This is just a heads up that I've got a lot of stuff happening in my irl life so I will be working limited hours at the CSH Inc. corporate office for a minute. Please allow for a 2-7 business day response time on asks, inquiries, and business-related direct messages. It is important to me to intentionally and thoroughly answer all of these to the best of my ability, and I can't do that quickly with my current schedule. If you're wondering if I'll reach out to you about a position at the company (and again, if this is the case, if you feel comfortable hitting me up about it please do because I feel presumptuous assuming anyone wants to participate in this office bit, but I have learned that people also feel presumptuous messaging me first so I'm working on this and hope to hit a few folks up in the near future) or are waiting on an offer letter in response to previous communication, please allow for a 2-7 business day response time on those as well.
Upcoming items at some point:
Org chart: I have promised to deliver an org chart with current employees for ease of reference, and I have not forgotten about this, but it will be a second due to the aforementioned busy schedule irl.
Pinned post: I am also going to put together a pinned post with easily findable info and links to other relevant posts (like the org chart and info about the Chubby Shane Hollander Inc. community, which does still exist but has been made private because someone reported it) and tags, etc.
Perhaps a fake company logo because I think that would be hilarious to include at the end of my fake email posts.
Re the Chubby Shane Hollander Inc. community:
If you have questions about the Chubby Shane Hollander Inc. community, please also feel free to reach out to @thinkingplump, and we will both do our best to get back to you within a reasonable amount of time.
i'll forever miss how the internet felt before you had to second-guess the authenticity of every single piece of media you came across. silly videos used to be just silly. fun was coincidental. wonder was just wonder. digital art had character and soul. AI has taken the taste out of everything and irreversibly poisoned the creative sphere and the people still pushing it forward are the doom of joy and hollowing out the quality of being.
drives me a special kind of crazy that hudson williams has huge ass hands but then really long thin fingers and he used to be an mma fighter but he has the world’s most perfect nose and he has really nice skin except for a scar on his shoulder that he got because his friend was like hey will you fight this guy for me and he was like sure and i have no idea where i was going with this do you think if i asked nicely i could get him to put his hand around my [loud airhorn]
Does CEO at Chubby Shane Hollander, Inc. mean you’re capitalist?
Genuinely I can’t tell how serious this question is meant to be. In my imaginary office role play sandbox where I pretend to be the CEO of a fake company that fake employs my mutuals and produces Chubby Shane Hollander and associated Heated Rivalry Character Weight Gain products to supply the market, yes, I am a capitalist, we are a for profit corporation and we love maximizing value for our shareholders and hitting KPIs and generating revenue. If it helps though, Chubby Shane Hollander, Inc. is a certified B Corp, and we are committed to ESG principles.
Irl, no, I’m not a capitalist. That being said, I don’t know enough about macroeconomics to formulate defensible opinions on which other economic system I think makes the most sense, is the most ethical, or would be the most successful. I think they all have flaws and that we would fuck them all up because I don’t have much faith in humanity to execute anything ethically or equitably at scale. Which is very pessimistic of me, I know, but is also a view based on all the available evidence of humans doing anything where any kind of power system is involved on a large scale since humans were invented. And I simply don’t believe there will ever be a world where there is no type of power system that won’t inevitably cause all the problems that power systems always eventually cause (corruption, etc.). But I definitely don’t feel like capitalism is good. In an ideal world in which everything was guaranteed to work perfectly and any given economic system would play out exactly as theorized/intended, I think some kind of market socialism could be good. Partially because I feel like that could be a somewhat realistic economic system to reach if we’re starting at capitalism as it is now and trying to move towards something more socialist. But again, don’t ask me to defend that position because I simply don’t know enough. Like I will not be getting into arguments with anyone via tumblr ask about my economic positions.
But yes I am pro capitalism in my fake position as fake CEO of my fake corporation that makes fake profits
Today I’m centering the thought of Shane attempting to play a game of field hockey and then immediately slipping on a patch of wet grass and face planting.
Not really unfortunately. I have a little bit in the past, most notably with the boyfriend I had my freshman year of college (shoutout redacted), and my partner and I have engaged with it here and there, but they’re not into it in the same way, and despite them being supportive, I have a lot of trouble not feeling weird/getting in my head about that. So no, not really
this is part one of my fat shane work in progress, titled Weight Limit :) a special little thank u to @chaiwg for the encouraging words under my original post about this idea. this has gotten way longer than i ever thought it would and this part doesn't even get into the main situation at hand! but i will post part 2 as soon as i can. thank u for reading xx (more under the cut, sorry for cliffhanger lol)
┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈
Shane chose to ignore the abrasive groan that the dark oakwood chair at his parents’ dining table let out beneath him as he lowered and settled his weight into it heavily with a soft grunt, letting himself focus solely on the large, steaming pot of chicken chasseur David had placed in the centre of the table. He chose, also, to ignore the pained creak the chair gave as he leaned forward to pass his plate eagerly to his father to ladle a serving onto it, licking his lips in anticipation.
