🔞 This is definitely not a kink blog for chubs and other things I like so uh you can go now;;; 🔞 18+ since I don’t want to be precieved by anyone other than fellow freaks
Thank you again for filling my last ask! If you don’t 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 he’s the Archivist and Jon uses it to stuff himself as that’s the only purchase Elias looses track of. Due to being so focused on watching Jon gorge himself, Elias doesn’t realize the rather large bill his growing Archivist is racking up until he’s 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 he’d been passed, and asked almost suspiciously, “Just the receipts?”
“Turned in quarterly, yes. So they can be filed when the balance is paid, and so we can be certain the card hasn’t been stolen.” 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.
“I see.” After a moment, Jon brought his wallet out to put the card away. Extremely poor practice, but Elias said nothing. “What’s the limit on it, then?”
“You won’t meet it.”
“Just so I know.”
“I don’t recall it off the top of my head, but I’d say roughly…the yearly salary of one of your assistants? Give or take five or ten thousand pounds.” When Jon choked, Elias explained patiently, “The 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 I’m told we had much more funding.” He turned to his checklist and crossed off GIVE CARD. “You won’t max it out unless you try to repair the archives’ climate control system - which, as I’m sure goes without saying, you do not have permission to do.” He glanced back up at Jon. “But if you manage to make satisfactory progress on filing, organization, documentation, the like, I’ll see if I can’t bring it up to the donors next year.”
“Right,” 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 Jon’s 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 couldn’t 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 wasn’t actually sure. Oh, he could check, certainly, but that wasn’t the point. The fact he hadn’t 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 he’d been handed and didn’t quite understand how to do, and of simple practicality. Jon’s grocery bill and his appetite were increasing every week, after all, and the way things were going, he’d soon have to buy new clothes. How could he resist a readily-available card whose use he’d been told he didn’t have to justify?
Elias Watched the quality of Jon’s 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, he’d 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 he’d said he didn’t enjoy Watching Jon grow steadily more confident in an environment where he obviously didn’t 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 unbuttoned…yes, 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 he’d been slacking off in that area lately. In every area, really. It seemed he’d 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 Tim’s joke about there not being any cake. He went into Jon’s office, closed the door behind himself, and then drew the shade for good measure.
Jon looked up, but didn’t rise. He’d gotten lazy.
“You little pig,” Elias said calmly, and only the way he bit out the last word betrayed how he was really feeling.
Jon’s expression flashed from shocked to offended to stricken to sullenly, petulantly consternated as he quickly puzzled out exactly why Elias had come.
“I have the receipts - ”
“Oh, the receipts.” Elias crossed the office. “For over twenty thousand pounds’ worth of food, clothing, and restaurant bills?”
The stricken look was momentarily back, laced with shock. “I-I didn’t realize - ”
“You didn’t realize. No, of course you didn’t; couldn’t take a moment to track or tally your spending. You were far too busy stuffing your face.” Jon might’ve 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. “Do you have any idea the financial hardship you have placed on this institution? On our donors? Honestly, Jon - it probably would’ve cost less if you’d just repaired the damn climate control!”
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 day’s 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 desk… Jon smothered a belch as Elias watched.
“You said it was up to my discretion - ”
“What discretion, Jon? Look at the state of you. Look at the size.”
“That’s uncalled - ”
“What was truly uncalled for was the bill you racked up at Sanguine last week. Surprised you didn’t burst.”
“I used it for - ”
“It was to be used for the department, not to make an utter hog of yourself.”
“Other heads - ”
“Twenty thousand pounds, Jon! On a credit card!”
“Maybe you ought to consider it appropriate compensation for the bloody mess you foisted off on me!” Spite glinted in Jon’s eyes, behind his glasses. “I rather did, I’ll admit, but if you would listen - ”
“No, you listen to me, you overfed brat.” And Elias reached forward, and grabbed hold of Jon’s face with one hand, fingers and thumb digging in on either side of his mouth. His cheeks had gotten chubby. Jon’s 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 didn’t know. “You want to eat: fine. You want to gorge yourself to your heart’s content: fine. I’ll feed you.”
“What?” Jon mumbled, voice somewhat muffled by Elias’s hand.
“From now on,” Elias told him, almost pleasantly, “you will eat what I give you. Only what I give you…everything I give you. And you and I are going to be spending an awful lot of time together going forward.” He smiled. “If you want to behave like a pig, I’ll treat you like one.”
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 planet’s 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 Rocky’s sake, and for Grace’s own.
