baz. he/him. hollanov get chubby now

While Ilya’s new weight was pretty evenly spread across his whole body, Shane was beginning to sport a proper little pear-shaped belly with modest love handles, complete with soft pink stretch marks. His thighs had thickened out to the point of starting to chafe a little, plump and juicy, and his ass had rounded to the point of breaking through more than one pair of boxers, but the weight was settling by far the most comfortably around his middle. 

For the first few months of their arrangement, it remained something of an unspoken topic between them. They were both obviously acutely aware that Shane was tipping further over the edge towards being certifiably chubby by the day, having to suck in to squeeze into his t-shirts each morning, but it wasn't overtly commented on by either of them: it was almost as if they were ignoring the growing, hungry elephant in the room. 

Neither of them knew whether the other was avoiding bringing up the topic out of fear of upset, embarrassment, or just prolonging the (hot) game of simply pretending nothing was different and Shane’s body wasn't actively changing and expanding, slowly but surely outgrowing his entire wardrobe with each extra helping. 

The elephant remained comfortably between them until the pivotal day, six months into retirement, that Entertainment Weekly dropped their headline, ‘From Stanley Cups to Bargain Buckets? Ex-Hockey Legend Shane Hollander Shocks Fans With Dramatic Weight Gain: Exclusive Pics’.

The article was complete with distant paparazzi shots of Shane collecting Anya from the groomers in sunglasses, a baseball cap and a tight t-shirt and shorts, the outline of his newly plump stomach clearly visible through the clinging fabric. 

Anya’s lead was in one hand; in the other was a large KFC bag, collected obediently after Ilya texted him with instructions to pick up the ample online order he’d placed for Shane’s lunch. 

Shane, of course, was made starkly aware of the article’s existence as soon as it dropped, by Yuna. 

With his retirement, Shane had insisted, with Ilya’s encouragement, that she also retired her role as his manager so he could try living life without the stress of high-profile, high-visibility brand deals thrust upon him every month, and just have his mother be his mother. 

He was growing deeply fond of writing journalistic pieces covering the hockey world in his free time, with TSN even offering him a bi-weekly column on their website, and was relishing in the ability to stay engaged with his deepest passion without the pressure and distress of public-facing stardom and scrutiny. 

His deliberate shift away from the public eye didn't stop her, however, from keeping a hawkish eye on his (fading, to his delight) media presence, as well as keeping close tabs on his personal life: she had made a few small comments here and there about his weight so far, mainly under the loose guise of asking whether he needed help structuring his diet without his sports dietician, to which he always insisted he was fine, thank you very much, and just enjoying getting to relax for the first time. 

The passivity of her attitude toward his recent added weight, however, took a swift left turn with the publication of the first photos of his new chunkier physique. 

He and Ilya had just come back from a long morning forest walk with Anya when he checked his phone to find the following urgently typed texts from Yuna: 

‘https://ew.com/shane-hollander-shocks-fans-weight-gain-KFC-122102481 Shane. This is not good.’

‘Photographed with fast food as the founder and ambassador of a sports charity? These are not the kind of optics you want for yourself. Call me.’

‘Shane - are you there?’

‘We need to talk about this, honey. I think it's diet time, we don't want another one of these headlines. Let's turn this around. Call me ASAP.’

“Oke, I think we deserve a nice big lunch after all that, Hollander,” Ilya mused as he strolled leisurely to the kitchen past Shane, who was frozen stock still, staring down at his phone. “I am thinking leftover lasagne, garlic bread and nice big crunchy salad, how does that sound? … Shane? Zaychik, hey, what is wrong?”

“...Think I need to – lose some weight, Ilya,” Shane muttered, sounding as if he were forcing the words through a thick layer of barbed wire in his throat. His eyes stayed glued downwards to the phone he was gripping tightly as he spoke, and his posture was shrunken inward. “Think, um.. maybe a real diet. Would be good.”

“Why do you say this?” Ilya asked gently, moving closer to Shane calmly and steadily, in the way he knew how to when his love was distressed. 

