stellasgothworld

And not in the cute, sitcom kind of way people imagined when they watched shows New Girl. It was actually the exact opposite.

It was difficult on the inside and out. When people found out you lived in the hockey house with four Division I athletes, there was no ‘ooh, that must be so fun’ unless it came from some lust filled puck bunny that only had the nastiest of fantasies. To people with actual working brains, more questions always followed their judgmental looks. Thing like ‘why, ‘how long’, ‘are you dating any of them’, ‘is that allowed’. Which you understood, but could only answer with one phrase.

“It’s a long story.”

Because it was! Getting into the intricacies of how you started the schools, and first ever, collage hockey cheer squad was too much: it always sounded like you were bragging about something that you didn’t see as a big deal. Plus, no one wanted to hear about how you despised the concept of bunking with a complete and total stranger for the sake of the college experience, especially when they were doing the same thing.

On the inside of the home, however, living with boys was even more difficult because… well, you actually had to live with them.

Living with boys was hard in a deeply specific, deeply exhausting way no one warned you about.

First, it was because boys were disgusting.

Not always and sometimes not intentionally, but sometimes and for some reason, even maliciously. Like that one time Dean left a condom in the shower because Logan ate his leftovers that Tucker made. You didn’t know if it was a man thing, or a sports thing, but they moved through life with a level of casual recklessness that made you wonder how any of them had survived into adulthood.

And the house itself reflected that.

At first glance, it looked like any off-campus athlete house. Loud with the occasional party, sort of worn-in due to said parties. It also constantly smelled of detergent and sweat.

But there were traces of you.

Your pink throw blankets were draped over the couch because the you always got cold and the boys knew nothing about buying decent blankets themselves. Your Vogue magazines were spread across the coffee table beside their sports journals and empty Gatorade bottles. There were tiny decorative glass bowls full of hair ties and bobby pins sitting in random places throughout the place because you kept losing them.

There was a lemon blossom candle on the kitchen counter that Dean lit it more than you did. He eventually stole it to put in his room for his after shower activities, but the touch was yours nonetheless.

Your shoes by the front door mixed into piles of massive sneakers and hockey bags was a contrasting sight. Your colorful sandals, soft Ugg boots and fuzzy animal house slippers. Your skincare products that lined one side of the downstairs bathroom sink stuck out next to Logan’s beard trimmer that sat threateningly close to your toothbrush.

There was the small pros that you found cute as you passed through, looking at the way your vastly different lives were all intertwined this way. But with the pros, comes the cons. And some cons might be to your doing as well.

There were the packages. God, the packages. The delivery driver knew you by name and you knew his. It was Anthony.

Boxes of PR constantly showed up at the house, to the point where neither them nor you could keep up. PR packages from makeup brands, clothing collaborations from boutiques that used your Instagram for promotion. There were skincare launches, cheer gear, women’s protein bars with aesthetically pleasing packaging because apparently gut health had to not only be gendered for some reason but become your entire personality this semester.

Though you found it stupid, you were doing it for the cheque. And the products worked because Garrett seemed to love them.

Dean once opened the front door and stared at the stack of boxes awaiting outside.

“What the hell is all this?” He asked exasperatedly, looking over at you, who sat in the couch. You glanced up from your laptop, peeking over the couch as if you could see the packages on the porch. “Probably PR.” You shrugged before going back to your screen.

“There are, like, ten boxes here.”

“Yeah.” You muttered, still clicking away on your laptop, not even looking up this time.

“Why?” He questioned, absentmindedly moving to load the boxes of various sizes into the home and sit them by the door. He lifted them up, dressed in nothing out gym shorts and slides, and closed the door with his foot. “I mean, who needs this much stuff? What even if half of this?”

You let out a small sigh, leaning back in the couch as you looked up at the blonde man. “What can I say Dean, the brands love me.” You shrugged with a cocky smirk before chuckling.

Dean scoffed and cut his eyes towards Garrett. “I picked the wrong career.”

⋆⁺₊┈┈ ೀ

Living with boys also meant your things slowly stopped becoming just yours.

Your blankets became communal blankets that barely covered you since you had to share with Logan’s huge body. Your expensive vanilla syrup for coffee was now used in Tuckers cocktail recipes. The fridge you so carefully organized slowly became demented into disarray as if it was ravaged by some beast, especially because Tucker cooked like a suburban mother feeding a family of seven.

Every Sunday, Tucker stood in the kitchen for hours meal prepping while music played low through a speaker. He moved around the kitchen with efficiency, his broad shoulders hovering over simmering pots. The place was warm as something baked in the oven and the entire home just smelled great when Tucker cooked.

The feeling almost made up for the rest of the boys existing.

Almost.

You had your own section in the fridge. Well, you were supposed to.

Tucker, the cute gentleman that he is and was raised to be, respected it. The others did not.