Even if Rocky’s 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 Grace’s bed, encouraging it to eat more of this, of that, it had worked with the nutritionists on this specifically, Grace needed it…
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. “Not look disgust when Grace eat anymore, question?”
“It is different now,” Rocky said in that stubborn tone Adrian had thought it used only for it, and reached out to put a claw on Grace’s abdomen, something the new, better-articulated suit allowed. “Keep eating.”
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 Rocky’s claw remained on it.
“I think you overfed it,” it told Rocky. “Its abdomen is swollen. We should call a doctor.”
“Humans need to eat more than Eridians,” Rocky explained. “The stomach expands for a reason.” 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 – 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 Grace’s food continue to increase the caloric content even as they varied flavor, texture, and variety.
Adrian rested in the sand of Grace’s 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 wasn’t eating enough, Rocky touched Grace’s 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.
“It eats like it’s preparing for eggs,” 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.
“Don’t be vulgar,” it scolded. “If you believe Grace deserves none of your respect, you should not be caring for it.” 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. “Its species doesn’t even lay eggs.”
Much to Rocky’s 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, Grace’s 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.
“Hello, Grace.” Adrian wrapped a limb over the near-liquid spread of its belly, feeling the wonderful give of it. Definitely not full anymore.
“Time to eat again already, huh?”
“Yes, dear one.” Adrian began removing items, carefully wrapped, from the bags slung around its suit. “I brought more this time; Rocky says you need it.”
“Yeah, I just bet he does.” Grace stretched luxuriantly, then grimaced. Adrian heard it tug its shirt, ridden up with the movement, back down. “I might have to talk to the food science team one of these days about what they’re feeding me. The stuff they’re making now tastes great. Don’t get me wrong. And don’t tell them I said anything yet, but. I’m really getting kinda -/--./.”
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. “What are you becoming?”
“Oh, I tried to explain it to Rocky...it’s really not a concept you guys have. Can’t happen to you. Lucky.”
“Grace…” Its name meant something not unlike “soft” or “gentle,” which was quite fitting. Adrian admitted, “Your people are obviously very accomplished, but I do not understand how you get anything done, with how much you need to eat.” Six or seven meals over the course of its day-night cycle, and it often ate in between, too. “And 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?” Are we the first ones to take care of you properly?
“Oh, yeah, no, that’s...that’s really not how it works.” 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. “We, uh...we don’t actually eat this much, usually. I’ve kind of been making a -//.- of myself lately.”
Please please please draw lorge!gr@ce. We can both contribute to the burgeoning kink community.
Aw thank you for the encouragement and yeah contributing to the big Gr@ce works of art sounds great! I’ve been chipping away at a comic for a bit but your Ask pushed me to sit down and try to make some real headway on it this weekend- I’ll share this wip panel for now but yes he needs to be fattened up
idk if you’ve seen The Comic Ever (bloodycharming’s late night shenanigans ch 22 on AO3) but like……. a fic based on that Vibe??? 🥺🥺🥺🥺
I hadn't seen it, so I looked it up to see what you wanted annnnd...PolyArchives feeding with oblivious Jon and lots of hand-feeding? Oh, yeah. That's right up my alley.
(If anyone else hasn't seen it, I would seriously encourage you to check it out and leave some kudos - actually, look at the whole thing, it's all fantastic.)
Hopefully I got the vibe you wanted, even if my Jon is a little more standoffish!
Archives lunches were Sasha’s idea. So they could all get to know each other a bit better, she said.
“I think we all know each other more than well enough,” Jon said flatly, not looking up from the requisition form he was filling out. The Institute was deeply paper-heavy, by Elias’s explicit order; probably part of the reason the archives were in the state they were.
“Well, you, me, and Tim do, but not Martin,” Sasha said reasonably. “And we’re so isolated down here. We even have our own break room. We all need to get along, don’t we?” She shifted the stack of folders she was carrying, completed follow-ups, ostensibly the reason she’d come into Jon’s office to begin with. “And Tim and I know you as a colleague, besides. Not a, you know, a supervisor.”
That, more than any of the other arguments, was what ultimately won Jon over; he was awfully worried about that himself. He was desperately trying to combat the learned overfamiliarity of his relationship with Tim and Sasha (as well as, much more quietly and not fully admitted even to himself, his crippling insecurity and certainty that he was not actually qualified for the position he’d accepted) with precision and rigidly-enforced boundaries, but had his doubts about how well it was working. Maybe a less-formal setting would help, paradoxically enough.
