[6XL][ILYA]

Oh fuck yeah. That particular line is one I added in the rough edit… needed to convey somehow that he was biiiig and am often thinking about the waistlines of clothing and how…. The body fits into that… holding up a huge pair of pants or a shirt and thinking about how all that space inside is going to be filled up. All that space is NEEDED just to cover the person wearing it. Beautiful stuff

Everybody wants to be them tonight, the young couple in the half-curtained booth. They look expensive, all shining curls, both tall… He in silk and she in fur, as slender as he is broad, sitting with their legs just so beneath the table, her ankles in casual conversation with his, as if they’ve been basking in each other for a long, long time.

No one else in the restaurant speaks Russian, not counting the anonymous dishwasher, but the low conversation that floats through the sheer black curtain is, in any language, knowing, playful, almost catty.

It’s their anniversary, or so the reservation claimed.

“Try this,” she says, holding a strip of rare steak out, speared on her fork. Juice drips from the meat and onto his plate, fat-marbled jus glistening in the nearby candlelight.

“I have enough,” he says. He’s halfway through his pork chops and she’s eyed his every bite like a hungry panther in tall grass.

She says, “Did I ask, Ilyusha?” And, this is how it goes—

He smirks, and so does she, as he leans forward and takes the steak from the fork between his tongue and his shining teeth.

She watches him chew and swallow, the working of his strong jaw, the sensuousness of the swallow, down to where their dinners have long since started to show in his barrel chest and rounded belly. She knows he feeds himself well nowadays, but she’ll still take credit for most of that.

“Worth saving room for?” She asks. He’ll polish off the rest of her plate for her, once she decides that she’s done, and he’s ready.

He licks his lips. “Anything for you.”

They look at each other across the table. They both snort, and then they laugh.

Later, while he’s inside her on the hotel bed, he will be thinking in snatches of someone else, and she will check her phone on the way to a familiar, satisfying orgasm. It’s all stress relief, these rare-occasion meetings. They help each other like this, being here, building each other up, having fun.

But nobody knows him like she does, and no one else has gotten her home so many times intact. She will keep him full. He will press his warm tongue between her, taste her salt, dip in, lick… up, and around… Finishing her tenderloin, at the table, and after.

“You’re getting fat on all this American food,” she says, slapping his chest with the back of her hand as they lay side by side in the semi-dark.

He side-eyes her. “…It’s a multitude of factors.”

“Maybe I should put you on a diet.”

He hits her with a pillow. “You’d go into withdrawals!”

@chaiwg Ohh yess thank you. 20- Ignored/Missed a safeword.

—

“Ow— Shane,“ Ilya winces, “Waffle, Sh— waffle—“

But Shane is lost. He’s riding him with eyes closed and mouth open, rhythmically grinding his three hundred and fifty pounds atop whatever is happening to Ilya’s spine, mind somewhere else entirely while his body jiggles and Ilya sees fireworks.

He’d wanted this. He’d wanted them belly to belly so he could watch Shane’s fucking gorgeous body shift and flex and ripple and kiss against his own while he worked himself, to feel the full weight of Shane’s dedication on top of him, but now there’s lightning in his spinal cord and he isn’t sure he can feel his feet.

“Waffle, Shane. Safe word. Ow—” He slaps at Shane’s chest, eyes squeezed tight, feels Shane buck, moan, and his spine crunch horribly in parallel. Then the crushing weight lifts abruptly, Shane’s plush thighs moving over him, and Shane is leaning over him with wide eyes and red cheeks, the orgasmic haze clearing, panting, “Shit. Baby, are you okay?”

“I am fine,” Ilya grits out. He’s had worse runs into the boards, he thinks. He’s had car accidents— but there are tears in his eyes, and when he tries to roll over, pain shoots down his right leg from his lower back, and, fuck, his legs do feel strange. He only realizes he’s winced aloud after he can’t take the sound back.

“Don’t move,” Shane says, “Where does it hurt?”

“Lower… like lumbar spine, I think. You were… really enjoying it, huh?”

Shane’s face is horrified. “Oh my god,” he mumbles. It isn’t his fault. Ilya doesn’t want it to be. “…Did you try to tell me?” Shane asks.

Ilya shakes his head. “Is fine.”

