hello :) !!

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 cannot win. and these overarching racist structures will manifest in microaggressions and overt violence against him. the churning animal of the canadian youth hockey system is rife with abuses from coaches paying to get certain kids transferred to their teams for win records/betting, to racist and homophobic epithets being standard, to youth hockey players this month, april'26 getting brought up on charges of SA with a weapon against some of their teammates in a hazing ritual. it's difficult to convey how integrated hockey is with culture and community particularly in rural canada, and how many financial claws it has. but shane was more than probably billeted with a (white, rich) family during his upswing through juniors and he has to play with almost entirely white/privileged kids and no exceptional status is gonna change that, and him being gay will infinitely complicate that and put a bigger target on him. (+ shane growing up haafu/diaspora child, quebecois forced assimilation/linguistic racism, autistic and undiagnosed, overly invested mother figure, ocd coping tendencies, made captain of og-6 team so young, eating disorder, etc.)

ilya is not insulated from harm, no. the russian hockey system exists as an extension of the state via kremlin policy (state-sanctioned propagandized cultural/gender norms and literal regulations for youth sports and the importance of it for russia's image/economy). part of which we can infer, like in the military, includes generational hazing practices echoing dedovshchina. ilya's father, as a general/member of state, is literally feeding into this ideology with his in-text abuse: "apologize to russia/are you not ashamed?".

ilya could have come up through the system through a designated sport school/UOR, which puts scrutiny and additional pressure on him and creates an isolated boarding-school environment which are renown as canada's, for featuring coach abuse and hazing rituals. systemic bodily violations a la overwork, forced drugging, lack of ability to quit the sport, etc. is proven.

so ilya is in a three prong lock of: conformity to culture, lack of bodily/financial autonomy, and state surveillance.

and contextually i think it's important to note the visceral pressure for russian players to maintain conformity thru state control and play for russian teams, adhere and vocally support socio-political ideology, etc. is lifelong. players have had their visas complicated to prevent them from leaving russia to rejoin the NHL after summers (kiril k*prizov), have been coerced to signing contracts to play in russia before leaving for the NHL/had to secret themselves out of russia to play (evgeni m*lkin), have been abducted from outside a rink and taken to complete military service (ivan f*dotov), have been threatened w jail/death to shut the fuck up abt russia's genocide against ukraine (nikita zador*v), etc. every one of them that will speak, reports feeling terrified for their families back in russia if they step wrong. ilya is already in a place of threat being so publicly a russian athlete, let alone tossing being partly gay into it. (+ ilya growing up in domestic abuse/parental suicide home environment, depression, cptsd, hypersexuality, russian in america, made captain so young, immigrant status instability, etc.)

for both of them, being preceived as gay is a dangerous evolution of the threat of being seen as not a team player, not a regular guy, not a hard enough worker. hazing doesn't stop at juniors. this is why they are both terrified in text, during the timeline of s1.

neither shane nor ilya exist in safe spaces, even while hockey is their escape and their joy. that's what makes it complicated. it's never just a game.

so, asking if they would participate in hazing is sorta like asking if they care about hockey, imho. they want to play hockey. to play hockey, you have to be able to be in the locker room with the rest of the guys. and to be in the room, you have to assimilate and conform and endure. yes different rooms have different tones, but everyone young and serious is jockeying for a place in the majors, is indoctrinated into this for-profit abuse system that demands children's bodies and isolates and attacks them to prevent change. hockey hazing culture is rooted in violent misogyny and how men perform that to the judgement of other men. juniors guys referring to girls they sleep with as 'kills', nhl as the only league without a domestic violence policy, etc.

and that becomes wanting to stay in the majors at all costs, and hypermasculine misogynistic performance to white NA capitalist standard is the requirement. guys get real ugly about that and you have to pay your dues, prove you are part of the hockey machine, just a cog. no better than anyone else in the room, what happens in the room stays in the room, no matter the ice. and they don't view this as hazing the way we analyze it as hazing, really. they view it as just how it is. and everyone either makes it through and proves they're a man of the team or they wash out.

shane and ilya made it through. that's what it takes.