It didn’t. Jon really ought to have known better. He went to the staff lounge, took his supermarket salad in its plastic clamshell out of the aged refrigerator, and then spent the entire time he was eating it fending off offers and encouragement from his assistants. Try a bite of Sasha’s gnocchi, a sip of Tim’s soda. Did he want half of Martin’s crisps? Eventually, Jon had to acquiesce just for his own sanity, and went back to his office at the end of the hour uncomfortably full and struggling not to belch.
He supposed that at least it had all been actually quite good.
Jon had not intended to partake the next day, having very much learned his lesson. But Sasha pleaded, and Jon’s resolve - not as steely as he might have liked, especially when it came to her - crumbled. He joined them all in the lounge, even though he knew nothing good could come from it, and indeed it didn’t.
In the short term: he was compelled to eat part of Martin’s sandwich (which was lovely, actually, thin apple slices, gouda, and turkey on focaccia) and split a pack of candy with Tim, and spent a not-insignificant portion of the afternoon trying not to fall asleep at his desk as his stomach gurgled and churned where it pressed almost painfully against his belt.
In the short term: Jon’s assistants all got a lot more comfortable with him, and it only got worse the more lunches they had together.
Sasha brought a bag of chocolate-covered pretzels with her when she came into Jon’s office to discuss a statement, and refused to talk unless he had some with her, despite his protests. She even went so far as portioning them out for him - far more than he would have taken himself, but it wasn’t as if he could put them back once they were out.
Tim baked, apparently. Jon added it to the long mental list he kept of his hobbies, next to kayaking and romancing government employees into violating GDPR. Tim brought in a dozen muffins and talked Jon into trying at least one of every flavor, with much less effort than it would have taken him a few weeks ago…and then sent Jon home over the weekend with a dozen more, dense and moist and sweet.
Martin dropped by Jon’s office because the vending machine had given him an extra soda. Did Jon want it? Yes, he supposed…added silently was the thought that at least it wasn’t another cup of tea, too heavy on the milk and sugar but with him unable to say so because he’d already let it go too long. Martin sat shyly down as Jon tapped and then opened the can, talking about his mother’s care home (a struggle Jon was quite familiar with and could and did offer some advice on, having gone through it with his grandmother just a few years previous), and did not leave until Jon, bloated, had finished drinking.
There were other changes, as Jon settled into his new role. He began to leave his door open more often. He took a bit longer for lunch, spent breaks with the assistants rather than outside alone.
And one morning, looking at himself in the mirror, the gentle swell of his belly, the spread of his ass, the two generous, doughy love handles that had swollen into place above his hips, he realized he’d begun to put on weight. Actually quite a bit. No wonder his trousers had been feeling tight lately, belt loosened by necessity after every meal and snack…
Jon supposed it wasn’t all that surprising. Head Archivist was a much more sedentary position than “researcher,” which had involved a lot of haring around both the Institute and Greater London…as his assistants now also did, often because researchers of days past had not done their jobs before chucking things into the great moldering bin of the archives. Additionally, he was closer to thirty than twenty, a fact that - while it felt odd - was nevertheless true.
It wasn’t that big a deal: Jon had never been particularly precious about his physique. He would adjust to the new, plush bounce going up and down stairs, loosen his belt, and dig out the clothes he’d had to buy while stopping smoking; thank god he hadn’t followed up on the impulse to take them to a charity shop while moving out of Georgie’s.
He did find himself a bit baffled, though. It seemed he spent less on groceries every week, and yet here he was. Still getting fatter.
But there were much more pressing mysteries to hold his attention, so he put it out of his mind. Like how in the hell they were going to get the archives set into anything approaching some kind of order. In desperation, Jon put in for at least one night of overtime for the whole department every week, and Elias approved it without question, perhaps out of guilt over the basement having reached its current state at least partially under his tenure. Jon stood in his office as he signed it, aware of Elias’s eyes - for some reason - dragging over his middle, where the belly that was rapidly becoming a gut pressed against his jumper, even from behind the button-up he wore beneath.
They got delivery their first night. Jon wasn’t certain what it was, hadn’t been paying attention when the call was made, but it smelled heavenly, rich sauce and savory meat and vegetables. He did not rise from his place among the boxes as the assistants packed it all off to the lounge, even when Tim called “You coming, boss?” and Martin encouraged, “You’ve got to eat while it’s hot.”
“I’ll warm it up,” Jon said curtly. “I can’t step away from this, and I certainly can’t eat while I’m looking through these files.”
“Well, what if one of us fed you?”
