Eat Me

“Thank you for coming to see me today Mr. Rozanov. Please have a seat” the man said gesturing towards a wooden chair in front of the imposing desk.

“Do you know why you’ve been referred to me?”

“Da” Ilya said brusquely, slapping the side of his substantial gut for emphasis, making it jiggle.

“Yes, that’s right. Please. Sit.” the man behind the desk repeats, pointing to the chair again.

Ilya glances down skeptically at the spindly chair with the narrow armrests bracketing either side of the seat.

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov Characters: Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Original Children of Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov Additional Tags: Lover Boy Ilya Rozanov, Weight Gain, Chubby Ilya Rozanov, Fat Ilya Rozanov, He gets really fat in this, Weight Issues, Slight Mobility Issues, Slice of Life, Belly Kink Summary:

It starts with a weed-eater, “For trimming around my gardens, Shane.”  Ilya will start up his weed-eater, solid arms yanking the pull chain back, he’ll walk around his raised garden beds and along the edges of his flower beds, carefully trimming the grass. He always does it shirtless. Shane would argue that it wasn’t appropriate dress for manual labor, but then he wouldn’t get to see Ilya’s gorgeous broad shoulders shinning with sweat. He wouldn’t get to watch the line of Ilya’s back as he lifts the shockingly heavy equipment.

Chapters: 1/? Fandom: Heated Rivalry (TV) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov Characters: Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov Additional Tags: Binge Eating Disorder, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Shane Hollander Has an Eating Disorder, Ilya Rozanov Has ADHD, this will eventually be a weight gain fic (not yet though), also a fair amount of discussion of restriction via Shane’s performance diet Summary:

Shane would never, in a million fucking years, admit this to anyone, but: he has this… problem with treats. A problem with food in general, maybe. His mind is sticky to begin with, gluing itself to all sorts of things he can’t shake: numbers, rules, embarrassing memories. But it’s really, really sticky with food.

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🫡 more mean Shane coming right up! under the cut bc of fat shaming. this didn't quite go in the direction you were thinking, but I had a lot of fun writing this and hope you like it anyway!

Okay, so picture the bar in Tampa. Picture Ilya sitting there in his Hawaiian shirt, except he's the size he is in this drawing of @sesamesesame 's, pounding beers as Shane approaches. His eating and drinking have ramped up a little more lately, definitely because he's been letting loose and having fun and not at all because everything's falling apart, his dad's dying and his brother's an asshole and the love of his life is dating Rose Landry. Fuck it, though. He's Ilya Rozanov. He still made it to All-Stars. No one's said anything to him about his rapidly increasing weight - he knows everyone's thinking it, but they're too scared to say it. Like they think he can't take it; like they think he's fragile.

So when Shane says "Nice shirt", it breaks Ilya's brain a little. Shane can't be serious. It was maybe a nice shirt forty pounds ago, but now the buttons are straining around Ilya's stomach, and his fleshy arms pour out from the short sleeves. And he knows what Shane's into: Ilya's former six-pack, Rose's tight Pilates body. So it's definitely not a compliment.

The Irina Foundation’s fifteen year anniversary gala comes around, and everything is going smooth as butter until they’re getting dressed and Ilya has to breathe in to button his suit jacket. Shane can see it in his posture, the constraint in his shoulders as he checks himself in the mirror; another inch, and it wouldn’t button at all. It had been custom-tailored. Everything had.

“Are you gonna be comfortable?” he asks him out the corner of his mouth. Ilya just raises his eyebrows, half-shakes his head. His hands pet down his ample front. Then he looks at Shane through the mirror, and winks.

Ilya’s saving grace is, in a way, the fact that he tends to only do ten minutes at a time on his feet nowadays. The jacket is unbuttoned whenever he’s settled in his chair, which, after their speeches, is the majority of the evening. His shirt, Shane notices, is starting to strain around his upper arms and his middle, but none of the tight buttons give way. That’s a lot of fucking fabric, he thinks. That’s a lot of fucking man.

