If there was one thing about Allie, it was that she loved fiercely. She could always tell if something was wrong and she wasn’t one to let it go.
Dean’s hand slid down the sofa until it met your shoulder. The muscles there were extremely tight. He frowned and sat up with Allie still in his arms. Strong hands came to your shoulders and he began kneading at the tension there.
“What’s going on in that head of yours?” Dean asked as he continued working out the knots in your shoulder.
You couldn’t tell him that it was pointless to be working at your shoulders. Every brush of their hands, every shared glance, and every quiet laugh between them just reminded you of the invisible wall separating you from them. Recently, these study sessions were full of that, it’s like they knew you were hurting and purposely ramped up their touchiness.
The knots in your shoulders came from the weight of pretending like everything was okay. They weren’t going to go away while you were still in the room with them, no matter how good his hands felt on you.
“Just tired,” you lied offering a faint smile back up at them. You forced yourself to look at the textbook again. “The words are starting to blend together is all.”
Allie shifted behind you, detaching herself from Dean’s side. She dropped to the floor next to you and gently pulled the textbook from your hands, closing it with a soft thud and setting it aside.
“I think you’ve been avoiding us,” Allie said softly. It wasn’t an accusation; her voice held a fragility that you completely understood. It was the tone of someone who cared deeply and was terrified of a widening rift. “You’ve been doing it all week. Whenever the both of us are around, you find a reason to leave.”
“I haven’t–.”
“You have,” Dean interrupted. He also dropped to the floor, settling on the other side of you. Even the way they smelt complimented each other, Dean’s expensive cologne mixed with the sweet trace of Allie’s perfume. “You’ve been pulling away from us.”
You were right where you had dreamt of being, sandwiched between them, but everything was wrong. You were trapped.
“You guys are a couple. I’m the friend.” You hoped they couldn’t hear how your voice shook. “I’m supposed to give you space.”
Allie moved from seated beside you to sit on her knees in front of you. “What if… we didn’t want you to give us space?”
The question hung in the air as you looked between them. This felt like a trap but, from what you could see, they were being serious.
“What if I told you that, hypothetically, last week I told Allie that I felt like I had failed her as a boyfriend because I was thinking about another girl, you, the same way I thought of her.” He was in that rarely seen Dean mode where he’s really serious, all hints of playful flirting gone.
“And,” Allie added, “what if I told you, hypothetically, that when Dean said that, all I felt was relief because I had been sitting in class every day, staring at the empty seat next to me, wishing it was you.”
“And, hypothetically, what if we discussed it and agreed that we wanted there to be an us?” Dean gestures to the three of you.
You stayed silent, unsure of how to respond. This felt like a dream that you’d surely wake up from and cry because it wasn’t real.
“What would you think about those hypotheticals?” Allie asked vulnerably.
You swallowed, loudly and visibly. “Can I ask what triggered these… hypotheticals?”
“For me, it was when you both fell asleep on me when we watched that movie,” Dean confessed. “I looked at Allie, then down at you, and the thought of moving you away felt wrong. I wanted you both to stay right there with me.”
“For me,” Allie confessed as she held your hand tightly, “it’s been building from the moment we instantly clicked. But last week, the sunlight hit your face and I just… I froze.”
The walls you had built over the past few weeks came tumbling down under the weight of their confessions. It really didn’t take much but hearing what you had always dreamed you would. The silence stretched between the three of you, but, this time, you felt a rush of hope.
You looked down at your hands, and let out a breathy laugh.
“For me,” you whispered, your voice cracking. “For me, it was that night when we were all cooking dinner. Allie and I were dancing around the kitchen and you were leaning on the counter watching us with this smile on your face. I can’t explain it but everything felt so right. Just like, this is how life was supposed to be.”
Dean wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you an inch closer to him.
Allie crawled over to you and straddled your lap. “God, you have no idea how long I’ve been wanting to do this.”
Allie’s hands came to cup your face as she leant in to kiss you. She was gentle with it, her lips brushing against you a few times before she pressed her mouth to yours. Allie coaxed your tongue out of your mouth, and your tongues danced.
You melted into her touch, hands automatically resting on her hips as she shifted against you. He thumbs traced gentle, soothing paths across your cheekbones. Her mouth tasted sweet, and you couldn’t help but wonder what she tasted like between her legs.
Next to you, Dean let out a groan of approval. His arm stayed locked around your waist. He didn’t try to interrupt your kiss. Instead, he leant over to bury his face in the crook of your neck. his lips brushed your sensitive skin, leaving a trail of kisses from your shoulder to just below your ear. You gasped into Allie’s mouth.
When Allie pulled back, her lips were swollen, lipstick smeared across her lips. “Now you two,” she commanded.
Dean didn’t hesitate; his hand came to cup the back of your neck as he pulled you into the kiss. Your brain short-circuited as you melted into his kisses too. He wasn’t slow and gentle with it like Allie; it was a possessively desperate kiss. Frantic and filled with the aching relief of someone who had been holding back for too long.
Allie’s hands slid up under the hem of your shirt, finding your nipples and giving them a pinch. Through the awkward angle, your hand slipped past the waistband of Dean’s joggers and you palmed him over his boxers. You could already feel him hardening under your touch.
Dean gasped into your mouth as he bucked into your hand which had squeezed him through his boxers. He pulled back from your mouth. “Bedroom?”
The three of you got up on shaky legs, pulling off your clothes as you ran to your bedroom.
As soon as the three of you were naked in your room, Dean commanded you both to the bed, “I want to taste my girls.”
You and Allie lie side by side at the edge of the mattress, legs spread as Dean knelt on the floor at the foot of the bed. He expertly moved between you both, mouth on one, hand on the other.
Your hips bucked as he dragged his tongue up your folds. His tongue paused as it got to your clit, sucking lightly on it before moving back down to your clenching hole.
Simultaneously, he worked a finger, and then two, into Allie. Her hips gyrated on the bed as he curved and scissored his fingers inside of her.
You knew Dean had a reputation, but now you were seeing just how well earnt it was.
“Yeah~,” you breathed. “Just like that.”
He then alternated, his mouth moving over Allie’s leaking pussy as he slipped two fingers into you. You head lolled over to Allie whose mouth was slightly parted and eyes rolled back. You didn’t think you could find her any more beautiful than you already did but here she was, wantonly moaning as Dean’s tongue moved around her.
“Wait, her first,” Allie moaned.
Dean knew exactly what Allie meant. He turned his attention to you, his mouth swirling over your clit and his fingers worked into you. One of Allie’s hands came to knead your breast while she leant down and covered the other with her mouth. Her tongue flicked over your sensitive nipple in the same way that Dean’s tongue flicked over your clit.
The feeling overwhelmed you in the best way, you were finally with the two people you knew you were meant to be with, and they were pouring all of their attention into you. You wriggled into their touches. The pleasure built over you, rising and rising until it hit its peak and crashed over you.
“That’s it, that’s my girl,” Allie praised, hand stoking your clenching stomach as you rode out your orgasm.
“Fucking delicious,” Dean called from between your legs, still lapping up your arousal.
The compliments from them had your face flushing.
You came down from your high but you weren’t done. You didn’t care how greedy you sounded, you needed more.
“Allie, wanna taste you,” you whined.
Allie lay back onto her back, spreading her legs for you. You immediately took your place, parting her slick folds with two fingers. She had the most beautiful pussy you’d ever seen, flushed red with arousal.
You licked your lips before delving right in. Your tongue exploring every inch of her that you could get at. Her moans were muffled around Dean’s cock. She deepthroated him with ease as she played with his balls.
She didn’t last long after that, the feeling of you both on her left her overstimulated in the best way.
“Ngh~ so good~.” Allie releases Dean with a pop as cums, screaming your name. Both you and Dean watched as her body convulsed with the force of her orgasm.
Dean looked up at you, he was fully hard now, his cock standing tall as it twitched against his stomach. His tip was an angry red, leaking precum. He probably had the best cock you’ve ever seen. They made such a pretty pair.
“Can I fuck you?” Dean asked you, his voice raspy.
“Yes, how do you want me?” Your own voice was pretty ragged too.
“On your back, I want to watch your face as I sink into you.”
You probably could have come right then from his words. You laid down on your back, and Dean lined himself up.
He didn’t spend any time teasing you, your previous orgasm and fresh arousal provided enough lubrication that he could slide right in.
His hips snapped into the back of your thighs as he fucked into you, the force of it had your tits bouncing and the headboard snapping against the wall. His eyes didn’t leave your face the entire time.
Allie crawled over to bury her face between your legs, alternating between licking at your clit and licking at the area where Dean’s erection disappeared within you. Your fingers gripped the sheets as they both worked you.
Dean was a vocal fucker, you found. He muttered praises and compliments between his grunts as he thrust into you.
His moans got progressively louder as his thrusts got more erratic. Your moans joined his as Allie flicked over your clit in a way that had another orgasm ripping through you. You clamped down on Dean and his body shuddered as he spilled himself inside of you.
Allie came up to lazily kiss you, and you could taste yourself on her.
Dean didn’t pull out of you until his cock stopped twitching inside of you. At that point, you and Allie were already cuddled together.
He got a washcloth to clean you both up before he cuddled in next to you.
Laying tangled together in the quiet of the bedroom, the heavy weight that had pulled at you for weeks was finally gone.
nobody but us, bodies together | allie hayes + dean di laurentis
“Rough practice?” You ask, reaching out to Dean as he practically slams the bedroom door open, slamming it back closed behind him. You reach a hand out, tugging the hem of his shirt slightly to let him fall onto the bed between you and Allie. “You wouldn’t want to know,” he growls, his eyes darkening with that familiar fiery gaze.
contents — 18+ content, smut, graphic descriptions of sex, porn without plot, profanities, established polyamorous relationship, slightly mean dom!dean, switch!allie, sub!reader, one (1) slap, teasing, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, dirty talk, slight orgasm delay, finger sucking, untouched ejaculation, dean is an eater™️who eats for his pleasure, allie is a tits girl, mention of period, mention of blood, all acts are completely consensual! kindly let me know if i missed anything!
word count — 1.7k | title — pillowtalk by zayn
gabby says — this is a repost from my old blog, @fictionallygabby. i have decided to start my blog all over, so please feel free to read here for the explanation.
You and Allie perk up from your places in her bed, tangled beneath the sheets as you watch TikToks of animals on your phone.
“Rough practice?” You ask, reaching out to Dean as he practically slams the bedroom door open, slamming it back closed behind him. You reach a hand out, tugging the hem of his shirt slightly to let him fall onto the bed between you and Allie.
“You wouldn’t want to know,” he growls, his eyes darkening with that familiar fiery gaze.
He looks between his girls, and Allie immediately raises her arms in surrender.
“I can’t, babe, I’m on my period,” she murmurs, sitting up to place tender kisses along his jawline, down to his neck. “I’m sorry.”
“You know I do not mind a little blood,” he whispers, turning his head to meet her lips in a rough, almost bruising kiss that leaves her in a daze when he pulls away. “But I’m not forcing you, babydoll.”
Due to Allie running her fingers through them, Dean’s hair is already a mess when his darkened eyes flit over to you, and a shiver runs down your spine at the intensity of his gaze.
“Come here,” you whisper, holding your arms out, but he does not take them. Instead, he grabs a hold of your legs and tugs you towards him with a wolfish grin. You squeal, your hands flying to his shoulder.
Your hands stay on his shoulders when he leans in, crashing his lips to yours in another rough kiss, his tongue slipping into your mouth. You moan into his mouth, your back arching towards him.
“My girls taste so fucking good,” he groans, his lips trailing down to your jawline, then lowering to your neck. He nips at the sensitive point right below your jaw, and you let out a shaky breath. He chuckles darkly at your response to his kisses. “Sensitive already? Our sensitive girl.”
“Isn’t she so sweet?” Allie coos, crawling across the bed over to you. She holds your chin delicately, gently tilting your head and pressing a sweet kiss to your lips.
The stark contrast between Dean’s rough treatment and Allie’s sweet indulgence is making your head spin, and it is evident in the way your words turn incoherent as you babble, “please”.
“Please what, sweet girl?” Allie whispers against your lips, “Tell our Dean what you want, baby.”
Your brain does not immediately process her words, and Dean tuts, crawling back up to hold your face in his larger hand. His palm connects with your cheek in a light slap—not enough to hurt but enough to catch your attention. “You were asked a question, baby. Do you want to be punished?”
You moan at the sudden, slight sting, and they both laugh at that. Answering his question, shake your head with a feeble, “No.”
“Then tell me what you want, baby,” Dean whispers, looking intently into your eyes that are now glazed over with lust and want. “What does our baby want?”
Meanwhile, Allie is peppering kisses all over your skin—everywhere she can reach: your face, your neck, the exposed skin of your shoulder.
You so badly want to respond, but your mind keeps coming up blank. “Fuck,” you gasp anyway, “Please touch me.”
“But he is touching you, pretty,” Allie croons teasingly, trailing featherlight down your torso until she reaches the waistband of your shorts. “Do you want to be touched right here…” She trails her hand lower. “…or lower?”
“Right there—” You gasp as her palm cups your wet heat over the fabrics. “I need more, please.”
“Good girl,” Dean groans, finally crawling back down. “Good fucking girl, babydoll.”
Meanwhile, Allie nudges you to sit up with a soft, “Sit up for me a bit, baby.” She then takes her place behind you and pulls you close, your back now pressed to her chest. While Dean is hooking his fingers into your shorts and sliding them down your legs, Allie is pulling your shirt over your head, leaving you completely bare in your partners’ hold.
“So beautiful,” Dean murmurs, spreading your thighs and placing your legs on each of his broad shoulders. He kisses down from your knees into your inner thighs, close enough to feel his hot breath on your pussy. “And all ours. Isn’t that right, Allie-cat?”
Allie giggles in reply, brushing your hair to the side to kiss your neck and your nape sweetly, purring—
“All ours,”
—in between kisses, her free hand toying with your pebbled nipple.
The sensation Allie is giving, along with the cool air breezing over your pussy, makes you shiver and arch into your girlfriend’s touch. Your lips part in a silent moan.
“We’ve got you, sweetheart,” Dean murmurs, stroking your thighs as he watches Allie touch and kiss you. “We’ve got you. Just relax for us.”
“Dean, please,” you whine, your hips lifting off the bed in an attempt to shift closer to your boyfriend’s face. “Please do something. I need it—I need you.”
“I got you,” Dean groans out before diving in between your parted thighs. You cry out as soon as his mouth comes in contact with your throbbing cunt, his tongue swiping up and down, side to side, everywhere.
Your hips buck, grinding yourself against his face. He does not stop you—instead, he moans and groans into your cunt, the vibrations sending jolts of electricity straight into your core.
Meanwhile, Allie’s hands continue twiddling with your nipples, her lips kissing and whispering filth into your skin as you whimper and moan into the heated air of the bedroom, “you are doing so, so well for us, good girl. That’s it, fuck Dean’s face, baby, hump his face. Does that feel good? Yeah, I bet it does. Uh-huh?”
The multiple continuous sensations all over your body are enough to make your body tremble, your thighs close in around Dean’s head, and one of your hands grip Allie’s forearms, your nails leaving crescent marks in their wake, while your other hand is buried in Dean’s hair, pulling and tugging at the right moments. The slight sting of his scalp is pleasurable enough to make him whimper into your pussy.
As if swiping his tongue all over your clit is not enough, Dean wraps his lips around the sensitive bundle of nerves and sucks. You cry out in response, jerking in their hold and arching as far as humanely possible.
“Oh, yeah,” Allie moans at the sight of your pleasure skyrocketing. “Fuck, baby, if only you can see how so fucking good you look right now—both of you.”
