18+
I write stuff. Mostly gay stuff, all either Hannibal, The Magnus Archives, or Project Hail Mary stuff. Questionable pairings, weird fetishes, and loooooooong fics abound; readers beware.
Do go follow my boyfriend/editor/writing partner/creator of my PFP/other half of my soul: https://www.tumblr.com/frumious-bandersnatch-ao3
Hi! You can call me Jax or Deed, he/him. Nice to meet you!
I love asks, comments, and literally all forms of interaction. Don't be shy!
But 18+ only, please.
~Tags:
#kink stuff - For all things weight gain related. Filter out if you'd rather not see any of that!
#prompts/#prompt - For prompt fills. Rather self-explanatory
#deed's stupid fish/#deed's stupid cats - This one kind of explains itself, too
#deed's stupid book - my stupid book, Mortifications of the Flesh
#shitpost - Look at my memes, boy
#boyfran's stuff - Boyfran's stuff
Otherwise, I do my best to tag for content and trigger warnings (gore, death, angst, noncon/dubcon, etc.). If you spot a fic or post that needs a tag I've missed, don't hesitate to let me know!
~Housekeeping:
My AO3 account!
Mortifications of the Flesh - my urban fantasy/thriller novel. Constructive criticism and feedback cautiously welcome because I am a wiener
Fed - my collection of short WG stories, the first in a series. Only $3.50 USD!
Well-Fed - another collection of short WG stories, the second in a series. Also only $3.50 USD!
Session Notes is my series of Hannibal prompt fills on AO3
Cutting Room Floor is my series of The Magnus Archives prompt fills on AO3
We'll Return After These Messages is my series of Deltarune prompt fills on AO3
Case Diversions is my series of Malevolent prompt fills on AO3
~Other stuff:
I am working on Titanverse, an extremely ambitious and comprehensive TMA AU, with my boyfriend, who deserves a follow. Hoping to start posting that sometime this year!
I was gonna put the basketball Patrick meme here but then I realized that'd be stupid.
Anyway!
Here is the companion to Fed, my first collection of WG stories. You don't have to read it for five of the stories in Well-Fed, but the sixth is a sequel, so be aware!
You can buy the ebook here for $3.50 USD. (And here are the UK and CA listings, respectively.)
I had a lot of fun writing these stories. Maybe a little too much. It probably comes through.
As everyone knows, when you have a god, youâre going to have worshipers. Even if that god has made it abundantly clear they would prefer anything but that.
âŠ
Votaries are an interesting exception to the Codes of DevotionâŠalthough not one entirely free from governance. Depending on their beholden god, they may in fact be subject to laws that are much stricter than those that apply to the average worshiper. For an example of this, one need only look at those sworn to the Distant Pantheon, known colloquially as âEldritchâ Votaries.
âŠ
The first recorded Eldritch Votary, Eamon Tillings, died shortly after sealing himself to an unknown member of the Pantheon. Very ironically, from a literary standpoint, he took much of the real Dunwich (located in Suffolk, not Massachusetts) with him. Â
âŠ
Experiments regarding the, shall we say, âuniqueâ nature of Eldritch Votaries were conducted at Franklin University in Capital City during the 70s, with the dubious cooperation of a Votary recorded only as âF.â Of course, given the nature of the Pantheon, itâs difficult to know exactly which god F was sealed to, but most popular consensus points to [illegible].
âŠ
This is the incident upon which much of the modern legislation aimed at Eldritch Votaries has been based.
âŠ
Recovery efforts are ongoing to this day, with Franklinâs arcane forensics students frequently dispatched to the building in question as part of their field training. They are graded on their ability to recover and identify remains lodged within the buildingâs architecture, some of them microscopic in size and embedded in individual bricks with no clear point of entry.
Former students maintain that even the smallest of these fragments maintain disturbing signs of life and even consciousness, but of course we canât know if this is scientific fact, or simply another instance of the storied tradition of institutional hazing in the scientific fields.
- Excerpts from âThe Distant Pantheon: An Abridged History,â T.E. Graye, Popular Magic, April 1999
Still is a kinda out there one, but immobile Will getting his fatpad jerked and teased by Hannibal? Buried and unseen but certainly felt đââïž
Certainly felt!
If there is anything at all that Hannibal regrets about the size that Will has reached under his diligent care, it is the challenge that lovemaking now poses. But even this is hardly a regret: he has never shied from a challenge, and what is this one but an opportunity for innovation? New sensations and pleasures of the flesh.
And there is so very much flesh these days to be pleasured.
In the years since Will began to accept Hannibalâs tending, there have been dozens of milestones, things heâs grown too fat for. Hannibal remembers each and every one, has enshrined them in his memory palace. Too fat to walk, too fat to fuck or be fucked, fed up on delicacies and become lazy and gluttonous. It is only recently (relatively speaking) that his cock, buried and shrunken by the fat around it, has become inconvenient for Hannibal to reach directly for anything but hygiene. But where oral and handjobs have come off the table, a new dish has replaced them.
âYour body has become the instrument of your pleasure,â Hannibal tells Will.
