I really really like the whole fat frat boy/college student/uni student Hollanov thing we’ve got going on currently and I’d like to share something with the class that I thought of last night to fall asleep. @chubstilinski’s AU mainly inspired me then, but of course @heated4bellies’ too.
So you know like those belly buster/heart attack etc challenges food places sometimes have where an absurd amount is free if you eat it all within the time limit, and then get like, a t-shirt and a picture of you on the wall? One of the diners on their campus offers one such challenge where, if you succeed, you get a t-shirt, a photo of you on the wall, and a month’s worth (31 orders, so basically a meal a day in the span of a month starting the day after the challenge) of free meals for you or a friend of your choosing. And obviously Ilya Rozanov (hockey player huge, musclechub with an extra side of chub) decides to try the challenge after an exhausting game and somehow manages to clear the entire fucking platter within the allotted hour with Marly and Bood cheering him on.
He’s so full at the end of it that he can’t even look at a slice of toast the same way anymore, so after he has his picture taken and tugs on the stupid t-shirt, he kind of doesn’t want anything to do with the free meals card. Which means that he gifts it to whomever he thinks deserves it most. That person being, of course, his teammate and former rival Shane Hollander—the very one who’s on indefinite injury reserve because he fucked up his knee possibly beyond repair at the start of the year, ruined his chances of making it to the NHL, and has been partying and eating his feelings about it away.
It’s been a mesmerizing metamorphosis to Ilya, who’s been following Hollander since he still took a future in the NHL seriously and jerked off to the power of Hollander’s backhand on more than one occasion. Watching Hollander slowly balloon from a lean and eating clean athlete into the chubby, pot-bellied ex-jock with a preference for beers and a burger over the last few months has been confusingly arousing. Hollander genuinely just doesn’t say no to food or a drink anymore: he eats, parties, eats some more until he’s stuffed, and goes back to his dorm to sleep it off. He can put away a six pack of beer in thirty minutes and a large pizza in less than twenty—his personal record is ten. If anyone would make good use of the gift card for hulking plates of free, greasy diner food, it’s Hollander.
“Here,” Ilya says, when he finally spots Hollander at a party that night and thrusts the card in his direction. “Free food. For you.”
Hollander accepts the card as mindlessly as accepting a beer and then stares a little dumbly at the shiny plastic. He’s clearly a little drunk, predictably bloated with carbonation, round belly straining in his tank top and skin-tight jeans compressing his sides into plump little love handles. Ilya, wisely, as he’s still full, has been nursing a cup of lukewarm white wine because he’s pretty sure carbonation will make him barf, but Hollander clearly had no such qualms tonight. As per usual.
“Free…” Hollander starts, but stops to muffle a burp in his shoulder. “What?”
“Finished the challenge at Kelly’s,” Ilya says, giving his own plush stomach a few pats. “But I get free meals in the food court anyway, so…”
He trails off and shrugs. Hollander lost the free meal tickets privilege two weeks ago, what with his injury—Pike had very sadly announced it in the locker room, and Hazy actually teared up at the idea a little—which means one free meal a day at Kelly’s Diner ought to be a dream for him. And Ilya’s in luck: Hollander’s face softens when he looks down at the card, soft jaw folding into his burgeoning double chin.
“So you’re giving it to me?”
Hollander’s eyes are fucking huge and wet and his mouth is swollen and damp, like he’s been kissed. His backwards hat sits a little askew. His tank has ridden up a little without him moving his body, because his belly’s a bit too big for it, sinking over his belt. The rush of arousal Ilya feels when looking at Hollander isn’t new or shocking, but the wave of fondness and the desire to straighten his cap and tug down his top is embarrassing as hell.
“Is free food, Hollander,” Ilya snaps, as his face flushes. “Just take it.”
Hollander bites his lip, then smiles sweetly, chubby cheeks bunching. “Thanks, Rozanov. I really ‘preciate it.”
“Sure,” Ilya says. He clears his throat and takes a fortifying gulp of his drink so doesn’t do something ridiculous, like press Hollander against the wall, nibble on the fat gathered beneath Hollanders jaw, take greedy handfuls of his round, chubby belly. “Whatever. Just make sure to use it every day so it doesn’t go to waste, yes?”
“I will,” Hollander says. He nods rapidly. “Okay.”
“Okay,” Ilya echoes, and then he pastes on a smirk. “Want another beer then? You can use your first free meal as a hangover cure, yes?”
Hollander snorts, still smiling, and lifts his cup to his face. Tilts it back in tandem with his head. Chugs, the hand holding the card resting on his bloated belly, then belches when he finishes.
“Yeah,” he says, a little breathless. He discards the cup, eases his wallet out of the tight confines of his back pocket, and carefully tucks the card in the free space between his driver’s license and credit card. “Good plan, Rozanov.”
He clumsily slides his wallet back into his pocket and stumbles forward, allowing Ilya to rest a hand on the middle of his back. His skin’s warm, a little bit damp with sweat, and Ilya wants to fucking lick him.
Hollander leans into him a bit, shoulder brushing against Ilya’s, a solid line of heat against Ilya’s side, then burps into his fist and pats the round crest of his gut. His lower belly jiggles and Ilya bites down on his cheek so hard he tastes copper.
“Lead the way, Rozy,” Hollander says, voice low and bro-y. “I’ve got nothing better to do than drink tonight.”
Ilya does. He gets Hollander cups of beer and feeds him shots and spends the night watching him drink to excess, belly bloating further and further, then takes him to Kelly’s at three in the morning and buys him a big, greasy burger to soak up all the alcohol. Hollander eats all of it, nearly licks the plate clean, heavy-lidded and sloppy with intoxication. He suggests in a drunken slur that Ilya can use the card for his own meal.
“No,” Ilya says. “That’s for your hangover. This is me making sure you’re fed before you pass out.”
Hollander grins at him crookedly. His mouth is greasy and there’s ketchup on the corner of his mouth and Ilya wants to lean over the table of the booth and suck Hollander’s tongue into his mouth.
He doesn’t. He orders a banana milkshake for Hollander and asks for another refill of coke for himself, and watches intently as Hollander drunkenly suckles on the straw, rubs his belly, and burps politely into his fist.
He walks Hollander back to the dorm. The bulk of his little gut is hanging out of his tank top, round and jiggly, but the food has sobered him up enough that he isn’t swaying. And Hollander gives him a hug, when they get to the Hollander’s floor.
It’s a tight one, both arms around Ilya’s neck and his nose against Ilya’s jaw and his belly against Ilya’s own, and Ilya gets to hug him back and squeeze him like he isn’t feeling the love handles under his fingers. He wants to follow Hollander inside and curl around him and massage his stuffed belly and bad knee and—
He goes back to his own dorm. As he crawls into bed, he imagines Hollander eating his hangover away with a free meal Ilya provided, fat little belly popping out of a tight top and moaning with every bite, and he comes so hard his spend nearly hits him in the fucking eye.
thinking about fat wag ilya again … specifically shane being so ridiculously turned on by ilya gaining weight as a direct result of shane taking care of him 😭 i can imagine they’re fucking, shane is riding ilya nasty and ilya groans from his overstuffed belly and the feeling of shane bouncing on his cock, he feels so good he says something along the lines of my husband takes such good care of me and shane almost cums immediately to the point where he’s begging ilya to say it again to tell him that he takes good care of him, that his care made ilya fat, that when everyone sees ilya now they know he is well taken care of. shane just loves to idea of taking care of his man and providing for him, and now that shane is still playing and his man gets to be a fat househusband it’s just intensified so much more 😭😁
Thinking about Shane and Ilya coming up with feeder free use instead of sexual free use. Shane's started putting on some weight after retirement and he's been working on self-love and self-acceptance and he knows deep down that he really does love being big and getting bigger. He loves eating bigger portions, feeling his clothes get snugger, watching his body get softer all over.
But there are still some days where Shane feels self conscious, feels like he's doing something wrong, where comments about his body hit all the sore spots he's been trying so hard to overcome. Those are the days where he finds himself shying away from food, finds himself in the gym longer than he normally would go, finds himself covering up with sweatshirts and baggy sweatpants.
Ilya notices, obviously, so they come up with a plan. Shane can usually tell when he's going to have a bad day right when he wakes up, so they agree that Shane will tell Ilya immediately and it will become one of their feeder free use days. Everything that Shane eats is up to Ilya; as much as Ilya wants to feed him, whenever Ilya wants to feed him, for however long Ilya wants to feed him.
After the first few times they engage in feeder free use days, Shane finds himself looking forward to them. He loves the way his brain shuts off when Ilya is making all the decisions. Shane doesn't have to think about anything except eating the food that Ilya puts in front of him or hand feeds him in bed. He doesn't have to think about what he should or shouldn't be eating, because if Ilya is giving it to him, that means it's what he should be eating.