He had to bite back a gut-instinct “No!” from escaping his lips, growing angrier and angrier at what–or who–ever had made Shane flip in an instant from teasingly hinting about wanting to a big lunch on their walk, rubbing and jiggling his softening middle fondly through his hiking shirt, to the state he was in now. 

Shane held his phone out for Ilya to take and closed his eyes tightly in shame, picking at the skin on his fingers as Ilya took in the article that was displayed on the screen. 

“I– this has been fun, Ilya, but I'm.. fuck, I’m so fucking embarrassed. Those photos, everyone’s gonna see–”

“See what? That your husband takes such good care of you?” Ilya frowned, taking an executive risk and placing a hand gently on the swell of Shane’s stomach, rubbing soft, possessive circles into it. 

“...It’s just the principle, I guess,” Shane sighed sheepishly, though he placed a hand fondly atop Ilya’s, resting on his gut. Promising, thought Ilya. “My mom’s right, we’re the face of a sports charity, I mean, I’m a fucking athl– ex-athlete. Shouldn't look like this.”

“Moye solnyshko, you shouldn't look like anything, this is bullshit,” Ilya said seriously, putting his other hand on Shane’s tense shoulder to ground him. “The point of the charity is not what we look like, this is silly idea. Is so much more than that, you know this. That is, ah… superficial. Is how you feel that matters.”

“Mm,” Shane hummed softly, still engaged in battle with himself in his mind. 

“Listen, here is how I see it,” Ilya explained, employing his most confident I Know Best voice and gently leading Shane to the kitchen, pulling out a stool at their breakfast bar for his stressed sweetheart to sit on. “When you were athlete, you had body for being the best athlete. Perfect. This is not your purpose anymore, though, milyy. So why need an athlete’s body?”

“But,” Shane protested, face screwed up a little in mental peril. “What, so now I just have no purpose? Is that what you're saying?”

“Of course not, malysh,” Ilya soothed, voice as deep and thick as treacle as he came to stand beside Shane’s stool, looking down at him with the air of a wolf who’d spotted a lone rabbit. “Silly. Your purpose is to please me. You want to do that, don't you sweetheart?”

Shane’s stomach, uneasy with deep anxiety and embarrassment, flipped with a wave of hot arousal. 

Ilya was looming over him, looking so fucking huge, all thick, rugged muscle and tattoos and cat eyes and smirking lips, all his, all Shane’s, smelling of musk and sweat and man, his voice and words travelling straight to Shane’s dick. 

Shane would put his entire life in Ilya’s hands. 

“Well, yeah,” he swallowed, gazing up at his husband, who smiled. 

“Why do you care what anyone else thinks of you besides me, zaychik?” Ilya asked. 

“I… I don't,” Shane murmured, twirling his fingers around the hair of Ilya’s forearm. “Guess I just find it hard to stop, uh, thinking. About being judged.”

“I understand, my sweetheart,” Ilya continued lowly, wrapping his hand around the back of Shane’s neck to caress it and feeling Shane shudder and relax a little more. “We can work on this, stop that brain thinking so much, is not good for you. As long as you understand that all that matters is me. I know what is best for you, kotenok. Not fucking Entertainment Weekly, not Yuna, not anyone else.”

“Yeah,” Shane uttered softly, resting his head against Ilya’s thick, built abdomen and letting out a long sigh. 

“And, Shane,” Ilya added after a few long seconds of silent relief. Shane pulled his head back to look up at Ilya again, and was met with eyes dark and lust-filled. “So we are clear. I like you bigger. Is why I am feeding you so fucking much. And I know you like it, too.”

“Fuck,” Shane breathed, a thick wave of dizzying arousal coursing over him. 

He could hardly think straight, his dick was throbbing so hard in his pants. 

“I see you touching and jiggling your little belly all day, getting all horny and needy after you finish your meals,” Ilya continued, pupils blown from the rush of finally facing this head on, saying it out loud. “You like how it feels, don't you, zaychik? Being full, getting chubby for me. Changing your body for me. So fucking beautiful like this, Shane. So soft.”

He reached down to grope Shane’s round, soft belly for good measure. 

Shane groaned audibly, pink mouth hung open as he nodded, eyes lidded. 