âI think my bodyâs long been the instrument of your pleasure,â Will replies, only slightly short of breath despite Hannibal having just properly stuffed him, and Hannibal smiles.
âPleasure shared is pleasure doubled,â and he reaches beneath the great, creamy expanse of Willâs well-fed belly to find the pad of fat that lies directly over his cock, and begins rhythmically to press and rub.
Willâs breathing quickens, and Hannibal smells the intensification of his arousal, spice on the air - heâs become half-hard for meals for quite some time now, product of his own proclivities and of the sexual conditioning to which he has imperiously submitted. But Hannibal has brought him almost instantly to full length.
Will is sensitive. It has been too long since Hannibal touched him, using the physical difficulty of finding his cock among rolls and folds as an excuse to let his desperation grow. If he is not careful, Willâs orgasm will come immediately. So Hannibal stills his hand, and withdraws the pressure, until his palm lies light as a breath upon lotioned skin.
Will growls with frustration. There has been next to no exertion on his part (he is no longer capable of much), and yet sweat still studs his temples, darkens his curls. âHannibal - â
âIf my ministrations arenât sufficient, Will,â Hannibal tells him calmly, âfeel free to set the pace yourself,â and Will glowers past round cheeks and multiple chins.
They both know he cannot rut, cannot grind - not with as full as he is. Heâs far too heavy, too weak, too bloated and pampered with excess. He is at Hannibalâs mercy, and all he can do is lie among his pillows and cushions and the softness of his own body, and wait for Hannibal to begin to move again. Which he eventually does, some maddening minutes later.
Willâs cock is fully encased by flesh, thighs and panniculus, and it constricts around him with Hannibalâs motion, rolling up and down the much-reduced length of his buried shaft. Hannibal smells the honeydew blurt of hot precome, feels as it cuts the friction in half, and again he stops, and patiently waits out Willâs cursing.
He repeats the process again, and again, and again. He brings Will closer each time to climax, and then stops dead, and allows the passion to cool almost completely before he begins again. He grows rougher with each cycle, digging in his nails, kneading as he does Willâs belly when he has a stubborn gas bubble, and Willâs panting whines grow ever more insistent.
It takes a lot, even now, to make Will Graham beg. But Hannibal manages it.
Itâs when he does that he lets him come. Knee dug roughly into his groin, replacing his hand so he can climb up Will and smother his shout of agonized pleasure with a kiss. As the soft spread of Will quakes beneath Hannibal with the force of his orgasm, Hannibal smiles into his open mouth.
Getting into things super late is awesome because it means they're fully published/released and often widely available, but it does make you feel like a coma patient or a 13-year-old being made fun of by their millennial parent in a tweet.
Have you guys heard of this show, it's insane, it's so good, it's called Breaking Bad -
Rocky and Adrian fattening Grace up the moment he isn't dying anymore and the biodome team has figured out food that doesn't taste like sadness. Adrian absolutely thinks this is a little weird (cus Eridian culture around eating), but Rocky (the biggest freak in the galaxy) assures them stuffed to the gills every day is actually a very healthy and normal thing for humans, but Grace just didn't want to say anything, and look at that! He's no longer skin and bone! Mission going perfectly, statement.
Ohhhh my god this is so far up my alley you can't even see it from the street.
I'd actually been playing around with the idea of Rocky having a real thing for Grace eating. Especially overeating. It's such a taboo in Eridian culture, and he does it so casually (slut). Then you add in the fact that Eridians almost certainly can't get bloated or fat just due to their anatomy, and Grace's nearly starving to death, and you've got the forbidden + novelty + comfort, aka the perfect recipe for a kink.
It was fun to explore that here. Up to the reader if Grace is clueless or if he knows what's going on here and either doesn't care/enjoys it/is in turn studying Eridian sexuality/all of the above.
Adrian did have to admit that, now that they had properly worked out its nutritional needs, Grace seemed much more comfortable.
When it was first brought down to the planetâs surface, it had been unclear whether or not it would even survive in its frail state, or if its starvation was too advanced. They had all been desperate to save it...and none more desperate than Adrian. Grace had returned its mate to it, and it was plain to it that said mate would likely not survive without Grace.
It was only too easy to love Grace as Rocky did. For Rockyâs sake, and for Graceâs own.
Even if Rockyâs love was a little...strange.
Watching Grace eat for the first time had been shocking. Of course Adrian had seen it eat while it was still in recovery; that was different. There was no shame in needing assistance with various needs while unwell, and Grace had been deeply unwell. Sickness had a way of negating privacy. But this was once it was strong enough to feed itself in privacy and had been for some time, even if it remained weak and spent much of its time in its bed.
Adrian had been brought by Rocky. It had been unaware until they arrived what the purpose of this visit was, but it remained. It was a biologist. It should observe this. Rocky said eating was a social activity for humans, which was fantastically, intriguingly bizarre.
