℘ ̨ ՞ ali

𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔 ㅤ ♡︎ 𓈒 I write fanfics about your favorite series, movies, and celebrities—so that you can be the star.

⎯⟢ OFF CAMPUS.

THE EMERGENCY SHIFT ✶ PT. 2 ✶ PT.3 | fem!reader x garrett graham & dean di laurentis

⌑ The Briar University ER is usually absolute chaos, but for her—a twenty-one-year-old clinical psychology intern—staying calm is second nature. Everything changes when the Division I hockey team storms in with an injured player. Faced with the campus golden boys, her sweet voice and firm boundaries completely disarm Garrett Graham and Dean Di Laurentis, igniting an unexpected tension that leaves them utterly obsessed.

FALSE GOD ✶ | fem!reader x garrett graham

⌑ For years, she has lived in the shadow of unrequited love, pledging her loyalty and her heart to Dean—a friend who never knew how to value her presence or give her the place she deserved. But the playing field changes completely when Garrett Graham enters her orbit.

THE SILENT FRACTURE ✶ | fem!reader x off campus boys

⌑ For the four captains of the Briar hockey team, the world has always had one unshakeable center: her. With her constant presence at games, their shared laughter at the fraternity house, and her unwavering support during every difficult time, she has become the light and anchor that holds the group together.

DAISIES ✶ | fem!reader x beau maxwell

⌑ Being Dean Di Laurentis’s sister at Briar University comes with one golden rule: don’t date athletes. And especially not Beau Maxwell, the irresistible captain of the football team. Yet, what started as a game of stolen glances turned into a secret romance spanning months. For Beau, those stolen early-morning hours with her mean everything—bound by the sole promise that he will always be there at the end of the day.

⌑ LOVE, DEAN ✶ | fem!reader x dean di laurentis

⎯⟢ LANDO NORRIS.

ROSES IN THE PADDOCK ✶ | fem!reader

⌑ Amid the roar of engines and shared silences, Lando keeps a rose that never withers. She was his pillar, his McLaren girl… until love stopped waiting in silence.

YOU ARE IN LOVE ✶ | fem!reader

⌑ The pilot Lando Norris escapes from F1 to a quiet beach in Brazil and finds y/n, a photographer who teaches him the "rhythm" of the stillness of the sea. Their romance is interrupted by the return to racing, leaving Lando under the pressure of Silverstone with the anchor of his love. Finally, Lando returns to Brazil after winning at Interlagos, choosing the certainty of his heart over speed.

UNDER MY SKIN ✶ | publicrelations!reader

⌑ Lando Norris's new relationship becomes the perfect target for social media when his ex-girlfriend—unable to let go of the past—launches a campaign of hate and public attacks against his current partner.

BLIND SPOT ✶ | fem!reader

⌑ The FIA year-end Gala in Paris is the epicenter of glamour, motorsport politics, and flashing cameras. For her, attending as a special guest from the luxury marketing sector is a golden opportunity, but her mind has been fixed on the driver of car number 4 all night.

⎯⟢ CONRAD FISHER.

AFTER THE HURRICANE ✶ | fem!reader

⌑ After Belly rejects Conrad on the beach, he remains alone beneath the starry night, shattered inside. Y/n Montenegro appears in silence, offering comfort without asking for explanations, just as she has in his most vulnerable moments. Between them, a deep bond is born—woven from presence, tenderness, and mutual understanding.

⎯⟢ RAFE CAMERON.

BETWEEN BLUE LIGHTS ✶ | pogue!reader

⌑ Between races, burning memories and silences that weigh more than words, a kook girl who learned to live among pogues faces what was and what could be.

⎯⟢ MIKE WHEELER.

LONG LIVE ✶ | chidhoodfriend!reader

⌑ The love y/n offers mike a respite in the war ageinst vecna, but their bond tighens when her connection with psychic manipulation forces him to question loyalty and truth.

⎯⟢ STEVE HARRINGTON.

SHADOWS OF CAMAZOTZ ✶ | girlfriend!reader

⌗ pairing — beau maxwell x dilaurentis!reader

⌗ synopsis — Being Dean Di Laurentis’s sister at Briar University comes with one golden rule: don’t date athletes. And especially not Beau Maxwell, the irresistible captain of the football team. Yet, what started as a game of stolen glances turned into a secret romance spanning months. For Beau, those stolen early-morning hours with her mean everything—bound by the sole promise that he will always be there at the end of the day.

⌗ author’s note — This story features high-tension seduction dynamics, lighthearted mutual flirting, social alcohol consumption in a university pub, and relaxed, high-content erotic scenes, and mature language suitable for adults audiences (18+ / MDNI).

The silence in the Briar hockey house at three in the morning was a myth, one of those urban legends veterans told rookies to convince them that at some point during the semester they would actually get eight hours of sleep. Usually at that hour, the wooden walls were still vibrating with the bass from some impromptu party, the dull echo of Garrett and Logan screaming at the TV over a FIFA bet, or the sound of someone’s skates being sharpened in the basement.

But on this Friday night, miraculously, the place felt like a tomb. Or at least, the closest thing to a tomb an over-hormoned fraternity of athletes could manage. The only real sound on the entire ground floor was the monotonous hum of the old refrigerator and the accelerated, almost violent echo of my own heart hammering against my ribs.

—If Dean wakes up and finds us here, I swear to God I’m going to use your football helmet as a human shield, Maxwell,— I whispered, pressing my back against the cold granite counter. I tried not to move too much, aware that my bare feet could make some loose floorboard creak.

Beau let out a low laugh. It was a husky, vibrating, and dangerously sexy sound that seemed to reverberate directly through the kitchen's air conditioning and slip beneath my skin. He stepped toward me with that feline, lazy, and completely confident stride he had every time he stepped onto the turf as captain of the Briar Bulls. It didn't matter that we were in enemy territory—the sacred, untouchable house of the hockey team—Beau moved around the kitchen as if he were the goddamn owner of the place.

He wore gray cotton pajama pants that hung temptingly low on his hips, leaving the line of his underwear and the sharp definition of his abs on display. His white T-shirt stretched to its limit against his broad shoulders and those pectorals sculpted by hours in the gym and brutal tackles.

—Your brother sleeps like he’s been anesthetized after the beating they took on the rink today, beautiful. Relax,— he murmured, closing the distance between us until the warmth radiating from his body enveloped me completely, wiping away the chill of the early morning.

He extended his long arms to either side of me, planting his palms on the counter and effectively trapping me within his personal space. He smelled incredible. An intoxicating blend of his sandalwood cologne, clean shower soap, and that scent that was so purely his own it drove me crazy and made me lose all common sense. With a fluid motion of his left hand, he opened the freezer beside me, reached his arm in, and pulled out a frozen pizza box from a cheap brand Logan had probably bought on sale. With an agility a guy nearly six-foot-four shouldn’t possess at three in the morning, he tore the plastic wrap open using his teeth, slid the dough onto a dented aluminum baking sheet, and shoved it into the oven he had already preheated in secret.

—I don’t understand how you can be hungry after the three double cheeseburgers you devoured in the yard after the game,— I teased in a whisper, tangling my fingers in the hem of his white T-shirt just to have an excuse to touch him.

—Today’s practice was hell, and keeping us a state secret burns way too many calories, babe,— he replied, flashing that lopsided, wicked smirk that caused havoc among half the female students on campus, but in this dark kitchen was an exclusive privilege just for me.

To drown out the sepulchral silence surrounding us and camouflage any noise, Beau reached his long arm toward the bar and unlocked his phone. With a quick tap on the screen, he selected a playlist and put on music at a ridiculously low volume, turning it into one more secret between the two of us. The opening acoustic chords of Justin Bieber’s "Daisies" began to float through the air. The combination of the soft guitar and Bieber’s melodic vocals gave the kitchen a completely different vibe. It no longer felt like a forbidden trek into my brother's house; it felt like our very own world.

Beau forgot all about the pizza. He took another step closer to me, forcing me to tilt my head back a bit to look at him. His hands—large, warm, and calloused from the leather of the football—slid slowly up my bare thighs, stopping right at the edge of the oversized Briar sweatshirt I had stolen from his closet earlier that week. His fingers traced my sides with incredible gentleness, a stark contrast to the brutality with which he tackled opponents on the field. In moments like this, the "rough captain" Beau vanished, letting out the ridiculously romantic and overprotective Beau I was fallen for down to my bones.

—I missed you in the stands today,— he said in a soft coo, resting his forehead against mine as the music advanced with a slow tempo. His right hand came up to my cheek, brushing his thumb across my skin. —The Bulls' VIP section looks fucking empty when you're not there.—

—You know perfectly well I couldn’t go, Beau,— I sighed, closing my eyes for a second to savor his touch. —Dean was glued to me all damn day. If he had seen me sitting in the section reserved for the football team's families, he would have started an interrogation worthy of the FBI. My brother has a ridiculous radar for these things when it comes to me.—

—I don’t give a flying fuck about Di Laurentis’s radar,— Beau declared in a husky voice, just a millisecond before leaning his head down and catching my lips with his own.

It was a slow, deep kiss, heavy with all the urgency and frustration accumulated from spending weeks dodging each other in the faculty hallways or limiting ourselves to knowing glances at parties. I stood on my tiptoes, wrapping my arms around his neck and burying them in his dark, untamed hair. I lost myself completely in the taste of his mouth, in the firmness with which he held me against him, as if I were the most valuable thing existing in that house. The background music kept playing in a whisper, just as the lyrics of the song turned more intimate, and Beau seemed to feel it too. He pulled away barely a millimeter, keeping his lips brushing mine, his breath hitching.

—Sometimes I remember when we first started,— he confessed with a small, nostalgic smile, tracing the contour of my jawline with soft kisses. —When you used to leave me on read and I’d just stare at my phone screen like an idiot. You leave me on read, babe, but I still get the message... I’d see those damn three dots appear and disappear, and it drove me completely insane trying to guess what was going through that pretty little head of yours. I was terrified this was just a game to you.—

I let out a stifled laugh against his neck, remembering the absolute panic I felt responding to the most coveted player at Briar, knowing he shared a roof with my older brother.

—I was scared, Beau. Let’s be real. You’re the captain of the football team, the star quarterback. I thought you were just trying to score a point with me for fun. I’m Cupid with arrows, babe, I’m just shootin’ my shot, right? I thought you’d get tired of me in two weeks and leave with some cheerleader from your faculty.—

Beau shook his head immediately, and the amusement on his face dissolved into a seriousness so deep it made my heart flip. His hands cupped my face with a protective firmness, forcing me to hold his gaze. Beau's dark eyes shone with a disarming honesty while Justin Bieber's voice sang about the certainty of love over the phone.

—It was never a game, and you know it. The way you got me all in my head, beautiful. I was so wrapped up in my own head with you that I couldn't even focus on the coach’s plays anymore. It got to a point where I was tired of the runarounds. I didn't want to be the secret guy, or the guy who greets you with indifference in the hallways just to avoid raising suspicions. Don't wanna be friends, I wanna get closer and closer. I wanted this. I wanted to have you in my life for real. But the only reason I put up with months of hiding, lies, and paranoia... was because of one thing.—

I caught my breath, trapped by the intensity of his words. Beau leaned in a little closer, letting his warm breath laced with the scent of sandalwood brush against me before whispering against my lips the exact line of the song that had become our mantra:

—That you’ll still be there...— Beau whispered in a tone so low and full of devotion it sent chills down my spine. —I just needed to know that. That no matter how tough the secret got, the drama with your brother, or the campus gossip, you would still be there for me at the end of the day. As long as you're there, I can handle any blow, babe. Whatever it is, you know I can take it.—

That was my undoing. Heart racing, I pulled his neck down and kissed him with all the force, passion, and relief I had been holding back for months. We lost ourselves so deeply in each other's warmth, in the security of that silent promise that we would always be there, that we forgot all about the rest of the universe. We forgot we were in a public kitchen at Briar, and we forgot the imminent danger.

Until a loose floorboard in the hallway creaked with the force of a gunshot in the middle of the night.

—What the hell...?— a raspy voice, thick with sleep and heavy with monumental confusion, echoed from the dark archway connecting the kitchen to the living room.

We broke apart instantly, nearly losing our balance. My breathing was an absolute mess, and I felt the blood turn to ice in my veins. Beau’s phone, immune to the drama, kept playing Justin Bieber’s melody at a low volume, making everything feel like the climax of a romance movie that had just gone terribly wrong.

There stood Dean. The one and only Dean Di Laurentis in all his early-morning glory: his platinum-blonde hair pointing toward the ceiling in complete chaos, his blue eyes narrowed against the glare of the fluorescent light, and a vacant blue plastic cup in his right hand. He looked like a zombie searching for a drink of water, but the surreal scene right in front of him jolted him awake faster than a bucket of ice water.

Dean blinked once. Twice. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his free hand, clearly convinced that the lack of sleep was making him hallucinate. He looked at Beau. Then he looked at me. Then he dropped his gaze to Beau’s hands, which by pure instinct had closed tightly around my waist to keep me behind him. Finally, my brother’s eyes locked onto the oversized sweatshirt I was wearing: official Briar Bulls gear, with the number 8 on the chest and the name MAXWELL stamped in huge letters across the back. To top it all off, the romantic music kept playing in the background.

—Maxwell?— Dean’s voice pitched up several octaves, losing all the raspiness of sleep. —What are you doing awake? And... why is there a girl in your...?— Dean stopped dead in his tracks. His pupils dilated, and his jaw dropped a couple of centimeters. —Little sister!?—

Panic left my legs feeling like jelly, but Beau reacted with the sheer reflexes of an elite athlete. Without letting go of me, he took a definitive step to the side, interposing his massive six-foot-four frame between Dean and me, blocking my brother's line of sight in a purely territorial and protective manner.

—Dean, man. Hey,— Beau said, maintaining a calm so exasperating that for a second, I wanted to punch him myself just to wipe that relaxed look off his face.

—Hey!? What do you mean 'hey,' Maxwell!?— Dean advanced a step into the center of the kitchen, pointing at us with the empty cup as if it were a loaded weapon. —I live here! This is my goddamn kitchen! What are you doing here at three in the morning, cooking... what is that, a frozen pizza?, with my little sister? And listening to Justin Bieber! And she’s wearing your clothes! The clothes of the goddamn football captain! My worst athletic enemy!—

—Dean, for God’s sake, keep your voice down, you're going to wake up Logan and the others,— I begged, peeking my head over Beau’s massive shoulder.

—I don’t give a flying fuck about waking up Logan!— Dean snapped, though by pure instinct his volume dropped to a furious, hissing, and lethal whisper. —I want a mathematical, logical, physical, and existential explanation as to why the star quarterback of Briar has his hands on my sister’s waist. Right now!—

Beau took a deep breath, crossing his arms and widening his shoulders even more, showcasing a firm posture that made it clear he didn't plan on taking a single step back or apologizing for what he felt.

