summary: Ilya finally gets Shane comfortable enough to watch a hockey game after they retire (ft. Chubby Shane Hollander because why else would I have this handle lol).
On the couch, Shane settles between Ilya's legs, back to Ilya's chest and huffs out a small sigh. Ilya prides himself of his extensive and constantly-updated catalogue of Shane sounds, and is extra attentive this evening because, well... But he knows this one, has known it well these last couple of years since he and Shane retired. A contended noise, signifying Shane is warm, sleepy and sated. He's eaten well tonight - he eats well every night, thanks to Ilya's newfound passion for cooking. Dinner was two courses, a French onion soup with home-baked crusty bread rolls followed by a coq au vin, because Ilya is currently working his way through Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking. When Ilya wraps his arms around Shane, his hands rest naturally on the plump curve of Shane's belly; Ilya rubs it gently.
"Too full for dessert?" he asks.
Shane tips his head back until it rests on Ilya's shoulder. The sound he makes now is an inhale - a small, subtle sign of arousal. Good. Ilya wants Shane as relaxed and pliant as possible for this.
It's the answer Ilya was expecting, which is why there's plate with a thick slab of chocolate cake sitting on the couch cushions next to them. Ilya slides it onto Shane's lap and then collects the remote, also within easy reach.
"Ok," Ilya says. "Ready?"
Shane has already popped a forkful of cake into his mouth; he chews and swallows.
"Yeah," he says. "Ready."
Their first year post-retirement was basically one long extended holiday. Neither of them really knew how to be at home without hockey, so they compensated with all the trips the demands of the season never let them take. Back to Ibiza, because they'd enjoyed the hillside villa so thoroughly on their honeymoon, then on to the rest of Spain, which meant tapas and sangria in Madrid and churros and crema catalana in Barcelona. Italy - long evenings in restaurants on beautiful piazzas, sampling different gelato flavours every day, a whole week in the Tuscan countryside, wine-tasting and eating olives and bread dipped in vinegar and oil, and another on Capri, savouring decadent dinners of fresh-caught seafood. They couldn't go to Russia, but they could still chase its echo, with pierogi (in Ilya's mind, pelmeni's lesser cousin) and vodka in Poland, and fish stews served looking over the Baltic Sea in Tallinn. They finished off with London - pies, pints, sausage rolls, fish and chips - and then a train to Paris, where they allowed themselves almost an entire month, savouring the anonymity of the city, the mild disdain for Shane's Quebecois-inflected French, and, of course, the very best culinary delights France had to offer.
Wherever they went, Ilya discovered he wanted to learn how to cook what they found there. Had the knack and charm for speaking to waiters, to grandmothers in market squares, the keepers of secrets who pressed recipes into his hands. And Shane... To Ilya's surprise and delight, Shane seemed to discover that he wanted to eat. And eat. And eat. Watching him reminded Ilya, slightly, of their first few hookups - the way Shane's desire, so long suppressed, would burst out of him as he sank to his knees and took Ilya's cock eagerly into his mouth. Whether it was the novelty of the foods they tried in each place, the end of hockey - which could be a straightjacket as much as it could be a source of joy - or merely the vacation spirit which fostered a sense of indulgence, Shane's appetite proved positively voracious, and when they finally returned to Ottawa, Ilya was carrying a few dozen cookbooks and Shane was carrying about twenty extra pounds that made it a bit of a struggle to fit into most of his clothes.
Ilya was prepared for a crisis. But none came. Shane bought new clothes - though this was more practical necessity that a tactic for hiding the fact that he was noticeably chubbier than when anyone they knew last saw him, given the way his belly, the site of most of his gain, pressed out, round and obvious, against the fabric of even the loosest shirts. Their friends, with smiles that perhaps covered a certain wariness around Shane’s possible fragility, now that the load-bearing activity of his life was gone, said things like, You look like you enjoyed your vacation, and, You seem more relaxed, Hollander, it suits you. Shane’s parents (specifically Yuna) were the ones Ilya was most worried about, but even they managed not to comment on it. Yuna did ask, as she and Ilya washed up after dinner once, “Is he handling it ok? The… transition?” A dinner where Ilya had flexed his culinary muscles to make ramen and gyoza from scratch, absolutely thrilled when it won Yuna’s seal of approval and even prompted some reminiscing about dishes her mother used to make her as a child. Shane had, as had become increasingly normal, had two generous helpings of everything going. Ilya was sure Yuna noticed, just like she was sure he had noticed Shane’s new belly, plump with overindulgence, and the undertone of her question was clear. Was the eating some kind of warning sign?
But Ilya was adamant. “It is good,” he said. “Before, he was too strict with food. Too many rules. This is better.” The bluntness of the approach, saying the quiet part out loud and slightly daring Yuna to openly challenge him, was enough to do the trick. If she had any further reservations, she kept them to herself.