These days have helped Shane put more than a few additional pounds on, especially after they start becoming more common in their routine, and he absolutely fucking loves it. He loves waking up and passing over control to Ilya. He loves mindlessly stuffing food into his mouth all day until he's hiccuping and burping on the couch, rubbing his stuffed belly, begging Ilya to feed him more.
Chapters: ½
Fandom: Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov
Characters: Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov
Additional Tags: Weight Gain, Chubby Shane Hollander, Fat Shane Hollander, Belly Kink, Stuffing, Wank and Tell | Creator is Open to Comments about Masturbating to This Work
Series: Part 3 of tumblr cross posts
Summary:
Shane gets seriously injured and has to sit out an entire season of hockey. His weight…escalates.
Chapters: ½
Fandom: Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov
Characters: Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov
Additional Tags: Weight Gain, Chubby Shane Hollander, Fat Shane Hollander, Feeder Ilya Rozanov, Power Exchange, Shane gives control of his eating to Ilya, Retired Hockey Player Shane Hollander, public stuffing, Belly Kink, Stuffing, Feeding Kink, Wank and Tell | Creator is Open to Comments about Masturbating to This Work
Series: Part 2 of tumblr cross posts
Summary:
Retired Shane who has every intention of going off his diet and relaxing and loosening up all his tight restrictions, but 6 months into retirement he just hasn’t been able to fully let go. So he goes to Ilya, and they come up with a plan - put Ilya in control of Shane’s eating.
loving the idea of shane getting fat from nutrient-dense but calorie-rich foods… he’s happily eating huge amounts of delicious dry-roasted almonds and creamy avocados and sweet fruits and thick coconut cream, and his body soon grows as plump as his favorite ripened plums, all of those healthy fats rounding out his tummy and hips and thighs with a thick cushiony padding that jiggles when he walks, his hair shiny and skin glowing, always a slight pink to his cheeks that deepens whenever ilya stops him in the hallway to worship his radiantly plump frame (which of course is near constant…)
Because I thought it needed more bodyyyyy but didn’t know how to continue it but this is exactly the thing. This is everything to me. So much vitality he’s overflowing. Fuck yeah
Shane who was chubby as a kid/teen and then work hard to lose the weight and that’s one of the reasons he is to strict about his diet, because he is afraid to gain the weight back, but he secret loves to watch Ilya eating all the types of food he forbid himself to eat, and he loves to see how much weight Ilya is gaining (maybe because gives him a sense of control, and is good to see that Ilya doesn’t care about control) and he even make some fat shaming jokes on Ilya to hide that he is into how soft Ilya body is right now, he loves to feels Ilya weight over him and to cuddle , and he can’t help it, he ends up rubbing Ilya’s belly and he feels so embarrassed because now Ilya is going to know for sure that Shane is into it
Ohh I love this, Shane's dark little secret is how obsessed he is with Ilya's loss of control, the proof that he's right to be afraid of eating these things because look at what's happening right in front of him? Every fat person knows that ex-fatties can be the cruelest, and this Shane definitely has an edge of that. He's so afraid of how much he likes Ilya's softer body, afraid that he's sacrificed so much in his life for no reason because Ilya seems perfectly happy like this.
Ilya shouldn't let him touch him, in Shane's opinion, after some of the things that he's said. Ilya would be totally right to tell Shane to fuck off, to stop running hot and cold like this, but from the moment Shane's trembling hand hit his belly, Ilya's just been reclined in the bed like a big lazy cat.
"I just...want to feel for myself how bad it's gotten," Shane says, voice husky and obviously aroused.
Ilya, who has been waiting for Shane to stop beating around the bush for a week, keeps watching him through heavy lidded eyes. "You feel as much as you like, Hollander."
shane really loves when he’s on top and he’s slowly grinding and really feeling himself and getting lost in the sensation of being full and he opens his eyes to look down at ilya and ilya has his hands behind his head with his big biceps just budging out each side of his head and his armpit hair on full display and his pupils are blown wide and he’s slightly opened mouthed with a small smile on his lips watching shane’s face and just taking in how much shane is enjoying having his cock inside him.
okkkkk given how much i love an “ilya decides” d/s feeding set up, here is the vision that won’t leave my brain
At the cottage, Shane is reclining on a deckchair in the afternoon sun, dozing behind his sunglasses, happy and sated after an enormous lunch that Ilya made a few hours ago, when he feels his husband’s hands squeezing his shoulders, then running across his chest, down to rest on the curve of his stomach. Ilya makes a thoughtful noise.
“Yes,” he says. “I will get you a snack.”
“Ilya,” Shane says. “I’m still full from lunch.”
“No,” Ilya says. “You have room. I can feel it.”
Ilya pats Shane’s plump, round tummy at the top where it’s firmest - Shane really did eat an awful lot, plate after plate of chicken skewers Ilya had grilled on the barbecue, served with a side of home-made sweet potato wedges. But it’s like as soon as Ilya says it, Shane’s body responds, not with hunger exactly - but he wants to eat, he trusts Ilya to know what he needs.
So Ilya brings out something nice and filling like a big bowl of trail mix, and feeds it to Shane by hand until he’s as well-stuffed as he was when their last meal finished, and Ilya rubs his swollen belly, pleased with how it feels, and says, “There. Nice and full, malysh.”
And I like to think this continues to be their vibe for the whole summer as Ilya keeps Shane’s tummy as full as possible at all times and will sometimes randomly come over and poke it or squeeze it or tell Shane to lift up his shirt so Ilya can see whether or not he needs to eat, and Shane’s so happy and well-fed and well-cared for with nothing to do but lounge around and let his husband keep his growing belly topped up with food all day 🥰🥰🥰
Thinking about chubby Shane who actually ends up losing weight when he’s with Rose, because he’s made himself so fucking miserable and he misses Ilya so bad and he doesn’t know how to get out of this mess he’s gotten himself into.
(There is a lot of negative self-talk and internalized fatphobia from Shane in the beginning of this, as well as people being fatphobic when commenting on his weight loss, just wanted to give a warning. But I promise, very happy ending and weight gain!!).
Chubby Shane whose weight usually sits around 240 during the season, usually only dropping down to 230 by the time the season ends, sweating some of it off during playoffs, but gains it back way too easily (and then some) during the off season.
Chubby Shane whose weight, for the first time in his life probably, is on a downward trend since he started dating Rose. It’s usually the opposite, right? Happy relationship weight. But he’s not happy. In fact, he’s so fucking miserable that he feels sick to his stomach most days. He knows he’s eating less than he should, less than is ideal for a professional athlete, but he feels nauseous all the time, and he just can’t do it, he can’t stomach food while he feels like his whole world is collapsing. He knows Rose knows that something is deeply wrong, but he can barely admit it to himself, let alone the woman he’s in a fucking relationship with.
Chubby Shane who has dropped almost 20 pounds since he started dating Rose, officially the lowest weight he’s been in years, with no sign of it going back up any time soon. He’s miserable and he’s hollow and he’s empty without Ilya so it’s only fitting that his body reflects that. Maybe if his body shrinks enough the Ilya-shaped hole in his heart will shrink too.
Chubby Shane who is being told for the first time by his teammates his friends his fucking parents that he looks good. That Rose is so good for him, doesn’t he feel good now that he’s not so big? You must feel great, Shane, best shape of your life! And all Shane wants to do is scream and cry and rip himself into tiny little pieces because is that all everyone sees? They think he’s happy? They can’t see that he’s fucking dying? This isn’t the body of a man filled with love; it’s the body of a man filled with regret and pain and hopelessness with no way out.
Chubby Shane who never really had a problem with his body, it was everyone else that did, he actually kind of fucking loved it. He loved feeling soft all over and he likes his chubby belly and thick thighs and curvy ass. But now. Now everyone is complimenting him. Now everyone is commenting on how healthy he is. How disciplined. Implying that what, he was unhealthy before? Lazy? Undisciplined? A fat piece of shit? Is that what everyone really thinks about him, they just never said it because he's still Shane fucking Hollander?
Ilya though, Ilya had complimented him before. Had told him more than once how much he enjoyed all of Shane’s curves, nipping at his slight double chin, his hands constantly roaming Shane’s belly. Ilya seemed to actually really like Shane’s body how it was, and he seemed to be the only one that truly did. Shane never fully realized how much that meant to him until he didn’t have it anymore. Until all he had was people telling him how happy he should be that he’s finally been able to lose weight; isn’t this what you always wanted Shane? No, actually, it fucking wasn’t. He liked his body, he felt right in his body, and had thought more than once that he might feel even more right in his body if he was bigger. And with Ilya, Shane felt like that would be okay, that would be allowed. Ilya wouldn’t be telling Shane what he should or shouldn’t do. Ilya wouldn’t be telling Shane that he needs to make sure his “weight problem” doesn’t get any worse. Ilya would never let Shane think that his body, his real body his chubby body his fat body, was anything less than perfect.