Rocky had brought food. It spent most of the meal crouched on Graceâs bed, encouraging it to eat more of this, of that, it had worked with the nutritionists on this specifically, Grace needed itâŠ
Grace spoke. Adrian was not yet fluent then, so its voice was filtered through the computer program it and Rocky had apparently used to communicate in the beginning, pops and cracks and hisses coalescing near-magically into broken speech. âNot look disgust when Grace eat anymore, question?â
âIt is different now,â Rocky said in that stubborn tone Adrian had thought it used only for it, and reached out to put a claw on Graceâs abdomen, something the new, better-articulated suit allowed. âKeep eating.â
Once Rocky was finally satisfied, Grace settled back into the soft bedding its fragile body required with a huffing groan, and Adrian listened to it critically as it dozed, hearing around where Rockyâs claw remained on it.
âI think you overfed it,â it told Rocky. âIts abdomen is swollen. We should call a doctor.â
âHumans need to eat more than Eridians,â Rocky explained. âThe stomach expands for a reason.â And that did actually make sense. Grace seemed more than happy to eat.
Rocky took the feeding of its alien very seriously, and Adrian followed its example. It had, after all, had years to become an expert. Grace did not ask for food or express hunger often, but according to Rocky, this was ordinary; when it had just been the two of them, Grace had often forgotten to eat and sleep. Seeing the zealousness with which it threw itself into its projects (which so mirrored its own), Adrian could believe it...and understand what, beyond mere loneliness, had so drawn Rocky to it in the first place. Adrian, too, felt a great desire to care for Grace, and was pleased that their efforts were bearing fruit.
Eridians did not grow once they reached maturity, or change shape outside of catastrophic injury. Humans, having an endoskeleton and being from a much lower-pressure environment, were not the same. Starvation was outwardly obvious in their shape. When Adrian first met it, Grace had been so weak and in such pain it could barely remain awake, let alone walk or speak; its tissue had been wasted tight against its bone, its soft, velvety carapace pitted with weeping sores, the light organs and oral cavity in its skull swollen. Even its organs had sounded diseased inside it, soft slushy noises to cardiac and pulmonary systems, silence from its digestive tract â which became extremely frightening when Rocky explained how noisy it was supposed to be.
But now the sores were healed, its digestive system had recovered, and its shape had become, as Rocky said it was meant to be, full and broad. And its recovery obviously continued, as it continued to grow. Rocky was insistent that the much-lauded but ever-suffering hive in charge of Graceâs food continue to increase the caloric content even as they varied flavor, texture, and variety.
Adrian rested in the sand of Graceâs beach or the floor of the house Rocky had designed for it, and arranged its limbs to hold Grace as it ate. As Rocky fed it. The perversity of the act was shocking, dulled by its repetition. With frequent admonitions that it wasnât eating enough, Rocky touched Graceâs abdomen, its belly, and so did Adrian, feeling its stomach swell to capacity beneath its claws. It found it enjoyed the many noises it made, not unlike Eridian emotional declarations, although they were not actual words. Grunts, groans, sighs, moans, whimpers...something very like a purr, once it was properly fed. When Rocky or, eventually, Adrian rubbed its inflated belly, or stroked its hair. Very gently, of course. It was fragile.
Grace grew soft and round, exactly the opposite of an Eridian. There was something thrilling about its sheer alienness. Its clothing fit it properly again, tight to its carapace. It often seemed sleepy, content in its perpetual fullness; it had nothing to fear, watched over by Rocky and Adrian. Its gait changed as its lower limbs thickened, becoming wider, rolling; it reminded Adrian of how hatchlings walked, even steadied by the cane Rocky made for it as the gravity wreaked havoc on its joints, and perhaps that contributed to its protectiveness of it.
âIt eats like itâs preparing for eggs,â Adrian overheard one of the lab assistants muttering to another once. They both jumped upon realizing, when Adrian moved from behind a counter with an angry burst of sound, that it had heard them.
âDonât be vulgar,â it scolded. âIf you believe Grace deserves none of your respect, you should not be caring for it.â It was, of course, very aware of the fact that caring for and communicating with their first and only alien was the most coveted position on the planet. âIts species doesnât even lay eggs.â
Much to Rockyâs dismay, it added silently and wryly to itself, thinking of Rocky cooing and chirping over Grace. It surprised it sometimes it felt no jealousy, but...the situation was so very unique. And so was Grace.
Adrian often visited it alone now, always with food. As it approached one day, Graceâs heartrate rose and its posture changed when it saw it, and it met it in the sand, sinking down immediately with a grunt to settle against Adrian. It felt cool through the panels of its suit, its flesh folding forgivingly against and around its limbs.
âHello, Grace.â Adrian wrapped a limb over the near-liquid spread of its belly, feeling the wonderful give of it. Definitely not full anymore.
