I have this fantasy that I step into the Village on monday (or more realistically tuesday but don't tell me i have to wait another day rn im already losing it) and it absorbs me into itself and i disappear never to be seen or heard from again.
In some versions I just become part of the crowd and everyone's so niceys to me, in others I become a tangible part of its structure like a lamp post or something, in the most realistic version of events I suddenly move in and then slowly build a life there and cut contact with some family members nbd
I have this fantasy that I step into the Village on monday (or more realistically tuesday but don't tell me i have to wait another day rn im already losing it) and it absorbs me into itself and i disappear never to be seen or heard from again.
Tsokay I dont need my sanity to get this fucking shit done. I have my emotional support Big Dipper tunes 🥰
If I may play DJ on this Pleaked Up Thursday, I think my CSH Inc coworkers would particularly enjoy some of these tracks ;) I'm gonna post some lyrics throughout the day
ok i need to open up a liiiiitle bit or i will go insane: im leaving on a big important trip So Soon!! I fly to MTL on monday and im going to be going to a bunch of cool queer things while also!! Scoping out where im going to live and work when i move there!! I'm moving back home holy shitttttt i took All my vacation time and then some and I'm so excited and I'm so scared!!! (Not of the city, I think I'm scared by my own expectations? I want to be so open and nice and whatever happens happens and also i have a List and an Agenda and also Wants and Desires and also separately but not that separately things are falling apart fairly quickly where I currently live!! Wow!!)
an au where ilya is the metros new team dietitian/nutritionist and shane is pissed because he’s shane and he hates change and everyone knows how important his performance diet is to him and the nutritionist that was with the metros before has been there since his rookie season and has shane’s preferences and needs down. but he agrees to give the new guy a chance anyway. the first time they meet, shane has a variety of feelings but the first thing he notices is that ilya is chubby, not even just chubby, he’s actually quite fat, and very muscular as well but definitely fat, and very very attractive. there’s a part of shane that’s pissed because why the hell would he take nutrition advice from someone who clearly doesn’t follow a very strict nutrition plan themselves(hi shane’s internalized fatphobia) and then the other part of him imagines climbing into his lap behind the big wooden desk and pressing his palms into ilya’s belly and feeling him get hard as shane touched him everywhere.
it only makes matters worse when ilya starts going over shane’s current meal plan and starts suggesting shane increase his calorie intake as a whole and increase his carbs and healthy fats and whatnot. shane is not receptive to these suggestions at all and starts negating everything he says with excuses about why he can’t do that and whatnot.
ilya is taken aback by his responses because most athletes he has worked with are pumped to hear they can eat more, especially more carbs. he finds himself intrigued by shane and wants to figure him out.
@snugshane your asks didnt give me the option to include a photo so I’m just tagging you here this is what I thought of when you said “fuck it’s been a day” in relation to my post about talking about chubby Shane as a coping mechanism lmao
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.”
this was something I started writing when we were talking about teasing and humiliation, but then it turned out a little sweeter. Like always, this got away from me. I hope you all like it.
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Ilya puts on his shortest, tightest, little green shorts and a crop top that shows off his abs. He runs his hand over the hard ridges of muscle on his torso. So different now from his husband’s plush figure.
He puts on a 70s-style sports headband and gives himself a onceover in the mirror. He looks hot. Good. He steels himself for what comes next. He will have to be strong.
Shane is lounging comfortably on the couch, working his way through a bag of chips, heavy belly billowing out over his thick legs.
“Ok Жирдяй, time for your workout,” Ilya announces as he enters the room.
Shane looks up in surprise. He slowly licks the salt off his fingers as he takes in Ilya’s slutty little outfit. Muscular, toned thighs highlighted by the short shorts – legs currently reminding Shane that quad means four. He glances down at his own massive legs. What little he can see of them anyway. He can feel them though. Colossal tree trunks that are strong but also impossibly jiggly and gelatinous when he attempts to move them. Above the shorts, Ilya’s happy trail is peeking out, blazing a sexy path up his abdomen towards his still-cut abs. He is wearing a short crop top that highlights his strong arms. Too bad it covers his pecs though. Shane’s husband is still as hot as when they were rookies, even hotter now maybe that he wasn’t constantly run ragged by the grueling hockey season. Ilya still worked out every day because he loved it. Shane was living a very different life now.
“Ilya, baby, what are you talking about?” Shane inquires sweetly, playing along to see where this goes.
“I am not Ilya” he replies, accent thick and voice deep, "I am Oleg. Personal trainer your husband hired to work you out. Now I see why. Look at you. Sprawled out on couch like massive, fat cat. Pitiful.”
“That can’t be right. There must be some mistake. My husband would never do such a thing.” Shane bats back in his most professional press conference voice.
“Because he is weak and gives in to you too easily. You are spoiled and fat. Your pathetic husband can never say no to you, but you need to get your fat ass off the couch and exercise. So he hired me. Now, time to get up, tubby.”
Oleg moves the coffee table out of the way and clears a wide open space in front of the couch. He lays out Shane’s old yoga mat that hasn’t been unrolled in years.