But Shane had walked out. He’d gotten scared and he’d ran. So maybe this is what he deserves. He doesn’t get to keep the softness, the comfort, the safety of his body. He doesn’t get to feel at home in his body anymore. He gets to deal with a longing and an ache that will never be filled because it can only be filled by Ilya, as he watches his body turn into something he doesn’t recognize, something he feels completely disconnected from. He barely eats nowadays, just using food for fuel and nothing else. Why should he eat anymore? Everyone likes him better this way, so he should just keep at it, right? Stop being a lazy gross fat ass, like everyone seems to think he is without ever really saying it, and just lose more weight until he fucking disappears, right?
When his relationship with Rose ends, when they have The Conversation, when he finally fucking admits to himself that he’s gay and he just wants Ilya, he expects to feel a huge sense of relief, and he does, but he still feels so fucking lost. The way he feels about himself, about his body, about how he wants to look and feel – everything just feels wrong and he doesn’t know how to find his way back. He finds himself questioning everything – would Ilya even want to be with him again? Would he like Shane better this way? Would he realize that he didn’t have to put up with Shane’s body the way it was before – lazy, soft, chubby – everything he shouldn’t be? He still feels empty most of the time, turning away from food because he just can’t stomach it. Can’t stomach the potential of being told by the one person who seemed to like Shane, all of Shane, that he was better this way. That Ilya would have him back, but only if Shane stayed disciplined, only if Shane stayed smaller, stayed sharper. He would do it; for Ilya he would do anything, but he knows a big part of him will die if he does.
When All-Stars arrives and he finally gets the chance to see Ilya again, to talk to Ilya again, he’s so nervous he feels like he’s going to vibrate out of his skin. He’s missed Ilya so fucking much and he wants to tell him everything, but he’s so scared; so scared that Ilya will reject him, turn away from him. But he can’t stand being away from him for one more second, so he bites the bullet and goes up to him at the bar, ordering a beer and finally starting a conversation. He feels like he’s talking to himself, with Ilya’s lackluster responses, until there’s a pause and Ilya says, while giving him a once over, “you’re looking very different, Hollander.”
Shane’s whole body freezes and he turns his head away from Ilya. Different. Different. Different could mean anything. Better? Healthier? Sexier? He can barely breathe. “Uh, yeah, just, making some changes,” Shane stutters out, avoiding eye contact and glancing down at the beer in his hands. He sees Ilya finish his beer out of the corner of his eye and move to stand up. “A shame,” Ilya says, “I’ve never been very fond of change.” And then he’s gone, socializing around the room with the other players, leaving Shane speechless. Never been very fond of change? That was…good, right? That meant he liked Shane…before all the changes, right? Shane’s trying not to get his hopes up, but he can’t help the small smile that forms on his face. He takes a breath; maybe Ilya still wants this, still wants him after all.
By the time he’s undressing in front of Ilya he’s almost forgotten that he looks…different, as Ilya put it. He’s feeling more hopeful than he has in months, and so happy to just be here with Ilya, that he is a bit taken aback by the way Ilya’s gaze sharpens onto him once he’s naked. At first, he thinks it’s just lust, but when he takes a longer look, he realizes that Ilya looks concerned, and almost sad, maybe? “What’s wrong?” Shane asks, wrapping his arms around himself protectively, feeling vulnerable and exposed. “You don’t think I look better like this? Everyone else seems to,” he says bitterly, looking away from Ilya.
“No,” Ilya whispers, stepping closer to Shane and maneuvering his face so they’re making eye contact, “not better. Where did my beautiful chubby boy go? You – you did this for Rose? It’s what she wanted?” He seems confused, like he doesn’t understand why Rose would have wanted this.
“It just kind of happened, I guess,” Shane whispers back, “I missed you so much, everything felt bad all the time, I couldn’t stomach anything, so I just kind of stopped. It felt like penance, what I deserved after walking out on you.” He sees Ilya shaking his head, but he keeps going, “and then everyone started telling me how much better I looked now, how I was healthy now, and it just spiraled from there. Made me feel gross, disgusting, worthless, and I didn’t know what you would think or if you would even still want me or if you felt that way too, like I was nothing before and now I’m worth something.” Ilya cuts him off with a kiss, freezing him in place momentarily, before he’s kissing him back, hard.
Ilya pulls back from the kiss and pulls Shane down onto the bed with him, Shane straddling his lap and arms wrapped around each other. “You are worth everything, Shane, you always have been. I don’t care what anyone else says or thinks. Your body is your own, and you deserve to feel comfortable in it, no matter what.”
Shane feels tears pooling in his eyes, but he doesn’t let them fall, just leans forward to drop his head to Ilya’s shoulder, squeezing him in a tight hug. “Thank you,” he whispers. They hold each other in companionable silence for a few minutes until Ilya pulls back. “Okay, time to feed you,” he says, nodding to himself and moving Shane off him and onto the bed, reaching for the phone.
“Uh, what?” Shane says, confused as fuck, “we don’t have to –”
“We do, actually,” Ilya insists with a grin, “we really do.”
And so, they do.
Ilya orders more food than Shane anticipates; he hasn’t eaten this much food in months, but God, he’s already craving it, stomach growling and want pooling in his stomach just like it used to around food. He’s excited. He’s hungry. And he wants to fucking eat. He wants Ilya to feed him. Apparently, Ilya wants that too because he’s pushing Shane against the backboard and straddling him with a plate of food in his hands and two more on the bed next to them. He gives Shane a questioning look and Shane nods incredibly enthusiastically, “please,” he begs. He wants Ilya to feed him so badly, he wants to feel whole again. They’ve never done this before, but Shane’s never wanted anything more. He wants to feel Ilya filling him up, stuffing him full, first with food and then hopefully his dick. Full of Ilya in every way possible. He’s getting so incredibly turned on, dick becoming harder with every bite of food Ilya pushes into his mouth. He makes it through plates one and two with ease but starts slowing down at plate 3. It’s been a while since he’s eaten more than the bare minimum and his capacity is nowhere near what it used to be. He starts taking deeper breaths in between bites, Ilya giving him short breaks.
“You’re doing so good,” Ilya says, stroking a hand up and down his bloated belly, “you look so beautiful like this Shane, so bloated and heavy, my beautiful chubby boy.”
Shane preens under the praise, encouraging Ilya to speed up his feeding pace. He’s so fucking hard and he wants to finish this plate of food and fuck Ilya and then maybe - no definitely - eat even more food.
Ilya’s fucking him hard from behind, hands all over Shane’s bloated belly, Shane practically face first into the pillows, moaning so loud he’s sure the entire hotel can hear him, but he could care less. He’s so fucking full, finally he’s fucking full, and God he’d forgotten how good it feels, how right it feels, to be so stuffed like this; he doesn’t want to feel anything else ever again. Ilya flips them over so Shane’s riding him, and Shane can feel his belly jiggle just the slightest, Ilya’s hands on his waist, pulling him down into a heated kiss. Shane imagines an even bigger belly in between them, Ilya jiggling his fat, telling him how beautiful he looks, so big just for him, and he’s coming before he knows it with a loud moan, Ilya following right behind him.
Ilya’s wiping Shane down with a washcloth when he looks up at him and asks if there’s any more food. Shane swears Ilya’s pupils are twice the size they should be as he nods his head eagerly and goes to grab two more plates of food. “I don’t know if I have room for both,” he says, looking at the chicken Caesar wrap and massive slice of chocolate cake in front of him.
“I think you do big boy,” Ilya says, “but I will motivate you anyway.” He places the wrap in Shane’s hands as he maneuvers himself down the bed, nestling himself in between Shane’s legs. He wraps a hand around Shane’s dick and leans down to lightly put his mouth over the tip, tongue flicking out quickly. “The faster you eat, the faster you get to come.” He smiles as he hears Shane moan and hurriedly get to work on the wrap. His dick hardens fast in Ilya’s mouth and he’s groaning in between massive bites of food.
He doesn’t know if he’s even hungry anymore, but it feels so fucking good to just eat and eat and not think about anything else, just shoving food in his mouth and Ilya’s mouth on his dick. He’s finished with the wrap faster than he expected and quickly grabs the plate with the cake. Ilya moans around his dick as he watches Shane start devouring the slice with his bare hands. Fuck Shane looks so good like this, belly bloating even more, chocolate smeared around his face, eyes rolled back in pleasure from the food and Ilya’s mouth. He’s shoving the final bites of cake into his mouth, licking the frosting off his fingers, and feeling his orgasm get closer and closer, when suddenly Ilya is reaching up with both hands, groping and jiggling his bloated belly and Shane is coming so fast and so hard his vision whites out.