Ilya couldn't resist bending down to kiss those plush lips hotly, hungrily, desperate, wet and aching, Shane moaning into his mouth as his gut was jiggled roughly. 

“So fucking perfect for me, Shane,” Ilya groaned breathlessly as they pulled apart. 

“God, Ilya, I like it so fucking much,” Shane whined, gripping Ilya’s wide shoulders.  “I'm obsessed, s’the best I've ever fucking felt, I never thought I'd actually do this. Thought about it for so long. Just feels so naughty.”

“You deserve it, kotenok, to be naughty,” Ilya said, “all your life you have done what everyone else wants. Is time for what you want, da? Time for what makes you feel good. Eating feels good, so eat. You start to feel anxious, or doubt, or embarrassed, you can do what makes you feel good, yes? Replace the bad with the good. Do what I want you to. Be good for me.”

“Yeah, fuck, I'll be good for you,” Shane moaned, gripping a handful of his own belly to feel its weight. “I-I get anxious but then when I eat so much it all goes away, feels so good.” 

Ilya had to grip his cock tightly at this, feeling as if he was going to bust in his pants like a fucking teenager. God, how was Shane so perfect?

“Fuck, that's a good boy,” he groaned, giving him another desperate kiss. “My good fucking boy. I bet you are hungry, huh, zaychik?”

Shane screwed his eyes shut for a second to cope with the hot wave of need crashing over him, thick and clouding his brain. Fuck. He really shouldn't keep doing this. 

His mind cast back for a second to Yuna’s texts, a flash of shame coming with them, but one look at Ilya and feel of the round, growing ball of fat packing onto his middle, one second of thinking about Ilya laying out a huge plate of creamy lasagne and crispy garlic bread and him devouring it, savouring the richness and flavour of each thick bite as he swallowed it all down into his expanding gut, the blissful, sated feeling of his full, heavy stomach and Ilya’s big hands massaging its distended form, relaxing into the plush sofa afterwards to digest, ready for more, and the texts and article were a distant memory. Inconsequential. Just a drop in the ocean. 

“..Yeah, I'm hungry,” Shane said with a small grin, biting his lip. 

“That's my good boy.”

After a pile of cheesy lasagne, garlic bread, a thick slice of red velvet cake hand-fed to him by Ilya and an orgasm, a relaxed and pleasure-drunk Shane wrote a (mostly) honest reply to Yuna, with the help of Ilya. 

“Mom - I don't need to go on a diet. My relationship with food has been a point of stress for me for my entire adult life. I don't want to restrict anymore. I'm learning to enjoy food for the first time, and I understand it's a shock that I’ve gained a little weight, but I'm healthy and happy. I’m not letting the article get to me - people can say what they want about me, but they don't really know me. I’d appreciate it if we didn't continue to discuss my body. Love you, see you soon.” 

“I am proud of you, solnyshko,” Ilya mused happily as Shane hit send, kissing his cheek. “How do tacos sound for dinner?”

He tried not to think about it, but the portion placed down in front of him at the table looked downright measly in his eyes - if he and Ilya were at home, Ilya would have ladled at least triple the amount of the rich, creamy dish onto a far larger plate for him. His stomach grumbled miserably at the meager serving and he placed a hand on it to soothe it, resisting the muscle-memory urge to jiggle and grope it indulgently as he did constantly at home, while David served up the rest of their plates and Yuna and Ilya discussed he and Shane’s latest holiday to Tuscany.

Now nearly a year and a half into the rolling bliss of retirement from professional hockey, Shane and Ilya had spent the last six months travelling Europe, relaxing on scenic beaches, sightseeing and greatly enjoying the local cuisine on offer at each destination - Shane taking great pleasure in diligently eating every rich, heavy delicacy Ilya presented him with, and Ilya taking immense satisfaction in making sure Shane was stuffed, mindless and panting, belly taut and distended, at every stop. 

The path to where Shane was now, a hundred pounds heavier than he’d ever been, mouth watering and burgeoning stomach rumbling atop his thighs from hunger at his parents’ dining table, about to reap the consequences of he and Ilya’s hedonistic habits with his overweight body in the most humiliating way imaginable, was not an easy one. 