Shane looks skeptically at the yoga mat and tilts his head up to look at Ilya, or should he say Oleg.
Shane doesn’t move right away, and continues to admire the view of the beautiful man in front of him.
Oleg growls, “Look at you. How did you get so big? Flabby thighs. Hips taking up half of couch. Heavy belly.”
Shane can hear the lust creeping into his voice and smirks.
“Oh this belly?”
Shane leans back so his shirt rides up, exposing the bottom of his stomach roll.
He starts rubbing and shaking it. Pulling his shirt up, exposing more of the soft, jiggling flesh. Ilya is practically drooling and fighting for his life to stay in character.
Shane hefts the weighty mass, and smugly purrs, “My husband loves to feed me. He brings me meal after meal and tells me to keep eating. I’m so hungry now all the time because of him. You know, now that I mention it, I could really use a snack. Why don’t you go grab me something from the kitchen instead?”
Ilya takes a deep breath and shakes out his arms. He’s not giving up, he’s locking in.
“You heard me, Жирдяй. Up.” Oleg gives a short blast of his whistle which apparently wasn’t just for decoration.
Shane sighs. He doesn’t want to get up. He’s so heavy now. He’s comfortable where he is and if he’s being honest with himself, it is getting harder to move around. It’s easier to stay on the couch. Ilya always brings him everything he needs anyway. Ilya takes care of him. Ilya worships every inch of him. Ilya brings him a near-constant supply of food. Ilya has put many of these pounds onto Shane’s body with his love and attention.
Shane still doesn’t move. Oleg goes in for the kill.
“Shane Hollander. Canada’s Golden Boy. Generational hockey talent. Winner of 5 Stanley Cups, and 3 Olympic medals. Too fat and out of shape to get himself off couch. I never thought I’d see that.”
Shane gives a small whimper and feels himself start to get hard.
Oleg holds out a hand. “Okey. Time to stand. I will go easy on you to start and help you get your fat ass off of couch. Your husband hired me to do job. I do job. I am very expensive rate.” He winks.
Shane realizes Ilya isn’t going to let him off the hook and relents. He shifts his weight forward and puts his arm out to meet Oleg’s. Together they heave Shane off the couch with a grunt.
“Ok, first thing, get down on yoga mat. Hands and knees”
Shane looks around. Realizes that all of the furniture is moved and he’s going to have to get down totally unsupported. He bends at the waist and feels his belly bunch up, compressing his lungs. He puts his hands out for balance and then lowers one knee down and then the other. He falls forward with a thud and catches himself on his hands.
He settles in on his hands and knees. He feels the weight of his belly pulled down, experiencing a new orientation with gravity. His belly doesn’t quite touch the floor, but it is thinking about it. His back lodges a formal protest over the situation.
Oleg comes and stands behind him. Takes in the view of Shane’s ample ass.
“So round, so fat. I see why your husband hired me.”
Oleg puts a foot on Shane’s ass and gives a shove. Shane’s body rocks forward and sets off a tidal wave of rippling fat. Shane gasps with the sensation and Oleg barks a laugh in delight.
“Is this what he sees when he fucks you? You on all fours, jiggling and shaking all over. So plush. No wonder he made you so big. He must feed you day and night. I see why.”
Oleg leans down and grabs a handful of Shane’s hanging belly. “So soft. So heavy,” he lifts and kneads it gently in his large hands..
Shane gasps and then feigns offense, “Excuse me, Oleg. Hands off. I’m a married man.”
“Okey. We start with pushups”
Without consciously realizing it, Shane’s decades of muscle memory kicked in and he tried to extend his body out for a full pushup. He isn’t prepared for the full weight of this version of his body and his arms immediately give out under the strain.
Oleg clucked his tongue. “Tsk tsk. Mr. Hollander doesn’t know what a fatty he is now. Thinks he can still do regular pushups. Why don’t you try again on your knees.”
“I can think of something else to do on my knees.” Shane offers seductively, still vainly trying anything he can think of to avoid this torture.
“You just said you are married man”
“My husband doesn’t need to know”
“You will not get out of this workout that easily, Mr Hollander-Rozanov. Now, pushups!”
Shane straightens up his arms and wriggles his knees back under him into the table top position. He tries again to do a kneeling pushup. Even with the reduced range of motion his arms are struggling to hold up his mass. He bends his elbows an inch and then straightens back up.
“Good. Mr. Hollander. That was pathetic, but good effort for your current condition. Now move to downward dog.”
Shane sighs and pushes up, straightening his arms and legs. He feels the weight of his torso shift forward again. The fat of his neck and chest pushing up towards his chin, choking him a little bit. His feet spread further apart than his pelvis width in order to accommodate the girth of his thighs. His marshmallowy legs bearing the weight of his enormous ass. He holds the position for a few measly seconds before his arms and legs start shaking from the effort. He releases the pose and flops down onto the floor face first. His arms feel like jello and there are beads of sweat on his forehead.
“Look at you. There is documentary about you doing yoga. Now you can’t do single pose for more than a moment. Ok, get up. Time for cardio.”