—Drop the drama, Di Laurentis. We were going to tell you anyway.—

—Tell me what? Since when has this aberration been going on!?—

—Since a few months ago,— Beau confessed without blinking. Every trace of his usual playful tone vanished, replaced by a seriousness so mature and cutting it made my heart flip. —And it’s not a game, Dean. She isn't one of my weekend conquests on campus, or one of the girls from the VIP boxes. I love her. Truly. I’ve been counting the days, countin' the days, every damn week just to be able to spend a few hours with her hidden away from you because I knew you’d go psychotic. This is real, man. So put the cup down before you smash it with the strength of your fingers.—

Dean was left completely speechless. The mention that the unshakeable Beau Maxwell was in love with his sister seemed to freeze his brain cells. He stared at Beau, desperately searching for any hint of a lie or locker-room mockery, but the football captain's gaze was unwavering, almost defiant. Then he looked at me, noting my flushed red cheeks, my ragged breathing, and the way my hands tightly gripped the back of Beau's shirt.

—Months...— Dean repeated in a hollow whisper. For the first time in his egocentric life, the pieces of the puzzle clicked together in his head. —That’s why you suddenly cared about watching football games on Sundays. That’s why I found that hideous Bulls hat in your car. And that’s why you two get so stupid whenever this music plays. By Merlin’s boots, it was right in front of my goddamn face!—

At that exact moment of peak dramatic tension, the oven timer emitted a sharp, long, and shrill beep, cutting off Bieber’s music instantly and destroying the telenovela atmosphere.

Beau, without taking his eyes off his furious friend, reached back with total ease, fumbled blindly for the knob, and turned off the oven.

—The pizza’s done,— Beau announced with a perfectly rehearsed, defiant grin. —Are you going to sit down with us and eat like a functioning adult, or are you going to keep throwing a tantrum in your pajamas with an empty cup in your hand?—

Dean let out a long, loud huff, ran his hand over his face with tremendous frustration, and walked heavily toward the refrigerator's water dispenser, turning his back to us.

—I want half of that pizza,— he grumbled as the water filled his cup. —And you two better start talking from day one, because if I find out anything happened in my car, I will kill you, Maxwell.—

The next morning, the blinding sunlight streamed mercilessly through the large windows of the hockey house's main living room. The air was thick with the usual smell of reheated coffee, burnt toast, and the distinct aroma of hockey stick wax. Dean hadn't slept a single wink. He had dark, heavy bags under his eyes that made him look like a deranged raccoon, and he paced back and forth across the rug like a caged lion.

Meanwhile, Garrett and Logan were peacefully eating cereal straight out of the box, sitting on the couch with their feet propped up on the coffee table, completely locked into an NHL game replay.

Tucker walked into the living room with a calm stride, dressed in comfortable clothes and holding a steaming mug of coffee. He stopped dead in his tracks upon catching sight of Dean’s maniacal expression.

—Who did you murder, Di Laurentis? You look like you’re planning how to hide a body,— Tucker commented before taking a sip from his mug.

Dean froze right in the middle of the room, crossing his arms over his Briar sweatshirt with an amount of indignation that his body could barely contain.

—Nobody. Yet,— Dean growled, sweeping his eyes over his friends. —But I am a millimeter away from committing a first-degree crime. Do you guys have any idea what I discovered in my own kitchen last night? At three in the morning, to be exact.—

Garrett didn't even take his eyes off the television screen.

—What? That you leave empty pizza boxes outside the trash can and that's why we have an ant problem? Because if it's that, we all already know, Dean.—

—No, you piece of an idiot,— Dean hissed, taking a threatening step toward the couch. —I discovered Beau Maxwell. With my sister. Together. In some overly sweet, Disney-movie couple setup, cooking a frozen pizza and blasting Justin Bieber. She was wearing his goddamn football sweatshirt!—

There was a second of absolute silence in the room. Dean puffed out his chest, waiting for shocked shouts, slammed tables, collective curses, and promises from his teammates to break the quarterback's face for messing with the sister of the group. But the only thing that broke the silence was the crunch of Logan chewing on his Froot Loops.

Logan swallowed with total nonchalance, shifted his gaze from the TV to look at Garrett, then looked over at Tucker standing in the doorway, and finally returned his attention to Dean.

—Oh. You just found out last night?— Logan said with an indifference that bordered on offensive.

Dean blinked, and the color of his face went from pale to crimson red in less than three seconds. His brain cells short-circuited all over again.

—What do you mean 'you just found out'?— Dean asked in a dangerously low, trembling voice. —Logan... explain yourself.—

Garrett couldn't hold it in any longer and let out a loud, clear laugh, setting the cereal box down on the coffee table.

—Please, Dean. The entire goddamn Briar campus has known for months. They’ve been dating for almost the whole semester. Beau is completely screwed over her, he's all in his feelings. Three weeks ago, he almost broke a defensive lineman's hand from the state university at the Lounge just because the guy tried to get pushy and ask for your sister’s number. Beau guards what’s his with claws and teeth, man. That’s a secret to absolutely nobody... except you, since you live on your own planet.—

—You... you knew?— Dean pointed a trembling finger at Garrett, feeling the loyalty of the hockey brotherhood crumble right before his eyes.

—Of course I knew,— Garrett replied, shrugging his shoulders. —Beau asked me for advice last month on what to get her for their anniversary. I suggested a normal bouquet of flowers, but the over-the-top bastard ended up buying her that delicate gold chain she’s been wearing everywhere lately. Did you seriously never notice the chain?—

Dean, his eyes wide and his breathing ragged, whipped around toward Tucker, desperately searching for an ally, a sliver of sanity and loyalty in this house of traitors.

—Tucker... tell me you weren't aware of this. You're the only mature one here. Tell me you didn't hide from me that the football captain was sleeping with my sister.—

Tucker sighed with genuine sympathy, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe and taking a sip of his coffee.

—Sorry, man. Your sister confessed to me a while ago and asked me to have her back because she knew perfectly well you’d go exactly as psychotic as you're going right now. Besides, Beau was sitting right here on the porch last Tuesday afternoon waiting for her to go out. We talked about zone tactics and diapers for like an hour. He made it very clear to us that he was sick of hiding, that he loved her for real, and that he planned on telling you sooner or later, no matter what kind of tantrum you threw.—

Dean threw his hands up to his head, tugging at his own blonde locks, completely overwhelmed by the situation. He was outraged, scandalized, and deeply wounded in his big-brother pride.

—Are you telling me that every single guy in this goddamn house, that the entire Briar hockey team, and probably even the stadium janitor knew the star quarterback was crazy about my sister, except for me, who sleeps in the bedroom right next door!?—

—Basically, yeah,— Logan nodded, reaching out his arm to grab another handful of cereal and locking his attention back onto the game on TV. —You’re insufferably oblivious, Di Laurentis. The love between those two was reeking in the air, and you were just too busy admiring your own reflection in the bathroom mirror.—

⌗ pairing — off campus boys x fem!reader

⌗ synopsis — For the four captains of the Briar hockey team, the world has always had one unshakeable center: her. With her constant presence at games, their shared laughter at the fraternity house, and her unwavering support during every difficult time, she has become the light and anchor that holds the group together.

⌗ author’s note — This story contains heavy themes of sexual assault/rape and the emotional trauma following the event. It focuses deeply on the recovery, healing process, and the fierce protection of the main characters. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

For the four players on the Briar hockey team, the world was divided into two very distinct spaces: the frozen, brutal chaos of the hockey rink, and the absolute calm that only you knew how to give them. For years, you had become an immovable constant in their lives. You weren't just a friend; you were their anchor, the light that kept them sane amidst the pressure from recruiters, grueling practices, and campus fame. You had been there for every victory and every defeat, treating dislocated shoulders with the college first-aid team, helping Logan memorize play sheets, or brewing strong coffee in the fraternity kitchen at three in the morning so Tucker wouldn't fail his exams.

Hannah Wells and Allie Hayes shared that same devotion. To them, you were the heart of the group, the one who always managed to make the loud, massive players lower their guard.

That Friday night, the fraternity house was in full swing after a crushing victory against the Huskies. The music vibrated through the wooden walls, and punch flowed in red plastic cups. In the midst of the swarm of students, the boys had a biological radar programmed exclusively for you. It didn't matter how crowded the main room was; their eyes always sought you out in the crowd.

―Hey, make way for the boss!― Logan shouted, pushing his way through a group of freshmen as soon as he saw you enter the main living room. You were wearing Garrett’s giant sweatshirt, which hung down almost to your knees. ―Tucker, move, she brought the snacks you asked for.―

―I swear, if Logan eats your share, I'm benching him next game,― Garrett said, approaching you immediately. He wrapped a massive arm around your shoulders, dropping a quick kiss on your temple. ―I was checking the entrance every five minutes. I thought you fell asleep in the library.―

―I had to finish the clinic report, Graham,― you replied with a smile, letting yourself be guided toward the comfort of the worn-out couches in the VIP lounge. ―But I promised you guys I’d come celebrate. Hey, boys.―

―Hey, beautiful,― Tucker greeted from the kitchen, poking his head out with a spatula in his hand. ―I made you the wings with the sauce you like. Don't let Dean get near them, he’s already had three beers and is being insufferable.―

Dean Di Laurentis, sitting on the edge of the sofa with a lazy smile, raised his cup in your direction, his eyes gleaming with sincere affection.

―Don't listen to Tucker, babe. I am perfectly sober and highly offended,― Dean joked, patting the empty space next to him. ―Come over here and tell us how your day went at the hospital. Hannah and Allie were looking for you all afternoon to plan the weekend trip.―

⌗ pairing — garrett graham x dean di laurentis x fem!reader

⌗ synopsis — Determined to leave the crushing weight of the hospital behind, she steps into the chaotic energy of the championship after-party, completely unaware that her choices have already set a trap. In a single heartbeat, the territorial lines of the campus are redrawn. Her arrival sparks a silent, dangerous rivalry between Garrett Graham and Dean Di Laurentis—turning a night of celebration into a high-stakes psychological game where her innocence is the ultimate prize, and neither captain has any intention of playing fair.

⌗ author’s note — This story features high-tension seduction dynamics, lighthearted mutual flirting, social alcohol consumption in a university pub, and relaxed, high-content erotic scenes, and mature language suitable for adults audiences (18+ / MDNI).

⌗ the emergency shift.- part ii ⌗ the emergency shift.- part i

The return to the epicenter of the party was like plunging all at once into a pool of freezing water. The blasting music hit your chest, making your ribs vibrate with a violence so deafening that it forced you to stop on the last step, closing your eyes for a brief second and breathing deeply so as not to lose your balance. The change in frequencies was brutal; you went from the static-charged silence in the dim light of the upstairs hallway to the uncontrolled roar of a human mass in full catharsis. But within a few minutes, the pure adrenaline from the encounter in the hallway began to dilute in your bloodstream, giving way to a strange, dense, and strangely pleasant feeling of lightness. The air downstairs was stale, thick, heavy with the sweat of bodies dancing pressed together in the main room, the sweetish smell of cheap beer spilled over the carpets, and that suffocating human heat that only Briar fraternities knew how to concentrate on victory nights. You decided, for once in your structured life, to turn off the switch of your clinical mind. You forced yourself to ignore the cognitive dissonance that threatened to analyze your every heartbeat and, to your own surprise, ended up enjoying the night like you hadn't in months.

You felt strangely comfortable, an absolute anomaly in your behavior patterns. The atmosphere of the house, which at the beginning of the night seemed like hostile territory, a wild jungle foreign to your orderly routine of textbooks, diagnostic simulations, and milimetric shifts, became warm, almost welcoming as the hours ticked by. By stopping the analysis of every corner as if it were a social experiment or a behavioral case study, you allowed the tide of the party to drag you in completely. You ended up sharing more than usual with the hockey guys. They were mountains of muscle with thunderous laughs, deep voices, and varsity jackets who, at the beginning of the night, had seemed like intimidating and overwhelming figures, but now, under the diffuse light of the room, revealed themselves as a group of loud, passionate, and surprisingly loyal college students.

Amid shared laughs, the constant clinking of red plastic cups, and exaggerated locker-room anecdotes about past games, bus trips, and ancestral rivalries with other faculties, you discovered a vital fact about the house's internal dynamics: John Tucker was the real engine and the silent heart of the place. While everyone else celebrated the victory by shouting and tearing up the room with jumps and team chants, Tucker calmly made sure the kitchen didn't end up in ashes. You found him there later, standing in front of the stove, spatula in hand and with a patience that seemed infinite, preparing mountains of snacks, spicy chicken wings, and fast food for the battalion of hungry athletes who walked in and out in search of provisions. He was, literally, the father of the group. He made sure no one drank too much without eating something solid first, cleaned up disasters before they became irreparable, and watched over the physical structure of the house surviving the weekend. Seeing him amiably scold a huge two-meter defenseman for leaving a cup misplaced on the counter he had just cleaned made you truly smile; it was a deeply human reminder that, behind the facade of campus demigods and heroes of the ice rink, they were just boys looking for a safe haven to drop their guard and be themselves.

Throughout the entire night, Garrett and Dean continued with their own thing. They fulfilled their roles as perfect hosts, moving through the room with an enviable ease that denoted how used they were to being the center of attention, and spent much of their time with Hannah Wells and Allie Hayes. You saw them laugh, dance under the low lights, and claim the space that rightfully belonged to them in Briar's complex social hierarchy. However, the flirting with you never completely stopped; it mutated into something much more subtle. There was no need for them to come talk to you or break the circle of people surrounding you; the tension had become subterranean, a thread invisible to the rest of the world but suffocating for you. It boiled down to a dark look from Dean from across the room while holding Allie's waist in the middle of the dance floor, a heavy gaze that locked onto your eyes for exactly three seconds before pulling away with a deliberate slowness that made your skin crawl. Or Garrett lifting his plastic cup in your direction with a complicit, feline, and tiny smile in the middle of a serious conversation with Hannah, letting you know that, no matter who he was talking to or what role he had to play in front of the crowd, a part of his attention remained fixed on the exact corner where you were. You knew perfectly well that you were playing with fire, that you were stepping into the forbidden ground of that emotional vandalism that your moral compass feared so much, but at that moment, under the anesthetic effect of social alcohol, the players' laughter, and the constant music, the heat of danger was delicious.