Shane makes his rounds, thanking donors and friends and passing the occasional canapé to Ilya, who holds down the center from his chair, doling out humor and praise to everyone who comes to talk. If the banquet hall was the universe, Ilya would be the sun tonight, and Shane is fucking proud. He feels good tonight, in himself, and the Foundation and its values, all the more so for the few rough years they’ve had over the last fifteen. He hopes Ilya is feeling it too.

Ilya has to tee Shane up to be bitchy, I don’t think he would ever initiate it, but they both can get into it, with plenty of praise after.

(I had a whole mini-fic of an answer to this that got eaten by the tumblr mobile app yesterday 😭)

Anyway I agree that Ilya has to tee Shane up, but once Shane knows Ilya wants it, he can be pretty savage, sprinkling in little comments that send prickles all throughout Ilya's skin.

Like, okay, thinking back to where @heated4bellies left off: Ilya staggers into the house so clearly bloated, and Shane knows he's demolished not one but two bloomin onions in the car on the way over, and Ilya knows that Shane knows. Meanwhile Shane's been working his ass off making a lovely meal, and before Ilya can park himself on the couch, Shane says, "Ready for dinner, babe? It looks like they forgot to give us the bloomin onions again, but thankfully I made extra chicken and asparagus in case you were hungry."

The food smells amazing, like garlic and ginger and soy sauce, and the sharpness of the aroma cuts through Ilya's greasy food coma. He could use something a little punchy, and it's a labor of love from his husband. Ilya wedges his wide hips and plump butt into a chair and reaches across the dining table to load up his plate.

"Dewishush," he says through a mouthful of chicken.

Shane smirks. "I'm surprised you're still hungry."

"Was a snack," says Ilya dismissively. He pops open the beer Shane thoughtfully left by his chair. "Not enough to fill stomach."

"Only 'cause yours is huge," Shane says, and then shoots Ilya a glance like - that's okay, right?.

Ilya puts his hand - the one that isn't holding the fork - to his fleshy chest in faux shock, massaging his moobs a little for Shane's entertainment. "So mean, Hollander. You have never heard of bulking?"

Shane's eyes gleam. "Bulking is for disciplined athletes, Rozanov. You're telling me you're gonna cut?" He heaps another helping of chicken onto Ilya's plate. "One of those bloomin onions is supposed to be enough for a whole family, but you couldn't stop there, could you?"

It's like Shane has infused the chicken with sexual tension. Ilya takes another bite and little fireworks spark in his overfull gut. He can't decide what he wants more: Shane's mouth on his cock or Shane's deliciously mean little comments in his ear. He settles for another gulp of beer.

"No," Shane continues, and god it's so hot how much of a roll he's on, how much he's enjoying this, Ilya wants him to keep talking forever. "You're too greedy to stop, right, babe? You can sit there and tell me all you want that you're bulking, but we both know you pigged out in the car, you fucking - fatass - "

Shane freezes like he's stepped on a thumbtack.

"Say it again," growls Ilya. Both of their chests are heaving and they're breathing loudly out their noses like it's halfway through a game.

"You're fat now, Ilya," says Shane, in that quiet hard voice like he's never been more serious in his life.

"No," Ilya says. "Meaner."

"That was... before, that was okay?"

"Fucking oh my god," says Ilya. "If it is not okay, you think I will ask you to say again?"

"Right," says Shane. "Um. You're greedy? You're, you're... a pig, Ilya, you're out of control - "

Ilya's palming himself, his pants too tight around his chunky gut and hips to allow him room to stick a hand in. This seems to give Shane confidence, and he regains his earlier cadence, smirkier this time:

"If you keep gorging yourself on greasy junk food, you're not going to fit in that chair any longer, but you want that, don't you? You want to sit there and stuff your greedy face with chicken and beer while I tell you off for how big you've gotten, how gluttonous you are - you want to lie to me about where the bloomin onions went like we both don't know it was right into your fat gut. You know what that is? It's fatass behavior, Ilya."