“Cardio?!?” Shane gasps out from his prone position, “..and the documentary was about the cottage” he mumbles indignantly into the mat
“Yes yes, sexy house, and sexy man doing sexy yoga. Is very good show. I’ve seen many times. Now, cardio. Step 1 - get up off the floor. Step 2, we will walk.”
Shane groans where he lays. Getting up is going to be a bitch. At his current size the floor is the enemy. His life is carefully arranged around never interacting with the floor. He can be sitting, standing, walking, or lying down in bed. Sitting - most of the time, lying down - at night only, standing or walking - only when it can’t be avoided. Floor? Never floor. Reaching and bending are bad enough – he has Ilya and grabber tools to get things off the floor – but to physically be on the floor? With this whole body? And get back up to his feet unsupported? Nightmare.
Oleg makes an impatient noise and taps his foot. Shane is still lying face down on the ground. His large belly is squashed underneath him, and his inflated posterior sticking up in the air. Oleg gives Shane’s double-wide ass a hearty slap and smiles watching it jiggle.
Shane thinks about his plan of attack here. This is going to suck. He shuffles his meaty oversized thighs until he has them pulled back somewhat underneath him. This compresses his belly between his torso and knees into something resembling a suffocating child’s pose. With a grunt of effort he raises his chest and kicks out one leg into a kneeling lunge, reversing the sequence of movements he took to get down to the floor. The pressure on his kneecap is immense. He throws his arms out to the side for balance, but quickly lowers them because his arms are too heavy to cantilever out like that for long. He places one hand on his knee and his other arm he holds out to Oleg, pleading. He sees Oleg’s face briefly soften into Ilya’s – who relents and grabs Shane’s arm to help him up. Between the two of them they haul Shane to his feet. Shane is sweating and panting from the effort.
He starts to move back towards his broken-in spot on the couch but Oleg stops him. Oleg places his hand on Shane’s arm, and even though his large Russian hands barely go a third of the way around Shane’s inflated bicep he gets enough of a firm grip to steer Shane towards the door to the basement.
Shane hasn’t been down the stairs to their home gym in who knows how long. Stairs are up there with Floor in the category of “things to be avoided at all cost.” Shane doesn’t do stairs anymore, but Oleg doesn’t relent and the two of them make their way across the room and slowly down towards the lower floor of the house. Shane has to turn a little sideways and grip the railing for dear life in order to maneuver his heavy body down the steps without being able to see his feet.
They finally make it to the treadmill. Shane feels like he has already run a marathon. He climbs up. The sides of the machine lightly brush against the widest part of his hips and love handles. Oleg turns on the machine to a slow pace and Shane starts to move - shuffling his feet and rocking his hips with the motion.
It only takes a few minutes until Shane is gasping for breath. This is the longest continuous walking he’s done in ages. The thing about treadmills is they just keep going. The pace is slow, but relentless. Shane is used to stopping and resting, but the treadmill doesn’t let him take breaks. The belt just keeps turning without end. His thighs are chafing, his lungs are burning, his knees are throbbing.
Oleg has been keeping up a steady string of commentary, cycling between encouraging, teasing, threatening, and congratulating.
“Out of breath already? Disgraceful, Hollander.”
“Good job, half a kilometer done. That’s still basically nothing, but it’s a lot for someone hauling around as much fat as you.”
“You better keep going or I will have to tell your husband that you get no treats for a week.”
“Why ::huff:: did :: pant:: my ::huff:: husband:: hire you again?”
“Because doctor says you need to move more. Neither you nor your hopelessly soft husband Ilya will make it happen. So, I am here. To do what must be done,” a flicker of real concern briefly cracks the mask.
Later in bed, Shane is relaxing after his big workout, and Ilya has returned to dote on his tired, achy husband. He brought water, a protein bar, and ice packs for Shane’s knees. Ilya is massaging Shane’s sore feet when Shane asks where he came up with the name Oleg. Ilya chuckles and looks briefly toward the ceiling. “That was the name of the meanest hockey coach I ever had back in Russia. Real bastard. Raised in the Soviet hockey system. Would make us skate until we puked on the ice. I thought he would be cold enough to withstand your charms”
“My charms?”
“Oh yes. You are very charming and sexy and boring and impossible to say no to,” Ilya laughs boyishly, planting kisses along Shane’s gorgeously overfed tummy.
“Look at this,” he says, massaging and squeezing the plush fat of stomach and hip and side roll, “It’s all so irresistible. You’ve grown so big for me, moy lyubimiy,” he hesitated before continuing, “but it would probably be good if you were a little more mobile. I worry about you when I’m not here. Or when I have bad days. So, Oleg.”
Shane looks at his gorgeous, adoring husband. Takes in the curls in his hair and the way his lean, muscular body contrasts so sharply with Shane’s pliant softness. He knows Ilya would do anything and everything for him. Even dress up and play act as a soviet hockey coach turned personal trainer.
“Okay. I think Oleg could come back sometime. Maybe once a week? You will have to talk to him about respecting our marriage though- he was flirting with me like crazy.” Shane’s face splits into a huge grin.
