sports fan // book lover // chicken nugget enthusiast // terrible at watching netflix // red sox, devils, leafs, canucks, avs, sens, isles, college hockey
[looking at people younger than me] you have your whole life ahead of you [looking at people older than me] you have your whole life ahead of you [looking at myself] its over
a/n: this fic is fluffy in the best way possible. writing about maxwell!reader scratches an itch in my brain i didn't even know i had. 💗.
pairing: dean di laurentis x maxwell!reader
warnings: drinking, mentions of alcohol and intoxication, FLUFF, best friend's brother, reader asks for affection (dean doesn't take advantage of it dw)
You were drunk. Too drunk. You were standing on top of a table, dancing and drinking every shot that crossed your line of sight. The drinks kept coming, and people kept circling around you as you twirled around and blew them kisses. It was not uncommon for you to do this, at all.
What was rather uncommon, was for someone to actually stop you. Truth be told, you’d forgotten to keep pushing down your mini skirt when you’d had your third drink, so you were probably showing more skin than necessary, and that was why most of the people in the circle were men ogling you.
You knew it was weird, but you were too drunk to care. You stayed like that until you heard the front door shut with a slam, and you saw your worst nightmare enter the room. Beau.
As if some higher power had read your thoughts, he spotted you immediately and his eyes widened in anger. He ran to where you were, and you knew that what came next would be bad.
“Everybody out!” He yelled, pushing people around so they’d leave the room you were in. He rolled his eyes when he saw you, and it made you frown. “I’m fine!” You assured, crossing your arms.
“No you’re not. But I can’t drive you back to your dorm, because I had too many drinks at the pregame. I’ll just ask Dean if he can do it.” Once those words left his mouth, your whole body froze. Dean as in Dean Di Laurentis, the guy who made your knees buckle beneath you when he flashed you a simple smile, was the one Beau wanted to be in charge of taking you home.
“You okay?” He asked, noticing your subtle reaction. “Yeah, just a little tipsy” You grinned, bringing your index finger and your thumb close together. That got a chuckle out of him, and it also made you smile.
Beau brought his phone to his ear and called Dean. “Thanks, man. We’re in a small room next to the kitchen. Sorry for the trouble, I owe you” He hung up, and extended an arm for you to jump down. You shook your head, and tried to not think about the suggestive music playing while thinking of Dean at the same time. “Beau, I’m not gonna jump down. This music is perfect for dancing.” You said, and Dean entered the room right on cue.
Dean’s face softened the moment he saw you, and you couldn’t help but smile at him. “Beau, go and have fun, I’ve got her” He said, turning to look at your brother, who nodded and thanked him once again.
“Like I told Beau, I am not getting down” You said, squinting and running a hand through your hair. “Then I’m coming up to get you” Your eyes widened; before you knew it, he was atop the table and picking you up bridal style.
“Di Laurentis, let me down!” You screeched, bringing your hands up to hit his chest. That was to no avail, and the only thing you got out of it was realising just how toned he really was. You were in no position to make rational decisions, so you wrapped your arms around his neck and buried your face in his chest.
Dean smirked, but pulled you flush to him. He found it oddly natural, but shook the thought away
“You comfortable there?” He asked, his smug smirk intact
“So warm” You mumbled, playing with strands of his blond hair that rested at the nape of his neck. “You have very soft hair, do you know that?” You said, bringing your hands up to his face. Your thumb traced his sharp jawline, and you felt it clench.
“You are very drunk, Mini Maxwell” He said, looking down at you and smiling. “And you have beautiful eyes, Di Laurentis” Although you couldn’t see his reaction, you swore that a faint hint of a blush grazed his cheeks. Suddenly, a blast of cold air hit you. Dean took you to his BMW, opened the passenger seat with one hand, and put you inside it. You felt colder than you had all evening, even when the cool air hit your whole body. It was as if his absence was physically noticeable.
“Okay, I’m gonna take you to your dorm now” He said, buckling your seatbelt. You remembered that your friend Layla was throwing a dorm party, and a giggle escaped your lips. “Oh absolutely not,” He said, recognising the look on your face. “Whose party is it?” He asked, one of his hands on your seat and the other on the dashboard in front of you. “Layla’s…” You reluctantly said, a frown covering your face. He sighed and you could tell he was hesitating on whether he should say what was on his mind.
“You’re staying in the off campus house tonight, Mini Maxwell” Your jaw felt like it had literally detached itself. “Your off campus house?” You asked, batting your eyelashes in confusion. He chuckled and nodded. “Maybe Beau will kill me, but he’ll be grateful for it deep down.”
Dean closed the passenger door and went to the driver’s seat. He started the car, and you couldn’t help staring at him. He just looked so good, and you were in no position to deny yourself. Dean turned his head to look at you briefly, and he couldn’t help but laugh.
“You’re staring.” He said.
“I know. You’re pretty.” You replied, grinning.
This was not how Dean expected taking you home would go. Because he’d always known you were gorgeous, but you somehow looked better with your hair a little messy. He quickly shook the thought away and reminded himself that his only objectives were to get you to sleep and drink water.
“You’re awfully quiet, Di Laurentis.” You said, your hands playing with a strand of your curled hair
“Just thinking” His fingers tapped the steering wheel as he pulled into the parking spot that his house had.
After getting out of the car and opening your seat’s door, he dropped to his knees. Dean took your left foot and took your heel off, doing the same thing with your right foot. You let out a relieved sign, slumping back.
“Do you do this to every girl with aching feet that comes to your house?” You asked, raising your eyebrows.
“Just the ones I really like” He smiled softly at you before picking you up again. “Now you’re going to drink some water so you sober up and you’re gonna sleep, okay?” If this had been any other day, you would’ve fought the urge to snuggle against him again. But it wasn’t a normal day so you didn’t.
Dean opened the door, and you realised how quiet the house was. You realised everyone else was probably out partying, but Dean was here. He closed the door, carried you to the kitchen, and set you down on a counter. He filled up a glass of water and extended his hand to give it to you. You drank, the taste of alcohol still lingering in your mouth.
“Dean, ‘m hungry” You croaked, setting the glass on the counter.
He relished the sound of his name escaping your lips, and if he could’ve bottled it, it would’ve been his liquor of choice at every party.
“I’m not sure you’re gonna like what we have here, so we could just get some takeout” A grin appeared on your face, and Dean took it as a yes. He left for a second, rushing up the stairs to get some of the micellar water Garret kept stocked up in case Hannah ever stayed over. After putting some of it in a couple of cotton pads, he came back down.
He positioned himself in between your legs and started wiping away your makeup. You giggled, leaning into his gentle strokes. Once he was finished he picked you back up and set you down on the couch, hoping you’d maybe fall asleep there and actually get the rest you needed. Before he could sit down on the other end and order, you stopped him dead in his tracks with just three words.
“Stay with me” You pleaded, patting the space next to you.
He pulled out his phone to order some food first, his movements deliberate, as if he was buying himself time from having to lay beside you because he was a mess inside and didn’t know what to do. When he finally threw the phone across the sofa, he hesitated for a brief moment before finally sitting down beside you, his hands laying on his sides.
Dean Di Laurentis didn’t do this, he didn’t do soft, he didn’t hesitate, and he most definitely didn’t do either with you. Your hands somehow found their way to his, as if that was the most normal thing in the world. You heard his breath hitch, and it made your heart race. You’d already forgotten about the food, your attention focused on tracing shapes on his veiny hands instead.
“Sleep, babydoll, you need to rest. I’ll wake you up when the food gets here” He said, his mouth practically pressed to your ear
“Can’t you just kiss my drunkness better?” The words came out of your mouth before you could even process you’d uttered them, and Dean went completely still.
The silence that came after you said those words felt deafening. He only heard the silent hum of the refrigerator, and his hands pressed hard against the sofa cushions. For the first time in his life, Dean didn’t have a snappy comeback or a sarcastic remark to throw back at you. He’d known you for many years, but this was the first time that you managed to silence him completely.
He watched the rise and fall of your shoulders and the realisation suddenly hit him. He could have anyone in the university, but he wanted you. He wanted every part of you, your wild personality and your excitement to go out and have fun every single day. He wanted to be the one to take care of you every time you were hungover, or simply whenever you needed him. That’s when Dean Di Laurentis realised he was irrevocably doomed. A thought lingered in his mind. If you weren’t drunk and truly felt the same way, I would.
Mere seconds after that, he felt your breathing even out. He looked down at you and realised you were asleep. He pressed a kiss to the back of your head but stayed where he was. He didn’t care if the food got cold, or if Logan found it in the morning, still on the doorstep. He knew you wanted him to stay, so he’d stay.
short summary: where dean is stressed about an upcoming game, and you, being the wonderful girlfriend that you are, offer to help him relax. inspired by THAT scene from off campus.
pairing: boyfriend!dean di laurentis x fem!reader
word count: 666 (dean would be proud)
warnings: porn with almost no plot, explicit sexual content, oral sex (f!receiving), established relationship, dean being obsessed with reader, stress relief taken very literally, praise, excessive use of "baby", mild swearing, teasing, possessive language, body worship, dean di laurentis treating your orgasm like a personal achievement, lots of kissing, lots of touching, emotional intimacy disguised as horny behavior, let me know if i missed any!
all characters in this story are adults.
english is not my first language, so please forgive me for any errors.
a/n: i couldn't get this idea out of my head for days, dean has me so consumed. i don't make the rules. also, i firmly believe he would use the phrase "stress-eating" in this context and think he's the funniest person alive.
what's kai listening to: juno by sabrina carpenter.
18+; mdni.
You didn't think, when you walked into Hawks House an hour ago, that you'd end up in this position.
You were on Dean's desk chair, one leg hooked over the armrest, the other digging between his shoulder blades as he knelt between your legs. your panties had long since been tossed to some unknown corner—another one in the graveyard of underwear you'd lost in Dean's room.
There had been signs for days—the fact that he'd been hunched over game footage with Logan almost every night at Malone's, the way he'd been spending every free moment at the rink with Garrett. The lack of his usual Dean-ness. Your boyfriend, you knew, was stressed, and apparently, completely determined to shoulder all of it alone.
But not on your watch.
When you headed up to his room and found him hunched over his laptop, rewatching footage from the St. Anthony's game, you immediately offered to help in any way you could.