Dean grins into your cunt, his eyes trailing up to meet both of yours from between your thighs. He sucks again to see your reaction, and god, he gets even more turned on at the sight: your body jerking and trembling, your lips parting in a silent scream, your eyes rolling back in pleasure. He moans louder into you as you tug harder at his hair.
He pulls away for air and reprieve, causing you to whine at the loss, but your disappointment does not last long as he dives back in, doubling down on his efforts this time.
“Oh God,” you cry out, the knot in your core tightening with every passing second Dean spends between your legs. “I’m so close, Dean!”
“He knows, baby, he knows,” Allie coos, also intensifying her efforts on pleasuring your tits. “You are so, so close, aren’t you, baby? Should we let you cum?”
Dean grins against you, pulling away just as you reach your peak. His hands stroke your thighs soothingly, while you groan in frustration, your eyes snapping down to where he lies on his stomach beneath you.
“Relax, sweetheart,” he murmurs, slipping two fingers into your mouth. “Suck my fingers like you’re sucking my dick, pretty. Get them nice and wet for me. That’s it, good girl.” He groans at the sight of you sucking his fingers, swirling your tongue all over the digits.
He slowly pulls his fingers out and lies back down between your legs, placing them on his shoulders once again. He prods at your entrance teasingly before pushing his thick fingers slowly into your pussy. His dark eyes do not leave your face as he watches every single expression that flashes across. He curls his fingers just right and watches as you struggle and thrash in Allie’s hold. “You can take it, sweetheart. You wanted this, remember? That’s it. You’re doing so well.”
Meanwhile, Allie has her arms tight around you to prevent you from moving too much and potentially hurting yourself or them. She strokes your skin soothingly, whispering sweet nothings into your ear, “Just a bit more, baby. You’re almost there, we know. Good girl—so sweet and beautiful for us.”
To add to your pleasure, Dean takes your clit back into his mouth and sucks as he pumps his fingers into you, the tips nudging that sweet spot inside you. His hips rut against the sheets as he moans into your clit.
The knot in your core coils tighter and tighter until they finally snap. You stiffen in Allie’s arms for a few moments before your body spasms as the waves of your orgasm crashes and flows through you.
Allie holds you through it, still whispering into your ear as she soothes you with her touch.
Dean continues pumping his fingers slowly into you, but he parts from your clit, letting you ride your high until the overstimulation turns into sharp jabs of pain with every move and your hands are tapping his shoulder urgently.
He slowly withdraws his fingers then, licking his fingers clean with a satisfied groan. He slowly lowers your legs on the bed, gently massaging the sore spots.
When he sits up, you and Allie gasp at the wet patch on his low slung gray sweatpants, right over his clothed erection.
“See how good you make me feel, sweetheart?” He murmurs, kissing your lips softly. “You okay?”
“I’m okay.” You nod, still slightly breathless. You then turn to Allie, kissing her cheek. “Are you okay, gorgeous?”
“Oh, I’m more than okay, pretty.” She grins, leaning in to kiss Dean this time. She groans as she tastes you on his lips. “Fuck, you taste so fucking good together. It’s insane.”
“We’re all insane here, gorgeous.” He grins boyishly, but his eyes soften as they look over you. “Think you can walk? You need to pee, sweetheart.”
“Yeah, I think so.”
Soon enough, the three of you are tangled beneath the freshly changed sheets with you lying in between—their perfect girl.
‘cause when the stars align, you might bring the beast out | allie hayes + dean di laurentis
Dean’s eyes finally drift over to you, and he smirks. That wordless expression conveys all he wants you to hear—that could have been you on his lap if only you weren’t such a brat, pissing him off, stressing Allie out.
contents — 18+ content, smut, mean dom!dean, mean switch!allie (sub-leaning tbh), sub!brat!reader, dirty talk, brat taming, punishment, bondage (handcuffing), gagging, one slap, voyeurism, deanallie ignoring reader :(, allie riding, no action for reader, orgasm denial, essentially a deanallie smut :P
word count — 1.3k | title — beast by mia martina + waka flocka
requests — An Allie x Dean x reader fic pleaseee 😩 + I was wondering if you could write mean/hard dom!dean x sub!reader or mean/hard dom!dean x switch!Allie x sub!reader?? + Can I please, politely beg for an established poly relationship! With mean!dom Dean mean!switch Allie and very subby!reader!!! Dean and Allie punish reader😏
gabby says — not a repost this time 🤭 it’s not as long but i really enjoyed writing this. i hope you guys enjoy reading just as much 🫶🏼
“You’ve been such a bad, bad girl,” Allie purrs as she crawls over your naked form on the bed until she has her thighs on either side of your head as she straddles your face. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and eat mommy’s pussy?”
You do not waste another second, and dive in between your girlfriend’s thighs. Your tongue finds her clit and she shudders over you, her hips rocking against your face.
Meanwhile, Dean is watching intently from the edge of the bed, his hand wrapped around his cock as he strokes slowly. A smirk ghosts over his lips as he unwraps his hand from his length, and he utters a single word in a rough, low voice, “Stop.”
Allie’s hips still immediately, and so do you, your tongue instinctively freezing against her cunt. You feel a whine bubbling in your throat, but you quickly swallow it down—you really do not need to be in deeper trouble than you already are.
“Allie-cat, why don’t you fetch me your favorite pairs of handcuffs?” Dean purrs from the edge, his dark eyes fixed on you still laid on the back. “Stay still. You’re perfect right there.”
The lack of a nickname for you is like a bucket of cold water thrown over you, and your heart drops when you realize that you are deep in it this time—you have pushed their buttons so far tonight. You have been on a bratty streak the past few days—leaving them on delivered for hours, teasing them in public, touching yourself despite being explicitly told not to. But tonight—wearing an insanely short dress that leaves little to the imagination, using your fuck me heels at the club, deliberately flirting with various people on the dance floor, keeping your eyes on your partners as you do so—easily tops them all. You had enjoyed seeing their darkened eyes on you, their jaws clenching, their grips tight around their glasses, but now, it is time for you to pay the price.
Allie eagerly swings her legs off the bed and drops to her knees, sliding an unsuspecting storage box from under Dean’s bed. She lifts the lid and spots two pairs of fuzzy handcuffs.
“Good girl.” Dean grins as he looks directly at Allie. “Cuff her to the bed frame,” he talks *about you like you are not in the same room as them, and your thighs squeeze together in an attempt to alleviate the growing pressure between them—him outright ignoring you makes you wetter than you’d like to admit.
“You look so pretty like this,” Allie coos, locking the cuffs into place. She ghosts her lips over your skin enough to make you squirm and whine softly. “Shh, toys don’t complain.” She wraps her slender fingers around your throat, squeezing just enough to make your breath hitch. “Now, what do you say?”
“Release me.” You smirk as you look up at your girlfriend, whose eyes darken even more, the browns of her irises almost completely swallowed by her dilated pupils.
“I see you’re still being a bad girl,” she whispers, pressing a fleeting kiss to your lips as she releases your throat. Just as you begin to relax on the bed, she grips your chin tightly, her manicured nails digging slightly into the skin. She holds your soiled panties in her other hand as she speaks firmly, “Open.”
You do not budge for a few seconds before gasping when her palm connects with your cheek.
She takes this moment to shove the fabric into your mouth and grins as she leans back to admire her handiwork. “There. Now, you’re tied up and quiet.”
“Did such a great job, gorgeous,” Dean growls, beckoning her over with two fingers. “Come here, baby. You deserve a reward.”
You watch as Allie crawls over to where Dean is seated on the bed. You keep your gaze fixed on them as the latter pulls her into his lap, her bare cunt settling over his hardened cock.
“Tell me what you want,” Dean purrs, his lips meeting hers in an urgent kiss. “Allie-cat, tell me what you want.”
“You,” she whispers against him, her hips grinding instinctively against his, and they both moan at the sensation. “Fuck, I need you.”
“Your wish is my command, babydoll.” Dean grins as he grips her hips, guiding her down on his length. “Holy shit,” Dean groans, while Allie sinks down on him. “Allie, fuck, you are choking my dick, baby.” He laughs, all drunk and dazed on the sensation.
Meanwhile, you squirm on the bed, tugging on your restraints, and whining into the fabric of your panties stuffed into your mouth. “Please,” your plea is muffled behind the makeshift gag, but you whine anyway. “Please.”
However, neither Dean nor Allie pay attention to you, too wrapped up in each other to notice you.
Allie pushes Dean on his back, bracing both her hands on his chest as she starts riding him. “You are so fucking big,” she moans, “So deep.”
“Yeah?” Dean breathes out, still gripping Allie’s hips like his life depends on it. He is guiding her movements on top of him. “You love that I’m filling you up so good, huh?” He growls. “I know you can do that better, baby. Show me how much you love this.”
And so Allie does—she rides him harder, her hips now lifting off him, only to slam back down. Her hands are still braced firmly on his chest, her nails digging into the skin. “Holy fuck, you’re even deeper!” She gasps, throwing her head back at the delicious feeling of his dick stretching her out, reaching spots inside her she didn’t even know existed before Dean—and before you.
“Good fucking girl,” he groans, planting his feet steadily on the bed to meet her downward strokes with upward thrusts. “Oh, yeah? Feels good? Uh-huh?” He grins when Allie’s moans rise in volume as she gets closer and closer to her peak.
“Fuck, I’m so close, I’m so close,” she breathes out, her hips now rolling and grinding against his lap. A few more rolls of her body have her cumming around Dean’s cock, who groans loudly.
“Oh, yeah,” he grunts, one of his hands sliding up her back, and tangling into her curls. He pushes the back of her head to crash his lips against hers, his moans and groans now muffled by her mouth.
You are watching all this with tears of frustration in your eyes. You tug helplessly at the cuffs, groaning muffledly when they do not budge—the rattling of metal against the bed frame just irritates the hell out of you.
At the sound of your frustration, Dean’s eyes finally drift over to you, and he smirks. That wordless expression conveys all he wants you to hear—that could have been you on his lap if only you weren’t such a brat, pissing him off, stressing Allie out. He keeps his eyes on you as he grips Allie’s hips tightly, keeping her still on his lap as they cum together, their sounds blending in.
It takes a few minutes for them to come down from their highs, and when the waves of pleasure subside, Dean gently maneuvers Allie off of him and lays her on the mattress beside him. He then moves over to you, and your heartbeat spikes as the familiar heat pool in your core, but your heart drops when your boyfriend speaks,
“I’m going to take those cuffs off you, then I’m going to run you both a bath.”
“W-what?” You sputter weakly, watching as he unlocks the handcuffs and massages your wrists gently as he laughs mockingly.
“Oh, baby,” he croons, stroking your cheek with his thumb. “Did you really think I would let you cum after that stunt you pulled tonight? Cute. You’re lucky I didn’t leave a vibrator buzzing on your little clit.” He leans down, teasing your skin with a featherlight kiss as he whispers, “You don’t get to cum until we say you can. I don’t care if it takes a week—you’re going to earn that fucking orgasm.”
Dean had never denied you release, and neither had Allie. In fact, they make it a challenge among themselves to make you beat your orgasm record every time, but this time… Oh, you are so fucked.
summary: you are forced to navigate what your relationship means when it’s falling down the order of Garrett’s priorities.
request: yes/no
warnings: swearing, garrett being a bad boyfriend.
word count: 4.04k
authors note: okay I actually really liked this, like acc ended up crying at the end of writing this so if you get emotional easily, grab yourself some tissues.
You had been cursed by the plague of being a hopeless romantic.
Fairy tales had been thrust into your life as a young girl since before you could walk, you knew all the lyrics to every Disney princess song by the time you were six.
By your tenth birthday, you had a book made that had every single wish and want that you had for your future boyfriend.
Your parents swore that if your second love for running hadn’t come into your life. You would have lived each day to dream.
By the time that you were 18, you had experienced twelve new kisses, three boyfriends, one of whom was a sexual partner too.
You had nothing against any of them, but when each one ended, you never seemed that phased, as if you knew it was going to end.
It was because you knew that you hadn’t met your person.
Or at least that was the case until Garrett Graham came into your life.
You'd met at a hockey party, argued over a game of beer pong, and kissed in the kitchen an hour later. Garrett Graham had smiled against your lips and you laughed at everyone else who swore that he was going to be the boy to break your heart.
With every anniversary or milestone that you two have reached. You swore that they were all wrong and that you and Garrett were truly meant to be.
Your friends joked that he was your very own Noah Calhoun, as the man was practically a shadow of himself if you weren’t around.
He showed up to every track meet with flowers as he sat right next to your parents, cheering you on while you ran down the finishing straight. And if your parents couldn’t make it, then Garrett gave them the world’s longest play-by-play afterwards.
The two of you were perfect together. By the end of sophomore year, the boys joked that your wedding would happen before you both graduated. Tucker had these long thoughts about how he’d design your wedding cake. While Dean and Logan argued over who would be the officiant of the wedding.
You never told either boy, but you knew that it would actually be Beau who filled that slot.
Most days when you had downtime, you spent them sitting on the boys’ couch. Most of the time, you were attempting to do work or edit your training schedule. Before, it was Garrett who would try to distract you.
Smothering you in kisses or pulling you into his arms as he shut your laptop. But now, it was Dean looking over your shoulder to see what you were working on or Tucker offering you a snack. Occasionally, you even got an appearance from Logan, who taught you the basics of mechanical work.
And that day seemed no different “sorry babe, I can’t do our date tonight.” Garrett leaned over the couch as he pressed a kiss on your cheek.
You held back a sigh as you turned your head to face him “why is that?” You asked as you frowned, a little upset, actually, “Hannah rescheduled our tutoring session.”
Dean awkwardly sat next to you as you forced yourself to smile, “tell her I say hi!” The blonde swore in that moment that you were squeezing your laptop so hard you might almost break it.
Garrett nodded before he left for the door without a second thought “okay so am I just like a fucking idiot or does everyone else see that?”
Logan nodded from the kitchen, “third time this week now?” And that was what almost made it official.
You got up as you shook your head “I am going to go throw myself off of a cliff before I hit him.” You announced to the boys who all frowned “just talk to him seriously.”
You knew Tucker came from a good place, which is why you didn’t tell him how wrong he was “we have just found a way to stop fighting with each other-” you sighed as you looked to the front door where Garrett left from.
The truth was that for the past three weeks, the two of you couldn’t go a few minutes without fighting.
The topics varied.
Sometimes, Garrett felt like you didn’t care that he was stressed with being captain. Other times, you felt like the little time left in your schedules should be used on each other.
And when it got particularly bad, you actually stopped keeping track of what seemed to set the two of you off.
This date night that Garrett kept bailing on was meant to be the real proof that the two of you had turned a page.
That the rough that you had been dealing with was just weeds in a garden, not rot within the house.
Dean clicked his tongue “bit hard to fight him when he keeps on seeing her instead.” She was Hannah Wells.
You met her a few times in passing, the girl complimented your pace and you always loved the way that she was so friendly at Malone’s.
She had started tutoring Garrett in philosophy a few weeks ago and was Garrett’s newest excuse for why he was too busy for you.
Training, film review, school, tutoring, if there was an excuse to get out of seeing you, you had heard it.
At the beginning, you really didn’t mind, you knew he was busy because he had all of these responsibilities.
But a responsibility is telling your girlfriend that you need to reschedule your anniversary date, hours in advance. Not when you were sat at the restaurant, a glass of wine in and the waiter actually ended up giving it to you on the house as he felt bad.
For every excuse that he gave you, you found another help make his case.
And by now you were starting to get a little more than just irritated “I am going to bid you boys farewell and hope that you are having more sex than your captain before I say anything else!” You shoved your laptop in your bag as Logan frowned when Dean laughed.
He stopped what he was working on in the kitchen as he came out to face you before you left “you know, girlfriend or not, we are your friend too.” Dean and Tucker nodded at his words.