Crisis averted, it seemed. Shane was happy, he continued to feast on whatever lavish meals Ilya made for him, his belly filling out even more with new pounds to join those acquired in Europe, and some days Ilya felt it was too good to be true.
It was too good to be true. It was like Ilya was skating fast over the blue line with his eye on an opposing defenceman, only for the check to come from his blind spot out of nowhere.
The Ottawa Centaur’s season opener, and Shane and Ilya were of course invited to be guests of honour with rinkside seats. They got as far as the parking lot, but when Ilya went to open the door on his, the driver’s side, Shane’s hand suddenly shot out to grab his wrist. Hard.
Ilya looked across at his husband. Shane’s face was ashen.
“Shane,” Ilya said gently. “The first game will be hard. But it will get easier, I promise.”
Shane was trembling slightly as he shook his head.
It was all he could say, over and over, until Ilya finally understood what was being asked of Shane - to sit and watch his old team play without him - was genuinely too much. Ilya had complicated feelings, to say the least, about retiring and ageing and being older than his mother was when she died. But even just that brief proximity to the arena was enough to send Shane into a spiral that lasted weeks. It was like all the joy of their year of travel was snuffed out - Ilya had thought Shane was brighter like sunshine, but turns out it was only a weak candle flame. He wouldn’t leave the house, he barely spoke, and - perhaps most upsetting to Ilya, who hadn’t realised how quickly he’d incorporated Shane’s newfound love of food into a core understanding of what made his husband who he really was - he didn’t eat, expect for mechanically and miserably when Ilya practically forced him to.
It was bad. It got better, not all at once, but slowly, with time. Ilya said, “Do you want to talk about it?”, and Shane said, “Maybe soon. But not now.” And Ilya could be patient, he could be so patient, when it came to Shane.
They kept getting invited to games, of course. They kept finding excuses to say no. Ilya realised that, while it made sense they didn’t watch hockey in Europe, since they’d been back, he hadn’t seen Shane put a game on TV even once. If Ilya ever did, idly of an evening, Shane would leave the room.
So Ilya did what he did best. He recalibrated. He waited. He meditated the particular set of desires, neuroses, quirks and strengths that make up his husband, that have been the study of almost his whole adult life. He made a plan.
“Wait,” Shane says. Ilya can hear the frown in his voice. “What is this?”
“We are watching a game.”
Shane knows they’re watching a game. Is braced for watching a game. Is expecting, probably, Buffalo against Toronto, which is starting right about now. Instead, what fills the screen is Los Angeles versus Ottawa. 2023. Stanley Cup Finals. Game 5.
Ilya decided on their first cup win rather than their most recent. The later one feels too bound up in the decision to retire; the first is cleaner, they’re still so young, in life if not strictly in hockey terms, so fast and elegant on the ice.
Ilya tucks his chin over Shane’s shoulder, turns his head to kiss the side of Shane’s neck.
“We can watch other people play hockey,” he says. “Or we can watch us. We are much better.”
“Were much better,” Shane says. But he doesn’t sound too upset. His body, which had slightly stiffened at the surprise, now goes lax again, leaning back against Ilya, a pleasant weight. Ilya kisses Shane again for good measure, on the cheek this time.
“Watch,” he says. “And eat.”
They watch. Shane is quiet as he eats his cake. The first period of this game is nervy, tense, not the best Ottawa start. It’s strange, Ilya finds, playing it back. The adrenaline is there, under his skin, fainter but easy enough to recapture, his heart quickening like he doesn’t know how things will go. But he does know, and it steadies his mind, even as his body holds the memories. He thinks it must be the same for Shane, too.
They watch as Ilya, on screen, charges towards the Los Angeles goal, takes a shot, hits the crossbar.
“Should have scored that,” Shane says.
Ilya can’t help but laugh.
“Oh,” he says, “should I?”
He digs his fingers into Shane’s side, where he knows Shane is a little ticklish - and where, these days, Ilya’s teasing has the added bonus of allowing him to feel the extra softness gathered there, the love handles sitting where there was once only muscle and bone. Shane squirms and scoffs.
“Stop,” he says. “I’ll drop the cake.”
Ilya relents, because it turns out there’s only one impulse stronger in him than the desire to be a menace, and it’s the urge to ensure his husband has enough to eat.
It’s almost the end of the first period when Shane finishes, lets Ilya take the plate and put it back on the couch. It’s Shane’s line out on the ice, and they both know what’s about to happen. Wyatt blocks a shot from Los Angeles, and Dykstra manages to get the puck and fire it to Shane, who has positioned himself perfectly for the breakaway. You fuck up and leave Shane Hollander open like that, and things are only going to go one way. The goal horn blares, and the footage cuts to a close up on Shane, his muted celebration, because 1-0 after 18 minutes is hardly the time to be getting complacent.