Jon paused. Not long enough, but even now, that was outrageous. But it grew less so the more he thought about it.
“Fine.” He waved a hand. “Just be careful, all right?”
Of course, once his assistants got permission to hand-feed him, it seemed that was all they did. Not just meals, either. Jon did not feed himself a single bite of his birthday cake, or the ice cream they all occasionally went out for. They even stayed in his office to feed him the snacks they brought in. Tim was the most forceful, Martin too slow sometimes; Jon’s favorite was Sasha, but truth be told, he appreciated all of them. It was quite nice, having his hands free to continue whatever he was doing. He was getting an awful lot of work done, and practically the only time he wasn’t eating was while recording statements. It got to the point that, the moment anyone stepped into his office, he raised his head and opened his mouth, ready and waiting.
It happened with Elias once, who stopped in bafflement. “Jon, I - what are you doing?”
“Nothing.” Jon snapped his jaw closed, and felt something beneath his chin wobble a bit.
At least it was almost always the assistants. Sometimes, they fed Jon a bit too much, often without him noticing until he was packed and panting. The perils of eating while distracted, Jon supposed. He made the mistake of accepting one belly rub from Martin, and then they all thought they could do it without even asking. Jon wasn’t complaining, though. Not so long as they did it right.
One day, as Jon came down the stairs, he heard the assistants talking near their desks. They quieted as he approached. They likely wouldn’t have heard him coming months ago but, well…he was still wheezing from the stairs. And his tread had gotten a fair bit heavier.
“I heard my name,” he commented as he entered, and the three of them turned to look at him, and smiled.
“Just - talking about how glad we are to all be working together,” Martin said. “With you.”
Jon was not a blusher. He felt his face growing hot anyway.
“Right.” Clearing his throat, he pushed past them, towards his office. He could already see Tim had left a platter of brownies on his desk in there, wrapped in cling film, and Martin a steaming cup of tea. “Me, too.”
Gosh I just adore the way you write Jon getting fat off fear- it such a fun concept and you execute it wonderfully.
If you're still taking prompt suggestions, what about accidental feeder!Tim who is spitefully leaving statements for his “monstrous boss” not realizing what they're doing to him? And Jon not explaining since it feels reminiscent of better times where Tim would pick up food for the archives and Jon just wants to cling to something nice even if it’s now twisted. Plus if he’s stuffed so full it hurts then it’s what he deserves right?
When Tim eventually learns what’s going on he feels bad about it. He’s still mad but he didn’t mean to physically hurt Jon and tries to help him out after a stuffing and that accidentally cements the connotation btwn getting stuffed on fear & getting cared for in Jon’s mind (leading to more fear stuffings much to Tim’s confusion)
Okay, first of all, I just want to say that your mind is beautiful - this is a fabulous prompt. I love accidental feeding/gain, I love masochistic Jon, I love Tim's remorse translating into care - I love everything about this.
I have to say, I was pretty lukewarm on JonTim before I started taking prompts, but writing these has really opened my eyes to the potential of the ship.
Unfortunately, didn't quite get to the "more fear stuffings" part (I tend to set length limits for myself for these, and this one ran...way over), so I couldn't resist leaving this one on a bit of a cliffhanger...
It was weeks after Tim had first started leaving the statements out that he finally realized exactly what they were doing to Jon.
It’d been a petty, pointless sort of revenge. Tim knew the whole time it was childish, but what the hell else could he do, in the situation that he found himself in? Couldn’t leave the Institute. Couldn’t get anybody else out. Couldn’t get Sasha back. And of the two monsters that Tim had found himself at the mercy of, Jon was much more accessible than Elias, especially in terms of striking out at him.
Even if that “striking out” boiled down to something as pathetic as Tim doing his job so well it made more work for him.
Tim ran himself ragged on follow-ups - which sometimes had the added perk of keeping him out of the Institute most of the day, a blessed relief. Phone calls, visits, field trips out to sites and witnesses, covert meetings in coffee shops and pubs and restaurants, charming and occasionally buying information off medical and legal staff…all of it a thousand times better than sitting at his desk in that suffocating basement, with all its spiderwebs and stains and its catalogue of horrors, and staring at the door that seemed to stay closed all the time now. Head Archivist - Gertrude Robinson Jonathan Sims.
And perhaps he wasn’t doing quite as good of a job as he had before, perhaps he wouldn’t have objected at all if he’d been fired, but it still meant slapping completed files down into Jon’s in-tray. Two a day, then three, four, five…all ready to be read out into a tape recorder and marked complete. And, unless Jon wanted to fall behind (more than he already had), he had to stay late after work to do so.