It made you softly smile “love you, boys.” You kissed your fingers before you waved them goodbye.
As you left the house, your nose scrunched, because that place stopped feeling like Garrett’s. In fact, it was starting to feel a whole load like there was a river between the two of you that neither one was ready or willing to cross.
Garrett called out your name when he saw you.
You didn’t turn right away.
That was new for you. Normally, you’d turn instantly, instinctively, like muscle memory. Like gravity.
But this time, your body lagged behind your pride and even your brain as you contemplated ditching the heels you were in to break into a sprint.
He caught up quickly anyway.
Athletic stride, slightly out of breath, like he’d been running through excuses before he even got to you.
When he stepped into your line of sight, you finally looked at him.
And something in your chest tightened at how normal he looked. Like he hadn’t just not shown up to one of the most important nights you’d had planned in weeks “I got held up,” he said immediately.
Not an apology.
Not yet.
Just the explanation he must’ve rehearsed on the way here.
You blinked once, “you didn’t come.” He looked at how gorgeous you looked that night.
You’d never tell him that you bought the dress specifically for that night.
His mouth opened, then closed again. Like he’d expected you to argue with him instead of just stating it plainly, “I tried,” he said, softer “coach pulled me in after practice and I lost track of time. Then film ran longer than it should’ve and-”
You nodded slowly, cutting through it without raising your voice “I sat there for an hour without anything from you.”That stopped him.
Properly stopped him.
Because now it wasn’t a scheduling issue or a misunderstanding or something messy he could rearrange into something forgivable.
It was just time“I know,” he said, rubbing a hand through his hair, frustrated at himself more than anything else now.
Garret sighed as he rubbed his face with his hand “I should have called or texted or.” Then list stopped when he noticed how you frowned
You weren’t interested in an excuse, especially not from him tonight “you should’ve come,” you interrupted quietly as you knew Coach Jensen would never force the guys to stay for review.
Silence settled between you.
Not the loud kind. Not the angry kind.
The kind that felt like it had been building for weeks and finally found somewhere to land.
You looked past him for a second, at the path behind him, at the restaurant district lights in the distance “I kept telling myself it was fine,” you said, almost to yourself.
You pushed your hair up behind your head “that I just needed to be understanding this week.” A big game was coming up against another highly ranked team
Your fingers tightened slightly around your phone “but I’m starting to feel like I’m always the one making space for you.”His jaw flexed. He looked like he wanted to interrupt, but didn’t.
That was the worst part.
Not denial.
Not defensiveness.
Just him listening like he knew he didn’t have a clean answer, “I really didn’t mean for tonight to go like this.” And that was the problem.
Because Garrett never meant for anything to ever go like this.
Yet somehow it always did “I know,” you replied.
And you did.
That was what made it worse.
Because even as you stood there, remembering how embarrassed you felt when you left the restaurant alone. Your throat tightened, but your voice stayed steady “I just wish you were there tonight.” You felt stupid for keeping things to yourself; you wanted Garrett to act like things actually mattered.
That landed differently.
He stepped closer, slower this time, like he was afraid of pushing you further away “I’m here now,” he said, wishing that it was enough.
A young couple exited one of the buildings behind Garrett with their hands locked into each others and grins on their faces.
The boy leaned over to say something that made the girl laugh and you knew exactly how that felt.
Because Garrett used to be like that with you.
You could feel it in the way you weren’t reaching for him. In the way he wasn’t touching you yet either.
Like both of you were suddenly aware that something fragile had been stretched too far “I don’t want this to become normal,” you said, making the boy clench his teeth.
His eyes snapped to yours at that.
“What?”
“This,” you clarified, gesturing slightly between you “you not being there. Me convincing myself it’s okay.”
His expression tightened “I promise that it won’t,” he said immediately. Too fast. Too certain.
You shook your head once “please don’t promise me that if you don’t mean it.” That hit him harder than anything else you’d said.
Because you were right.
He couldn’t say he’d give you the world if he only planned on showing you one town.
He stepped closer again, but slower now, more careful “I messed this up,” he said honestly “I did. And I hate that I did it tonight of all nights.”
You looked at him for a long moment.
Really looked.
Not at the hockey player everyone talked about.
Not at the captain people relied on.
Just at the boy who was standing there like he didn’t know how to fix something he couldn’t outwork.
The same boy who told you during your freshman year that he couldn’t believe how lucky he was to have you “I don’t need you to hate it,” you said softly. “I just need you to show up.”
That time, he didn’t argue.
He just nodded once, like he was taking the weight of it fully.
Then he stepped forward, and you didn’t resist it.
But you didn’t fully lean in either.
His arms wrapped around you anyway, steadying you like he could physically hold together something he was scared he was losing.
After a moment, he shifted slightly, and you felt his hand rest at the back of your head.
And then he pressed a kiss there.
Just quiet.
Like a promise, he didn’t know how else to say out loud.
When he pulled back slightly, his voice was low “I’ll make it up to you,” he announced as he hooked his fingers under your chin.
Garrett wanted to tell you that you looked gorgeous, but somehow the words never left his lips “I’ll make it up to you properly.” And as you nodded, Garrett let his jacket hang on your shoulders before the two of you walked back to your dorm.
By the time that drunken Shakespeare had come and gone, it was official that everyone knew something was going on between the two of you.
The IT couple of Briar U had cracked, because they weren’t as perfect as everyone had started to believe.
You tried to ignore the rumours about Hannah and Garrett, but you knew you were just an idiot.
It had been days since the two of you had spoken, almost a month since Garrett sent you a good morning or goodnight text.
The boys kept their promise as they continued to check up on you. In the first two weeks, it was because they really did miss you. But by now they were worried.
It was the fact that there was no real end in sight because Garrett still spoke about being your boyfriend, when he seemed to remember your existence.
And you still let your eyes settle on the door, as you waited for your Garrett to walk back in.
For him to tell you that he was so sorry for the way he had you feeling like it was your fault.
It had been weeks of you swearing that you were fine.
And that should have been something that the boys listened to, but they knew you better than that.
You had been going on late-night runs every day, and each time you wanted to stop you couldn’t.
The two of you had texted occasionally, throughout the time apart. But you hadn’t see the boy in person.
It wasn’t even vocalised between the two of you that there was something wrong.
And that was what left your runs to be the longest ones you ever did.
Because somehow, your anger drove your feet.
Further and harder than you ever thought was possible.
The quiet and clear sky somehow managed to soothe your mind.
And on this particular night, it seemed that Garrett had the same idea when he stood outside of the library.
He was in the middle of a tutoring session, and he craved the break he got from the solitude.
So when he saw you running, part of him thought that he would have ducked to go back inside.
But instead, his feet drove him directly into your path “hey,” he nodded as you pulled your AirPod out of your ear.
You cocked your head “hi.” You pursed your lips together, a little surprised that he was talking to you.
It had probably been over a month since Garrett initiated a conversation with you in person.
You crossed your arms as you waited for him to talk “how are you?” The small talk between the two of you felt weird.
And you had to admit that you weren’t a fan of it “I’m glad to hear you still remember how to talk to me.” Your words were honest, and it was what hurt.
Garrett scoffed, “of course I know how to talk to you.” The look you gave him said otherwise.
“Yeah but can you look at me for more than five minutes?”
The boy pinched the bridge of his nose “what are you playing at?” He looked up at the sky, making you almost laugh.
You felt tired, actually, you felt exhausted “when you got onto that stage with her, you didn’t even look at me.” You weren’t accusing him about anything.
You knew that Garrett would never cross a line with Hannah. But it was getting hard to make your heart hear it in the same way your brain did.
Garrent let out a harsh sigh, unsure of wht he was having this fight with you again “you know I love you,” if you weren’t paying attention, you would have sworn that he was actually asking you a question.
Your chest ached as you fiddled with the ring on your finger. It had been one that Garrett gave you for your 20th birthday “but are you in love with me?” Silence followed, and that was the true nail in the coffin.
Of course he did, his brain almost short-circuited at the absurdity of the question, “what’s that supposed to mean?” His hands landed on his hips as he grew defensive.
You sighed as you paused your run time on your watch “look I don’t want to fight tonight.” You announced as you watched the boy scoff.
The hockey player frowned, “don’t push me away like this.” He pleaded as he shook his head.
Tears welled in your eyes “I am holding on for dear life Gar,” you had felt like you were barely able to keep your head above water for weeks now and you hated it.
You hated that you cared so much for someone who felt like they were pushing you away.
But you hated more that Garrett could check out of the relationship that made you feel like you were in a fairytale.
That he could stand in front of you like every time he made up an excuse to not see you, wasn’t killing your confidence every time “I need you like you are the best reason that I have each day to smile.” The words pressed into his chest as he couldn’t remember the last time that he made you smile, “but I need you to need me back!”
Silence loomed over the two of you.
And that somehow hurt the most.
Not that you didn’t think that Garrett no longer cared, but that he couldn’t even try to offer an argument to you.
You pressed your hands against the sides of your head “why won’t you just let me all the way in!” The question came as Garrett backed away.
Throughout the years he always found the perfect excuse to not have you meet his dad. It seemed that everyone in his circle knew his father but you “of course I let you in I love you!” Garrett argued back as you shook your head.
It was a topic that you knew came with baggage “I know your comfort meals.” You found out after your first fight when Garrett begged Tucker to help him make it for you “I know that your favourite movie to watch is a chick flick.”
The edges of his mouth curved upward as he smiled “but I don’t know what scares you in this world.” Your voice broke “or why you love hockey.”
“Or why you’ve met my whole family and your dad doesn’t even know that I exist.”
It cut deep as Garrett always envied how sweet and loving your parents were, they looked at you like you were the best thing since sliced bread.
Garrett reached for your hand but you pulled away “I am so tired of feeling sad.” You shook your head as tears openly streamed down your face now.
You sniffled harshly, “god I’d rather feel nothing at all than have to go through one more fucking moment of whatever this is.” Your heart felt lighter as you spoke, getting the thoughts you so desperately needed to let go of out of your mind.
The boy shoved his hands into his pockets “what am I meant to do about that?” He rolled his eyes, feeling like this was another fight.
But instead, you merely sighed, “I don’t know anymore, Gar.” You chewed at the inside of your cheek to try to convince your mind that this wasn’t the thing that was hurting.
You used the back of your hand to wipe the snot coming from your nose “y’know, I really thought that in this break we’ve had for the last week that you would come back first.” You actually laughed at that, cursing yourself for how clearly foolish you had been.
He stayed quiet “that you would come back and tell me that you realised there was no one else you could be with but me,” Garrett watched as you looked away, Hannah had started walking towards the two of you.
You couldn’t even fault the girl as she sent you a comforting smile, stopping in her tracks when she saw that you had been crying “I wanted you to tell me that you would rather be alone than live one second in this place without me.” Venom laced your words even if you didn’t mean for it to happen.
Garrett sighed as he raked his fingers through his curls “I never meant to hurt you,” his words should have provided you with some comfort.
They should have made you realise that this wasn’t your fault “but you did Garrett.” You shrugged as you somehow were left feeling worse.
You stepped back as he stepped forward, as the cold autumn breeze brushed around campus, it was clear much like how the seasons were changing from fall to winter, that there was an end between the two of you too.
Still you hoped that Garrett would find a way to fight.
And still you ended up disappointed “I’m sorry I couldn’t be what you needed,” Garrett knew that when things were going well he was a part of the reason why you were on cloud nine.
But when he was gone, he was the reason why you were sad. Even if it was an event for you, his lack of presence would be the thing your brain lingered on.
Part of you wanted to tell him that he was your dream in human form.
But that part had been hurt one too many times by him to speak, “and I’m sorry I wasn’t a girl worth loving.” In that moment, your words captured everything that you had been feeling for weeks.
Garrett watched as you turned around, not bothering to put your AirPod back into your ear as you carried on the rest of your run.
He clenched his hands as he knew he couldn’t go after you. Yes Garrett loved you, but he wasn’t sure how he was meant to treat you with the value that you deserved.
You were the one who reminded Garrett how to laugh in rooms where he was meant to be quiet. How the worst days could be made better by simply talking to you, because somehow you always knew what to say to put his mind at ease.
The boy never spoke to Phil about you because you were a light in his world that his dad worked so hard to keep dark.
So when he watched you leave, Garrett didn’t know what to do, because part of him wanted to run after you.
But there was a quieter part that knew you deserved the right to leave him and the shitshow that was his world. Because that was what he always assumed would happen anyway, so that was why he never let you in fully.
Because at least once you left you wouldn’t pity him if you didn’t know his full story “you should go back inside, it’s cold out here.” Hannah’s voice was kind, but Garrett didn’t let his eyes fall from where you ran to.
“I’m good.”
Because if he did, then he’d have to admit that he was far from it.
˚⁎⁺˳ . ⊹ epictetus said that the only way to happiness is to "cease worrying about things which are beyond the power of our will." however, since the man clearly never met dean di laurentis, you're going to go ahead and ignore him. maybe the way to happiness is being a stubborn asshole, which you've got pretty down pat.
˚⁎⁺˳ . ⊹ fem!reader, dean di laurentis x reader, smau.
˚⁎⁺˳ . ⊹ part one, part two
IM SORRY IM SO CREATIVELY BLOCKED FOR THE DEEP END IM NOT ABANDONING IT. but i do love a smau so in the mean time...
Summary: Dean Di Laurentis has one rule: betas only, until he finds his fated mate. Everyone thinks it’s a joke … until the day your dying scent hits him like a freight train in the middle of campus. You were raised to believe alphas, bonds, and fairytales were lies designed to make you small. Dean’s about to spend the rest of his life proving otherwise
Warning: 18+ content
Read part two here
The harsh fluorescent lights of the Briar University hockey locker room buzz overhead, but the sound is completely drowned out by the chaotic sounds of athletic tape ripping, skates clattering, and overlapping male voices.
“Another one, Di Laurentis? Really?” Garrett asks, tossing his sweaty practice jersey into the center bin with a wet slap. He leans back against his locker, crossing his arms over his chest. “That’s, what, three this week?”
“Four,” Dean corrects smoothly, not even looking up as he meticulously unlaces his skates. He offers a slow, easy grin that he knows is infuriating. “And it’s only Thursday. Don’t sell me short, G.”
Logan snorts from the bench across the room, tossing a roll of tape that bounces directly off Dean’s shoulder guard. “You’re an animal. Does your dick ever get tired, or is it powered by some kind of endless trust-fund energy?”
“It’s powered by charisma, Logan,” Dean says, catching the tape on the rebound and tossing it into his bag. “And the fact that I actually know what to do with it, which is more than I can say for some of the tragic beta performances I’ve heard about.”
“Hey, leave us out of it,” Tucker drawls in his thick Southern accent, leaning against the doorframe with a protein shake in hand. “Some of us prefer a little quality over quantity.”
“I offer exceptional quality,” Dean says, finally kicking off his left skate. “Ask anyone.”
“Oh, we don’t have to,” Garrett mutters, rolling his eyes. “They literally line up outside the frat house. I tripped over a sophomore trying to get to the kitchen this morning.”
Dean chuckles, running a hand through his damp blonde hair. He knows what they think of him. To the guys, to the whole campus, he’s exactly what he appears to be: Briar’s resident playboy alpha. He’s got the wealthy attorney parents, the maternal family money tied up in luxury hotels across the globe, the looks, the charm, and the seemingly insatiable appetite.
But there’s a line he doesn’t cross. A line the guys love to give him shit for.
“Was she a beta too?” Tucker asks, taking a slow sip of his shake.
Dean pauses, his easy smile tightening just a fraction before he forces it back into place. “Always. You know the rule, Tuck.”
“It’s a stupid rule,” Logan points out, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. “I mean, I get the whole old money, traditional thing your family has going on. But only sleeping with betas? Refusing to even look at an omega unless you think she’s the one? It’s archaic, man. It’s the twenty-first century.”
“It’s not archaic, it’s respect,” Dean fires back, his tone dropping its playful edge for a fleeting second. He stands up, pulling his t-shirt over his head. “When I meet my fated mate, she’s going to be the only omega I’ve ever touched. She gets all of me. The whole alpha package, untainted by anyone else’s scent or biology.”
Garrett groans. “You sound like a Victorian romance novel. What if you never meet her? Or what if she doesn’t care if you’ve slept with other omegas?”
“She’ll care,” Dean says simply, his voice firm. He grabs his duffel bag and hoists it over his shoulder. “Because I care. Betas are fun. They’re safe. There’s no biological complication, no scent-bonding, no risk of an accidental mating bite during a heat. It’s just physical.”
“So you’re just going to keep running through the beta population of Massachusetts until this mythical girl shows up?” Logan asks, amused.
“Pretty much,” Dean says, flashing his signature grin again, burying the sudden, sharp pang of longing that hits him square in the chest. “Keeps my skills sharp. When she finally shows up, I need to be ready to worship the ground she walks on. See you at the house, boys.”
He pushes through the locker room doors, the heavy scent of alpha pheromones fading into the sterile smell of the hallway. Dean keeps his smile locked in place as he walks out to his car, but the bravado slowly bleeds out of him.
He plays the part perfectly. He loves the attention, the sex, the careless fun. But God, he is so fucking tired of the emptiness of it. He was raised in circles where the alpha-omega bond was sacred, something to be revered. His parents had it. His grandparents had it.
He wants the fairytale. He wants the intoxicating, head-spinning rush of a fated scent hitting his system. He wants to fiercely protect someone, to provide for them, to spoil them absolutely rotten with every dime his family has to their name. He wants to be looking at a beta girl across a crowded room and suddenly realize she means nothing, because his mate just walked in.
He grips the steering wheel of his car, staring out at the campus parking lot.
“Where are you?” He murmurs to the empty car. “Come on, baby. I’m waiting.”
***
You stare at the tiny, pale blue pill resting in the center of your palm.
It looks entirely harmless. It looks like a breath mint, or a generic painkiller. It doesn’t look like something that is actively destroying you from the inside out.
Your stomach performs a violent, rolling flip just looking at it, and you have to close your eyes and grip the edge of the bathroom sink to steady yourself. The porcelain is cold under your hands.
“Hey,” a voice calls out, accompanied by a soft knock on the bathroom door. “You alive in there?”
It’s Grace, your roommate. You swallow hard, fighting the rising bile in your throat. “Yeah. Just … getting ready.”
“You’ve been staring at the mirror for ten minutes. The pizza is getting cold.”
“Coming,” you manage to say.
You look at the pill again. The suppressants. Grade-A, top-of-the-line, incredibly expensive synthetic hormones designed to completely mute your omega biology. Your parents, both highly pragmatic, fiercely independent betas, had insisted on the absolute strongest prescription available the moment you presented.
To them, being an omega is a biological inconvenience. A liability in the modern world.
You take a deep breath, tossing the pill to the back of your throat and immediately chasing it with a massive gulp of tap water. You gag as it goes down, your body instinctively rejecting it. You lean over the sink, breathing heavily, waiting to see if it’s going to come right back up.
When your stomach finally settles into a dull, throbbing ache, you wipe your mouth and open the door.
Grace is sitting cross-legged on her bed, a slice of pepperoni pizza in one hand and her laptop balanced precariously on her knees. She looks up, her eyes immediately narrowing.
“You look like garbage,” she says bluntly.
“Thanks,” you mutter, shuffling over to your own bed and curling up into a tight ball, pulling your oversized hoodie down over your hands. You don’t want the pizza. The smell of the grease is making your head spin.
“Seriously,” Grace presses, setting her pizza down on a paper plate. “You’re completely pale, and you’ve been shivering since you got back from class. Are you sick?”
“It’s just the new dosage,” you whisper, closing your eyes. “Dr. Davidson upped my suppressants last week. My body is just … adjusting.”
Grace sighs, a very loud, very beta sigh. She doesn’t have a malicious bone in her body, but she doesn’t understand. She can’t. “I don’t get why you let your parents push you into taking those things. Especially the intense ones. They make you miserable.”
“Because according to them, the alternative is worse,” you say, your voice muffled by your pillow. “They think heats are degrading. They think the whole dynamic is outdated.”
“And what do you think?”
You open your eyes, looking at the faded poster on your wall. “I think I feel like I’m constantly walking underwater. I feel … muted. Like a part of me is just locked in a box.”
Grace softens a bit. “Have you tried talking to them again? Telling them how sick you feel?”
Right on cue, your cell phone vibrates on the nightstand. The screen lights up with Mom.
You groan, reaching out a trembling hand to grab it. You swipe to accept the call, bringing it to your ear. “Hi, Mom.”
“Hi, sweetie,” your mother’s brisk, efficient voice comes through the speaker. There is no background noise, she’s likely in her corner office.
“I only have a minute before a conference call, but I wanted to check in. Did Dr. Davidson confirm the new prescription went through?”
“Yes,” you say, your voice flat. “I just took it.”
“Good. That higher dose should completely eliminate any residual pre-heat symptoms you were having. You can’t afford to be distracted right now, not with midterms coming up.”
“Mom, it’s making me really sick,” you say, forcing the words out before you can lose your nerve. “I threw up twice yesterday. I can barely eat. I feel weak all the time.”
There’s a brief pause on the other end. Not of sympathy, but of calculation. “It’s a transition period. Your body is just fighting the regulation. Give it another week.”
“What if I don’t want my body to be regulated?” You ask, your voice cracking slightly. “What if I just want to be normal?”
“You are being normal,” your mother corrects sharply. “You’re a modern woman. You don’t need your biology dictating your schedule, or your emotions, or who you choose to partner with. We’ve talked about this. Those old fairytale ideas about fated alphas swooping in to take care of you? They’re fantasies. They don’t happen in the real world, and relying on some archaic bond is a recipe for losing your independence.”
Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, hot and frustrating. “I know.”
“You’re a smart girl. You’re going to get a great degree, build a career, and find a nice, stable beta partner who respects you as an equal, not as a biological imperative. Okay?”
“Okay,” you whisper, the fight completely draining out of you.
“Good. Call me on Sunday. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
You drop the phone onto the bed.
“That sounded like it went well,” Grace notes sarcastically.
You roll onto your back, staring at the popcorn ceiling. You love your family, you really do. But being the only omega in a house full of betas is like speaking a language no one else understands. They look at you and see a problem that needs to be medicated away.
But sometimes, when you’re alone in the dark, you let yourself remember the dreams you used to have. Before the pills started.
You dream of a heavy, comforting warmth. You dream of a scent that smells like home, of strong arms wrapping around you and making the rest of the world disappear. You dream of an alpha who looks at you like you are the center of their entire universe. An alpha who wants to protect you, who wants to provide for you, who wants to adore you exactly as you are, biology and all.
You close your eyes, letting a single tear slip down your cheek into your hairline.
Fantasies, your mom called them.
Maybe she’s right. Maybe fated mates only exist in Hallmark movies and trashy romance novels. Maybe you just need to accept that you’re going to spend the rest of your life taking little blue pills and pretending you aren’t half-empty.
***
The bass from the speakers is rattling Dean’s teeth, and he is painfully, agonizingly bored.
He’s currently trapped in the kitchen, leaning against the counter while a stunning brunette — a junior named Alice, or maybe Alyssa, he honestly can’t remember — runs her hand up and down his bicep. She smells perfectly nice. Like vanilla body spray and vodka.
She smells like a beta.
“So,” she purrs, leaning in close so he can feel the heat of her body. “I was thinking maybe we could go upstairs? It’s getting kind of crowded down here.”
Dean looks at her. She’s beautiful. She’s eager. She’s exactly his type, or at least, the type he pretends to have. A year ago, he would have already had her pinned against the wall of his bedroom.
Tonight, he just feels … tired.
“You know, sweetheart, I’m actually really beat tonight,” Dean says, offering her a perfectly practiced, apologetic smile. He reaches out and gently untangles her fingers from his shirt. “Coach ran us into the ground at practice. I think I’m just gonna grab a water and crash.”
The beta pouts, clearly taken aback. Dean Di Laurentis turning down a sure thing? It’s practically a campus anomaly. “Are you sure? I give really good massages.”
“I bet you do,” Dean says, leaning in to press a brief, charming kiss to her cheek. “Next time, I promise.”
He slips past her before she can argue, navigating through the sweaty bodies of his classmates with the practiced ease of a guy who owns the room. He makes his way to the back patio, shoving the sliding glass door open and stepping out into the cool night air.
He lets out a long exhale, running a hand over his face.
“Well, that’s a first.”
Dean turns to see Tucker sitting on the patio railing, nursing a beer.
“Shut up,” Dean mutters, walking over and leaning against the railing next to him.
“I’m just saying,” Tucker drawls, looking amused. “I just watched you turn down a ten. Are you feeling okay? Do we need to call a doctor? Maybe a priest?”
“I’m fine,” Dean says, staring out at the dark expanse of the backyard. “Just not in the mood.”
Tucker chuckles, taking a sip of his beer. “You know, for a guy who sleeps around as much as you do, you’re surprisingly miserable doing it.”
Dean glares at him. “I’m not miserable.”
“You’re empty calories, man,” Tucker says, shrugging. “You’re eating junk food when you really want a steak. You’re waiting for this magic omega to drop out of the sky, and until she does, you’re just going through the motions to keep yourself occupied.”
Dean wants to argue, but the words die in his throat. Because Tucker is right. He’s so right it hurts.
“What if she’s not out there?” Dean asks, the vulnerability slipping out before he can stop it. He hates sounding like this. He’s Dean Di Laurentis. He’s confident. He’s cocky. He doesn’t whine about feelings.
“She’s out there,” Tucker says simply. “You just haven’t crossed paths yet. But you will. The universe has a funny way of sorting these things out. And when you do …” Tucker grins. “I fully expect to see you turn into a pathetic, lovesick sap.”
“I am never pathetic,” Dean scoffs, some of his usual bravado returning. “I’ll be a goddamn delight. I’m going to spoil her rotten.”
“Sure you will, buddy. Sure you will.”
Dean looks back up at the sky, the stars mostly obscured by the campus light pollution. He wonders where she is right now. He wonders what she’s doing. Is she at a party? Is she studying? Is she waiting for him, too?
Hold on, he thinks, sending the thought out into the universe like a prayer. Just hold on. I’m looking for you.
***
You are practically shivering under your blankets, despite the fact that your dorm room is perfectly temperature-controlled.
The nausea from the suppressant has finally passed, leaving behind a dull, hollow ache in your chest. You have your laptop propped up on your stomach, playing a painfully cheesy rom-com from the early 2000s. On screen, the male lead is currently running through an airport to catch the female lead before she gets on a plane.
Grace walks back into the room, fresh from the shower, a towel wrapped around her hair. She glances at your screen and sighs.
“Again?” She asks, walking over to her dresser. “You watched this same movie three days ago.”
“It’s comforting,” you say defensively, pulling the blankets up higher around your neck.
“It’s masochistic,” Grace corrects gently. She turns to look at you, her expression softening. “You watch these movies, and you read those books about fated mates, and then you let your parents convince you to take pills that stop you from ever actually having it. You’re torturing yourself.”
“They’re just movies, Grace,” you say, your voice cracking slightly. “It’s not real life.”
“How do you know?” She challenges. “You’ve never even given yourself the chance to find out. You’ve been on suppressants since the day you presented. You hide your scent under perfume. You avoid alpha-heavy places like the plague. You’re terrified of your own biology.”
“I’m not terrified,” you snap, though the lie is weak even to your own ears. “I’m being practical.”
“You’re being miserable,” Grace says, walking over and sitting on the edge of your bed. She reaches out, gently resting a hand on your blanket-covered leg. “Look, I’m a beta. I know I don’t get the whole scent-bond, fated-mate thing. To me, it sounds totally overwhelming. But you’re an omega. It’s in your blood. And watching you try to squash it down to make your parents happy is really hard.”
You look away from her, staring at the screen. The male lead has finally caught the female lead. They are kissing passionately while a sweeping orchestral score plays in the background.
“What am I supposed to do?” You whisper, a tear finally escaping and tracking down your cheek. “My family thinks it’s a weakness. They think if I let myself be an omega, I’ll just end up completely dependent on some alpha who treats me like property.”
“Then find an alpha who treats you like a queen,” Grace says simply. “They exist, you know. Not every alpha is some dominating jerk. Some of them actually like the romantic stuff as much as you do.”
You let out a wet, humorless laugh. “Right. Where am I going to find a romantic alpha at Briar? Have you seen the guys here? They’re all frat bros and athletes who sleep with a different girl every night.”
“Not all of them,” Grace points out.
“Name one.”
Grace hesitates. “Okay, fine, a lot of them are like that. But you won’t know if you don’t look. And you definitely won’t know if you keep taking those pills and pretending you’re a beta.”
You look back at the movie. The couple is walking hand-in-hand, smiling, completely wrapped up in each other. A deep, agonizing ache settles in the pit of your stomach. It’s a physical craving, a biological imperative that the pills are desperately trying to smother, but it’s still there. Faint, but undeniable.
You want to be cherished. You want to be protected. You want to belong to someone, and have them belong to you.
“I have to take them,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “If I stop, if I go into heat, it’ll ruin everything. My classes, my family’s expectations …”
“Is it really ruining things if it makes you happy?” Grace asks softly.
She doesn’t wait for an answer. She just squeezes your leg once more, stands up, and walks over to her desk to dry her hair.
You lay there for a long time, the glow of the laptop screen illuminating the dark room. You reach a hand up, resting it over your heart. It’s beating a steady, rhythmic thud.
I’m here, it seems to say. I’m still here.
You look over at your nightstand. The small, orange plastic pill bottle is sitting there, looking entirely unassuming.
For the first time in your life, you look at the bottle, and instead of feeling a sense of dutiful obligation … you feel a spark of resentment.
***
The summer heat is usually oppressive, but today, you can’t feel it at all. In fact, you’re freezing.
You grip the strap of your backpack, your knuckles turning white, and force yourself to take another step down the crowded brick pathway of the Briar University quad. Your teeth are chattering so hard your jaw aches. Every muscle in your body feels like it’s been pulled taut, vibrating like a violin string right before it snaps.
“I’m telling you, you need to go to the campus clinic,” Grace’s voice sounds tinny and distant coming through your AirPods. “You looked like a ghost when I left for my eight AM. I seriously considered skipping to stay with you.”
“I’m fine,” you lie, your voice breathless and shaky. You stumble slightly over a crack in the pavement. “It’s just … it’s just the adjustment period. Like my mom said. It’s normal.”
“It doesn’t look normal, and it doesn’t sound normal,” Grace snaps back, her tone sharp with genuine worry. “You were sweating through your sheets, but you were shivering. That’s a fever. Please, just skip the midterm. Professor Harrington is a hardass, but he’s not going to fail you for a medical emergency.”
“I don’t have a medical emergency, Grace,” you say stubbornly, though black spots are beginning to dance at the edges of your vision. “I just need to sit down. Once I’m in the lecture hall, I’ll be fine.”
You don’t feel fine.
Your skin feels too tight. There’s a strange, metallic taste in the back of your mouth, and your heart is hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. You reach up to wipe a bead of sweat from your forehead and realize your hand is trembling uncontrollably.
“Just … let me call you after the test, okay?” You mumble, not waiting for her response before you tap your ear to disconnect the call.
The campus around you seems to blur. The voices of passing students melt into a loud, ringing hum in your ears. You try to take another step, but your legs feel like lead. Your knee buckles.