Toward the end of the early morning, when the music volume dropped a couple of decibels and the crowd began to scatter toward the upper bedrooms or look for taxis at the entrance, you ended up sitting on one of the wooden stools in the kitchen, swinging your loose legs and talking quietly with Beau. His presence was the perfect anchor, the gravitational force you needed not to float too far away from your own reality after a night so out of the ordinary. Beau talked about mundane and trivial things—the state of traffic on campus, the exams on Monday, how incredibly good the food Tucker had prepared tasted—and you limited yourself to listening to him, feeling the accumulated fatigue of the week finally settle into your muscles like a heavy blanket. Looking at the moderate mess in the kitchen and the party atmosphere that was slowly beginning to fade, you realized that, against all odds, it had been a great night. For something that completely broke your strict intern schedules, your clinical diagnosis simulations, and your hospital shifts, you had allowed yourself the luxury of simply being a twenty-one-year-old girl having a good time, free of professional labels and external expectations.

However, the idyll of the party did not last forever. Monday morning dragged you back to the raw, cold, and gray reality with the destructive violence of a slammed door. And on Tuesday, fate decided to test every ounce of your psychological and professional endurance at the hospital.

During your evening shift in the psychiatric emergency unit at the General Hospital, things spiraled out of control in the blink of an eye. You had been assigned the admission and initial evaluation of a young patient, a boy your own age caught in a severe psychotic episode stemming from a poorly treated college anxiety crisis and abuse of stimulants for studying. When trying to conduct the mandatory clinical interview in the evaluation cubicle, the environment turned hostile in a millisecond. The boy began to agitate, his wild eyes fixed on your uniform, shouting accusations that you were part of a conspiracy to lock him up and destroy his career. You tried to use your verbal de-escalation techniques, keeping your tone of voice low and your posture neutral, but the patient's paranoia escalated physically in a flash. With a violent movement, the boy threw a metal tray of instruments that was on the side table. The object crashed directly against the concrete wall, a few centimeters from your face, scattering forceps and gauze across the floor with a deafening crash.

The nurses in the unit had to intervene immediately, entering the cubicle to mechanically restrain the patient while he fought and shouted insults. You stood paralyzed in the corner of the room, your back pressed against the wall, the chart papers visibly trembling in your hands and the sharp beep of the code gray alarm drilling into your ears. It was a brutal technical and emotional inconvenience that left your body shaking and your mind plunged into a sea of doubts. The remorse for not knowing how to anticipate the patient's behavioral escalation, the guilt of feeling terrified instead of clinical, ate at your insides during the rest of the night shift. You spent the dead hours reviewing the procedure manual, wondering if you truly had the inner strength necessary to withstand the pressure of that profession.

On Wednesday morning you arrived at the university campus dragging your feet, with deep dark circles under your eyes that not even concealer could hide and a level of stress that bordered on a nervous breakdown. You hadn't eaten breakfast, your stomach was a tight knot of reheated coffee and suppressed nerves. You sat on one of the wooden benches in the main hallway of the faculty of health sciences, leaning your forehead against your bent knees and closing your eyes, feeling completely overwhelmed by the chaos of the hospital.

—Hey... breathe. You're going to wear down the tiles if you keep staring at them with that much intensity.

You lifted your head slowly, feeling your neck stiff. It was Beau. He carried two steaming cups of coffee in his hands, a paper bag from the cafeteria, and an expression of genuine, warm, and clean concern in his eyes that disarmed you instantly. He sat next to you on the bench without asking permission, keeping a respectful distance but close enough that you could feel the warmth of his presence. He extended one of the cups and the bag to you.

—I know perfectly well that you haven't eaten anything all morning —Beau said, in a soft tone of voice, devoid of any mockery—. I know you when you enter that self-destruction mode from studying or the hospital. You have to eat something solid, or you're going to faint in the middle of the hallway. I brought you a cheese bagel. Come on, eat.

You didn't have the strength needed to fake your usual clinical facade of the "perfect intern who has everything under control." You accepted the coffee cup, feeling how the heat returned some sensitivity to your cold fingers. With your voice broken by accumulated fatigue and vulnerability right at the surface, you began to speak. You confessed to him what had happened on Tuesday in emergencies, the real and physical fear you felt when the tray hit the wall, and the tremendous clinical frustration of feeling that you had failed in managing the patient's crisis.

Beau did not interrupt you even once. He didn't try to give you a theoretical lesson, or quote textbook authors, or judge your lack of professional reflexes in a risky situation. He simply stayed there, by your side, listening to the chaotic venting of your saturated mind, allowing his shoulder to brush yours in a constant, solid, and peaceful contact that served as a shield against the rest of the world.

—You're not a diagnostic machine —Beau told you gently, reaching his peak right to your chest when you finished speaking. He leaned in a bit, looking for your gaze—. You're a third-year student, not a psychiatrist with twenty years of experience. You were afraid because you're alive, not because you're incompetent. And the fact that it hurts you so much, the fact that you're here worried about that boy's well-being and about what you could have done better, proves that you're going to be an amazing therapist. Stop punishing yourself for a difficult Tuesday. Do you promise me? Now, take a bite of the bagel, please. I need to see that you take care of yourself too.

As you watched him speak, observing the golden morning light streaming through the faculty windows and illuminating his calm, secure, and honest features, something in your chest changed rhythm completely. It was a subtle shift, a small and imperceptible crack in the stone wall that you had built with so much effort around your emotions to keep everyone at the exact distance of a diagnosis. Little by little, with a slowness that scared you, you realized that you were beginning to develop real, deep, and legitimate feelings for him.

This had nothing to do with the purely physical obsession, the runaway adrenaline, or the dark and destructive magnetism that Dean and Garrett triggered in your systems; Beau was a refuge. It was clean peace, it was unconditional support, it was the genuine desire to want to be near someone who looked at you for who you were in your vulnerability, and not for the power game or the conquest you represented in the campus social hierarchy. The idea of falling in love or developing such a real emotional bond toward him filled you with panic, adding a new layer of complexity and guilt to your already messy mental map. You felt torn, broken into pieces between the warmth Beau offered you and the dangerous attraction dragging you toward the two hockey players.

To make the week's cognitive dissonance worse, the attention of Briar's two captains did not give you the slightest truce, proving that their threads remained connected to you regardless of distance. That same afternoon, barely an hour after having said goodbye to Beau with your heart beating in a completely different way and your stomach finally full, your phone vibrated in your coat pocket. It was a direct message from a number you no longer needed to identify:

“We saw you in the health hallway with the good boy, doctor. You look much better when you're stressed by us in the kitchen than when you look for comfort in the wrong arms. See you soon.” — G.

You pressed the phone against your chest, feeling the pressure becoming unbearable. You had the warm feelings for Beau blooming inside you like a promise of stability, the guilt from the hospital crushing your academic morale, and the digital and psychological stalking of Dean and Garrett reminding you that you were trapped in a game you no longer knew if you wanted or could escape.

Because of all that, by Thursday afternoon your brain was on the verge of a total collapse from compassion fatigue and information overload. You felt that if you analyzed one more human behavior, if you heard a single monitor beep, or if you tried to categorize someone else's impulse in your notebooks, you would break into a thousand unrecoverable pieces. You needed an urgent escape, a space of absolute silence and cold where your analytical mind could not self-destruct with thoughts on a loop.

And your only sanctuary in the world was a very well-kept secret. Hardly anyone on the university campus knew that you knew how to skate. In an institution where ice hockey was an absolute religion and the rink was the exclusive and sacred property of elite athletes, you possessed a technical ability and a speed that you had jealously hidden from the public eye. It was a private talent, a space of pure control and bodily catarsis that only your brother and Gracie knew about. For the rest of the world, you were the serious intern, the girl with the books who spent her entire days locked in the library or running through the hospital hallways.

Taking advantage of a dead hour in the afternoon, a specific moment when the university hockey rink was usually completely deserted due to class schedule overlaps and technical breaks for the main team, you took refuge in the huge stadium. The silence of the place was sepulchral, almost religious, broken only by the low, rhythmic, and distant hum of the underground generators that kept the ice at the perfect temperature. You changed your street shoes for your personal skates on the wooden bench in the empty lobby, tying the laces with a mechanical and firm precision, feeling how the stiff, cold leather hugged your ankles, giving them the support that your mind couldn't find anywhere else.

When you took your first step onto the rink, crossing the line of the barrier, the characteristic and biting cold of the place hit your face with the force of a clean slap, instantly clearing the mental fog, the memory of the aggressive patient at the hospital, Beau's words, and the accumulated fatigue of the week. You began to move. At first you did it with slow, cautious impulses, testing the polished and perfect surface of the ice, but soon you gained speed. You glided with an innate fluidity that required no theoretical logic, no presumptive diagnoses, no academic approvals of any kind. There were no hospital rules in here. There were no gray codes. It was just you, the rhythmic, dry, and sharp sound of the steel blades cutting the frozen surface, and the freezing air filling your lungs with every step.

You let your own body remember the automatic turns, the perfect and milimetric leaning of the knees to keep the center of gravity low, and the glorious freedom of moving forward at full speed without a fixed direction. You crossed your arms over your chest, feeling the freezing wind whip your hair and numb your cheeks as you accelerated recklessly in the curves of the rink. For the first time all week, you truly breathed a sigh of relief, releasing all the accumulated tension in your chest in a long breath that instantly transformed into a small cloud of vapor floating in front of you. The ice was the only place in the universe where you had absolute control of movement, space, and time. Here you weren't the future therapist in charge of containing and fixing the chaos of other people's minds; here you were movement itself, a pure physical force without contradictions.

You made a clean transition backward, changing the front of the glide with flawless elegance and technique, crossing your legs in a perfect geometric pattern that left clean marks on the freshly resurfaced ice. You enjoyed the echo of your own hurried breathing resonating in the rafters of the huge empty stadium, feeling for a few minutes like the absolute owner of that frozen desert.

Or at least, that's what your mind wanted to believe.

As you braked near the center of the rink, right over the painted logo in the middle, digging the inside edges of the blades to stop dead and kicking up a small, bright, and dense cloud of frost that floated in the air before falling back down, you turned your head toward the upper stands. You were visually looking for the exit to start heading back, but your gaze instinctively drifted toward the press box and the VIP lounges, plunged into the shadow of the turned-off lights.

A sudden, sharp, electric, and deep shiver, which had absolutely nothing to do with the low temperature of the place, ran down your spine, paralyzing your muscles on the spot and freezing the air in your throat.

Leaning against the metal railing of the upper boxes, completely motionless, like two dark and lurking statues emerging from the stadium's shadow, were them. Dean Di Laurentis and Garrett Graham.

They weren't wearing their heavy game uniforms, or the pads that made them look like relentless and inhuman masses of muscle on the ice; they wore dark civilian jackets, jeans, and comfortable clothes, but their silhouettes were perfectly unmistakable to your eyes at any distance. You didn't know how long they had been hanging around there in the darkness of the empty stands, watching in absolute, consuming, and meticulous silence your every turn, your every transition backward, every moment of weakness and freedom in which you had believed yourself completely alone and free from the campus scrutiny.

Despite the considerable physical distance and the dim light of the stadium, you could feel the direct impact of their gazes on your skin. The way Dean's usually lazy and uninterested posture had tensed completely, his arms resting tightly on the iron railing and his hazel eyes shining with a new, dangerous, and possessive fascination from the height. Beside him, Garrett Graham stood tall, hands tucked into the pockets of his dark jacket, but with his head slightly tilted forward, devouring the scene with the same icy and analytical intensity with which a team captain studies the structural weakness of his opponent before ordering a decisive and irreversible play.

You had stripped away your cold intern facade in front of them without knowing it. You had shown an intimate, free, and real part of yourself that was not recorded in your textbooks or protected by your moral codes. Your best-kept secret, your only space of peace, was completely exposed before the two men you had desperately tried to flee from all week, and the fragile truce of the routine you had built with Beau shattered into a thousand pieces under the weight of their silent glances from the darkness above. You had no escape; the game had moved to their own temple.

The end of spring at Briar did not bring calm, but rather the density of an outcome that had felt inevitable since the first slice of the blades on the ice. The entire university had poured itself into organizing the great end-of-cycle gala night, designed under the concept of classical Shakespearean theater. The campus authorities had allowed the transformation of the ancient gardens and the grand stone hall into a baroque labyrinth: crimson velvet draperies that choked the echo of conversations, gas torches casting elongated, flickering shadows against colonial walls, and the strict requirement to wear Venetian masks to erase identities, allowing darker impulses to circulate without the weight of social judgment.

For you, the night did not represent a celebration for having survived the third year of your studies; it was the physical conclusion of a cognitive dissonance that had torn your chest apart for months. You could no longer keep up the facade of the neat, analytical intern. The milimetric order of your clinical diagnoses, the progress notes you wrote with perfect handwriting at the hospital, and the ethical distance you strove so hard to maintain had completely crumbled before their territorial fixation and constant stalking.

You stopped in front of the lobby mirror before entering the grand ballroom. You wore a black silk dress that clung to your curves like a second skin, leaving your back completely bare down to the very base of your spine, where the fabric fell in a fluid drape that moved with every one of your trembling steps. The mask you chose was simple, made of dark lace, covering just enough to highlight the tightness of your jaw and the moisture in your eyes. The social consumption of alcohol floated in the room’s air like an invisible mist; spiced punch and champagne glasses circulated on silver trays, while a chamber orchestra distorted classical pieces with modern, deep bass, creating a dense, heavy, almost Dionysian atmosphere.

You scanned the crowd for Beau as soon as you crossed the threshold. You loved him. His warmth, his persistence in making sure you ate, his coffees in the faculty hallways, and his firm hand on your wrist after your crisis with the hospital patient had been your only safe harbor of peace in the middle of the storm. You found him near the side arches of the gala, away from the main noise. He was impeccable in his dark suit, holding a glass with that calm, honest, and clean smile that always, without fail, returned the breath that the other two stole from you.

You approached him with your heart beating with a tragic slowness, feeling the brush of silk against your legs as a reminder of your own betrayal. The weight of your secrets kept you from breathing. Noticing your proximity, Beau set his glass on a side table and turned toward you. His smile vanished almost immediately upon noticing the stiffness of your shoulders and the fixity of your gaze behind the black lace. He took your hands, finding them freezing despite the ballroom’s heat.

—You’re here —Beau said, his deep, soft voice dropping in volume to create a bubble between the two of you—. I’ve been looking for you among the masks for an hour. I brought you something to eat from the main table, I know you left the hospital late and surely haven't tasted a bite. Are you okay? You seem... distant.

—Don't worry about the food, Beau. Thank you —you replied, and your voice sounded broken, stripped of the academic authority you used to assume. You forced your eyes to hold his gaze, absorbing the clean light of his pupils for the last time—. I need you to listen to me very carefully. You have to leave this party. You have to get out of here right now.

Beau frowned, his hands tightening around yours with more firmness, trying to convey a stability you no longer possessed.