Tim kept expecting someone to say something to him about it. But Elias obviously didn’t care. There was some gentle scolding from Martin that was about as easy to shake off as morning mist. Sasha, of course, was gone. And Jon himself…not a word.
But Tim had noticed him, on the few occasions he’d seen him, looking exhausted. He’d always had a certain “under-slept academic” look about him, as long as Tim had known him, even back in Research, but now, it seemed to have metastasized. Unsurprising; even doing one statement a day - one statement a week, pathetic - had been hard on him back in the day.
Tim didn’t see him often, just glimpses here and there, dodging sullenly out of the archives on the rare occasion that Jon made an attempt to speak with him. He didn’t want his explanations, his apologies, his lies. But he could have sworn he was putting on weight, too. He seemed softer every time Tim caught sight of him, bigger around the middle, in addition to being more tired. Stress-eating? Too many snacks on those late nights? Tim didn’t know, and didn’t care. Maybe Elias was wining and dining him, grooming his new monster apprentice. Tim had no desire whatsoever to look into it.
But tonight, he had gotten all the way back to Bromley before realizing he’d left his house keys in his desk. So he hiked back to the Institute, coming up on midnight by the time he finally reached it. He’d been sure that the system locked at a certain time, but no: his keycard still let him swipe in. That was good; he’d been dreading having to call Rosie. Maybe he ought to be doing more snooping, see if he could find anything useful in Elias’s office.
Not tonight, though. Tonight, he just wanted to go home, and get in bed. So he went down to the archives, torch function on his mobile activated, and dug his keys out of his desk, right where he’d left them. He would’ve been on his way after that, if he hadn’t heard the slight, gasping whimper from Jon’s office. A pained noise. The door was closed…but now that he looked, there was soft green light coming out from the cutaway window in it, the banker’s lamp on his desk turned on. He was still in there. And it sounded as if he were hurt.
Tim found himself walking automatically forward, putting out a hand to open the door. The hand the worms had dug into; the light glinted off the smooth white divots of the scars on his knuckles. His jaw tightened, and he almost pulled back and left, but then Jon cried out, soft and pained. And Tim opened the door and barged in.
Sitting behind his desk, Jon jumped, eyes wide and wild. Sort of - he really didn’t move that much. There was a tape recorder whirring (Oh, great, Tim thought to himself, he was being recorded again), and a file open in front of him, contents spread out. Jon’s face was sick and guilty, stricken. A messy strand of gray hair flopped over his forehead, hung in front of his glasses.
“T-Tim?” he stammered incredulously. “What’re you - ?” And then he squeezed his eyes shut and pressed a fist to his mouth to muffle a…was that a burp?
“Heard you crying,” Tim said brusquely. “Sounded like you were hurt.”
“I was not - ”
“What, is it your stomach?” Jon was hunching over himself, in the way someone with a wicked stomachache might. “Did you eat something that didn’t agree w - Christ.”
Tim had come around the side of Jon’s desk, and before Jon could spin his chair hastily away from him to hide it, he’d caught sight of his stomach, enormous beneath the jumper it was stretching taut. He’d just seen him this morning. Surely he hadn’t been this fat then?
“What the fuck?” Tim asked, almost wonderingly.
“It’s really none of your business,” Jon muttered, looking away, blushing fiercely. But Tim was already walking forward, and leaning down. Maybe it was morbid curiosity, maybe it was the memory of the worms and of everything else, wanting to make sure Jon didn’t have anything he could spread to the rest of the Institute. “No, Tim, what are you - ?!”
But it was too late: Jon’s efforts to fend him off were futile, and Tim had already flipped the hem of his jumper up. Allowing a soft, doughy belly, much larger than he’d thought it was even without how visibly bloated it was, to spill out into Jon’s lap.
Tim stared down at it. Jon was warm; he could feel the heat of him against his hands. He swallowed.
“What’ve you been eating?” he demanded incredulously.
“...d’you really wanna know?” Jon asked quietly. Tim wasn’t sure that he did, but he nodded, and Jon heaved a sigh. “Fear. I think.”
“What?” Tim asked him blankly.
“I - I’ve been noticing it for a while now. When I read a statement, I…get full. And when I read a lot of statements…”
Jon trailed off. Tim kept on staring down at his gut, and felt a wave of revulsion roll through him. All of Jon’s insistence that he wasn’t a monster, and then he went and did this? Fed off of the fear and trauma of everybody who’d ever given a statement to the Institute? Got fat off it, even?
