CalciteFunk

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 just 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!”

how about one of each :3

Everyone echoes the sentiment, enthusiastically pouring liquor down their throats. Ilya is a little surprised to see Shane take one so soon after the last. When he slams down the shot glass, he covers his mouth with one hand. The fucking music is too loud to hear it, but Shane’s stomach jumps with a hiccup or maybe a burp, sending a ripple through his belly fat. Ilya gnaws on the inside of his own mouth.

&

Thinking about the centaurs winning the Stanley cup and going out to celebrate that night, and Shane is so excited and happy and so fucking in love with Ilya and their life that he just decides to absolutely let go and indulge tonight. They’re at a club and he’s sitting on Ilya’s lap, both of them a few drinks in, when Wyatt and Bood bring over 2 trays of shots for everyone. Shane immediately downs two for himself, hands one off to Ilya, and then takes another two. Ilya is absolutely floored, never having seen Shane let loose quite like this, and he grabs Shane’s face in a kiss, tasting the alcohol and multiple different appetizers Shane has had tonight already.

It’s been a couple hours and Shane’s had a few more shots and A Lot more to eat, the alcohol only fueling his desire to eat, his desire to indulge to the fullest. He’s feeling a bit drunk and a lot bloated, his hand subconsciously rubbing his stomach, soft burps coming out every few minutes. He’s thinking about trying to get up and find Ilya when he slides into the booth next to him, placing his hand on top of Shane’s, leaning in for a kiss. Shane moans into, grasping at Ilya’s dick through his pants, all inhibitions gone, he just wants to get out of here and fuck his husband, and maybe eat some more afterwards (or even during).

Ilya gets the message immediately and starts helping Shane out of the booth, steadying him when he wobbles as he stands, from the alcohol and being so fucking full. He’s started hiccuping a bit, and Ilya keeps his arm around him, grasping at his chubby waist, as he unsteadily walks out of the club into their ride.

When they get home Shane collapses back onto their bed, so drunk and so full, but wanting to be even fuller, wants Ilya inside him, wants to eat more, wants to feel bigger and be bigger. Ilya joins him on the bed and seems to have read his mind because he’s holding a pint of ice cream and is already naked. He hands the ice cream to Shane who takes it without hesitation and immediately starts eating even with his stomach protesting. “You can come when you finish that whole thing, okay sweetheart?” Ilya says, jiggling his belly and adjusting Shane’s legs so he can eat him out.

Retired!Hollanov going to a dinner party and Shane, since having indulged in a love for food and being full, having gained more weight than is socially acceptable, has to be all but rolled out of the house. He’s a little drunk and so full he’s almost waddling, still waving at Bood and Cassie as Ilya leads him to the car, and he undoes his pants the moment the car door closes before putting on the seatbelt because it’s way too much pressure on his poor, overfed belly otherwise. 

Ilya drives them off. It’s way past sunset and the radio is on low, a pleasant hum of background noise barely audible above the rumble of the engine and tires. Ilya is concentrating on the road, new glasses on because he needs them for driving now, a little tired but alert and more than capable of getting his fat husband and his own full ass home safe. 

Then Shane smacks his mouth. 

It’s innocuous by itself, but it’s accompanied by a little grunt and the brush of fabric against leather. Then the rustle of clothes, another grunt, and the quietest of taps of fingers against bare skin. 

“I was thinking you were full,” Ilya says, daring a quick glance at the passenger seat. He tears his eyes back less than a second after and tightens his hands on the steering wheel. “You said you could not eat another bite, lyubov.” 

Shane sighs deeply. He’s rubbing his gut in wide, slow circles because it feels good, and Ilya’s hands are cruelly unavailable. It’s true that he’s really very full, of course—but there’s nothing quite like a craving. 

“I want a burger,” Shane says. He shakes the expanse of his belly just a little, just enough to watch his fat ripple in the muted glow of the control panel, and unsuccessfully stifles a burp in his collar. “And a shake.” 

Ilya’s silent. 

“I need it,” Shane adds. He’s always needed it, being full, but never acted upon it. Years ago, he’d have repressed it easily. But Shane’s a little drunk, and stuffed full, and he didn’t get this big by resisting. “Ilya. Ilya, I need it.” 

Ilya swallows audibly. “If you eat it in the car, you won’t be able to get out.” 

“Yes I will,” Shane slurs, petulant. He could barely get up from the dining chair earlier, but that’s before. He can eat again and still get out of the car. “I can.” 

