Heated for Bellies

Ok ok I'll bite. Maybe this plane just doesn't have a roomier section maybe they're middle class in this one (making them normal is my guilty pleasure) maybe I just need to free my rigid mind (true on all accounts).

When they get to their row, Ilya is already hiding more than a touch of apprehension behind a neutral brow. The aisle was smaller than he'd remembered; he'd had to turn to the side somewhat not to take anything out with his elbows or his ass— it had been awkward going, even for someone who considers himself, fairly, to carry his weight with purpose and a certain leonine grace. His is dread is legitimized when he cautiously sits down, and confirms that he's become too fucking fat for an airplane seat. Not like he hadn't seen the flight attendants giving each other looks.

Even shifting to the side, squishing himself up against the wall, his thighs overflow into the next seat over, the armrest lost behind his back, which might not be a problem if his boyfriend was 10 inches wide, but Shane hasn't gotten any smaller lately either. He crosses his arms, resting them on the wide cushion of his belly, and looks up at Shane, who's standing in the aisle rummaging for something in his bag in the overhead. "Good luck to whoever is sitting with us."

"Huh?" Shane looks down, taking out his earbuds case, and Ilya gestures to his body's generous spread, his hips and the roll of fat at his sides taking up more than their fair share of the row.

"Oh," Shane says, lowering his voice, "No one's sitting there. The middle seat's yours too." Shane, who's been handling the tickets while Ilya handled the itinerary, and the bags, and forgot to tell Ilya that he thought Ilya had crossed over into two-seat territory. What had been the signs? Getting too fat to do sit ups? The way his ass overhangs the dining room chairs?

Regardless, all the dread of sitting stock still the entire flight with his fat knees squeezed together to be "polite" leaves his chest. "God, really?" he sighs, "You save my life, Hollander." Shane amazes him every day.

"I definitely told you," Shane says, sliding in beside his partner, mostly looking down but stealing a confirmative glance at the relief glowing high on Ilya's cheekbones, which are holding on even as his face gets meatier. He'd said it right after he'd bought the tickets, weeks ago. They'd just had dinner; he remembers it perfectly.

Send me a kink and I'll rate it:

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ all time fave. need it in my life.

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ very good. would like to explore it.

⭐️⭐️⭐️ fun to read. probably wouldn't partake.

⭐️⭐️ fine. I'll read it, but with heavy side eye.

⭐️ indifferent. i have no horses in this race.

🚫 hate it. no thank you. not for me at all.

hi tummy enjoyers where are you guys gimme motivation to draw

Tip jar

If you haven't read to first three, you can do so here.

What I have so far is below the cut (non-graphic explicit content "warning")... I want to figure out at least another scene and a half before I call it done

Post coming out Scott is having the time of his life, he has an active social life now, he’s no longer living alone in big empty apartment. Of course he’s going to indulge, he’s happy. And this is Stanley Cup winner Scott Hunter thank you very much, he can get a little chunky if he wants!!

There’s so many opinion pieces about Scott’s weight gain, talking about how he’s getting softer and maybe age is catching up with him a little. He does listen to them because his tendency towards self hatred dies hard but Kip is there to distract him with a sweet treat and mind blowing sex so who gives a fuck what some guy with a podcast says.

The idea of Scott eating all those pastries and having to go to practice stuffed and deal with all the good natured chirping of his teammates even though they don’t even know that there’s currently twelve pastries that were meant for them in his stomach. He’d be a little bit more ashamed if it wasn’t so hot to him.

Kip is thrilled by all of this, even if he has to coax this desire out of Scott because he’s the king of avoiding his feelings (and now eating them instead).

please heed the tags/warnings on each fic and read at your own risk. I have provided links and tagged authors whose tumblrs I could find. lemme know if I missed somebody. mwah. 🫶🏻

So in the leadup to the film shoot, Hudson starts trying to put on a little weight. And maybe "starts" is the wrong word. Maybe the more accurate word for what he's doing is "stopping" - stopping the rules and restrictions he's had around food ever since he started film school and learned how important lean muscle and cut abs are for opening certain hollywood doors, doors that a mixed kid from Kamloops with no industry connections absolutely could not afford to have closed. But now - now he has an excuse to stop avoiding bread, stop avoiding white rice and noodles and pasta; an excuse to stop buying the plain nonfat greek yogurts and try the sweeter, creamier ones with mix-ins and flavors instead. An excuse to get burgers whenever he craves them and not even throw out the buns, then to wash them down with real-sugar Cokes or thick chocolate milkshakes just because. 