At first, retiring had come with its challenges: for one, Shane had found that without the highly regimented structure of life as the top hockey player in the MLH, the simmering anxiety that lay perpetually inside him had begun to skyrocket. Suddenly, free time seemed to be all he had. Decisions were now his to make, and he didn't like it. He found himself full of prickly, anxious energy with every waking second with the newfound 'freedom', feeling constantly on the verge of a panic attack at the concept of suddenly having to choose, himself, what to do with each minute of his life, for the rest of his life. 

His natural reaction, at first, was to channel this anxiety into even stricter control of his food intake, his sports dietician now out of the picture, but this only made him feel endlessly worse. When Ilya found him broken down in tears on the floor of their kitchen in the early hours of the morning, two months into retiring, and Shane admitted he was beyond miserable, feeling out of control and jealous of Ilya for getting to enjoy eating, Ilya took it upon himself to help Shane enjoy good food and find a new way for Shane to ease his anxiety. 

Shane had also admitted in the tired, cuddly aftermath of said breakdown, in a voice quieter than breathing, so fast it was almost imperceptible, that he’d always been ‘a little intrigued’ (Shane-speak for ‘Totally Fucking Obsessed’) by the idea of overeating on purpose. Maybe even ‘not being skinny forever, y’know?’. 

At this tiny, fleeting half-confession from his sweetheart, searing heat shot down through Ilya’s stomach straight to his cock. 

Ilya was fluent in Shane-speak. The leading expert in the field, in fact. He knew exactly what Shane truly meant with this seemingly passing comment, and it aligned completely with Ilya’s own secret, deepest fantasy for as long as he could remember: the opportunity to fatten someone up. 

“Listen, котёнок, I have proposal for you,” Ilya broached between warm, sleepy kisses in bed as the sun filtered through the curtains the next morning. “Just… take a moment to sit with it and mull over before deciding, yes?”

“...Okay, fine,” Shane replied tentatively, shuffling back a little from the kisses to gear up for Ilya’s incoming elusive words. 

“I am thinking it is no good for my Shane to suddenly have to decide so much of his life after having his set schedules for so long. No good at all for him, do you agree?”

Shane shrugged and gave a nod, blinking. 

“I guess,” he added softly. “..I like being told what to do.”

“I know, любимый,” Ilya said fondly, tracing soft circles into Shane’s bare shoulder with his index finger. “This is where I think his very clever, very sexy husband could help.”

Shane snorted. 

“Go on,” he uttered, amused. 

“Your new dietician will be me,” Ilya proposed, with as much gusto and confidence as he could muster. “It is not your job to think about or stress over food for one more sad second. Is my job now. You eat what I say you eat, when I say you eat it. Poof! Stress removed. I am magician.”

He knew it was a hell of an ask for Shane, and one that had every likelihood of being shut down immediately, so he tried to put on an air of authority, as if he simply knew best: for one, he knew he did in this case, and for two, Shane always responded deliciously positively to Ilya guiding him through decisions with enough headstrong confidence for the both of them. 

“...What, like you own me or something?” Shane muttered, pointedly not looking at Ilya. 

He’d gone very still; his face wore the kind of stony expression he adopted when he wanted to express disapproval. 

Just as Ilya’s heart began to sink down to the low, respectable level of anticipated disappointment he’d set it up for, he felt something warm and unmistakable stir against his leg, nudging it. 

Shane, despite his admonishing expression, was growing hard. 

Ilya’s heart gained rocket fuel. 

“Yes, мой любимый, exactly. Because I do, don't I?” Ilya uttered softly, letting his voice sink into a deep, thick timbre. “My sweet boy, my Shane. Wouldn’t you let me do what I want with you? This would make you happy, yes? To be owned so thoroughly, so cared for?” 

Shane’s cheeks were blushing a deep red, and his cock had swelled to full hardness against Ilya’s thigh. He swallowed, lips parted slightly, and nodded shyly. 

Ilya grinned. He stroked Shane’s hot, soft cheek. 