Which is how you ended up here, with Dean's fingers parting your folds once more, his mouth closing around your clit. Your back arched, thighs tightening around his head. He'd been at this for God knew how long—you'd lost track after the third time you came.
You bit your lip, whimpering. "Dean, please—"
He lifted his head, flashing his dimples as he smiled. "You're makin' me feel so much better already, baby."
"This is not—" You gasped as he groaned against your core, your hands instinctively tangling into his blonde hair. "Not exactly what I had in mind when I s-said I'd help you de-stress."
He pulled away for a second, large hands wrapping around your thighs, pulling them farther apart. "This is helping me, baby. Have you ever heard of a little thing called stress-eating?"
You let out a breathy laugh, which quickly morphed into a moan as Dean's tongue flicked against your clit again. You were sticky with sweat, sounds of absolute pleasure escaping your lips, the room filled with the scent of your arousal and Dean's cologne.
His hands snaked up your stomach, fingers toying with your nipples as he slid his tongue past your entrance, making your eyes roll to the back of your head.
A needy, almost pornographic whine escaped you. "Dean."
"One more, baby," Dean begged, his brain foggy with the heady scent of you, the way you tasted making him forget all about the stress he'd been under for the past few days. His voice was low, wrecked. "Please. I need this—need you."
You nodded, your cunt clenching around air at the sound of him begging for you. Dean Di Laurentis, drunk on your pussy, pleading for more.
You could feel another orgasm building, blooming in the pit of your stomach as you reached up to grab one of his hands where he was still rolling your nipples between his fingers. He laced his fingers through yours immediately, thumb brushing over your knuckles.
You made the mistake of glancing downwards, and God. His blonde hair fell messily onto his forehead, and when you reached down to push it back out of his face, you nearly lost your mind then and there at the sight of him, his eyes closed, long blonde lashes resting against his cheeks. "You taste so fuckin' good baby. So fucking good for me."
Your stomach tensed, hips beginning to rock against his mouth almost involuntarily. "Fuck yeah, baby, use me. Take what you need."
You tugged him closer, thighs shaking, vision blurring as your hips bucked against his tongue, your orgasm washing over you, making your toes curl. Dean's muffled voice intercepted the desperate moans of pleasure parting your lips as he murmured from between your legs, "That's it, baby. That's my girl."
Dean finally—finally—sat back, licking the remainder of your juices off his lips. He trailed slow, gentle kisses up your neck, your jaw, your forehead as you slumped back into the chair, spent and exhausted.
"Thank you," he muttered, kissing your lips. You could taste yourself on his tongue. "For always making me feel better, baby."
The last time Dean Di Laurentis had occupied your working memory, he was fourteen years old, a minor character in the background of your high school years, and completely consumed by an aggressive argument about luxury watch brands on your parents’ manicured lawn in Greenwich.
Back then, you had far too much on your plate to pay attention to your younger brother Beau’s rotating circle of wealthy, hyperactive friends. Between your own intense varsity tennis schedule, prep courses for the Ivy League, and the suffocating social expectations of Connecticut’s elite, the boys tracking mud through the foyer were just background noise. You knew Dean’s family, of course, everyone in the country club circuit knew the Di Laurentis name, but Dean himself was just a scrawny kid with a floppy bowl cut and a permanent smirk, always rushing off to some elite youth hockey league.
When you packed your life into designer luggage and left for university, Dean had been an afterthought. You vaguely remembered him standing by the hedges, wearing an oversized prep-school blazer, offering a polite, casual nod as your car pulled out of the driveway.
Seven years was a long time in the grand scheme of human biology.
You had completed your undergraduate degree, spent three grueling years grinding your way up the corporate ladder of a fast-paced marketing firm in Chicago, and officially settled into the cynical, hyper-scheduled routine of a twenty-five-year-old professional. Beau had stayed on the athletic track, eventually landing the starting quarterback position at Briar University, turning into a massive, golden-boy campus celebrity whose games your parents traveled to see every autumn.
Dean had followed the ice instead of the gridiron, occupying a completely separate social circle as the star winger for Briar’s powerhouse hockey team. You saw his name occasionally in the family group chat when your mother clipped society pages or sports headlines, but in your mind, he remained frozen as the rich, annoying teenager who used to leave his expensive hockey sticks leaning against your father's vintage car.
Then came the Briar spring alumni weekend.
The post-game mixer at the off-campus athletic house was a chaotic, high-volume sea of red and white jerseys, premium liquor catering stations on the back porch, and a dense, humid cloud of expensive cologne mixed with ambient body heat. The bass from a massive speaker setup in the corner was vibrating right through the soles of your leather boots, a steady, thumping rhythm that matched the low, ambient roar of a hundred twenty-something athletes celebrating a double-victory weekend. Beau had thrown his arm around your shoulder the second you walked through the door, proudly parading his older sister through a gauntlet of offensive linemen and athletic directors like a prize trophy.
"Hey, hold on," Beau barked into your ear, his loud, deep quarterback voice easily cutting through the noise of the crowd. He navigated you toward the wide archway leading into the kitchen, his large hand steering you past a group of cheerleaders. "There’s some guys from the ice rink you haven't seen since we lived in Connecticut. Hey! Di Laurentis! Get over here!"
You adjusted the strap of your shoulder bag, preparing yourself to smile politely at whatever ghost from the past was about to stumble out of the kitchen pantry. You expected a polite handshake, a brief inquiry about your corporate job, and maybe a casual nod toward your shared Greenwich roots.
The crowd shifted. A tall, broad-supported man stepped through the threshold, a premium drink held loosely between his long, heavily calloused fingers.
The smile died instantly on your face. Your fingers froze against the leather strap of your bag.
It was a total, violent chemical override of your entire sensory system.
The scrawny, uncoordinated kid from the driveway had vanished entirely from the mortal plane. In his place stood a six-foot-two monument to athletic perfection, a man whose presence seemed to warp the very air pressure in the room. His hair wasn't a floppy, tragic bowl cut anymore; it was a thick, messy crop of bright, golden-blonde strands that looked effortlessly styled, a few loose pieces falling over a forehead that was smooth and tanned.
But it was the sheer size of him that caused your brain to execute a hard, catastrophic system reboot.
Dean’s shoulders were massive, a wide, terrifyingly solid shelf that filled out a crisp, dark green linen shirt with a precision that felt almost predatory. The top three buttons were left casually undone, revealing the heavy, clean line of his collarbones and a glimpse of a broad, hairless chest that looked like it had been chiseled out of granite by a classical sculptor. His waist was narrow, tapering down into a pair of dark, tailored jeans that clung to thighs so thick and powerful they clearly belonged to a man who spent his mornings pushing sleds across concrete and skating through defensive lines at thirty miles an hour.
He didn't just look different. He looked like an entirely new species.
"Holy hell," you whispered under your breath, the words slipping past your lips before your professional filter could intercept them. Your eyes did an involuntary, frantic double-take, tracking the hard, clean line of his jaw, the sharp, aristocratic slope of his nose, and the intense, piercing blue of his eyes as they locked onto yours.
Dean stopped right in front of you. A slow, lazy smirk spread across his face, his blue eyes dropping down to take in the sight of you in your tailored skirt and silk blouse before rising back up to meet your stunned gaze. The sheer, unadulterated confidence radiating off his skin was a physical force, a smoky, high-stakes charm that made your lower stomach execute a sudden, heavy drop.
"Well, look who finally decided to come back to the minor leagues," Dean said. His voice was a total shock to your ears. It wasn't the cracking, high-pitched tone of a teenager; it was a deep, gravelly baritone, a low, smooth vibration that seemed to hit you right in the center of your chest, sending a hot, liquid shiver straight down the inside of your thighs. "Hey there."
The plot, as it turned out, had thickened to a point that was entirely unmanageable.
For the first twenty minutes of the conversation, you were completely incapable of processing actual language. Beau was standing next to you, loudly recounting a specific play from the third quarter, his hands gesturing wildly through the air, but your entire cognitive capacity was anchored entirely to Dean’s mouth. Every time he took a sip from his glass, the hard, definition-heavy muscle of his forearm flexed beneath his rolled-up sleeves, the thick veins mapping a path across his tanned skin that had your throat going completely dry.
You had spent three years in Chicago around corporate executives, high-end clients, and polished, well-dressed men, but none of them had ever made your pulse spike with this kind of raw, visceral panic. Dean was looking down at you with a look that was entirely inappropriate for someone who used to be a background character in your life. It was a lazy, hunting look, a slow, appreciative assessment that made you acutely aware of the fact that your clothes suddenly felt entirely too tight.
"You're quiet," Dean murmured, leaning his shoulder against the wooden doorframe, effectively cutting off the rest of the kitchen traffic until it was just the two of you locked in a tight, high-tension pocket of space. Beau had already drifted away to greet a group of boosters, leaving you entirely defenseless. "What's the matter? Did the corporate world take away your tongue?"
"I'm just... trying to reconcile the data," you said, your voice coming out a little sharper than intended as you took a deliberate sip of your white wine, desperate to clear the sudden dryness in your throat. You looked him up and down, making no effort to hide the absolute bewilderment on your face. "Dean, when did you... when did this happen?"
He let out a low, rumbling laugh that vibrated pleasantly against your ribs. "When did what happen?"
"Don't be dense," you snapped softly, a sudden flush of heat rising up your neck as his smirk widened. "The last time I saw you, you were just one of Beau's country club friends running around the tennis courts. You look like you could lift my sedan with one hand now. It's ridiculous. It's a complete evolutionary anomaly."
Dean’s blue eyes gleamed with a sudden, vicious delight. He leaned down a fraction of an inch, his broad frame blocking out the light from the hallway, his crisp, expensive cologne filling your lungs until you couldn't think about anything else.
"It's called a division one strength and conditioning program, sweetheart," he whispered, his tone dropping into a confidential, gravelly frequency that made your knees feel alarmingly loose. "Plus, you know, I grew up. Some of us make improvements when we hit twenty-one. You like the upgrades?"
"I think you're an arrogant jerk who needs to step back about six inches before I tell Beau you're harassing his sister," you lied, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.
"Beau's too busy celebrating to notice anything," Dean murmured smoothly, his eyes dropping down to your lips for a fraction of a second before returning to your gaze with a terrifying level of confidence. "And you don't look like you want me to step back."