Your shelf was painfully recognizable compared to theirs. You had your glass jars filled with matcha or chocolate raspberry chia seed pudding. There was your coconut water, almond milk, and lemonade alongside your fresh fruit and sweet streets. In the door was your wellness shots that tasted like shit. And last but not least, your coconut cult probiotic yogurt.

Garrett liked called your grocery hauls ‘rich girl rabbit food’, which was ironic considering he ate enough food in a day to feed a small village. But you knew it was just a joke, especially since he’s seen your late night door dash orders.

Still, you bought those things for a reason. Whether it was your skin, your stomach health, your energy levels. It all went into your focus for cheer, which was important to you.

Being captain of the cheer team meant constant appearances, performances, uniforms, cameras, and social media posts. You couldn’t survive off frozen pizza and energy drinks, as much as you wanted to, the way the some boys somehow did. Trust though, you did indulge yourself whenever you seen fit.

Unfortunately, the boys viewed your food as fascinating, like zoo animals discovering their enrichment toys.

One afternoon, after your morning yoga session in the attic, you padded downstairs in green leggings and an oversized Briar U sweatshirt, water bottle dangling from your hand.

The house was suspiciously quiet. Too quiet for your liking, which caused you to narrow your eyes immediately.

You rounded the corner before turning into the kitchen, and that’s when you spotted them.

Dean and Garrett were standing in front of the open fridge, spoons in hand and substance in their mouths. They seemed to enjoy whatever they were eating, humming in content.

You furrowed your brows before your eyes dropped to the jar in Deans hands. He was holding your yogurt. Your Coconut Cult yogurt.

Dean was actively eating from the jar while Garrett slightly grimaced through another spoonful, mildly enjoying its taste.

You froze at threshold of the kitchen, eyes widening and mouth dropping open. “Oh my God.” You said, hands coming up to cover your mouth.

Both boys looked up at you, frozen like they were caught red handed. Which they were.

Dean swallowed. “Hey.” The words got clogged in his throat, trying to speak and swallow what he thought was a dessert.

“That jar is forty dollars worth of yogurt.” You snipped, eyes bouncing between them.

Garrett blinked. “Forty—”

“You ate my Coconut Cult?!”

Dean frowned down at the small jar. “It’s yogurt.” He scoffed. “And it definitely shouldn’t be forty bucks.”

“It’s probiotic yogurt!”

Garrett took another bite and immediately regretted it. “Is that why it has that weird aftertaste?”

“Yes!”

“So you buy this spoiled tasting yogurt on purpose?”

You marched across the kitchen in disbelief, snatching the jar from Dean’s hand like a mother catching teenagers with alcohol. “I eat this for my gut health, you idiots! You know I’m lactose intolerant!”

Dean leaned against the counter lazily. “Okay, we’ll owe you.” He shrugged as if it was nothing. “I didn’t know the chocolate moose yogurt was special and forty fucking dollars.” He chuckled in disbelief.

“Like you can’t afford it.” Garett mumbled.

“You two are going to regret this later.” You hissed, throwing the jar and what’s left over, in the trash. It’s not like you could use the rest anyway with the way they were digging back and forth into the probiotic.

Garrett scoffed. “The hell is that supposed to mean?” He questioned, watching as you rounded the counter to walk away from them.

You paused, turning to stare at them for a long moment.

Then you slowly smiled. “You’ll see.” You grinned before making your way back upstairs, confused in what you can down for in the first place.

Tucker walked in halfway through the silence you left, carrying grocery bags. His eyes moved between the two boys, who was left frozen in your wake.

“What happened?”

“They ate her Coconut Cult,” Logan called from the living room, where he was playing a Mario Kart on the television.

Tucker let out a small chuckle in disbelief as she placed the bags in the counter. “Oh,” he said softly. “Oh, you idiots.”

Dean frowned. “What?”

“That stuff has like a billion probiotics in it.”

Garrett’s face slowly changed while Dean still didn’t seem to get the point yet.

“And that means?” He questioned, eyeing the pair in the kitchen.

“Oh no.” Garrett mumbled, placing his head in his hand, holding himself up in the kitchen island. Dean eyed him, while Tucker chuckled in amusement.

“Bro, what? Come on, tell me.” The blonde urged.

“If you took more than a spoonful of that, you’re gonna shit your brains out.” Tucker smiled, moving around them to load the fridge full of food.

Deans face dropped as Logan’s chuckles echoed into the kitchen.

⋆⁺₊┈┈ ೀ

Then there’s the bathroom situation, which somehow managed to be even worse than the food situation.

Because the attic that you lived in only had a tiny half-bath. Just a toilet and sink squeezed beneath slanted ceilings. Meaning for showers, you had to use the downstairs bathroom. The shared house bathroom.

The one that you shared with four hockey players.

There were not enough candles or cleaning products in the world to emotionally prepare someone for sharing a bathroom with men.

You cleaned constantly.

Constantly.