They’re lying next to each other on the bed when Ilya starts talking. “That was,” he starts, then pauses, seemingly gathering his words. “You were okay with that? You wanted to do that?” He seems nervous and Shane isn’t really sure why – he thought it was pretty obvious that he was beyond into stuffing himself for Ilya.
“Yes,” he says nodding enthusiastically, “I’m more than okay with that. That was – the best feeling I’ve had in a long time.” Now Shane’s feeling nervous, did Ilya not like it? Did they go too far? “It was…good for you too?” He asks, avoiding eye contact with Ilya, scared of what he might see.
But then he has a lap full of Ilya, who’s suddenly gently grabbing Shane’s facing and forcing eye contact. “Shane, yes, it was amazing for me, it – I have been dreaming about it. I only ask because of the things you were saying earlier. About people saying you look better now, maybe you feel that way too. I do not think this is what you want, but it is your body and I want you to be happy with it.”
Shane nods, understanding Ilya’s concerns. He has been all sorts of fucked up about his body lately. But being here with Ilya, letting go for the first time in months, feeling so wanted by Ilya no matter what he looks like, he feels something inside of him slot back into place, and that Ilya shaped hole he’s been trying to fill has shrunk considerably.
“I’ve been…struggling. With how I look, the way people seem to think better of me now. But I hate it. I love being soft, curvy, big. I love food and I love eating. I want my body back, the body I love. Maybe bigger, I don’t know, not too much with hockey obviously but I’ve thought about it, for the future, what it would be like.” He can feel himself start rambling, so he cuts himself off abruptly, scared that he’s said too much. But when he looks back into Ilya’s eyes, all he sees is desire; pure unadulterated lust and desire. “Yes,” Ilya says breathlessly, “I think about that too.” And then they’re kissing again, and all Shane can think is more, more, more.
Having to leave Ilya after All-Stars ends is one of the worst feelings Shane’s had, but he feels better knowing that they’re something. They haven’t exactly labelled it, and Shane doesn’t feel the need to, but it’s good to know that they’re both admitting to this being more than just casual. Shane feels like a weight has been lifted off him and feels more hopeful than he has in a while. And, even better, his appetite has come roaring back. He’s settled, he’s happy, and he’s eating.
As the season continues, they’re talking every day, Ilya wanting details about what Shane’s eating, how much, how often, and Shane is more than happy to provide them. He loves sharing this with Ilya, loves knowing that it’s as much for him as it is for Ilya, that it’s something they both enjoy. He loves hearing Ilya’s reactions when Shane tells him about stuffing himself full of leftovers one night after getting a little buzzed with his team after a win. He loves facetiming with Ilya during dinner, always making more than enough for seconds and thirds, and waiting for Ilya to encourage him to get more, eat more sweetheart, be a good boy for me and get yourself another plate. He loves the way his brain gets quiet and fuzzy when he’s stuffing himself and Ilya is telling him what a good job he’s done.
As the months go by and they start approaching playoffs, Shane can feel his body filling out the way it used to. His ass has plumped up, his belly has started pushing against his shirts even when he’s not stuffed, and his thighs have definitely gotten meatier. Shane can’t help but smile, looking at himself naked in the mirror; yes, this is what feels right, this is how he’s meant to be. He’s definitely pushing 250 now, he thinks, higher than he typically gets during the season, but he has no regrets about it. He knows people have noticed the weight coming back on, a few people making some comments here and there, but he doesn’t care. He loves his body, Ilya loves his body, and that’s all there is to it. He knows he’ll probably end up losing some softness during playoffs, as he usually does, but he has plans to rectify that as soon as the season’s over.
Except, Shane doesn’t make it to the playoffs. The first night he was going to see Ilya in months, they had plans, beautiful stuffing plans, and now he’s in the hospital and his season is over and he doesn’t even get to spend any time with Ilya. He briefly sees him at the hospital, but he barely remembers it, except for asking Ilya to come stay at his cottage, (he knows maybe means no), and then he’s at his parents’ place for the remainder of the playoffs.
He’s frustrated and sad and lonely, but this time he’s turning towards food instead of away from it. He wants to feel closer to Ilya, so he keeps stuffing himself, typically at night away from the prying and somewhat concerned eyes of his parents, who have definitely absolutely noticed he’s put back on all the weight he lost, and a few extra pounds on top of it. But it’s his off season and Ilya is in a different fucking country, so, he’s going to eat whatever the fuck he wants. He’s eating pints of ice cream in bed at night, imagining Ilya caressing his belly, telling him how beautiful he looks when he’s stuffed, encouraging him to eat more, take another bite baby, fill yourself up for me. He gets himself off fantasizing about Ilya stuffing him until he can’t even move, moaning and burping from being so full, so greedy, so swollen with food.
By the time Ilya tells him he’s coming to the cottage, Shane’s weight has tipped over 250 and is fast approaching 260. When he picks Ilya up from the airport, he sees Ilya’s gaze scanning over his entire body, noticing every detail; the roundness of his face and softness under his chin, the way his shirt is much tighter than normal, stretching over his full stomach, his thighs straining against the shorts he’s wearing. He hears Ilya gasp softly as he fully takes Shane in and realizes he’s never seen Shane this heavy before. Ilya ends up holding Shane’s hand in his for the duration of the drive because if he doesn’t, he’s going to spend it caressing Shane’s tummy and that would probably end up being…distracting.
Ilya doesn’t say anything until he’s straddling Shane on the bed, staring down at his body, gaze filled with wonder and lust, hands roaming over every extra inch of him. “Shane,” he breathes out, groping and jiggling Shane’s tummy, leaning down to softy nip at the bottom of it, “sweetheart you are so soft, so beautiful.” He gets Shane’s shirt over his head and kisses his way down from Shane’s soft chin to his plush chest and then his jiggly tummy. “Wow, my good boy, look how big you have gotten for me, you just couldn’t get enough, could you?”
Shane’s squirming underneath Ilya’s touch, his words going directly to Shane’s dick, hardening him up in no time at all. “Yes,” he says, writhing beneath Ilya’s gaze, “I couldn’t stop, just wanted to be full all the time, stuffed for you just like you wanted.” He jerks his hips up, searching for any friction at all, while pulling Ilya down at the same time into a heated kiss.
Ilya breaks the kiss and takes Shane’s face in his hands, “this is everything I wanted, you did so good for me my love, and we’ll keep you full every day if you want.” Shane audibly moans, wanting nothing more than that, to be stuffed full constantly, bloated with food that Ilya feeds him. He’s so greedy for more; more food, more Ilya, more fat, and he knows Ilya will give him everything he wants.
Ilya flips their positions, getting Shane prepped to ride him, and stares in awe at the way every part of Shane bounces and jiggles now. He loves the way Shane’s face gets flushed, his breathing getting heavier the longer they go. He loves feeling Shane’s belly push into his when Shane leans down to kiss him. Shane looks ethereal; curvy and plush and soft and so goddamn beautiful. He can’t imagine Shane looking any other way, he only wants to imagine him bigger, softer, happier. Ilya is so overcome with gratitude that he gets to be with Shane like this, see him like this, love him like this. He comes with thoughts of feeding Shane running through his brain, watching his belly grow bigger with each passing day.
His two weeks at the cottage end up turning into four weeks; neither of them wanting this to end. It’s the most time they’ve ever spent together, and they are reluctant to leave their bubble and go back to the real world. Ilya spends almost every day feeding Shane; once he’s started, he just can’t get enough. The beautiful noises Shane makes when he’s starting to get full, the groans and belches he tries to hide but Ilya won’t let him. He loves every part of Shane, and he wants to experience it all. Shane ends most days a bloated, burping mess on the couch, or the bed, begging Ilya for belly rubs. It’s the sexiest thing Ilya’s ever seen.
One of the last nights Ilya’s there, Shane ends up eating an entire casserole dish of lasagna, plus two pints of ice cream. Ilya feeds Shane the second pint, after he told Ilya that he was getting too full and wasn’t sure if he could finish it. Ilya melted it down in the microwave a bit and then poured most of it down Shane’s throat, watching his belly bloat up even more. And now Shane’s underneath him, moaning so loud, telling Ilya he’s so full, so stuffed, breathing heavily and burping loudly. Ilya runs his hands over Shane’s bloated belly, feeling it jiggle with every touch, and tells Shane he’s perfect; such a perfect greedy boy Shane, that’s my beautiful chubby boy, eating everything in sight for me. Ilya barely has to touch Shane’s dick before Shane is coming all over the bottom of his stomach, moaning from pleasure and fullness.