But on the heels of that, cutting through the confusion (how was that even possible? And if it was, why wasn’t Elias the size of a house?), was guilt.
“So…this is my fault,” Tim said, but then a moment later, the guilt was replaced by anger. “Why’d you keep eating so much? You didn’t have to, not if it hurts you. Why didn’t you stop? Why’d you do this to yourself?”
“You’re not going to like it,” Jon said with a bleak chuckle.
“I don’t like any of your answers these days.”
“It’s because…” Jon heaved a sigh, then stifled another burp. This close to him, Tim could hear the steady churn of his overfull belly. “D’you remember - before everything? You’d order in lunch for everyone, but I was always working, so when I got up to go to the restroom or something, you’d…leave food on my desk for me to find? So I’d eat.” Jon looked up at him. “I know that’s not what you were doing, not with this. But I…it reminded me of better times, and…” He sighed again. “I know I don’t…deserve that. But what I do deserve - even more than that.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “It’s good that it hurts. It’s - it’s what I’ve had coming. And it might be the only way you can hurt me.”
Jon looked so utterly miserable, sitting there. Tim stood above him for a long moment, arms folded across his chest, then snorted. “Oh, come off it.”
“I’m - sorry?”
“You can’t do penance. Not for this. Not this way.” Tim lowered himself onto his knees. “Hurting yourself like this…there’s no point to it.”
“What are you…” Jon started, then swallowed hard when Tim touched him, his plush, shapeless belly, digging through to the taut fullness beneath. “Y-you really don’t need to - ”
“Shut up,” Tim muttered.
He began to work at Jon’s gut, massaging and kneading, finding the tightest spots, the cramps and gas bubbles, and pressing them free. Jon squirmed beneath his touch, huffing out embarrassed little belches here and there above him (apparently the worst day of some stranger’s life made you gassy - who knew), but slowly, he began to relax. He softened, spread in his chair, slumped down lower. He whimpered again, but this time, it was a noise of pleasure, of relief. Tim’s jaw worked, but he didn’t say anything.
He’d gained more weight than Tim had realized. Not just his belly; he had love handles, too. And he could swear his ass was bigger. Not that Tim cared.
Eventually, when Jon’s breathing had slowed and his belly no longer felt like a fistful of marbles, Tim sat back on his heels, shaking out hands that were threatening to cramp, and looked up at Jon.
“Better?”
“Uh h-huh.”
There was a warm silence. The goddamn tape player spun and clicked.
“I really…didn’t mean to hurt you,” Tim told him earnestly, grudgingly. “Not like this.”
“I know you didn’t,” Jon said quietly. And then: “I’m so sorry, Tim.”
Tim put his hands on the arms of Jon’s chair, and pushed himself up. Most of the way, at least. He was hovering over him, still close to him. Jon’s eyes were warm, brown, had flecks of green in them. He looked so tired, but the edges of him had softened.
He smelled like old paper, old books. Vanilla and oiled leather and finger-thick dust, with an acid edge nearly like vinegar, a pinch on the back of the tongue. Was that what fear smelled like? What it tasted like?
Tim did not realize how close their mouths had gotten, breathing each other’s breath, until his eyes fell closed. Then he whipped upright and spun around before Jon could see the heat rising to his cheeks. He needed to get out of here.
“I’ll stop leaving so many statements for you,” Tim muttered, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. Hard and aggressive, to get blood flowing somewhere else.
“No, it’s - it’s fine. Maybe…it would be better if you did. We’ve got so many to get through, and the more we can learn…” Jon trailed off, maybe sensing Tim’s prickling at the use of “we.” Not so harshly as he might have a few hours ago, though. “But I. When you do. Could you.” He swallowed. “Stay late? With me? I-I’d approve overtime, of course, and y-you don’t have to if you don’t - you know what, forget I asked, I - ”
“No.” Tim interrupted him, and took a bit of pleasure in watching Jon’s face fall in the moment before he continued. “It’s fine. I can hang around. Least I can do is finish what I started, right?”
I think you'll be tickled to know that it's because of you I got into The Magnus Archives lmao
That scribble of the Archivist was too tantalizing to not go and start binge-listening to the entire series. I'm in the beginning of s3 now and eager to keep going
Oh gosh I’m so delighted to hear that you decided to check out the series after seeing my work for it- it truly is the highest praise one can hear so thank you! And I hope you have fun listening to season 3 with all the wild things that happen in it ^^
titsay
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stormborns
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