“Ilya?” Shane says. His Shane, the Shane he gets to have and hold now, not the serious Shane on screen with his jaw set and his eyes dark and determined.
“Is it…” Shane shifts in front of Ilya like he’s nervous or unsettled. “Is it really obvious? That I… I mean that since we retired, I… That I’m bigger now?”
The last words coming out as barely a whisper. Ilya’s hands are settled, as they have been almost all night, on Shane’s belly. He smooths them, now, down the sides of it, until they cradle it at the bottom. The hem of Shane's shirt has ridden up enough to leave a sliver of exposed skin, that Ilya’s thumbs run gently along. The touch makes Shane’s breath hitch.
There are many different kinds of answers Ilya could give. He’s pretty sure, at some point, Shane wants Ilya to tease him about this - this being the way Shane’s belly is round enough, now, to spill over all his waistbands and rest on his thighs when he sits, the way his jawline is softer, the muscles of his arms and thighs still strong but now covered in a layer of fat that’s starting to make the strength feel like a secret. Ilya still remembers the first time he called Shane a slut during sex, Shane on his knees, Ilya fucking his mouth, and Shane made a desperate sound like Ilya had hit him, eyes rolling back in his head. Ilya can admit he’s fantasised about drawing the same sound out of Shane again, this time with a slap to his well-fed tummy, hard enough to make it jiggle, calling him greedy, saying he can’t believe they’re going to have to buy him new pants again because it’s getting to be a struggle to button the ones he bought after getting fat on vacation, because he’s even fatter now…
But there’s maybe a time and a place for all of that. This moment feels fragile, vulnerable. Ilya settles for gentle in how he keeps rubbing his hands over Shane’s thicker waist.
“Mm,” he says. “Maybe a little. But it looks good on you.”
Shane is quiet for a long time. Then he says, “I think maybe… There’s a lot of reasons. Why it feels impossible to go back. But maybe part of it is… Too much is different. I’m different.”
Ilya feels the weight of Shane’s trust, his vulnerability, and he is so grateful and so fucking in love. He takes Shane’s chin and turns it enough that they can kiss, gentle and lingering. Shane tastes sweet from the cake.
“Things are different,” Ilya says when they finally break apart. “But lots the same.” He lets one hand drift lower, stroking Shane’s inner thigh, something he knows never fails to turn Shane on. “You are still very sexy. Still mine. And still very, very good.”
Shane swallows a small whimper.
“You were good at hockey,” Ilya continues, speaking the words into the side of Shane’s neck. “The best. Now you are very good at eating what I cook for you.”
There’s a risk the words sound condescending. But Ilya’s sure that Shane, who’s lying back against him like he’s boneless, tilting his head to give Ilya better access to his throat, takes them just as intended - reverent and sincere.
Ilya can’t resist. He pushes up under Shane’s t shirt, savouring the feeling of bare skin, exploring the expanse of his belly. At the top, near his ribs, it’s firm, well-stuffed. Down below his navel, it’s pliant and squeezable, plump from delicious meals where Ilya put his love and care for Shane into every bite. It makes him so, unbelievably happy to feel the evidence of that love and care as chubby flesh under his hands.
“Still hungry?” Ilya asks.
“Better question,” Ilya says. “Do you want more to eat?”
Shane pushes up a little into Ilya’s hands, still rubbing circles over his swollen belly.
Ilya had prepared for this eventuality with a box of chocolates left on the coffee table. When Shane leans forward to get them, he lets out a soft oof noise. He must be so, so full. And yet, when Ilya sets the box beside them, 16 luxury truffles, a mix of white, milk and dark, and tells Shane to open his mouth, he does, so obedient. Ilya feeds him the first chocolate; the way Shane’s tongue brushes the underside of his fingers as he does so makes Ilya’s dick twitch.
On the TV, the game continues, the break over and the second period beginning. This is when the momentum starts to swing their way. LA manage to equalise, but Ilya answers back minutes later. Then, a penalty means, for the first time, Shane and Ilya are out on the ice together, and Shane scores from Ilya’s assist.
After the fourth chocolate, Ilya pauses. But Shane makes a noise not dissimilar to how he sounds when Ilya is fucking him and slows the pace, even stops moving entirely, wanting Shane to beg for it as hard as he needs. So, of course, Ilya gives him another.
Ilya taps the button of Shane’s pants. Shane understands the instruction, pops them open. Ilya lets his left hand rest on Shane’s belly, feeling how it pushes out into the new-found space, then works it below Shane’s waistband. He’s a little clumsy as he starts to rub Shane’s cock through his underwear, but it doesn’t matter. He can feel Shane is desperate enough that any touch, now, will feel good.