He was entirely, infuriatingly correct. The sheer, animal magnetism of his new form was doing something catastrophic to your moral compass. You were twenty-five, an adult with a retirement account and a spreadsheet for your monthly groceries, and you were currently standing in a college town, experiencing a total, baseline physical breakdown because your brother's blonde childhood friend had turned into a literal god.
The mixer eventually spilled out into the backyard as the midnight air cleared out the humidity of the house. You spent the next hour trying to maintain a respectable distance from Dean, embedding yourself in a group of Beau's football friends, trying to focus on their loud, overlapping stories about training camp and team pranks.
But it was an exercise in total futility.
No matter where you stood on the grass, you could feel Dean’s eyes on you. He was standing by the outdoor fire pit with a group of hockey players, his massive frame silhouetted against the orange glow of the flames. He was wearing a dark leather jacket now, his large hands shoved casually into his pockets, his golden-blonde hair catching the light of the fire like a halo. Every time you glanced over, he was already watching you, a slow, unbothered smirk permanent on his lips, as if he knew exactly what kind of chaotic, high-volume debate was raging inside your head.
"Hey," a soft voice broke your concentration. You turned to see one of the football trainers, holding two fresh drinks. She handed you a hard seltzer with a sympathetic smile. "You look like you're about to pass out from sports overload. Beau can be a lot when he wins."
"It's not Beau," you admitted, taking the cold can and pressing it briefly against your flushed cheek, desperate for any kind of temperature regulation. You leaned closer to her, your eyes drifting involuntarily back toward the fire pit. "Hey... who is the blonde guy over there? The one next to the goalie?"
The girl looked over, her eyebrows lifting into a knowing, amused line. "Oh. That's Dean Di Laurentis. He's the starting winger for the hockey team. Why? You interested?"
"No, he's... he's one of Beau's friends from back home," you stammered, the text of your cover story falling apart under the sheer pressure of your panic. "I haven't seen him since high school. Back then I was too busy with tennis and AP classes to notice any of Beau's friends, but he definitely didn't look like that."
The trainer let out a loud laugh, shaking her head as she took a sip of her drink. "Well, he definitely changed. Dean is famously the most dangerous guy on the sports side of campus. Half the Greek system has spent the last three semesters trying to get his phone number, but he treats everyone like an amusement park ride. He's completely unhinged, but honestly? Look at him. Can you blame them?"
You looked. You couldn't blame them at all.
Dean was currently laughing at something his goalie had said, his head throwing back, the long, powerful line of his throat fully exposed to the night air. The absolute, unshakeable ease with which he carried his new body was the most frustrating part. He wasn't awkward about his size; he moved with the precise, lethal grace of an apex predator who knew exactly how much damage he could do in a room.
"He's a menace," you muttered, your eyes tracking the way his leather jacket pulled tight across his back as he reached down to stir a log in the fire pit.
"He's a masterpiece," the trainer corrected with a grin. "If I were you, I'd go over there and remind him that you used to ignore him. Guys like Dean love a girl who isn't intimidated by the jersey."
"I'm not intimidated," you murmured, your thighs pressing together tightly as a sudden, heavy throb of pure, unadulterated desire hit your system. "I'm just... experiencing a lot of cognitive dissonance."
By two in the morning, the party had finally begun to wind down. The alumni had retreated to their hotels, the liquor bottles were mostly empty, and the massive athletic house was quiet save for a few stragglers clearing out cups from the living room.
Beau had completely crashed on the armchair, his massive quarterback frame sprawled across the fabric, snoring softly with his head tilted back. You stood by the front door, your jacket over your arm, waiting for the rideshare app on your phone to find a driver in the crowded college town.
"The app's going to glitch out," a low, gravelly voice said from behind you.
You turned around to see Dean. He had his keys jingling between his long fingers, his leather jacket unzipped, his golden-blonde hair slightly rumpled from the wind outside. He looked tired, but his blue eyes were still intensely bright, fixed on your face with a terrifying, total focus.
"It's alumni weekend," Dean continued, stepping into your personal space until you could feel the heat radiating off his bare chest through his open shirt. "Every driver within twenty miles is currently surge-pricing the business majors downtown. You'll be standing on this porch until sunrise."
"I can handle a wait, Dean," you said, your voice trembling just a fraction despite your best efforts to maintain a cool, professional distance.
"I'm driving Beau's truck back to his apartment," Dean said, tilting his head toward the driveway where the massive black vehicle was parked. "I can drop you off at your hotel. It's on the way."
You looked at the phone screen, which was currently spinning a continuous, frustrating loading circle. Then you looked back at Dean. The thought of being locked in the cab of a truck with him, smelling his expensive cologne, listening to that deep, gravelly voice in the quiet of the night, was an absolute recipe for a moral disaster. But the thought of standing on a cold porch was worse.
"Fine," you sighed, slipping your phone into your pocket. "But if you play any terrible hockey locker room music, I'm jumping out at the next red light."
Dean let out a low, delighted chuckle, his teeth flashing white in the dim light of the entryway. "Deal."
The cab of the truck was warm, the heater humming a steady, quiet rhythm against the dark windowpanes as Dean navigated the empty, tree-lined streets of the Briar campus. The rain had started again, a soft, misty drizzle that turned the windshield into a blur of red and yellow tail-lights.
You sat tight against the passenger door, your knees pulled together, your eyes fixed firmly on the road ahead. But it was impossible to ignore the sheer mass of him sitting just two feet away. Every time Dean shifted gears, his long leg moved against the console, his thick thigh muscle flexing beneath his jeans, his broad shoulder brushing against the leather seat with a heavy, solid authority.
"You're still doing it," Dean said quietly, his eyes remaining on the dark road ahead.
"Doing what?"
"Looking at me like you're trying to figure out if I'm a hologram," he murmured, a small ghost of a smirk touching his lips. He turned the steering wheel with one hand, his large palm effortlessly controlling the massive truck with a lazy, practiced competence. "You haven't stopped looking at my face since eleven o'clock, sweetheart."
Your cheeks burned instantly hot in the dark cab. "I am simply stunned by the sheer level of genetic restructuring, Dean. It's like my brain refuses to accept that the kid who used to hang around our house in Greenwich is currently occupying a six-foot-two frame and driving a commercial vehicle. I honestly never paid attention to you back then."
Dean let out a low, gravelly huff, pulling the truck up to a stoplight. He turned his head slowly, his blue eyes locking onto yours in the dim, green glow of the dashboard lights. The playful, arrogant smirk was completely gone, replaced by a heavy, volatile intensity that made the air in your lungs turn to pure glass.
"Do you want to know a secret?" Dean whispered, his voice dropping into a register so low it sent a violent, liquid ache straight down between your legs.
"What?" you breathed, completely unable to break eye contact.
"I spent the last four years praying to God you'd come back for one of these games," Dean confessed, his long fingers tightening against the steering wheel until his knuckles went white. "Beau used to have a family photo on his desk freshman year. I used to sit in his room, looking at you in that picture, thinking about how you completely ignored me every time I was over at your place. You were always too busy, always tracking your own goals, totally out of reach. I swore to myself that the next time you saw me, I wasn't going to be just some kid in the background."
Your breath hitched completely in your throat. Your heart executed a loud, thumping beat against your ribs. "Dean..."
"I worked for this," he murmured, his eyes dropping down to track the line of your throat before rising back to your gaze with a fierce, possessive clarity. "Every hour in the weight room, every sprint on the ice, in the back of my mind, I was just waiting for the day I could stand in front of you and look you up and down the exact way you just did tonight. I wanted to see that look on your face. The one where you realize exactly who I am now."
The raw, unadulterated honesty of his confession completely shattered your defenses. It wasn't just a sudden physical glow-up; it was a calculated, years-long campaign of desire, an obsession that had been building in the dark while you were busy working in Chicago. The background character from your teenage years had spent seven years turning himself into a weapon specifically designed to break your sanity.
The light turned green. Dean didn't press the gas. He simply sat there in the quiet cab, his breath coming in slow, heavy expansions of his broad chest, waiting for your response.
"Dean," you whispered, your fingers digging tightly into the leather of your purse as a total, overwhelming wave of desire crashed through your system, wiping away the last remaining threads of your twenty-five-year-old restraint. "If you don't take me back to your place right now, I am going to lose my mind in the passenger seat of this truck."
Dean’s eyes flared with a sudden, violent heat, his jaw clenching so hard the muscle ticked near his ear. He didn't say a single word. He simply slammed his foot down on the accelerator, the massive truck roaring to life as he executed a sharp, perfect U-turn across the empty wet asphalt, heading straight toward the off-campus hockey house.
The front door of his apartment had barely clicked shut before Dean threw his keys onto the counter and turned on you with the force of a total physical takeover.
The lights were off, the living room illuminated only by the gray streetlamps outside the window, but you didn't need light. Dean’s large hands found your waist in the dark, his long, powerful fingers digging into the fabric of your blouse with a possessive strength that lifted you right off your feet. He slammed your back gently against the solid wood of the front door, his massive frame pinning you to the surface until you were completely encased in his warmth, his cologne, and his absolute hunger.
"Say it again," Dean growled, his voice thick and rough against your lips, his golden-blonde hair brushing against your forehead as he stared down at you in the shadows. "Tell me what you want, sweetheart."
"You," you gasped out, your hands flying up his broad chest, your fingers tearing at the buttons of his green shirt until the fabric gave way, allowing your palms to slide over the hard, burning muscle of his chest. "I want you, Dean. You're so hot it's actually making me sick. I can't think about anything else."
Dean let out a low, ragged sound, a mix between a laugh and a groan of pure, unadulterated triumph. He slanted his mouth down, capturing your lips with a bruising, desperate intensity that completely erased any remaining memory of the past.
The kiss was everything the seven-year wait had promised, intense, hungry, and completely overwhelming. His tongue slid into your mouth with a heavy, practiced rhythm, tasting like clean rain and absolute dominance, pulling a sharp, high-pitched whimper from the back of your throat. He pulled your hips flush against his, his thick, powerful thighs wedging firmly between yours, forcing you to feel the hard, unyielding line of his desire pressing right against your core through your tailored skirt.
You wrapped arms tightly around his neck, your fingers tangling deeply into the golden strands of his hair, pulling him closer until your chests were completely fused together. The absolute ferocity of the way he held you made you realize with a sudden, blinding rush of certainty that the old dynamic was truly dead and buried. This was a man, a division one athlete who knew exactly how to use his size to get what he wanted, and right now, all he wanted was to ruin you for anyone else.