—What are you talking about? You just got here. If it's about what happened at the hospital on Tuesday, we already talked about it. You're human, you don't have to carry the whole weight of the unit by yourself. I'm here with you. We came to enjoy this together.

—You don't understand, Beau... it's not about the hospital —you said, feeling tears gather behind the lace mask, burning your eyelids—. I don't belong to your light. I don't belong to the peace you offer me, even though I desire it with every part of my being. What I am... what they have awakened in me during these weeks, is a behavioral anomaly that has no cure in my textbooks. The mental map I built is broken. I love you too much to drag you down into this abyss with me. You don't deserve the chaos that comes with me.

Beau remained completely motionless. His eyes scanned your face, looking for a crack to enter and save you, but the tragic resolution in your features gave him the answer before you could add another word. He knew the campus. He knew the territorial fixity of Dean Di Laurentis and the relentless authority of Garrett Graham. He understood the weight of the messages you had received, he understood the looks in the cafeteria, and he realized that your warning was not a burst of hysteria, but a definitive act of sacrifice to protect his integrity and his future from the psychological violence of the two captains.

—If I leave now... —Beau whispered, his voice heavy with a dull ache that broke your heart—, I know you won't look at me the same way in the hallways again. I know what this means.

—It means I am saving you from me —you articulated in a thread of a voice.

Beau let go of your hands slowly, feeling the immediate emptiness of the cold air between his fingers. He leaned toward you and gave you one last kiss on the forehead, a warm, slow, and painful contact that felt like a goodbye to a life you could never have.

—I hope you find whatever you're looking for in the dark —he murmured, before turning on his heels.

You watched him walk toward the grand ballroom exit, his straight silhouette losing itself definitively among the crowd of masks and velvet. As soon as he vanished from your field of vision, the last trace of light from your old life went out, leaving you alone in the dimness, ready to surrender yourself at the altar of your true owners.

As soon as Beau's figure crossed the threshold of the main doors, the atmosphere around you changed completely. Two massive, coordinated silhouettes emerged from the shadows. A large, firm hand belonging to Dean Di Laurentis rested directly on the bare skin of your upper back, sliding down with a deliberate slowness until it gripped your waist tightly, pinning your hips against his torso. At the same time, Garrett Graham appeared right in front of you, completely blocking off the ballroom.

—The time for playing doctor is over, baby —Dean whispered directly against your ear, his voice turning into a low, thick growl—. You gave the good boy his exit ticket. Now you belong to us completely.

—You have nowhere to run inside here —Garrett added, taking a step forward that shortened the distance until the fabric of his jacket brushed the silk of your dress.

Without giving you the slightest room to respond, they both guided you out of the main hall, dragging you through the deserted corridors of the old wing of the theatrical arts faculty. They brought you into the private dressing room area of the main theater, where the darkness was absolute. Garrett shut the heavy oak door behind him with a sharp thud, sliding the iron bolt.

The high tension that had accumulated exploded on the spot. Garrett cornered you against the solid wooden table of the dressing room, trapping both of your hands above your head with just one of his large, calloused hands. He leaned over you and claimed your mouth with a brutal, possessive kiss that forced your lips open, making you groan against his tongue.

At the same time, Dean positioned himself behind you. His hands slid down the black silk of your dress, moving up your bare thighs, caressing the inner skin with a pressure that made you gasp. With a clean, firm tug, Dean pulled down the back zipper of your dress. The black silk slipped off your shoulders, falling to your waist, leaving your firm breasts completely exposed to the cold air of the dressing room. Dean knelt behind you, wrapping his arms around your side to trap one of your nipples between his wet lips, sucking with a rhythmic force while his fingers sought out your core.

You were a living paradox: your mind judged you severely, but your body surrendered completely, dripping wetness between your legs. Garrett let go of your hands, burying his fingers tightly into your short hair to force your head up to look him directly in the eyes, while his other hand unfastened his pants, exposing his erect, thick, and throbbing length.

—Look at me —Garrett ordered you, his voice cracked with pure lust—. Tell me what your psychology manual says about how much you want us to tear you to pieces in here.

Dean gripped your thighs tightly, lifting you completely and sitting you on the edge of the wooden table, spreading your legs wide open. Your soaked femininity was left fully exposed. Without further ado, Garrett positioned himself between your legs, held you firmly by the hips, and thrust into you in a single colossal push, sinking to the root and stretching your walls to the limit.

You let out a sharp cry of pleasure that was devoured by Dean's lips, who leaned in to kiss you with his tongue again, savoring your submission while Garrett began to thrust into you with a wild and ruthless rhythm. You felt Garrett's hot length hitting the depth of your womb, every impact making you moan. To drive you into absolute physical delirium, Dean's fingers descended to your pelvis, rubbing your erect clitoris with fast, circular motions that made you lose all sense of space.

After a few minutes of a frenzied rhythm, Garrett pulled out with a hoarse groan, leaving you empty and pulsing before Dean took over. He forced you to turn around, resting your hands and knees on the table. Dean positioned himself right behind you and plunged inside at once, penetrating you from behind with long, deep thrusts that made you claw at the wood.

While Dean slammed into you with animal force, making you collide against his pelvis, Garrett knelt in front of you on the table, gripping your jaw firmly to force your mouth open and make you take his erect member, burying it deep to the back of your throat. The exchange of fluids, the suffocating heat of your sweaty bodies, and the scent of explicit sex created the perfect storm.

—You're ours —Dean groaned near your ear, his hands leaving red marks on your hips as he accelerated the thrusts, feeling the spasmodic contractions of your vaginal muscles tightening around his length, announcing your orgasm.

The climax hit you with the force of lightning, a wave of heat that made you contract violently around Dean's length while you groaned muffledly with your mouth full. Seconds later, with a hoarse roar, Dean came deep inside you, flooding you with his hot seed, followed almost at the exact same instant by Garrett, who pulled out of your mouth to ejaculate over your chest, your neck, and your face in large, thick streams of white heat.

The absolute silence returned to the faculty dressing room, broken only by the heavy, rhythmic, and coupled sound of three ragged breaths trying to catch the air in the dim light. You collapsed completely onto the wooden surface of the table, your muscles limp, your body covered in foreign sweat, semen, and the shredded remnants of the black silk that was once your gala attire. The cognitive dissonance had died definitively on that floor; there was nothing left to analyze, no diagnosis to issue, no moral rule left to protect.

Garrett Graham moved first with an icy parsimony. He grabbed one of the clean towels from the vanity and wiped your face, your chest, and your legs with a possessive gentleness that instilled more fear than his own physical violence. He helped you sit up smoothly, supporting your weight while your legs trembled upon the invisible skates of your reality. Dean approached from behind, pulling what was left of the black dress over your shoulders, placing slow, wet kisses over the red marks his own fingers had left engraved upon your skin.

You looked at yourself in the vanity mirror, under the dim light of the dressing room: your eyes were no longer those of the neat, analytical, and distant hospital intern. The gaze looking back from the reflection belonged to someone who had crossed the behavioral point of no return. You had dropped the shield of your books forever.

There was no open ending in this story. No doubts were left floating in the air about what would happen on Monday on campus or in the weeks to come. As you walked out of that ancient dressing room, stepping through the deserted hallway flanked by both of them, holding their hands with a firmness born from pure acceptance, you assumed your destiny definitively as the dark queen of their territory.

⌗ pairing — garrett graham x dean di laurentis x fem!reader

⌗ synopsis — Determined to leave the hospital behind, she attends the after-party wearing a spectacular blue dress and Beau Maxwell’s varsity jacket. Upon entering the kitchen, her sweet presence—combined with the fact that she is wearing the clothes of Dean’s best friend—ignites an immediate storm of male jealousy, sparking a silent rivalry between Garrett and Dean.

⌗ author’s note — This story features high-tension seduction dynamics, lighthearted mutual flirting, social alcohol consumption in a university pub, and relaxed, mature language suitable for an adult audience. ⌗ the emergency shift.- part i ⌗ the emergency shift.- part iii

The original plan for Friday night was indisputable, perfect, and sacred. It consisted exactly of three non-negotiable elements: an extra-soft pair of flannel pajama pants that were already worn out from use, an absurdly huge mug of hot chocolate with a mountain of marshmallows floating on the surface, and a complete marathon of early 2000s romantic comedies. Your mind was already projecting the iconic scenes from How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days and 13 Going on 30. You were experiencing that level of absolute exhaustion that seeps into your bones; between the endless third-year clinical psychology classes, the dense case reports due on Mondays, and the grueling hours on your feet at the Briar University General Hospital emergency room, your brain and body were simply begging for a twelve-hour blackout.

But destiny—or rather, the relentless alliance between your best friend Gracie and your own brother—had diametrically opposite plans for you that night.

―You're not staying locked up like a hermit on a game Friday,― your brother had sentenced a few hours earlier, walking into your room without knocking and pulling the blanket off you with that typical, annoying, yet loving authority only older brothers have. ―The whole campus is going to be at the arena today. Beau and the guys from the football team already bought passes for the premium stands, and you need to clear your mind of the hospital, white coats, and syringes once and for all.―

―Please, I beg you, do it for me!― Gracie had pleaded next, dramatically kneeling at the edge of your bed and giving you the most manipulative puppy-dog eyes in her repertoire. ―The atmosphere is going to be absolute madness. It's the biggest game of the month. I promise that if you fall asleep halfway through the second period in the stands, I’ll serve as your human pillow and protect you from any stray pucks.―

You ended up giving in with a long, defeated sigh, accompanied by that sweet and understanding smile that always characterized you. You didn't have the energy to fight two forces of nature. You put on a pair of comfortable dark jeans, your most worn-out sneakers, and a pastel-colored oversize sweatshirt that looked beautiful on you, loose enough to let the collar subtly slip off one of your shoulders in a completely natural but very cute way. You left your hair down, falling in soft waves over your back, without a single drop of effort.

As your brother’s car pulled into the parking lot of the sports complex and you walked toward the main entrance of Briar's ice rink, the deafening roar of the crowd and the blast of freezing air characteristic of ice rinks hit your face all at once. The place was absolutely packed; a sea of students dressed in crimson and white crowded the hallways, food stands, and arena entrances. Not a single soul more could fit.

As soon as you crossed the main entrance of the arena, a massive silhouette with incredibly broad shoulders, wearing the varsity jacket of the football athletes, pushed through the sports faculty crowd. It was Beau Maxwell.

―Look who they managed to drag out of the book cave!― Beau exclaimed with a huge, contagious smile that showed his white teeth, walking straight toward you. With the total confidence, familiarity, and affection of having practically grown up together, Beau leaned down toward you without hesitating for a second. He planted a tender, loud kiss on your right cheek while wrapping his massive arm around your shoulders for a brief moment, messing up your hair with his other hand in that playful way that drove you crazy and charmed you at the same time. ―It's so good you came, little one. Your brother promised me that if I convinced you to come to the arena, he’d pay for the family pizzas after the game is over.―

―Hi, Beau. I see I was used as bargaining chip and culinary blackmail,― you laughed with your clean, melodious, and soft giggle, giving him a playful nudge in the side of his torso—a blow that didn't even move him an inch due to his wide-receiver musculature. ―It better be good pizza from the downtown parlor and not the frozen ones from the corner store.―

Your brother burst out laughing, giving your shoulder an affectionate squeeze before looking at his teammate. ―See you in the parking lot or at the house after the game, alright? Stick close to Gracie, , I don't want you getting lost in this horde of savages. Let's go, Beau, the guys from the offensive line already saved us seats down by the glass!―

In a blink, your brother and Beau walked away with large strides among the crowd of athletes and students who greeted them as they passed, leaving you alone with Gracie in the middle of the deafening hustle of the arena. You patiently walked alongside your friend, looking for an open access to the upper stands, dodging freshmen who screamed euphorically with their faces painted in Briar's colors.

As you slowly climbed the concrete steps, your eyes dedicated themselves to scanning the panorama analytically, a habit deeply ingrained thanks to your psychology studies. In the distance, exactly in the premium rows of the lower section, right behind the home bench, you managed to spot Hannah Wells and Allie Hayes. They were sitting together, sharing a bag of popcorn, laughing animatedly, and holding up a couple of light support banners. You dedicated a quick look and an internal smile to them, remembering the subtle tension of jealousy that had dissolved so kindly at Malone's Pub last week when you decided to be completely transparent and sweet with them. They were great girls, and you were perfectly aware of their love stories with the players, staying on the sidelines with impeccable maturity.

That night, the atmosphere inside the arena bordered on collective hysteria for a very simple and powerful reason: Briar's full starting lineup was on the ice, with no rotations or injuries. On the ice, performing their pre-game warm-up at high speed, gliding with a brutal precision that made the frozen surface crunch, were all the guys you had to heal, bandage, or gently scold over the past few weeks.

You could see John Tucker moving with agility, his hand perfectly bandaged and protected under his thick hockey glove, handling the stick with a dexterity that proved your impeccable management in the ER had yielded perfect fruits. A little further back was John Logan, with a look of absolute concentration, patrolling the defensive zone. And, of course, leading the warm-up line was the dynamic duo that seemed to have made it their personal mission to test the patience of your hospital internship: Dean Di Laurentis and the team captain himself, Garrett Graham.

Gracie and you finally managed to find two empty seats in the middle section of the stands, specifically in section four. It was a perfect location: close enough to the rink to see the players' expressions and the fast movement of the black puck with total clarity, but elevated enough to avoid being crushed by the more radical university fans slamming against the lower plexiglass. You settled into the cold metal seat, rubbing your hands together for warmth and letting out a relaxed little sigh as you adjusted your oversize sweatshirt.

On the ice, the regulation ten minutes of the warm-up practice were coming to an end. Garrett Graham, looking imposing, massive, and dangerously attractive in his full hockey gear, protective shoulder pads, and the large Briar dragon crest printed across his chest, was gathering his players near the net to give the final tactical instructions. However, his disciplined captain's mind couldn't help but perform the routine visual scan he always did toward the stands before the initial puck drop. It was a mechanical habit to measure the crowd's energy.

This time, his dark eyes stopped dead in the middle of the section. His gaze froze.

Garrett blinked under the cage of his helmet, completely losing the thread of the sentence he was saying to a sophomore player who was listening to him attentively. He saw you. He saw your pastel oversize sweatshirt, your fresh face devoid of heavy makeup, and that calm, sweet, and genuine smile with which you listened to Gracie's complaints about the cold. An instant flash of pure excitement, surprise, and absolute satisfaction lit up his hardened face. Without thinking twice, Garrett raised his right arm covered by his hockey glove and gave a very hard and none-too-subtle elbow to the ribs of Dean Di Laurentis, who was right next to him distractedly adjusting his elbow pads.

―Dean... look up. Section four, row ten. Right now,― Garrett whispered with a sudden urgency in his voice that didn't match his usual focused captain tone at all.