âTime to eat again already, huh?â
âYes, dear one.â Adrian began removing items, carefully wrapped, from the bags slung around its suit. âI brought more this time; Rocky says you need it.â
âYeah, I just bet he does.â Grace stretched luxuriantly, then grimaced. Adrian heard it tug its shirt, ridden up with the movement, back down. âI might have to talk to the food science team one of these days about what theyâre feeding me. The stuff theyâre making now tastes great. Donât get me wrong. And donât tell them I said anything yet, but. Iâm really getting kinda -/--./.â
Voiceless labiodental fricative, short cardinal vowel sound, linguolabial plosive (Adrian had been spending too much time with the linguists lately). A new word. Those were rare these days. âWhat are you becoming?â
âOh, I tried to explain it to Rocky...itâs really not a concept you guys have. Canât happen to you. Lucky.â
âGraceâŠâ Its name meant something not unlike âsoftâ or âgentle,â which was quite fitting. Adrian admitted, âYour people are obviously very accomplished, but I do not understand how you get anything done, with how much you need to eat.â Six or seven meals over the course of its day-night cycle, and it often ate in between, too. âAnd how much time you spend digesting. Do you exist in a perpetual state of starvation? Do you cycle out who is allowed to eat properly by group or caste?â Are we the first ones to take care of you properly?
âOh, yeah, no, thatâs...thatâs really not how it works.â Grace made its gesture for an emphatic no, head turning side to side. Adrian heard the blood flow to its face increase: embarrassment, self-consciousness. âWe, uh...we donât actually eat this much, usually. Iâve kind of been making a -//.- of myself lately.â
âWhat?â Adrian asked. But Graceâs mouth was full.
I was gonna put the basketball Patrick meme here but then I realized that'd be stupid.
Anyway!
Here is the companion to Fed, my first collection of WG stories. You don't have to read it for five of the stories in Well-Fed, but the sixth is a sequel, so be aware!
You can buy the ebook here for $3.50 USD. (And here are the UK and CA listings, respectively.)
I had a lot of fun writing these stories. Maybe a little too much. It probably comes through.
2. Objects of faith (prayer beads, tefillin, holy water, etc.)
3. Names of deities spoken aloud
3a. It is possible to render âgodâ harmless when saying or hearing it. The speaker just has to make a little extra effort to ensure itâs not a proper noun, and then it wonât be imbued with faith
4. SaltÂ
4a. This one is interesting because incorporated salt - in your body or a dish - wonât hurt you, but raw salt will
4b. There are prescription medications that can help with salt intolerance. If youâre struggling, ask your doctor, or see if thereâs a low-cost drug program near you
5. Anti-infernal warding
- Excerpt from the âThings to Stay Away Fromâ section in A Cambionâs Guide to Survival in Capital City, Dr. Jacqueline Peters, 2014
Prompt Idea: Elias getting jealous of how Martin is taking care of Jon. How he got Jon to gain weight, and Jon will actually listen to him! Mostly just feeder Martin and Feedie Jon, Elias being upset he isn't the one feeding Jon
Awwwww jealous Elias...
This is such a fun concept. Thank you!
It is dinnertime. Elias sits alone at the table in the kitchen of his Chelsea flat, meal in front of him. Protein, greens, fiber, a glass of wine; balanced. He rarely eats for pleasure, likely wouldnât do it at all if he could get away with only fear-based nutrition, but stolen bodies require careful tending.
All bodies do, really. Even those freely given. Across London, Martin tends to one now.
âYou didnât feed me enough earlier?â Jon asks, raising a wry eyebrow as Martin sets a steaming bowl of soup in front of him. Potato gnocchi and sausage, Elias Knows; rich and heavy with cream, butter, and cheese.
âThat wasnât dinner,â Martin tells him, a near-playful rebuke. âAnd you know it. Donât get up, Iâll get you bread.â
Martin is an excellent cook, and baker, too. On paper, thatâs how he wooed Jon: with biscuits, muffins, cake, homemade meals offered nervously up because, well, Jon was working so hard, he doubted he had time to cook for himself, andâŠhad he been eating all right lately? He didnât want to overstep any boundaries, of course, but he only asked because he was concerned. Would Jon - possibly - come over sometime so Martin could serve him something fresh? Maybe? Only if he wanted to, of course.
As it turned out, Jon had wanted to. After months of being plied with sweets at work and Martinâs shy and yet so persistent nudges.
Elias chews as Jon does, grilled chicken to soft, hot bread with a snapping crust soaked through with butter. Jon eats the soup, voracious despite the âsnackâ (fish and chips from a street stall) Martin talked him into stopping for on the way home from work. He empties the bowl and wipes it clean with more bread.
âAnother bowl?â Martin asks him. He kisses the crown of Jonâs head as he stands, and Jon leans into the contact. Elias feels his mouth twist slightly.
âBetter not.â Jon huffs out a chuckle he barely keeps from turning into a belch. He is full, bloated out, belly rounded under his jumper, flushed with the heat of the soup. âSince I imagine youâll be having me eat dessertâŠâ
âYou donât think you can do both?â Martin asks, looking down at Jon. âYou donât think your appetiteâs grown enough for it?â
âDonât I think youâve grown my appetite enough, you mean.â Jon smirks, but the expression is terribly good-natured. âFine. Another bowl.â
âOh, good boy!â And not too very long ago, Martin would have caught himself then, blushed and stammered, said he didnât know why he said that, of course he didnât mean it like that. But tonight, he just fondly squeezes Jonâs shoulder and turns away to dish him up more soup.
And Jon glows quietly with the praise.