And it feels - a little scary, he's not going to lie - but mostly it feels good. Because it's for work, he reminds himself. He’s not indulging like this for the hell of it. It’s for his job. It’s for the craft. So when the shoot starts and Hudson's put on a soft, rounded belly that pushes gently over his waistband, he snaps a picture of himself cradling it in the mirror and sends it to Connor with the 🫃emoji as a caption. 

Connor writes back immediately. you big slut, who knocked you up while i was away

your mom, Hudson sends, and then leaves his phone in his trailer to get to work. 

And he fucking loves the film. It's smart and well-written and he's not trying to be conceited, but he's pretty sure he's doing some of his best work of his entire career. Plus, the shoot's filming in rural Alberta, so it's a welcome break from the constant pap shots he was getting in la and vancouver. It's like he's in a world entirely alone with the story, alone the character. The changes in his body have helped a lot with that. It's a little hard to recognize himself, sometimes; the softness in his jaw, the unfamiliar feel of stomach fat brushing against the front of his t-shirts - but that just makes it even easier to channel himself into the role, until the man/celebrity/commodity known as ‘Hudson Williams’ disappears entirely.

(And disappearing like that - that's something Hudson has secretly wished for more often than he should, ever since that fateful November when this whole thing started.)

But then, too quickly, the shoot wraps. He's not his character anymore, he's returned forcibly to the whirlwind of life as capital H capital W Hudson Williams. Only this time Hudson Williams is - fat. 

Okay. Maybe he's not that fat, but for entertainment industry standards he's fucking huge. The first time he goes to his usual gym and catches someone taking a picture of him out of the corner of his eye, his whole body floods with panic in a way it hasn't in years. Fuck. He tries his best to stay offline, tries not to imagine what twitter is saying about him, reminds himself that once he loses the weight all the stories are going to only be about how impressive it was that he was able to transform so much for a role and still make it back to shredded shape in time to film more steamy hockey sex scenes.

But. The problem is. Hudson can't seem to lose the weight.

Okay, maybe a pound or two comes off in the beginning, but then weeks go by and he just fucking plateaus. He’s working out as hard as he can, he's put himself back on his trainer-recommended low-carb high-protein meal plan, but - sometimes he just can't help it. The months free from his diet had reminded him how damn good a lot of foods were, and he can't help giving himself cheat days more often than he ever had in the past, even though every bite is now tinged with panic and guilt as he opens more selfies from Connor and stares at his best friend’s washboards abs. Fuck. The more anxious he gets, the more he comforts himself with food, and the cycle continues. In the end, he gains back the two pounds he'd managed to lose, and adds even a few more. He knows some of it is muscle - that's the good thing about working out through all this, his shoulders and arms are fucking beasts - but he knows from the softness of his belly and face that a lot of it is fat. 

So Hudson goes into the Heated Rivalry shoot like a man heading off to war. He hasn't seen Connor in person in months, and he's avoided sending pictures ever since his movie had wrapped and the belly hadn't melted away with the job. Because it was one thing to get chubby for a role. It's another thing for it to be four months later, given access to all the resources and nutrition and exercise equipment in the world, and still be chubby. It meant he was weak. It meant he was a failure and a joke and was about to be fired and recast from his own show-

There's a knock on his air-bnb door. "Huddy!" Connor's yelling before Hudson even gets the door fully open, and then he's wrapping Hudson in a huge, lung-crushing bear hug. Connor smells like sweat and American Spirits and the Axe body spray he still uses even though he can afford the fanciest colognes on the market. Hudson's missed him so much he could nearly cry.

"Hey," Hudson mumbles into Connor's shoulder, afraid to draw back and let Connor take a good look at him; afraid Connor can already feel it from the way the softness of Hudson’s middle presses against Connor's rock-hard abdomen. 

But when Connor lets him go, he just starts chattering excitedly about the shooting schedule, his plane ride, meeting up with Ksenia earlier that day, asking Hudson about his cat, etc. He talks about basically everything on the planet except Hudson's body, and the longer it goes on the more Hudson starts to feel a little crazy. Is it possible Connor somehow hadn't noticed? Seems doubtful, but what the hell. Hudson’s going to remove that possibility just in case.

"Mmmm," he hums along to one of Connor's anecdotes, then lifts his hands above his head in a stretching-yawn. The movement makes his t-shirt ride up, exposing the unmistakably soft curve of his belly. 

Connor's voice doesn't falter as he keeps telling his story, but his eyes flick down to Hudson's middle and then dart quickly away, a flush of pink coloring his cheeks. But he still doesn't say anything about Hudson’s body.

Huh. That's...weird.