You wiped the counters, refolded towels, reorganized the cabinet products, cleaned the floors. Anything to aid in stopping the place from delving into a yuck fest within hours.

One time Logan left a pair of compression undershorts hanging from the shower rod for three days.

Three. Days.

“You guys live like rats.” You complained, thudding down the stairs, gloves still on from scrubbing the bathroom counter. It was dark out, the soft sound of rain pelting the windows. “Logan, I’m throwing these shorts away.” You deadpanned, only gaining a shrug in response from the man.

Dean lounged against the archway of the living room, eating cereal straight from the box. “And yet you stay.” He grinned, eyes in the tv, where some rival team shame tape played.

“Unfortunately, I’ve grown attached.” You muttered, walking over to the kitchen trash can to rid yourself of the rubber gloves.

“Aww, to us?” Logan questioned with a smile, glancing over from the living room couch.

“To Tucker’s cooking.” You quipped, flashing him a large beam. His smile dropped, causing you to chuckle as you leaned against the wall opposite to Dean.

Speaking of, he placed a hand over his heart dramatically. “How cruel, puck princess.” He chuffed, which instantly wiped the smile from your face. You reached over, slapping his arm.

“I told you about that name.” You said through clinched teeth. All while Dean just laughed, showing all of his pearly whites.

“Well, you hurt my feelings.” He shrugged, causing you to roll your eyes.

⋆⁺₊┈┈ ೀ

The problem with sharing a bathroom, though, was the complete destruction of privacy.

There was absolutely none. People, roommates and strangers alike, barged in constantly because apparently locks meant nothing nowadays. You were never in the habit of locking the bathroom door before you moved in with these people.

One night after practice, steam from the shower you just took was still clinging to your skin and you stood at the sink brushing your teeth while wrapped in your fluffy pink towel.

Dean stood beside you, half his faced covered in shaving cream and his sweatpants hanging dangerously low on his hips while music played softly from his phone on the counter.

It was oddly domestic, but the usual after a few years living together. It was now your norm to do such things. And everything was fine, same as always.

Until you opened the drawer looking for floss. There, sitting very obviously amongst your hair ties and face masks was a hot pink vibrator.

You paused mid-brush, brows furrowed.

Dean noticed you stopping immediately, the chill vibe shifting to something else.

His eyes followed yours downward, and once they were placed onto what caught your attention, they widened in horror.

Painfully slowly, what you could see of his face started turning red.

You looked at him the same time he looked at you. I enter of you spoke for a while, just staring at each other like you were both caught in the middle of some compromising position.

Then the bathroom door opened and Tucker stepped inside holding folded towels before stopping dead in his tracks.

His eyes darted between the two of you, faces red and frozen in your half dressed states. He then glanced at the drawer, seeing the item, and then back up at you two.

A long silence followed, and his innocent stare gave nothing away.

Finally, Dean pointed aggressively.

“That’s not mine.” You both said at the same time.

“At all,” You added quickly.

Tucker blinked twice before he simply backed out of the bathrooms towels still in hand.

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving you two in silence again, though this time more charged than before.

You then burst into laughter, so hard toothpaste nearly came out of your nose. That broke the tension between you two, causing Dean groaned, dragging a hand down his half shaven face while still blushing violently. “Oh my God.”

Living with boys is hard. It’s exhausting and loud and invasive. It was a feat that meant never knowing peace.

But sometimes it also meant coming downstairs at two in the morning unable to sleep and finding Tucker making grilled cheese in the kitchen.

It meant Garrett silently carrying your PR packages upstairs because he knew they were heavy. Or Logan shoving vitamins toward you after practice because you “forgot your weird supplements this morning.”

And sometimes it meant Dean falling asleep on the couch under one of your pink blankets while a face mask on and a leopard print headband that sat on his forehead because you convinced him to do skincare with you.

The house was chaotic and messy. Sometimes a bit overcrowded. But somewhere between it all, it became home.

As for Dean, you knew he and Beau practically lived in the school gym. And it showed. Every flex of his arms beneath his grey training shirt looked unfairly good, sweat glistening over muscles you knew very well by now. That body was a work of art. 

To Tucker’s right, Logan wasn’t doing much better. His arms trembled violently every time he pushed himself off the grass, face tight with effort like pure stubbornness was the only thing keeping him going.

‘’Not you too, Logan?” you called. ‘’Now is not the time to give up. Think about the Cup!”

He lifted his head from the grass long enough to glare at you. ‘’The cup can kiss my ass.’’

You gasped dramatically. ‘’That’s not championship mentality.’’ 

‘’Championship mentality left thirty push-ups ago,’’ Logan groaned before lowering himself again with shaky arms. ‘’I can’t feel my arms.’’ 

Beside him, Dean smirked without missing a beat. ‘’You know, hearing you yell motivational speeches is weirdly attractive.’’ 

You rolled your eyes, fighting a smile. 

‘’Everything’s attractive to you,’’ Tucker muttered. ‘’She sounds like a military drill sergeant.’’