Dean didn't break the kiss as his large hand slid down the length of your thigh, his fingers gathering the fabric of your skirt, pulling it up until his warm, calloused palm was resting directly against the bare skin of your upper leg. The contrast between his rough, athletic hand and your soft skin sent a sharp, electric jolt straight down your spine, causing a heavy, slick rush of moisture to coat your thighs beneath your underwear.
"God, you're shaking," Dean murmured against your mouth, his thumb smoothing over your inner thigh with a heavy, deliberate pressure that had your head tossing back against the door. "Look at me."
You opened your eyes, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps as you looked up into his handsome, desperate face. His blue eyes were completely dark with desire, his chest rising and falling violently against yours.
"I've been waiting seven years to do this," Dean whispered, his long fingers sliding beneath the lace of your underwear, finding the soaking, burning heat that had been building since the second you saw him in the kitchen. He let out a low, rough purr as his fingers moved against you, pulling a loud, uninhibited cry from your lips. "You like the new improvements? Tell me how much you like them."
"Dean, please," you begged, your fingers digging into his broad shoulders as your knees completely gave out under the sheer, relentless onslaught of his touch. He caught your weight effortlessly, his large arm wrapping around your lower back to keep you pinned to the door as his fingers continued their agonizing, perfect rhythm against your core. "You're perfect. You're completely perfect. Just... please."
"Not yet," he growled softly, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of your jawline, his teeth biting gently into your earlobe. "We're going to take our time. I want you to remember every single second of this when you go back to Chicago. I want you sitting at your corporate desk, looking at your spreadsheets, thinking about exactly how my hands feel on your skin."
He carried you into his bedroom with that same, terrifyingly effortless strength, setting you down in the center of his massive, unmade bed. The room smelled like him, crisp, clean, and intensely masculine, and the moment your back hit the mattress, Dean moved over you like a shadow, his heavy torso settling between your knees with a grounding authority that left no room for escape.
The rest of the night dissolved into a volatile, high-stakes blur of pure physical consumption. Dean was relentless, his athletic endurance turning the encounter into a grueling, beautiful marathon that pushed your body to its absolute limits. He stripped away the rest of your clothes with a slow, deliberate focus, his eyes tracking every single curve of your frame with a fierce, protective devotion that made you feel like the center of the universe.
When he finally sank into you, his large hands locking through your fingers, pinning your wrists to the mattress, the sheer, unyielding solidness of his body was a total override of your senses. Every single stroke was deep, heavy, and completely overwhelming, pulling loud, broken sobs from your lips that echoed through the quiet apartment. He moved with a rhythm that was entirely disciplined, a perfect, lethal execution of desire that had your body arching off the mattress, chasing the white-hot peak that was building right at the center of your chest.
"Look at me," Dean commanded softly in the dark, his face just inches from yours, his golden-blonde hair damp with sweat as he looked down at you. "Who owns you? Tell me who's in your head."
"You," you cried out, your head tossing against the pillows as a sudden, violent wave of completion broke over your body, sending a brilliant, blinding rush of heat straight down to your toes. "Dean... it's you. It's always been you."
Dean let out a sharp, ragged groan, his jaw clenching hard as he delivered a final, devastating thrust, his entire body shuddering against yours as he surrendered to his own release, burying his face in the crook of your neck as the final, heavy pulses of pleasure broke through both of your systems.
The next morning, the rain had cleared, leaving the bedroom flooded with a bright, clean New England sunlight that warmed the white sheets.
You woke up slowly, your body aching in a dozen different, delicious places, your mind clear and remarkably peaceful for the first time in years. You shifted slightly, your hand sliding across the mattress to find the space beside you empty.
A sudden, sharp panic flared in your chest, the corporate professional suddenly remembering the reality of the situation, before the soft sound of a guitar strumming from the kitchen caught your attention.
You pulled Dean’s large, green linen shirt over your bare shoulders, the hem falling down to your mid-thighs, smelling strongly of his citrus cologne and the heat of the night. You padded quietly down the short hallway, your bare feet silent against the hardwood floors.
Dean was sitting on the kitchen counter, his long legs dangling off the edge. He was completely shirtless, wearing only a pair of grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips, his wide, muscular chest fully exposed to the morning sun. He had an acoustic guitar resting on his thigh, his long, calloused fingers casually picking a soft, melodic tune that vibrated pleasantly through the quiet room.
He looked up as you entered, the melody stopping instantly as a slow, familiar, and entirely lazy smirk spread across his handsome face. He looked you up and down, his blue eyes resting on the sight of you wearing his shirt with a deep, male satisfaction that had your pulse executing a familiar, erratic leap.
"Morning," Dean murmured, his voice a low, gravelly morning rumble that shot a sudden, liquid warmth straight back down between your thighs.
You walked over to the counter, wedging yourself firmly between his knees, your hands rising to rest on his bare, muscular hips. "You play the guitar now? Seriously, Dean? Is there any cliché metric you didn't decide to completely conquer while I was gone?"
Dean let out a low, rumbling laugh, setting the guitar down on the counter behind him. He reached out, his long, warm fingers gently cupping your jaw, his thumb smoothing over your cheekbone with a tenderness that completely erased the lingering traces of your corporate cynicism.
"I told you," Dean whispered, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss against your lips, his bare chest warm against your front. "I spent seven years making improvements. I had to make sure that when you finally came home, the plot was thick enough to keep you here."
You let out a soft, delighted laugh, your fingers digging into the hard muscle of his back as you tilted your head up for another kiss. "The plot is definitely thick, Di Laurentis. Congratulations on the upgrades."
"Good," Dean smiled against your mouth, his grip on your waist tightening with a heavy, possessive certainty. "Because I'm not letting you go back to Chicago without a fight."
Notes - AHHHHH I kinda really like this but idk. tell me what yall think! MUWAH
A quiet classics major and the most popular hockey player on campus. Told in various parts, both social media and full fic form.
0.5 // one // 1.5 // two // 2.5 // three // 3.5 // four // 4.5 // five // 5.5 // six // 6.5 // seven // 7.5 // eight // epilogue
You sleep terribly the night before your first Classics class. Tossing and turning, before bolting upright at 2 AM in a panic because you think you’ve overslept.
By the time morning rolls around, you don’t even want to look in the mirror.
The harsh glare of your phone screen confirms it’s only 6:15 AM, but the exhaustion bone-deep. At least you have time to shower. To try and create a version of yourself that isn’t entirely embarrassing. Dragging yourself out of bed, your first port of call is coffee. Treading lightly, so as not to wake Allie and Hannah, you drink enough caffeine to power a city.
The hot water does little to wash away the dread settling deep in your gut, and when you finally risk a glance in the bathroom mirror, it is exactly the disaster you expected.
Maybe you should just drop out now.
Save yourself the embarrassment.
It’s only after multiple outfit changes, a full face of foundation, and your most expensive mascara that you even begin to feel remotely human, all while scolding yourself for being like this in the first place.
You’re being ridiculous.
He’s just a person.
Sure, he’s like the most popular guy on campus. One of the stars of the hockey team, with no fewer than ten girls trailing after him at any given moment.
But he’s just a guy, and you just have to be normal this semester. It’ll be fine. Letting out a heavy sigh, you grab your bag, and begin the walk to the decrepit Arts building across campus. After hockey, and engineering, and business, the arts are left with whatever is left - usually nothing.
The University’s museum is the only saving grace of the entire Arts quadrant. Inside, the air is always cool, still, and completely free of the sticky campus heat.
It's your favourite place.
A voice calls your name, and as you turn you find yourself colliding with a solid figure. Stumbling slightly from the impact, a hand wraps around your waist to keep you upright. Already mumbling apologies, every word dies on your lips when you glance up to find Dean Di Laurentis standing over you.
“Shit, sorry,” He curses, making sure you’re fully back on your feet. “Didn’t mean to scare you - you’re my Classics partner, right?”
Your brain completely stalls at the feeling of his hand on your waist.
Oh no.
In all your worrying over how to respond to his message, you’d completely forgotten to reply. You think back to two nights ago, staring at a notification on your phone until your eyes watered, drafting and deleting ten different versions of a reply. You had been so utterly terrified of sounding too eager, too boring, or too weird that you had closed the app to "think about it" - and then completely forgot to actually send the message. You’ve left the university's star hockey player on read for forty-eight hours.
“Oh my god,” You blurt out, coffee and adrenaline combining into an unpleasant, panic-fuelled spiel. “I am so sorry. I saw your text when I was coming out of work, and then just totally crashed as soon as I got home, and forgot-”
“Hey,” He interrupts. “No harm, no foul. Stuff happens, I get it.”
"Right, yeah," You reply slowly, trying desperately to process his words. "Sorry again."
He shoots you an easy grin, and you can feel your brain start to short-circuit in real time. "You apologise a lot, huh?"
Finally, you're prepared, and instead of apologising again, you laugh. "I guess."
“So - you know Wellsy?”
“We live together,” You shrug.
“Oh - I didn't know that. Thought I would've seen you around by now, given that she and Garrett are going strong.”
“It's uh, not really my scene.”
Understatement of the century. The closest you venture into Briar U’s social scene is when you play in the orchestra for the show’s musicals. Cello for the classical shows, and bass for the modern ones. Most recently, Hair, where Allie had fought valiantly to keep the nudity at the end of Act One.
Unsurprisingly, she had failed.
“You ever go to the hockey games? I don’t remember seeing you before.”
You’re positive that you could’ve been at every single game, and Dean wouldn’t have ever glanced twice at you. Shaking your head, you shift your bag higher onto your shoulder.
“Never?” His expression is shocked.
“Never.”
“Well, we’ve gotta change that. You should come,” He nods, and falls into step beside you.
*****
The walk to class is blissfully short, with just a little bit of small talk, mostly centred around Hannah and Garrett. You hadn’t realised just how instrumental Dean was in their getting together. It’s almost sweet, the way he describes it.
Then, there’s the issue of the seating.
It’s a small class - twenty at most, but the room the Professor booked could easily hold double that. You fully expect Dean to wave goodbye and seek out a spot in the back corner to stay under the radar.