There’s a moment of silence between them. Then Ilya turns on the blinker and merges, confidently, to use the next exit leading to a fast food restaurant. 

He orders Shane a meal. Burger with two patties and lots of cheese, a large fry, a banana milkshake. Onion rings too, which he claims is for himself but Shane knows, from his head, through his full belly, down to his toes, will be for Shane instead. 

“As long as you can still get out of the car,” Ilya says, when he hands Shane the bag. It smells mouth-wateringly good, but he refuses to let go when Shane takes it. “Promise.” 

“Promise,” Shane says breathily, and Ilya finally lets the bag go. 

Shane eats the remainder of the drive. The burger first, juicy and hot and greasy, the bun tacking to his teeth. There’s onion and ketchup and something softer, as if to mellow it all out. He gets it down in a haze of food and enjoyment, boxers tight, vision blurring outside of the food. 

He gives Ilya an onion ring and eats the rest. He feeds Ilya a handful of fries but stuffs the rest into his mouth, chewing laboriously, hiccuping through every swallow. He’s taking his first sip of the milkshake when the car comes to a halt, and when Shane sluggishly blinks enough to gain some awareness, he sees they’re home. He’s painfully overfull, rather than just almost unpleasantly stuffed. 

“Can still get out of the car?” Ilya asks, tone a bit mean, but he doesn’t wait for an answer and exists the vehicle instead. 

Shane takes another sip of his milkshake before readying himself to open the door, but it’s opened for him by Ilya instead. He stands tall, face unreadable, and it takes him less than a second to tsk and lean down to undo Shane’s seatbelt. 

“Useless at everything but eating, hm?” He says lightly. 

Shane shakes his head. Ilya steals the milkshake from his hand, takes a sip, and straightens back up. 

“Show me.” 

Shane lifts his legs out of the car. His belly has gone unbelievably taut and firm, itchy now, but it’s heavy enough in his lap that he allows himself to uselessly adjust the weight of it to fall more into the dip of his big thighs. He braces himself on the frame. Tenses his legs. Tries to lift himself up. 

He falls back on his seat. The car rocks. A whimper rises from his throat at the movement, hands back on the mass of his gut, trying to soothe. 

“Hm,” says Ilya. 

Shane tries again. He has to be able to; he promised. He wants the rest of his milkshake and lie in bed and get his belly rubbed. He can’t do that if he’s stuck in the car. 

He fails again. 

His vision blurs again, wet this time, and he looks up at his husband. He doesn’t know why he’s begging. 

“Doesn’t work?” Ilya asks. 

“No,” Shane says, and he sounds pitiful before he has to burp. “Sorry.” 

Ilya takes pity on him. Shane tries for a third time, and Ilya’s hand wraps around Shane’s bicep to pull him up further. When he’s finally standing his back curves under the heft of his overtaxed stomach: Ilya hands him his milkshake and kisses him, slow and sweet, fondling the soft, gelatinous overhang that’s bare and exposed to the elements. 

They walk inside. Shane finishes his milkshake somehow, and is so full he’s sitting up in bed and panting. Ilya curls around him, gentle, petting him and pressing a tums on Shane’s tongue. 

Finally getting to this, anon I thank you for your patience.

Scott donates to the Irina Foundation on a very consistent basis so he’s always invited to charity dinners, even as Ilya jokes that there should be a no dinosaurs allowed policy. But a few years of retirement have changed Scott Hunter.

He’s making the rounds, saying hello to everyone, and he’s got a belly that enters the room before he does. Scott looks so happy, and Kip is definitely appreciative of the changes retirement has brought to his husband. His hands lingering on Scott’s back and slowly trailing down to softly squeeze a love handle. When they take pictures it naturally lands on the crest of Scott’s belly.

Ilya is a very observant man, we all know this. So he sees this and… he’s jealous? Of Scott Hunter? It’s an odd feeling and it makes him feel insane because if he expressed this to Shane it would come out wrong and create a misunderstanding. Ilya doesn’t want Scott Hunter, or his very nice husband who is certainly out of Scott Hunter’s league.

What he does want is the ability to take up space like that. Ilya isn’t a small man, he’s tall and has a body that people go crazy for. But he’s spent his whole life being shoved into the background, especially around his father who wanted a son who didn’t argue or act out. This realization that he wants to take up space and enjoy it leaves him feeling unmoored, and in classic Ilya fashion he grits his teeth and shoves it down.