They weigh Shane the morning of Ilya’s last day at the cottage, both of them desperate to know how big Shane’s gotten over the past month. They both know he has to start getting his weight back down a bit for hockey soon, but they’re going to relish in what Shane’s body is now for as long as possible.
“What were you the last time you checked?” Ilya asks, as Shane steps onto the scale.
“I checked the day you got here; I was 257,” Shane replies, watching the numbers tick up until they settle. “Wow,” he says, a little stunned at the number.
Ilya comes up behind him, wrapping his arms around his chubby waist and squeezing his belly. “270 pounds, my greedy boy, you’ve outdone yourself. How do you feel?”
Shane steps off the scale and turns around in Ilya’s arms, pressing their bodies together, feeling his fat stomach press up against Ilya’s abs. He pulls him into a searing kiss and answers him easily, “hungry.”
went back and read all of your greedy Shane fics today, they are exquisite. also you have such a way with words... I literally can't stop thinking the phrase "constantly topped up" 🥵 it's just so indulgent
anyway... wondering if you have any thoughts lately on him whining for more food... he's full but something tastes/smells really good, and he wants it, Ilya, please, he needs it... 🥺 (-@chaiwg)
Oh boy, @chaiwg, do I… I think about this a lot. Like, nightly, and also during the day. And I want to write about it but get distracted and… well. And then all the ideas I do manage to write down don’t fit the prompt exactly so now I’ve got a bunch of fat stuffed Shane’s floating around in my documents. This is obviously not a bad thing, mind, but they’re all unfinished. So.
A good few of the variants of the #MyShane who floats around in my brain (the ones from parallel universes that have one shared point of origin) have really enjoyed sinking into being lazy. A key component of Shane Hollander in general is that he isn’t lazy of course, but imo that’s because he doesn’t feel like he has the time to be. So what happens is that he starts making time to laze about and do little else but eat and read a book and have naps. Accidentally napping on the couch in the afternoon when he’s so full he’s all sleepy easily becomes one of his favorite activities (save for like, having sex with Ilya and analyzing hockey plays and being fed by hand while he rubs his belly), and he likes to spend a lot of his days off doing just that: stuffed and reclined on the couch, neck at an odd angle, book on his chest and ample belly spilling out of his shirt. Ilya always removes his glasses before Shane even starts to snore.
This inevitably results in them being like, okay, why not do this for multiple days in a row. Just a small handful of days where all Shane needs to do is to be overfull all the time and take naps and maybe make a decent dent in the mountain of books of varying topics he’s been collecting over the years. They don’t do it too often but at least twice a year, Shane and Ilya take two or three days just cramming a ton of delicious, homemade food and indulgent snacks into Shane whenever he’s got some space—like, wake up in the middle of the night to keep him topped up, kind of cramming.
They’re on the final hours of day three this time. It’s not their record, that’s when they got to three and a half days the year prior, but they’re running out of ingredients and Ilya doesn’t fancy leaving Shane alone with nothing to snack on but a jar of peanut butter and a box of crackers from ‘23 just so he can rush to the store.
So, the final stretch. Shane’s so full his brain’s full of cotton candy and television static, not really registering anything but Ilya and food and his stuffed, digesting belly. There was a moment of lucidity earlier, when he woke up from his food coma and waddled to the couch, but that’s gone now: all he has to do is open his mouth, chew, and swallow, and endure a belly rub later, and Shane’s always all too happy to drift back to that pleasant, floaty headspace that comes with doing what he’s been told.
The food is sweet and tart now. Some kind of pie with fruit, if his tongue can be trusted, with that fatty coating of lard in the crust and whipped cream on top. Shane doesn’t know what kind of pie it is—Ilya probably told him, but Shane was too preoccupied with getting to eat it to listen—but it’s good, goes down easy, despite how much he’s eaten. He accepts the bite, chews good, swallows, and opens his mouth, before it happens all over again. It’s an easy rhythm to follow, even with his stomach pushing up against his lungs.
But then nothing follows.
Shane blinks, frowning, and looks past the crest of his aching belly at the coffee table, where he can see Ilya cover something with foil.
“What?” He manages, slurring, and then he hiccups.
Ilya looks up from where he’s meticulously pressing the shiny aluminium around something round and pie-shaped. The fading sunlight filters through his bangs and catches on the curl of his eyelashes and the hockey-blunted edge of his nose. It’s like he’s glowing.
“I think you are done for now,” he says warmly. “The pie is gone. All in your belly.”
He pats it, careful not to jostle it too much, and Shane hiccups again. The awareness is pushing back to the forefront now that he’s not chewing and swallowing endlessly anymore, and just the brush of Ilya’s fingers on his lower tummy is making Shane keenly aware of how overfull he is.
And he says, through panting breaths, “What’s that?”
“Hm?” Ilya pushes his hair back and stands with creaky knees, the pie-shaped object wrapped in aluminium foil in one hand. “What is what, malysh?”
“That,” Shane says, and he points directly at the object.
Ilya stares at him for a few seconds, expression neutral. It’s almost dead-eyed. If Shane did not know Ilya well, he’d probably be nervous, but he does know Ilya well and can see a slowly forming smile from a mile away, so all he does is drop his hand back on top of his overfilled gut, rub his sides, and burp.
“It’s the pear tart,” Ilya says eventually. “The French one, yes? You sent me recipe last week. I made it this morning.”
Tarte tatin aux poires. With salted butter caramel. Shane did send his husband that recipe—had a slice of it the month before as dessert, at dinner with Rose. It’d been served with a scoop of vanilla ice cream and tasted orgasmic.
“I do not know why I brought it out,” Ilya continues. “It’s for after dinner, in my plan.”
Shane smacks his mouth and tastes rhubarb and sugar, remnants of the pie he must’ve eaten. His fat belly, currently so big he can’t see his knees, feels tight up top, almost a little tingly, and he’s so painfully full he can’t draw in a full breath or (probably) even sit up straight.
“Can be before dinner,” he says, breathless, and he pats his gut hard enough to make it wobble. “It can fit.”
Ilya’s eyebrows do something crooked, but he’s smiling. “Puzik...”
“It can fit,” Shane repeats, and burps again. It’s small and a little wet. “Made space, see?”
“No,” Ilya says, still smiling. “Is a good try, though.”
“I want it,” Shane says, whiny. “I can fit it. I know I can.”
“It’s for dinner,” Ilya says again. “So, no.”
“Ilya.”
“Shane.”
His eyes get wet, suddenly. He squirms in place, hiccups again, and lets his bottom lip jut out and tremble.
“Oh!” Ilya’s eyes widen. Then he closes them. “No.”
“But—”
“No,” Ilya repeats firmly, and he turns on his heel to stride away. “You will not break me, Hollander. This is for dinner.”
Shane watches his evil husband walk off with the tart, helpless and stuck on the couch, too full to follow or even sit up straight. His gut is heavy in his lap even when reclined, proof his gluttony, and now it’s the very thing in the way of it getting bigger.
Then Ilya’s voice rings out from the kitchen: “I’ll make you a shake, okay? To shore you over.”
“Tide,” Shane calls back, “It’s to tide me over,” and he hiccups once again, belly trembling.
okay so obviously i love shane gaining weight after retirement but now im thinking about a shane who was always meaty and chunky his whole life… ilya meeting him outside the rink and being a little shocked bc he hadn’t imagined that THE shane hollander, young superstar phenomenon, would have such rounded cheeks, so much softness gathered under his chin, so much obvious girth around his middle, noticeable even through his winter jacket… ilya hates to admit it later but it does make him underestimate shane a little. that’s quickly changed when they play their first game and shane is an absolute BEAST on the ice, handling his bulk such a fluid speed and momentum that ilya immediately understands why everyone who knows anything about hockey says that shane is about to become the best in the league. but then the draft happens. and boston picks ilya first. and their statement says something like “we could tell just by looking at him that ilya was the kind of player we want for our team.” and ilya stands beside shane for the picture, can feel the disappointment and anger rolling off shane in waves, and when they’re handed out their jerseys for the photograph ilya catches someone say “sure that one will be big enough for Hollander?” to an audience of laughter, and when ilya slides a glance left he finds shane’s cheeks gone pink, his eyes wet with fury and embarrassment as he holds up his fingers for number two.