Envy is a neutral emotion for Elias; after all, heâs spent so much of his very long life jealous that it is as much his base state as fear. He has been called a magpie, and the epithet failed to wound for its accuracy. He covets, and eventually he takes, and uses it to feather his nest. His office is full of stolen books, stolen bones, stolen tapes. He lives stolen lives in stolen flesh.
But he canât steal Jon.
It isnât even so much Jonâs body that Elias wants, although of course he fantasizes about cupping his breasts, squeezing his ass, kneading his gut rather empty or stuffed to the brim. He Watches the sway and jiggle of the not-insignificant weight Jon has gained under Martinâs care, watches the way it all spills free when he undresses, the way it all spreads around him in buttery drifts when he lies down, and Elias fairly aches with need. But no: that is not the largest reason Elias resents Martin.
It is Jonâs obedience. His submission. He eats morsels oh-so-prettily from Martinâs hands, is spoon-fed ice cream and trifle, fattens happily on Martinâs pampering. At Martinâs urging, he eats more, and more, and then just a bit more, and then he submits panting and whining to a belly rub. If Martin bids him sit at his desk so he can take care of something instead, Jon does so with good humor; if Martin orders him to lie down so he can wrap him in ribbons of lotion at home, Jon all but purrs as he works it diligently into scars and stretch marks. Martin pets him and feeds him and Jon is docile, doe-eyed, well-fed in form and spirit, only too thrilled by his own growth and indulgence, reveling in every new pound and inch he can present to Martin. Elias is nearly surprised Martin doesnât lead him around the archives on a leash.
And yet Jon is still fighting Elias at every single turn, bitter words and dug-in heels and jibes in his office before he waddles back downstairs to practically melt at Martinâs touch and let him fill his belly -
Perhaps it wouldnât rankle Elias quite so badly as it does if there had not been a point in the relatively recent past when Jon had liked him. Respected him, at least, and trusted that heâd support him if he took the position of Head Archivist.
Elias could have had him, and he missed his chance, assuming there would be more.
He sips his wine as Martin feeds Jon dessert. Itâs a terrible habit, Watching them. But itâs all he has.
not a prompt, just wanted to say your jarthur fic was soooo cute and fun. their relationship really is primed for kinky food/wg stuff, but thereâs so little written for them. gotta love the blurring of the line between âim going to take care of youâ and âim going to spoil you.â i wanted to thank you for your service and let you know i would be THRILLED if you ever decided to write more of them
đ„°đ„°đ„°
Awwwww thank you so much that's so nice!!!! They really are primed for it, both in and out of the same body.
I have a few more prompt fills for the two of them in my queue; and a lot of ideas.
Now that the food situation is a little more stable and varied for Grace and Simon on Erid (the biodome team have been getting quite good at replicating all kinds of earth foods now that they've found out how to grow certain vegetables and make things like sugar alongside the me-burgers), Grace, who was recently informed about Simon's sad as hell living conditions post Quiet Rapture, wants to pamper him as much as possible, as well as let him try all the earth foods he probably missed out on. Much to his joy, Simon is quite adventurous, and... maybe a little masochistic in his approach? Strong or spicy flavours are absolutely his jam, as is (after a LOT of reconditioning about food scarcity) seeing how much food his body can take before he puts himself in a food coma. And if that inevitably leads to him putting on a few extra pounds, welllll... Grace can't say he'd be mad about it...
Ahhhh, this is a good one.
I'm always so stressed about striking a balance with these...balancing world-building and specbio and kink and fluff. Hopefully I did a good job here.
Simon did not like to talk much about â for lack of a better term â his universe. There were the basics: the Quiet Rapture, the Blood Moon, the submarine, what had happened to his left arm and eye and face. What Grace and Rocky and the Eridians devoted to keeping the two of them alive absolutely needed to know to try and figure out what had happened (they still hadnât, not really). He mentioned Eden, the Coalition. The One Tree. But only rarely, and even though Grace felt like he was about to explode with curiosity, he found out fast that asking questions was the surest way to get Simon to clam up. He didnât like feeling like he was only being used for information which, given what little he knew, Grace understood.
But the more time Simon put between himself and the sub, the more he seemed to...unclench. Like a fist. And the information came slowly out of him in drops, like blood from a wound that refused to heal.
Space, like many commodities, had been at a premium on stations and ships, and thatâd become massively more true after the Quiet Rapture, when suddenly, all the supplies and materials that existed were now the only ones that would ever be made. Simon had spent his entire life sharing bunks and showers and meals and air, even after being captured and convicted of something he was still vague about; the first and only time he had ever been truly alone had been in the SM-13.
âSeems like an insane amount of space for two people,â he commented quietly, looking out the window at the ocean.
âWell, itâs a planet,â Grace said reasonably, not pointing out it was really three people, given the amount of time Rocky spent in here. âThings are different. You can afford to spread out a little.â
Food was something else that came as a culture shock to Simon. Grace had expected to have to offer up a lot of explanation about what little was available, but Simon took to taumoeba and enriched shakes with zero complaint because, as it turned out, it wasnât that far off from what heâd always eaten. Tank-grown protein, glucose, and fiber, printed into slabs and slurries, portioned precisely out to each person based on their bare baseline biological needs given age, mass, activity level, and job.
âI was a fighter. They fed us more than anybody else,â Simon said, which answered the question Grace had been struggling not to ask: how the heck had he gotten those muscles if the situation was that dire? âSeems a waste, given they were expecting us to die, but...I guess everything got wasted in the end.â
He wasnât even bothered by Grace-burgers. The people of Eden ate most of their dead, both processed and holistic.
ââFeeding the rootsâ was a euphemism by the time I was grown up. There were crops when I was a kid, but they kept failing, and we could use the protein better other places. All the other stuff that went into soil and hydroponics, too.â Simon touched the seed hanging from one wrist, resin encasing it half-cracked and shot through with dark blood. âExcept for the Tree. That...we kept going as long as we could.â
Food was not a source of pleasure for Simon, culturally or personally. He seemed faintly baffled by Graceâs excitement when the nutrition hive finally began to make breakthroughs â in plants, in flavors, in synthesizing ingredients and compounds. At least until he got him to try what were, in Graceâs opinion, some of the best foods that an Earth Simon had never known had to offer.
âAncient humans couldnât just read the labels on things to figure out what the calorie count or nutrition facts were,â Grace explained, recycling a lecture heâd given his students (as he often did), âso they evolved a highly developed and selective sense of taste. âSweeterâ usually means âhigher in calories,â which is why sugar tastes so good to us; same for things that are fatty or rich. Salt was hard to come by for most of human history, even if you lived right next to the ocean the way we do now, so weâre highly attuned to that, too.â
âI think,â Simon mumbled around a mouthful of ice cream (milk proteins extracted from a bioengineered strain of fungus, sugar synthesized in an Eridian lab, strawberry flavor derived from citric acid produced by bacteria), âI get it.â
Capsaicin and fermentation were a huge hit, when the Eridians developed them. Grace imagined that Simonâs palate craved stimulation after a lifetime of the blandest diet his sect had to offer, and explained the capsaicin-pain-endorphins link to him. He seemed to find it interesting; he seemed to just like listening to Grace talk. Usually while he was eating. It wasnât long before Simon seemed more excited for whatever the nutrition team cooked up next than Grace was.
Grace was trying not to treat Simon like a project. He knew thatâd be a dynamic too easy to fall into. But he couldnât help enjoying the fact that Simon had started to...well, enjoy life, and that heâd helped him get there. Instead of sleeping on his side with his remaining limbs tucked in and wrapped around himself, like someone who knew he was bigger than average and was trying to take up as little space as possible, he began to sleep spread all the way out in the bed. (âCould build bigger one,â Rocky commented once, seeing Grace trapped beneath Simonâs outflung right arm and leg. Grace assured, âNo, this is perfect, actually.â) He still refused to so much as touch Graceâs ocean, but he at least came out of the house to sit on the porch and, eventually, the beach. And he seemed to finally not only realize that he could eat as much as he could hold, but that he wanted to. They werenât going to run out, he wasnât going to get in trouble...and the food was good.
âOverdo it?â Grace asked with a chuckle the first time Simon gorged himself to the point he couldnât keep his eyes open. It was the day the Eridians had finally cracked deep-frying, after working around the issue of the increased atmospheric pressure. Theyâd dunked just about everything in there, and most of it seemed to have wound up inside of Simon.
âNo, think I did it just about perfect.â Simon groaned contentedly where he had stretched out the floor. Graceâs shirt, always a little small on him, put the visible bloat of his belly on proud display. âWanted to find out how much I could eat.â
âAnd?â Grace sat down next to him, reached out, put a hand on him to feel the warmth and movement of digestion. Simon did not flinch from the touch.
âMoreân I thought.â But he kept testing his capacity. As a good scientist, Grace could appreciate that. Especially because it was clearly increasing.
âSimon okay?â the head food scientist asked anxiously from within their xenonite suit the first time they saw Simon doze off at the table, so full he slumped comfortably against Grace, chin on his shoulder. âUnderstand biology different from Grace, but didnât think would poison - â
âNo, no, no, heâs fine,â Grace was quick to assure them. Theyâd been so proud about finally mastering baking theyâd come into the dome to deliver the preliminary results in person; he didnât want them to think theyâd done anything wrong. âHe just ate too much. It means he likes it. He sleeps after eating.â
âLike Eridian.â The scientist perked up considerably.
âYeah! Like Eridian.â
That information quickly disseminated to the rest of the hive, who clearly took it as a compliment and began to almost aggressively cater to Simonâs tastes. Sour, spicy, salty, rich. Grace suspected Simon wouldnât have needed the encouragement to eat, but he certainly wasnât complaining about it.
Eridâs gravity was much higher than anything Simon would have ever been accustomed to. Both of them had much higher caloric needs than they would have on Earth (and Grace suspected Simonâs were higher than they had been before heâd encountered whatever mutagen the blood contained â he was aching to run tests, but knew better than to ask). But the fact remained Simon was doing very little besides eating and sleeping. Portions of the muscle he no longer needed to maintain melted off him, and fat gathered at his waist in a growing belly and love handles. Grace straddled his thickening thighs and rubbed the salve that they both used for the scars on their arms into the solid flesh of him, warding off stretch marks.