Dean let out a lazy snort, complaining about the unexpected elbow. ―Damn it, Garrett, what's wrong with you? I'm trying to focus on not letting Davenport touch my face again and you...―

But as soon as Dean raised his head following the direction of his captain's gaze and his eyes connected directly with your figure in the stands, his body posture changed completely in a microsecond. All of Dean's usual lazy, arrogant, and disinterested expression completely vanished from his face, replaced instantly by a huge, bright, and completely smitten smile that stretched across his lips. The mere fact of knowing that you were there, sitting in the stands, in their absolute territory, witnessing the game (and in the competitive minds of both, assuming you had gone specifically to see them), injected them with a rush of adrenaline a thousand times more powerful, electric, and effective than any locker room motivational speech or scolding from the coach.

Dean couldn't contain his shameless and provocative nature. Completely ignoring pre-game protocol, he raised his hockey stick in the air and pointed the top end directly at you, winking at you from a distance with a totally cheeky and magnetic boldness that caused several female students in the rows below to gasp, thinking the gesture was meant for them. At his side, Garrett, feeling an instant twinge of male jealousy at his friend's audacity, shoved Dean with his shoulder to push him out of your line of sight. Right after, Garrett dedicated a much more focused, gentlemanly, and mature greeting to you: he brought the fingers of his glove to the edge of his helmet in an impeccable military salute, offering you a shy smile—one of those that made his dimples appear and contrasted almost ridiculously with the imposing and rugged game armor he was wearing.

From your position in the upper stands, you noticed perfectly that both were staring intently at you and making subtle yet obvious gestures from the ice just for you. Far from getting nervous, intimidated, or blushing like the rest of the girls on campus, you simply let out a low, clean, and extremely sweet laugh that Gracie noticed immediately. You shook your head with total freshness and naturalness, deeply amused to see that, even dressed like medieval gladiators ready for war on the ice rink, they still behaved like the same twenty-one-year-old college boys doing childish and bold stunts just to catch your attention for a few seconds.

―Well, well, well, look at that...― Gracie teased next to you, giving you a sharp, knowing elbow in the arm and raising her eyebrows with a mischievous smile. ―It seems like the sweet ER psychology intern has a very active and dangerous fan club on the Ivy League's front line. Did you see how both of them looked at you? I swear, , I think Graham almost tripped over his own skates when he spotted you, and Di Laurentis is one second away from biting the ice out of excitement.―

―They're exaggerating, Gracie, seriously,― you said with a playful and relaxed smile, adjusting the collar of your oversize sweatshirt as you looked back at the rink. ―I just hope they play well, keep a cool head, and please, don't end up in my hospital emergency room tonight. Honestly, my only wish for tomorrow is to sleep all day and watch my romantic comedy in peace. I don't want to have to suture either of them at three in the morning.―

Right at that exact moment, the arena's main horn sounded with a deafening blast that vibrated in the chests of everyone present, announcing the official start of the first period of the match. The referees took their positions and the starting players of both teams lined up in the center face-off circle. But before the head referee dropped the black puck onto the white surface, both Garrett Graham and Dean Di Laurentis cast one last, quick, and heavy look toward your seat in section four. Their eyes were burning, their body posture tense and aggressive, and they had the absolute determination to deliver the most perfect, brutal, and spectacular game of their college careers. Just because you were sitting there, watching their every move.

From the exact second the puck touched the ice, the game transformed into a high-intensity tactical slaughter. The rival team, a university known for its physical, aggressive style of play that bordered on the limits of legality, hadn't come to Briar to be a simple spectator to the dragons' winning streak. They came to crush them. But Garrett and Dean were operating under a level of motivation that went far beyond the tournament standings. Every hit against the plexiglass, every millimeter-perfect assist, and every acceleration in the neutral zone felt like a statement of intent designed exclusively to impress the girl in the pastel sweatshirt watching from row ten.

Garrett Graham played like a man possessed by the demon of hockey. As center and captain, he controlled the pace of the game with an unprecedented ferocity. In the first period, after receiving a clean pass from Logan from the blue line, Garrett dodged two rival defenders with a feint so quick it left the opposing men looking for the puck in the wrong direction. With an impeccable and powerful wrist shot, he sent the puck straight into the top left corner of the rival net. The arena erupted in screams, students jumped from their seats making the structures of Malone's Arena shake, and the goal siren echoed loudly. While his teammates rushed to hug him and slap his helmet in celebration, Garrett subtly turned toward section four, searching for your eyes in the crowd with a bright look that said: Did you see that? That was for you.

However, the opposing team responded with redoubled aggressiveness. Capitalizing on a penalty from an accidental trip by John Tucker, the rival team managed to score two consecutive goals in the second period, taking advantage of the numerical superiority on the ice. The scoreboard read 2-1 in favor of the visitors, and the tension inside the arena could be cut with a knife. Whispers of worry spread through the stands, and Gracie was biting her nails next to you.

―They're playing with too much anger,― Gracie commented, keeping her eyes glued to the rink. ―The rival team is provoking them and the guys are falling into the trap. Look at Dean, he's one second away from jumping at someone's throat.―

She was right. Dean Di Laurentis was playing on the edge of the penalty abyss. His skating was aggressive, fast, and cut through the ice with a dangerous fury. Every time Hunter Davenport or any of the rival players approached Briar's zone, Dean greeted them with a body-to-body shoulder check that made the stadium's entire structure rattle. You knew, from your psychology background, that Dean was channeling all his frustration and his desire to stand out directly into the physical aspect of the game.

Midway through the third period, with the score still against them, Dean executed a spectacular individual play. He stole the puck in his own defensive zone, accelerated down the left wing leaving the rival wingers behind with a speed that seemed unreal, and just as the opposing goalie dove to block the low angle, Dean lifted the puck with a surgical delicacy and technique, slipping it through the only open space available over the goalkeeper's shoulder.

The stadium tore itself down again. The score was tied 2-2. Dean didn't celebrate with the team right away; he skated in circles toward the center of the ice, raised both arms toward the upper stands looking intently at your location, and beat his chest with his glove twice, with an expression of absolute and savage triumph that unleashed collective madness from the female fans in the arena.

From that moment on, the game became an epic back-and-forth battle. Neither team was willing to yield a single millimeter of ice. Briar attacked with Garrett and Logan creating masterful plays, but the visiting goalie seemed to have raised an invisible wall in his net. The regulation time began to run out quickly on the giant digital clock on the ceiling: five minutes, three minutes, one minute. The intensity was so high that the players barely had time to breathe during line changes on the bench. The final whistle blew with a sharp bang. Regulation time had ended with a 2-2 technical tie, which meant the fate of the match would be decided in the dreaded and exciting sudden-death overtime.

The five-minute overtime began with an atmosphere so heavy that the air felt thick inside the arena. In college hockey sudden death, the first team to score a goal takes absolute victory immediately, leaving the opponent with no right to reply. Briar's coach sent his elite line onto the ice: Garrett Graham at center, Dean Di Laurentis and John Tucker on the wings, with Logan securing the defensive rearguard. They were playing with the accumulated fatigue of three brutal periods, but the determination on their faces remained intact.

The first three minutes of overtime were an attacking monologue by Briar. Garrett won the opening face-off with impeccable cleanliness, passing the puck to Dean. Dean broke into the rival zone, combining quick one-touch passes with Tucker. On two different occasions, Garrett was millimeters away from sealing the victory with shots that slammed directly into the metal posts of the opposing net, provoking unanimous screams of frustration throughout the stadium. The puck capriously refused to go in.

Then, disaster struck in the final minute of overtime.

Following a quick counterattack by the rival team, Logan managed to deflect the puck into the corner of the rink, but an opposing forward pressed with excessive force, committing a subtle foul that the referees, due to the speed of the play, decided not to call. The puck was left loose in an extremely dangerous area, right in the center of the slot in front of Briar's goalie. Garrett threw himself onto the ice in a desperate effort to sweep the puck away with his stick and clear the danger, but fate was already sealed.

The rival team's star player anticipated by a fraction of a second, connecting a sharp, low, and powerful shot that zipped past the defenders' legs and nestled into the back of Briar's net.

The final horn sounded, but this time it wasn't to celebrate. It was the dry, cold, and bitter sound of a home defeat.

The visiting section of the stadium erupted in euphoric celebrations, while the rest of Malone's Arena fell into a deathly silence, broken only by sighs of disappointment from the thousands of local students. In the center of the ice, the scene was heartbreaking for Briar's pride. The rival players were jumping and hugging in a human mound of happiness, while the boys from your university stood completely frozen in their positions, heads bowed and sticks resting against the frozen surface in a sign of pure frustration.

You could see Garrett Graham standing near the net, his chest rising and falling rapidly due to physical exertion and pent-up anger. He slammed his stick hard against the goalpost—a gesture of pure frustration from a captain who hated losing more than anything in the world—before forcing himself to maintain his composure to lead his team toward the protocol handshake. A few yards away, Dean Di Laurentis had ripped off his hockey gloves and thrown them with fury against the bench, his face completely red, his jaw clenched, and a look of absolute disappointment. Both had given absolutely everything on the rink, they had played to the limit of their physical capacities just because they knew you were there watching them, and losing that way, in the final breath of overtime, was a devastating blow to their huge and competitive elite athlete egos.

From the stands, you observed the entire sequence with your usual empathetic and analytical gaze. As a psychology student, you knew perfectly well that for guys like Garrett and Dean, who were used to success, applause, and being the undisputed heroes of the campus, a home defeat under the gaze of the girl they liked was the worst possible scenario. You could see the weight of frustration in the way their shoulders slumped and in the rigidity of their movements as they slowly retreated toward the locker room tunnel without looking back up at the stands even once.

―What a shame seriously, they played amazing,― Gracie sighed next to you, starting to pack her things as students began to slowly vacate the stands. ―They were so close to winning it. Those guys are going to be unbearable and in a dog's mood for the rest of the weekend. I wouldn't want to be the person who has to talk to Graham or Di Laurentis in the next twenty-four hours.―

―Defeat is part of the sporting process, Gracie, but you're right. They have too much accumulated pride to digest this lightly,― you said with a soft voice, full of a calm maturity as you stood up and adjusted your oversize sweatshirt. ―Let's go find my brother and Beau in the parking lot before the crowd collapses the exits.―

The atmosphere in the main parking lot of the sports complex was a mix of cold night air, red lights from cars trying to exit in a line, and a murmur of disappointed conversations among students. Gracie and you walked dodging groups of people until you spotted your brother's car parked near the trees. There, leaning against the metal bodywork, were your brother and Beau Maxwell. Both wore serious expressions, analyzing the technical details of the last goal of the game like good athletes, but they didn't look as devastated as the hockey team guys. After all, they belonged to the football team and viewed the rivalry from a slightly more external perspective.

―What a heart-stopping ending,― your brother said as soon as he saw you approach, opening his arms to give you a half hug. ―I thought Garrett had won it on that last play of the third period. The puck literally grazed the post.―

―It was a good game, they played with heart,― you replied with your usual sweet and balanced tone, seeking to maintain positive energy. ―The rival team simply took advantage of the only defensive error in overtime. That's how sports are.―

Beau Maxwell let out a dry laugh, crossing his arms over his broad varsity jacket as he looked at you with a playful smile. ―Well, little doctor, get ready, because the night is very far from over for us. Despite the tragic hockey defeat, the guys already had the official post-game party planned at Garrett and Dean's house since a week ago. And knowing those idiots, they're not going to cancel the party just because of a lost game. The alcohol is going to flow at twice the speed to drown the sorrows of the scoreboard.―

―A party at the hockey guys' house?― Gracie interrupted instantly, her eyes shining with excitement and grabbing your arm tightly. ―, we have to go! I beg you. You said you wanted to go home and watch your movie, but think about it: the atmosphere is going to be incredible, the whole campus is going to go console them, and we're already dressed and out of bed. You can't do this to me.―

You looked at Gracie and then at your brother, who simply shrugged with a knowing smile. Your mind went back to the image of your warm bed, your pajamas, and your hot chocolate with marshmallows. You really were tired of the hospital and psychology classes. But at the same time, a subtle and intelligent spark of curiosity ignited inside you. You knew perfectly well, after seeing Garrett and Dean's expressions on the ice upon losing the game, that those two boys were going to urgently need a presence that didn't limit itself to praising them or feeding their damaged egos. Your sweet, empathetic, and completely relaxed nature in the face of their campus star status was exactly what could help them come down from the cloud of frustration in which they were submerged.

―Alright, okay. Let's go to the hockey guys' party for a bit,― you finally yielded with an angelic smile and an extremely tender little voice that made Gracie let out a victory scream in the middle of the parking lot. ―But on one condition, Gracie: at the first sign of people getting too intense or the guys starting to break things out of frustration over the defeat, we go straight back to the apartment to watch my romantic comedy.―

―Done! You are the best friend in the entire universe!― Gracie exclaimed, practically dragging you toward the back seat of your brother's car, while Beau got into the passenger seat laughing at the dynamics between the two of you.

The drive to the famous hockey guys' house, located on one of the main fraternity streets near the Briar campus, was quick. As they approached, the music with powerful bass that made the windows of neighboring houses vibrate and the rows of cars parked on the sidewalks confirmed Beau's words: the defeat had not stopped the university's plans. Garrett and Dean's house, an imposing wood and brick structure with a large front porch, was already surrounded by students holding the classic red plastic cups, chatting under the light of the public streetlamps.

You walked alongside Gracie, your brother, and Beau toward the main entrance. You subtly adjusted your oversize pastel sweatshirt that let your shoulder drop in that very cute and carefree way, breathing in the fresh college night air. You knew perfectly well that crossing that door meant finding yourself at the epicenter of Garrett Graham and Dean Di Laurentis' territory; a territory where they used to reign with arrogance and confidence, but which that night was inhabited by the ghost of a lost game. Your presence there, with that sweet, intelligent attitude completely removed from the drama of their love lives with Hannah and Allie, was going to be the trigger for a high-tension dynamic that neither of the elite athletes saw coming.

Retribution on the Back Porch (Garrett & Hannah)

Away from the noise of the living room, in the darkest corner of the house's back porch, Hannah Wells had Garrett Graham cornered against the wooden railing. Hannah stood with her arms crossed, looking at him with narrowed eyes full of a very obvious feminine annoyance.

―Alright, Graham, are you going to explain to me what the hell happened to you during warm-ups?― Hannah dropped without beating around the bush, taking a step forward. ―You froze completely looking at the middle section stands. You almost let a puck hit your helmet because you were distracted. You've been asking about the psychology intern all over campus for two weeks, Garrett. Today you saw her, and you lost control.―

Garrett cleared his throat guiltily, feeling his cheeks tint a tender shade of pink under the moonlight. He tried to use his dimpled smile to calm her down, scratching the back of his neck nervously.

