The existence of Fat Baby Shane implies the existence of Fat Baby Shanelings
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“Jesus Christ.” Ilya huffed as he seated Iris on his hip. “What the fuck are you feeding her?”
“Language,” Shane scolded as he tidied up the aftermath of Iris’ breakfast smattered across her highchair.
“She’s six months old. Or, maybe, 12 years. I cannot tell because of how huge she is.” Ilya was wiping at her face with a damp cloth while baby Iris squealed and fussed in his arms.
“I was a big baby too…” Shane mused as he finished his scrubbing and put one arm around Ilya, and gave the other to Iris to play with as she pleased. She wrapped a chunky hand around Shane’s pinky and shook it wildly.
“I know, but I thought it was because your parents wanted pro hockey star. Not because it was—“
“Genetic?” Shane cut him off with a knowing smile and leaned in to kiss his husband.
Ilya smirked back. “Yes.” Kiss. “Genetic.”