idea: dean di laurentis being obsessed with his plus size girlfriend
a/n: take advantage of this because writers block normally hit me hard after two one shots. this one was for me 😛
To anyone who didn’t know Dean Di Laurentis, he seemed like a man who skimmed across the surface of life, never diving too deep into anything that didn't involve a hockey puck, a vintage bottle of scotch, or a good time. He was a creature of absolute privilege and devastating charm. He possessed a sharp, aristocratic jawline, eyes the color of a winter sky, and a lazy, dimpled smirk that had spent years acting as a skeleton key to almost any heart on Briar University’s campus.
People had expectations for a guy like Dean especially when it comes to who he’s dating. The campus gossip account expected him to end up with a girl who looked like she survived on nothing — someone who was fine lined, curated, and safely conventional who wouldn’t dare disrupt the aesthetic of a wealthy legacy athlete.
Then you crashed into his orbit, and Dean realized he’d been starving his whole life without even knowing it.
You didn't fit into a neat, predictable box, and you certainly weren't interested in shrinking yourself to fit into anyone else’s expectations. You were a gorgeous, soft, unapologetically curvy woman who moved through life with the kind of magnetic confidence that most people spent a lifetime trying to fake.
When you walked into a room, you didn't look around to see if you belonged; you just assumed the room was lucky to have you. You rocked outfits that hugged every single one of your curves, entirely indifferent to the outdated, arbitrary "rules" of what a plus-size woman was supposed to wear. If a dress showed off your thick thighs or a low-cut top revealed the soft, heavy curve of your breasts, you wore it with your chin held high and a defiance that was utterly intoxicating.
And Dean? Dean was completely, hopelessly brought to his knees by it.
From the very first night he got his hands on you, Dean was entirely addicted. He was a man deeply ruled by tactile pleasures, and you were the ultimate sensory experience.
He didn't want a girl who felt like a collection of sharp angles and fragile bones; he wanted you.
He loved the dramatic dip of your waist and the magnificent, heavy fullness of your hips. He loved the plush, velvety softness of your thighs and the way your body naturally cushioned his whenever he pulled you onto his lap. To Dean, your body wasn't just beautiful; it was a sanctuary of warmth.
Whenever you were together behind closed doors, his large, calloused hockey-player hands were never still. They were always anchoring themselves to you, buried deep into the soft giving wealth of your waist or gripping the backs of your thighs to lift you effortlessly against him. In the quiet, shadowed darkness of his bedroom, his grip would tighten on your hips, a low, possessive growl vibrating deep in his chest.
He didn't just hold you; he claimed you.
"God, you’re perfect," he’d mutter against your skin, his lips tracing the column of your throat while his fingers dug into your curves. He loved that there was something substantial to hold onto, something real and incredibly lush that filled his hands completely.
Every sigh that escaped your lips, every time you arched into his touch with absolute certainty of your own desirability, only drove him further out of his mind. He worshipped the weight of you against him, the absolute solid reality of you, and the beautiful fact that you never tried to hide from him.
But as much as Dean loved your confidence when you were alone, that same confidence out in public did things to his heart rate that his conditioning coach wouldn't approve of.
Because you knew you looked good, you dressed like it and that was where Dean’s fiercely possessive streak came roaring to life.
Dean Di Laurentis was usually the king of cool, but all it took was you stepping out of his bathroom in a tight-fitting skirt that made your ass look utterly lethal, or a top that put your full, jaw-dropping cleavage on display, and his inner caveman took over.
When you wore something that showed off how incredible your breasts were, Dean’s eyes would darken to a stormy, midnight blue. Suddenly, he couldn't keep his hands off you. If you were at a crowded party at the hockey house, his arm wasn't just casually draped around your shoulders; his large hand was splayed flat against your lower back, his fingers tucked firmly into the waistband of your jeans, right where your lower back met the generous, breathtaking curve of your ass.