Instead, you are completely caught off guard when he pulls out the chair right next to yours. He drops his athletic duffel bag onto the floor and settles into the desk, his broad frame encroaching onto your own space.
With anybody else, you’d be annoyed.
With Dean Di Laurentis, you’re hoping he can’t hear the sound of your heart thumping erratically in your ears.
"Is this for your major? Or just an elective?"
You hadn't realised he was quite so talkative. In your brief previous experiences with him, he's been more concerned with sticking his tongue down a random girl's throat, while you and Hannah chatted quietly in a corner.
"Uh, yeah - I'm majoring in Art History, but anything Classics, Literature, Art... it's all fair game. They're pretty lax. You?" You clear your throat. "No offence, but you don't strike me as an Arts department regular."
"Definitely not. I'm business. Standard hockey player territory, I guess." He pauses, rubbing the back of his neck, and his tone drops to something a bit more private. "But lately, I've been thinking about law school after this. Still trying to decide if I want to commit to it. Guess it depends on how the hockey thing pans out."
"Law school? That's a lot of work."
"Yeah, well," Dean says, flashing a quick smile that makes your stomach do a flip. "I like to keep people guessing."
Before you can reply, the heavy front door clicks open. The professor walks in, dropping a stack of syllabus papers onto the podium. The chatter in the room instantly dies down, and Dean gives you one last, lingering look before turning his attention to the front.
*****
The heavy gym bag slung over Dean’s shoulder is pure camouflage.
Garrett and Tucker hadn’t surfaced yet when he’d been down for breakfast this morning, but Logan was already up, trying to fit a run in before his Econ class at 8:30. Thankfully, Dean had already prepared for that.
An easy, believable lie.
I’m going to the gym.
Logan barely glances up, just nodding an affirmative and a ‘See you later, man’ before setting off.
Dean can already hear the absolute, relentless chirping he’d get in the locker room if the team found out he’s spending his Thursday mornings analysing Greek myths and Roman paintings. None of them could ever find out that the bag actually contains a crisp new notebook and a syllabus for Art, Power, and Subversion in the Ancient Mediterranean.
But the reality is, his GPA took a hit last semester after a brutal away-game schedule, and Coach made it clear: Dean needs some solid As this semester, so that he’s locked in for the playoffs.
The catalogue for what he needed this year had been downright depressing.
History of Jazz Music on Thursdays at the crack of dawn? No thanks.
Intro to Biochemical Engineering late on Mondays? Overlaps with practice. And definitely too much science for an easy A.
He’d been considering an International Relations class, but the syllabus had looked hellish.
Finally, he’d settled on Classics. Specifically Art History.
Thanks to his parents - who dragged him through every major museum in Europe and North America - he actually knows this stuff. And what’s more - he likes it. A lot. More than he’d ever admit to anybody.
Art makes sense to him. Way more than some of the business crap he has to sit through for his major. He finds analysis therapeutic, considering the contexts which lead each artist to create. Given he’s never going to use it in his adult life, he figures it might be quite nice to hone those skills one last time.
Coach did say to go for an easy A, after all.
It doesn’t hurt that you’re very easy on the eyes. You’re a little skittish, probably slightly scared of him, but he’s used to it. Wellsy couldn’t even look him in the eyes for a month.
You’ll come round.
Eventually.
"Let's start with a foundational concept," Professor Jacobson says, turning to face the semi-circle of the class. "When we look at the monumental architecture of Imperial Rome - the triumphal arches, the columns - who is the intended audience? And more importantly, how does a state use physical art to enforce absolute power?"
The room goes dead silent. A few of the student at the back shift in their chairs, suddenly very interested in their shoes as they avoid the professor’s gaze. Dean knows the answer - it’s mass media, state-sanctioned propaganda to keep the common man in check - but he keeps his mouth shut. The last thing he needs is to look like a try-hard in front of a room full of strangers. Or worse. That this somehow makes it back to the Fifth Line, and Dean is exposed.
Next to him, your hand creeps up.
Professor Jacobson checks his list, and confirms your name, while you nod.
You swallow hard, clearing your throat, and then the floodgates open. "Right, um, well, I think if we're talking about audience, it’s not just about the people living in Rome, but it’s actually a dual-purpose psychological tool. Like, if you're a conquered prisoner being marched under a triumphal arch during a military parade, the architecture is literally a physical manifestation of your subjugation, right? It’s meant to make you feel tiny and utterly powerless against the state.”
Dean blinks, turning his head to look at you.
"But then," you continue, your voice gaining speed as your words begin to tumble over one another, your pen tapping a frantic rhythm against your notebook. "If you’re a Roman citizen, it operates entirely differently. It’s mass media before mass media existed. It’s like an ancient billboard reinforcing that your taxes and your loyalty are funding this massive, glorious empire, so it creates this manufactured consent through visual awe. It’s basically how modern political campaigns use massive rallies and specific stage design to project authority, because humans are inherently visual creatures, and we naturally equate scale with legitimacy. So when you see a massive marble relief of a emperor sacrificing to the gods, your brain automatically connects his political power with the divine. Which I guess makes rebelling against him feel completely impossible?”
“Excellent. Somebody clearly did the pre-assigned reading.”
Dean blanches. He certainly did not do the assigned reading. He hadn’t even realised there was pre-reading for this class.
Shit.
He needs to get his act together.
Thankfully, the class is almost entirely introductory, and Dean can follow it pretty well. You’re eventually split into small groups for discussion, and Dean is relieved when you’re in his.
He makes a conscious effort to talk, even if he’s not entirely sure what points he’s going for. You nod softly after each time he speaks, an agreement that makes him feel a whole lot better about his place in the class.
As soon as Jacobson calls time, Dean is turning towards you. “You’re like a walking fucking Wikipedia, you know that?”
“Um, thank you?”
It’s like you can’t tell if he’s being sincere, or making fun of you. His stomach twists uncomfortably. He’s not known you for very long, but he doesn’t like the idea of making you feel small.
“No, I mean it,” Dean insists. “Very cool. I think you know more than Jacobson does, if I’m being honest.” He hands you his phone, open at a new contact, Wiki already typed under name. A week ago, a nickname from Dean Di Laurentis would have had you jumping for you. Now, you can’t decide how you feel about it. “Here. Put your number in, and we can work out a time to get started on this thing.”
You hesitate for half a second before taking the phone. Dean watches your face the entire time, suddenly worried he’s misread something. Maybe the nickname was stupid. Maybe you hate nicknames. Maybe-
“Wiki?” You ask, thumb hovering over the keyboard.
“Yeah.”
“Because I know things?”
A laugh escapes him. “Because you know everything.”
You duck your head slightly, and he catches the corner of a smile before you hide it. “That isn't true.”
“It absolutely is.”
Dean takes the phone back when you're done, immediately sending himself a text from your contact. Your phone buzzes, but you don’t reach for it. You sling your bag over your shoulder. "So," You say. "When did you want to start working on the project?"
"Uh." He clears his throat. "I'm free Thursday?”
You make a face. “I work until eight. Could you do after?”
“That should be fine, yeah. I’m normally finished at the rink by seven-thirty.”
You check your watch, and let out a small curse. “Shit. I have to go, I’m running late - see you Thursday?”
“See you then, Wiki.”
Three days later.
You should've known this was going to happen. That there was no way that Dean would prioritise anything over hockey, or even his social life.
If you want this project done well, you're going to have to bear the brunt of it yourself.
The next morning, you're half-expecting another excuse, a reason why he suddenly can't make it. But when you don't hear anything, you can only assume that he's coming.
You make your way to the café you'd agreed on earlier, and find a booth in the corner. With ten minutes to go, you're not expecting him to be early. You're barely expecting him to be here at all. To distract, you set up your laptop, and try to start brainstorming some ideas.
The bell above the café door chimes. You look up, expecting to see a flash of broad shoulders and blond hair, but your breath catches in your throat instead.
It's your ex-boyfriend. Arthur. Fellow Humanities major, and total dick. He looks exactly like what he is - someone who just spent the entire summer lounging around Oxford, absorbing culture on his family's dime.
Before you can even shut your laptop, he is sliding into the booth. He sits right across from you, taking up the exact space Dean is supposed to occupy. Panic flares hot in your chest. The last thing you want - the absolute last thing - is for Dean to walk in and see you with him. "What do you want?"
He chuckles, a soft, patronising sound. "Well, hello to you too. I saw you outside, thought I'd step in before my first class. I got back to the States on Tuesday. Honestly, Oxford was insane. The history over there makes this place look like a total joke."
You feel a familiar wave of resentment. Never once has Arthur had to worry about part-time jobs, or where his tuition money is going to come from. He treats the Arts like a hobby, because he can. He can just exist, protected by his trust fund, while you have to fight for every single crumb of experience.
But right now, you don't have time to be angry. You glance anxiously at the café door. Dean is due any minute.
"I'm meeting someone. You have to go."
"A date?" His eyebrow is arched, and you want to scream.
"Work. None of your business."
Arthur sighs, leaning back into the cushions instead of moving. "Look, I know things got... pretty messy before summer break. I just wanted to say I'm sorry for what I did. I was totally out of line, okay? Let's just drop it."
"Jesus Christ," You sigh. "I don't want to hear it-"
“Is there a problem here?”
Dean's voice cuts through the café, and you fall silent. Shit. Just your luck. The disdain on Arthur's face says more than enough as he glances between you both. You know his thoughts on the jocks of Briar U.
You immediately get to your feet. “N-No, Arthur was just leaving.”
Arthur offers a thin smile. "Arthur Dalrymple."
Dean shifts his attention to him. "Dean Di Laurentis."
Neither of them reaches for a handshake. "I'm familiar," Arthur replies, dryly. "Didn't peg you for the Humanities type. Thought you were too busy getting your brains knocked out."
A silence falls, and Dean searches out your gaze. You focus instead on a hangnail on your thumb, too embarrassed to meet his eyes.
"Well," Dean says, easy as anything, "I don't want to keep you. We have lots of work to do."
Arthur's smile falters slightly. "I'm not being kept."
"No?" Dean nods toward the coffee in Arthur's hand. "Have a good day, Alex."
"Arthur."
"Right." He doesn't apologise, and you can practically see Arthur bristle. It makes you happier than it should. He's so good at getting under your skin, you like it when the roles are reversed.