Grace still needed a coat or cardigan to ward off the PNW chill of the biodome, finally perfect after much temperature tinkering from the environment hive, but Simon could now make do outside in nothing more than a T-shirt. They sat together on the sand after the nutrition hiveâs latest triumph, Simon nearly asleep, leaning heavily against Grace as Grace almost absentmindedly kneaded at his gut. There was something soothing about the weight of him, about the softness.
âYou fall asleep, youâre gonna miss dinner,â he murmured to Simon.
âYouâd never let me do that,â Simon mumbled back.
Thank you again for filling my last ask! If you donât mind me sending in another prompt before you close your ask box, how about Jon/Elias weight gain with some findom?
Where Elias gives Jon a company card to use now that heâs the Archivist and Jon uses it to stuff himself as thatâs the only purchase Elias looses track of. Due to being so focused on watching Jon gorge himself, Elias doesnât realize the rather large bill his growing Archivist is racking up until heâs checking his finances at the end of the month.
You are very welcome! You have the absolute best prompts, it is my pleasure to fill them.
This one was a ton of fun. This has actually been a pet fantasy of mine for a while (someone being given a credit card and racking up a huge charge on it from the food they're getting fat on), and I didn't even know it fell under the findom umbrella; go figure, learned something about myself.
Every department head got an Institute credit card; it was standard practice. Rather than going through Elias for every little thing their department needed, they could pay for supplies, equipment, repairs on their own. Communal snacks for their break room, the occasional catered lunch or meal out for their team. So long as the receipts were kept, they had an awful lot of discretion.
When Elias explained all of that to Jon during the (intentionally inadequate) onboarding for his new position), Jon stared down at the card heâd been passed, and asked almost suspiciously, âJust the receipts?â
âTurned in quarterly, yes. So they can be filed when the balance is paid, and so we can be certain the card hasnât been stolen.â It was a near-vestigial system, Elias was fully aware. Especially lacking for a research institution, and he did occasionally mourn the forms and systems he could have set up. But of course he had plenty of methods of monitoring the purchases of his management level, and it served him in countless ways to appear detached and mildly incompetent.
âI see.â After a moment, Jon brought his wallet out to put the card away. Extremely poor practice, but Elias said nothing. âWhatâs the limit on it, then?â
âYou wonât meet it.â
âJust so I know.â
âI donât recall it off the top of my head, but Iâd say roughlyâŠthe yearly salary of one of your assistants? Give or take five or ten thousand pounds.â When Jon choked, Elias explained patiently, âThe intention was so heads could make large equipment or labor purchases without the inconvenience of contacting someone to raise the limit. A relic from the paranormal boom of the 60s and 70s, when Iâm told we had much more funding.â He turned to his checklist and crossed off GIVE CARD. âYou wonât max it out unless you try to repair the archivesâ climate control system - which, as Iâm sure goes without saying, you do not have permission to do.â He glanced back up at Jon. âBut if you manage to make satisfactory progress on filing, organization, documentation, the like, Iâll see if I canât bring it up to the donors next year.â
âRight,â Jon said after a beat, and they moved on. It was a bit embarrassing, but that was more or less the moment Elias forgot completely about the card. It was the factor he was very least concerned with, in Jonâs new role as Archivist.
When offered the job, Jon had been excited, trepidatious, had adopted a persona even sterner and more arrogant than his usual one to hide his insecurity. As the weeks passed and Jon began to fully understand the scope of the state things were in, his mood soured. Anxiety, frustration, resentment - aimed at his predecessor Gertrude, at Eliast for letting things get this bad, at poor Martin Blackwood who, while certainly unqualified, seemed to have become something of a scapegoat since Jon couldnât actually do anything to the former two objects of his ire. Elias Watched him carefully, which was how he came to discover Jon was a stress-eater.
It started small enough. Eating an entire bag of crisps as soon as he got home in addition to dinner, waking up at midnight for an ice cream binge, killing an entire bottle of wine when he ordinarily only drank on weekends. He began stopping for fast food on the way to and from work, then going out for lunch. He snacked at his desk, biscuits and chocolates. At least he was careful not to eat while recording, and not to get crumbs or stains on archival materials.
Jon had put on a little weight, Elias noted one way, watching him bend over to, sweating and cursing, wrestle with a box of statements in his office; his ass, pressed against the seat of his trousers, looked decidedly rounder. And then he put on a bit more. And a bit more.
Surely Jon had begun using the card by then, or shortly after. Elias wasnât actually sure. Oh, he could check, certainly, but that wasnât the point. The fact he hadnât noticed was.
It was, he knew, a combination: of petty revenge against him and the Institute as a whole, because Jon was growing even more disgruntled with the apparent futility of the task heâd been handed and didnât quite understand how to do, and of simple practicality. Jonâs grocery bill and his appetite were increasing every week, after all, and the way things were going, heâd soon have to buy new clothes. How could he resist a readily-available card whose use heâd been told he didnât have to justify?
