“Ilya,” Shane says casually, “can you come in here for a second?”
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.Â
“Everything okay?” Ilya asks carefully.Â
“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.Â
“Hmm,” Ilya hums, stroking his fingers across the shape of it. “Let’s see. Getting round, your belly.”Â
“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.”Â
“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.
“Can you make me something to eat?” Shane mumbles finally. “I’m hungry.”
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