Only when Arthur turns on his heel, can you let out a small sigh of relief. Letting your head rest forward on your hands, you groan, "Sorry."
Dean sets his bag down beside the booth. "What are you apologizing for?"
You shoot him a look. "Uh. That?"
He slides into the seat Arthur just vacated. "You didn't do anything."
You drop back onto your side of the booth. "It was awkward."
"I've survived worse. Who the hell is that guy?”
Now you really can't meet his gaze. "My ex."
“Your ex? You could do so much better.” Dean sounds borderline incredulous.
"Try telling him that," You grumble. One of the defining features of your mostly-off, sometimes-on relationship had been Arthur's deep-rooted belief that he was the absolute best you could do.
You try not to let it rub off on you, but you're not sure how successful you've been. "I just... I don't want to talk about it. Is that okay?"
Dean concedes immediately, hands up in surrender. "You're the boss, Wiki."
A small laugh escapes, but it's far from genuine, and he studies the menu for another second before setting it down. "You're okay though?"
"Yeah," You say, after a moment. "Just annoyed."
He nods. "Good."
You narrow your eyes. "Good?"
"Yeah. Annoyed is easier to deal with than upset. I can beat the guy up for you, make his life hell, but I'm not so good with the tears and feelings."
For some reason, that makes your chest feel strangely warm. You're not sure you like it. Shaking your head, you turn to your laptop. "Should we get started?"
Can you write a fic where he does ignore her after this whole completing the assignment and reader trying to get him back pretttyyy please 💖🎀😭
Because I did… || Dean Di Laurentis x fem!reader ||
Summary: After a secret arrangement turns into something real, one misunderstanding shatters everything. Now, Dean and Y/n must decide if love is worth risking their hearts.
Warnings: Fist fight in Malone’s, angsty, cute and fluffy (only towards the very end tho), use of y/n.
A/n: Oopsies! I lost track on this one. Oh well. Here’s a better version of the previous one.
“Because i did…” The words slipped out before you could stop them.
For a moment, Dean just stared at you.
The noise of Malone's seemed to fade into the background as the realization slowly settled over him. You watched it happen in real time—the confusion, the surprise, the brief spark of hope that maybe you were saying what he'd spent weeks secretly wishing you'd say.
Because that was what he'd wanted, wasn't it? For you to tell him you'd fallen for him too.
For you to admit that somewhere between late-night practices and arguments that somehow always ended with the two of you laughing, he'd become more than just a stupid arrangement.
But then the rest of it clicked. His expression changed. Not dramatically.
"You..." he started carefully, his brows furrowing together. "You completed the assignment?"
You opened your mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
Dean let out a short laugh.
The sound wasn't amused.
It sounded hurt.
Your chest tightened.
His eyes searched yours for several long seconds.
The worst part was that he wasn't angry yet. He was confused. Hopeful, even.
Like he was desperately trying to find an explanation that didn't end with his heart getting broken.
Unfortunately, the universe apparently hated both of you.
Because before you could say another word, the front door of Malone's swung open.
Your stomach instantly dropped.
No. No. No. Not now. Anyone but him.
Dean noticed your expression immediately.
His attention shifted over his shoulder toward the entrance. Then he froze.
Hunter Davenport stepped inside the bar looking completely unaware that his mere existence was about to ruin your entire life.
You wanted the floor to swallow you whole.
Hunter glanced around the crowded room before his gaze landed on you.
Dean slowly turned back toward you.
The look on his face made your heart stop. "Him?!" Several heads turned.
You immediately wanted to die. "What?"
"Him?" Dean repeated louder, pointing toward Hunter as if he genuinely couldn't believe what he was seeing. "That's the guy? That’s the guy you fucked?"
You buried your face in your hands. "Oh my God." You pointed helplessly between the two of them. "No! Yes! What? Does it matter?" The second the words left your mouth, you knew they were the wrong thing to say.
Because of course it mattered. To Dean, it mattered more than anything.
His jaw clenched so tightly you thought he might crack a tooth. Then, without another word, he started walking.
Fast. Straight toward Hunter.
"Dean." Panic exploded through your chest as you hurried after him.
Across the room, Hunter frowned. "What the hell?"
Dean stopped directly in front of him. The tension surrounding them was so thick it felt impossible to breathe. "What are you doing here?" Dean asked.
Dean gave a sharp laugh. The sound wasn't funny. It was dangerous. You had never heard him sound like that before. "Dean, stop." He ignored you.
Hunter folded his arms. "What exactly is your problem?"
Dean shook his head. "My problem?"
Something in his expression shifted. Maybe it was the hurt. Maybe it was the jealousy. Maybe it was the fact that he'd just confessed his feelings only to find out he wasn't the exception after all. Whatever it was, it snapped.
Before anyone could react, Dean shoved him. Hard.
The room erupted.
Hunter stumbled backward before immediately shoving Dean right back. The next few seconds happened so quickly they barely felt real.
A punch. A shout.
Suddenly Dean and Hunter were swinging at each other in the middle of Malone's while everyone around them scrambled out of the way.
Your heart practically launched into your throat. "Dean!" Nobody listened.
Hunter landed a hit. Dean returned one. People were yelling.
Garrett was trying to push through the crowd. Logan looked halfway between concerned and entertained. Hannah was shouting your name from somewhere behind you.
None of it mattered. All you could see was Dean.
Because underneath the anger and the bruises and the stupid testosterone-fueled fight, you knew exactly what this was.
You shoved your way through the crowd until you were close enough for him to hear you. "Dean!"
This time he looked. His breathing was heavy. Blood stained the corner of his lip.
For a second neither of you spoke.
The entire room seemed to disappear around you. "Please stop."
The fight instantly lost its momentum. Hunter stepped back. Dean's eyes never left yours. "It's not worth getting hurt."
Something flickered across his face. Something painful.
His gaze dropped briefly before returning to yours. For one terrible second, you thought he might say something. That maybe he'd yell. Maybe he'd tell you exactly how badly you'd hurt him.
Instead, he just looked tired. Heartbroken. Then he stepped away.
Without another word, Dean turned around and walked out of Malone's. The front door slammed shut behind him. The sound echoed through the entire room.
Hunter scoffed, wiping blood from his jaw before shaking his head and storming out too. And just like that, they were both gone.
Leaving you standing there in the middle of the wreckage. The adrenaline disappeared.
The realization hit so hard your knees nearly gave out.
A few moments later, Allie appeared beside you looking completely bewildered. "What the hell was that?"
You tried to answer. You really did.
But the second you opened your mouth, tears started falling. Everything you'd been holding together all night completely shattered. Without another word, you pushed past her and hurried out of Malone's before anyone could stop you.
Behind you, Allie exchanged a concerned look with Hannah. Neither of them had any idea what had just happened.
By the time you made it back to your dorm room, your mascara had long since given up. You barely remembered the walk across campus.
All you could think about was the look on Dean’s face.
The hurt. That was what kept replaying in your mind.
Over and over again.
Because you had never seen Dean look at you like that before.
Tonight had been different. Tonight he'd looked completely shattered. And somehow that hurt worse than if he'd screamed at you.
The second you got inside your room, you kicked your shoes off and collapsed onto your bed without bothering to change clothes. You pulled a pillow against your chest and stared blankly at the ceiling, willing yourself not to cry again. It lasted approximately thirty seconds. A sob escaped before you could stop it.
Then another.
Before long, tears were streaming down your face as every moment from the past few months replayed through your head.
The way he'd remember random things you mentioned once and bring them up weeks later. The way he always looked for you first whenever he walked into a room. The way he'd never treated you like just another hookup, no matter how much the two of you pretended otherwise.
You buried your face in your pillow. Because the worst part?
You loved him too. Maybe you'd loved him for a while. Maybe that was why you'd been so terrified.
A loud knock sounded against your door. You ignored it.
Another knock followed. "Y/N." Allie's voice.
You squeezed your eyes shut. "Go away."
"No. Hannah's with me."
You groaned. "Seriously."
"Open the door." You considered pretending you'd fallen asleep. Unfortunately, Hannah immediately ruined that plan.
"We can hear you crying." Traitorous thin walls. A few moments later, you reluctantly dragged yourself off the bed and unlocked the door.
The second Allie saw your face, her expression softened. "Oh."
She immediately pulled you into a hug. You hated how quickly it made you cry again.
The three of you eventually settled onto your bed, wrapped in blankets while Hannah handed you tissues every few minutes and a packet of Hot Cheetos.
Then Allie finally broke the silence. "Start talking."
You stared down at your hands. "What do you want me to say?"
"The truth. That's kind of the reason we're here." Hannah exchanged a glance with Allie. Then she reached over and squeezed your hand. What happened tonight?"
The entire story spilled out. Not because you wanted it to. Because keeping it inside suddenly felt impossible. You told them everything. How it started. How the arrangement happened.
You told them about New York. About the way Dean always made you laugh when you were upset. About how he'd slowly become your favorite person without you realizing it.
And finally, you told them about the assignment.
The room fell completely silent. Hannah blinked. Allie blinked. Then they both stared at you like you'd lost your mind.
"You slept with someone else?" Allie finally asked.
Hannah rubbed her temples. "Oh my God."
"I know."
"No, seriously." Allie looked like she wanted to shake you. "Dean literally confessed his feelings for you."
"I know."
"And your response was basically, 'Great news. I completed the assignment.'"
You covered your face.
"When you say it like that it sounds horrible."
"Because it was horrible."
A muffled groan escaped through your fingers.
Hannah, thankfully, looked slightly more sympathetic. "I don't think she meant to hurt him."
"No kidding," Allie said. "But she still did."
You nodded.
The tears threatened to return. "That's the problem." The room quieted. You swallowed hard. "I was so scared he'd leave."
Both girls looked at you.
"So instead," you whispered, "I became the reason he left."
Neither of them had an argument for that. Because it was true. A long silence settled over the room.
Eventually Allie sat forward. "What if I told you Dean has never done this before?"
You frowned.
"What?"
"I'm serious." She pointed at you. "I've known Dean for months. Do you know how many girls have thrown themselves at him?"
Hannah laughed. "Too many."
"Exactly." Allie nodded. "Dean doesn't catch feelings. Ever. He told me once that relationships weren't worth the risk."
You looked up.
Allie's expression softened. "Then you came along."
She nudged your shoulder. "You're the exception."