“…No, it’s not.” Shane shakes his head. “Fuck, I’m taking you to a clinic.” Then he’s up, cleaning himself off, and tugging on a hoodie and sweatpants. Don’t-look-at-my-body clothes.

Valentine’s Day. The selfie is shot from above, Ilya grinning wide above the thick plastic brace immobilizing his neck and head. Behind him, his husband is frowning in sunglasses, half-buttoned linen shirt snug around his thick biceps and the spill of his stomach into his lap, his khakis tight over his thighs. The caption reads, “I Love You. Thank U for rocking my WORLD”

Shane’s first instinct is to ask him to take it down. He feels like a piece of meat hung in a butcher shop window. He doesn’t think this is what he wants his public legacy to be, Shane Hollander, winner of trophies and breaker of necks… except the feeling inside of him looking at the post, and the comments, is only luscious adrenaline, not real violation or disgust.

Is he really that big? He zooms in on the photo with two fingers, then looks down at his stomach. If anything, he thinks with a twinge, he looks bigger in person. The picture doesn’t show the way the fat wobbles like jello when he moves, the way it had when he’d spread his legs over Ilya’s face, his belly hanging, softly slapping his thighs… it doesn’t capture the way his muscles trembled with the effort of supporting his own weight while Ilya’s mouth pushed his further and further towards total unjointed ecstasy. The picture doesn’t show his collapse, and Ilya’s muffled ‘Unh’ as Shane heard his vertebrae crack.

Ilya is standing at the sink swallowing pain meds, and turns when Shane comes in. “What do you think?” He asks him, eyeing the phone in Shane’s hand.

“My mom’s gonna see that,” Shane replies, getting up close to him just to pout in his face.

Shane swipes the last remaining bit of roasted sweet potato through the sauce on his plate and puts it in his mouth, the caramelized edges like a kiss on the tongue. He chews, swallows, looks up and meets his partner’s eyes across the table. Ilya sits back slowly, his chair creaking under his weight. The look in his eyes reminds Shane of the one he gets after he makes Shane cum the first time, as in…

Ilya tilts his head, and rubs his upper belly, its softness made firmer, rounder by its fullness. “What is next?” He asks.

There are three empty, full-sized dishes in front of them, a sheet pan and a casserole dish soaking in the sink. Before dinner, they’d polished off most of a freezer cake between the two of them, Shane’s fault because he’d wanted a bite after the grocery store and then all of a sudden it was mostly gone. Shane can feel his swollen stomach fighting his lungs for room. All the same, he should have known that Ilya would still be hungry if he wanted to be. And of course he does.

“God, fuck you.” Shane tells him, and points at the empty dishes between them. “This wasn’t enough?” Say it isn’t. Say you want more.

“If I didn’t know better, I would think you’re trying to put me on diet,” Ilya replies, “We would have to discuss this.”

Shame nods. Fuck, Ilya has him right where he wants him. The flush in his cheeks is fast approaching real embarrassment. “Maybe later,” he says, “…I can warm something else up.”

“Do that,” Ilya agrees, twisting around in his chair to watch Shane as he pads from the room, well aware of his own chubby arms, the jiggle of his own thighs and ass as he enters the kitchen, and the intentions that have gotten them to where they are, every single endless meal.

We’ve all heard about hudson crying while forcing down his self-prescribed daily ground beef allotment… @slutforglut mentioned a non-hockey AU a while back where hollanov meet through feedism/kink, and I’m thinking about that +Shane consciously trying to gain weight on his own after secretly wanting to his whole life, but finding that eating above maintenance feels almost impossible. He’s meal-prepping, following a three-meals-and-snacks-and-dessert regimen, but he keeps waking up without an appetite after going to sleep full, and food is starting to seem unappetizing even though he doesn’t want it to be.

It also gives him an excuse to continue eating as much as he wants to, as much as he can, often, mostly whole-food protein sources at Shane’s behest but not saying no to anything that crosses his path, in the name of feeding the muscle and of enjoying himself.

And he does put on muscle, a lot of it— he can princess-carry Shane with ease, loves to handle Shane’s bags for him when they travel, his already thick thighs, arms, and neck getting thicker, hands more calloused, back and chest seeming even broader— but he also puts on fat, and almost as much. He looks strong and feels solid, but he also looks and feels soft, the muscles only gently defined under a generous layer of padding, and a belly under his workout shirts where his abs used to be.