Until the career ending injury that hands him an early retirement on a silver platter.

It opens the floodgates on the thing he’s been denying himself for a few years now, because he can sleep in most days if he wants to, he doesn’t have to go on grueling jogs that never satisfied his desire to move. So he quits running, mostly focusing on strength training because he’s always loved that. And he’s always eaten whatever he wants, but he’s not burning calories like he used to.

It’s not long before a small swell of fat coats his abs and softens all the hard lines and edges of his body. Filling in places that were crafted to have one purpose. Ilya would be nervous about it if Shane wasn’t so fucking enthusiastic about the weight. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to. Ilya wears an old Boston shirt and is making breakfast in the kitchen, he turns and Shane’s zeroed in on where the shirt no longer covers the hang of his belly.

Shane then proceeded to blow him as Ilya leaned against the kitchen counters, his face flushed from the act but also from the large breakfast currently sitting in his stomach.

Yeah, it’s clear Shane likes this.

With all his free time, Ilya devotes himself to the foundation and spends his days there. Hockey was something he did, and he did like it, but seeing what the foundation has done for people is better than that. Fuck the Stanley cup, this is something that Ilya has built with the love of his life. That’s so much more special. He comes home before Shane, and he’s also gotten very into cooking so he makes dinner for the both of them. More often than not, Ilya finishes these dinners and has to lay down on the couch and forget his plans to have mind blowing sex with his husband because he’s too full to move.

A year goes by, and there’s the year end party for the Irina foundation. Shane spots Scott and Kip, dragging Ilya over to the two men. Scott looks Ilya up and down, and can’t help himself by chirping him just a little.

“Looks like retirement suits you, Rozanov.”

“Hm, yes it does. And I could not let you be fattest retired MLH player.”

Scott laughs, and says Ilya still has some catching up to do. Shane turns to look at Ilya and sees a fire in his eyes… and it clicks. Of course it’s a competition, and that’s something Shane can get behind.

A few weeks go by and Ilya is stirring homemade pasta sauce when Shane walks through the door. He’s carrying a box from the bakery they buy Ilya’s birthday cake from every year and he sets it on the counter. Ilya raises an eyebrow, turning to face Shane.

“Have you finally gotten too many concussions and forgot when my birthday is?”

Shane shakes his head, coming closer and putting an arm around Ilya’s increasingly thickened waist.

“No, you asshole. I got you a surprise, for after dinner. Smells good, by the way.”

Shane is smirking, and Ilya always is driven wild when Shane is being coy.

“Okay, keep your secrets.”

They eat dinner, and Ilya has enough pasta to make him need to pull down his sweatpants and let his belly take up more space. He leans back, letting his eyes drift shut for a moment.

There’s a hand on his belly a few moments later, and Shane is standing over him. The bakery box is on the table and all the dishes are cleared, Ilya looks up and puts his hand over Shane’s.

“What is this?”

“Your surprise.”

Shane opens the box, and a dense, moist chocolate cake is inside. Ilya stares at it, his eyes widening for a moment.

“Shane… I am very full. I don’t have room for cake.” Even though he can feel his mouth watering as he stares at the chocolate mirror glaze coating the cake.

Shane hums, cutting him a slice anyway.

“You want to be bigger than Scott Hunter, right? I’m sure he has dessert every night.”

Any resolve Ilya had crumbles then and there, reaching for the fork on the table until Shane lightly swats at his hand.

“I’ll feed you, baby. All you need to do is open your mouth.”

The tshirt idea is gold oh my god. This also makes a lot of sense for the au I want to write something for where Hollanov meet just in a feedism context where it’s something they’re both into and want to engage in together. I’m imagining this happening further towards the beginning of their relationship when Shane has still only recently entered the “chubby” stage (which is fun because I imagine him getting teased for having so much work to do/far to go by some other guests on the cruise, anyways that’s something to explore later)

Anyways it's been a minute since I wrote a whole thing to answer an ask so here we go:

“Ugh, Ilya. This is your fault.”

Ilya looks up to where Shane is standing in front of the full length mirror mounted to the wall of their room, struggling to get his shirt fit properly. It’s the shirt he’d packed for their travel-home day just over two weeks ago when they’d been preparing for the cruise. Nothing remarkable, just a soft slimfit cotton t-shirt in a warm summery shade of butter yellow. 