The words hit harder than they should have. Because deep down, you'd always known that. You just hadn't trusted it.
———
And now you had two weeks to sit with that realization. Two miserable. Awful. Painful weeks.
Dean ignored every single text. Every call. Every attempt to apologize.
The first time you approached him after practice, he saw you coming and immediately walked the other direction.
The second time, he pretended to be busy talking to Logan.
The third time, he simply got into his truck and drove away.
It shouldn't have hurt. But it did. Because Dean wasn't being cruel.
The hockey team noticed unfortunately.
Unfortunately.
By the end of the first week, practically everyone seemed aware that something had happened.
Logan especially. Which meant he became impossible. Every time you saw him, he'd give you a look. Not judgmental. Just knowing. Which was somehow worse.
By the beginning of the second week, you, Hannah, and Allie had essentially turned the situation into a full-scale investigation.
You needed information. Anything that might help. Anything that might give you a chance.
"What does Dean like?" Allie asked during one lunch.
Logan looked confused. "You've known him for months."
"Answer the question."
He rolled his eyes. "Old movies."
"What kind?"
"The really old ones."
Hannah immediately started writing things down.
Logan stared. "Are you making notes?"
"Continue." The interrogation continued for nearly an hour. Favorite snacks. Favorite songs. Favorite movies. Favorite childhood memories. Favorite everything.
By the end of it, you had three pages of notes and absolutely no dignity left.
But for the first time in two weeks, you also had a plan. Because if Dean wouldn't come to you? You'd have to go to him.
And this time? You weren't running away from your feelings. The problem with having a plan was that eventually you actually had to follow through with it.
For two weeks, it had sounded simple enough.
Apologize.
Explain.
Tell Dean the truth.
Make up.
But standing on the front porch of the hockey house with two grocery bags cutting into your fingers and your heart threatening to beat straight out of your chest, the entire thing suddenly felt impossible.
Maybe this was a terrible idea. Maybe Dean didn't want to hear your explanation. Maybe he'd already decided he was done with you. The thought alone made your stomach twist painfully.
Before you could lose your nerve completely, you forced yourself to knock. The door swung open almost immediately. Logan stood there holding a bottle of water.
The second he saw you, a knowing grin spread across his face. "Well, this is interesting."
You rolled your eyes. "Hi, Logan."
"Hi, Y/N." His gaze dropped to the bags in your hands, then back to your face. "You look nervous."
"I am nervous."
"Good."
"Good?" You frowned.
"Means you care."
You groaned. "Please tell me he's here."
Logan stepped aside. "Upstairs."
Your heart immediately sped up. "Is he alone?"
“Nah he’s alone with his feelings.”
You sighed heavily before stepping inside. The hockey house looked exactly the same as always.
But Dean was upstairs. Just one floor away. After two weeks of silence. After two weeks of unanswered texts. After two weeks of wondering whether you'd completely ruined everything.
Logan noticed your hesitation. His expression softened slightly. "Hey."
You looked at him.
"He still cares."
Your throat tightened. "Then why won't he talk to me?"
Logan sighed. "Because he's hurt."
The answer wasn't surprising. It still stung. You nodded once before turning toward the staircase. Each step felt heavier than the last.
By the time you reached the second floor, your palms were sweating. You spotted Dean's bedroom door immediately. You stood outside it for nearly thirty seconds. Trying to gather enough courage to knock. Trying not to think about every possible way this could go wrong.
Eventually you lifted your hand. Three soft knocks echoed through the wood.
Silence. Then footsteps. Your pulse immediately skyrocketed.
The door opened.
Dean stood on the other side. And for a moment neither of you moved. Seeing him again this close felt unfair. His hair was messy. His sweatshirt sleeves were pushed up to his forearms.
And despite everything that had happened, despite how hurt you felt and how hurt he'd been, your stupid heart still skipped a beat.
Without a word, he started closing the door.
Panic surged through you. "Dean please stop, I want to explain and I got your favorite snacks and a bunch of old movies I know is your favorite.”
You watched him glance down at the grocery bags. Then back up at you.
A muscle in his jaw tightened. For a moment you thought he was still going to shut the door. Instead, he stepped aside. The relief nearly made your knees buckle.
You slipped inside before he could change his mind. The sight of the room alone made your chest ache. Because for the past few months, this room had become one of your favorite places. A place where you'd laughed until your stomach hurt.
Where you'd fallen asleep during movies. Where you'd spent countless hours talking about absolutely nothing. And now it felt strange. Unfamiliar.
Dean shut the door behind you. The sound seemed impossibly loud.
Neither of you spoke.
You carefully set the snacks and movies on his desk before sitting on the edge of his bed. Dean remained standing. Arms crossed.
Watching.
Waiting.
The distance between you felt enormous. You took a slow breath. Then another. Trying to find the right words.
How did you explain being so terrified of losing someone that you ended up pushing them away yourself? “I practiced this.”
Dean raised an eyebrow.
Your laugh came out weak. “Like… a lot.”
The corner of his mouth twitched despite himself. Not quite a smile. But close.
You looked down at your hands. “I had this whole speech.”
“Yeah?”
You nodded. “Problem is, I forgot all of it the second I saw you.”
Silence settled between you. Not uncomfortable. Just heavy. Filled with everything neither of you had said.
Eventually you forced yourself to look up. “I never meant to hurt you.”
Dean’s expression softened slightly. Just slightly.
You swallowed. “I know that doesn’t change anything.”
He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t stop you.
So you kept going. “I spent the last two weeks trying to figure out how to explain this.” Your voice trembled. “Because what happened sounds awful.”
“It felt awful.” The words weren’t cruel. They were honest.
You nodded. “I know.”
Dean looked away. The hurt that crossed his face nearly broke you. “I stood there and told you how I felt.” His voice was quiet now. “You know how hard that was for me?”
You nodded immediately. Because you did know. Dean wasn’t someone who handed people his heart. If anything, he’d spent years making sure nobody got close enough to take it. Yet he’d given it to you anyway. And you’d crushed it. “I know.”
“No.” Dean shook his head. “You don’t.” His laugh sounded hollow. “I spent weeks trying to convince myself not to tell you.”
Your chest tightened. “We had rules.”
“I kept telling myself I could handle it.” He looked at you. Really looked at you. “And then I couldn’t.”
Because this was exactly what you’d been afraid of. Not rejection. Not embarrassment. This. Knowing you’d hurt someone who had trusted you. Someone who had cared about you.
“I fell in love with you in New York.” The confession slipped out before you could stop it.
Dean froze. The room went completely silent.
You took a shaky breath. “I didn’t realize it at first. But that moment when we spoke about our families and showed each other what we truly were, that made moment made me realize just how special you really were.”
His eyes never left yours.
“We were making fun of my lack of skill in chess.”
A tiny smile threatened at the corner of his mouth.
You continued. “And we spent half the night talking.” A tear slipped down your cheek. “And I remember looking at you and realizing that I was in trouble.”
Dean stared.
You laughed weakly through your tears. “Because you weren’t supposed to matter that much.”
Something in his expression shifted. Not completely. But enough.
Enough that hope sparked inside your chest. “I got scared.” The words came easier now. More honest. More raw. “I knew how much I cared about you.” You looked down. “And I knew how much it would hurt if you woke up one day and decided you were done with me.”
Dean’s jaw tightened.
You rushed on before he could interrupt. “So I convinced myself that if I never let myself need you, I’d be fine.” The tears blurred your vision. “But all I did was hurt the person I cared about most.”
The room fell silent.
Neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke. For several long seconds all you could hear was your own heartbeat.
Then finally. “I was never going to leave.”
Your breath caught.
Dean’s voice was barely above a whisper. But it hit harder than anything else he’d said all afternoon.
You looked up.
His eyes were shining now too. “I wish you’d let me prove that.”
Fresh tears immediately spilled down your cheeks.
Dean stared at you for another moment before slowly uncrossing his arms. The wall he’d spent two weeks building around himself was finally beginning to crack.
And for the first time since Malone’s, you thought maybe—just maybe—there was still a way back to each other.
For a long moment, neither of you said anything. The room felt suspended in time.
The late afternoon sunlight filtered through Dean’s blinds, casting long shadows across the floor, but neither of you noticed. Neither of you cared. The only thing that mattered was the space between you—a space that had somehow felt impossibly small for months and unbearably large for the last two weeks.
Your eyes remained locked on his.
“I was never going to leave.” The words echoed through your head again. Again.
Because that had been the entire problem. The root of everything. The fear you’d never admitted out loud. You’d spent so much time waiting for Dean to leave that you’d never considered the possibility that he wanted to stay.
He always noticed. That was part of the problem too.
For someone who claimed not to do relationships, Dean had always paid attention to you in ways that felt suspiciously relationship-like. He remembered your coffee order. He remembered your favorite songs.
He remembered things you’d mentioned once months ago and somehow brought them up at exactly the right moments. He remembered everything.
And somewhere along the way, you’d started relying on that. Relying on him.
The realization made your chest ache. “I didn’t think I was worth staying for.” The words escaped before you could stop them.
Dean’s expression immediately changed. The hurt disappeared.
You looked down before he could fully see the vulnerability on your face. But it was too late. He’d already heard it. Already understood it.
“You really believe that?” His voice was softer now.
You laughed weakly. “Not exactly my proudest confession.”
“Y/N.”
You shrugged helplessly. “It sounds stupid.”
“It doesn’t.”
“It does.”
Dean took a step closer. Your heartbeat immediately sped up.
“It doesn’t.” The certainty in his voice made your throat tighten. For months, Dean had somehow managed to see things in you that you’d never been able to see in yourself.
And honestly? That was terrifying. Because it meant he saw all the broken parts too. The insecurities. The fears. The self-sabotage. And despite all of it? He’d stayed.
You looked up at him. “I was scared.”
Dean nodded slowly. “I know.”
“No, I mean really scared.” Your voice cracked. “Because you mattered.”
His jaw tightened.
You forced yourself to keep going.
“Before you, if something ended, it sucked, but eventually I got over it.”
You swallowed hard. “But you…” Your chest tightened. “You became part of my day.”
Dean’s eyes softened.
“You were the first person I wanted to text when something happened.” Your voice grew quieter.
“The first person I wanted to tell things to.” The room felt painfully still. “And when I realized that, I panicked.”