Finally Hudson can't take it anymore. When Connor's talking about some new position they'll be folded into in episode 2 - "Audiences are really going to love that one," - Hudson scratches the back of his neck and says, as casually as he can, "Yeah, hope they still love it even with. You know."

"With what?" Connor asks, finally slowing his incessant chatter to frown in confusion, and Hudson sighs.

"Con, you can just say it. I know I got fat, and you actually look fucking stupid blathering on and not saying anything about it. Like, if I’d showed up with some wack haircut or an ugly tattoo you would’ve been ragging me since you walked in here, so go ahead." He looks down at his belly and gives it a rueful slap. "Hopefully Jacob's got some TV magic to make this look better on camera, or we might be getting a lot more angry fan complaints."

When he looks back up, Connor’s eyes are fixed on Hudson’s middle, the way it’s still jiggling slightly behind his thin t-shirt. Connor’s eyes have gone very dark. Something hot curls in Hudson’s blood that he forces back down. 

“Okay, okay, sorry,” Connor says at last, tearing his eyes from Hudson’s stomach and going even redder in the cheeks. “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. But - Huddy, you gotta know that we’re not going to get any angry complaints. Probably just more horny love letters. Remember the amount of panties we got in the mail last season? Double it. No, triple—”

“The fuck are you on about?” Hudson says, getting a little annoyed. “You don’t have to lie to make me feel better—”

“Have you been online at all?” Connor asks, and Hudson frowns..

“Not really. Not since I started, you know, putting on the weight, but—hey, what are you doing online? You told me you barely even use your cell phone anymore!”

“Right,” Connor says, rocking back on his heels and scratching the back of his neck. “And that was true, but then— a lot of paparazzi shots started coming out of you, and god you just looked so fucking hot, man, juicy and meaty and thighs like you could crush a watermelon—or my head—and you’d stopped sending me selfies! So what else was I supposed to jerk off to!”

“Sure,” Hudson says, pressing his thumb between his eyebrows because he can’t really process all of that right now. “But what’s—”

“And so I’ve been a little more online than usual, okay, I’ll admit it. And let me tell you, Hud. If people were horny for you before, it’s dialed up by ten thousand. Ten million. There are separate update accounts dedicated to your ass and tummy and thighs, I think even one for your—”

“Okay, okay, I get it,” Hudson cuts him off, because his head is spinning a little bit. He takes a deep breath, tries not to get dizzy at the idea that Connor might be checking those update accounts regularly. Might be jacking off to them. “So,” he says faintly, “the fangirls of the world are into bears now, who fucking knew. Arc of the universe really does bend toward justice, as I believe Dr. King once said.” 

Connor laughs out loud at that, and god, that sound, it warms something in Hudson straight to the core. All these months, he hadn’t dared to hope they would still—but Connor had already called him hot, so maybe—

“And…you?” Hudson asks, unable to keep the slightest bit of shyness from his voice. “You won’t mind having to act out sex scenes with a guy with some meat on his bones?”

“Mind?” Connor repeats, stepping closer until he’s crowding Hudson against the wall, hands reaching out to graze the soft sides of Hudson’s waist. “Hudson, I gotta be real with you, there’s a real chance I’m going to end up coming in my cock sock.”

Hudson’s mouth opens to laugh, but Connor gets there first, fitting his lips to Hudson’s and kissing him fiercely as both their chests shake with laughter. Connor’s hands roam Hudson’s sides and settle on his plush waist, giving just the slightest squeeze, but it’s enough to make Hudson gasp in Connor’s mouth, tugging on Connor’s hips to grind the hard length of his cock against him. 

Summary:

Shane's gained weight after retirement. He likes it.

Shane is aware that he’s gotten big. Too big, probably. He's aware that his stomach rounds out his torso unless he sucks it in and that there’s that stubborn bit of fat that puffs out over his waistbands even if they’re not that tight. His thighs wear through every pair of pants he has. He'd already grown himself out of size Large, how could he not know? 

But it is still somehow a surprise when Ilya cups his hands around Shane’s pecs, his former pecs, and presses them together. Ilya is staring so long that Shane looks down, too, and sees what he can only describe as fucking cleavage. 

Ilya’s eyes are lit up, delighted, and he’s smiling wide at Shane’s… well. He’s been trying to avoid naming them. Ilya does not share the same reservations. He says, “Holy shit, Hollander. Your tits have grown since I have last seen them.”

He squeezes indulgently, rubs his thumbs over Shane’s nipples. Shane shudders under his touch, despite himself. His voice shakes when he tries to fire back, “Fuck you, Rozanov.”