His task was simple: if in doubt, focus on the food. He’d been taught thoroughly over the last year to disregard any latent anxieties creeping into the corners of his brain by letting his mind focus wholly, calmly and indulgently, onto whatever food was in front of him.
He’d become exceedingly good at it.
He tried not to think about it, but the portion placed down in front of him at the table looked downright measly in his eyes - if he and Ilya were at home, Ilya would have ladled at least triple the amount of the rich, creamy dish onto a far larger plate for him. His stomach grumbled miserably at the meager serving and he placed a hand on it to soothe it, resisting the muscle-memory urge to jiggle and grope it indulgently as he did constantly at home, while David served up the rest of their plates and Yuna and Ilya discussed he and Shane’s latest holiday to Tuscany.
Now nearly a year and a half into the rolling bliss of retirement from professional hockey, Shane and Ilya had spent the last six months travelling Europe, relaxing on scenic beaches, sightseeing and greatly enjoying the local cuisine on offer at each destination - Shane taking great pleasure in diligently eating every rich, heavy delicacy Ilya presented him with, and Ilya taking immense satisfaction in making sure Shane was stuffed, mindless and panting, belly taut and distended, at every stop.
The path to where Shane was now, a hundred pounds heavier than he’d ever been, mouth watering and burgeoning stomach rumbling atop his thighs from hunger at his parents’ dining table, about to reap the consequences of he and Ilya’s hedonistic habits with his overweight body in the most humiliating way imaginable, was not an easy one.
At first, retiring had come with its challenges: for one, Shane had found that without the highly regimented structure of life as the top hockey player in the MLH, the simmering anxiety that lay perpetually inside him had begun to skyrocket. Suddenly, free time seemed to be all he had. Decisions were now his to make, and he didn't like it. He found himself full of prickly, anxious energy with every waking second with the newfound 'freedom', feeling constantly on the verge of a panic attack at the concept of suddenly having to choose, himself, what to do with each minute of his life, for the rest of his life.
His natural reaction, at first, was to channel this anxiety into even stricter control of his food intake, his sports dietician now out of the picture, but this only made him feel endlessly worse. When Ilya found him broken down in tears on the floor of their kitchen in the early hours of the morning, two months into retiring, and Shane admitted he was beyond miserable, feeling out of control and jealous of Ilya for getting to enjoy eating, Ilya took it upon himself to help Shane enjoy good food and find a new way for Shane to ease his anxiety.
Shane had also admitted in the tired, cuddly aftermath of said breakdown, in a voice quieter than breathing, so fast it was almost imperceptible, that he’d always been ‘a little intrigued’ (Shane-speak for ‘Totally Fucking Obsessed’) by the idea of overeating on purpose. Maybe even ‘not being skinny forever, y’know?’.
At this tiny, fleeting half-confession from his sweetheart, searing heat shot down through Ilya’s stomach straight to his cock.
Ilya was fluent in Shane-speak. The leading expert in the field, in fact. He knew exactly what Shane truly meant with this seemingly passing comment, and it aligned completely with Ilya’s own secret, deepest fantasy for as long as he could remember: the opportunity to fatten someone up.
“Listen, котёнок, I have proposal for you,” Ilya broached between warm, sleepy kisses in bed as the sun filtered through the curtains the next morning. “Just… take a moment to sit with it and mull over before deciding, yes?”
“...Okay, fine,” Shane replied tentatively, shuffling back a little from the kisses to gear up for Ilya’s incoming elusive words.
“I am thinking it is no good for my Shane to suddenly have to decide so much of his life after having his set schedules for so long. No good at all for him, do you agree?”
Shane shrugged and gave a nod, blinking.
“I guess,” he added softly. “..I like being told what to do.”
“I know, любимый,” Ilya said fondly, tracing soft circles into Shane’s bare shoulder with his index finger. “This is where I think his very clever, very sexy husband could help.”
Shane snorted.
“Go on,” he uttered, amused.
“Your new dietician will be me,” Ilya proposed, with as much gusto and confidence as he could muster. “It is not your job to think about or stress over food for one more sad second. Is my job now. You eat what I say you eat, when I say you eat it. Poof! Stress removed. I am magician.”
He knew it was a hell of an ask for Shane, and one that had every likelihood of being shut down immediately, so he tried to put on an air of authority, as if he simply knew best: for one, he knew he did in this case, and for two, Shane always responded deliciously positively to Ilya guiding him through decisions with enough headstrong confidence for the both of them.
“...What, like you own me or something?” Shane muttered, pointedly not looking at Ilya.
He’d gone very still; his face wore the kind of stony expression he adopted when he wanted to express disapproval.