that night ilya can’t sleep, so he goes down to the gym. hollander is already there. hollander is there in a tight white compression shirt that leaves very, very little to the imagination, and ilya grips the handles of his bike and tries not to dart too many glances at the way the shirt clings to the thick cushion of shane’s biceps. then they’re off the bikes, panting together on the floor, ilya’s eyes drawn inexorably to the way shane’s stomach heaves as he catches his breath. the shirt is so tight around shane’s belly that ilya can see the clear outline of his deepset navel, the fabric clinging to the soft rolls that have formed when he sat down. ilya shakes his water bottle at him for something to do, and when shane reluctantly accepts ilya drinks in the sight of shane’s thick rounded thighs rubbing together as he shifts positions, the fat bulge of his dick visible beneath the slight hang of his soft gut. shane leans forward again to return the water bottle, and the movement makes the shirt ride up, exposing an inch of smooth, plush belly. shane immediately turns pink and yanks his shirt back down, but ilya is already so hard in his gym shorts that he comes almost immediately after getting back to his hotel room.
ilya gets asked to do the CCM shoot. they ask if he has a suggestion for another player to do it with, and of course he immediately suggests shane. the marketing team glance around at each other, weird about it. “what?” ilya demands, and the campaign director responds delicately that they’re not sure if hollander really has the look they want to represent with their brand. “he is exceptional hockey player, and your brand sells hockey gear. where is problem?” ilya responds bluntly, and the team can’t find a way to refute him.
after the shoot, ilya heads to the showers, and hollander is already there. he hasn’t noticed ilya yet, and ilya drinks in the naked breadth of him, the body he’s jacked off to just imagining nearly every night. and shane is even better in reality. the ass ilya’s ogled through pants is even fatter and rounder when it’s bare, his thighs so thick and wide he’s almost pear-shaped. and his belly. gorgeously plump and soft beneath his broad muscular chest, the plush lower curve marked with silvery stretch marks, his hips curved with thick love handles. ilya watches as shane nonchalantly lifts up his belly to wash the crease underneath, and ilya gets so hard it’s nearly painful.
when ilya gets into the shower, shane’s whole body blushes, the prettiest pink blooming across his soft tanned skin, and there’s no way ilya can hide the way he’s staring. shane notices, of course, and his cheeks flush darker. “fuck off,” he says, eyes downcast but defiant. “if you’re going to chirp me about my weight just know i’ve already heard it all.”
ilya’s hand is on his dick at this point, throbbing so hard that he can’t help palming himself for some relief. “ah, no,” he says, and now he feels his own face growing hot. “insulting you, this is not what i wish to do with you.”
shane throws him a look, and finally notices ilya’s erection. the hand rubbing again and again on ilya’s cock.
Contains: Belly Kink, Weight Gain, Intoxication, Teasing, Chugging, Drunk Sex (full tags on AO3)
Rozanov was always a big guy, tall and broad, but he's firmly in the ex-jock category these days, muscles covered by a plush layer of fat. After three months apart, it makes Shane's mouth go a little dry to admire the swell of his chest and the shadow of his navel beneath a snug black shirt. He's not close enough to touch, but it would only take a step, maybe two for Shane to brush up against the swell of his belly.
"You and your brothers are so rude, Shane Hollander." Ilya pulls an exaggeratedly sad face. "Come to my party, drink my booze, and cannot even bother to say hello?"
People are looking at them, some more subtly than others. Ilya loves to spar with him in public, see how far he can push. Usually Shane loves it too, however much he denies it. There's a thrill to it, pushing back, knowing that everyone's watching but no one sees, they have no idea what's really going on between them.
But after a summer of unanswered texts, Shane feels like he's a confused outsider too, and the idea of dropping back into their usual banter sours in his stomach. "Fuck off, Rozanov."
Read it on AO3!
Thank you so much to everyone who interacted with WIP posts & lent your support and enthusiasm and all the members of CSH Inc - I hope you enjoy it!! I definitely intend to write more if folks want to see it!
Pull up that shirt for me, tubby, I want to see how much you have grown for me. Oh, dear…No nothing, you’re just… bigger than I expected. Weren’t those jeans loose on you when we first met? God they are so snug now. You’re really spilling out of them. When was the last time you exercised love? Looking at you…. I’d say it must have been a couple of months ago. At least. You really let yourself go huh. Maybe someone got a tad too comfortable in our relationship. You’ve been lying on your back, munching on the pastries I baked for you, slowly outgrowing your clothes. Those trousers are really digging into your sides now. You must be so uncomfortable. Why dont you let me unbutton them for you, my chubby darling… There you go. Much better. Oh what is that? A stretchmark? Gosh it looks brand new. My godness, perhaps I’ve been overfeeding you dear. Mmm…. Maybe I shouldnt put quite so much butter and cream in your food…. Or bake so much for you… but i just can’t resist feeding you, seeing your face light up as you savour my heavy, rich food. I wanna keep my special someone happy, content and well fed. And dependent on me.
Made the mistake of trying to draft my response to this and it disappeared into the ether smh... so posting as a screenshot lol hope u see this anon thank you sm for the ask 🥵 it possessed me with fratboy feelings. This isn't QUITE what you asked for it's more like ~vaguely inspired by~ but I'll get a bit more into it in the next bit... yea there's more it's getting long... this just seemed like as good a place as any to cut it off for now 😅 might post the complete version to ao3 or something who knows. ok without further ado here is more self indulgent hollanov intox from the f(r)atboy verse...
It takes Hollander about fifteen minutes to work his way through the party and over to Ilya. His path is circuitous, meandering, every step drawing him closer. He always likes to pretend he’s here for something else, but they both know why Hollander is at a Sigma Delta Tau party instead of at Gamma Alpha Pi’s house doing whatever boring shit they do on Friday nights. Hollander is here for Ilya. He always is.
Ilya is with Connors, loitering conveniently close to the booze table when he spots him. He is already buzzing, a little drunk, maybe, though he’s been taking it easy so far, biding his time until Hollander decides to show his pretty face. He’s been waiting for it all night. All week.
Hollander throws back his first beer while he mingles. He’s glorious tonight. Backwards baseball cap over his soft longer hair, unbuttoned flannel that does nothing to cover every delectable feature that his tight little white shirt leaves perfectly on display—perky tits, rounded belly, nipples and navel showing through the fabric. Belt bowing down in a curve, hugging his lower belly.
“Hey boys,” Hollander says, when he finally reaches him. He rests one forearm on Ilya and the other on Connors. The heat burns Ilya’s bare shoulder. Shane always runs so hot.
Connors says, “‘Sup, Hollzy.”
Ilya hands Hollander a solo cup filled to the brim with cherry red liquid—jungle juice he’d fished out of the enormous punch bowl at the center of the booze table. When he’d mixed the base of it earlier, he’d done so with no measurements or regard for flavor. “Try this. Tell me if it needs anything.”
Hollander accepts it and obediently takes a sip. His face scrunches up in distaste. He coughs a little and says, “That sucks,” but he takes another sip and doesn’t attempt to foist it back on Ilya. It leaves his lips and tongue stained cherry red.
Connors elbows Shane in the stomach. “You bring Rose Landry around tonight?”
“Oh, no, uh. She’s busy, I think.”
Ilya’s jaw clenches, the way it does whenever anyone mentions Rose fucking Landry. He wants to wrap his arm around Hollander’s waist. To stake a claim. To slide his hand under the layer of flannel and dig his fingers into the flesh on his hip. It’s hard to see, covered up as it is, but Ilya is intimately familiar with the way it bulges over his belt in a plump little swell. It’s a bit early in the night to touch him like that. There’s more at risk with everyone still way too sober, with so many eyes on them. But he allows Shane to support his weight on Ilya’s shoulder, take some pressure off of the leg with the torn ACL that has him benched for the entire season.
A sorority sister named Jacki, who Ilya likes well enough, has unfortunately started dating Shane’s annoying best friend. She takes him everywhere, her little lap dog, including, it would seem, to Ilya’s party. Pike drags Hollander’s body heat away from him to play a round of beer pong against Bood and Wyatt. Ilya considers bullying his way into the game, but no one lets him and Hollander play on the same team anymore because they’re all fucking cowards. It’s even worse when they play against each other. He settles for mingling and flirting with pretty girls while he keeps one eye on the game from the other side of the room. He likes watching Hollander sink his shots with brutal efficiency almost as much as he likes watching his throat bob while he chugs solo cups of beer.
They are not doing very well, so it’s a nice show for Ilya. Pike’s performance is pitiful enough that not even Hollander’s killshot is enough to get them the win in the first round, but they manage to cinch the second, just barely. Ilya saunters up with a neon green plastic shot glass and places it to Shane’s lips, a reward for his win. Shane’s eyes widen in surprise, but he doesn’t hesitate, drinks it down. He grimaces, after, tries to muffle a little burp behind the back of his hand. It makes his belly shake. Ilya pats his chest, lets his wrist drag over one of his soft pecs as he does. He says, “Good job.”
“Thanks,” Shane says, flushed all over.
Pike whines, “Don’t I get a shot?”
Ilya’s lip curls at the thought of feeding Pike a shot like he’d just done to Shane. “No.”