You manage to catch yourself against a large oak tree, pressing your back against the rough bark. You just need to breathe. Just a deep breath.
But your chest won’t expand. The muscles in your torso are locking up, rigid and unyielding. Panic flares hot and bright in your chest.
Something is wrong, your brain finally screams, cutting through the haze of your mother’s assurances. Something is really, really wrong.
You try to push off the tree, to ask the guy walking past you for help, but your vocal cords seize. A sudden, violent tremor rips through your body. The world tilts sharply to the left.
The last thing you feel is the harsh impact of the concrete against your shoulder before the darkness swallows you whole.
***
“I’m just saying, if she asks me to explain the offside rule one more time, I might actually lose my mind,” Logan groans, taking a massive bite of his breakfast sandwich.
Dean chuckles, adjusting the strap of his gym bag on his shoulder. He and Logan are walking back from a brutal morning lift session, the sun beating down on the bustling campus. “Maybe she doesn’t care about hockey, man. Maybe she just likes watching you get all worked up trying to explain it.”
“It’s not cute,” Logan argues around a mouthful of egg and bacon. “It’s a foundational rule of the sport. It’s an insult to my life’s work.”
“Your life’s work is putting a piece of rubber into a net,” Dean points out lazily.
“Yeah, well, my life’s work pays my tuition.”
Dean grins, shaking his head. He feels good today. The lingering annoyance from last night’s party has faded, replaced by the familiar, comfortable rhythm of his routine. Workout, class, practice, sleep. It’s easy. It’s manageable.
He’s about to make another joke at Logan’s expense when a sudden, collective gasp ripples through the crowd of students about fifty yards ahead of them.
Dean stops walking.
“Whoa,” Logan says, swallowing his bite. “What’s going on over there?”
A cluster of students is rapidly forming near one of the large oak trees lining the path. People are pointing, pulling out their phones, taking hesitant steps backward.
“Someone fell,” Dean says, his eyes narrowing as he tries to see over the crowd.
Then, the murmurs turn into alarmed shouts.
“Holy shit, is she having a seizure?”
“Someone call 911!”
“Don’t touch her, you’re supposed to put something in her mouth, right?”
“No, idiot, don’t do that!”
Dean doesn’t even realize he’s moving until he’s sprinting. The heavy gym bag drops from his shoulder, hitting the grass with a thud, but he doesn’t look back. His heart is suddenly pounding a frantic, erratic rhythm against his ribs. His alpha instincts, usually tightly leashed beneath his charming exterior, roar to life with blinding suddenness.
“Move!” Dean barks, his voice carrying the deep, resonant command of an alpha that has the surrounding students instantly stepping aside. “Get the fuck back, give her some space!”
He pushes through the inner circle of onlookers and drops to his knees on the concrete.
It’s a girl. She’s small, swallowed up by an oversized Briar University hoodie, and she is violently convulsing against the hard pavement. Her head is thrashing, perilously close to the brick border of a flower bed.
“Logan!” Dean yells, not looking away from her. “Call 911! Now!”
“Already on it!” Logan shouts from somewhere behind him.
Dean strips off his thick varsity jacket in one fluid motion, rolling it up. He moves quickly but carefully, sliding the jacket under her head to cushion the brutal impacts.
“Hey,” Dean says loudly, his hands hovering over her trembling shoulders, wanting to restrain her but knowing better. “Hey, I’ve got you. You’re okay. Just let it happen, sweetheart. Help is coming.”
Her eyes are rolled back, and a sickening, strained sound is pushing past her lips.
“What happened?” Dean snaps at a terrified-looking sophomore standing nearby.
“I-I don’t know!” The guy stammers. “She was just leaning against the tree, and then she just … dropped. She was shaking before she even fell.”
Dean curses under his breath. He reaches out, carefully checking her wrist for a pulse.
The second his skin makes contact with hers, he recoils.
“Christ, she’s burning up,” Dean mutters, his eyes widening. She’s radiating heat like a furnace. Her skin is drenched in sweat, yet her muscles are locked in terrifying rigidity beneath the convulsions.
“Dispatch says EMTs are three minutes out,” Logan says, kneeling next to Dean. He takes one look at the girl and pales. “Man, she looks bad.”
“She’s boiling,” Dean says, his voice tight. He shifts closer, using his body to block the harsh sunlight from hitting her face. “Her muscles are completely locked. This isn’t just a normal seizure.”
He leans in closer, checking to make sure her airway is clear. As he drops his face near her neck, he inhales sharply.
It hits him like a freight train.
At first, it’s nothing but the sharp, sterile, metallic stench of pharmaceuticals. It’s the distinct, bitter smell of clinical suppressants. It burns his nose, making his alpha recoil in disgust.
But then …
Underneath the chemical blockade, forced to the surface by the intense heat of her raging fever, is a scent.
It’s faint. It’s a whisper. It’s barely there.
But Dean feels it in his teeth.
It’s vanilla. Warm, rich vanilla, and spun sugar, and rain-soaked earth. It’s a scent so perfect, so impossibly right, that for a split second, the entire world goes completely, deafeningly silent.
Dean stops breathing.
His pupils blow wide, his irises flashing from their usual warm green to pitch black. A possessive, ferocious roar tears through his mind, so loud he almost claps his hands over his ears.
Mine.
The realization doesn’t tiptoe in. It kicks the door down and shatters every window in the house.
Mine. Omega. Mine.
“Dean?” Logan’s voice sounds like it’s coming from underwater. “Hey, man, you good? The ambulance is pulling into the quad.”
Dean blinks, the world rushing back in with a dizzying rush of noise. He looks down at the girl — his girl, his mate, his omega — and a wave of terror so overwhelming t makes him nauseous crashes over him.
The convulsions are finally slowing down, tapering off into violent, whole-body shudders. But she isn’t waking up. Her lips are taking on a faint blue tint, and her breathing is shallow and ragged.
“Where the fuck are they?!” Dean snarls, his head whipping around. He spots the flashing lights of the ambulance navigating the crowded pedestrian path.
He looks back down at you. The acrid smell of the suppressants is choking the beautiful, perfect vanilla scent, suffocating it. Suffocating you.
“What did they do to you?” He whispers, his voice breaking. His hands are shaking now. He reaches out, gently brushing a damp lock of hair away from your sweaty forehead. “What did you take?”
“Step back, please! Let us through!”
Two paramedics shove their way through the crowd, carrying heavy jump bags.
“Move, Logan,” Dean barks, shoving his friend back to give the medics room. But Dean doesn’t stand up. He shifts to the side, refusing to break contact with the girl, keeping one hand firmly planted on her shoulder.
“Sir, you need to step back,” the first paramedic, a stern-looking woman, says as she drops to her knees beside you.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Dean says, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that makes the medic pause. It’s pure alpha command, unyielding and terrifying. “Tell me what to do.”
The medic shares a quick, cautious look with her partner before turning back to the patient. “What happened?”
“She collapsed,” Dean says rapidly, his eyes tracking the medic’s every movement. “A seizure. Lasted about two minutes. She’s burning up, her muscles are rigid, and she smells like she swallowed a pharmacy.”
The second medic pulls out a thermometer and presses it to your ear. It beeps almost instantly.
“104.2,” he calls out grimly. He grabs your arm, checking the rigidity. “Severe muscle rigidity. Tachycardia. Is she a friend of yours? Do you know what she’s taken?”
“I don’t know her name,” Dean says, the admission tasting like ash in his mouth. “But she’s an omega. And she smells like heavy, heavy suppressants. Industrial-grade blockers, or stronger.”
The female medic curses sharply. “Neuroleptic Malignant Syndrome. Her body is having a toxic reaction to the suppressants. We need to cool her down immediately and get her an IV, or her organs are going to shut down.”
Dean’s heart stops. The words echo in his head.
“Do it,” Dean snarls, the terrifying helplessness morphing into blistering rage. “Fix her.”
“We’re loading her up,” the male medic says, unrolling a stretcher. “Let’s go, let’s go!”
They hoist you onto the stretcher with practiced efficiency. Dean grabs his jacket from the ground and stands up, his eyes never leaving your pale, unconscious face.
As they start wheeling the stretcher toward the ambulance, Dean falls into step right beside them.
“Sir, you can’t ride in the back,” the female medic says over her shoulder.
“Watch me,” Dean says flatly.
“Dean,” Logan says, grabbing Dean’s arm. “Hey. Stop. You can’t just jump in the ambulance. You don’t even know her.”
Dean rips his arm out of Logan’s grip with a viciousness that makes his best friend stumble backward.
“Don’t touch me,” Dean snaps, his eyes flashing black again. He points a shaking finger at the stretcher. “She’s mine. That’s my mate.”
Logan freezes, the color draining from his face. He looks at the girl, then back at Dean, his mouth falling open. “Holy shit. Are you … are you sure?”
“Yes,” Dean breathes, the anger cracking to reveal the absolute terror underneath. “And she’s dying, Logan. I just found her, and she’s dying.”
Logan swallows hard, nodding quickly. “Go. Get in the ambulance. I’ll get Garrett and Tucker and we’ll follow you to the hospital in my truck. Go!”
Dean doesn’t need to be told twice. He sprints to the back of the ambulance, jumping in right before the doors close.
The medic glares at him. “I told you-”
“I’m her fated mate,” Dean says, his voice thick with a desperation he’s never felt before in his entire life. “I am not leaving her. Do your job, and let me stay.”
The medic looks at the absolute devastation on his face, the frantic, protective set of his jaw, and sighs. “Sit in the corner. Stay out of my way.”
“Thank you.”
The ambulance sirens wail to life, the sound deafening in the confined space. The vehicle jerks into motion, throwing Dean back against the metal wall.
He watches as the medics cut away the sleeve of your favorite hoodie, swabbing your arm to start an IV. They place a cold compress on your forehead and an oxygen mask over your mouth and nose.
You look so incredibly fragile.
Dean leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped so tightly together his knuckles ache.
He’s dreamed of this moment for years. He thought he knew exactly how it would happen. He thought it would be at a party, or a coffee shop, or maybe a fancy gala his parents dragged him to. He thought their eyes would meet across the room, the scent would hit him, and he would sweep her off her feet with his charm and his smile. It was supposed to be a fairytale.
Instead, it’s a nightmare.
He watches the steady, agonizing drip of the IV fluid. He listens to the erratic beep of the heart monitor they hooked you up to.
Underneath the smell of the sterile ambulance and the heavy, toxic blockers, that tiny whisper of vanilla and honey reaches him again. It’s so weak, struggling to survive under the chemical warfare going on inside your body.
Whoever prescribed those pills, whoever pushed her to take them … Dean is going to find them. And he is going to destroy them.
But right now, all that matters is you.
Dean carefully reaches out, ignoring the medic’s warning glance, and gently wraps his large, warm hand around your freezing fingers.
“I’m here,” he whispers, leaning in close so only you can hear him over the sirens. “I’m right here, sweetheart. I finally found you. Don’t you dare leave me now.”
Your hand remains limp in his grip.
Dean squeezes tighter, bowing his head as a single, hot tear tracks down his cheek.
Please, he begs the universe. Just let her be okay.
***
The emergency room at Boston General is a chaotic clamor of shouting doctors, crying children, and blaring alarms.
Dean is pacing. He has been pacing for two hours.
The small waiting area off the main ER floor is practically vibrating with his nervous, angry alpha energy. Logan, Garrett, and Tucker are sitting in a row of plastic chairs, watching him with varying degrees of concern and awe.
They’ve never seen Dean like this. None of them have. The easy-going, arrogant playboy is gone, completely erased. In his place is a terrifyingly focused, lethal-looking man who looks like he’s ready to tear the hospital down brick by brick if someone doesn’t give him an answer soon.
“Man, you’re going to wear a trench in the linoleum,” Garrett says quietly, leaning forward. “You need to sit down. You’re making the nurses nervous.”
Dean stops abruptly, turning his fierce glare on Garrett. “I don’t give a shit about that. I want to speak with a doctor. They took her behind those doors two hours ago and no one will tell me anything!”
“They’re working on her, Dean,” Tucker says, his Southern drawl slow and soothing, trying to de-escalate the situation. “NMS is serious business. They have to flush her system and get her temperature down. It takes time.”
“She was freezing when I touched her,” Dean mutters, running both hands through his disheveled blonde hair. He starts pacing again. “She was shaking so hard. And the smell of those pills … Tuck, it was repulsive. It smelled like bleach and metal. Who the fuck puts an omega on that kind of dosage?”
“Someone who doesn’t want her to be an omega,” Logan says quietly.
Dean stops dead. He looks at Logan, his jaw ticking. “What?”
“You said she was dressed in a massive hoodie, trying to hide. She’s taking industrial-strength blockers,” Logan explains gently. “A lot of omegas from beta families do it. They don’t want the stigma. They don’t want the heats. They try to suppress it so they can live ‘normal’ lives.”
“Normal?” Dean scoffs, his voice thick with disbelief and rising anger. “She almost died on the pavement! How the hell is that normal? It’s biology! You can’t just medicate it away!”
“We know that,” Garrett says. “But clearly, she didn’t. Or someone convinced her otherwise.”
Dean closes his eyes, trying to reign in the explosive fury building in his chest. He remembers the fragility of your wrist in his hand. He remembers the agonizingly weak scent of vanilla fighting through the poison.
He wants to wrap you in a blanket and lock you in his bedroom where the world can never hurt you again. He wants to buy you a new wardrobe, throw every pill bottle you own into the ocean, and spend the rest of his life making sure you never look that pale again.
“Family of the Jane Doe from Briar University?”
Dean’s eyes snap open. A tired-looking doctor in blue scrubs is standing by the double doors, holding a clipboard.
Dean covers the distance between them in three massive strides. “That’s me. I’m with her.”
The doctor looks him up and down, raising an eyebrow. “Are you a relative?”
“I’m her mate,” Dean says, the words feeling heavy and permanent and incredibly right on his tongue.
The doctor’s expression softens immediately. In their world, a fated bond overrides almost everything else. It’s an undeniable biological link. “Ah. I see. I’m Dr. Goldstein. Come with me, please.”
Dean follows the doctor down a quiet, sterile hallway, his heart thumping erratically. Logan, Garrett, and Tucker stay behind, giving him space.
“How is she?” Dean asks, his voice surprisingly steady despite the chaos in his head.
“She’s stable,” Dr. Goldstein says, pushing open the door to a private room. “The EMTs were right, it was a severe case of Neuroleptic Malignant Syndrome brought on by a toxic buildup of synthetic suppressants. We’ve managed to bring her fever down, and the muscle rigidity is subsiding. We have her on IV fluids and muscle relaxants.”
Dean steps into the room, and the breath leaves his lungs in a rush.
You are lying in the hospital bed, looking incredibly small amidst the stark white sheets. Your eyes are closed, your breathing steady but shallow. The bluish tint is gone from your lips, replaced by a pale, exhausted pallor. The IV is taped securely to the back of your hand.
“She’s sleeping,” Dr. Goldstein continues softly. “Her body has been through an immense trauma. It’s going to take a few days for the suppressants to completely flush out of her system.”
“And then what?” Dean asks, his eyes glued to the slow rise and fall of your chest.
“And then … her biology is going to rebound,” the doctor says carefully. “When an omega comes off suppressants cold turkey like this, especially at the dosage she was taking, it usually triggers an immediate, intense heat.”
Dean swallows hard. He steps closer to the bed, entirely captivated by you.
“She can’t take those pills ever again,” Dean says, his voice low and hard. It’s not a question. It’s a fact.
“I strongly advise against it,” Dr. Goldstein agrees. “Her system clearly can’t tolerate them. But she’s going to need a lot of support through the withdrawal process, and the subsequent heat. It will be overwhelming for her.”