Shane whines as Ilya pushes another chocolate past his lips.
When Shane speaks, a few minutes and a few truffles later, his voice is dreamy, spaced out.
“If we went to a game,” he says. “Like, if we went in person. Everyone would see. That I… that I got - fat.”
Ilya can feel Shane’s blush in the heat of his face as Ilya presses their cheeks together.
And Ilya can picture it. He’s not unaffected by the image himself. The two of them projected onto the jumbotron. The way Shane would look, belly straining slightly at the buttons of his smart shirt, the soft pocket of fat under his chin, his rounder cheeks.
Shane must be able to feel Ilya’s erection pressing into the small of his back.
“They would see,” Ilya says, low and serious, “that I take good care of you.”
Shane tilts his hips and moans quietly, trying to get Ilya to speed up the slow slide of his fist. Ilya takes full advantage of Shane’s open mouth to feed him another chocolate.
“I want it,” Shane says, with his mouth full. Then swallows and repeats himself. “I want it, Ilya. I want you to - ah - take me to a game and - ohmygod - make me eat hot dogs and fries and -”
“Fuck, Shane.” Ilya’s so hard he feels dizzy. “You want me to get you so full you can’t worry about anything else, yes?”
“Yeah,” Shane says, breathless. “Shit, yeah, oh my god, Ilya please. I need…”
“Another chocolate. Please.”
Ilya glances to the side, grins. His left hand still working Shane’s cock, his right palm splayed across Shane’s belly.
“You already ate them all, malysh,” Ilya says.
Shane comes with Ilya’s name on his chocolate-stained lips, a desperate whine.
Shane slumps back against Ilya, dazed and panting. For a while, neither of them speak. Ilya wipes his hand on the couch cushions, and Shane is too out of it to notice and complain. The commentary from the game, with the volume low, is a pleasant background hum. But Ilya can’t wait too long. He nips at the side of Shane’s jaw.
“Bedroom?” he asks. “Or should I fuck you here.”
“The game,” Shane says weakly.
“I predict Ottawa will win.” Ilya grinds against Shane’s back. “Come on, Hollander. I want to fuck you.”
“Mmph.” Shane wriggles a little, and Ilya is able to guess at what he means by the complaining sound. Presses down on Shane’s full belly.
“Tummy ache?” he asks, the teasing smile evident in his tone.
“Too much sugar,” Shane grumbles. Then, after a pause, sounding hopeful, “Would you…?”
Ilya pats Shane’s stomach fondly. “I can make you a grilled cheese,” he says. "Then we fuck."
Ilya manages to extricate himself from behind Shane without jostling him too much. When he’s up, dirty plate and empty box in hand, he glances down at where Shane is now reclining on the couch, one hand absently rubbing his belly, pants undone, shirt ridden up to just below his navel. The sight is enough to make Ilya feel feral.
“Or how about a deal?” Ilya says. “I will make the grilled cheese. But only if you come and blow me while I do it.”
It’s the kind of horny game Shane would usually jump at the chance of playing. But now, he blinks up at Ilya, with a slight frown.
“Come on, Shane. You’ve got to earn your keep.”
Shane’s pout is all the cuter for being rather obviously deliberate, Shane trying to arrange his face into an expression that will make Ilya relent.
“What’s the matter?” Ilya asks with fake concern. Then drags his eyes slowly over the swell of Shane’s tummy. “You are too full to get up?”
Shane flushes, drops his gaze.
“Too full,” Ilya says, leaning over Shane, bringing their faces close, “and yet your loving husband is going to make you more food?”
Shane looks up at Ilya through his lashes.
“Please,” he says. He even bites his lip. Ilya laughs.
“Spoiled,” he says. He catches Shane’s whine in a kiss. Then, when he pulls back, he adds, “You are lucky I love spoiling you.”
So Ilya heads to the kitchen alone. As he grates cheese, cuts thick slices of bread, mixes some paprika and chilli powder to season, melts butter in a pan and then cooks the sandwich in it to get the crispiest finish, occasionally palming his aching dick through his trousers, he reflects that this evening, like so many of their evenings, has been perfect. Getting to feed Shane and then fuck him. Keeping him always full. Ilya can’t think of anything better.
Ilya returns to the TV room, the third period playing. The timing is perfect - Ilya reckons he can get Shane to come again just as they watch themselves lift the cup. Shane is still spread out on the couch like an offering or a feast, chubby and pink-cheeked and perfect. As Ilya passes him the plate with the grilled cheese on it, he pinches his belly, the part of it left exposed by the open flap of his pants.
“Fattening up there, Hollander,” Ilya says. And it sounds like I love you.
“Fuck off,” Shane says, picking up the sandwich and taking a large bite. And it sounds like I love you, too.
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