Balthazar's Stories of TF @balthazarthedjinn - Tumblr Blog

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

For those who would like an easier way to keep up with my writings, here is my AOC page. I do plan on writing more someday, just don’t know when. Thanks for all the support and hope you all enjoy!!

fuckyeahjakeburton

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More Jake Burton (Stu) Posts [ X ]

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#fyjbg #jake burton #stu #JAKEBURTON #stu seancody #seancody #fitness #ifbb #ifbb pro #muscles #gym

mpreggripex

Mpreg Belly Notes #320

mpreggripex

Mpreg Belly Notes #330

slutforglut

Ilya hand-feeding Shane wedding cake in his tux after all their guests have left send post

sesamesesame

“Can you believe now we get to do this forever?” Ilya asks him, looking at him all dreamy in the lantern light. His arm slips around Shane's waist, hand sliding round his hip, his side, no doubt feeling for the bit of belly hidden surreptitiously under his cummerbund. Shane reaches back and undoes the snap, sliding it off so that Ilya’s fingers have free rein. He can believe it— they’ve earned this — but the idea of it still sends an exquisite shiver up his spine. Them, forever. This, forever. Comfort, and understanding, teamwork, love, and whatever’s been happening to his waistline these past few months, which, he figures, is a combination of all of it. Forever. All the evening’s champagne is hot in his face, in his lips; Shane could stay there for eternity when his husband presses him up against the stone pillar backing the cake table, high and at-home on the smell of his cologne, slipping his tongue between Ilya’s teeth.

“I’m hungry,” he says, nose to nose with him, watches his lips curl up at the corners. They’re both well aware of how much Shane had eaten from the dinner buffet, his two and a half plates.

“Just wait until we get home.”

“It’s my wedding night, I’m hungry now.” While they’re still here, next to the leftover cake, the creamy white frosting still perfectly stiff despite the evening’s warmth, lacy chocolate designs stuck to the sides that would crackle on his tongue. Sugar is still a rare treat, and tonight is his wedding night. Blame the champagne, he thinks. Fuck it.

Ilya draws away, looking at him with that glint in his eye. Shane stares back. He’s been thinking about this all night, ever since Ilya fed him that first celebrated bite of cake and everybody clapped.

With a thoughtful hand, Ilya takes a piece of cake from the table beside them, breaks it to bite-size, and brings it to Shane’s mouth. It goes in smooth, soft and sweet, melting a little on his tongue as he chews, swallows— he’d had one of the best orgasms of his life after their cake tasting months ago, full to the point of being almost sick on this cake and a whole lot of strawberry and chocolate and lemon buttercream, which is neither here nor there— melts a little himself when Ilya’s free hand caresses his stomach through his starched shirt. And then Ilya’s other hand is back with more cake. He moans around the mouthful, wanting it in Ilya’s hand and Ilya’s hand at his mouth more than the taste itself, but the taste still fucking good.

“Wait until we’re home,” Ilya says again. Shane swallows, licks sweetness off his bottom lip.

This, forever. ||One Year Later||

“Mm, fuck,” Shane says under his breath as he gets out of the car. Even with his belt in his jacket pocket, he’s so full that it’s hard to breathe.

Ilya stretches, grins. “You sound miserable,” he says, “You should go lay down.”

“It’s your fault,” Shane tells him, taking in as much warm night air as he can muster before they get inside. Ilya’s fault for the tuna carpaccio, the seared scallops, the encouraging him with the crostini and so charitably sacrificing bites from his own plate for Shane’s cause. Ilya’s fault for the fact that Shane has been wearing looser shirts in public as of late, as if they might hide the extra fifty-four pounds sticking to his stomach, thickening his arms, his thighs, the underside of his chin, everywhere.

Shit, he thinks as he lowers himself carefully onto the couch to wait for Ilya to finish whatever the fuck he’s doing in the other room, gazing food-drunk at the round cushion of his gut sitting over the waistband of his pants, trying to fight its way out of the buttons of his shirt. I’m fat.

Two years ago, the thought would have come with panic. Now, it puts a bit of tension in his briefs. He puts a hand on his stomach, testing the softness, the taughtness, the fullness and the give. It jiggles when he squeezes and lets go. And his pecs. Tits. What the hell. Shane Hollander’s gotten fat, and it’s all Rozanov’s fault.

“Happy Anniversary,” Ilya says from the doorway. Shane looks up from ogling his own weight and makes eye contact with the top tier of their wedding cake set on a china plate.

“Oh, fuck no,” he says.

He’d forgotten about the cake, waiting malevolently for him in layers upon layers of plastic in a humble corner of the deep freezer, and he isn’t ready to remember. If he eats any more, he’s going to… — Ilya settles onto the couch beside him, rests the plate on the arm of the couch and his hand on Shane’s stomach. The soothing gentle pressure makes Shane squirm.

“Wow,” Ilya says, giving a slow rub, “We've come so far.” He undoes Shane's shirt buttons and slides his hand in, resting it there with the meat of his thumb cradled by Shane’s widening navel, palm and fingers comfortable on his plush lower belly, while he reaches across Shane and forks off a piece of their wedding cake.

“I’m full,” Shane protests, but opens his mouth, dutifully, gratefully, thrilled. “Mmh,” he says, muffled, “fuck.”

The cake is still cold, but defrosted well; no freezer burn, just vanilla bean and the memory of their wedding night. It's surprisingly agreeable going down, more for the challenge than for his body actually having the room. He's always thrived on competition.

“Still good?” Ilya asks, intently watching him chew. Ilya’s eyes on his throat make Shane feel like some penned, fattened calf, and he doesn’t have a problem with that.

“Really good,” he manages.

“You think you can handle it?”

He nods, more aware than usual of his own softening chin, the meatier feeling of his neck reclining here. Yeah, he can handle it. “… Give it to me,” he says.

He handles it all.

#chubby shane hollander #hollanov #heated rivalry