“She’ll have it,” Dean says immediately. “She’ll have me.”
The doctor nods, offering a small, sympathetic smile. “I’ll leave you to it. Press the call button if she wakes up and seems disoriented.”
The door clicks shut, leaving Dean alone with you.
The silence in the room is heavy, broken only by the rhythmic hum of the monitors.
Dean pulls a chair up to the side of the bed and sits down. He reaches out, slowly, reverently, and takes your hand in his. Your skin is cool now, lacking that terrifying, burning heat from the quad.
He brings your knuckles to his lips, pressing a gentle, lingering kiss to your skin.
Now that the suppressants are beginning to wash out of your system, your scent is getting stronger. It’s filling the small hospital room, wrapping around him like a physical embrace. Vanilla. Honey. Rain. It’s the most intoxicating thing he’s ever breathed in.
His alpha settles, a deep, rumbling purr vibrating in his chest. Mate. Safe.
“You really scared the shit out of me, sweetheart,” Dean whispers, his thumb stroking soothing circles over the back of your hand. “We haven’t even officially met, and you’re already giving me gray hairs.”
You don’t move, but Dean doesn’t care. He has all the time in the world.
He leans back in the chair, his eyes never leaving your face. He maps out the slope of your nose, the curve of your cheekbones, the soft part of your lips. He tries to imagine what color your eyes are. He tries to imagine what your voice sounds like when you aren’t screaming in agony.
“I don’t know who told you that you had to hide,” Dean says quietly to the empty room. “I don’t know who made you feel like you weren’t perfect exactly the way you are. But they were wrong.”
He squeezes your hand gently.
“I’m going to show you,” he promises, his voice a vow. “I’m going to take care of you. You’re never taking another one of those pills again. You’re going to be a queen. My queen.”
Dean settles in, letting the steady beat of your heart anchor him. The playboy of Briar University is dead.
And as he watches you sleep, inhaling the sweet, perfect scent of his fated mate, Dean Di Laurentis has never felt more alive.
***
Coming back to consciousness is a slow, heavy process. Your eyelids feel like they have lead weights attached to them, and your mouth is as dry as cotton. A steady, rhythmic beeping sound echoes somewhere to your left, pulling you inch by inch out of the dark.
But before you can even force your eyes open, a smell hits you.
It’s completely overwhelming, wrapping around your senses like a thick, warm blanket. It’s sandalwood and cedar, rain-soaked asphalt, and a deep, purely masculine musk. It doesn’t smell like your dorm room. It doesn’t smell like your childhood bedroom in your parents’ sterile, modern house.
It smells like home. Like a place you’ve never been, but have spent your entire life desperately searching for.
Your breath hitches, your omega biology — newly freed from the chemical cage of the suppressants — flaring to life with a desperate, greedy hunger. You inhale deeply, chasing the scent, and finally manage to blink your eyes open.
The harsh, fluorescent light of a hospital room makes you wince, but a large shadow immediately shifts, blocking the glare.
“Hey,” a low, incredibly gentle voice rumbles. “Take it easy, sweetheart. Don’t rush.”
You blink the blurriness away, your vision slowly coming into focus. Sitting in a plastic chair pulled right up against the edge of your bed is a guy. A devastatingly handsome guy. He has messy, golden-blonde hair, striking green eyes that are completely locked onto you, and the kind of broad, muscular shoulders that a varsity jacket was practically invented for.
You don’t recognize his face. But the second you inhale again, you know exactly who the scent belongs to. It’s him. He is radiating it.
Panic spikes in your chest. You try to sit up, but your muscles feel entirely hollowed out, weak and trembling.
“Whoa, hey, stay still,” he says, instantly standing up. His hands hover over your shoulders, close enough to offer comfort but respectful enough not to touch without permission. With one hand, he reaches up and hits the red call button above your bed. “You’ve been through a lot. Just lay back.”
“Where …” Your voice comes out as a harsh, painful croak. Your throat feels like sandpaper.
“You’re at Boston General,” he explains calmly, his eyes tracing your face with an intensity that makes your breath catch. He reaches for a plastic pitcher on the bedside table and pours water into a cup, sliding a bendy straw in. “Here. Just a little sip at first.”
He leans over, guiding the straw to your lips. You are so thirsty you don’t even hesitate, taking a slow, glorious pull of the ice-cold water.
“Thank you,” you whisper, leaning your head back against the pillows. You look at him, really look at him, trying to piece together the shattered fragments of your memory. “I was on the quad. I was walking to my midterm, and then …”
“You collapsed,” he finishes for you. The easy gentleness in his expression hardens just a fraction, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “You had a severe seizure. Your body was rejecting your suppressants.”
The word hits you like a bucket of ice water.
“Oh my god,” you breathe, your hands immediately flying to your face. “My mom. My mom is going to kill me. She told me it was just an adjustment period. I have to call her, she has to talk to Dr. Davidson-”
“Hey. Look at me.”
The command in his voice isn’t loud, but it vibrates straight through your bones. Your hands drop, and your eyes lock onto his.
“No one is calling anyone to adjust those pills,” he says, his tone firm, brooking absolute zero argument. “They were poisoning you. You had Neuroleptic Malignant Syndrome. If I hadn’t been walking by when you went down …” He stops, swallowing hard. The absolute terror in his eyes is raw and jarring. “You’re done with them. Forever.”
You stare at him, completely bewildered. Why is this beautiful, random alpha hockey player looking at you like the thought of losing you physically pains him?
“Who are you?” You ask softly.
He smiles, and it’s a beautiful, devastating thing. The harshness completely melts out of his face. “I’m Dean. Dean Di Laurentis.”
“I don’t know you, Dean,” you say, your brow furrowing. “Why are you sitting here? Why do you smell like …”
You trail off, your cheeks flushing a deep, embarrassed crimson. You can’t just tell a stranger that his scent makes you want to curl up into his chest and never leave.
Dean’s smile softens even more, turning into something completely wrecked and reverent. He slowly reaches out, giving you plenty of time to pull away, and gently wraps his large hand over yours where it rests on the blanket. His skin is so warm.
“I smell like home,” Dean finishes for you, his voice dropping to a low, intimate whisper. “Don’t I?”
You can only nod, your heart hammering against your ribs.
“That’s because I’m your mate, sweetheart,” Dean says, the words hanging in the quiet hospital room like a religious vow. “Your fated mate.”
Your entire world stops.
You stare at him, your brain desperately trying to process the words. Your fated mate. The thing you had secretly dreamed of. The thing your mother had ruthlessly mocked. The thing you had been medicated to avoid.
You yank your hand out from under his, shaking your head frantically. “No. No, that’s … that’s not real. That’s a fairytale.”
Dean looks at his empty hand for a second before his gaze snaps back up to yours. “Excuse me?”
“My family,” you stammer, pushing yourself backward against the pillows, trying to put distance between you and the intoxicating pull of his scent. “They told me it’s not real. It’s just biological chemistry that gets romanticized in Hallmark movies. Fated mates don’t actually exist in real life. It’s just an archaic myth.”
Dean stares at you for a long, silent moment. The air in the room suddenly feels very heavy, his alpha presence expanding, pressing against the walls.
“Then your family,” Dean says, his voice dangerously quiet, “is full of idiots.”
“Don’t call them that,” you say automatically, though your defense sounds incredibly weak.
“I’ll call them whatever I want if they’re the ones who filled your head with that garbage,” Dean fires back, leaning closer. The intensity rolling off him is entirely focused on you. “Look at me. Look at how my hand is shaking right now. I smelled you underneath whatever toxic sludge you were taking, and my heart literally stopped beating in my chest. You are my omega. Mine. The universe literally carved my soul to match yours. Don’t tell me that’s a goddamn myth.”
Tears prick at the corners of your eyes. You want to believe him. You want to believe him so badly it hurts.
Dean sees the tears and his entire demeanor fractures. “Hey, no, don’t cry. Shh, I’m sorry.” He sits on the very edge of your mattress, ignoring the hospital rules, and carefully reaches out again. This time, he doesn’t take your hand. He brings his fingers up to your face, gently wiping a tear from your cheek with the pad of his thumb. “I’m sorry. I’m just … I’m angry. Not at you. Never at you.”
He traces the line of your jaw, his touch so achingly tender it makes a sob catch in your throat.
“Who put you on those pills?” Dean asks, his voice barely above a whisper. “Who gave you a dosage that high?”
You look away, ashamed. “Dr. Davidson. My family doctor.”
“And who asked for it?” Dean presses, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. “Because an omega doesn’t walk into a clinic and ask for an industrial-grade chemical lobotomy on their own.”
You close your eyes. “My mom.”
The silence that follows is deafening. You open your eyes to see Dean staring at the wall, his jaw locked so tight the muscle is twitching wildly. His green eyes have darkened, the pupils blown wide in pure, unadulterated fury. You have never seen a man look so lethal.
“Dean?” You whisper nervously.
He blinks, forcing his focus back to you. “Whoever she is,” Dean says, his voice flat and deadly cold, “I have never hated a human being more in my entire life.”
“You can’t say that!” You defend, the lifelong habit of protecting your parents kicking in. “She’s a beta. My whole family is full of betas. They don’t understand the alpha-omega dynamics, okay? To them, it’s a liability. She just wanted me to be independent. She wanted me to have a normal life, a good career, without being tied down by my biology. She thought she was protecting me.”
“Protecting you?” Dean snarls, the anger finally slipping the leash. He stands up, pacing away from the bed before whirling back around to face you. “You were seizing on the concrete! You were freezing to death and burning up at the same time! Is that her version of protection? Forcing you to suppress a fundamental part of who you are just because it inconveniences her worldview?”
“She didn’t know the pills would do this!”
“She didn’t care!” Dean shouts, running a hand aggressively through his hair. “Just because she’s a beta and she’ll never experience the absolute fucking magic of having a fated mate doesn’t give her the right to try and rip it away from you! It is a gift, and she treated it like a disease!”
You flinch, pulling your knees up to your chest. The truth of his words hits you like a physical blow, breaking through the decades of conditioning your parents had carefully layered over you.
Dean sees you flinch and curses violently under his breath. He crosses the room in two strides, dropping to his knees right beside your bed so he’s perfectly eye-level with you.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m yelling,” he breathes, his hands coming up to grip the metal bedrails. “I’m just so angry that you got hurt. You have no idea what it did to me, watching you on that pavement. Thinking I finally found you, only to watch you die.”
He reaches through the rails, gently taking your left arm. He turns your wrist over, exposing the pale skin of your inner forearm. Right over your pulse point, where a mating gland sits dormant beneath the skin.
He lowers his head and presses a long, firm, agonizingly soft kiss directly over the gland.
A jolt of pure electricity shoots up your arm, straight into your chest. Your omega purrs, a deep, vibrating sound of absolute contentment that you didn’t even know you were capable of making.
Dean pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes, his lips still hovering mere inches from your skin.
“She’s not in charge anymore,” Dean vows, his voice a low, rough rumble. “I’m here now. I am your mate. I will take care of you, I will protect you, and I swear on my life, you will never experience anything like that ever again. You are done hiding.”
You stare down at him, entirely captivated. For the first time in your life, you don’t feel broken. You don’t feel like a problem that needs to be solved. Under Dean’s heavy, devoted gaze, you feel perfect.
Before you can formulate a response, the heavy wooden door to your room pushes open.
“Ah, you’re awake,” a female voice says briskly.
Dean immediately stands up, though he doesn’t step away from your bed. He slides his hand down to tangle his fingers firmly with yours, presenting a united front as the doctor walks in, followed by a nurse holding a chart.
“I’m Dr. Goldstein,” the doctor says, offering a warm smile as she approaches the foot of the bed. “It’s good to see your eyes open. How are you feeling?”
“Weak,” you admit honestly, your voice still raspy. “My muscles ache.”
“That’s to be expected,” Dr. Goldstein says, flipping through your chart. “You suffered a severe tonic-clonic seizure caused by a toxic buildup of synthetic suppressants. Your body went into a state of Neuroleptic Malignant Syndrome. Frankly, you’re very lucky your mate here acted as quickly as he did, and that the ambulance was close.”
You look up at Dean. He gives your hand a reassuring squeeze, though his eyes remain locked sharply on the doctor.
“We’ve pumped you full of fluids and muscle relaxants, and we’ve successfully flushed the majority of the chemical toxicity out of your system,” Dr. Goldstein continues. She lowers the clipboard, looking at you with serious, sympathetic eyes. “But we need to talk about what comes next.”
The knot of anxiety in your stomach, which Dean had momentarily smoothed away, twists tight again. “What comes next?”
“You cannot go back on suppressants,” Dr. Goldstein says firmly. “Your body has developed a severe, life-threatening allergy to them. If you try to take even a low dose, you could go into anaphylactic shock, or worse.”
“Never again,” Dean states, his voice leaving absolutely no room for debate.
You swallow hard. “Okay. No more pills. But … what does that mean?”
Dr. Goldstein sighs softly. “It means your biology is going to rebound. Hard. You’ve been forcibly suppressing your omega nature for years. Now that the dam is broken, your hormones are going to spike to compensate. I need you to be prepared. Within the next forty-eight to seventy-two hours, you are going to go into heat.”
The blood completely drains from your face.
Heat. The thought echoes in your head, a terrifying, abstract concept that your mother had always spoken about in hushed, disgusted tones. A loss of control. A feverish, degrading biological imperative.
“No,” you whisper, true, visceral panic setting in. You start to shake, pulling your hand out of Dean’s grip to clutch at the hospital blanket. “No, I can’t. I don’t know how. I’ve never had one.”
Dr. Goldstein looks surprised. “Never?”
“My parents put me on suppressants the day I presented at fourteen,” you say, your breathing turning shallow and frantic. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how it feels. Please, isn’t there something else you can give me? A lighter pill? An injection? I can’t just … I can’t!”
“Sweetheart, hey, look at me,” Dean says, his voice cutting through the rising tide of your panic.
You look at him, tears freely spilling down your cheeks.
Internally, Dean is a hurricane of pure, unadulterated violence. The realization that your parents essentially chemically sterilized you at fourteen — robbing you of every natural milestone of your secondary gender out of their own beta prejudice — makes him want to find them and tear them apart with his bare hands. The rage is so hot and blinding he can barely see straight.
But outwardly? Outwardly, he is a mountain. Unshakeable. Calm.
He sits back down on the edge of the bed, completely ignoring the doctor and nurse. He frames your face with both of his large, warm hands, his thumbs sweeping away your tears.
“Breathe with me,” Dean murmurs, locking his green eyes onto yours. He takes an exaggerated, deep breath in. “Come on. In.”
You drag a ragged breath into your lungs, mirroring him.
“Good. Out,” he praises softly.
He keeps his scent deliberately calm, pushing out waves of soothing cedar and rain, blanketing your panic in layers of alpha protection.
“I’m terrified,” you sob, your hands coming up to grip his wrists. “My mom always said heats make you lose your mind. She said it’s humiliating.”
“Your mom doesn’t know a damn thing about what it means to be an omega,” Dean says, his voice dripping with absolute certainty. “She lied to you. It’s not humiliating. It’s natural. It’s beautiful.”
“But I don’t know what to do!”
“You don’t have to know what to do,” Dean says gently, leaning in until his forehead is resting against yours. “Because I know what to do. That’s what mates are for, baby. I am going to be right by your side the entire time. I’ll take care of everything. You won’t have to think, you won’t have to worry, you just have to let your body do what it was meant to do.”
“You promise?” You whisper, closing your eyes and leaning into his solid strength.
“I swear it on my life,” Dean vows, his lips brushing against your forehead. “I’ve been waiting for you for a very long time. I’m not going to let anything scare you ever again. We’re going to get through this together.”