Garrett laughed, shaking his head. ‘’Stop flirting and focus on your reps, boys.’’

‘’Oh, I am, G,’’ Dean said easily, lowering himself again. ‘’I’m focussed on the reward blowjob I’ll get after I—’’ 

Tucker made a gagging noise into the grass. ‘’Jesus Christ.’’

 “Be nice to my girl.” Dean shot back immediately, finally lifting his head to look at him.

He nudged Tucker with his foot hard enough to throw him off balance, sending him collapsing flat onto the lawn with a groan.

‘’Ow! Fucking cheater!’’

Dean laughed, reaching seventy without even sounding winded. “Should’ve kept your mouth shut.”

Logan followed Tucker not long after, collapsing dramatically onto his back. Seventy-three wasn’t bad, you told him as you handed him a water bottle. He took it with an exhausted but grateful smile and downed half of it immediately.

‘’Seventy-eight! Seventy-nine!’’ you counted aloud. 

‘’This looks too easy for them,’’ Logan said, watching the last two standing. 

‘’Agree,’’ Tuck chimed in. ‘’I think we need to raise the bar for some real competition.’’

A slow smirk spread across his face as he looked at the other John, who mirrored it instantly before both of them turned toward you.

Dean’s eyes widened. “Absolutely not.”

Too late.

‘’That’s cheating!’’ He barked out a laugh as you sat your full weight right on his back, adding weight to lift. 

You’ve done this a couple of times while you were training in the gym together, but it never stopped doing something to you. There was something unfairly attractive about the way Dean handled your weight like it was nothing.

‘’You can handle it. You lift more than that,’’ you teased, believing in him. ‘’Show off.’’

That crooked grin appeared instantly. ‘’Careful. You know praise turn me on.’’

You could feel every muscle in his shoulders, arms, and back flex beneath you as he kept going, body tightening with every controlled push upward. Sweat dampened the back of his shirt, heat radiating off him while he powered through rep after rep like he genuinely wanted to impress you.

A low grunt slipped from his throat as he pushed into another one,  sweat-damp hair falling into his eyes and head dipping briefly before he looked back at you over his shoulder. ‘’You comfortable up there, babydoll?’’ 

You hummed, squeezing his shoulders lightly. He’s got this. 

Logan crossed his arms, watching with amusement. ‘’This is foul play.’’

Tucker nodded solemnly. ‘’Absolutely dirty.’’

Dean smirked through another rep. ‘’Why doesn’t Garrett get someone too? This is favoritism.’’

You glanced toward the captain. ‘’Dean’s right. Get some weight on him too.’’

‘’I’ll go,’’ Tucker volunteered, still sweaty and breathless from his earlier push-ups, but clearly not done being annoying.

‘’Wait—what?! No!’’ Garrett protested, grunting as Tucker dropped onto his back with all the grace of a collapsing building, grinning as Garrett nearly face-planted into the grass. ‘’Ugh, fuck.’’ He groaned dramatically under 190 pounds of goalie muscles. ‘’I hate all of you.’’

══════════════════

I finally found you | @mutantvampireearthquake

Dean Di Laurentis study sesh

Jealous, D? | @bitchinbarzal

it’s casual, dean is a little less than casual when he sees someone elses hands on you.

Babe, part 2 | @/bitchinbarzal

dean has his sights set on punching hunter in the face, you, his ex girlfriend won’t let him.

Blurb | @residentheartache

That dress | @/residentheartache

Dean swears your dress will kill him

Casual is never Casual | @g0ldendesiree

dean was the one who asked for things to be casual, so why does it feel like torture watching you be okay with that?

DEAN HEYWARD-DI LAURENTIS | @edawgz

Dean was the boy no one could get enough of. The thing was, you just didn’t get it… until you did.

That’s how they roll. | @balletteens

the dates that made us | @buckpunny1

You’re close friends with none other than Dean Di Laurentis, oftentimes bordering on the edge of something more. What happens when he makes a mistake at a party and has to win you back?

series masterlist | @girlontheruin

In which Garrett Graham’s older sister (22) comes back into his life, in hopes of mending their broken relationship. A little help from Dean Di Laurentis has you lowering your highly built walls of defence. Brick by brick he shows you exactly how you can depend on someone.

Off Limits | @pennylanefics

dean is captivated by the girl he's been told to stay away from

Baby Doll, part 2, part 3 | @dilaurentispuckbunny

You were walking into the hockey house with your friends, Hannah and Allie. Your brother, Garrett Graham, lived here with his teammates and friends. John Tucker, John Logan and Dean Di Laurentis. You all attend Briar University (Briar U). The guys had won a game tonight, which meant that it was party time at the house, the house was packed with people. More specifically, Puck Bunnies.