He became a human shield, guiding you through crowds with his chest pressed against your back, his chin practically resting on your shoulder. If a guy so much as blinked in your direction, Dean’s lazy smirk vanished, replaced by a cold, territorial stare that reminded everyone in the room that he was a six-foot-two athlete who wielded a hockey stick for a living and took/gave multiple punches each game.
He absolutely loved that you were proud of your body, but he was incredibly greedy about it. Whenever your ass looked particularly spectacular in a dress, he’d find excuses to pull you into a dark hallway, pinning your hips against the wall just to get his hands under the fabric. "You’re driving me fucking crazy tonight," he’d growl against your mouth, his large palms gripping the full, soft weight of your cheeks, pulling you flush against him so you could feel exactly what you did to him. He’d leave a biting kiss right on your collarbone, a deliberate, unmissable mark right above your low-cut neckline -
just so everyone else knew exactly who you belonged to before you walked back out into the crowd.
Yet, despite that burning possessive streak, Dean never wanted his jealousy to make you feel restricted. He never wanted to be the guy who told you what you could or couldn't wear. He wanted you to shine, but he also wanted to be the one who got to wrap you up and keep you safe when the party was over.
That was how his secret wardrobe overhaul began.
Dean, who usually wore a perfectly tailored size large to accommodate his broad, muscular athlete’s shoulders, suddenly underwent a massive style shift. On their weekly shopping trips or when ordering custom gear, he began systematically buying extra-large and double-XL hoodies, massive vintage crewnecks, and oversized t-shirts.
His teammates in the Briar locker room noticed immediately. Tucker stared at him like he’d lost his mind, and Garrett openly mocked him, asking if he was trying to bring back early-2000s baggy skater fashion or if he’d suddenly forgotten his own clothing size. Dean would just offer them his trademark, lazy smirk, flip them off, and change the subject.
They didn't need to know the truth. The real reason for the giant clothes was currently sitting on his bed at the beach house, scrolling through her phone.
Dean did it with calculated, fiercely protective intent. He wanted to ensure that the moment you inevitably complained about being chilly and reached into his closet, you would never encounter a shirt that clung too tightly to your stomach, a zipper that wouldn't track over your hips, or a hemline that rode up uncomfortably. He never wanted you to pull on a boyfriend's hoodie only to be met with the silent, suffocating sting of it feeling snug.
Instead, his clothes swallowed you whole. Always.
Whenever you pulled one of his massive, heavy-blend Briar Hockey hoodies over your head, the thick fabric draped over your curves with inches of room to spare. The hemline fell well past your hips, hitting mid-thigh, and the sleeves hung loosely past your knuckles, forcing you to roll them up just to hold your coffee mug.
You just thought he loved the baggy, oversized aesthetic. You’d laugh, teasing him about how he looked like a giant in his clothes, completely oblivious to the real reason.
But Dean knew. From across the room, he’d watch you pad around his kitchen wearing nothing but one of his XXL gray sweatshirts and a pair of wool socks. He’d take in the sight of you—completely relaxed, incredibly cozy, and looking impossibly soft. A deeply satisfied, intensely protective look would settle into his winter-blue eyes.
He’d walk over, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind, his hands sliding under the massive sweatshirt to find the bare, plush skin of your hips. He’d press a kiss to the crown of your head, breathing a silent sigh of relief knowing that in his house, under his watch, you would *never* have a fleeting moment of body doubt. You would never feel anything less than small, utterly cherished, and entirely enveloped in his warmth. You were his queen, and if he had to buy out an entire inventory of oversized fleece just to keep your fiercely beautiful confidence perfectly intact, he’d do it without a second thought.
To the rest of the world, Dean Di Laurentis was the careless, untouchable playboy who had everything handed to him on a silver platter. But to anyone who actually saw him in your presence—who noticed the way his hands constantly anchored to your curves as if he’d float away without them, or the way he practically drowned you in his own clothes just to keep you safe from the world—it was terrifyingly clear.
He didn't just love you. He worshipped the very ground you walked on, and he was entirely devoted to keeping your beautiful, confident light burning as bright as the sun, exactly as you were.
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