In the third round, Ilya can see the competitive spirit taking over Shane’s body. His eyes narrow with focus, his shoulders lean into each throw. Ilya needs to redirect him, or he’ll spend the whole night like this—trying to beat every single person at the party, getting progressively more wasted right there at the beer pong table. It’s fun, sure, but Ilya has seen it before. He wants Shane’s attention solely on him tonight. He’s greedy for it, restless. His palms itch to grab handfuls of him.
Ilya manages to time it exactly right—he’s lowered down from a keg stand just as Hollander makes his way over. Thirty-one seconds worth of beer fills every corner of Ilya’s body, the tight pressure of it high in his stomach, the taste in his mouth. He’s buzzing with it. People cheer for him.
Hollander doesn’t. He nods and says, “Not bad.”
Ilya balks. “Not bad? I just set new record.”
“For you? Sure.”
Ilya takes a full body sweep, like he’s sizing Hollander up and not just taking the excuse to look at him. His little belly is already visibly bloated. He could not begin to guess how much beer Hollander has already had, but Ilya’s own thirty-one seconds worth are already swimming in his veins, making him dizzy. There is no way Hollander will be able to do any better.
It’s difficult to drag his eyes back up to his face. “You think you can beat me?”
Hollander grins. It’s a nasty thing, maybe something rival teams used to see on the ice just before they got destroyed. It has that kind of knife-edge of arrogance, like he’s facing a sure win. Ilya reels in the face of it, brimming with confusing impulses. He wants to win. He wants Shane to put up a fight and take him down. He wants to pump him so full of beer it wipes that fucking smile off his stupid beautiful face. He wants to eat him, to sink his teeth into round cheeks and soft tits and that plush lower belly that sits over his belt, not quite spilling over.
Hollander says, “Of course.”
“Prove it.”
Hollander strides up to the keg, confident and smooth in a way he only ever is during a competition or when he’s a little bit drunk. Ilya follows him closely, helps hoist one leg over his head while Troy lifts the other. Shane’s biceps bulge against the short sleeves of his flannel as he holds himself up, gripping the handholds on the keg. His shirt is too short—it slips down, revealing a slice of his round little potbelly, the slight bulge of his love handles. Ilya could lean forward a few inches and bite it, that’s how close he is.
Marly fits the valve in Hollander’s mouth and says, “Ready, bro?”
He makes an affirmative noise, Marly releases the valve, and the party around them begins to chant, counting the seconds. Hollander drinks and drinks and drinks. Ilya’s eyes flit restlessly between the downward angle of Shane’s face and his belly, as if he’ll be able to see it filling up if he pays close enough attention. It goes on so long that he’s pretty sure he does—Shane’s paunchy little stomach swelling under the pressure of so much beer. Because he’s a fucking show off, Shane does a few push ups as the count creeps up and up. 30, 31, 32…
When he beats Ilya’s time by two seconds, he bends his knees in a signal to be let down. He stumbles to his feet, grinning wildly, and holds both arms up in victory. A bit of his lower belly is still hanging out of his shirt, wobbling with every unsteady movement. The crowd cheers. He gets a dozen celebratory slaps on the back and shoulders. Shane grimaces and brings one arm down so he can curl a fist in front of his mouth and belch behind it. It’s so beer-soaked and bassy, loud even over the pulse of the music.
Staggering away with his arm draped over Ilya’s shoulder, Shane puts his mouth close to Ilya’s ear and says, “How’d I do?”
His hot beer-scented breath gently strokes Ilya’s skin. He shivers, impossibly, in the damp heat of the room. “Not bad, Hollander.”
Shane’s brow furrows and his cherry red lips turn down into a sweet little pout. “I beat you.”
“You did. You are getting very good at filling yourself with beer.” Ilya pokes the blistering skin of Shane’s belly, the bare underside of it, so fucking soft. “I should have known looking at you.”
Shane gasps, pulls down the hem of his shirt and says, “Asshole.”
Ilya shrugs, nonchalant. “Still. Not exactly house record.” He has no idea what his house record is, but he does know Shane’s. The legend puts Old Man Alumni Scott Hunter at one minute and four seconds. Just imagining Shane getting anywhere close… “You could use some practice, I think.”
“I can—” Shane burps. “I can go again.”
Shane’s eyes are glassy and unfocused coming off that keg stand and he’s leaning hard on Ilya, unsteady on his feet. It’s really starting to hit him, all that beer he just drank. He’s so close to his limit already.
“Eager. Next time.” Ilya pats Shane’s soft, pink cheek condescendingly. “Come outside with me.”
They stumble out onto the big back porch. It’s relatively sparse with scattered smokers. Most people have spilled onto the lawn, swarming around the fire pit. The string lights are on, rather than the more powerful floodlights. The whole scene is blurry, shadowed, primal.
When the night air hits his skin, Shane strips out of his flannel and tucks it into his front pocket. He soaks it in, lets the breeze cool the sweat glistening on his thick arms and the back of his neck. The tank top he’s wearing fits him like latex, stretched tight over every curve. Stylistically, his jeans are loose, but they’re still a bit snug around the waistband, around his thighs and bubble butt.
He staggers over to the back porch railing and holds onto it one-handed, the other coming up to cradle the swollen arch of his gut—exactly the way Ilya can’t. Maybe, when they fuck later, Ilya can put him on his hands and knees, wrap one arm around him and hold the weight of it in the palm of his hand. Maybe he’ll be able to feel the way it ripples with every thrust.
Slyly, Ilya says, “You know, I have something that could help with that.”
It’s a bit of a tease. Shane doesn’t smoke. No matter how many times Ilya has provided the opportunity, he always turns it down. But Ilya pulls a joint from the pack of cigarettes in his pocket, anyway, just in case, the offer implicit.
Shane’s eyes are on his lips as he tucks it between them, lights up, inhales smoke, and lets it billow into the space between them.
Shane waves the smoke away from his face. “You really think that’ll help?”
“Mm, yes. This will give you—what do you call? Makes you hungry.”
“The munchies.”
After Ilya finishes taking another hit, Shane holds his hand out expectantly. Bemused, Ilya passes him the joint. Their fingers brush, deliberate electric contact.
Shane pinches it between his thumb and index finger, brings it to his mouth and sucks, lips pursing around the filter. The glowing, bright orange of the cherry reflects in his dark eyes.
Ilya can’t quite believe what he’s seeing. He feels like maybe the weed was laced, like he’s hallucinating. He says, “Don’t you get drug tested? Captain?”
Coughing only a little, Shane says, “Not when I’m not playing.”
“Ah.” Shane takes another hit, deeper this time, and he doesn’t cough. Ilya says, “You have done this before?”
“Yeah.” He blows out a cloud of thick smoke and hands Ilya the joint. “Does that surprise you?”
Without him? Impossible. Ilya tilts his head. “I did not think you were the type.”
With a little smile on his lips, Shane sways into Ilya’s space, and says, “I think you just wanted to take my v-card.”
Ilya is drunker than he’d realized, dizzy, unable to get his bearings. His voice comes out uneven and quiet when he tries to tease, “I thought I already did.”
The eye contact breaks. Shane’s lips turn down, trying to force the smile off his face, trying to temper his laughter into the hiss of air from his nose. “It’s been awhile,” he says. “Not since I started school here, with, you know, the team and everything. But…”
Offering the joint back, Ilya says, “Now you can do whatever you want.”
Shane hums and plucks the joint from Ilya’s fingers, making sure they touch again. “I guess I can, yeah. I haven’t thought about it like that.”
“You haven’t?” Ilya had figured that had been a big factor in Shane loosening the reins on his diet like he has been, partying so much—nearly every weekend since he healed up enough. Finally he’s getting the chance to be a regular college student rather than a College Athlete. Why else would he be doing it? Letting himself go like he has been?
Smoke trails out of Shane’s mouth. “Not really. It still doesn’t feel real. I don’t know what to do without hockey.”
He smooths his hat down over his head, showing off the muscle in his arm, the patch of dark hair under it. The scent of his skin carries on the breeze, allowing Ilya to catch it in his nose, on his tongue, musky and fresh at once. Shane is slouched back against the railing and his tank has ridden up again. Ilya takes the opportunity to tug the hem back down to meet his waistband, grazing his knuckle across the soft swell of Shane’s belly as he does. Shane reaches down to pull on it more, trying to stretch out the fabric. “Fuck. Thanks.”
Shane offers the joint back. Ilya sets it between his lips. They’re half numb and he wants to drag them over something hot and smooth and supple. He exhales a lungful of smoke into the dark. Haze clouds his mind. Everything slows down, boneless and fuzzy. He ashes the joint into the bushes lining the porch and takes another long drag.