Blurry Lines | @gwellsy

the line you drew on the beginning of the original agreement with dean becomes blurry

Sneak Peak | @/gwellsy

you accidentally hear strange sounds from dean's room

the world won’t end. | @stellasfictionalworld

in which dean takes care of his close friend as she lets loose, including bringing her home and suddenly everything clicks for him.

best friend’s sister | @sourcherryandsprinkles

the scientific method, part 2 | @pucksandpower

when the pre-med girl with the perfect GPA meets the hockey player with the far from perfect reputation, neither of you expects to become each other’s biggest distraction. You’ve got your whole life planned out. He’s never planned anything past Friday night. But somewhere between study sessions and split lips, you discover that the scariest thing isn’t falling, it’s admitting you want to

Losing game | @lynabys

Dean Di Laurentis knows Y/N is bad for him. The problem is that every time she pulls away, he follows anyway.

Losing Game - Playing for approval | @/lynabys

She pushes him harder, he plays better. Somewhere between obsession, performance, and desire, dean starts confusing her approval with love - and neither of them realizes how dangerous that becomes until it’s far too late.

dean di laurentis x reader | @lizard-on-a-window-pane

sfw alphabet | @alliehyes

Shower Time | @rgntthragg

Imagine | @briarpilled

you and dean have been best friends since forever,  there was hardly anything you could ever keep from each other, so it's not surprising all it takes for you to confess your feelings is a very short-tempered dean and his excessive urge to defend your honor.

His Favorite Distraction | @desoiry

Dean interrupts your gaming moment to steal all your attention.

“You scared me tonight,” you admit.

His eyes flick toward you instantly, guilt flashing there. “Baby…”

“I mean it.”

The nickname slips past him automatically this time.

Neither of you acknowledge it.

Dean exhales sharply through his nose. “I wasn’t gonna actually kill him.”

“That is not reassuring.”

That finally earns the smallest twitch of his mouth.

“You literally stood between me and a fight.”

“Yeah, because apparently none of your idiot friends were planning to.”

Dean snorts softly.

By the time you reach your apartment, Dean looks exhausted more than angry.

You toss him a hoodie from your closet.

He catches it automatically. “This is mine.”

“You left it here.”

“In November.”

“You abandoned it.”

Dean pulls it on anyway.

You move around the kitchen grabbing water bottles while Dean drops heavily onto your couch, head tipped back against the cushions.

“You wanna talk about it?” you ask carefully.

“No.”

“Okay.”

“Hunter’s still a dick though.”

Dean opens one eye. “Thank you.”

You sit beside him, handing him water.

For a few minutes neither of you says anything. Then quietly, “You really called me babe.”

You groan immediately. “Oh my God.”

Dean’s tired grin appears for the first time all night. “You did!”

“You were about to fistfight a D1 athlete in public.”

“And?”

“And I panicked!”

“Mm.” Dean watches you carefully. “Sounded natural.”

Heat creeps into your face.

Dean notices. Obviously.

His smile softens a little around the edges then.

Not teasing anymore. Fond.

Before either of you can say anything else, your apartment door swings open.

Logan’s voice carries in first. “If they’re fucking I’m leaving immediately.”

Dean groans. “Go away.”

The boys pile into the apartment anyway, Garrett and Tucker carrying takeout bags while Hannah follows behind them.

The second Logan spots Dean sprawled on your couch in his old hoodie, he points aggressively. “See? This is exactly what I meant.”

“Shut up,” both you and Dean say simultaneously.

Hannah snorts.

Garrett looks relieved more than anything. “You good?”

Dean shrugs which is Dean language for not remotely good but alive.

Logan drops onto the armchair nearby. “For the record, you were terrifying tonight.”

Dean flips him off lazily without opening his eyes and suddenly your irritation comes roaring back.

You straighten immediately. “Actually, no.”

Every head turns toward you.

Logan blinks. “Uh oh.”

“No, because why the hell was Hunter even there?” you demand. “Dean has been telling you guys for months that Davenport’s an asshole.”

Logan lifts both hands defensively. “Okay, hold on-”

“No, I’m serious!” You stand now fully worked up again. “You all acted like Dean was being dramatic when he literally told you!”

Garrett winces slightly.

Tucker suddenly finds the floor very interesting.

“Y/N,” Dean says cautiously.

“You don’t get to ‘Y/N’ me right now.” You point toward Logan. “And you! You practically rolled your eyes every time Dean brought it up.”

“Because Dean hates everybody,” Logan argues weakly.

“Not like that he doesn’t!”

Dean stares at you.

Completely stunned now.

Because you’re angry for him.

Not at him.

For him.

“And then tonight everybody acts shocked when Dean loses it?” you continue. “Maybe listen to him once in a while instead of acting like he’s just some irrational frat boy with anger issues.”

“Hey,” Dean says quietly, almost touched.

You whirl toward Garrett now too. “And you! Captain Obvious over there. You knew how bad tonight could’ve gone.”

Garrett actually looks alarmed. “Why am I getting dragged into this?”

“Because none of you stopped him!”