“You own me, too, дорогой, just as I own you,” he continued, speaking against Shane’s lips so each word landed like a kiss. “Will you let me? Provide for you, keep you well-fed and owned? Let me do all the tricky thinking for you?”

“Fuck,” Shane breathed hotly, panting into Ilya’s mouth, and kissed him wetly, desperately, nodding. “Yes. Want you to. Own me. Fuck, decide for me. God, Ilya.”

And with that, Ilya’s indulgent plan was in action. He was practically buzzing from the inside out with the delicate trust and power he’d been granted over his precious Shane. 

For the first few months, he took things nice and slowly, easing Shane into the pleasant notion of no longer giving thought to his macro counts or cortisol levels, and helping him enjoy new foods at a steady pace. 

It gave him a heady thrill every time he presented Shane with a dish and uttered “eat it all up for me, milyy” to him gently with a kiss, and Shane obeyed diligently, nodding at him with his brown doe eyes before digging in, waiting happily for his praise when his plate was cleaned completely. 

“My good boy, well done,” Ilya would croon, kissing his cheeks and patting his slightly rounded tummy, an act that had Shane chubbing up in his pants a little every time without fail, “so perfect. Eating so well for me.”

Of course, Ilya immediately noticed Shane’s very positive reaction to the attention on his belly, and it took everything in him not to up the ante straight away and grope and smack at it in its full, slightly distended post-meal state, uttering filth into Shane’s ear as he did so and forcing another serving down his throat. He held off. 

Shane was growing more and more comfortable with eating increasing portion sizes and being in a constant state of slight bloatedness by the day, and the last thing he wanted was to scare him off by being impatient. 

Shane was starting to outwardly express his enjoyment at being genuinely full, too, to Ilya’s delight. After Ilya worked Shane up to enjoying large, rich dishes of creamy, cheesy pasta, sticky pork stir fries, stacks of fat pancakes dripping in syrup and butter, onion-ring-loaded burgers and bacon-loaded fries, Shane would, more often than not, place a hand on his own distended belly, which was beginning to grow a small, soft layer of fat over his finely chiselled abs, and hum contentedly, biting his lip and blushing at Ilya. 

Ilya would normally dole out his praise at this point, but a few months into this routine, he decided it was time to raise the stakes a little. 

Instead of saying anything after Shane finished his last slurp of braised pork belly ramen, leaning back in his chair with a hand on his tummy and looking to Ilya expectantly, Ilya simply picked up his bowl and headed back to the kitchen, leaving Shane sat dumbfounded at the dining table. 

He returned to a still-sat, frowning Shane, and placed his bowl back in front of him, now replenished with another full portion of rich, salty noodles and broth, complete with a generous helping of more fatty, crispy pork belly. 

Shane’s frown dissolved. He looked up at Ilya, mouth parted a little. 

“You…this is a whole extra portion,” he said softly. “M’pretty full, Ilya.”

Ilya raised his eyebrows, sitting back down opposite Shane. 

“Really? I thought I was in charge of your eating,” he began, adding a little sternness to his tone. “I decide when you are full. And I say you are not full. I say you are actually needing more than I have been giving you. I want my Shane to eat. So he will eat, yes? Or do you not want to do what I want you to anymore? Maybe you want to decide for yourself from now on?”

Shane shook his head frantically, mouth hung open. 

“No, fuck no, Ilya, I– of course, you're right,” he babbled, picking up his chopsticks and shoving a piece of pork into his mouth. He moaned a little at the taste before chewing thoroughly, gazing pleadingly at Ilya. “Whatever you want. M’yours.” 

“That's right, lyubimyy,” Ilya beamed, taking a second to squeeze his growing cock through his sweatpants under the table at the sight of Shane scrambling to stay under his good graces, obedient and owned, continuing to stuff himself at Ilya’s beck and call despite his admitted fullness. “There's my good boy. Always so good for me, my Shane. My greedy boy. I am in charge of your body, milyy.”

“Fuck,” Shane punched out in a breath between bites. “Yours. Feed me whatever you want, I'll eat it, fuck. For you.” 

Needless to say, this routine began to have its knock-on effects, in more ways than one.