Ilya slides his eyes across the soft bulk of Shane’s body. Finally, the words he’d been thinking all night pour out of his mouth in an uncontrollable stream. “I think you need a new shirt, Hollander. New pants, too, maybe.”
Shane’s face is so red. He tugs on the belt buckle curving under his belly. It’s on the last hole, the tail end so short it doesn’t reach the belt loop on his jeans. “Yeah. I know. I’m jus’, like—trying to get it under control.”
God. There it is. Shane never talks about the extra weight, doesn’t ever respond to Ilya’s teasing about it other than to tell him to fuck off, fuck you, go fuck yourself. It’s a thrill to hear him even hint towards it. Innocently, Ilya asks, “Get what under control?”
“Come on.” Shane rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean.”
Ilya leans a little closer. The world tilts. “Tell me.”
“My weight. I’m getting—fuck.” Shane grimaces, looking down at his swollen stomach. He rests a hand over it. “Chubby, I guess.”
Ilya’s blood pumps hot and fast, rushing to his fingers, his toes, his dick. He moans a little in the back of his throat and tries to pass it off as a considering sound. “Mmm. You guess.”
Shane folds his arms over his chest in an attempt to hide himself, as if it does anything other than push his belly down and tits up. “Fuck you. I’m—handling it, okay? It’s just…”
“Just what?”
Pretty brown eyes blink at him slowly, heavy-lidded, bloodshot, glittering in the fairy lights. “I don’t know why I’ve been putting on so much weight.”
Incredulously, Ilya says, “Oh, you don’t?”
“No. I donno. I’ve been eating the same, pretty much.”
It’s obvious bullshit. As if Shane isn’t a fucking vacuum who routinely inhales anything Ilya puts in front of him—beer, liquor, whatever party snacks happen to be lying around. Hell, he’s seen Shane house an extra-large pizza without flinching. There’s no way he blacked out every time. And even if it were the truth and Shane is, in fact, adhering to the same diet he’d had as an active hockey player, when he no longer is one, well there’s his answer. Shane works out, still, as much as he can with his knee, but the amount of calories he burns doing bench presses and light cardio is nothing compared to a game of ice hockey.
But Ilya nods, willing to play along. “Pretty much.” He pokes Shane’s belly, feels it compress under his pointer finger. “Except for this keg of beer.”
A burp flies out of Shane’s mouth before he can stop it, a little bit of smoke trailing out along with it. He smacks Ilya’s hand away. “I didn’t drink the whole keg, Rozanov.”
“Close enough.”
Shane presses his lips together thoughtfully. “Does beer really make you that fat?”
“Hollander.” Ilya says. Shane has to be messing with him. He’s a jock, but he’s not actually stupid. “Have you not heard of a beer belly?”
“Oh. I mean, yeah.” Shane brushes his palm over his swollen stomach. He stares down at it with a deep flush covering his face from cheekbone to soft jawline, over the bridge of his nose. “Guess maybe I should lay off a little, then. For a while, at least. Right?”
He gazes up at Ilya, eyes wide and imploring, like he’s really asking. Like he’s afraid of the answer. So Ilya says, with his heart pounding in his chest, “Mm, no. I do not think you should.”
“No?”
“No.” Ilya relights the joint for something to do with his hands and mouth. He doesn’t need any more weed. He already feels precarious and strange, too lit up, his body tingling all over. Ilya blows smoke into Shane’s face. “I think you like it too much. You would miss it.”
More importantly, he would miss Ilya. Partying with him. Stumbling drunk into his room after a night of debauchery and letting Ilya take him completely apart. Shane doesn’t deny it, he knows it’s true. He wouldn’t really put a stop to this, would he?
Shane’s eyes are searching and dark, flicking between Ilya’s. Thick fingers reach out, towards Ilya’s face. Shane steals the joint directly from Ilya's mouth and brings it to his own. He inhales without breaking eye contact, exhales through his nose.
Carefully, he says, “What if I get too big?”
There is no such thing. If there is, Ilya can’t imagine it. Shane could be twice his size and he would still leave Ilya choking with want, desperate for a taste. “You won’t.”
Shane places the joint back between Ilya’s lips. It’s burnt down so close to the filter his fingers graze them, heat and pressure. It’s a close thing—Ilya nearly loses it, gives into the urge to suck them into his mouth. He takes a deep, shaking inhale.
Skull pressed against the porch column, chin tilted back, Shane smooths one big hand from the top of his belly, where it juts out from his chest, and drags it all the way down, slow, thumb catching in the divot of his navel. Helpless to do anything else, Ilya’s eyes follow the same path. He swallows thickly, mouth dry.
Shane says, “It’s not that much, is it?
It is a fucking lot considering how little time has passed. He’s so fucking big now. But Ilya shakes his head. “Mm, no. Is barely anything.”
“Really? Don’t you think I’m getting kind of…?”
Ilya loses sense, caution, subtlety. He says, “Kind of what? Fat?”
Shane shudders. His mouth drops open a little, letting Ilya see the wet pink inside of it, a flash of teeth. “Yeah.”
Something animalistic and crazed vibrates in Ilya’s chest. He takes a step closer, gets a good, long look at Shane’s face—eyes blown black, lips parted, breath shallow, pink all over, listing slightly into Ilya with the need to be touched. Ilya had never dared imagine this, that Shane could want the same way Ilya wants.
Ilya speaks with his mouth bare inches from Shane’s ear, low enough not to be overheard. “It would take a lot more to make you really fat, Hollander.”
Shane gasps in a breath. “How much?”
“Hm…” Ilya makes a show of assessing him, dragging his eyes over Shane’s plump, swollen body, top to bottom, circling him like a predator. “Twenty pounds? More, maybe. You are tall. Muscular.”
Shane swallows down a whimper. “Yeah, that would be… a lot.”
“Yes. A lot.”
“And would—“ Shane licks his tongue over his bottom lip, leaving it shiny with spit, still stained red. “Would that be too big?”
“No.”
“Twenty more pounds would be like, almost fifty since the beginning of the year.”
“Fuck.” Ilya’s hand flexes. He grips the railing next to Shane, half-trapping him against it. “Hollander, you are blowing up.”
“You think so?”
“I know so. If you do not slow down, you will get there before the summer.”
Shane’s eyes flutter shut. “Oh, Jesus.”
Ilya’s greed is overwhelming, insistent. “I think you could use another beer, don’t you?”
Shane nods his head, and then shakes it no. “I shouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
Shane blinks his eyes open, slow, like they’re too heavy. “I’ve had so much to drink already.”
“Mm,” he agrees. If Ilya didn’t know, if he hadn’t seen firsthand how much Shane has had already, without even hearing him speak, without smelling the beer on his breath, he would still be able to tell instantly that Shane is drunk. He looks it. Rumpled, somehow, loose-limbed and messy, dusted with alcohol flush. “But you could have more, yes?”
“Yes,” Shane blurts, and then, “I mean, sure.”
“And maybe you should eat something.”
Shane’s eyes flash, hungry. “That’ll jus’ make it worse.”
“Make what worse?”
“My…” Shane looks around, a little too exaggerated. He lowers his voice. “Weight problem.”
“Is not a problem.”
“It’s—not?”
There’s a damp strand of hair falling out of Shane’s backwards ball cap. Ilya doesn’t brush it off of his face, or touch the heat radiating from his skin, or lick the beads of sweat from his throat. He says, “Not for me.”
He’s rewarded with a little smile curling at the edges of Shane’s plump lips. “Okay.”
“Stay here, I will get.”
Ilya puts his hand in the center of Shane’s chest, shoves him back into the column, and makes sure to graze his nipple when he pulls back.
Shane grabs his wrist in a clumsy grip. “Rozanov.” His voice is shaking, pleading. “Can we…?
“Mm, not yet.” Shane lets go of Ilya with obvious reluctance. He whines so beautifully. And to think Ilya had nearly caved, just because his own desire was nearly overwhelming. He says, “Be patient,” and then places the joint back between Shane’s lips. He lights it for him, watches him take a nice, long hit. “Finish this. I will be right back.”
This is nothing burger and has been said before but I’m just so compelled by high Shane who’s so easy to feed. Ilya gets him nice and high and then orders a big dinner “for us both malysh” and then he keeps giving Shane bites of his own food to try. And after dinner’s done Ilya brings him little sweet treats. And then popcorn for the movie, and then, and then, and then. Shane just opens his mouth for what Ilya brings him, seeking out textures and flavors. After the salty chips that leave sticky crumbs stuck to his teeth he wants the cool bite of sweet ice cream. His stomach is so round and heavy, all his nerves are lit up from the weed and from his stomach being stretched so tight. Ilya’s featherlight touches and then firm presses to relieve some pressure travel all the way down to his dick.