Dr. Goldstein clears her throat softly, a small smile playing on her lips. “He’s right. A mate bond makes the biological transition significantly smoother. You’re in very good hands.”
You open your eyes, looking at Dean. The arrogant, charming playboy of Briar University is entirely gone. In his place is a devoted, fiercely protective alpha who is looking at you like you hold the stars in your hands.
For the first time in your life, you stop fighting your own biology. You take a deep breath of sandalwood and rain, and finally, you let yourself just be an omega.
***
The next thirty-two hours are a masterclass in anticipation.
The hospital staff insists on keeping you for observation to ensure the suppressants are completely flushed from your system and that your organs haven’t suffered any lasting damage from the toxicity.
Dean never leaves your side. He sleeps in the wildly uncomfortable plastic chair next to your bed, his hand tangled with yours. He eats terrible cafeteria food. He charms the nurses into bringing you extra pillows and smuggled-in hot chocolate.
He only leaves once. On the second morning, he kisses your forehead, promises he’ll be back before you can even miss him, and vanishes for two hours. He returns smelling like his expensive cedar body wash, wearing fresh clothes, and carrying a massive duffel bag.
“I had to prep,” Dean explains simply when you ask about the bag, a devastating smirk playing on his lips. “And I had to threaten Logan with bodily harm if he ever breathed a word about my panic attack.”
When Dr. Goldstein finally signs your discharge papers, the shift in your body is undeniable.
You feel … heavy. There is a deep, pulsing warmth settling low in your abdomen, a completely foreign sensation that makes your breath catch every few minutes. Your skin feels highly sensitized, the friction of your sweatpants against your legs sends tiny shocks up your spine.
But the most obvious change is the scent.
As Dean leads you out to his car, you notice the way his nostrils flare. His jaw is tight, his grip on your hand firm and possessive. The faint, smothered vanilla scent that had barely survived the suppressants has bloomed. It’s rich, thick, and intoxicatingly sweet, dripping with the undeniable pheromones of an omega on the absolute precipice of her first heat.
“We aren’t going to my house,” Dean says, opening the passenger door for you and helping you climb inside. “Logan and the guys are great, but you don’t need three other alphas in the house right now. And you definitely aren’t going back to your dorm.”
“Where are we going?” You ask, your voice already a little breathless. The leather of the car seat feels incredibly soft against your back.
“My family owns the Heyward Harbor Hotel downtown,” Dean says, shutting your door and walking around to the driver’s side. He climbs in, immediately locking the doors and starting the engine. “There’s a private penthouse suite on the top floor. It’s soundproof, secure, and completely ours. The staff knows not to come up unless I call.”
You swallow hard, your heart doing a nervous, excited flutter. “You really planned this out.”
Dean shoots you a dark, heated look as he pulls out of the hospital parking lot. “Sweetheart, I’ve been planning for you since I was sixteen years old. And right now, you smell so incredibly sweet that it’s taking every ounce of my willpower not to pull this car over and climb into the backseat with you.”
You flush a deep crimson, a rush of slick heat pooling between your thighs at his words. “Dean …”
“I know,” he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave. “Hold on for me. Just a little longer.”
The drive is a blur of city lights and the heavy, electric tension filling the cabin of the car. By the time Dean pulls into the private underground garage of the hotel, you are practically vibrating.
He leads you to a private elevator that opens directly into the penthouse. The space is massive, all floor-to-ceiling windows, modern art, and sleek furniture. But Dean bypasses the living area entirely, guiding you straight into the sprawling master bedroom.
You stop dead in your tracks.
The king-sized bed in the center of the room has been completely transformed. It’s a nest. A massive, chaotic, incredibly inviting pile of faux fur blankets, high-thread-count sheets, and enormous plush pillows. And woven through every single layer of fabric is the heavy, comforting scent of sandalwood, cedar, and rain. Dean’s scent.
“You built this?” You whisper, staring at the bed. Your omega instincts are practically screaming at you to dive into the center of it and roll around until you are completely coated in his scent.
“When I went back to shower,” Dean says, stepping up behind you. He rests his hands on your hips, pulling your back flush against his solid chest.
“I bought every soft blanket I could find in a ten-mile radius. Does it look okay?”
“It looks perfect,” you breathe, leaning back against him.
“Good. But you can’t get in it yet,” Dean says, his hands sliding up to grip your waist. He kisses the side of your neck, sending a violent shiver down your body. “You need a bath. And you need to eat. Once the heat fully hits, you aren’t going to care about food, and you need your strength.”
He is as good as his word. Dean leads you into a massive marble bathroom and starts the water in a deep soaking tub. He helps you strip out of your hospital clothes with a terrifyingly gentle reverence, his eyes dark and hungry, but his hands entirely respectful.
The warm water feels like heaven on your aching muscles. Dean kneels beside the tub, rolling up his sleeves, and actually washes your hair. His large fingers massage your scalp with a perfect, agonizingly slow pressure.
“You’re shaking,” Dean notes softly, rinsing the shampoo from your hair.
“I feel … weird,” you admit, your eyes fluttering shut. The ache low in your belly is turning into a sharp, demanding throb. “It’s like there’s a wire pulled tight inside me, and it keeps getting tighter.”
“That’s the pre-heat,” Dean explains, his voice a soothing rumble. “Your body is prepping. It’s waking up. Just breathe through it.”
After the bath, he wraps you in a massive, fluffy towel and carries you out to the kitchen island. He’s ordered room service — a massive plate of carbonara, warm bread, and fruit.
“Eat,” he commands gently, pushing a fork into your hand. “As much as you can.”
You manage to eat half the pasta, though your appetite is rapidly being eclipsed by a different kind of hunger. The scent in the room is overwhelming now. Your vanilla and honey has mixed entirely with his cedar and rain, creating a thick, heady atmosphere that makes your head spin.
You drop the fork, a sudden, violent hot flash tearing through your body. You gasp, your hands gripping the edge of the marble counter.
Dean is there in a second. “Hey. Look at me.”
You look up, panting slightly. “Dean … it hurts. It’s so hot.”
“I know,” Dean says, his eyes flashing to a pitch-black, predatory dark. The leash he’s been keeping on his alpha is snapping. He reaches down and effortlessly scoops you up into his arms, carrying you back to the bedroom. “I’ve got you. I’m right here.”
He drops you gently into the center of the nest. The sheer volume of his scent embedded in the blankets hits your system like a drug. You instantly curl onto your side, burying your face in one of his oversized t-shirts he left in the pile, a loud, desperate whine tearing from your throat.
Dean strips off his shirt in one fluid motion, tossing it aside. He kicks off his shoes and jeans, left only in his boxer briefs, before he crawls into the nest with you.
The moment his bare skin touches yours, the final thread snaps.
The heat hits.
It is a tidal wave of biological demand. The dull ache turns into a blinding, searing need that completely consumes your mind. You don’t think. You just react. You scramble toward him, your hands desperately clutching at his broad, muscular shoulders, pulling him down over you.
“Dean, please,” you beg, your voice a fractured sob. You arch your hips upward, seeking the heavy, solid weight of him. “Please, I need … I need …”
“I know what you need,” Dean growls, his voice a guttural, vibrating sound that makes your core clench. He pins your wrists gently above your head with one hand, his chest hovering inches from yours. “You are so incredibly beautiful. You smell like pure sugar, baby.”
He lowers his head, his mouth capturing yours in a devastating, bruising kiss. It’s nothing like the polite, gentle care he’s shown you for the last two days. This is raw, possessive, and entirely alpha. He parts your lips with his tongue, tasting you deeply, drinking in your soft moans.
You writhe beneath him, your legs tangling with his. You are soaked, a slick, hot mess of arousal that your body has naturally produced in terrifying abundance.
Dean breaks the kiss, trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw and the sensitive column of your neck. He pauses right over your scent gland, inhaling sharply.
“You’re mine,” he breathes against the skin, his hot breath making you arch off the mattress. “Only mine. Tell me.”
“Yours,” you gasp, your eyes rolling back. “Dean, please, it’s so empty. Please.”
“Impatient,” Dean chuckles darkly. His free hand trails down your torso, slipping past the waistband of your underwear. “We have to do this right, sweetheart. I need you completely ready for me. I’m not going to hurt you.”
His hand slips between your thighs, and you let out a high, fractured cry at the contact. His fingers are large, calloused from years of gripping a hockey stick, but they are impossibly gentle. He parts your slick folds, tracing the sensitive bundle of nerves at your peak.
You thrash against his hold, completely overwhelmed by the sensation. “Dean!”
“I’m here,” he murmurs, his thumb applying a steady, rhythmic pressure. “Let go for me. Come for me, baby.”
He slides two fingers deep inside you, and you completely shatter. Your body bows off the bed, a scream tearing from your throat as your first orgasm rips through you. It’s blinding. It’s a rush of pure pleasure that leaves you gasping for air, your muscles trembling violently as your inner walls clench around his fingers.
Dean watches you unravel, a look of pure worship on his face. He doesn’t stop. As you ride out the agonizingly long waves of the climax, he shifts lower down the bed.
“Dean, wait, I’m too sensitive-” you stammer, trying to push yourself backward.
“I’m not done,” he says simply.
He parts your thighs wider, settling between your legs. He grips your hips to hold you completely still, and then he lowers his mouth to your core.
You scream his name, your hands flying to tangle in his blonde hair. The slide of his tongue is expertly cruel, lapping up your slick with a greedy, starving desperation. He finds your clit again, sucking gently before swirling his tongue over it, sending you plummeting right back into the fire.
Your mind goes completely blank. There is only the heat, the overwhelming scent of cedar, and the devastating perfection of his mouth. You climax again, harder this time, sobbing into the pillows as your vision literally whites out.
Dean pulls back, his chest heaving as he crawls back up your body. His eyes are glazed, completely feral. He strips away your underwear and tears his boxers off, discarding them off the edge of the bed.
You feel the heavy, thick press of him against your entrance. The sheer size of him makes you gasp, a fleeting moment of apprehension piercing through the haze of the heat.
Dean senses it immediately. He pauses, his forearms bracketing your head, and looks down into your eyes.
“Look at me,” he commands softly.
You meet his gaze.
“I’m going to take care of you,” Dean vows, his voice a rough, desperate rasp. “I am going to fill you up, and I am going to make you feel so goddamn good. Do you trust me?”
“Yes,” you whisper, meaning it with every fiber of your being. “I trust you. Please.”
Dean groans, a deeply satisfied, rumbling sound. “Good girl.”
He pushes his hips forward, burying himself inside you in one long, agonizingly slow thrust.
You cry out, your fingernails digging into his shoulders. It is the most intense, overwhelming feeling you have ever experienced. You are completely full, stretched taut, the physical connection bridging the gap your soul has been aching to fill for years.
Dean rests his forehead against yours, his breath coming in harsh pants. He stays perfectly still, giving your body time to adjust to his massive size. “Fuck. You feel … you feel like heaven. So tight. So wet for me.”
“Don’t stop,” you beg, lifting your hips to meet him. “Dean, please move.”
He chuckles, a dark, breathless sound, and begins to pull back. The friction is absolute torture in the best way possible. He sets a brutal, driving pace, his hips snapping against yours with audible slaps of skin.
You are completely lost in it. You match his rhythm perfectly, meeting his thrusts, your legs wrapping tightly around his waist to draw him in even deeper. The room smells like sex and alpha command and the intoxicating sweetness of an omega in the throes of a mating heat.
“That’s it,” Dean praises, his voice strained. “Take it all, baby. You’re doing so good.”
The pressure is building again, twisting into a tight, coiled spring low in your belly. Dean recognizes the shift in your breathing, the frantic, desperate hitch in your chest.
He slides one hand under your lower back, angling your hips up to hit a spot deep inside you that makes you see stars.
“Dean!” You scream, your head thrashing side to side.
“I’ve got you,” he growls. He shifts his weight, pinning you down, and buries his face in the crook of your neck. His lips brush directly over your scent gland. “I’m going to claim you now. I’m going to make you mine permanently. Let me mark you.”
“Yes,” you sob, the word a desperate plea. “Yes, mark me!”
Dean bites down.
His sharp canines pierce the delicate skin over your scent gland. The pain is a sharp, brief sting, instantly swallowed by a blinding, explosive rush of euphoria.
The bond snaps into place.
It is physical. It is emotional. It is a sudden, brilliant tether forming between your chest and his, locking your souls together with an undeniable, permanent gravity. You can feel him. You can feel his love, his possessiveness, his absolute devotion flooding into your mind.
At the exact same moment his teeth break the skin, Dean drives his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt, and unloads deep inside you.
Your own climax hits like a freight train, your body convulsing violently around his knot as it swells, locking you together. You scream his name, your hands desperately clutching at his back.
“Bite me,” Dean commands, his voice muffled against your skin. He pulls back just enough to expose his own neck, baring his throat to you in the ultimate display of alpha submission. “Mark me back, sweetheart. Claim me.”
You don’t hesitate. You surge upward, your lips finding the pulsing scent gland on the side of his neck. You sink your teeth in, tasting the salt of his sweat and the sharp, metallic tang of blood.
Dean lets out a roaring groan, his head falling back as the bond solidifies on his end. The tether snaps tight, completely unbreakable. He grips your hips, riding out the devastating aftershocks of your shared climax, completely lost in the overwhelming high of the mating bond.
For a long time, neither of you moves.
The room is silent except for your ragged, synchronized breathing. Dean’s knot is still firmly locked inside you, keeping you intimately tethered. He collapses completely against you, his heavy weight a comforting, grounding presence.
He gently buries his face in your hair, pressing soft, reverent kisses to your temple.
“Mine,” he whispers, the word laced with pure awe. “You’re actually mine.”
“Yours,” you echo softly, running your hands through his damp blonde hair.
Slowly, the frantic racing of your heart begins to settle. The feverish edge of the heat dulls into a bone-deep, lethargic exhaustion. Your eyelids droop, the sheer physical toll of the last few hours finally catching up to you.
Dean senses it. He shifts slightly, wrapping his arms securely around your waist. “Tired?”
“Exhausted,” you murmur, nuzzling your face into the hollow of his shoulder. “Is it … is it over?”
Dean chuckles softly, his chest rumbling against yours. He reaches up, gently petting your hair, his fingers smoothing the tangled strands.
“Not even close, sweetheart,” Dean says, pressing a kiss to the healing bite mark on your neck. “A normal heat usually lasts anywhere from four to seven days, depending on the omega.”
Your eyes widen slightly, and you try to pull back to look at him, but he keeps you flush against his chest. “Four to seven days? Of that?”
“Usually,” Dean continues, his voice soothing and calm. “But given the circumstances … given how long your parents had you on those heavy suppressants, and how violently your body rejected them … Dr. Goldstein warned me that this one is going to be different. Your biology is rebounding. Hard. This heat is going to be significantly longer, and the peaks are going to be a lot more extreme.”
A spike of nervous anxiety flares in your chest. “Dean, I don’t know if I can-”
“Hey,” Dean interrupts gently, his hand sweeping down your back in a steady, calming rhythm. “Stop. What did I promise you in the hospital?”
You swallow hard. “That you’d take care of me.”
“Exactly. And I will,” Dean says, his gaze burning with absolute certainty. “I am not going anywhere. I’ve got enough food and water in this suite to last us two weeks. I’ll be here for every single wave. You don’t have to think, you don’t have to worry. You just have to let your body do what it needs to do, and I will handle the rest.”
You look at him, really look at the beautiful, devoted alpha who has completely upended your entire life in the span of three days. The fear melts away, completely smothered by the warm, buzzing hum of the mating bond currently singing in your veins.
“Okay,” you whisper, resting your head back against his chest.
“Okay,” Dean echoes. His knot slowly begins to recede, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he shifts, pulling the heavy faux fur blankets up over both of you, completely cocooning you in the nest.