thanks for the frank questions. this post is not suuuper detailed, but i think this is important to talk about, obviously. i think we owe it to real kids/folks in these industries to discuss this stuff and keep it in our minds when we engage in fanworks abt HR. bc our support of a hockey tv show feeds into support of hockey as a sport. and that's complicated.

some supplemental texts for shane+ilya+hazing:

@rozzed 's adroit and cutting exploration of generational hazing re: david and shane: here, here

@transshanehollander 's essential, more eloquent, and thorough discussion of structural racism shane endures in childhood/the league and how RR frames it: here, here

Contrails by grudekoks (glanzkohl) which frankly explores the depth of possible cultural and sexual trauma for shane and ilya

i looked over it and i ached by IsvsWorld which explores shane's relationship w his own racial id/hockey system/microagressions

chapter 1 of cracked plexiglass by syntjjh which focuses on hockey being synonymous with white nationalism in canada

@yiiiiiiiikes25 's deft and detailed exploration of sexual assault, institutional misogyny and conformity to capitalist structures: here

@kiyaar recs starting reading on generational military hazing in russia as related to russian masculinity policing: here, here

important context for reality vs. fandom: current uptick in bos, MA youth hazing from players and coaches as a response to HR popularity that talks abt the pervasiveness in NA sport

two links aggregating further readings abt hockey+hazing+racism+gender: here, here. feel free to put in comments any works/fanworks you found particularly insightful!

footnotes

“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.”

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…?

banana bread batter ingredients:

-3 large ripe bananas

-1/2 cup melted butter

-3/4th cups of sugar (i use half brown and white sugar but you can just use white)

-2 medium eggs

-about 1 tsp of vanilla extract (i eyeball it)

-1 tsp baking soda (dont eyeball this if u add too much the bread will be burnt and weird)

-1 and one 1/2 cups of flour (so three 1/2 cups of flour)

-as much cinnamon as ur heart wants

-a pinch of nutmeg

banana bread batter steps:

preheat your oven to 350 degrees

mash your three ripe bananas until semi smooth (its ok if there are chunks) then add in and mix all of your banana bread batter ingredients together in a large bowl!

butter (or olive oil spray) a baking dish, mine is about 9x9 inches and shallow (if urs is bigger or smaller the baking time may vary) pour in your batter evenly and now get another bowl to make the crumble topping!

crumble topping ingredients:

-1/4 cup of melted butter

-1/4 cup of sugar (i used a mix of brown and white again)

-as much cinnamon as you want

-mccormick salted caramel sugar “seasoning” (as much as you want again or not at all if u dont like it / don’t have it lol)

-about 1/2 cups of flour (i eyeball this and add slightly more during the steps below if its too wet)

crumble topping steps:

once all of the above ingredients are added into your new bowl mix until it becomes paste like, it will be slightly crumbly but sticky, if its too wet and not able to hold shape add a little bit more flour until it reaches a more crumbly formed texture, once ur done start breaking pieces and crumbling it on top of the banana bread batter in its baking dish, as it bakes it will stick to the bread so you dont have to push it in! the crumble topping is optional if you dont want that but its rlly tasty so you should do it tbfh

now you are going to put your banana bread into the oven for about 44 minutes (again mine is shallow and about 9x9 inches so this is the perfect baking time for me) if you have a taller baking dish it may take up to 55 minutes to be ready but keep an eye on it dontttt burn it ok?

when you pull it out of the oven you can choose whether or not you want frosting etc but this is what i do:

i take about 1/2 cup of confectioners sugar and a splash or 2 of milk and mix that together in a small dish and i pour this over the top of the bread with a spoon to evenly distribute it, i dont do too much milk bc u dont want it too saturated, just enough to visibly moisten it! then i take store bought cream cheese frosting and put a decent amount of it in the same little dish i used for the milk mixture and microwave it for about 20ish seconds, then using my spoon again i scoop the foresting out and drizzle it over the top of the bread until i have as much frosting drizzle on it as i want! i let the bread sit for about 10 minutes to cool and so the frosting can harden and tadaaaah ur done, enjoy!

proof of delicious banana bread with varying frosting amounts: