Balthazar's Stories of TF

It’s been a mesmerizing metamorphosis to Ilya, who’s been following Hollander since he still took a future in the NHL seriously and jerked off to the power of Hollander’s backhand on more than one occasion. Watching Hollander slowly balloon from a lean and eating clean athlete into the chubby, pot-bellied ex-jock with a preference for beers and a burger over the last few months has been confusingly arousing. Hollander genuinely just doesn’t say no to food or a drink anymore: he eats, parties, eats some more until he’s stuffed, and goes back to his dorm to sleep it off. He can put away a six pack of beer in thirty minutes and a large pizza in less than twenty—his personal record is ten. If anyone would make good use of the gift card for hulking plates of free, greasy diner food, it’s Hollander. 

“Here,” Ilya says, when he finally spots Hollander at a party that night and thrusts the card in his direction. “Free food. For you.” 

Hollander accepts the card as mindlessly as accepting a beer and then stares a little dumbly at the shiny plastic. He’s clearly a little drunk, predictably bloated with carbonation, round belly straining in his tank top and skin-tight jeans compressing his sides into plump little love handles. Ilya, wisely, as he’s still full, has been nursing a cup of lukewarm white wine because he’s pretty sure carbonation will make him barf, but Hollander clearly had no such qualms tonight. As per usual. 

“Free…” Hollander starts, but stops to muffle a burp in his shoulder. “What?” 

“Finished the challenge at Kelly’s,” Ilya says, giving his own plush stomach a few pats. “But I get free meals in the food court anyway, so…”

He trails off and shrugs. Hollander lost the free meal tickets privilege two weeks ago, what with his injury—Pike had very sadly announced it in the locker room, and Hazy actually teared up at the idea a little—which means one free meal a day at Kelly’s Diner ought to be a dream for him. And Ilya’s in luck: Hollander’s face softens when he looks down at the card, soft jaw folding into his burgeoning double chin.

“So you’re giving it to me?” 

Hollander’s eyes are fucking huge and wet and his mouth is swollen and damp, like he’s been kissed. His backwards hat sits a little askew. His tank has ridden up a little without him moving his body, because his belly’s a bit too big for it, sinking over his belt. The rush of arousal Ilya feels when looking at Hollander isn’t new or shocking, but the wave of fondness and the desire to straighten his cap and tug down his top is embarrassing as hell. 

“Is free food, Hollander,” Ilya snaps, as his face flushes. “Just take it.” 

Hollander bites his lip, then smiles sweetly, chubby cheeks bunching. “Thanks, Rozanov. I really ‘preciate it.” 

“Sure,” Ilya says. He clears his throat and takes a fortifying gulp of his drink so doesn’t do something ridiculous, like press Hollander against the wall, nibble on the fat gathered beneath Hollanders jaw, take greedy handfuls of his round, chubby belly. “Whatever. Just make sure to use it every day so it doesn’t go to waste, yes?” 

“I will,” Hollander says. He nods rapidly. “Okay.” 

“Okay,” Ilya echoes, and then he pastes on a smirk. “Want another beer then? You can use your first free meal as a hangover cure, yes?” 

Hollander snorts, still smiling, and lifts his cup to his face. Tilts it back in tandem with his head. Chugs, the hand holding the card resting on his bloated belly, then belches when he finishes. 

“Yeah,” he says, a little breathless. He discards the cup, eases his wallet out of the tight confines of his back pocket, and carefully tucks the card in the free space between his driver’s license and credit card. “Good plan, Rozanov.” 

He clumsily slides his wallet back into his pocket and stumbles forward, allowing Ilya to rest a hand on the middle of his back. His skin’s warm, a little bit damp with sweat, and Ilya wants to fucking lick him. 

Hollander leans into him a bit, shoulder brushing against Ilya’s, a solid line of heat against Ilya’s side, then burps into his fist and pats the round crest of his gut. His lower belly jiggles and Ilya bites down on his cheek so hard he tastes copper.

“Lead the way, Rozy,” Hollander says, voice low and bro-y. “I’ve got nothing better to do than drink tonight.”

Ilya does. He gets Hollander cups of beer and feeds him shots and spends the night watching him drink to excess, belly bloating further and further, then takes him to Kelly’s at three in the morning and buys him a big, greasy burger to soak up all the alcohol. Hollander eats all of it, nearly licks the plate clean, heavy-lidded and sloppy with intoxication. He suggests in a drunken slur that Ilya can use the card for his own meal. 

“No,” Ilya says. “That’s for your hangover. This is me making sure you’re fed before you pass out.” 

Hollander grins at him crookedly. His mouth is greasy and there’s ketchup on the corner of his mouth and Ilya wants to lean over the table of the booth and suck Hollander’s tongue into his mouth. 

He doesn’t. He orders a banana milkshake for Hollander and asks for another refill of coke for himself, and watches intently as Hollander drunkenly suckles on the straw, rubs his belly, and burps politely into his fist. 

He walks Hollander back to the dorm. The bulk of his little gut is hanging out of his tank top, round and jiggly, but the food has sobered him up enough that he isn’t swaying. And Hollander gives him a hug, when they get to the Hollander’s floor. 

It’s a tight one, both arms around Ilya’s neck and his nose against Ilya’s jaw and his belly against Ilya’s own, and Ilya gets to hug him back and squeeze him like he isn’t feeling the love handles under his fingers. He wants to follow Hollander inside and curl around him and massage his stuffed belly and bad knee and—