―Hannah, please, babe, I was just measuring the crowd's energy... You know I play seriously.―

―Don't lie to me,― Hannah cut him off, pointing her finger firmly at him. ―You played like a madman trying to show off for row ten, not to win the game. The problem is that girl doesn't even try; she was just sitting there in a giant sweatshirt, laughing her head off at how she threw you off balance just by looking at you. She treats you like a regular classmate, and that's what has your captain's ego completely stupefied.―

Tension in the Upstairs Hallway (Dean & Allie)

Meanwhile, in the second-floor hallway, right next to the stairs where nobody would interrupt them, Allie Hayes had Dean Di Laurentis pressed against the wall. Allie's cheeks were flushed with a mix of wounded pride and pure jealousy.

―Are you going to tell me you were 'focused' too, Di Laurentis?― Allie confronted him, letting out a dry, frustrated laugh. ―I could swear you almost took a rival defender's eye out lifting your stick to point euphorically at section four. And then you winked at her. It was ridiculous, Dean.―

Dean ran a hand through his blonde hair, maintaining that lazy smirk he always used as a shield, though inside he was praying the matter wouldn't escalate.

―Allie, babe, I was just saying hi to an acquaintance from the hospital. It's just good manners.―

―An acquaintance? It was her. The same girl from Malone's Pub,― Allie sentenced, crossing her arms in indignation. ―I saw perfectly how your face changed the second you spotted her in the stands. You didn't give a damn about the game, Dean; you were playing on the edge of penalties just because she was watching. What bothers me most is that she doesn't even flinch at your star status; it's obvious she has you in the palm of her hand and that drives you crazy.―

The atmosphere on the ground floor of the house was a breeding ground for college hormones, thumping bass music, and the pungent smell of cheap beer mixed with sweat. However, the kitchen functioned as a sort of neutral and silent bunker, illuminated by the white light of the overhead fluorescents.

Dean Di Laurentis was the first to enter, slamming the wooden door behind him. He came down from the second floor with a look that could have melted the rink's ice. He crossed his arms, leaning heavily against the granite center island, letting out a curse under his breath as he recalled Allie's jealousy-filled words. His male pride was bruised twice over: first by the bitter goal in sudden death and now by being cornered in the hallway upstairs.

Just a couple of minutes later, the back door connecting to the porch opened and Garrett Graham walked into the kitchen. His jaw was so tight that the muscles in his neck stood out under his black T-shirt. His brown hair still looked a bit damp from a quick shower in the locker rooms, and his cheeks maintained a subtle trace of pink from the scolding Hannah had just given him outside.

The two boys looked at each other in silence. They were best friends, they knew each other perfectly, but the athlete code prevented them from admitting that their respective girls had just sentenced them for the same reason. Neither opened his mouth to tell the drama that had just unfolded.

―Davenport is a fucking cheater,― Dean spat, desperately seeking to deflect his frustration toward the game as he opened the fridge to pull out a couple of cold beers. ―The ref should've called that foul against Logan in the corner. It's a complete joke.―

―It doesn't matter anymore, Dean. We lost,― Garrett replied in his captain's voice, gruff and muted by exhaustion. He took the bottle his friend handed him and took a long swig, leaning against the counter. ―Hell awaits us at Monday's practice with the coach. I just... want to change the fucking energy of tonight.―

Both shared the same silent thought. Their minds were fixed on section four of the stands. On the girl who had looked at them with a mix of amusement and coolness, staying completely removed from their status as campus gods. The frustration of knowing they had only half-impressed her was eating them alive.

It was exactly at that moment of maximum tension that the kitchen doorknob turned.

Beau Maxwell walked in first, with his imposing football player presence, laughing out loud at an inside joke with your brother. Behind them appeared Gracie, who looked around the room with curiosity, and finally, you appeared.

Crossing the threshold, the contrast with the house's chaos was immediate.

You weren't wearing the oversize sweatshirt they had seen you in in the stands. Instead, you walked in wearing a beautiful blue dress that hugged your silhouette with total delicacy, highlighting your figure in a spectacular and elegant way. The blue color made your skin look radiant under the kitchen lights, and your loose hair fell in perfect waves over your shoulders, releasing that subtle and comforting scent of vanilla. But what truly caused a strike of lightning in the room was the item you wore over it: you were wearing Beau Maxwell's enormous, massive, and heavy varsity football jacket. It was giant on you, covering part of the dress, and the sleeves almost hid your hands, giving you an incredibly sweet, sexy, and cozy look all at once.

The second your figure appeared in their field of vision with that clothing combination, silence fell over the kitchen like a liquid nitrogen bomb.

Garrett and Dean's eyes lit up in a millisecond, but for Dean, the blow hit straight to the stomach noticing you were wearing his own best friend's clothes. It was an identical physical reaction in both: Garrett froze the beer bottle halfway to his mouth, his dark eyes fixed on the varsity letters embroidered on your back. Dean, for his part, wiped his lazy expression instantly; he snapped upright from the granite island, locking an intensely possessiva and savage frustration-laden gaze first on the jacket and then on Beau.

Seeing you there, in their own kitchen, looking gorgeous in a blue dress but wrapped in his best friend's clothes, generated a devastating short circuit in Dean's already bruised ego.

―Look who we have here,― Beau said with his usual total confidence, walking toward the fridge and passing a protective hand over the back of your jacket, completely oblivious to (or purposely enjoying) the death glares being thrown at him. ―The fallen heroes of hockey. I brought little  well-bundled because it's unbearably cold outside. Let's see if her psychology skills can fix those sour faces you guys are sporting, brother.―

Your brother laughed, standing on the other side. ―Yeah, because if we depend on pizza to cheer you up, we're all going to get depressed. Hey, Graham. Di Laurentis.―

You took a step forward, slipping out of your brother's grip with total naturalness, as you pulled up the giant sleeves of Beau's jacket that were slipping over your hands. You took a glance at the two hockey players and let out a small laugh, a clean, melodious, and extremely sweet sound that contrasted with the heavy tension in the room.

―Hi, guys,― you greeted with your soft and playful little voice, looking at them intently with that analytical yet tender gaze. ―Beau is right, you have faces that could scare anyone. I'll remind you it's just one game and you played amazingly. I don't want to have to treat you in the ER on Monday for excess stress, okay?―

Garrett took a step toward you, ignoring your brother and fixing his dark eyes on your face, making a superhuman effort to maintain his gentlemanly tone, though his voice sounded noticeably lower, raspy, and thick with restrained tension.

―We're really glad you came, ,― Garrett said, sweeping his gaze down your blue dress before locking intently onto the jacket's collar. ―Blue looks good on you. Although... I thought Briar's hockey team had better options to cover you from the cold than the football faculty, even if it comes from Beau.―

Dean couldn't help himself and stepped forward instantly, shamelessly moving into your line of sight to displace his captain. He looked at Beau with a raised eyebrow and an implicit best-friends warning, before locking his eyes onto you with an intensity that goosebumped your skin. His charming smirk returned, but the possessiveness in his voice was impossible to hide.

―Graham is right, babe, and it kills me to admit it,― Dean chimed in, leaning slightly toward you so your vanilla scent would envelop him. ―That blue dress is a masterpiece, but my dearest best friend here has a bad habit of lending his clothes to girls who look way too good in them. If you were cold, you only had to ask me. I bet my team sweatshirt would've kept you a thousand times warmer than Maxwell's, and you wouldn't have to carry around all that excess football fabric.―

Beau just let out a loud laugh, raising his hands in peace but winking at you, thoroughly enjoying seeing Dean Di Laurentis lose his cool for the first time all semester.

‵、¸ 𝒇𝙖𝒍𝙨𝒆 𝒈𝙤𝒅 ⊹ garrett graham

⌗ pairing — garrett graham x fem!reader

⌗ author’s note — This story features high-tension seduction dynamics, lighthearted mutual flirting, social alcohol consumption in a university pub, and relaxed, high-content erotic scenes, and mature language suitable for adults audiences (18+ / MDNI)

The air inside the Briar University locker room still smelled of sweat, grip tape, spray analgesic, and that unmistakable, intoxicating fragrance that pure adrenaline leaves behind after a crushing victory. They had destroyed Harvard by a resounding 5 to 1. The concrete walls painted in blue and white practically vibrated with the shouts, the banging on lockers, and the trap music blaring at full blast from Tucker’s speakers.

She was sitting on the wooden bench at the far back, a notebook over her thighs and a DSLR camera hanging around her neck. As part of the communications department's press and photography team, she had free pass to the team's sanctuary, but tonight she wasn't even looking at the memory cards. Her eyes, almost magnetically, followed every single move of Dean Di Laurentis.

Dean was taking off his shoulder pads, his dark hair messy, sporting that lazy, smug smile that drove every girl on campus crazy. She looked at him with a mixture of silent adoration and a dull ache in her chest that had already become chronic. She had spent three years being his shadow, his confidante, the best friend who sat next to him in the cafeteria to listen to his complaints about the coach's tactics or his fleeting flings with freshman girls. She was the safe girl. The one who demanded nothing. The one who kept his secrets while swallowing her own.

―Good game, Di Laurentis!― she yelled from her corner, raising her voice over the noise.

Dean turned, spotting her instantly. His smile widened and he walked toward her, barefoot on the rubber floor, still wearing his hockey uniform pants. He leaned down and wrapped a massive arm around her, pulling her against his damp, warm side. He smelled of rink ice and victory.

―Did you see that second goal?― he muttered in her ear, his breath still a bit heavy. ―I told you Logan's assist would go in clean if he cut through the center. You're my lucky charm, babe. If you're not in the stands this year, we don't score.―

Babe. A word so common, so empty when it came from him. She forced a perfect smile, one of those she had rehearsed a thousand times in front of her bedroom bathroom mirror.

―You were incredible, Dean. As always. The whole university is outside waiting for you guys. The off-campus house is going to crash down tonight.―

―It better,― a deep, drawling voice intervened from a couple of lockers away.

Garrett Graham was leaning against his own locker, a white towel draped around his neck and his athletic torso bare, covered in a thin layer of sweat that highlighted every muscle of his abdomen and shoulders. He was in no hurry to change. His eyes were fixed directly on her, with that analytical captain's gaze that seemed to notice exactly what you were thinking. While Dean treated her with the familiarity of a brother, Garrett always observed her as if she were a puzzle he planned to solve sooner or later.

―Half the fraternities have already emptied their beer kegs in our living room,― Garrett continued, running a hand through his sweaty blonde hair. ―So move it. If Di Laurentis keeps admiring himself in the mirror, we're going to miss the start of our own party.―

Dean let out a laugh and gave her a friendly pat on the shoulder before heading to the showers.

―Wait for me downstairs, yeah?― Dean asked her. ―We'll leave together in my car. I don't want you walking alone in this freezing weather.―

She nodded, feeling the weight of her own lie. She stayed alone in the locker room for a moment while the stragglers finished getting dressed. When she stood up to swing her bag over her shoulder, she realized Garrett hadn't moved yet. He was still there, watching her with a subtly arched eyebrow.

―What?― she asked, adjusting her camera strap to break the tension.

―Nothing,― Garrett replied, with a sly smile that barely curved the corner of his lips. ―I'm just wondering how much longer you're going to keep looking at him like he's the last glass of water in the desert. You're going to wear your eyes out, beautiful.―

Her heart took an uncomfortable plunge. She forced herself to maintain her composure, squaring her shoulders.

―I don't know what you're talking about, Graham. He's my best friend. I'm happy for him.―

―Right. Whatever you say,― he said, turning around to head into the showers, leaving her alone with the echo of his words and a freezing presentiment in her stomach.

The hockey team guys' house, located just off the main campus, was absolute chaos by the time the clock struck eleven at night. The front porch lights had been dyed an electric blue, and the bass music rumbled so hard that the downstairs windows vibrated inside their old wooden frames.

Hundreds of students crowded the front lawn, some already holding red plastic cups in their hands, defying the freezing Massachusetts autumn wind in light university jackets. The smell of cheap beer, weed, and cheap perfume mixed in the air, creating that dense, electric atmosphere typical of Briar victory nights.

She walked through the front door right behind Dean. Immediately, a flood of people rushed toward him. Extended arms, slaps on the back, girls in short skirts trying to catch his attention at all costs. Dean handled the attention with an innate, lazy confidence; he laughed, high-fived, hugged acquaintances, and accepted compliments without missing a beat.

She, however, found herself swept to one side of the hallway by the human tide. No one was pushing her maliciously, but in the social hierarchy of Briar, Di Laurentis's best friend was invisible unless she was standing right next to him. She leaned against the wall near the kitchen, watching the scene.

The kitchen was a madhouse. There were three giant beer kegs on the worn granite countertop, and a line of freshmen were desperately trying to fill their cups. Tucker was in a corner, laughing with a group of second-tier players, while Logan was already organizing an impromptu beer pong tournament on the dining room table, which had been stripped of its chairs.

―Hey! Bring more cups!― someone yelled from the living room, where the makeshift dance floor was at its absolute peak.

She let out a subtle sigh, feeling a prick of isolation in the middle of the crowd. She looked toward the living room. Dean was already in the center of a circle, cup in hand, laughing with a couple of girls from the Kappa Beta sorority. One of them, a stunning brunette in a tight knit dress, was touching his arm with excessive familiarity. Dean didn't flinch or pull away; in fact, he leaned in to whisper something in her ear that made the girl let out a loud laugh.

A sudden chill ran through her. She knew she had no right to feel jealous. She had repeated that mantra in her head for three years: You are his friend. Only his friend. But seeing the ease with which any random girl obtained the physical attention she so secretly craved was like a small drop of acid falling on her self-esteem night after night.

She decided she needed a breather from the noise and the suffocating heat that was starting to build up downstairs due to the mass of moving bodies. Besides, the cold outside had left her chilled despite the house's heating. She remembered that Dean always kept a row of his hoodies in the large closet of his room or over his bed.

―I'm going upstairs for a second,― she told Logan as she passed the dining room, having to yell to be heard over the music.

Logan, focused on throwing the plastic ball, barely nodded with a quick smile.

She pushed her way through the hallway crowd and began to climb the wooden stairs. With each step she climbed, the deafening noise of the party began to fade into a dull hum. The second floor of the off-campus house was theoretically a forbidden zone during parties, reserved only for residents and their special guests, so the hallway was relatively clear, lit only by the dim light coming up from the stairs.

She walked toward Dean’s room. The doorknob was cold under her hand. She didn't knock; she never did. That was the room where they had spent entire nights studying or sharing a cold pizza. To her, that space was safe.

Or at least, so she thought.

As she pushed the door open, which wasn't completely shut, the words she had ready on the tip of her tongue vanished into the heavy atmosphere of the room.

The room was in semi-darkness, illuminated only by the silently playing television screen and the bluish light coming through the window. At the edge of the bed, with his back to the entrance, was Dean. He was on his knees on the floor, his large, firm hands gripping the bare hips of the brunette girl from the living room. The girl's dress was pulled up to her waist, and her slender legs rested on Dean's shoulders.

She froze on the threshold, her hand still resting on the wooden door frame. Her brain took a fraction of a second to process what her eyes were seeing—a fraction of a second that felt like an agonizing eternity.

Dean had his head tilted between the girl's legs, moving with a steady, expert, and devoted rhythm. His fingers dug into her thighs, leaving whitish marks from the pressure. The girl had her head thrown back over the tangled sheets, her eyes closed and her lips parted, letting out muffled, rhythmic moans that broke the room's silence with an unbearable rawness.

―Oh, God, Dean... yes, right there,― the girl whispered, her voice broken with pleasure, tangling her hands in his dark hair to push him more fully against her body.

Dean didn't reply with words; he only let out a low, dull grunt that she had never heard from him before, a purely carnal sound that showed absolute control of the situation. You could tell he knew exactly what he was doing, where to press, with what intensity to lick, how to dominate a woman's body until reducing it to tremors.

The outside world seemed to stop for her. A wave of nausea mixed with a scorching, humiliating heat rushed up her chest to her cheeks. Seeing Dean—her Dean, the silly guy who forgot his keys and asked her to proofread his essays—surrendered in such a carnal, intensely sexual way to one of the many girls from the party, broke something inside her.

It wasn't just the pain of jealousy. It was the brutal and undeniable realization of her own insignificance in his adult life. To Dean, she belonged to a separate category: the asexual friend, the one who didn't belong to the world of his desires, the one confined to the comfort zone of their friendship. Never, not in a million years, would Dean Di Laurentis kneel before her with that hungry desperation. Never would he touch her with that mixture of lasciviousness and mastery.

⌗ pairing — garrett graham x dean di laurentis x fem!reader

⌗ synopsis — The Briar University ER is usually absolute chaos, but for her—a twenty-one-year-old clinical psychology intern—staying calm is second nature. Everything changes when the Division I hockey team storms in with an injured player. Faced with the campus golden boys, her sweet voice and firm boundaries completely disarm Garrett Graham and Dean Di Laurentis, igniting an unexpected tension that leaves them utterly obsessed.

⌗ author’s note — This story features high-tension seduction dynamics, lighthearted mutual flirting, social alcohol consumption in a university pub, and relaxed, mature language suitable for an adult audience.

⌗ the emergency shift.- part ii ⌗ the emergency shift.- part iii

The fluorescent lights of Briar University General Hospital whirred with a clinical, relentless beep that seemed to vibrate even in the soles of your shoes. It was a Friday night in late November, one of those frigid Massachusetts nights when black ice on the roads set off sirens and fraternity parties on campus filled the waiting room.

At twenty-one years old, you weren't exactly a seasoned medical professional. You were a third-year clinical psychology student doing your practical hours as a triage and emotional support intern in the emergency room. Your job wasn't to stitch up wounds or prescribe medication; it was to manage the human chaos. You were there to talk people down from panic attacks, comfort terrified freshmen who had taken too many shots, and keep the psychological temperature of the ER from boiling over while the actual doctors and nurses ran themselves ragged.

By 1:00 AM, you had been on your feet for nearly seven hours straight. Your hair was pulled up into a slightly messy bun, a couple of pastel-colored highlighters were clipped to the pocket of your oversized medical scrub top, and your clipboard was heavy with incomplete intake forms. Despite the exhaustion tugging at the corners of your eyes, you still carried yourself with a soft, natural warmth. You understood that the people coming through those double doors were having one of the worst nights of their lives. A little bit of kindness went a long way.

You were standing by the main nurse's station, charting a quick note about a panicked student who had just been discharged, when the automatic doors of the ambulance bay slid open with a sharp hiss. A blast of icy winter air swept into the corridor, followed closely by a group of guys who instantly shifted the entire energy of the room.

They were massive, loud, and completely impossible to ignore. Even without the heavy, blue-and-red white Briar varsity jackets, anyone on campus would have recognized them instantly. It was the core of the university's division-one hockey team. You had gone to a handful of their games with your friends from the psychology department, sitting high up in the stands, yelling until your throat was sore, and watching them dominate the ice. But you had never crossed paths with them in real life. To you, they were just those untouchable, golden-boy athletes who lived in a completely different universe.

Until right now.

In the center of the group was John Tucker. His usual cocky, energetic demeanor was entirely gone. He was deathly pale, his eyes wide and glassy with unshed tears of pain, and he was clutching a thick white dish towel around his left hand. The towel was already deeply stained with bright, ominous crimson.

Walking right next to him, holding him steady by his shoulder, was John Logan. Logan looked sharp, focused, and intensely worried, guiding his teammate with a firm grip. Bringing up the rear were Garrett Graham and Dean Di Laurentis. The two of them looked like towering walls of muscle, their shoulders tense, their faces flushed from the cold and the sheer adrenaline of whatever accident had just taken place.

―Hey! We need someone over here right now! He’s bleeding all over the place!― Garrett’s deep, commanding voice boomed across the triage area, sharp with panic. He was looking around wildly, his captain's instincts kicking in but completely useless in a medical environment.

The sheer volume of his voice threatened to spike the anxiety of every other patient in the waiting room. Realizing someone needed to step in and ground them before they caused a scene, you tucked your pen behind your ear and stepped out from behind the counter, walking toward them with a calm, easy pace.

⌗ pairing — lando norris x fem!reader

⌗ synopsis — the FIA year-end Gala in Paris is the epicenter of glamour, motorsport politics, and flashing cameras. For her, attending as a special guest from the luxury marketing sector is a golden opportunity, but her mind has been fixed on the driver of car number 4 all night.

⌗ author’s notes — This single-chapter story (one-shot) contains high-content erotic scenes, high-tension seduction dynamics, social alcohol consumption at a gala event, and mature language suitable for adult audiences (18+ / MDNI).

The Paris winter had a very particular way of biting the skin, a dry, aristocratic cold that seeped between fur coats and haute couture gowns parading down the red carpet. The FIA Year-End Gala was being held in one of the most exclusive lounges in Place Vendôme, a historic building whose tempered glass windows let a golden, opulent light escape onto the cobblestones, damp from the drizzle.

The photographers' flashes were a constant bombardment, an artificial electrical storm illuminating the Parisian sky every time a black limousine pulled up to the entrance. The murmur of the international press, reporters dictating live chronicles in five different languages, and the clinking of welcome Bollinger champagne glasses created a high, almost electric vibration. It was the night where track rivalries were camouflaged behind rehearsed smiles, perfectly tied bowties, and dresses that cost a fortune.

She watched the spectacle from the corner of the main lobby, right next to the massive Ionian columns leading into the grand ballroom. She held a glass of champagne in her right hand, though she had barely taken two sips. Her dress—a deep olive-green silk satin piece that fell like liquid water to the floor—left her back completely bare down to the base of her spine, held up only by two incredibly thin rhinestone straps that sparked with her every movement. The high slit on the side of the skirt subtly revealed her left leg as she walked, matching perfectly with minimalist stiletto sandals.

She wasn't part of any team's technical staff, nor was she a driver's partner. Her presence there was due to her role as a strategic consultant for one of the world's leading Swiss watchmaking firms, a major sponsor decorating the racing suits on the grid. She had spent the whole season traveling to ten of the twenty-four Grands Prix, moving through the high echelons of the Paddock Clubs, managing brand activations, and observing the Formula 1 circus from a safe, analytical, and privileged distance.

Pairing: lando norris x fem!reader

Author’s Note: First of all, a huge shoutout to Magui Corceiro! We want to make it absolutely clear that this story is pure fiction and just for fun. We have nothing against Magui—she is incredibly talented, stunning, and successful in her own right. This is simply a creative plotline using the drama of social media for narrative purposes. Sending nothing but love and respect her way! ✨

The sharp, rhythmic whine of pneumatic guns echoing through the McLaren garage was the only thing loud enough to drown out the relentless buzzing of my phone. In the Monaco paddock, glamour always came with an echo; the hospitality suites felt like they were made of glass, and secrets lasted only as used tyres before being discarded.

That Thursday in May, the Grand Prix wasn't just being contested on the asphalt of the Principality. It was being fought in Twitter threads, Instagram comment sections, and British and Portuguese gossip tabloids that made a living out of dissecting the personal lives of the twenty drivers on the grid.

Lando was sitting in the far corner of the McLaren hospitality unit, his back hunched over a tablet as he reviewed simulation telemetry. His headphones were firmly on, cutting him off from the world, but his left leg bounced up and down in a frantic, rhythmic motion—a nervous tic that only appeared when his mind was thousands of miles away from the racetrack.

I walked over to him with a steady pace, holding his official hydration bottle. As I set it down, the sharp clink of plastic against the wooden table made him blink. Lando pulled one earbud down, letting it rest on his neck, and looked up. His eyes, usually bright and full of mischief, looked dull, framed by faint dark circles that betrayed a terrible night's sleep.

"Thanks," he muttered, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. He reached his hand across the table, seeking the comfort of my touch, brushing his fingers against mine with a shyness that contrasted sharply with the aggressive way he drove at over three hundred kilometers per hour.

"Did you eat a proper breakfast?" I asked, keeping my tone perfectly neutral. In this environment, even the McLaren walls had eyes. A look held a second too long or a gesture of weakness could easily become tomorrow's front-page headline.

"I wasn't really hungry. Jon made me drink a protein shake, but..." Lando let the sentence trail off, turning his gaze back to the tablet. He didn't need to finish. We both knew exactly what was stealing his appetite.

Exactly forty-eight hours ago, Magui Corceiro had struck a match and thrown it directly into a pool of gasoline that had been accumulating for months. The Portuguese model, Lando's ex-girlfriend, had uploaded a photo carousel to her Instagram profile. At first glance, it looked like innocent fashion content: her posing in the streets of Lisbon, an afternoon coffee, a close-up of a designer handbag. But the last slide was the one holding the dynamite. A black-and-white photo, taken from inside a car, where you could clearly see the profile of Lando laughing, from the time when they were still trying to figure out what they meant to each other.

Magui’s caption had been the final blow: "Some people spend their lives looking in cheap copies for what can only be found in the original design. Good luck this weekend 😉."

The internet, starved for drama after a three-week summer break, didn't need anything else. Within minutes, conspiracy theories flooded social media. Fan clubs split into warring factions. To the digital public, I was the intruder, the nameless, legacy-less replacement who had stepped in the way of the paddock's "perfect couple." My personal profile had turned into a battlefield filled with snake emojis and meticulous comparisons of my looks, clothes, and lifestyle to those of the high-fashion model.

"She will never have Magui's class," one of the top-liked comments read. "Lando is just using her to try and forget his ex, you can tell he's still obsessed," said another.

Lando let out a heavy sigh, dropped the tablet onto the table, and buried his face in his hands, running his fingers through his brown curls.

"I talked to Charlotte and the McLaren PR team an hour ago," he said, his voice muffled by sheer frustration. "They think we can release a short statement. Or, if you prefer, I can just shut down the first stupid question they ask me at the FIA press conference this afternoon. Magui had no right to do this. It’s been almost a year since we called it off. It’s not fair to you. You're getting torn apart out there because of me."

I looked at Lando. I felt a pang of tenderness mixed with absolute resolve. I knew his first instinct would always be to protect me, to stand between me and the world, but Formula 1 had taught me that reacting to media provocation was like pouring fuel on a fire.

"Lando, look at me," I said softly. He lowered his hands and fixed his eyes on mine. "You're not saying a word at the press conference. And McLaren isn't releasing any statement."

"Why?" he frowned. "They're insulting you, making up stories that you're some kind of second-best option..."

"Because that's exactly what she wants," I interrupted, maintaining a calmness that surprised even myself. "Magui threw that bait hoping you’d bite. She wants to see if she still has the power to destabilize your weekend, to get inside your head before one of the most important qualifying sessions of the year. She wants us to burn ourselves out publicly trying to defend ourselves, because the person who defends themselves always looks guilty in the eyes of the public."

"And you're just going to let them keep saying those things about you?" His tone was a mix of disbelief and protective anger.

"They don't know me, Lando. They know a version they made up on a five-inch screen. Magui can tell the story however she likes. She can use her old photos, her subtle rhymes, and her millions of followers to try and make me doubt who I am and what we have. But she is on the outside. She isn't in here. She doesn't know what happens when the lights go out, or the conversations we have at three in the morning when the simulator leaves you exhausted."

At that moment, a melody I had been listening to on loop during my flight to Nice echoed in my mind. A specific lyric from Sabrina Carpenter that felt like a shield of vibranium: You can't get under my skin if you don't know where it is. Magui was attacking a projection, a ghost. My reality with Lando was completely untouched.

"You're too good for this world of piranhas," Lando whispered, finally extending his hand to intertwine his fingers with mine. The tension in his leg noticeably eased.

"I'm not good, Lando. I'm strategic," I winked at him, finally getting him to let out a genuine, clean laugh. "Now, go get your racing suit on. You have a practice session to dominate."

⌞shadows of camazotz ⟡ steve harrington ⌝

Summary: Two disappearances shake Hawkins: Holly Wheeler and Steve’s girlfriend, Y/n. Between lies, illusions, and Vecna’s power, hope wavers. Who will manage to escape before the darkness traps them?

Word Count: 2,5k

Author’s Note: English is not my first language, so I apologize for any grammatical changes or mistakes that may appear in the text. I appreciate your understanding and patience as I continue to improve.

Act I: The Calm in the Darkness

The awakening was slow, as if emerging from a dream too deep. Y/n opened her eyes and the first thing she perceived was a constant murmur, a sound similar to the heartbeat of a distant heart. The place was not a cold cell, nor a space of torture, but something that seemed designed to reassure her. The walls breathed softly, expanding and contracting as if they were alive. Each movement released a faint glow, lights that turned on and off like stars trapped in an artificial sky.

The ground was soft, almost like moss, and as she walked barefoot she felt that it held her with delicacy. The air was impregnated with a metallic aroma, mixed with something sweet, like withered flowers. Everything seemed like a dream, a strange refuge that she could not understand.

In the middle of that setting was Henry. Sitting in a dark chair, with his back straight and hands interlaced, he observed her with a disturbing calm. His eyes, deep and fixed, seemed to read every thought that crossed through her mind.

—Do not be afraid —he said with a soft voice, almost paternal—. Here you are safe.

She looked at him with curiosity. She did not remember much of her past, only blurred fragments that slipped like shadows in her memory. There were faces that she could not manage to identify, laughs that faded before being able to catch them, and an emptiness that weighed in her chest. Henry, instead, was there, solid, present, like a guardian protecting her from a hostile world she could not manage to remember.

They spent hours conversing. Henry spoke to her of the fragility of humans, of how pain was the force that shaped them, of how loss revealed the true nature of people. His words were harsh, but he said them with a serenity that enveloped her. She listened, fascinated, feeling that there was a strange connection between both, as if he understood things that she had forgotten.

—Suffering is inevitable —Henry explained, with that voice that seemed to drag echoes from another world—. But it is also what makes us transcend.

She frowned, trying to understand.

—And me? Why am I here?

Henry smiled barely, a smile that was not warm, but not cruel either.

—Because you are different. Because in you there is something that must not be lost.

The brunette lowered her gaze. She did not know what it meant to be “different,” but the way in which he said it made her feel special, as if there were a hidden purpose in her existence.

The days —or what seemed to be the passage of time in Camazotz— passed with that routine: long conversations, shared silences, and the sensation that the place was alive, watching them. She became accustomed to the company of Henry, to his deep voice that filled the void of her mind. Sometimes, even, she felt that she trusted him.

She did not know that she was a prisoner. She did not know that Camazotz was a prison disguised as a sanctuary.

Act II: Dustin and D’Artagnan

The memory hit y/n like a lightning bolt. She was no longer in Camazotz, but in the real world, on an ordinary afternoon in Hawkins. She had finished her workday as a babysitter at the Wheelers' house: Holly was quietly playing with her dolls, and Mike was not there, as Karen had told her he was at Will's house, playing endless games of Dungeons & Dragons. Y/n said goodbye with a tired smile, leaving through the front door.

In that same instant, Steve Harrington appeared on the porch, with a bouquet of flowers in his hand. His expression was nervous, almost clumsy: he had come to apologize to Nancy, to try to mend what he had broken. Upon seeing her leave, Steve gave her a quick smile, barely a greeting between acquaintances. y/n looked at him with curiosity, without stopping for too long.

But before she could walk away, a noise made her turn. Dustin Henderson burst onto the scene, carrying a fish tank covered with a towel. His breathing was heavy, his eyes shining with a mix of excitement and fear.

—I need help! —he exclaimed, almost tripping on the entrance step.

Steve frowned, surprised.

—What the hell do you have there, Henderson?

Dustin removed the cloth and showed D’Artagnan (Dart), a slimy, small creature with shiny eyes and a tiny mouth full of teeth. y/n instinctively stepped back, while Steve leaned in to get a better look.

—I found him in my trash —Dustin explained, with pride and nervousness—. He’s special, Steve. He’s not just any pet!

Steve left the flowers on the hall table, completely forgetting about Nancy for a moment. His face hardened.

—This isn't safe. What if he grows and becomes… something else?

Y/n observed the creature with unease. There was something inside her telling her that Dart was not simply a curious find. The memory intensified: Dustin insisting that Dart was unique, Steve trying to keep his calm, and her caught between both, feeling that something dark was hidden behind that small creature.

The moment turned darker when Dustin, with a cracking voice, confessed what he had discovered at his house.

—He ate Mews… my cat.

The silence fell like a weight. y/n felt a shiver run down her spine. Steve looked at him with incredulity, and for the first time, the boy’s confident smile vanished completely.

—Henderson… this isn't a game.

y/n lowered her gaze, moved by the mix of pain and hope on Dustin’s face. He always saw beyond fear, always found something special even in the impossible. But now, the reality was clear: Dart was not just a strange creature, he was a threat.

The memory faded slowly, as if someone were turning off the lights of the scene. y/n was back in Camazotz, with Henry observing her from the shadows. His eyes shone with a mix of curiosity and jealousy.

—What did you see? —he asked, his deep voice resonating in the air.

y/n blinked, still confused.

—A boy… with a creature. And… a cat.

Henry frowned, his expression hardening.

—That memory should not exist.

The walls of Camazotz vibrated, as if the place itself disapproved of what had just happened. But in y/n’s heart, Dustin’s spark remained alive: the hope that even in the impossible, something valuable could be found… although also dangerous.

Act III: The Mall

Camazotz breathed in silence. The walls expanded and contracted as if they were giant lungs, releasing a murmur that seemed to accompany every word. Y/n was sitting on the soft ground, with her legs crossed, watching how the faint lights flickered like trapped stars. In front of her, Henry looked at her with that disturbing calm that enveloped her, as if his every gesture were calculated to keep her close.

—Do you know why you are here? —Henry asked, his deep voice resonating like an echo that did not quite fade away.

Y/n lowered her gaze.

—I don’t know. I just… feel like this place protects me. That you protect me.

Henry leaned toward her, his eyes shining with a mix of nostalgia and obsession.

—I had a sister —he said, with an unexpectedly soft tone—. Small, fragile… but full of light. She looked at me as if I were her world.

Y/n observed him, surprised. Never before had Henry spoken of his past with such clarity.

—What happened to her? —she asked, almost in a whisper.

Henry closed his eyes for an instant, as if the memory pierced him with pain.

—I lost her. The light went out. And since then… everything changed.

The silence extended between them. Y/n felt a shiver, but also a strange connection. Henry treated her with a delicacy that she did not expect, as if he saw her not only as a prisoner, but as a reflection of that lost sister.

—Sometimes… —Henry continued, opening his eyes and fixing them on her—, when I look at you, I remember what it was like to have her near. Your voice, your gestures… they remind me too much of her.

Y/n looked away, uncomfortable. There was something in his words that enveloped her, that made her feel special, but also trapped.

—I am not your sister —she said, with firmness, although her voice trembled.

Henry smiled barely, a smile that was not warm, but not cruel either.

—I know. But I cannot help it. You make me remember what I lost.

The walls of Camazotz vibrated, as if the place itself reacted to the conversation. And then, as if Henry’s words had opened a crack in her memory, a flashback hit her with force.

The memory: Starcourt Mall, Scoops Ahoy

Suddenly, Y/n was in the Starcourt Mall, surrounded by bright lights, 80s music, and the bustle of families and teenagers. The air smelled of popcorn, cotton candy, and cheap perfume.

In front of her, Steve Harrington was wearing his ridiculous sailor uniform at Scoops Ahoy. The blue hat sat crooked on his head and the striped shirt looked more like a costume than a uniform. With a nervous smile, he offered her a strawberry ice cream.

—It’s not the best job in the world, but at least we have free ice cream —he joked, winking at her.

Behind the counter, Robin Buckley let out a sarcastic laugh.

—Free for us, sure. Although if Steve keeps trying to impress every girl who walks in, we’re going to go out of business.

Y/n laughed softly, feeling how the atmosphere filled with a warmth that contrasted with the darkness of Camazotz. She remembered the afternoons there, listening to Robin tell absurd stories about customers and laughing with Steve while he tried, clumsily, to appear charming. It was a refuge in the middle of chaos, a place where she could forget for an instant the monsters and shadows that lurked in Hawkins.

The memory faded slowly, as if someone were turning off the lights of the mall. Y/n was back in Camazotz, with Henry observing her from the shadows. His eyes shone with a mix of curiosity and jealousy.

—That place… that boy… why do you go back to him? —he asked, his voice deep.

Y/n did not know what to answer. She only felt that this memory was real, more real than the world in which she was trapped.

Act IV: Max and the Shared Pain

Camazotz was in silence, but it was not a peaceful silence. The walls vibrated as if they listened to every thought of Y/n. Henry was sitting in front of her, with that disturbing calm that enveloped him. His eyes studied her, as if every gesture of hers were a clue to something he needed to understand.

—You are different —Henry said, with a deep voice—. You are not like the others. You feel too much. That compassion… is what makes you weak.

Y/n looked at him, confused. —Weak? I don’t think so. Feeling is what keeps me alive.

Henry tilted his head, intrigued. —I also had someone who made me feel… human. My sister. She looked at me with tenderness, even when the world rejected me. But tenderness saves no one. Tenderness breaks.

The words stuck into Y/n like a sting. And then, as if Henry had opened a crack in her mind, a memory hit her with force.

The memory: The Case of the Missing Lifeguard / The Mouse Hunter Y/n was in Hawkins, at the Maxfields' house. Max was sitting on the floor, her eyes red from so much crying. Billy, her brother, had changed. He was not the same arrogant and explosive boy that everyone knew: now there was something dark in him, something that made him more dangerous, more terrifying. The Mind Flayer controlled him, and every encounter with him was a nightmare.

Max trembled, unable to comprehend how her brother could look at her with those empty eyes. Y/n approached slowly, sitting by her side. —You are not alone —she said to her, firmly, taking her hand—. Whatever happens, I will be with you.

Max looked at her, with tears in her eyes. —He’s my brother… but I don’t recognize him anymore.

Y/n squeezed her hand tightly. —Then we will face it together.

The memory intensified: the tension in the house, the constant fear that Billy would appear at any moment, the sensation that the Mind Flayer was everywhere. Y/n remembered how she had tried to protect Max, how she had been a silent support in the middle of the chaos.

The memory: The Battle of Starcourt The flashback changed setting. Now she was at the Starcourt Mall, in the middle of the final battle. The air was thick with smoke, screams, and the roar of the Mind Flayer. Billy was there, under the absolute control of the creature, turned into a weapon against his own friends.

Y/n remembered Max’s desperation, the pain in her eyes seeing her brother transformed into something monstrous. She herself had felt the fear of facing Billy, knowing that behind that brutal strength there still remained a fragment of the boy who had once been human.

In an instant of tension, Y/n stepped between Max and Billy, trying to stop him. —Billy, listen —she shouted, with a cracking voice—. You are not this. You are not just the Mind Flayer.

For a second, Billy’s eyes seemed to waver, as if a spark of humanity were trying to break through. But the roar of the Mind Flayer extinguished it again, and the battle continued with violence.

Return to Camazotz The memory faded, and Y/n was back in Camazotz. Henry observed her with fascination, his eyes shining with a mix of curiosity and rage.

—That boy… Billy —Henry said, with a low voice—. He too was a prisoner. Not of me, but of another power. And what did you do? You looked at him with compassion. You tried to save him.

Y/n looked at him firmly. —Because there was still something of him there. Because no one deserves to be erased completely.

Henry leaned toward her, his voice heavy with obsession. —That is what you do not understand. Compassion does not save. Compassion binds you. It makes you weak.

Y/n clenched her fists, feeling how the memory of Max and Billy burned inside her. —No. Compassion makes me strong. Because it reminds me of who I am.

The walls of Camazotz vibrated with force, as if the place itself reacted to the confrontation. Henry looked at her with intensity, as if in that moment he were deciding whether to see her as an ally… or as a threat.

Act V: Romance with Steve

Camazotz was darker than ever. The walls breathed with a slow rhythm, as if the entire place waited for something. Henry stayed close to Y/n, observing her with that mixture of obsession and calm that enveloped her.

—Do you know what is happening outside? —Henry asked, his deep voice resonating like an echo—. Hawkins is under quarantine. The military has sealed the streets, and your little Holly Wheeler… has disappeared.

Y/n looked at him with horror. —What… what are you saying? Holly… where is she?

Henry smiled barely, with that smile that was not warm, but not cruel either. —She is part of my plan. The Upside Down needs a new link, and Holly is perfect.

The words stuck into Y/n like knives. The air became heavier, and then, as if Henry’s confession had opened a crack in her mind, a memory hit her with force.

The memory: Steve and the rescue plan In Hawkins, everything was chaos. The streets were full of military barricades, the neighbors lived with fear, and the Upside Down seemed closer than ever. Steve Harrington walked with a frown, accompanied by Robin, Dustin, and Lucas. They had spent three days without seeing Y/n, and at first they had not worried too much: she used to disappear for hours, inventing believable excuses like she was helping Karen Wheeler with Holly or that she had stayed at the library looking for information about the portals.

But now, three days were too many. And the worst: Y/n had not attended the “break-in” they did every night to enter the military base and monitor the soldiers' movements. That absence was the definitive alarm.

—It’s not normal —Robin said, crossing her arms—. Y/n never misses. —Exactly —added Dustin, nervous—. She is always there, even when she says she is tired. Something happened.

Steve clenched his fists, feeling a knot in his stomach. —We have to find her. And fast.

Meanwhile, Will began to show strange signs: visions, headaches, and a connection increasingly strong with the Upside Down. Max remained in a coma, trapped in a limbo from which no one knew if she could wake up. Everything seemed to fall apart, and Y/n’s absence was the straw that broke the camel's back.

The intimate memory: Steve and the stars In the middle of that tension, Y/n remembered a different moment. A quiet night, far from the noise of the mall and the chaos of Hawkins. Steve had taken her to a secluded place, an open field where the stars shone brightly.

They sat on the ground, looking at the sky. Steve was nervous, but his voice was sincere. —I don’t know what is going to happen tomorrow —he said, with his eyes fixed on the stars—. Hawkins is changing, and everything seems to crumble. But I know that I want to be with you, whatever happens.

Y/n looked at him, moved. It was not a cliché romance: there were no flowers or grandiloquent declarations. Only long conversations, looks that said more than words, and the certainty that they understood each other in silence. She smiled, leaning her head on his shoulder. That memory burned like fire in her heart, a fire that kept her alive even in the darkness of Camazotz.

Return to Camazotz: Henry’s fury The memory faded, and Y/n was back in Camazotz. Henry observed her with rage, his eyes shining with contained fury.

—He cannot have you! —he roared, his voice echoing in the living walls—. You are mine!

Y/n backed away, but did not look away. —I am not yours, Henry. I never will be.

Henry stood up, his silhouette projecting long and threatening shadows. —That boy… Steve Harrington. He does not understand what you are. He cannot protect you from the void. Only I can do it.

Y/n clenched her fists, feeling how the memory of Steve burned inside her. —Steve reminds me of who I am. You only want to erase me.

The brainwashing Henry advanced slowly, and the walls of Camazotz began to close around Y/n. His voice became deeper, more hypnotic.

—Do not fight against me. You do not have to suffer. Let me guide you. Let me show you what you really are.

Y/n tried to resist, but the murmur of the place intensified, penetrating her mind like a poison. The lights flickered, and every word from Henry seeped into her thoughts, erasing little by little the strength of her memories.

—Steve… —she whispered, trying to hold onto the image of the stars. —Steve does not matter —Henry responded, with a firm voice—. He is weak. I am eternal. I am your truth.

Tears rolled down Y/n’s cheeks. The fire of the memory with Steve slowly went out, replaced by the darkness of Camazotz. Her breathing became slower, her eyes emptier.

Henry extended his hand, and she, trembling, took it. —That is better —he said, with a satisfied smile—. Now let's go, little one.