He wraps his arms around you, tucking your head under his chin. His thumb resumes its slow, hypnotic petting of your hair.
“You did so good for me, baby,” Dean murmurs, his voice growing heavy with his own exhaustion. “So perfect. Try to get some sleep. You need to rest before the next wave hits.”
You close your eyes, the scent of cedar and vanilla wrapping around you like a physical shield. The ache is still there, simmering just beneath the surface, but it’s no longer terrifying. It’s natural. It’s right.
For the first time in your life, you aren’t fighting who you are. You aren’t suppressing the deepest, most fundamental parts of your soul. You are exactly where you are supposed to be, safe in the arms of an alpha who looks at you like you are the center of his entire universe.
This is the fairytale. This is everything your mother said didn’t exist.
As you drift off to sleep, listening to the steady, reassuring beat of Dean’s heart beneath your ear, you realize one simple, absolute truth.
summary: you and Dean are the perfect equation
pairing: dean dilaurentis x reader
content: romance, fluff, falling in love
inspiration: u + me = <3 by Olivia Rodrigo (preview of the song at the end of the story)
Dean Di Laurentis was not a man who spent a lot of time contemplating basic mathematics. As Briar University’s star hockey defenseman, his mind was usually occupied by playbooks, upcoming draft projections, and the exact ratio of protein to carbs on his dinner plate.
But on a rainy Tuesday afternoon, trapped in the back row of a mandatory Statistics lecture, Dean found his attention completely hijacked.
It wasn't by the professor, who was currently droning on about probability distributions. It was by the girl sitting two rows ahead of him. You had a habit of twirling your pen between your fingers when you were thinking, your soft brown curls bouncing slightly every time you nodded along to the lecture. Dean didn’t even know your name, but he knew you were the most captivating thing in the room.
When the professor called for a ten-minute break, you stood up to stretch, stretching your arms above your head. As you did, you reached for a piece of scrap paper on your desk, scribbled something down with a pink highlighter, and then, looking around to ensure no one was watching, taped it to the side of your laptop monitor.
Dean leaned forward, his sharp eyes focusing on the bright pink ink.
U + Me = <3
It was a silly, middle-school style doodle, complete with a little arrow drawn through the heart. Dean felt a sudden, ridiculous grin spread across his face. It was so unapologetically sweet, so completely at odds with the cynical, high-pressure world of college sports he usually navigated.
As the professor called the class back to order, Dean tore a page from his own notebook. He didn’t know you, but he knew he wanted to change that.
(…)
The next day, the rain had cleared, leaving Briar’s campus bathed in a warm, golden autumn glow. Dean found himself waiting outside the library, pretending to check his phone but actually scanning the crowd. When he spotted the familiar halo of curls, his heart did a strange, uncharacteristic flip.
You were carrying a stack of heavy textbooks, looking slightly overwhelmed. Seizing his moment, Dean stepped into your path, offering his most charming, effortless smile.
"Need a hand with those?" he asked, his voice smooth.
You stopped, looking up at him. For a second, you seemed startled by his sheer size—Dean was broad-shouldered and built like a wall—but then your eyes crinkled at the corners, a brilliant, genuine smile lighting up your face. "Actually, yes. My arms are about to fall off."
Dean easily took the heaviest three books from your arms. "I'm Dean," he said as they began walking down the stone path.
"I know," you said softly, a slight blush creeping up your cheeks. "I mean... you play hockey. Everyone knows."
"But I don't know you," Dean countered playfully, leaning in just a fraction closer. "And that feels like a statistical anomaly I need to correct."
You laughed, a sound that Dean decided right then and there was better than the roar of a packed stadium. "I'm just a regular student trying to survive advanced calculus."
"Well, 'just a regular student'," Dean murmured, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out the folded piece of notebook paper he'd spent twenty minutes perfecting the night before. He handed it to you "I think you dropped your formula sheet yesterday."
You took the paper, unfolding it. Written in Dean's bold, neat handwriting was a response to her doodle:
Solve for U and Me. Answer: Forever.
Your blush deepened to a beautiful crimson, and you looked up at him through your lashes, your eyes sparkling. "You saw that?"
"I did," Dean admitted, stopping under the shade of a large oak tree. "And I'd really like to test that hypothesis over coffee."
(…)
Your first date wasn't at a fancy restaurant or a loud party. Dean, surprisingly perceptive when he wanted to be, took you to a small, hidden bakery on the edge of town known for its over-the-top hot chocolates and quiet booths.
Sitting across from you, Dean found himself completely disarmed. He was used to girls who wanted to talk about his hockey stats or his family's wealth, but you were different. You asked him about his favorite books, laughed at his terrible jokes, and listened with genuine interest as he talked about the pressure of the upcoming season.
In turn, Dean learned that you loved old vinyl records, grew nervous during public speaking, and had a habit of biting your lip when you were concentrated.
"You're not what I expected," you admitted, tracing the rim of your mug with your finger.
Dean arched a brow, leaning his chin on his hand. "Oh yeah? What did you expect? A meathead?"
"A little bit," you teased, your eyes dancing. "But you're actually incredibly sweet. And attentive."
"Only for the right people," Dean said softly, his gaze dropping to your lips before meeting your eyes again. The air between you felt charged, thick with a sweet, comfortable warmth. He reached across the table, his large hand gently covering yours. "I think the math is checking out. U plus Me is a pretty great combination."
You squeezed his hand back, your smile soft and full of promise. "Yeah. The data is definitely leaning that way."
(…)
Two weeks later, Briar University won their biggest rivalry game of the season. The arena was deafening, the ice covered in celebratory gloves and sticks as the team hugged and cheered.
Dean stood near the blue line, his helmet off, his hair sweaty and messy, but his eyes were scanning the glass barriers. When he found you standing in the front row, wearing an oversized Di Laurentis jersey that swallowed your frame, his chest swelled with a feeling far greater than the thrill of victory.
He skated over to the glass. You leaned over the barrier, your face flushed with excitement.
"You were amazing!" You shouted over the noise of the crowd.
Instead of answering, Dean hooked his hands under your arms and easily lifted you over the glass, setting your skates-free feet onto the ice. You gasped, laughing as you clutched his padded shoulders for balance.
"Dean! What are you doing? You're going to get in trouble!"
"Don't care," Dean murmured, looking down at you. The arena lights reflected in your eyes, making them shine. He reached into his pocket—he’d been carrying it all game—and pulled out a fresh, black hockey puck.
Using a silver sharpie, he had drawn a small, perfect heart on the rubber surface, with two letters inside: U + M
"I think we've proven the theory," Dean said, his voice dropping to a gentle, intimate register that made the crowded stadium fade away. "I'm completely crazy about you."
You looked from the puck to his face, your eyes softening with pure affection. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling yourself up. "Me too, Dean. It's the easiest math I've ever done."
Dean smiled, burying his face in your curls before bringing his lips down to yours, sealing the equation in front of thousands of cheering fans. It was pure, simple, and perfectly sweet.
thank you so much for all the love on part one, it genuinely means so much. from Dean's pov - enjoy part two♡
✧ ───────── ✦ ───────── ✧
five weeks later · · ·
Three in the morning and I'm awake. Again.
Which is the problem, because I don't do this. I'm a sleeper. Always have been - head hits the pillow, lights out, gone. Tuck says I could sleep through a fire alarm and he's actually tested the theory more than once. So lying here flat on my back with my eyes open staring into the dark, this is new. Two weeks of new. I'm starting to take it personally.
The ceiling fan ticks. Every third turn it catches, then keeps going. Three turns, the catch. Three turns, the catch.
Two years I've slept under that thing and never heard it once.
She heard it.
That's what gets me sitting up against the headboard, because it lands all at once, the way the bad stuff does. The nights she stayed, the few times she let herself break her own rule and not go home - she didn't sleep. I'd be out in five minutes flat and she'd be next to me wide awake in the dark. I know because she told me. Mouth against my shoulder, half gone. Three turns then it catches. And I laughed, said something dumb like that's what's keeping you up?, and rolled over and was asleep before she even answered.
She was awake. Right there next to me. Wanting something she'd decided she wasn't allowed, for months, and I slept straight through every second of it. Because it was easy. Because she made it easy. And now she's gone and I'm the idiot lying here counting a fan.
I get it now. Bit late.
· · ·
She was at the party tonight.
I almost don't clock her. She's gotten good at that, being in the same room as me without actually being in it. Didn't know that was a skill you could pick up. She's picked it up in about five weeks. Over by the door with a red cup she's not drinking from, talking to some girl from her program. And when she catches me looking she lifts two fingers off the cup and gives me a little wave.
A wave.
This girl used to flick beer caps at my head across this exact kitchen. Used to fall asleep on my chest and swear to god she hadn't. And now I get a wave, the kind you give a guy you sat next to in a lecture once, then she's grabbing her coat and she's gone before eleven, and I'm left standing there holding a drink I don't even want, feeling like something just got pulled out from under me.
Tuck finds me still standing there, watching her leave.
“You good?”
“Peachy.”
He follows my eyeline to the door swinging shut behind her. Takes a slow pull of his beer. “She seeing someone?”
“Nah. I don't- I dunno.” And there it is. I used to know stuff like that. Used to know how she took her coffee, which seat she'd grab in any room, that she chews her lip when she's holding something back. I don't know if she's seeing someone. When did I stop knowing that.
“Huh,” Tuck says.
“What's huh.”
He shrugs. I hate that shrug. It means he's already worked something out and he's going to make me get there on my own. “Nothin'. You know she was gone for you though, yeah? Like - properly gone.”
I laugh. It comes out wrong. “You’re kidding, right? Nah, man. We kept it light. That was the whole-”
“Yeah. You kept it light.” He claps me on the shoulder on his way to the keg, easy, like he hasn't just kicked my legs out from under me. “You did.”
· · ·
So I don't sleep. And for once I don't fight it. I lie there and let it all come back to me, every bit of it, and I let myself feel exactly how stupid I've been.
The coffee. She never let our fingers touch when I passed her the mug. Thought she was just being chill about it. Five weeks too late and I'm flipping it over, seeing the other side - not chill. She was rationing herself. Cup, never the hand. Because the hand meant something, and she wasn't allowed to want it.
You could stay, I said. That last morning. Watched her whole face do something hopeful - and then I went and killed it. Tuck's making eggs. Like that's what I meant. Her smile went small and careful and I read it as her being easy about it. Chill. Like always. She wasn't. She was holding her breath. I couldn't tell the difference because I never once bothered to ask.
And then I sat her down on my bed and asked her to help me get another girl.
I said not this. Waved my hand at her like an idiot - at four months of her, at the dent she'd left in my sheets - and said not this. Like she was the side dish and Allie was the main. Called her my person like it was the best thing I had to give her. And it was. It's the truest thing I've ever said to anyone. And I used it to keep her exactly where she'd never ask me for more.
She's the one who told me to be honest. Stop selling the version of yourself you think people want. She'll see the real one. Best advice I've ever gotten and I took it and pointed it at someone else. Worked too, for a few weeks. Right up until Allie looked at me across the dining hall, nicer than I deserved, and said you keep checking your phone like you're waiting on someone, and it's not me. I think you already know that.
Told myself Allie just wasn't it. Onto the next. That's the move, right, that's always the move - next thing, next girl, already halfway out the door to whatever's after.
I'm the dumbest smart guy in this entire school.
Because the real one. The version of me she swore was in there somewhere, the one she promised a smart girl would spot - he's not at the party. He's not in the smug grin. He's here. Three in the morning, flat on his back, lying awake counting a fan he never noticed until he was the one left awake. He's been in here the whole time. She found him months ago. She loved him months ago. And I told her, without ever saying it, exactly how much of me she was allowed to want. Not the part that counted.
I'm sitting up before I decide to. Heart going, lungs going, everything in me racing to catch up to the thing I already know.
I'm in love with her.
All of her. The beer caps, the bite marks and the way she always left before the good part - because staying for the good part would've broken the one rule I wrote.
I wrote that rule. I'm Six Flags, baby. Everybody wants a ride. God. What a thing to say to a girl who'd have stayed for free, for good, if I'd told her one single time the gate was open.
· · ·
Quarter past six and I give up pretending I'm going to wait for a decent hour.
I know where she lives. Third floor, blue door, the one I've walked her to a hundred times and never once gone through, because the rule said I dropped her at the curb. I'm in the car before I've decided to be, hood up, heart in my throat, nothing planned - which, for the first time in my life, feels right. Planned is selling. I'm done selling.
She opens the door in an oversized shirt, squinting at me, and the second she clocks it's me her whole face goes hard and shut.
“Dean. It's six in the morning.”
“I know. I know, I'm sorry, I-” The grin's not coming. I keep reaching for it out of habit and it's just not there. Good. Don't want it anyway. “Can I talk to you for a sec. Just talk.”
“It's a Saturday. In finals.” One hand on the door, already easing it shut on me, half a centimetre at a time. Protecting herself. She's so good at it now. I basically taught her that. “Whatever it is, just text me.”
“You don't answer my texts anymore.”
That stops her. Her jaw works. She looks at me with those tired eyes and I watch her decide whether to lie. “I've been busy.”
“Liar.”
“What do you want, Dean.” Sharp. She's never once been sharp with me. Not in two years. My stomach drops. “Honestly. Because I can't keep doing this, whatever this is. I'm done with the arrangement. So if that's all you came for-”
“I heard the fan.” I interrupt her.
She blinks. “...What?”
“My ceiling fan. Ticks every third turn, catches, and I've slept under it two years and never heard it. Not once. And now it's all I can hear.” My voice is doing something I don't recognise and I let it. “Two weeks to work it out. The nights you stayed - you never slept, did you. You were counting it. And I was out cold.”
Her eyes go bright and furious and wet all at once. She doesn't answer. Doesn't have to. It's right there in the way her hand tightens on the edge of the door.
“I called you my person,” I say, "and I meant it, then I went and made it the smallest thing it could possibly be. I'm- I'm so gone for you I can't hear a stupid fan without falling apart, and I only figured it out three hours ago, which makes me the slowest idiot alive. I know I don't get to just turn up here and say it. I know what I did. I know what those two words- my words did to you. I've been awake all night with it and every single piece of it is on me, and I just needed you to-”
“Stop.” She starts shaking. “Stop talking.”
I stop.
The door doesn't move. Doesn't shut. Doesn't open wider. We just stand there - her in the warm dark of the hallway, me out in the cold with everything I came to say hanging in the air between us.
“You don't get to just say that,” she whispers. “You don't get to turn up like this like it's some grand gesture. I waited four months, and you couldn't even see me when you had me.”
“I know.”
“You broke my heart and then asked me to help you do it.”
“I know.” My voice cracks on it and I let it. “Let me be the one who actually shows up this time.”
Her mouth crumples at one corner. That hard, shut look unlocking, just a little, just there. She looks down at the half-centimetre of door under her hand. And she doesn't shut it. I watch her not shut it for what feels like the whole rest of my life.
“It's six in the morning,” she says again. Different this time, softer.
“I've got nowhere to be.” I jam my freezing hands in my hoodie pocket so I don't reach for her before she's ready, because she sets the rules this time. All of them. Every single one. “I'll stand here till noon if you want. I'm not going anywhere. That's the whole thing I came to say. I'm done leaving the gate open and calling it a favour. I'll just stand here being me, the one you see, till you believe me.”
She looks at me a long time.
Then she steps back. Not far. Just enough.
“Five minutes,” she says, and pulls the door open. “And you're making the coffee. So I can watch you get it wrong.”
I'm over the threshold before she's finished the sentence. Inside the blue door for the first time, where she lives, where she's been brave without me for five weeks. Somewhere over our heads a fan I can't hear catches and keeps going. And for once in my life I'm not running at the next good thing.
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