Dean is visibly trying not to smile now.

Which only annoys you more.

“You think this is funny?”

“A little,” he admits.

You glare at him. “You almost got yourself suspended!”

“Yeah, but now you’re yelling at people for me.” His expression goes soft in a way that immediately weakens your knees. “Which is kinda hot.”

“Dean!”

You make the mistake of trying to march toward Logan again.

Dean leaps off the couch and catches you easily around the waist before you get more than two steps.

“Alright,” he laughs, hauling you backward against his chest, “that’s enough, killer.”

“Dean, let me go.”

“Nope.”

“I’m serious!”

“So am I.”

His arms tighten securely around your middle while you squirm halfheartedly.

It’s not effective.

Mostly because you’re trying not to laugh now too.

“Your friends are idiots,” you mutter.

“Absolutely.”

“And nobody listens to you enough.”

“Correct again.”

Logan points dramatically from the chair. “I’m being attacked.”

Dean ignores him completely.

Because he’s too busy looking at you.

Still standing up for him without hesitation even when he absolutely did not deserve this level of loyalty tonight.

Something warm cracks open in his chest.

“Thanks,” he says quietly near your ear.

You still immediately soften at the sound of his real voice.

Not joking.

Not flirting.

Just Dean.

You sigh, leaning back against him slightly. “You make it very difficult not to care about you.”

Dean’s hold tightens just a little.

And from the couch Tucker mutters under his breath:

Silence settles over the kitchen so abruptly it almost feels physical.

Garrett slowly lowers the yogurt he’d just grabbed from the fridge. “She said what?”

Dean shrugs once, already turning back toward the assignment. The movement is casual, absentminded, like there’s nothing remotely alarming about this conversation.

“She said if I’m gonna act smart all the time, I should probably start proving it academically too.”

Garrett stares at him for a long moment, genuinely trying to process the fact that Dean Di Laurentis - the same Dean who once paid Tucker fifty dollars to write half a philosophy paper freshman year - is voluntarily redoing graded assignments because of one comment from a girl.

“And your response to that was…” Garrett gestures vaguely toward the mountain of papers spread across the kitchen table. “…this?”

Dean doesn’t even hesitate.

“She’s right.”

“No,” Garrett says immediately, almost offended on his behalf. “No, she’s actually insane.”

Dean snorts quietly under his breath like Garrett’s being dramatic, but the thing is, Garrett has been watching this happen slowly for weeks now. At first it was small things nobody thought too hard about. Dean showing up to practice earlier than everyone else. Drinking less before games. Fixing assignments before deadlines instead of five minutes before class. Spending nights studying upstairs instead of screwing around downstairs with the team.

Every change somehow traced back to her.

At first Garrett thought maybe it was a good thing.

Honestly, everyone did.

Because Dean has always been the kind of person who succeeds without trying very hard. Hockey especially. He could show up late, distracted, half-drunk, and still outperform almost everyone around him through talent alone. It used to annoy the hell out of Coach.

Now?

Now Dean plays like somebody put him under pressure for the first time in his life.

Focused. Aggressive. Mean.

Like every single shift personally matters to him.

And the terrifying part is that it’s working.

His stats have gotten ridiculous lately. Coach won’t stop talking about it. Scouts started paying closer attention after winter break. Even Logan admitted last week that Dean’s probably playing the best hockey of his life right now.

And somehow Y/N is sitting at the center of all of it.

Garrett notices the pattern before Dean does.

Good game? She touches him more.

Bad game? She gets quieter.

Dean starts chasing her reactions without even realizing he’s doing it.

Honestly, it’s disturbing to watch in real time.

-

Friday night practices are usually brutal after losses.

Tonight is worse.

Coach spends almost two straight hours screaming while the team skates drills until everyone’s legs feel numb beneath them. The entire rink smells like sweat, frustration, and melting ice by the end of it. During scrimmage, Dean gets shoved hard enough into the boards to split the inside of his lip open.

He barely reacts.

Actually, Garrett swears Dean starts playing harder afterward.

By the time practice finally ends, the locker room feels exhausted and sour with irritation. Dean sits heavily at his locker, breathing through parted lips while he untapes his wrists slowly, fresh blood still staining the corner of his mouth.

Across the room, Tucker tosses a towel at his head.

“You know most people spiral emotionally after girls ruin their lives,” he says while pulling his jersey off over his head. “You somehow became better at hockey. It’s honestly concerning.”

Dean flips him off lazily without even looking up.

Garrett drops onto the bench beside him afterward, watching Dean pull a clean shirt over his head before shoving his gear carelessly into his bag.

“You know she’s messing with your brain, right?” Garrett asks carefully.

Dean grabs his hoodie from the locker door and shrugs it on calmly. “She makes me better.”

Garrett goes quiet after that.

Because somehow that answer unsettles him more than denial would’ve.

Dean genuinely believes it.

And maybe worse?

Maybe he’s right.