Elias Watched the quality of Jonâs weekly shop slowly improve with nothing but faint pleasure that he finally seemed to be using the substantial raise his position had brought. As he got bolder, Jon was treating himself in other ways, too. While he still indulged in fast food, heâd begun going to nicer restaurants as well, steadily working his way up the chain in terms of both quality and expense.
Elias would have been lying if heâd said he didnât enjoy Watching Jon grow steadily more confident in an environment where he obviously didnât have much prior experience. Going from nearly shy, ordering only dessert and a glass of the least-expensive wine, to almost imperious, luxuriating in multiple courses and a truly excellent vintage, leaving the restaurant with his trousers discreetly unbuttonedâŠyes, Elias liked that quite a bit.
There was a lot he was enjoying Watching. Jon becoming greedier and more gluttonous, buying more, ordering more, eating more, every meal - and a great number of the increasingly-frequent in-between snacks - leaving his belly heavily, visibly bloated, straining against buttons, belts, and zippers. Jon growing round and plump and, honestly, rather quite spoiled on a steady diet of rich food and delicacies. Jon upgrading his wardrobe - to very nice clothes, Elias noted; they looked excellent on his new, much more rubenesque frame.
Ordinarily, Elias would have been keeping much better track of all the expenses charged to the department cards, Archives very much included. But heâd been slacking off in that area lately. In every area, really. It seemed heâd finally found something he liked looking (and Looking) at more than spreadsheets.
And of course Knowing still took effort. It was not an entirely automatic, unconscious process, as Elias hoped it one day would be for Jon. So he had no inkling that one of the cards was approaching its limit for the first time in decades until the bank called him.
Downstairs, Elias exchanged brief pleasantries with the assistants, smiled politely at Timâs joke about there not being any cake. He went into Jonâs office, closed the door behind himself, and then drew the shade for good measure.
Jon looked up, but didnât rise. Heâd gotten lazy.
âYou little pig,â Elias said calmly, and only the way he bit out the last word betrayed how he was really feeling.
Jonâs expression flashed from shocked to offended to stricken to sullenly, petulantly consternated as he quickly puzzled out exactly why Elias had come.
âI have the receipts - â
âOh, the receipts.â Elias crossed the office. âFor over twenty thousand poundsâ worth of food, clothing, and restaurant bills?â
The stricken look was momentarily back, laced with shock. âI-I didnât realize - â
âYou didnât realize. No, of course you didnât; couldnât take a moment to track or tally your spending. You were far too busy stuffing your face.â Jon mightâve grown fat on Institute funds (just over five stone gained, Elias Knew), but Elias was still larger than him. Taller. He used that height now to loom as he stood on the other side of the desk. âDo you have any idea the financial hardship you have placed on this institution? On our donors? Honestly, Jon - it probably wouldâve cost less if youâd just repaired the damn climate control!â
Jon had been eating when Elias came in, because of course he had. When Elias planted his hands on the desk and leaned forward, he could see the curve of his gut behind his vest, swollen from the dayâs overindulgence. Breakfast, something that could be called brunch, the snack Elias had interrupted, half-empty soda and third sleeve of biscuits sitting on the edge of the deskâŠÂ Jon smothered a belch as Elias watched.
âYou said it was up to my discretion - â
âWhat discretion, Jon? Look at the state of you. Look at the size.â
âThatâs uncalled - â
âWhat was truly uncalled for was the bill you racked up at Sanguine last week. Surprised you didnât burst.â
âI used it for - â
âIt was to be used for the department, not to make an utter hog of yourself.â
âOther heads - â
âTwenty thousand pounds, Jon! On a credit card!â
âMaybe you ought to consider it appropriate compensation for the bloody mess you foisted off on me!â Spite glinted in Jonâs eyes, behind his glasses. âI rather did, Iâll admit, but if you would listen - â
âNo, you listen to me, you overfed brat.â And Elias reached forward, and grabbed hold of Jonâs face with one hand, fingers and thumb digging in on either side of his mouth. His cheeks had gotten chubby. Jonâs eyes went wide and he planted his own hands on the desk, but he did not try to pull away, although out of shock, fear, or something else Elias didnât know. âYou want to eat: fine. You want to gorge yourself to your heartâs content: fine. Iâll feed you.â
âWhat?â Jon mumbled, voice somewhat muffled by Eliasâs hand.
âFrom now on,â Elias told him, almost pleasantly, âyou will eat what I give you. Only what I give youâŠeverything I give you. And you and I are going to be spending an awful lot of time together going forward.â He smiled. âIf you want to behave like a pig, Iâll treat you like one.â
I actually made it home Tuesday! Now I'm in Recovery Mode because there's nothing like going outside your comfort zone and trying new things to remind you that you are, in fact, chronically ill.
I was SUPER sick the first three days because of the way my guts and me are (one of several aforementioned chronic illnesses), but I think that @frumious-bandersnatch-ao3 and I still managed to have a good time. I really miss him now, though!