Dean let out a slow breath. Because he understood. Maybe not every detail. But he understood enough.
You laughed bitterly. “Turns out I’m really good at making terrible decisions.”
That finally earned the smallest smile from him. “You are kind of an idiot.”
You stared at him. Then laughed through your tears. The sound surprised both of you.
Dean’s smile grew slightly. And suddenly, for the first time since Malone’s, he looked like Dean again. Not the hurt version. Not the angry version. Just Dean. The boy you’d accidentally fallen in love with.
“I missed you.” The confession slipped out quietly.
“I missed you too.” The words were simple. But they shattered whatever was left of your composure. Because Dean wasn’t someone who admitted things easily. Everything he said mattered. Every word. Every confession. Every feeling.
“You look exhausted.”
“Thanks.”
“Not a compliment.”
“Clearly.”
A brief silence settled between you. This one felt different. Lighter.
Like two people trying to find their way back to each other.
Dean eventually sat down beside you on the edge of the bed.
The distance alone felt significant. Your heart immediately noticed. Neither of you mentioned it. Neither of you wanted to scare away whatever fragile thing was rebuilding itself between you. For several moments, you simply sat there.
Shoulder to shoulder. Looking at each other. The same way you had countless times before. It felt strangely familiar. Comforting. Like home.
And for the first time all afternoon, neither of you looked away. The moment stretched. Quiet. Heavy.
Full of everything still left unsaid. Your heartbeat began speeding up again. Not from nerves. Something softer.
Neither of you seemed capable of looking anywhere else.
“You really brought my favorite snacks?”
You laugh weakly. “I had the help of Logan, Allie and Hannah.”
“You are such a dork.”
“It worked didn’t it?”
“Oh, it definitely worked.” He leans in and kisses you. It was soft. Full of meaning and promises. “I love you Y/n.”
summary: in which allie, y/n, sabrina and grace chase a sunset from the hockey house roof, only to end up stranded while the boys swing wildly between panic, frustration, and overwhelming relief trying to get them down safely.
notes: hi!! thank you so much for your request, this was such a fun idea to write! i love incorporating moments where the girls are completely unfazed and oblivious while the boys are losing their minds trying to keep them safe. i hope you all enjoy!! 💌
✩.* found family fics!
✩.* found family masterlist
ꪆৎ
the sunset idea had sounded significantly smarter forty minutes ago.
back when the four of you were tipsy on cheap wine, sprawled across the living room floor while grace insisted the sky looked too pretty to waste from ground level.
“we should go on the roof,” allie had declared immediately from where she was sat on the couch. which, looking back now, should’ve concerned everyone a little more.
instead, grace had gasped dramatically.
“oh my god, yes!”
you had already started grabbing blankets from around the hockey house before anyone could question the plan, and suddenly all four of you were climbing out through the upstairs bedroom window.
the roof was perfect for sunset.
warm summer air brushed softly against your skin as the sunset stretched pink and orange across campus, the sky painted in streaks of gold that reflected against the windows of the dorm buildings nearby.
grace's speaker played quietly beside you, music low enough that your laughter still carried loud across the roof.
grace lay flat on her back with one arm thrown across her eyes, her half-empty wine glass balancing dangerously against her stomach.
sabrina sat cross-legged beside her trying to tell a story that kept getting interrupted because she physically could not stop laughing at her own retelling.
allie lay beside you, curled beneath a blanket while animatedly talking about how some girl in her tutorial thought dean was 'intimidating'. you smiled softly to yourself, knees tucked beneath your chin while the skyline glowed around you.
there was something so peaceful about being with your people. the kind of closeness that only existed when friendships had crossed so far beyond casual that they’d become something permanent.
your cheeks hurt from laughing, your body pleasantly heavy from alcohol and summer heat, the sunset so pretty it almost didn’t look real.
it felt warm.
safe.
which was probably why none of you noticed the window sliding shut behind you. not until nearly twenty minutes later.
sabrina was the first one to realise.
she’d leaned backwards toward the window to refill her drink from the wine bottle that had been sitting just inside the bedroom, before stopping abruptly.
“…guys?”
allie looked up immediately, “yeah?”
sabrina frowned slightly, pushing at the window once, then harder. to her dismay, it didn't budge and a strange silence settled over you all.
grace slowly sat upright, “why are you making that face?”
“the window’s locked.”
another pause.
“what do you mean locked?” grace asked slowly.
sabrina laughed uncomfortably, her eyes widening in realisation.
“i mean it's shut...it doesn't want to open”
allie crawled over immediately, “let me have a go.” she grabbed the handle, pulling on it, but nothing happened.
the window didn't budge.
her expression shifted almost instantly.
“…oh shit.”
you stared at her, your eyes widening in realisation. “allie, what exactly do you mean by ‘oh shit’?"
she looked back at the four of you and despite the situation, started laughing.
“i think we’re stuck up here.”
you weren’t sure if it was the alcohol coursing through your body or the way the moment felt too warm to properly hold onto, but before you could say anything, laughter spilled from your lips.
because of course this had happened, of course you had somehow found yourselves locked out from the house and stuck on the roof.
the boys were going to kill you.
“okay,” you managed eventually. “it's okay we'll just call one of them”
silence.
grace checked her pockets first.
“…i left my phone downstairs.”
“mine too,” sabrina admitted weakly.
allie slowly grimaced, she had too.
you reached into the pocket of your hoodie before stopping.
“…no.”
grace immediately collapsed backward onto the blankets again.
“oh guys.”
-
the boys knew something was wrong almost immediately, mostly because the house was quiet.
far too quiet.
logan walked through the front door first carrying takeout bags in one hand before immediately narrowing his eyes. “why does it feel haunted in here?”
“y/n?” garrett called out behind him.
nothing.
dean dropped his bag beside the stairs with a frown, noticing allie’s purse abandoned on the kitchen table.
tucker glanced slowly around.
“…why can i hear faint screaming?”
everyone stilled.
logan paused.
“wait.”
there it was again.
distant yelling somewhere above them.
then-
“we're stuck!"
all four boys whipped their heads upward simultaneously.
“…what the fuck?” dean muttered.
they moved immediately.
garrett took the stairs two at a time while logan nearly dropped the takeout trying to keep up. it wasn’t until they rushed into the upstairs bedroom that garrett spotted movement outside the window.
his entire face drained instantly because there you were, sitting on the roof wrapped in a blanket, a small smile gracing your features.
“what the-" logan starts, before garrett quickly cuts him off.
"why are you all on the fucking roof?”
“before you get mad-” you started carefully.
“we got locked out!” allie yells from behind you.
dean physically freezes at the window, his eyes wide in shock. “how does that even happen?”
grace points vaguely towards all of you. “group decision.”
“that does not make it better!"
tucker’s stomach drops the second he notices how close sabrina is to the edge.
“okay no, seriously” he said immediately. “move back, sweetheart.”
“tucker, relax-"
“absolutely not.”
sabrina blinked at him.
“you guys are being dramatic" allie states, a glint of humour evident in her eyes, clearly amused by the situation.
four male voices answer instantly.
“no we are not!”
tucker already has both hands gripping the sides of his head. “you’re all drunk on a roof.”
dean narrows his eyes, focusing on the piece of blue fabric near the gutter.
“…why is there a blanket hanging off the gutter?”
everyone slowly looks down before grace visibly hesitates. “that might’ve been my attempt at making a rope.”
there was a moment of complete silence before dean covers his face with both hands.
“jesus christ-"
“i’m actually getting grey hairs.”
logan looks horrified as realisation crosses his features, “you guys were going to climb down?!”
“well we weren’t planning on living up here permanently,” sabrina points out.
“sabrina.”
“i’m kidding!”
“you’re not funny right now.”
which only makes her burst into laughter.
garrett’s attention snaps back towards you the second you shift closer to the window.
“baby,” he says carefully, in the kind of controlled voice that meant he was significantly more stressed than he wanted to sound.
"i need you to stop moving around up there.”
you blinked at him innocently in response. “i’m literally sitting.”
“exactly. stay sitting.”
“you sound stressed.”
“because my girlfriend is trapped on our roof”
a slight grin tugs at your lips. “trapped feels a bit dramatic, don't you think graham?"
“you guys made a blanket rope, y/n”
you pressed your lips together hard to stop yourself from laughing.
eventually, after twenty minutes of yelling over each other while dean attempted to figure out how the window had managed to lock in the first place and tucker actively debated whether breaking it would somehow make the situation worse, they finally managed to force it open from the inside.
dean was first to help allie climb back through the window while actively lecturing her at the same time.
“you climbed onto the roof drunk.”
“tipsy,” allie corrected immediately, her eyes sparkling with amusement.
“that is not the part of the sentence i’m concerned about.”
once safe, logan had both hands on grace’s face like he genuinely couldn’t decide whether to kiss or yell at her.
“you could’ve fallen.”
“i didn’t though.”
“grace.”
“logan.”
tucker looked genuinely stressed beside sabrina, hands rubbing over his face. “you guys seriously didn’t bring your phones?”
that somehow made all four boys visibly more upset.
“oh my god,” dean muttered. “you are all impossible.”
you were climbing carefully back through the window when garrett’s hand settled instinctively against your waist to steady you. the contact felt firmer than usual, protective in a way that immediately made your chest ache slightly.
because he still looked rattled.
his jaw was tight, eyes scanning over you again like he still wasn’t fully convinced you were okay.
“hey,” you said softly once the two of you were standing properly inside again.
garrett looked down at you immediately and something in his expression shifted the second your voice softened.
less frustration.
more relief.
you reached carefully for his wrist, “we’re okay, we were being safe.”
his hand moved instinctively higher against your waist then, pulling you closer without even seeming to realise he was doing it. he exhaled sharply against the top of your head like he’d been holding his breath ever since he saw you up there.
“how long were you guys stuck out there for?”
the question comes out sharper than he intends it to, his hands settling against your arms like he needed physical confirmation that you were fine.
“not that long,” you said carefully.
“define not that long.”
“…maybe forty minutes.”
he exhales, pressing a delicate kiss to your forehead.
“you scared the shit out of me, you know that?” his voice is quieter than before, the honesty in it hitting significantly harder than you expected.
he sounded genuinely shaken.
you tilted your head back slightly to look up at him.
“but did we die?”
all of the boys groaned simultaneously in response before dean points accusingly at all four of you.
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