The remarkable part is that Shane has grown enough over the last two weeks that he can’t get the t-shirt to stay put over the bottom of his stomach. He keeps tugging it down, pulling on the fabric, trying to get it to stretch, but to no avail. As soon as he lets it go, it slides right back up again, leaving two or so inches of soft, tanned skin exposed between the bottom of the shirt and the top of his now too tight gym shorts. 

As Ilya watches, Shane gives up, huffing. He throws his hands up in exasperation. “See?” 

Ilya smirks at him. The late afternoon sun is streaming in through the window, making Shane’s skin glow more golden than usual. Ilya is struck for a moment by how beautiful he is. He fingers the crucifix hanging around his neck, thanking anyone that may or may not be listening that he had the fortune of meeting this man.

“And this is my fault?” He asks.

“Yeah, it’s your fault! I don’t think you’ve let me stop eating since the day we got here.” Shane pouts, looking down at himself. 

Ilya makes an exaggerated face, like Shane has deeply offended him. “Shane. This is not true! There are at least 8 hours every night where you were sleeping and not eating!”

Shane looks at him pointedly and raises an eyebrow.

“Okey, fine, except for one night,” he concedes. Ilya had indeed woken Shane up in the middle of the night just once towards the end of their first week on the cruise to feed him a plate of spanakopita. It had been fun and hot to feed Shane while he was sleepy and pliant and still full from his massive dinner, and it had been very hot when Shane woke up the next morning still full from the midnight snack, just in time for his hearty breakfast. Sleeping was also fun, though, and they’d both decided they preferred to be asleep through the night.  

“Come here.” Ilya beckons Shane over to where he’s seated on the bed. Shane obeys, coming to stand a couple feet away from Ilya’s spread thighs. Ilya gives the situation a proper assessment. 

The shirt does not fit. If Shane were to raise his arms above his head and put them back down, the shirt would likely ride up above his navel and stay there. The yellow cotton is stretched over the curve of the gut he’s steadily growing, and is riding up to display the soft love handles that have sprouted over the course of their relationship. Ilya doubts he’d be able to get the shirt to fit properly even if his stomach was empty. And Shane’s stomach is certainly not empty, Ilya knows this. His Shane is full and he looks it, tummy still heavy and swollen with the food Ilya had loaded into him earlier in order to make the most of their last day. 

Ilya smiles to himself, bringing both hands up to cup Shane’s belly, pushing his shirt up over its crest and smoothing his palms over the warm skin. He’s so plump now, every mouthful of food that Ilya made sure was packed into him during their two-week vacation evident in the way he can sink his fingers even further into the soft, sweet curve of Shane’s underbelly, the way his bellybutton seems even deeper. 

Ilya runs the tips of his fingers gently over the couple of new, ruddy stretch marks that had popped up along the bottom of Shane’s belly where the majority of the new weight had decided to settle. He’d done the math. If they wanted to maximize the opportunity the cruise provided, Shane could in theory gain a pound for each day he ate approximately 3,500 calories beyond what his body normally required. It seemed like a lot, but Ilya had looked up the nutritional information for some of the dishes served at restaurants on the ship, and they had realized it wouldn’t be difficult at all if they dedicated themselves. There were myriad items that boasted 1000 or more calories, and that was without sides or desserts. That wasn’t even taking into account the calories in drinks and desserts and all the rich food available en masse at the various buffets. 

They’d tried to vaguely keep track at first, but once it seemed clear that Shane could successfully hit 6,000 calories a day they’d stopped bothering. Shane had weighed himself before breakfast today, and while they hadn’t hit a full 14 pounds in 14 days, Shane was 12 pounds heavier than he had been when he first set foot on the cruise ship. He’d worked very hard on this vacation, dutifully putting away all the food Ilya handed him, and keeping himself topped off throughout the day with various blended cocktails and tropical juices and plenty of snacks. Ilya is very proud of him. Best feedee on the ship, he’s decided. 

He leans in and presses a kiss to the roundest part of Shane’s gut, sliding his hands around to squeeze his love handles, and slipping them down to cup his rounder ass. He feels Shane shiver and hears a strangled noise above him. Ilya looks up to see Shane biting his lip hard, cheeks flushed pink, staring down at where Ilya’s mouth is hovering over his stomach. 

“What is it, malysh?” Ilya grins at him, palming the overfed tummy in front of him and giving it a shake. Shane moans, his softer pecs rising and falling as his breathing quickens. 

“Feels good, Ilya, fuck.” 

“Hmm, I bet it does. But that will have to wait. We have to go or we will miss our return flight.”