Just as Ilya’s heart began to sink down to the low, respectable level of anticipated disappointment he’d set it up for, he felt something warm and unmistakable stir against his leg, nudging it.
Shane, despite his admonishing expression, was growing hard.
Ilya’s heart gained rocket fuel.
“Yes, мой любимый, exactly. Because I do, don't I?” Ilya uttered softly, letting his voice sink into a deep, thick timbre. “My sweet boy, my Shane. Wouldn’t you let me do what I want with you? This would make you happy, yes? To be owned so thoroughly, so cared for?”
Shane’s cheeks were blushing a deep red, and his cock had swelled to full hardness against Ilya’s thigh. He swallowed, lips parted slightly, and nodded shyly.
Ilya grinned. He stroked Shane’s hot, soft cheek.
“You own me, too, дорогой, just as I own you,” he continued, speaking against Shane’s lips so each word landed like a kiss. “Will you let me? Provide for you, keep you well-fed and owned? Let me do all the tricky thinking for you?”
“Fuck,” Shane breathed hotly, panting into Ilya’s mouth, and kissed him wetly, desperately, nodding. “Yes. Want you to. Own me. Fuck, decide for me. God, Ilya.”
And with that, Ilya’s indulgent plan was in action. He was practically buzzing from the inside out with the delicate trust and power he’d been granted over his precious Shane.
For the first few months, he took things nice and slowly, easing Shane into the pleasant notion of no longer giving thought to his macro counts or cortisol levels, and helping him enjoy new foods at a steady pace.
It gave him a heady thrill every time he presented Shane with a dish and uttered “eat it all up for me, milyy” to him gently with a kiss, and Shane obeyed diligently, nodding at him with his brown doe eyes before digging in, waiting happily for his praise when his plate was cleaned completely.
“My good boy, well done,” Ilya would croon, kissing his cheeks and patting his slightly rounded tummy, an act that had Shane chubbing up in his pants a little every time without fail, “so perfect. Eating so well for me.”
Of course, Ilya immediately noticed Shane’s very positive reaction to the attention on his belly, and it took everything in him not to up the ante straight away and grope and smack at it in its full, slightly distended post-meal state, uttering filth into Shane’s ear as he did so and forcing another serving down his throat. He held off.
Shane was growing more and more comfortable with eating increasing portion sizes and being in a constant state of slight bloatedness by the day, and the last thing he wanted was to scare him off by being impatient.
Shane was starting to outwardly express his enjoyment at being genuinely full, too, to Ilya’s delight. After Ilya worked Shane up to enjoying large, rich dishes of creamy, cheesy pasta, sticky pork stir fries, stacks of fat pancakes dripping in syrup and butter, onion-ring-loaded burgers and bacon-loaded fries, Shane would, more often than not, place a hand on his own distended belly, which was beginning to grow a small, soft layer of fat over his finely chiselled abs, and hum contentedly, biting his lip and blushing at Ilya.
Ilya would normally dole out his praise at this point, but a few months into this routine, he decided it was time to raise the stakes a little.
Instead of saying anything after Shane finished his last slurp of braised pork belly ramen, leaning back in his chair with a hand on his tummy and looking to Ilya expectantly, Ilya simply picked up his bowl and headed back to the kitchen, leaving Shane sat dumbfounded at the dining table.
He returned to a still-sat, frowning Shane, and placed his bowl back in front of him, now replenished with another full portion of rich, salty noodles and broth, complete with a generous helping of more fatty, crispy pork belly.
Shane’s frown dissolved. He looked up at Ilya, mouth parted a little.
“You…this is a whole extra portion,” he said softly. “M’pretty full, Ilya.”
Ilya raised his eyebrows, sitting back down opposite Shane.
“Really? I thought I was in charge of your eating,” he began, adding a little sternness to his tone. “I decide when you are full. And I say you are not full. I say you are actually needing more than I have been giving you. I want my Shane to eat. So he will eat, yes? Or do you not want to do what I want you to anymore? Maybe you want to decide for yourself from now on?”
Shane shook his head frantically, mouth hung open.
“No, fuck no, Ilya, I– of course, you're right,” he babbled, picking up his chopsticks and shoving a piece of pork into his mouth. He moaned a little at the taste before chewing thoroughly, gazing pleadingly at Ilya. “Whatever you want. M’yours.”
“That's right, lyubimyy,” Ilya beamed, taking a second to squeeze his growing cock through his sweatpants under the table at the sight of Shane scrambling to stay under his good graces, obedient and owned, continuing to stuff himself at Ilya’s beck and call despite his admitted fullness. “There's my good boy. Always so good for me, my Shane. My greedy boy. I am in charge of your body, milyy.”
“Fuck,” Shane punched out in a breath between bites. “Yours. Feed me whatever you want, I'll eat it, fuck. For you.”
Needless to say, this routine began to have its knock-on effects, in more ways than one.