Ilya leans in to bite at Shane’s jawline, his fucking double chin. “Mm, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Maybe I should fuck these tits instead, hm?”

“Fuck off.”

“Yes, I think I will. And then I’ll get you a pretty push-up bra so you will look very nice for me.” Ilya mouths at his neck. Shane should push him away, but he doesn’t. He just takes it, Rozanov’s tongue and teeth, his words, his hands groping his tits. They make Shane’s insides squirm and his blood hot, and he should hate it. He should. Against Shane’s throat, Ilya says, “What do you think? B-cup?” 

Shane does shove him back, then, towards the bed. “I’m not wearing a fucking bra for you, asshole.”

Thank you for thinking about depressed Ilya. So am I, and this is indeed such a perfect way for it to go down.

Ilya gets on a medication that works— he has energy for the first time in months, he doesn’t feel like bursting into tears whenever he isn’t distracting himself— but he goes from 190 to 230 in a single season. It’s mostly because he has an appetite again, no more force-feeding himself, all genuine desire to eat, but it’s still a side effect, and it’s still very sudden. He starts snoring at night, has to get a whole new wardrobe because he can’t fit into his cold weather clothes. If he gets heavier, and it seems like he might, his joints will start to feel it. When Shane looks at him, Shane feels like a starving dog.

The desire is so specific, the imagery in his mind of Ilya’s thickening thighs pinning him down, his hairy belly under t-shirts, that he finds himself google searching ‘husband gained weight and I like it normal’ ‘is it bad i like partner fat’ and ‘sexual attraction weight gain’, finds out both that this is very much a thing, and that certain people have very negative reactionary opinions about it. Ilya must be in the latter camp, he thinks. Ilya is normal, and he’s a freak. Earlier that day, Ilya had made a joke about the increasing size of his ass, and Shane is pretty sure he’d meant it to be self-deprecating. If Shane was into the thing Ilya is ashamed of—and he is into that thing, had had to swallow a twinge of arousal after the joke and tell Ilya vaguely that a lot of people would kill to have his ass— it would be gross. There’s no way he can do anything about this, and it just gets worse and worse.

All he wants is to feel Ilya’s body when they fuck, grab his freckled love handles, be crushed, to watch in a double mirror as Ilya fucks him upright just to see how big he looks, lick the dimples in his broad back… but he withholds himself. Keeps his hands off in a way he hopes is respectful, anything not to let on that he likes this thing that Ilya is unhappy with, so he doesn’t mess up Ilya’s new decent mood or make things weird. They keep having sex, of course they do— maybe there was a brief dry period before the antidepressant started working, so they have to make up for lost time tenfold— but he’s more and more in his head, he starts having to imagine guilty fantasies to climax, and Ilya can tell something is wrong.

“Are you ever going to tell me what you’re thinking?” Ilya asks him. They’re feet away from each other on the bed. Shane has his arms crossed, hands to himself.

“…Probably, I’ll have to eventually,” he says. Licks his lips. Now’s that time. Here comes the beginning of the end. He sighs, looking down at his own flat belly, his flaccid dick. “…I…” he starts, “I… just have a weird thing happening and I’m going to get over it, but right now I’m. Well. I’m getting turned on by your… stomach.”

Ilya raises his eyebrows, looks over at Shane. “My stomach?” He repeats.

“Your… weight,” Shane clarifies. Feels like he’s about to be thrown in jail.

Ilya opens his mouth, closes it again. “And this is bad thing.”

“I know. I know it’s weird, it’s not normal, and I promise you I’m going to do something about it. Just right now, I—“

“Shane.” Ilya turns onto his side to face him, moving closer in the process, big hand resting on the bed between them, a crease forming on his side between his ribs and his hip, and Shane is mortified. “Why is it not normal. This is my body. Is that not normal?”

“It’s not normal the way I’m thinking about it.”

“What, you are thinking you like my real body, and this is a bad thing?”

“It’s not just your body, it’s the fact that you gained weight.”

“Oh, so terrible that you’re horny for me.” Ilya pokes him. “All this time I was thinking the opposite, you know that, that you were missing how I used to be?”

“Oh, no. No.” He feels terrible. “I was trying to be neutral,” he says, “I wanted to avoid making you uncomfortable, but I guess I overcompensated. I should have talked to you, but I was scared.” He turns to face Ilya. “I’m sorry.”

Ilya nods. “I’m sorry you felt like you couldn’t tell me.”

“…How do you… feel about it?”

“My weight? Mm. I don’t mind, but maybe better if you were enjoying it. You like this?” He grabs his own hip, jiggling it, digging his fingers in. “You want to do it?”