-

Y/N is waiting outside the rink when Dean walks out later that night.

The parking lot is nearly empty now, cold air biting sharply against damp skin while leftover snow sticks along the sidewalks outside the arena. She’s leaning against the passenger side of his car in a long dark coat, one boot crossed casually over the other while she scrolls through something on her phone beneath the glow of the parking lot lights.

Dean feels his entire mood shift the second he sees her.

Which is pathetic.

Especially after the day he’s had.

“You look exhausted,” Y/N says after glancing up from her screen.

Dean tosses his bag into the backseat with a tired shrug. “Practice sucked.”

Her eyes flick briefly toward the cut near his mouth before settling back on his face.

“You deserved it.”

Dean laughs quietly under his breath at that, shaking his head once while opening the driver’s side door. “There she is.”

Y/N ignores the comment entirely.

“You lost focus again during drills.”

Dean pauses halfway into the seat before looking back at her. “You came to practice?”

“For twenty minutes.”

“And somehow you still found something to criticize.”

“You were sloppy.”

The thing about Y/N is that she never sounds emotional when she says things like this. No cruelty in her voice. No dramatic tone.

Just observation.

Like she’s pointing out facts nobody else is willing to say out loud.

Dean should probably hate it.

Instead, he hears himself ask, “How many times did I miss?”

Y/N slides into the passenger seat beside him before answering calmly. “Three.”

Dean’s jaw tightens slightly.

Because she noticed.

Of course she did.

The car falls quiet afterward except for the soft hum of the heater filling the space between them. Outside, snow drifts lazily across the windshield while Dean stares ahead at the empty parking lot.

After a moment, Y/N reaches toward him without warning, her thumb brushing carefully against the split corner of his lip.

Dean exhales slowly through his nose.

Every single time she touches him lately it feels deliberate somehow.

Controlled.

“You’re too good to play distracted,” she says quietly.

Dean turns his head slightly toward her in the dim lighting inside the car. “You know normal girlfriends usually say ‘good job’ first.”

Y/N’s hand stays against his jaw another second longer than necessary.

“But you don’t need that from me.”

The horrifying part is that she’s right.

Dean gets praise everywhere. From coaches. Teammates. Crowds screaming his name from the stands.

What he wants from her is different.

Approval.

Y/N studies his face silently for another second before finally pulling her hand away. “I saw Matt Keller tonight.”

Dean’s expression shifts immediately.

Subtle.

Still immediate.

Y/N notices anyway.

“The lacrosse guy?” Dean asks flatly.

“He got an internship offer in Boston.”

Dean leans back slowly into his seat, fingers tightening once against the steering wheel. “And?”

Y/N shrugs lightly, gaze drifting toward the windshield now. “He’s disciplined.”

There’s no accusation in the sentence.

No comparison spoken aloud.

She doesn’t have to say it directly anymore.

Dean hears it anyway.

Disciplined.

Focused.

Driven.

Good enough.

Something dark twists low in his chest almost instantly.

“You trying to piss me off before tomorrow’s game?” he asks quietly.

Y/N finally looks back at him then, calm and unreadable underneath the soft glow from the dashboard lights.

“You play better irritated.”

Dean stares at her for a long second after that.

And the fucked up part?

Somewhere deep down, a part of him already wants to prove her right.

Y/N notices the exact second competitiveness settles into his expression. She sees his posture straighten slightly, jaw tightening while his brain starts turning over itself automatically.

That look again.

Like he suddenly has something to prove.

Her fingers slide lightly against his thigh then, nails dragging once through the fabric of his sweats.

The reaction is immediate.

Dean’s entire body tenses subtly underneath her touch.

“You know what your problem is?” Y/N murmurs softly.

Dean keeps his eyes fixed on her. “What?”

“You could be better than everyone else if you actually wanted it badly enough.”

The words settle somewhere deep underneath his skin instantly.

Not because they’re cruel.

Because he believes her.

That’s what Garrett and the others don’t understand. Dean doesn’t think Y/N wants him to fail.

Quite the opposite.

She looks at him like failure would genuinely disappoint her.

And somehow that feels worse than anger ever could.

Y/N’s hand moves slowly higher against his leg before curling lightly into the fabric near his knee. “I’m not dating someone mediocre,” she says quietly.

Dean swears something inside him sharpens immediately at the words.

Not fear.

Something uglier than that.

Determination. Possession. Need. Competition.

Because suddenly all he can think about is tomorrow night. Tomorrow’s game. Scoring. Winning. Making her look at him like he’s enough again.

Y/N watches the shift happen in real time.

The terrifying part?

She likes seeing it.

Dean reaches for her suddenly then, hand firm against the side of her neck as he pulls her toward him hard enough that her breath catches softly.

“You’re crazy,” he murmurs against her mouth.

Y/N’s lips curve slightly beneath his.

“Maybe.”