“Ugh, fuck off.” Shane steps back, rolling his eyes. He looks at his watch. “Fuck, you’re right.”

He turns and catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror again. “Shit, Ilya, the shirt, that was the whole point of what I was saying. This shirt doesn’t fit, I can’t go to the airport like this!” He looks plaintively at Ilya, tugging uselessly on the hem again. 

“Put on a different shirt?” Ilya suggests, knowing full well none of his other shirts would fare any better. 

“They’re all too small.” Shane admits, flushing an even deeper shade.

“Hmm. You did get a little fat, I am not surprised.” 

Cutting off Shane’s indignant protest, Ilya stands and rifles through his tote bag. “Is good thing I prepared. Catch.” He tosses a wadded up bundle of fabric at Shane.

“What’s this?” Brows furrowed, Shane shakes out the fabric, which turns out to be a roomy white t-shirt. He reads the words printed on the front and then flops his head back with a groan. “Ohhh my godddddddd, Ilya, I can’t stand you.” 

“That should fit, I think.” Ilya smiles, pleased with himself. “I got it a couple sizes too big just in case.” 

Shane looks at him, completely unamused. He turns the t-shirt around, showing Ilya the bright red block lettering. It reads, ‘I went on a feedee cruise, and now all that fits is this t-shirt.’

Ilya cackles, even though he already knew what it would say. Shane glares. 

“Come on, moya lyubov, we must go. We do not have all day. Put it on.”

Still glaring, Shane struggles out of the yellow shirt, throwing it at Ilya, and slips the souvenir shirt over his head. It fits. If anything, it’s oversized; the bottom covers half of his shorts.

“It’s too big.” Shane says, with more than a hint of snark. 

Ilya wanders into the bedroom, where Shane is standing shirtless in front of the mirror. His chin smushes into his neck as he looks down at his stomach. 

“Everything okay?” Ilya asks carefully. 

“No, yeah,” Shane says. “I’m just wondering. Do you think I’m just bloated, or am I starting to get a little bit —fat?”

Heat surges through Ilya’s groin at those words, the game he knows Shane is playing. He crosses to stand in front of Shane, joining his hands on the curve of Shane’s belly. 

“Hmm,” Ilya hums, stroking his fingers across the shape of it. “Let’s see. Getting round, your belly.” 

“Mmm,” Shane agrees. “True.” His eyes are darkened and his tongue darts over his lips, a noticeable bulge in his gray sweatpants.

Ilya has to swallow back a grin to keep up the performance.

“And soft,” Ilya continues faux-thoughtfully, pinching an inch of warm, pliant flesh and rubbing it between his fingertips as Shane sucks in a breath.

“It is—it is pretty soft, isn’t it.” 

“Soft enough to jiggle when I do this, I think.” Ilya takes a handful of Shane’s belly and shakes it once before letting go, both of their eyes fixing on the way it jiggles and bounces back down over Shane’s waistband.

“Huh,” Shane says, his eyes a little hazy. “So what do you think? Just bloated, right?”

Ilya takes Shane’s hands under his own and presses them deep into the soft pillow of Shane’s middle, leaning close so his breath ghosts across Shane’s ear. “Maybe forty pounds ago,” Ilya says, voice low. “But I think you know this is all fat, kotik.”

“Yeah. Probably.” Shane sounds a little breathless. He rocks his hips forward to rub himself on Ilya’s thigh.

“There is no probably,” Ilya tsks. He squeezes down on Shane’s love handles and purrs, “You liked my cooking so much that you ate and ate until you made yourself chubby, didn’t you.”

Shane lets out a low moan. His cock is starting to leak through his sweatpants, rubbing damply on Ilya’s bare thigh.

“Look at you,” Ilya continues, running his hands down the plump rolls of Shane’s back to grab a handful of ass in each palm. “Shane Hollander. Star athlete. Hero of Canada. So many Cup wins, so many goals. Who would have guessed that all he wants to do in retirement is get fat for his husband.”

“Fuck,” Shane gasps. “Please—please, I want—I need—“

“Need what, sweetheart? My cock in your ass, your dick in my mouth, what? Use your words.”

“Fuck, Ilya, can you—“

Ilya feels the moment Shane comes, the wet drag against his leg, the shudder of Shane’s breath, the sudden boneless weight of Shane’s head on Ilya’s shoulder. Ilya wraps his arms around him, rubs small circles on Shane’s back as he breathes through it.