He sits up, and scoots over to lay against Ilya, putting an arm around hm, trying to let himself really feel the shape of him for the first time in a while. “Right now I just wanna lay here.”

Ilya takes Shane’s free hand and hugs it to his chest. “…I will never not like you for telling me the truth, Okay?” he says, “Or think you are weird. I am weird. We are both weird.”

“…Different kinds of weirdness.” Shane mumbles into his shoulder.

“…Maybe not really.”

“…No?”

“No.”

“…Okay. I love you.”

anyway, at all stars a bunch of the players are out at a restaurant, loud and raucous on a long table, and shane and ilya aren't sat that close together, and ilya surreptitiously texts shane with what he should order, and he does, and he eats it all even though it feels like a lot, and he's pleasantly full and flushed by the end (also thanks to the fact ilya told him to have two beers across the course of the meal). but when the server's coming to take all the empty plates, shane's phone buzzes.

same again

and he feels SO hot and flustered, like it's one thing to be eating when everyone else is but this is going to be SO humiliating to have to order a whole extra main when everyone else is finished, and he's so sure he's not going to do it, except ilya is giving him this really intense stare, and when the waiter comes to take his plate Shane finds himself saying, "um, could i get another burger and fries with a side of wings and mac and cheese, please?"

and he hoped he was being subtle about it but it feels like the whole table has gone dead quiet and then carter vaughn wolf whistles and says "damn, hollander, seems like someone's hungry," and shane's going SO red but luckily someone else chirps about how he'll need the energy so their team can annihilate the other team tomorrow, and everyone gets chattering again, and shane's just sitting quiet and squirming a little as ilya keeps shooting him pointed looks.

and think about how when the food arrives there's literally nowhere to hide, like everyone is pretty much just watching shane eat, and he's trying to get it over with as quickly as he can but it's hard when about halfway through the plate he has to slow down because he's so, so full, and wyatt hayes is like "hey, bud, you don't have to eat all that you know," because shane is looking like he's really struggling, and shane hiccups and says "no, no, i want to, i really am still hungry" which is such an obvious lie when his belly is starting to strain against his shirt, round and obviously full to bursting, but he's got this determined look on his face that most of the guys recognise from when he beat ilya in the speed skating skills competition earlier in the day, so they sort of leave him to it, but they can't stop casting little surprised sideways glances as he manages to swallow the final bites and collapses back in his chair, barely stifling a little groan, and one hand goes to cradle his swollen tummy but then quickly drops back to his lap like he's embarrassed, and at this point ilya is staring at him so hard people are at risk of noticing something but he just can't tear his eyes away from how completely stuffed shane looks and the fact he did all that just for ilya even though it meant enduring the gentle teasing of all the others commenting on shane's big appetite and how he surely can't have dessert because he looks like he'll explode if he has one more bite.

if you cannot engage with fat people outside of a fetish context, you should not be engaging with fat people within a fetish context.

if you are unable to walk the line of differentiating a sexual fetish from how you fundamentally view & experience fat bodies & the vast complexity & deep humanity of fat people, you are not trustworthy with that fetish to begin with.

essentially: if fat people are so fused with fat fetish in your mind that it all blurs together & you can’t connect with us without the fetish being present (& we can always tell when it is, even when you think you’re being slick)…

Had to just sit on and imagine this one for a minute, thank youuu. Fuck.

Say it's late afternoon, crucially before dinner (he'll be too full after the ribyeye steak and green beans and roasted yukon gold, hors d'oeuvres, too much dessert, to fully enjoy Shane's weight on his torso, at least for an hour)... sunset, windows open, breeze cool but their bodies are warm. Shane straddles Ilya's thighs and Ilya shifts to help accommodate him, giving Shane's own plush sides an indulgent squeeze as he arches his back, rocks his hips side to side ever so slightly to let gravity do some of the work as Shane pushes the tender, heavy apron of his stomach back and away from his cock and moves into position.

Shane's legs are spread wide to straddle the width of him, feet on the bed, one hand for stability— as much as he can reach, and when he gets on, his inner thighs and groin press into the silky underside of Ilya's stomach, skin on skin, doing the rest of the work; perfect pressure for both of them as he starts to grind.

"Mm," Ilya sighs, proud and stirred up and smug, "Good work, kotik." Shane makes it look easy, how bad he needs him that he'd stay so adept even as Ilya's body changes. So dedicated for him.

Shane's eyes are closed, his mouth open. "I trained for this for... twelve years..." he replies breathlessly, forget his career, why spend so much time in the gym if not to be able to enjoy his husband, "I— oh—you think—ah, fuck—"