࿔⋆❆🏒𖦹࣪ ִֶָ The Deal (Dean's Ver) ࿔⋆❆🏒𖦹࣪ ִֶָ
Dean Di Laurentis x fem!reader
Synopsis: Going home for Christmas to celebrate your sister's engagement is one thing. When the man she's marrying just happens to be the boyfriend she stole, and your parents are already worried about you being "perpetually alone," it becomes your own version of hell.
Dean needs more money. He used his college allowance already. 500,000 dollars really wasn't enough considering he bankrolls most of the parties on campus. His father, however, is sick of his shenanigans. He tells Dean that he has to prove he's responsible in order to get more money. Problem is, there isn't a responsible bone in Dean's body.
When you both meet at a party, you strike up a deal. Dean will pretend to be your boyfriend at your family's Christmas party in exchange for you pretending to be his girlfriend at his own family gathering. But what happens when things get too real?
CW: swearing, cheating, terrible family relationships, mentions of anxiety.
There will eventually be smut, so I'm going to go ahead and say MDNI!!!
Multiple parts, more than likely.
You're pretty sure you woke up in an alternate reality. It would explain the awful headache you got the second that you opened your eyes, or the fact that you ran out of coffee grounds on today, of all days. It would also explain why you just got a text from your mom asking you to come home for winter break so that you can congratulate your sister on her engagement to Mark.
Mark. Ugh. The name itself puts a roiling pit in the bottom of your stomach. He had been your first everything. Then college had happened. You went off to Boston to pursue your philosophy degree. He stayed in Stockholm, your hometown in Wisconsin. When you came home for your first break in freshman year, you had found him with his tongue down your sister's throat in his garage.
Yeah, obviously you don't want to go back home to watch them practically hump each other on your parents' couch.
You set your phone down, determined not to bother with it right now. You have to focus on your epistemology final. In one hour, you'll be taking one of the most important tests of your life. Not really, but still, focus.
After eating a quick breakfast of toast and an over easy egg, no coffee because the universe has a cruel sense of humor, you get showered and dressed. You have to look good to feel good, so you take time to curl your hair and actually put more than mascara and lip gloss on.
By the time you walk out the door, the day already seems better. After your test, you can go to that little cafe you like to enjoy a coffee and maybe a sandwich. Maybe you can watch a movie with Phoebe-
You look down at your shirt, now stained brown with coffee, and gape. You look up sharply at the idiot who crashed into you. Your glare immediately sharpens.
Dean motherfucking Di Laurentis. Of course.
He scoffs at you, looking at his now crushed cup of coffee. He looks like he's searching for where the liquid inside went, the liquid currently all over your shirt.
"Are you fucking serious?" you ask, trying to fan your shirt to dry it. You blow on the fabric, hoping for any chance that you can save it.
"You ran into me, dude." he quips back, dropping his cup into a nearby trash can. "Did you forget how to look out for other people?"
You look up, laughing at the audacity of this boy. "Me? You were on your phone! While walking! Are you seriously blaming me because you were too busy sexting your girl of the day to actually walk?"
His eyebrows raise and he laughs at your heated words. "Wow. Okay. Big feelings. You definitely haven't filled up your kindness bucket today."
At your unamused glare, he laughs and softens. "I'm really sorry. Is there anything I can do? I could pay for your dry cleaning. Which cleaner do you use? I'll send them the money."
You shake your head and put your hand up to stop him. "I don't use a fucking dry cleaner. I'm not a rich prick like you. Also, I don't have time for this, I have to go." you snap, picking your bag back up from where you had dropped it.
Dean frowns, nodding. "Fine. Whatever. Okay." he says, stepping around you. "Sorry again." he calls out, walking away.
You frown at yourself. Why are you such a bitch? Usually you would've accepted a bit of help. You groan and look back down at your shirt. No time to ponder on why this person specifically irritates you. You could go back home and change, but that would just make you late to your test. Nope, you can't do that. Professor Jones is strict on being punctual on exam days.
You sigh deeply, steel yourself, and soldier on to class. Hopefully you won't be penalized for smelling like a caramel macchiato.
Seriously, who the hell drinks those?
"Man, fuck Benjamin Franklin. Like, honestly, I hate that bald bastard." Dean says, scowling at the flashcards in Tucker's hand.
Tucker laughs, flipping to another card. "I don't think he was even bald, dude." he says, watching Dean take another sip of his beer.
Dean frowns, head tilting in thought. "I thought they all were." he says, confusion writing all over his face.
"Reinforcing societal stereotypes before noon is a new low, even for you, Dean." Logan says as he enters the kitchen. He laughs as Dean flips him off. "Somebody didn't get his morning coffee."