Dean picks up the pace and presses just that little bit harder. Your legs start shaking. His hands, gripping your thighs, squeeze tighter and shake them even more. Your pleasure builds and builds until it finally peaks, a loud, involuntary sound leaving you as your orgasm sends jolts through your entire body, as it does every time Di Laurentis gets between your legs.

Your skin is still extra sensitive as Dean licks and nips at you, giving the inside of your thigh a tiny bite as he finally emerges. His characteristic smirk is splayed across his face, as is the shiny evidence of what he’s just done. 

“I’m sorry, ‘annoying’? Obviously I was blowing your mind so hard, you couldn’t even think straight. I think the word you were looking for was ‘amazing’? ‘Astounding,’ maybe?” Your hand hasn’t moved from its position on his head, and you tug his long locks again, a little harder this time. He lets you, and it annoys you to no end how hot he looks, chin tilting up from your pulling, his lips parted, an amused smile ghosting them, your juices still coating them.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you deadpan. “I meant what I said.” 

He glares at you but can’t help his spreading smile as he crawls his way up your body. 

“The part where you said I was soo good?” he emphasizes the last couple of words lewdly. “Or the part where you screamed so loud I think the whole campus heard you?”

“Oh my god, shut up.” You roll your eyes, but he can read the mirth in them. “You are so full of yourself.”

“I think,” he teases, giving your lips a quick peck, “You’re just mad because you want to be full of me…” He kisses you again, more tongue this time. He ruts his prominent erection between your legs to punctuate his suggestion. 

“Fuck, Dean,” you can’t help but whimper, rutting up to meet his hips. He doesn’t plan on saying so out loud, but every time you use his first name, especially in bed, his hard-on gets impossibly harder. He chuckles at your reaction, and you laugh with him. “Get inside me then,” you say and wrap your legs around his waist. His responding groan is deep and tells you just how much he wants to.

He devours your mouth as he slowly slips inside you, pausing when he bottoms out. Dean keeps making out with you lazily as he languidly moves in and out. Usually, he’d be pounding in to you by now, but this time, he wants to take his time. 

You grip his ass and encourage him to move faster. “Come on, baby, fuck me, please,” you slur as you don’t stop kissing him. 

Oh, fuck. ‘Baby’ is new, and all he can think about is what to do to you to make you call him that again. His hips pick up speed; his mouth wanders your lips, your jaw, your neck. The sounds you make as he goes harder and harder spur him on.

“Fuck, Dean, fuuuck..” He groans into the crook of your neck. He’s getting way too close, needs to get you there first. He shifts his angle the slightest bit, making his pubic bone hit your clit as he keeps thrusting. He feels your hands clutch him tighter, your legs squeeze around him, and a couple thrust later, the moans you make as you orgasm, your lips right by his ear, send him over the edge with you even before your pulsing around his cock prolongs it even further.

Dean keeps up his motions as you both come down, just much slower, gently kissing your shoulder and neck. When he finally stills, he doesn’t roll off of you like usual, staying on top of you, feeling you breathe under him. 

He pulls his face back to look at you, and it hits him just how gorgeous you are. He’s too far gone to really notice that that’s usually a thought he has when he wants to fuck someone, not after he already has. 

He pecks your lips then lingers a bit as he plants a kiss on your forehead. You giggle, and he pulls back. “What are you laughing at?” “Nothing, just tickles,” you say easily. His heart flutters. “Oh yeah? What about this?” His hands move to your ribcage, tickling you mercilessly. His weight on top of you keeps you from being able to escape his evil, wandering hands. Not that you are trying all that hard. 

“Stop, Dean, stop!” you laugh, smacking then holding on to his broad shoulders. 

“Okay, okay,” he says as he finally does, still laughing lightly. 

You both just stare at each other as you catch your breaths. Your smiles fade slowly, and when there’s only traces of them left, you realize the mood has melted with them. It’s less playful, heavier somehow. 

Dean’s eyes move down to your lips. You’ve seen him do this many times now, so you don’t know why it catches your attention differently this time. He kisses you. 

As he pulls back, you smile but whisper, “I should probably go. It’s getting kind of late.” 

He looks surprised for a moment then something more somber for a fraction of one before he says, “Yeah, yeah,” with a chuckle as he rolls off of you. 

You can feel his eyes on you as you collect your clothes from around his room then put them on.

“Have you seen my sweatshirt? Sounds windier out there.” “Um, no, I don’t think you were wearing one when you got here. No worries, though, just borrow one of mine.” He gets up and tosses you one. 

“Thanks,” comes out muffled as you slip it on. 

“No problem.” “Alright then.” “Yeah.” Why was this awkward? Saying bye was never awkward with you. “See you later?” “Yeah, sure,” he says with a smile. He hopes it looks easier than it feels.

“I’ll give this back next time,” you say, tugging the sweatshirt. Damn, it looks good on you. He almost wants to tell you to keep it. 

“Yeah, of course, whatever,” he shrugs.

“Cool.” “Cool.”