Just saw your Yuna and David being Ilya enablers post and, while I too am a Concerned Comments Enjoyer, the southern grandma that lurks within me is going absolutely buck wild over that dynamic omg

Like, Ilya’s appetite is one of the first things they learn about him separate from hockey and his playboy image. That man was housing some spaghetti and doing a little happy dance all the while. I just know they were endeared, maybe even a bit flattered. I can also imagine that being used to form a relationship with him, especially once he moves to Ottawa. Inviting him over for weekly dinners, sending him back to that big empty house with leftovers, giving him a bowl of cookies n’ cream to cheer him up when the sting of defeat over the Centaur’s losing streak and the ache of missing Shane become too obvious for him to hide.

Meanwhile Ilya can’t help but eat it up (literally!) The Hollander’s cooking is good, but moreover it’s been so long since someone cared enough to cook for him. How could he not gorge himself on the love they set in front of him? Plus, they’re right that eating is the one source of joy he can count on when Shane’s away, he hasn’t felt the rush of victory in months, and Ottawa continues to be the most boring city on earth.

Shane’s getting calls from Yuna “#1 Rozanov hater” Hollander asking if Ilya got enough to eat at last night’s dinner, and he’s just happy that the three people he loves most seem to be getting along— that his parents have so thoroughly welcomed Ilya into their home. And his boyfriend’s ass is fatter than ever so really what’s not to like

(Sorry for the long ask!! I was possessed by the spirit of my meemaw and all the meemaws before her)

please invite your meemaw’s spirit into your mind and my inbox any time you’d like omg. good shit.

I know people have almond mom Yuna thoughts but I often think of myshane’s food anxiety as largely self-imposed— maybe it’s been inadvertently supported by his parents who want to encourage him to make his own decisions and trust in him almost a little too much for his own good (he’s a high level athlete, of course he wants to be healthy, of course he knows what’s right for his body! He’s in great shape! What could be wrong?), but they aren’t consciously enforcing anything, and haven’t been since he was a kid.

Which is to say that they don’t have second thoughts about trusting Ilya to know HIS body too.

Shane: Are you fucking kidding me? You left the empty container on the passenger seat

Shane anxiously realizes they’re going to run out before everyone gets a slice, but it’s also SO hot watching Ilya unapologetically indulge, Ilya making these little hums of pleasure and little smirks and it’s THEIR fucking wedding, so he just lets it happen.

Yes… I think it’s less about the weight itself and more about what getting fat represents. Him getting fat, because he doesn’t come from a particularly thin family. It’s his body and its connotations carrying the family legacy, his apparent discipline, and his marketable responsibility, or it had been. The only way he could have worn anything other than slim fit larges and not faced abuse for it would have been to stay on a winning streak for the rest of his career, which might have been possible if not for Shane. Are you trying to advertise your laziness? Look at you. You are going to be replaced.

It upsets him at first, when it occurs to him. His existing reputation and his pretty face save him for a while, since masculinity is a privilege where fatness is concerned. People don’t really comment on it until he’s gotten notably heavy, and by then perceptions of him are subtly starting to shift, and he catches his reflection in a hallway mirror and stands there frowning with one hand pressed to his sternum studying the midmorning sunlight on his beginnings of a double chin. He misses his papa. He doesn’t miss feeling like a pack mule, or being under constant scrutiny, or the emotional chaos of watching him decline, or the horror of his childhood and what he saw his mother experience, but he misses not being an orphan.

He still craves approval from a dead man.

He’s glad that papa is dead.

It’s a very complicated stomach ache.

The more he thinks about it, the more pity he has for his family, and for his younger self. People can say whatever they want; he sleeps well at night knowing exactly the sum of money waiting for his niece when she’s old enough to inherit it, and he’s done shaping himself to anything other than his life in the present, which is turning out better than he’d ever imagined. It’s an honor, thinking for so long he’d die thin and 30, and instead to be 35, happily getting fat.

He loves to grocery shop, and he loves to cook, and travel, and try everything on the menu, hike new trails and bike and jet ski and kayak and follow Shane’s yoga routines rather than grind his body down with repetitive gym sessions. Their sex life has only gotten better now that they aren’t skinny kids anymore, or terrified of loving each other. He wouldn’t be helping himself if he said no to ice cream on the walk home after dinner, and his cooking is better when he tastes it at every stage. He feels good big. It’s for him, not for anyone else. Okay, maybe it’s for Shane too, but it’s for him, because he fucking can.