"No, I literally didn't. Some chick with a stick up her ass bumped into me. I felt bad, though. Her shirt was white, and I basically ruined it." Dean says, sighing as he sets his beer down. "Fuck this. I'm failing U.S. History anyways. I need to get laid."
Dean walks over to the living room, flopping onto the couch as he opens his phone. Countless Snapchat notifications pop up. Almost all girls, with the exception of Garrett. Dean grins when he sees his favorite hook up, Kelcey, start typing.
Kelcey: We should study together.
Dean: For sure. Come over? I can kick the guys out.
Tucker walks past Dean, on his way up to his room. He looks at the smirk on Dean's face and laughs. "I know you aren't actually inviting someone over here. We have class in three hours!"
Dean sighs and looks over at Tucker. "It's scientifically proven that stress relief before a final increases your score. I'm just trying to do my best, man."
Tucker rolls his eyes. "What study is this? The Dickhead Daily? Get off your ass and go study those flashcards."
Dean groans and stands, giving his messages with Kelcey one last, longing glance. He texts her and tells her that he's busy and then puts his phone in his pocket.
"Whatever, Tuck. Just say that you get no play." he mutters as he trudges up the stairs.
The only answer he gets is a laugh as he closes his door.
The party, much like the ones before it, is a sweaty mess of alcohol, smoke, and sex.
Basically everything you can't stand right now.
Not only had your professor sneered at you when he caught sight of your ruined shirt, you had promptly forgot everything on your test. All because Dean Di Laurentis hadn't watched where he was going.
You sulk near the door, watching Phoebe, your best friend and old roommate, chat up a sophomore. She turns to smile at you, urging you to come over with a hand gesture. You shake your head with a soft smile, content to watch the party pass you by.
Half an hour later, Phoebe is long gone upstairs with her victim. You decide to head outside, tired of smelling weed and sweat. As you make your way, you notice John Logan. He's smiling with Garrett Graham and Hannah Wells, a couple you know from the Fifth Line drama Jules posts constantly. Your eyes roam appreciatively over Logan's well-built arms and chest, clad in a thin Henley shirt.
If only you dated hockey boys.
You finally step outside, breathing in the fresh air. It's cold, sharp in your nose. Perfect. You head to the side of the house, a blunt in your hand. You had nicked it from Phoebe before she went on her conquest. You lean against the wall, head tilted back to look at the stars as you flick your lighter on.
That's when your ears pick up a sound. A wet smack, followed by a breathy giggle. You choke on your own spit, already making you way back to the porch.
The giggles stop abruptly, hushed whispers following you as you ascend up the wooden steps. A girl runs out from around the corner of the house, ten feet away from where you had been. She is flushed, pulling the straps of her tank top back onto her shoulders. She shoots you a look as she pushes past you, heading into the house.
You're about to brush it off, considering you had been the one to cockblock, when a familiar voice sounds behind you.
"Oh hell no. You again? Why does this always happen to me?" Dean whines. He strides over to you, peering up at your face from his position at the bottom of the steps.
He looks damn good, a fitted grey shirt on with a pair of black jeans, his hair tousled. He is half-scowling, obviously too drunk to actually be pissed.
You smirk, sitting on the steps as you finally light your joint. "I didn't do anything to you. It's not my fault that you chose to hook up with someone outside."
Dean laughs and walks up the steps, sitting next to you. "You act like there was a crowd or something. We were clearly having a private moment." he quips back. "And anyways, why are you out here? The party is inside." he asks, watching you take a hit off of your blunt. He holds his hand out.
You had him the blunt hesitantly, figuring the least you can do is share. "I got overstimulated. These parties are always terrible." you explain, looking up at the night sky. You feel his gaze turn to you as he exhales.
"Anxiety? I get that." he says comfortingly, laying his own head back.
You snort, looking over. "When do you ever get anxious? Isn't that your whole thing? Big bad frat boy who doesn't give a fuck?"
He laughs, turning his own gaze to you. Your faces are separated by inches. "For the record, I give lots of fucks. I just pretend I don't, because I have a reputation to uphold." he says, taking another hit. He laughs as you swipe the joint from his hand, scowling. He blows the smoke out, smiling faintly. "And I do get anxious. Before games or tests. Or when I'm talking to pretty girls..." he trails off, eyes flicking down to your lips,
You snort, turning back to the sky. "Wow. That was good. Did you, I don't know, use ChatGPT to generate pick-up lines?" you ask.
He scrunches up his nose, shaking his head. "Hell no. Fuck AI." he says, offended.
You raise your eyebrows, looking over. "Shit. Dean Di Laurentis actually cares about the planet? I didn't figure you had such strong opinions on AI." you say, genuinely impressed. Usually when you make fun of people for using AI, they get offended and tell you off. Dean just openly admitted to hating it.
"I may be an idiot, but I'm not fucking stupid." he says. He takes one more hit, sitting up. "I should go. I have another final tomorrow."
You sit up, stubbing the blunt out. "Yeah, I have to start packing for break. I have to go see my family." you admit, sighing heavily.
He looks over, brows furrowed. "That's a sighing matter? Seeing your family?" he asks. You can't tell if he's genuinely curious or just wants another shot at getting into your pants.
"Yeah, my sister just got engaged to my ex-boyfriend. And, surprise, I have to be present for her to gloat about her victory." you reply, rubbing your eyes tiredly.
He gapes. "Fuck. That's rough." he says sadly. You almost laugh at his puppy-dog eyes. It's no wonder he gets so many women into his bed.
He sighs and shakes his head sadly. "And I thought my situation is bad." he says.
You look over, eyebrows raised. "And what could possibly be ailing you, Mr. Di Laurentis." you ask, curious to know why he sounds so exhausted.
He huffs and rubs his hand over his jaw. "If I tell you, it'll reinforce every stereotype you have about me." he admits, looking over.
You raise your hands. "I won't judge. I have an amazing poker face." you promise, nodding for him to go on.
He laughs and shakes his head. "I... need more money from my dad. I spent my entire college allowance last year on parties. I've been living off of the money I have in my account from working one summer. But that's going away soon. My dad won't give me anything because he thinks I'm just dicking around." he says, body relaxing as the words leave his lips. He hadn't told anyone else, not even Beau, about this. He didn't want anyone feeling sorry for, or judging, him.
You frown, scooting closer. "I really am sorry about that. I can sorta empathize with that." she says, resting a hand on his arm.
He looks over, blue eyes lowered in shame. "Really?" he asks hopefully.
"I mean, no, not really. But I'll pretend." you admit, smiling.
He laughs, looking over. "I like you. Not in a weird way. I'd fuck you, don't get me wrong. But I like you as a friend." he says, looking as confused as those words made you feel.
You scrunch your face up. "I've never been objectified and complimented in the same sentence before." you tease, laughing when his eyes widen. He really is sweet, you think.
He laughs too when he sees that you aren't actually mad. He looks back down at his shoes, chewing on his inner cheek. "I need to prove in some way that I'm mature. That I'm not irresponsible. I don't have a job, and I can't just get one. I don't have very good grades. Hell, I still haven't fully declared my major. The only thing I have going for me is hockey, and that isn't even enough." he says, exasperated.
You nod, thinking. Maybe he could do volunteer work? No, it's too obvious that he would be doing it for the money. Maybe he could apply for an internship? Unlikely that he would be chosen.
"Why don't you bring a girl home?"
His head snaps up at your sentence, brow furrowed again. "A girlfriend? I've never done that." he says cautiously.
You nod encouragingly. "Then it's perfect. Bring a girl, have her pretend that you've been dating for a while. If he sees you in a committed relationship, he'll be impressed with your responsibility." you explain.
He shakes his head. "How will I find a girl who will agree to that? I ghost most of the girls I hook up with." he says.
"I don't know, you're Dean Di Laurentis, you can figure it out." you say, nudging him.
He looks up. "Why don't you bring a guy home? To show your sister that you aren't missing anything?" he says, turning the same logic onto you.
You laugh, shaking your head. "Like anyone would ever agree to be my boyfriend, fake or not." you say, self-deprecating.
It spoken so casually, so quietly, you almost don't hear it. Then you turn your head so fast that you almost get whiplash. "What?"
He shrugs, smiling. "We could fake for each other. I scratch your back, you scratch mine."
You laugh and shake your head. "No. I am not bringing you to my family's Christmas. My sister would jump you immediately." you say.
His hand goes to his chest as he feigns offense. "You think I fuck everything with a pulse, don't you? I would never betray you like that. Promise." he says, smiling boyishly. "I'll be the most loyal fake-boyfriend ever." he promises.
You laugh, half out of exasperation and half from amusement. His charm is working on you, and he can tell. You look over at him. "No bullshit?"
He nods, his smirk fading into something softer. "No bullshit." he echoes.
You nod and then stand, offering him a hand. You speak as you help him up. "Meet me at nine, Malones. Don't be late. We need to talk logistics." you command.
He grins down at you, his hand on your hip. "My first fake relationship and I don't even call the shots? Brutal." he teases.
You tug him down by his collar, hips lips inches from yours. His eyes widen, gulping suddenly.
"You never had any control, Dean. Don't be late tomorrow, okay?" you say softly.
He nods uselessly, watching you walk back into the house.
His heart is beating harder than when he scores a goal during one of his games. He blinks at where you had been, wondering if he's just signed himself up for heaven or absolute hell.
How do we like this? I wanted to write for Dean, especially since I've consumed almost every piece of media for him 😭
If you like this, let me know! I will write pt.2 as soon as I can!
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